#i hate being a writer- knowing i can make this but my brain and body fucking refuse

[ethanharli]

Thoughts about being in the tub with one of the COD boys, washing their hair for them after a long stressful day

[inkskinned]

most writing advice is good as long as you know why it is good, at which point it is also bad. the hardest thing (and most precious thing) about being an artist is that you gotta learn how to take critique. i don't mean "just shut up and accept that people hate your work," i mean you need to learn what the critique is saying and then figure out if it actually helps.

i usually tell people reading my work: "i'm collecting data, so everything is useful." i ask them where they put the book down, even though it's too long for most people to read in 1 sitting. i ask them what they thought of certain characters. i let them tell me it was really good but i like it more when they look a little stunned and say i forgot i was reading your book, which means they forgot i exist, which is very good news.

sometimes people i didn't ask will read my work and tell me i don't like it. and that is okay, you don't have to like it. but i look at the thing that they don't like and try to figure out if i care. i don't like that you don't capitalize. this one is common, and i have already thought about it. i do not care, it's because of chronic pain and frankly i like the little shape of small letters. you use teeth and ribs in all your work. actually that is very true. i don't know what's up with that. next time i will work to figure out a different word, thank you. you're whiny, go outside. someone said that to me recently and it made me laugh. i am on the whine-about-it website as an internet poet. you are in my native habitat, watching me perform a natural enrichment behavior. but i like the dip of whiny, how the word itself does "whine" (up/down, the sound out your nose on the y), but i don't know if i want to feel whiny. maybe next time i will work on it being melancholy, like what you would call a male writer's poetry.

repeated "good" advice clangs in a bell and doesn't hold a real shape, dilutes in the water. like sometimes you will hear "don't use said." you turn that around in your head and it bounces off the edges of your brain like it is a dvd screensaver. it isn't bad advice, but it feels wrong somehow, like saying easy choices are illegal! sometimes i will only use "said." sometimes i will just kick dialogue tags out to the trash. sometimes i make little love poems where the fact that i do not say "said" is very bad, and makes you feel bad in your body, because someone didn't say something. i am a contrary little shitbird, i guess.

but it is also good advice, actually. it is trying to say that "said" sometimes is clutter. it makes new writers think about the very-small words and very-small choices, because actually your work matters and wordchoice matters. "i know," you said. "i know," you sighed. "i know." we both know but neither of us use a dialogue tag, because we are in a contemporary lit piece.

it is too-small to say don't use said. but it is a big command, so it gets your attention. what are you relying on? what easy choices do you make? when you edit, do you choose the same thing? can you make a different choice? sometimes we need the blankness of said, how it slides into the background. sometimes we don't.

i usually say best advice is to read, but i also mean read books you don't like, because that will make you angry enough to write your own book. i also mean read good books, which will break your heart and remind you that you are a very small person and your voice is a seashell. i also mean you need to eat books because reading a book is a writer's version of studying.

my creative writing teacher in the 7th grade had a big red list of no! words and on it was SUNSET. RAZORS. LOVE. GALAXY. DEATH. BLOOD. PAIN. I liked that razor and love were tucked next to each other like birds, and found it funny that he believed we were too young to know the weight of razor in the context of pain. i hated him and his Grateful Dead belt, where the colored teddy bears held up his appraisal of us. i hated his no list. it is very good/bad advice. i wasn't old enough yet to know that when you are writing about death you are also writing about sunsets and when you write about love you are tucking yourself into a napkin that never stops folding.

back then my poetry was all bloody, dripped with agony when you picked it up. i didn't know there is nothing beautiful about a razor, nothing exciting about pain. i just understood sharpness, which he took to mean i understood nothing. i wrote the razor down and it wasn't easy, but it was necessary. that's what i'm saying - sometimes it's good advice, because it's not always necessary. and sometimes it is very bad advice, because writing about it is lifesaving.

hang on my dog was just having a nightmare. i heard that it is a rule not to write about dogs - in my creative writing mfa, my teacher rolled her eyes and said everyone writes a dead dog. the literature streets are littered in canine bodies. i watched the rise and fall of his ribs (there is that word again) and had to reach out and stop the bad dream. when he woke up he didn't recognize me, and he was afraid.

it is good/bad advice to say that poems and writing have to mean something. it is bad/good advice to say they're big feelings in small packages. it is better advice to say that when my dog saw where he was, he relaxed immediately, rubbed his face against me. someone on instagram would make fun of that moment by writing their "internet poetry" as a sentence that tumbles across a white page: outside it is sunset and my dog is still in a gutter, bleeding a galaxy out of his left paw. or maybe it would be: i woke the dog up/the dog forgot i loved him/and i saw the shape of a senseless/and impossible pain.

the dog is alive in this one, and he is happy. when i tell you i love you, i know what i said. write what you need to write, be gentle to yourself about it. the advice is only as good as far as it helps. the rest is just fencing. take stock of the boundaries, and then break them. there's always somewhere else you could be growing.

i love you, keep going.

[graceofagodswrath]

Omg your Humans are space orcs/deathworlders + Transformers is just *d e l i c i o u s*. My complaints are pretty much the same, it seems that most humans on the franchise are just manufactured to be hated or simply annoying for being so useless. I want transformers to realize just how hard we have to work to simply stay alive *in our own planet*, with the sheer amount of diseases and poisonous animals and predators and weather and so much more, I want them to wonder how such seemingly fragile beings became the dominant species, how can we be so resilient yet so delicate... I'd like a transformer that particularly hates/is disgusted by humans to swap places with us for like a day or so, the first one that comes to mind is Starscream, I want him to get a glimpse at the daily fight for survival here on Earth and can't help but develop a tiny speck of respect for humans, not that he would ever admit it, even to himself, that he's secretly more mindful of where he steps when there are humans around ever since.

I literally just gave a rundown about this to a friend in a drunken rant the other night, so I am so ready for this.

Starscream wouldn’t be my first pick, based solely on the fact that I haven’t psycho-analyzed him the same way I have others, but imma do my best ~

For situation-sake so my writer brain doesn’t kill itself over context, imma do this in the form of Headcannons. Let’s say Starscream gets stuck in a human body and has to exist as such until he magically gets put back. Until then, he’s stuck with a human who is aware of what he is (vague gn oc/reader, up to whoever. Writing from the viewpoint of “one of us”).

(Also y’all can input any Starscream here cause imma write him in his basic form: whiney, stuck-up, clever little cunt).

- Bro is flabbergasted. Disgusted. Horrified. Out-of-his-mind losing it. Keeps praying to primus it’s a drug-induced hallucination or a dream.

- Wakes up on the soft cushions of a… couch? The word pops up in his head. He knew the basics from his overviews when their war traveled to earth. He brought his servos- No. Hands, up to his face, inspected his new honey, fleshy digits. The detail was too vivid to be a hallucination. Colors were both muted and bright. Starscream found himself automatically trying to adjust his optic intake. But nothing happened. Of course. Because fleshy organics can’t manually adjust their own sensory inputs.

- He curls his lips, and is instantly hit with the feeling of muscle contorting. Skin and flesh was an entirely different sensation from mesh and plating. It made his plating- damnit no, skin crawl. Another sensation trailed up the center of his back, spine and shiver popping up in his mind.

- Even the way his psyche worked was different. Like a new plane of existence. Thoughts were unorganized, uncalculated. Like something that squirmed out of his grasp as he tried to keep hold. Everything felt simplified, yet the awareness and sensations were overwhelming. His entire presence felt… hypocritical.

- Sounds distracted him from his insightful, yet horrific reverie. His gaze drifted to another area of the room, half-built walls sectioning it off, but with flat slabs atop. Counters. A face pops from behind the half-wall. Human eyes catch his, and the creature pulls its lips back to bare its teeth. To smile. Even though humans and cybertronians had similar facial anatomy, the little creatures were so ugly that it was hard to recognize similar expressions.

- “You good bud?” The thing asks. Starscream felt his new face twist into his casual sneer, one laced with aggravation and disgust.

- “Good? Is such a thing possible when you’re a skin bag of flesh and bones?” The humans only response was to broaden their grin.

-“Glad you haven’t lost the attitude. Means you’ll make it out alive.” The nonchalance threw the ex-cybertronian for a loop.

- “You… know me?” That grin turned into a smirk that made the non-energon in his lines boil.

- “You’re Starscream, second-in-command to Megatron, lord of the deceptions, yada yada yada… yeah I know who you are.” They leaned back against the wall, eyes boring into the deception. Starscream found himself wondering if human eyes were always so disturbingly piercing.

- “Wonderful.” He shoved the unsettled feeling to the back of his head, determined to figure out a solution and still be in control. “Then you can explain how and why I am in this disgusting organic form.”

- The smirk disappeared into an odd expression Starscream had never seen before. The human flattened their lips and pursed their… cheeks. It looked entirely stupid. But something in the back of his head whispered apologetic.

- “I’m not sure on the exact details, but I can tell you it won’t last long. I’m basically your caretaker until it wears off.”

- Instinctually, Starscream’s brows raised. “That’s it? Is this some new human weapon, cruel imprisonment within one your fleshy bodies?”

- The human tilted their head back and laughed, once again taking Starscream off guard. Their casual presence was so different from the fight-or-die everyday lifestyle that gripped his species.

- “Nope. Just a random accident that you’re the unfortunate victim of.” At the con’s bewildered stare, the human pushed their mouth outwards, changing the pitch of their voice as they said, “aww, poor baby. Don’t worry, you’re safe with me.” Then they whirled around and walked into the other room.

- Man is flabbergasted. Is out of his element and cannot function. Cue him trying to stand and do normal things, and bust his ass because the different sensations hitting him all at once. Organic nervous systems feel very different from techno ones.

- First thing he starts doing is eating and drinking. It takes a couple hours, but his “babysitter” eventually gets him to try something. Water first, of course (he refused any organic foods). The con is disgusted, but moderately pleased that the tasteless liquid isn’t slimy or thicker like he expected. It’s actually rather soothing to his human body.

- The first food he willingly tries is melon. Honeydew to be precise. Refused to touch meat, as the idea of eating actual organic flesh was unfathomable. He was pleasantly surprised to find the flavor of the fruit likable. Humans don’t taste things the same way cybertronians do. Whereas energon has a more electrical charge to it (to put it in human words), Earth flavors were smoother. Discovers he has a huge sweet tooth (as his “babysitter” put it).

- His human guardian took this opportunity to drag him out of their home and go shopping for more consumables. Let him pick things he found somewhat pleasing, but chose most others. Lots of fruit to try and other non-meats. Went in to try the other types of fruit. Has a preference for honeydew, strawberries, cantaloupe, watermelon, and grapes. Really likes (loves but won’t admit) pineapple and raspberries. The sour/sweetness is similar to energon. Citruses like oranges and mandarin are also similar, but he prefers more sweetness than straight sour. Kiwi is also a treat.

- (I headcannon that energon is similar to sour patch kids and skittles, super sweet and sour with an electric tang and texture. So all transformers would be immediate sweet lovers as humans because of the similarity).

- Hates anything dull or flavorless. Don’t try to feed this man spinach, he’ll call you grass-eating fleshbag.

- Drinks water only because he has too (stupid human body), but once he discovers those liquid flavors he can put in, it’s all he uses. Tried juices when he found out they were liquids derived from the fruit he likes. Got excited when it tasted almost like energon and tried to only consume juice from then on. His guardian explained that humans couldn’t only exist on juice, but of course he tried to argue that all he needed was nutrients in liquid. He then discovered smoothies. Nearly did the same thing until he actually tried them. Hated the thickness and gritty texture.

- A couple days go by and his guardian decides it’s time to get him tf out properly. Man is lounging around all the time. If he’s not on the couch making fun of human entertainment and politics, he’s following his guardian meatbag around and demanding answers for his current predicament.

- So his guardian starts small. Hauls his ass outside for a jog. This is where things really get interesting. Starscream is unaware of how human bodies work. When his guardian begins a slow run, he gets confused. Why would you run when you can walk fine? Where were they going? Leads to an explaination of exercise, which results in the con doing his usual snide shit of “you force yourselves to go through training otherwise your bodies become slow and unusable? How unsurprising.” And they’re like “yes and nooo, it’s so we can stay strong and get stronger as time goes on. Staying strong allows us to do cool things.”

- Cool things like what? Well his guardian gets an evil idea in their head. Starscream hates running. Hates using his legs and having nothing to do with his arms. Don’t even get them started on the tantrum he threw when he started sweating (fluids exiting one’s body? Horrifying).

- So his guardian introduces him to swimming. The con is a jet in his natural form, and the closest he’ll get to that as a human without a shit ton of equipment will be the water.

- Problem is the man has to learn to swim first. And willingly get in the water. Stays on the edge of the lap pool the first few times, watching with his nose turned up at the humans swimming.

- However, he starts to slowly dip his toes in the water. The sensation is… interesting. It’s not dislikable on human skin. In fact, on the hotter days it’s very soothing, like when he drinks water (finds out he can’t drink this kind tho, chemicals and bodies in it and such).

- Eventually he gets in, staying in the shallow area. His guardian helps him learn how to swim. It feels humiliating, learning to kick and tread water, while watching human children do it with relative ease. It feels strange to use his body in such ways. But with his guardian constantly reminding that none of his cybertronian peers knew or will know of his situation, AND their constant praise, he finds it in himself to continue.

- The praise he receives from his guardian is also something he’s not used to. As well as other humans willing to help him learn. It apparently wasn’t uncommon for many adult humans to not know how to swim or do other things, and gave him more confidence to learn. He’d never admit it, but he tried harder to learn just to hear the praise from others. It felt nice to be treated kindly. Better than nice. But again, he’d never admit it. He’d just respond with a clever quip. Never did anyone hear a thanks (but most quickly figured out he was grateful from the obvious burning red on his copper-toned neck and ears).

- Weeks drag on, and to distract himself from the impatience of going back to his normal, Starscream becomes an excellent swimmer. He finds it is like flying, the way the water holds up his body. When he holds his breath and dips under the surface, he can almost imagine his rocket boosters on his pedestal holding him aloft in the sky.

- From the work it took, he gained a slight appreciated for how his human body worked. At first he thought it was a hindrance. But as he worked with the others, he began to have an understanding that unsettled the cybertronian part of him.

- Humans were incredibly versatile. After he began to improve greatly at swimming, he asked about other activities humans did for exercise. The resulted in learning that humans didn’t always “exercise” to become strong. Many did it for fun. It was a hobby to them, and the exercise was a great benefit. It kept their minds clear, it kept their bodies healthy, and it satisfies a part of them that he was only beginning to discover.

- Starscream was aware of human creativity. It’s what had made their species a slight hindrance when they aided the autobots in the war, but because of their size, they were seen as nothing but bugs. Pests at the most. But as the con experienced this small bit of human life, he began to understand there was more to them than he’d like to admit. There was this drive to do things, to push themselves beyond their current capabilities.

- He learned of skills that human no longer needed but still learned to take pride in for fun. Swimming was only a base skill. There were humans that attempted to swim across the oceans just to see if they could, even with the high chance of death. Beyond swimming, there was running across land for days on end, jumping off cliffs and diving in spectacular ways, gliding across the sky’s on flimsy metal pipes and fabric, and so much more. Their adaptability to any environment was envious.

- It nearly terrified him, the thought of what if humans were the same size as cybertronians. What if they could acutally measure up to other species of their universe? They could do anything. They would be a real threat. Or the greatest ally any race could ask for.

- His lid has been flipped.

- Eventually he wakes up back in his habsuite in his normal body. The euphoria that rushes through him at the familiarity his nothing he’s ever experienced before. Checking his info screens, he discovers no time passed. As if he had dreamed all of it. But when he looks to his desk in the room, he sees it.

- Starscream picks the item up, inspecting it, and feels his spark skip a pulse. It’s a small ring and chain, attached to two metal objects. Both in the shape and color of a pineapple and raspberry.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Let’s Fall Out of Love

Divorce Part 1

Fully co-authored with @elvisabutler 💋

Thanks: are due to so many friends on here who helped craft this timeline and concept and helped me hone the motivations into something I trust our readers will find evocative and sympathetic. Y’all know who you are, thanks for being my buddies

Warnings: 18+ for thematic and sexual material. Strong language and bitter accusations between spouses, mentions of drugs, divorce proceedings, lying to spouses (for their eventual good???) mentions of past infidelity, Colonel Parker being the worst, poor Elvis being in a bad place with his health and mentally -and dub con smut. It is in no way non con but the context, the lack of voiced or implied consent and the aggression make it dubious. It is fairly clear both parties are engaging in hysterical bonding, still the scene is dubious as is the language used by the man regarding a wife having no say in it. So please heed that.

Note: it was the attempt of the writers to craft a rather cinematic experience with this fic, one aim was to skip times and have plenty of fade to black moments. Please note the time stamps above each scene to keep track of progression. Anything that is not clarified in this chapter will either be clarified in the next part or else in others. You’re of course welcome to ask questions.

|| 10th, APRIL 1977 ||

Divorce. Lil Tink is divorcin' him. Lil Laney is gonna be his ex-wife.

The thought rattles around in his aching brain as he chases her up Graceland’s stairway, past the portraits of their children and the plaques celebrating their successes and haunting likenesses of younger selves. Both of them home for a brief stint after Vegas Showrooms and California Courtrooms.

Home -it won’t be his home much longer, she’s gonna see to that.

Divorce.

It had taken up half his year already but he was so sure, so damn sure all she needed was to make a fuss and threaten like she does and then it would cool down, smooth over. He was ready to humor all sorts of shit and then she went and pushed for more. More money, more assets, took out a damn lien. His Tink who happily chucked half of custody at him without a fight has now drug this little show on for months, all for a couple more bucks.

She’s takin' everythin' he's worked so hard for, takin’ it all, going back for more even, just to make sure she can still be taken care of in the conditions and standards he had raised her to.

Spoiled lil middle class girl grown into a spoiled, hardened rich woman.

“Till death do you part”, he hurled the promises at her over the phone, as soon as that court order had landed in his hands -but if ya ask Elaine, he's been dead more times than she can count. Maybe he's dead to her in everythin' but body. Ain't that the other joke, he feels half dead even in body.

"Elaine Presley! Turn 'round when I'm talkin' t'ya! Ya know I hate it when people do that” As if she’s required to listen to him or required to pay attention after two decades of focusing so much of her attention and time and energy on a man who has forgotten all of that. On a man who’s forgotten that he’s married to her. That’s forgotten he has children with her, a life he promised her, and not to his manager who's twisted so much of what was between them into this. Whatever this is.

"Why?" She spits still climbing stairs she's climbed a thousand times before. Faintly she hears Marie playing in her room and a surprising amount of silence from Jack's and her heart twists. They don't need to hear this. None of her children do but her youngest- oh her youngest deserve to think their father is still something resembling a good man.

"Why?" As if Elvis is some sort of parrot, he repeats the question back at her. His confusion colors his face, warring for control with his anger and frustration as he follows her through the padded master doors. "Why? The hell kinda question is that?”

“I told you come by and grab those things you said you needed so badly.” she hauls open one of his drawers and the thing squeals on its track from her violent tug. “So do that. If you wanted to chat then we coulda chatted somewhere else. Or, you know -a year ago? Ten?”

“I’m just askin’ why.“ He embraces her own wording and tries to get nearer her, hem her in against the dresser like he’s done countless times before in this very room with dazzling success.

Elaine slips away between them like water and he’s left bracing himself on the smooth wooden top.

“I’m not actively trying to be a shrew.” she murmurs as she turns away and goes to the other side of the room, opening the wardrobe, “No matter what you believe. I told you that you’ll be welcome in this house no matter what, so that’s why.’I’m not allowing you to come around -you just can, it’s your mama’s house still, for all I’m concerned.”

“No, no I mean- why’re you throwin’ this away?” He emphasizes it with his hands, a pleading gesture that sweeps the whole room and its host of sacred memories. He’s used this before but that was back when he figured it was all one big tantrum. Signing custody papers has rather shaken that hope, delusion, comfort.

Tink purses her lips and he notices her face has gone so white this summer, rarely in the sun and addicted to wearing black like some melodramatic Prima Donna. She does look stunning in the papers all decked out in veils and heels, he’ll give her that. He doesn’t know when she turned from being the heart of the operation to the glamor of it all -and he the opposite.

“What’s my favorite color these days?” she asks him instead.

He stares at the sable color he’s seen her wearing for months now and sighs in exasperation, “Shit I dunno -black?” he swings, knowing it’s a miss the second he says it.

“I can’t do this anymore.” she informs him, like color has broken up a twenty year long marriage and he grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he cracks a filling. The pain adds to his headache that matches the pounding in his chest and the roaring in his ears builds to such a degree he’s honestly terrified for them both.

“Stop this.” he warns her, quite sure she knows the red hot fit she’s stoking with her callousness and hurt that she won’t help him out of it like she used to, that she’ll let him go into a blind rage and then blame him for it, no doubt. “I know when you’re lyin’, woman, and I ain’t ever seen a more lilly livered liar than you right now.” he snarls and tries a last appeal that comes out as a barb anyways, “You wouldn’t be goin’ on so rash if your daddy were still alive,” he jabs a finger at her, “guess I can be grateful he ain’t, so he’s not breakin’ down my door for explanations ‘bout a offense you won’t admit to me!“

Elaine absorbs this blow with a wavering face before the nonchalance cloaks her features once more and Elvis would resort to smacking it off her if he were a different sorta man. “Black is practical, that’s why I wear it. It’s not my favorite though.” she simpers, clutching at the shoe she’s picked up from the floor, something for her hands to worry, to hide her own anguish at having to keep him in the dark. To lie repeatedly to him as he breaks apart, she didn’t know it would cut him up so much.

It’s a mess, this web of connections that used to prop them up, used to be a community. Now it’s a den of tattle tales and if one of them suspects she’s anything but angry at Elvis, that this this divorce and seizing of assets isn’t a scorned wife gone nuts, but rather a calculated endeavor to get at his manager once and for all -well Charlie will spill to Vernon and Vernon will spill to Elvis and Elvis will have all the fuel he needs to plead her right back into complacent heartbreak in his arms -before he goes on tour again and murders himself from the workload.

“I’m on orange kick, actually.” her voice is hoarse.

“Then I’ll buy ya some fuckin’ orange curtains and you’ll stop divorcin’ me.” he jabs a tinged finger at her and he looks like he might fall over, his face is so flushed and sweaty, from pills and passion. Elaine readies to catch him, break his fall if he tips. At least here there’s carpet, unlike the hotel hallway that busted his head last year.

“I’m rather in the mood to buy my own from now on.” she lies and sweeps past him to get to the closet.

She never gets past him. His hand darts out and engulfs her dainty wrist, tugging her back and in a spin like he practiced in his movies so many times, a romantic, gallant, possessive gesture that lands her smack against his broad chest, locked in with an arm around her shoulders.

"Buy your own, hm? Gonna sell my mama's house to do that? Gonna sell ya children's home to do that?"

“Elvis, you get your damn hands off me.” she bites back, throwing her weight on his forearm that might as well be made of steel, so little room does she gain from her effort.

"Never minded my hands on ya before. Even 'fore I married ya, it was fine for me to touch ya. To inspect that lil house of yours to make sure it could have all those lil babies ya wanted. Gave 'em to ya didn't I? Gave ya every last one and two've ‘em are even still with ya till they leave." Never mind that Jack's been bouncing between here and California in an effort to do what he's wanted to do since Elvis would play sharks in the bed with him. "But now you're wantin' my hands off. Goin' on 'bout gettin' new curtains yourself."

His words are punctuated with spit and a hissing anger Elvis doesn't normally indulge in. The bitter anger she used on the road with champagne making her head float in a sea of lies and wants and needs and a twisted sort of love till she had to call it. She can feel her jaw tensing up at his calloused fingers finding their way under her chin, tapping at first to try and have her look up at him before clenching around it and tilting it upward instead.

"Who is it, Laney? Who's the person who's gonna take care of ya? Gonna help ya buy those curtains? Get Marie those cameras? Help Jack and Rosie pay for those commie schools of theirs?" With each passing word Elvis’s voice drops lower and lower in octave until he's reaching levels Elaine's never heard. Against her will, her body shivers in his arms. A sneer crosses his lips- a twisted version of his raised lip that everyone knows and loves. That raised lip she's kissed before with laughter and jokes on how "if you keep doing that your face'll stay that way, Naughty." It shouldn't be there like this and yet it is. "That why ya dragged me to our lil Ella Bella's weddin'? Figured the Martins could spoil our daughter rotten away from you and your new caretaker? Your new piggybank? Don't get shy on me now, Laney! Who's the lucky sonuvabitch who gets to have my wife?"

Elaine's learned how to be composed in every situation with Elvis. She'll shoot at the Colonel over love handles and movies that killed her Elvis's spirit. She'll titter at army wives mocking her house and implying she couldn't keep up with being Mrs. Presley and growing a second set of twins in two years. She'll handle losing little Joesphine with a body that betrayed them all and with a smile on her face because Mrs Kennedy had just lost hers and then John died and the US can't handle their Irish Catholic and their Southern Baptist Camelots falling to pieces all at once. But this, this is too much. This is her soon to be ex husband mocking her. Like she'd have had time to find someone else who would take care of her, like taking care of Elvis and their children allowed her to seek any other comfort than in the aging movie star her husband sought to emulate once upon a time before realizing he's just a man too. The aging movie star she considers one of her nearest and dearest friends and who'd- who would be her caretaker if she let him.

Knowing her luck it'd end up worse than this.

No, this is Elvis throwing out an insult to her character, the one he'd have defended till his dying breath except for when she turns on him like Red and Sonny did. Their book's gonna be coming out sooner rather than later and- she's made it obvious he can't trust a soul any more.

It won't do either one of them any good to react. It's not going to help her escape from his grip that's a vice around her. It won't help him see what she's doing and how she’s doing it for him. But she is only human just as he's only human and her lipstick covered mouth opens in defense of her own honor.

"What makes you think you deserve to know?" He can't see through everything to see why shes doing this, so why should he get an answer. "You won't have to worry, we'll all be taken care of. And you can be rebranded! A seasoned entertainer who's free as a bird to do whoever and whatever he wants. Or oooh -maybe the colonel will pick you out a new wife. Pretty little fool to take my place, without trappings like children -or brains."

“I chose my wife.” it sounds like a beg, anger and hurt battling for the upper hand in Elvis’ heart, his hand squeezes her chin stronger, watching her lips pucker just that little bit. Such a soft mouth has no right being so stern and derisive as it’s been these past months, once upon a time he knew how to make it gasp and smile with a word, a kiss, a mere glance. “I chose you, and you promised. It ain’t me breakin’ that promise, ain’t me sayin’ I can’t do this no more -I-I-I’ve spent my goddamn career givin’ you all this, I gave up w-women for you, I gave up movies for you, when you come to me with what’s wrong I do my damndest to fix it. Now you won’t tell me nothin’ but orange curtains, and if I thought those’d fix us I’d be out the damn door right now, headed to find you the best in the country. I would, Laney, you know I would. I’ve given-“ he stops to gasp in a ragged breath, unsure of what part of himself he hasn’t poured into his Tink, entrusted to her once caring little hands, vulnerability poured like so much oil into her heart for safe keeping, his flaws and secrets tucked safely in the little nooks and crannies of her generous mind. “I’ve given-“

-So Damn Much.

“I’ve given you my life.” His Laney stares back at him entirely unmoved, her eyes hard and sharp with their ebony liner, the squish of her lips beneath his fingers barely dismantling her disdain for him, “And seven children from my body. I never said you weren’t a good man,Elvis, or that you're not generous, but we both know we don’t want to go toe to toe in measuring costs for twenty years in heaven. And I’m saying, -I can’t do it anymore.”

“Anymore?” it’s bothered him all these months, that word and he wonders what she thinks she’ll have after this, like they’re not so intertwined and connected that, like twins, they will forever feel what the other feels, want what the other wants, a string tied between them from countless, immeasurable amounts of time spent merged as one, “I ain’t ever not gonna be in you, woman, once mine -always mine. What’s there for ya after this, huh? Seven children -twenty years! -Goddamn I’m in you!” he shakes her at that and sees a spark of something he knows light up her eyes.

Elvis slides a hand from her shoulders, down over her sternum and feels her heaving intake of breath at the missed feeling of his hands on her, down past the tie at her waist, down to the planes of her firm belly, just a little swell and some soft skin that speaks of the souls they once made with their love. He presses his hand, large and warm and cupped to that precious sanctuary, kneading it, lifting it, weighing it just that little bit in his palm.

The little house is empty.

Elvis outright laughs at his mistake then, a booming, jarring laugh at having forgotten just who he’s got in his arms. He can feel Elaine’s violent shuddering along the entire length of him at the strange sound in their gloomy bedroom. Or maybe it’s from the dig of his fingertips at her womb, like he’ll claw inside it from the outside if he’s barred from plundering her the natural way.

Sweet Miss Phipps, Elvis thinks, with her hungry mind and starved body, so damn eager to be possessed, to be made good use of, to be pumped full and burdened with child again and again. He shoulda kept her swollen this past decade, prioritized her hunger over the tours and then, maybe then, she’d not have gotten notions like this.

“God gave me a remarkable woman.” he murmurs to himself in realization, his hands loosening their grip on her jaw to run the backs of his fingers against against the soft swells of her cheeks and Elaine’s heart speeds up in recognition of the shift in his demeanor, that thrumming resolution taking over his body behind her and helplessly her own responds to it.

As if she's another person, someone she would counsel to resist, to stay strong, Elaine feels her face turn towards the caress of his ringed fingers, towards the admiring touch that’s been her joy to wake to a million times, a touch that’s brought her purpose and comfort for twenty years. Her mouth falls open with a surrendering quiver and she makes no move to avert her mouth when his fingers sweep over her face and across her lips in a revenant mapping of his wife’s well known features. Her tongue darts out to taste even a sliver of his salt, she tastes metal instead as his ring glides by. It’s a heady feeling for anyone to realize Elvis Presley intends to fuck them, it’s entirely heightened by a familiar knowledge of his capabilities and a divinely witnessed right to his person.

It’s no villain staring down at Elaine, pressing himself to her -the distance has been necessary all these months to keep her anger and fear prominent, to remind her of the need for such dire action as divorce, the slightest, kindest of touches from him would dismantle that resolve, that garish image in her imagination. Now she’s close to the finish line, so close he’s fully panicking and she can feel the lightness of soon being free of her deceit. He’s no villain, he’s just a good man who has hurt her, who hurts himself more often and worse than how she’s hurting him. And soon they’ll be able to save each other. Just not today.

His hand slips to her throat and he kneads it, contemplating the give and delicacy of her pale flesh, and her responses, the languid subjugation of her body to his touches, just like he’d taught her in this very bed across from them.

She sees when his eyes flick up from her throat to their marriage bed and it’s like a million hummingbirds erupt in her belly in disbelief, in panic, in a frantic sort of hopeful missing.

“Elvis-“ she doesn’t know if she’s trying to warn him, trying to remind him of the wrongness of what he’s thinking, or if it’s a beg for him to ignore her sensibilities, to take her and make her that new little wifey with the carefree face and the mindless little head.

His face is dark and flushed like he gets when he’s aroused, his features seeming to get richer with the heightened intensity of his feelings and she can feel the sweat break out behind her through his silk shirt, slicking up her own back through the gauze of her dress. Elvis’ eyes drop back to her face, remaining there with a million intentions painted therein but not a single flicker of wavering shows.

Elaine had no reason to be as startled as she was when she felt his hands drop to her waist and spin her around, picking her up beneath the ribs with his astounding strength and tossing her like he would rag doll on his karate mats. She landed with a silly bounce amongst the bedding. It could have been romantic if he had any blue left to his irises as he looked down at her, sauntering to the foot of the bed himself and surveying her where she lay.

“Wife.” he greeted before taking hold of a footsie in each hand and spreading them apart for him to step between her legs.

"Elvis." A whisper as if saying his name any louder would unleash something they might both come to regret. As if it'd cause the dam she's locked her emotions in this entire ordeal will finally break. If she calls him husband it's over. He knows her inside and out, every crevice and dip in her body and soul has been mapped by him. The lie will come apart with a simple utterance of his title that he still has in this moment. The title he still has for three more weeks.

"Elaine." Her name comes out in a shaky breath that she can tell he's attempting to control, to rein in. Those blue eyes she's fallen in love with more and more as years had gone by are an inky void, pupils covering every inch they can and not just because of some pill he had to take or because she had watched him die right in front of her. Both their tongues dart out to wet lips and catch errant drops of sweat before she hears the *clink* of his belt.

That noise isn't new to her, the jangle and clanging of the metal a familiar sound. In the quiet of the room, in the quiet of the house? Of their home? It steals a breath from her lungs as sure as his body pressing down on her would have. The belt sounds like one of the heaviest ones he owns and a shiver unbidden rolls through her body as the cacophony of that gaudy belt gets louder and louder in her ears. Each breath takes effort, forcing air between the two of them that threatens to stifle any calming thought or action. A final puff of air- of his breath- warm and humid runs across her hair, forcing a loose strand of it to move.

Elaine doesn't. Elaine doesn't move an inch even as his belt finally comes off in a subdued flourish and a minor curse. Her eyes focus on the gaudy little harem lamp above them even as Elvis drops the belt ever so gently next to her body. It still clangs against the rings of his hand and its own golden links.

Sweaty and warm, his bejeweled hand moves to cup her cheek. "Mrs. Presley." he breathes her title into her lax mouth like it’s Holy Spirit anointed before slotting his mouth against hers with firm conviction in the rightness of his claim to her.

"Elvis."

It's not fair that all this force, all this passion, all this wanting that has -if she’s being honest- waned for her at times over the years is coming out of him only now, now when he thinks he’s lost her. Now that he’s more fool than he’s ever been. They’ve been alone too often in their marriage, if not separated by miles and oceans, separated by intent and interpretations of it.

“Still mine, for a few more months you’re still mine. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. You jus’ take it, jus’ take me, Laney”

And if she weren’t blinded herself by a heartache the proportions of which were only matched by losing a child, she might think every grip and clash of their bodies tells her he wants her every bit as bad as she wants him.

Still.

Mindless and hazy she waits for him to notice how every give and shudder of her own frame declares her want for him. He thinks he’s forcing the matter -but all he’s doing is giving her some false hope to curl around and cry over when the fissure finally splits apart.

I wanted you. But I thought I was alone in it, she thinks she hears them both saying it with every lewd squelch and pant.

It’s cruel confirmation of how entwined they’ve become, how much knowledge of the other they’ve collected over the years that he can make her writhe even under these circumstances, have her shattering beneath him effortlessly like older, kinder, gentler times. It’s made worse when she can feel him slow, stopping partway in that familiar way when he’s edging himself, intending to make her go round the loop once more, the familiarity of it makes her want sob, not from any hurt of the present, but at the notion this may be the last time she feels it -they both want this to last. And that unity is a mocking thing, all context considered.

He’s sweaty and she’s trembling, there’s so much warmth coming off his angry frame that she feels like curling inside the furnace and letting him make her forget anything beyond this physical connection that was never in doubt, the sheets are cold and dry and foreign against her back by comparison and she thinks of sleeping alone amongst them for the rest of her life. Elvis seems to sense this weakness of hers, one he wished he supported sooner, taken advantage of back when she looked so indestructible but was privately fraying at the seams, trying to hold the whole fairytale together. He shoulda done this sooner.

Old dog, new tricks, maybe, but Elvis has always been clever, opportunistic even, and he keeps his thrusts shallow and tantalizing as his wife gasps back to life beneath him and he keeps her close, his hands wound into her hair, hairy forearms beneath her shoulders, her ankle caught somewhere near his ear and his sweaty nose dripping onto her cheek.

“C’mon now Tink, you’ve thrown your fit,” he reasons to her in a coo that is underscored by the cajoling gait of his hips rocking into her, it has her clenching around those first few inches of him again, “ya made your point. Don’t -don’t do this to us baby. You c’mon back now. Ain’t anythin’ out there that’d satisfy you like us. Ain’t nobody else needs ya more dan hims does, satnin, don’t leave hims, baby.”

A good fuck, that’s all she needed, he’s sure of it. Or a couple of ‘em. He shoulda started dishing them out in Palm Springs but he’d been so angry when she filed and she’d been so cold. A couple of good fucks, that’ll solve it.

And to be heard. Which -she’s gotten that, all of America’s been hearing how he can’t keep his own wife.

Whatever bit of sentimentality he’s feeling right now, the sort that makes him wanna spill over how pretty she looks, vanishes in the angry tumult of his recalled humiliation. It fires him up instead and he snorts in his breath above her like an angry bull, perfectly capable of making her pay, making her see some sense, too. The longer she doesn’t reply the more this feeling surmounts the gentler ones and if Elvis were being honest, he knows denial had given way to rage and now bargaining and he’s full on panicking, trying to keep a woman who he shouldn’t have to chase.

She’s his wife.

“Elaine?” even to his own ears he sounds frantic and rough.

She is crying beneath him now, he thinks, that’s not all sweat making her face shine and her lips are taut like when she’s trying to hold it in and he wonders why the hell she’s the one crying. He feels like crying, he’s being left without an explanation or a pot to piss in. And all that while he’s still perfectly capable of proving he’s the best she’ll ever get. It’s like she’s agreeing with him when her hips start to move on their own accord, disagreeing with his teasing thrusts and instead she impales herself up on him, rough and sloppy to the rhythm of her fits of crying.

“I loved you.” Elaine sobs into his neck and he could wring hers for the confusion of it, for the way he just doesn’t get her after a lifetime of trying and how only this, this communion, this passion, this fucking is the only thing they make great sense at. Back when it had a purpose, back when it was to bring joy, to make a baby or five, and even now -to tie her to him somehow.

He folds her body viciously and plants his foot on the bed, thrusting so hard into her with all that wild abandon he knows she’d been jealous of him expending on his audience and not his family. “You greedy lil bitch, you love me,” he growls, “-what a revelation.”

‘Just an ounce of all that passion would go a long way, Elvis’ -he can hear the echo of her stupid little voice even now.

Passion? You want passion, Tink? He doesn’t think he’s ever been so passionately furious when he’s climaxed before ever in his life. For once it’s quite obvious he’s not ‘made love’, war maybe, but not love -and ain’t that another joke, he’d meant to make her love him again.

Elaine tears at his back with her fingernails and hears him snarling at her that he won’t stop, can’t stop, why can’t she stop this nonsense? She grips him harder, she seizes herself as he starts to slow, claws at his back with each vicious pump -seems they’ll both be shifting in their seats next time in the courtroom.

“Elaine?” he sounds so broken, like he does those times when they bring him back from heaven’s gates, it’s mumbled into her neck again like always but this time there’s no drugs to blame, not directly, not if she’s honest. She’s the one killing him. This little plan of hers to save him, just might finish him.

She prays God will be kind, prays he’ll keep her man alive long enough for her to finish this ugly business and restore his freedom, prays that maybe the hot slosh of spend coating her womb won’t be a waste. That she’ll have something of him left, just once more, please just one more. Something left of the man she married. Something to remind her of why they married and of what it was like to be happily married. Maybe just once more she wants to carry his entire world inside her.

“No, Elvis. I-I’m sorry, no.”

When he pulls away, it's not just sweat coating his lashes and his face. This plan of hers might just finish them both.

_______________________________

Every day in that courtroom is another layer of pride and image stripped away from Elvis and her and their perfect Southern Camelot. Every day is another headline for the papers with pictures of Elvis making a fool of himself in a way that can’t be smoothed over by anyone. Every day has cameras being shoved in Elaine’s face as she leaves with another hickey on her neck, bruising and blossoming in a way that looks grotesque when she sees it on the news later that night. The black outfits don’t help the contrast.

Every other day is being thrust against a bathroom stall’s wall with heels digging into Elvis’s back.

“E-Elaine-" He’ll stutter out, the feel of her clenching around his cock making it hard to focus or maybe it was the bite of her nails through his dress shirt. "You stop this. Been grovelin' 'n I deserve to have my wife listen."

"Ex. Wife." Elaine will huff out, words slurring into a quiet mewl as his cock brushes that one spot.

"Wife." An argument and a fact that he'll hammer home until the very last second he can. She never corrects him after the first time, too worried the knowledge would crush him to the point of everything finally giving out.

Jesse has taken to looking askance at her, worried and haunted little looks with fluttery hands at shoulder level that remind her of Elvis before he married her. If she had Elvis’ grit she’d ask her son if he had something to say and tell him to say it.

As it is she just pats his elegant hands, a man’s hands, she realizes, and thanks him profusely for his support, for being there at court with her day after day, missing practice and missing dates, letting a youthful spring and summer slip on by. They’ve been at this for close to a year.

“It’s nothin mama.” Jesse insists, almost offended at the idea he’d be anywhere but by her side.

________________________________

|| 5th, JUNE 1977 ||

When Ann makes her call, Elaine’s heart fills with all the old butterflies and girlish excitement of a past decade. They’ve kept in touch, of course they have, but between the touring, the marriages, and the unspoken acknowledgment of life falling apart from one and coming together for another, there’s less common ground to chat about compared to the days when Elaine used to share her husband and two little vixens named Thumper and Tink got to pick him apart in gleeful adoration like girls with their crush.

“Can I come by?” Thumper asks her, soft and kind but without the playful undercurrent that precipitated all her other visits.

“Well of course you can, you know you can.“ Elaine puzzles, finger worrying the wire in a nervous tick that has nothing to do with anticipation, dread pools in her belly instead.

There’s no children to greet Ann when she comes to the door, Marie at school and Jack away at his apprenticeship in California, Jesse has taken to spending his days in the studio when he’s not needed elsewhere, Daisy on the road and Rosalee in College, Ella married and attempting to assimilate with her in-laws. It feels like a ghost house compared to what Ann recalls. Maybe it’s just the passage of time but something terribly wrong and lonely strikes her at the lifelessness of the grand house, like it’s become haunted without a single death.

Unless it’s the death of the Presley’s as a whole. That would do it.

Elaine stands at the top of the stairs like old times, but there’s no gambit of children to wait for and so she speeds down the stairs at a breezy gait, smiling soft and subdued even as she refuses to be coy with her hug. She wraps Thumper up in a deep embrace and Ann squeezes her back, saying a million things at once by their clutching hold, murmuring little half sentences of condolences and “missed you’s”.

“What’d you come for?” Elaine asks her at the dining table after having supplied ice water and coasters for her guest. Ann turned down the saltines Elaine devoured with peculiar relish.

Always a straight shooter, Elaine. It makes Ann sigh and smooth out her skirt, clearing her voice to repay her candor with like. “I came to see what on earth was going on. To see if you were ok. And, I guess I came to see if it’s really happening. Nobody really thinks it’s happening. Or -I don’t know.”

“It’s happening.” Elaine replies with grim resignation.

“I don’t understand because Elvis says you’re the one divorcing and I always thought if one-“ Ann stops herself to scoff, “-I actually never thought either of you would ever divorce. You’re sincere?”

“It’s happening.” Elaine repeats, shielding her saltine chewing with a manicured hand. The action also flashes her still worn wedding band.

“So it’s not a threat?” Ann marvels, “When Roger insisted it was true, I thought it must be some drastic measure, something to get Elvis’ attention. His cooperation, you know, something to just-“

“-I’ve tried many drastic measures to gain that.” Elaine responds, “ all of them failed. I’d never ‘threaten’ something as horrible as this.“

“But…you’d do something…this horrible.” Ann murmurs, scared to play devil's advocate but utterly confused.

“You don’t know what I’ve been dealing with and, what you saw in the early days of residency, even the stuff on the film sets, it’s like aspirins compared to what he’s on now.”

“So it’s the drugs?” she whispers, heartsick, “You can’t handle being…around them? Around him?” she asks, then adds after careful consideration, “I have noticed you seem, seem still very tactile with him. I see the-“ she waves her finger at Elaine’s collarbones, “-I see the marks. Are you scared of him?”

It is unthinkable of Elvis. It really is, and Ann knows her face must show disbelief even when presented with her friend's mottled skin, and she hates herself for doubting a woman’s account, but if Elaine were to say she’s scared, Ann isn’t sure she’d be able to buy that. Not of Elvis. Even under the influence.

“Gosh no.” Elaine scoffs, a beat too late. “I just can’t do it anymore. All of it. Just the typical little things that build up in a marriage, I suppose.”

She tries to grin and Thumper thinks it’s the weakest acting she’s ever seen. Elaine more convincingly played a virgin in their home movies when deepthroating cucumbers for Elvis’ enjoyment.

“How’s Roger? Elaine asks, through with defending herself and Ann feels lost, adrift and unable to get near like she once did.

“Roger is fine.” Ann replies, “He sends his best. How is Ella?”

“Tell him I’m sorry they brought your name up, last week.” Elaine sighs, no apology offered to Thumper. They both know she’d be offended at an apology for being associated with them. “Ella is decidedly pregnant, that’s what she is.”

“Is she?” Thumper coos, followed by an alarmed quavering of hope and concern on her face. “Elaine, that’s-“ it is wonderful despite the circumstances but Elaine’s brittle posture suggests a to-do about it might sink her. “Congratulations, Grandma Tink.” Thumper settles for, daring to reach across the table top, seizing Elaine’s hand and squeezing its saltine dusted elegance.

“Thank you.” she whispers hoarsely, “She calls me everyday. Reminds me of you and me back when … her man he -he sounds sweet. Of course he’ll be gone awhile and so I’m all she has got to talk to about throwing up each morning and watching things swell.” None of this is how they expected or intended, Elvis and Elaine should both be hovering about and annoying their first grandchild before they’re even out in the world. Instead Ella’s perched down in Texas, no doubt terribly homesick, and Elaine’s talking about grandbabies like it’s another addition to the carport. “Tell Roger we’re sorry they brought your name up. Please tell him.”

“We don’t care.” Thumper insists and Elaine hopes that’s an accurate representation of Roger’s feelings. “He only asked-“ Ann stares out the front windows and down the drive towards the gates, summer colors brilliantly lush outside the house, she’s seen this view so many times it hurts, “-he asked that I make sure that…any…videos, and such, were disposed of.” she winces as she gets it out, once her manager, always her manager that man. “I wasn’t sure which of you to ask about them.”

Elaine stares at her intensely as if trying to read her soul. “I’ve most of them upstairs. Ruined by pregame juice mainly but the labels are sentimental so I’ve kept them.” Ann wonders if they’re ruined at all, and if they are she wonders if it’s by orange juice or by something far more lewd. Elvis never had great aim, “I’m sure Elvis has the ones we sent him under lock and key. Either way, you know neither of us would endanger you. You know that, Thumper.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Ann breathes, resting her chin in her hand, mournful at having insinuated otherwise.

“So you can tell Roger they’re not a worry.” Elaine prods with the shadow of an old smirk, “And you never know, in future it might not be so hard to track Naughty and I down at once.”

“Oh?” Ann squints at her in confusion.

“Mhmm.” Elaine just hums and shrugs her shoulders, the purple little mark on her clavicle shadowing with the movement. “Are you saying the night, Thumper?”

Ann leaves that evening more bewildered than when she arrived. “You were right, Roger,” she tells her husband as she settles beside him late that night, “she didn’t tell me a thing. Not really.”

___________________________

|| 9th, JUNE 1977 ||

“They’re gonna stop pressin’ ‘bout Thumper,” the murmur of his voice registering before the hand on her arm does as they both find themselves heading to the bathroom. It’s a flimsy sort of an excuse and one she’s beginning to think the papers and the news cameras see through.

“That’s good.” Her voice is a little too airy but today’s been a back and forth of yelling and excuses and all Elaine’s thinking about is how one of Daisy’s bandmates called her up from a payphone telling her that they almost couldn’t wake her for the show. The show she shouldn’t be doing but the show that Elaine let her do because she’s been playing being an adult for so long that who was she to argue against it?

“Told her we’d make sure it was- nothing came out. Roger was worried about it. For her image and for his, maybe.”

After all, it’s one thing to just be married to Ann-Margret, another thing entirely to be married to Thumper who’d rolled in the hay literally and figuratively with the Presleys at their lowest point. He’s never minded her continued friendship with them but that was before whispers of infidelity turned into whispers of sexual romps that were taped and stored or pictures that were taken and used as masturbatory material. He's never minded until Joe E, bless his soul, implied he might've seen copper locks in a video from Circle K that Elvis had shown a few of the members of the Mafia. Not that the court or anyone could find such a video.

The lock to the bathroom clicks behind Elvis and he turns around, raising an eyebrow. “Now hold on a minute, she- Thumper thought we’d- I’d never-”

“She didn’t. Roger was concerned. She knows us well enough, Elvis.” Still reassuring him as if they’re not going through what is turning out to be the messiest divorce the world has ever seen and likely will ever see. “I told her as much and she felt bad about asking.”

About the tapes and the photos, not so much about their divorce, Elaine reasons. As much as she wants to fault one of her oldest friends -it’s understandable. That was the purpose of the divorce. To come out of left field and appear to all concerned as if the faithful wife has finally grown unable to force herself to put up with Elvis Presley any more. The Colonel wouldn’t question that and had wanted it for years, if anyone were to ask him. Ann- their lil Thumper wouldn’t have been able to keep her plan a secret, her loyalty to Elvis and Elaine would have put her in a spot that Elaine didn’t dare want to shove her into. No, it was better for her to question the same as everyone else. Maybe if this went well they could all have a laugh about it in Hawaii. Or at the very least, Ann could forgive her.

“Don’t know why she didn’t jus’ ask me, ‘m the one who-'' Elvis's voice trails off when it hits him. Why would she ask the person who likely doesn’t hold most of them. Who’s fixin’ to lose everything in a divorce he desperately doesn’t want. “Least she knows now."

Elaine should agree with him, she should agree with him that at least Ann knows now, but she only knows part of the story. She only knows that the man she fell in love with on a movie set and his wife she maybe sometimes loves as more than a friend won’t damage her the way they’re damaging each other. How even Elaine had to joke that maybe it would be easy to run into them together in the future. Even during these hellish days in court they can’t escape each other’s orbits.

Pretending to not love and care for Elvis is an impossible task when what she’s doing is because her love and her care for a man who is sometimes brutish and stupid and selfish is so overwhelming it threatens to choke her.

At her silence, Elvis allows himself to crowd into her space, hands grasping at her hips ever so gently. "How's Rosalee?"

They're both too tired to fight in this bathroom, their energy having been spent outside of it for everything else. Asking about his favorite daughter, the one who's lived and breathed for her daddy for years feels safe.

"Not- she's not very good, Elvis. It's been- she hasn't really been the same." Since what happened. If things were different maybe she'd be taking the time to relax at home and maybe Daisy wouldn't have run off from guilt and - no. Elaine can't dwell on that even as her eyes start to water.

"It's hard on them." His tone isn't accusing, instead managing to just state a fact. This whole divorce has been hard on all of them. Even if Elaine's the one instigating everything he sees how unhealthy she looks. Feels how her body seems to be breaking down in ways that aren't as flashy as his body but the signs are there.

God knows he's not always been the most pious of men in action, that somehow all his good intentions and gospel songs haven’t managed to pull him back as he skidded down the road to hell, yet he’s got such a hankering to hide in the cleft of the rock once again. Acknowledge he’s a man, a failing man, a wayward husband, a prodigal son.

He finds himself reaching for Laney’s hand, palm up in a way she recognizes without a word. She clasps it without hesitation, in a time worn manner they’ve used before marriages, births, trips, shows, bedsides of sick and dying friends and here in this tiled little haven of the courthouse where they’re allowed to be as vulnerable and broken as their Heavenly Father knows them to be.

They bow their heads and Elvis finds himself begging his Almighty not for a return of fortunes but merely a cessation of tragedies. Elvis’ hand twitches, a pinky disentangling from Tink’s clasp and tickling her belly, like a presentment, like a benediction of nothing more than a heartbroken hunch on his part.

_____________________________

|| 29th, JULY 1977 ||

Elvis regrets answering the door to his penthouse the moment it swings open to reveal Johnny Cash with that sort of frantic and half crazed look in his eyes that Elvis thought he'd given up at the beginning of the decade. Wasn't that a hoot, the two of them swore up and down they had gotten clean for their women, the loves of their lives- the ones that God blessed them with to live out their present and future everlasting lives with- only to fall back into those old habits. What a cosmic joke.

"You're a fool, Presley." Short and to the point in a way that only Johnny can manage. Elvis exhales, wondering what exactly he's done to God to earn one of his oldest friends calling him a goddamn fool at the closest thing he's got to a home nowadays. His lil Schnucki comes to visit him, and Jesse's called once or twice but ever since that- ever since he realized how serious his Laney was about leaving him- Graceland ain't his home anymore.

"Ain't gonna say anythin'? No fight left in you?" The door to the penthouse is kicked in and if Elvis was any other person, or Johnny was any other person Elvis might've jumped. As it is, all he manages is a shrug as he pinches his nose. His head's achin' and his eyes hurt and all he wants to do is sleep. Take something to make every whisper floating in his head die down. An older brother telling him how he's ruined his life isn't remotely something he's got the patience for. Not after today's courtroom.

"Whatcha want me to say, John? Ya know everythin', so whatcha want me t'say, hm? Laney's leavin' me, takin' what she wants and leavin' me poorer than I met her."

Not monetarily, no, Elvis figures he could handle that better than the reality of his Laney, his Tink, the bjggest part of his soul other than his mama leaving him. Elaine's leaving him a man with barely any soul left in him to fight and go on. And he swears- lord he swears he felt something different about her recently. Something swelling that shouldn't.

"What I want'ya to say is that I'm gonna go back to my hotel and me and June are gonna tell each'otha that this whole thing's jus' you all been stubborn as a pair o'mules. Cause if it ain't, I gotta be real concerned June's gonna up and do the same thing on me." Johnny's always been someone who doesn't let Elvis get away with half the things everyone else does. Maybe it's because of how they started things together or how Johnny knows that half the reason he's got June is because of Elvis. Or maybe it was some misplaced need to be a brother to Elvis- to fill in a spot he figures his twin would've.

"June ain't gonna-" Elvis starts before Johnny uses the two inches he's got on Elvis to his advantage, staring the other man down as he cuts him off.

"Lane wouldn't've. Shouldn't've. Yet she is. This ain't- this ain't 'bout whatever damn excuse she's got. Can't be. There's somethin' you ain't tellin' everyone."

More and more Elvis has to laugh at his life and how everyone seems to think he's got some power over his Laney. That this whole divorce and the way he's embarrassing the both of them day after day is just another show. A snow job as the colonel would put it. This would be so much easier if that was the case. It isn't the case though, it isn't the case and Elvis feels his laughter escape him like the boom of a cannon.

"If there's anythin'- The whole damn country thinks I'm an idiot who can't keep his wife and here- I don't need you to be thinkin' 'm an idiot who don't know some grand plan his wife's cooked up. Ain't no plan. Ain't nothin' I ain't already groveled about and cried about in those hallowed halls. Laney jus' don't want me any more."

A silence settles between the two men at that revelation with Elvis breathing sounding so labored that even through the haze of his own drugs Johnny levels a look at his friend. It’s only after he’s sure that the other man won’t pass out and die on him that he actually speaks.

"You- You ain't me. She ain't Vivian. She- Elvis there ain't no way she's- that ain't it. You're both- you two can't keep your hands off each other even divorcin'. She- she still wants ya.”

“She wants my cock, John. Wants my money. Wants my house. My mama’s house. Know I said it was hers the moment we got hitched but- it wasn’t ever supposed to be hers. It’s- It’s ours.” Elvis isn’t one to break down, not in front of certain people and Johnny might be one of his friends that are near and dear to him but he doesn’t want to lose it in front of him. Doesn’t want to cry and blubber like he has been in the courtroom, pleading and begging for Elaine to just see sense. “We don’t- She don’t love me any more. T-That’s all there is to it. No grand con-spear-ah-see. Jus’ my wife wantin’ to be my ex-wife. Don’t know if I blame her. I ain’t-”

“You been a better husband than I was. Better husband than a lotta men. If- if 'Lane wanted to leave ya? She'd have done it back in the 60s. When you were carryin' on wit' what's her name- Swedish girl- fire hair. But she went 'n made friends wit' her. That woman's supposed to be yours till Kingdom Come 'n beyond. This doesn't make a single lick of sense and ya know it!"

One would think that nothing could echo in this penthouse and yet somehow Johnny's booming yell, filled with bass that Elvis is sure have made men greater than him bend and cower, echoes and reverberates in his ears. A stark reminder that Elaine and him seem to affect everyone around them for better or worse. Elvis's heart pumps a little harder as he tries to wrap his aching head around everything for what feels like the millionth time.

"I-I know it don't. This- you know these things don't take this long, John. I've-I been draggin' this out. Stickin' my damn heels in the mud. Anythin' to get her to come back, to see what- anythin' to not lose her. And she's jus'- ain't none of it workin'. Daisy up'n'ran off, Rosalee jus' wants me to be near her mama or her mama near me. Jesse's lookin'-"

"That what it is? Her doing it for the kids?” Johnny’s question has him tilting his head, not entirely unlike the millions of dogs Elvis’s children have had over the years. He ought to be offended Johnny cut him off so easily and without a care in the world and yet Johnny’s one of the few people he’d let do that. “She’s doin’ this for your kids.”

For once, Elvis has to look at Johnny and guess at what he means whether it’s because the man is too stunned to put it into words or because he doesn’t want to even entertain the idea, Elvis doesn’t know. He can hear his heartbeat going a bit too and a bit too hard in his ears as he answers.

“Ya mean- have i been failin’ them too? Have a been as bad of a father to ‘em as ‘ve been a bad husband?” The laugh that leaves Elvis sounds more like a sob than anything else. Johnny purses his lips even as he listens. "Ya mean how I found out I'm havin' a grandbaby through Laney? Or how Daisy's worse than you’n’I together on whatever she's takin'? Or how my boys acted like superheroes for their sister? How my lil Schnucki had- how I had to find that out from the Harrisons and my boys? ‘N I wasn’t there to blow those fools’ heads clean off their necks?”

Johnny realizes right then he’s made a mistake coming here. Or maybe just made a mistake pressing this point like it’s honestly any of his damn business. “You haven’t-”

Elvis cuts him off with a wave of his hand as he steps away, trying to feel less like a caged animal. “That’s right, I haven’t. I haven’t, John. Haven’t been there, haven’t given ‘em what they need. I had one job. Take care of all of ‘em and love ‘em. Failed so- I don’t blame her, John. I- I love her. Ya know I do. You know this sorta love but I can’t, I can’t make her love me again. S-she ain’t gonna love me again. Not the way she has.” His breath comes in short pants as his hand shakes and his leg jitters like he’s a man twenty years and nearly ten children younger. “I tried fixin’ this. The kids- the kids tried fixin’ this. But they can’t- can’t get through to her, these days! They’re all beggin’ and cryin’ and torn up and the Tink I know wouldn’t’ve lasted a week after causin’ such hurt to our babies. Well this new edition of her’s done made it close to a year.”

Johnny opens his mouth to speak only for Elvis to hold up a finger and force himself to take a deep breath, like Laney told him to those times after she thumped his heart back to life for him. Laney’d get what she wants if he died but he’s got a grandbaby he’s gotta see. Wants to try and see. “A year. Been nearly a year and it ain’t workin’. Nothin’- been tryin’ to remind her’ve what we had. What I give t’her. It-” Elvis starts to trail off, the fight that Johnny had put inside him slowly deflating till all he’s left with is the shell of a man who’s bone tired. Bone tired and losing everything no matter what fight he puts up. His shoulders slump.

Watching someone who’s as larger than life as Elvis Presley seemingly fold in on himself feels wrong in Johnny’s mind, but it gives him the answer he needs. It gives him the answer he’s looking for when it comes to just what’s going on with this whole divorce and what’s going on with Elaine and Elvis. His legs cross over to where Elvis is in only a few steps and without missing a beat, his arm wraps around Elvis’s shoulder. Elvis might not be his brother in blood but they’ve gone through enough that- that he wouldn’t leave him out in the cold without a hint of comfort.

“You gotta make peace wit’ it, then. Gotta- The Lord ain’t gonna want to see the two of ya fightin’ till ya keel over and die. Gotta give- If what she wants is to not be your wife any more, ya gotta give it to her. Just to make peace.” His voice isn’t much louder than a low rumble and yet Elvis can hear him clear as day.

“She won’t be my Laney any more. Won’t be my Tink.” A response as if he's a child being denied his favorite toy. Johnny doesn't stop himself from huffing out a laugh.

"But she'll still be Elaine, your children's mama. It ain't like you won't ever see her, EP." But that’s not the problem, that’s never been the problem and from the way Johnny’s looking at him, he knows that. “But ya gotta- it’s not doin’ either of ya a bit o’good to be draggin’ it on and on. Not after everythin’. Been livin’ ‘part for so long-” Johnny trails off, hand moving to rub at his eyes as he shakes his head. “Nothin’ you’ve done’s fixed it. Might not be meant to be fixed in those ways.”

“I-I- I don’t have anythin’ to fall on, John. I leave her it’s jus’ me and-” The medicine I got coursin’ through me, is what he should say. “I don’t know how to not be her husband.”

A silence settles over the two of them, punctuated only by Elvis’s heavy breaths and Johnny’s sharp and quick ones until Johnny settles himself against the wall, crossing his arms and raising his leg to press against it.

“Never said ya had to stop actin’ like you were.”

__________________________________

|| 6th, AUGUST 1977 ||

It’s a supreme irony that after a year of wishing for a cessation of that old stubbornness, that bitter pride of his, when such submission comes in the form of a mute and sullen husband opposite in the courtroom, Elaine feels her heart hammer in her chest, bewildered and terrified as he concedes one settlement after another in quick session.

Jesse gasps beside her at the change, even looks ready to beg her to reconsider her greediness as 90% gets handed over without a hint of the raging qualms her opposition has been voicing for five months.

Only Colonel Parker appears scared as shit, angrily grabbing at Elvis’ limp arm and trying to interrupt his directions with the lawyers. Each new verdict gets waved through by a lazy flick of a bejeweled hand and Elaine thinks the repetition of the gavel granting her all she wants could make for a decent backbeat in the studio.

After an agreement to give up 90% of his catalog, Elaine and Jesse both share a look, heartbroken and relieved that he’s really, truly, finally given up.

It’s obvious to all that it’s a bodily wearing out, Elvis looks awful and no amount of jewelry or eyeliner or Snow Job paraphernalia can hide the fact Elaine’s husband is a sick man. Even the papers who’ve found him easy pickings for ridicule and blame suddenly find some heart for his obvious suffering, even if the compassion is wedged between headlines about his expanding waistline and her latest money grab.

“What’s with you?” she demands and this time it’s her hand around his wrist, the unsteady clop of his boots following her heels after the click of the bathroom latch. When she drops his wrist his gold studded hand lands heavily by his thigh, he makes no move to crowd her, to grip her hair and kiss her like old times. “What was all that about?” she finds herself angry instead of relieved, mimics his lazy hand waves and scoffs in his face. She knew and planned on this day coming, but it doesn’t make it less unsettling as she takes in the victory of her spirit over his. He’s her man after all, her daddy and her provider, tough and proud and one of a kind and she’s beat him at the game of wills. She can feel her eyes pooling and angrily runs a hand under her nose as he stares at her with a blank, droopy expression.

“M’tryin’ to make peace.” Elvis shrugs, it was Johnny’s advice. Whatever it took, even if it meant giving in, he’s the man of their house and he’s here to make peace. Maybe if they end on a kind note he’ll be thought of, invited into the inner circle even even, by the time Ella pops out their grandbaby. “Never cared about the fuckin’ catalogue Tink, was only ever about buyin’ time to convince you to stay.”

The colonel’s panic at this latest settlement, one that finished the final prying open of his carefully constructed facade, one that’s exposed him to years of investigations, jail time maybe -though few outside of Elaine, Mr. Corleone and the FBI know that yet- is like sipping a mojito after a long day baking in the sun for Elaine.

Two decades of her saying he wasn’t right and Vernon telling her to go mind the carpet bill, change a diaper, redo a curl.

It should be refreshing, it should be a tonic to the way she feels shaky most mornings and ravenous in the evenings. Instead she finds herself trembling and laying an icy hand to Elvis’ burning forehead, registering the unnatural heat even in this chilled bathroom. It’s not just the stupid velvet coat, one blue eye is far more dilated than the other now she’s pulled his glasses down. He flinches from it, whether from the brightness of the bare bulbs or her touch, she isn’t sure.

“What’ve they got you on?” she sounds like a frog, throat all constricted and voice thin. She cares, she still cares so much and it could’ve been just yesterday she folded her handsome young groom into that bathtub in Germany and held him through the shakes. She wishes she could ask him ‘why do you always waste my love?’ But somehow, even after all her cruelty, that feels a little mean. “Baby, talk to me, what’s -“

Elvis grabs her hand, gently this time and he folds it with her other in both of his, a tan, sparkly little cage, she wonders how long it’ll take him before he pulls his wedding band off. Will he discard it before they make it out of the courthouse today? “Don’t you fret yourself, lil mama, those days are over.” he rumbles as he squeezes her hands and she wonders if he means days of fretting or drugs, they coincide often enough, “You jus’ take care of y’self, ok?” he sucks in a trembling breath and his glasses pinch between her fingers in his squeeze, “Without me there to nag ya bout it I-I -you take care of y’self.”

“Oh Elvis-'' she whimpers, moving closer, wanting to beg for some forgiveness, all clever plans and well timed revelations beginning to fray as she watches him rally his old magnanimity despite his grief.

_____________________________

|| 28th, SEPTEMBER 1977 || >>

He’s not alone in this concern, Elaine doesn’t know if she has Jesse or Daisy to blame for the way Marlon shows up in Memphis like that Yankee son of a bitch belongs that land bound. There’s never been a reason to see Brando except on one coast or another and it’s jarring for Elaine, seeing him take up space that’s so uniquely Elvis’ property, even if it’s under her name.

To see him in her home. Her true home.

She’s no good at hiding her nerves or the exhausted paranoia of wondering how Elvis will react when he hears of this visit. Marlon reads her like a book and leans against her kitchen counter, acting like Mary isn’t throwing them a million side eyes over the biscuit batter, and asks after her well being.

“Pretty terrible, thanks. And you?” she shrugs, wringing out a dish towel over and over. She doesn’t know when she became so fidgety, nowadays it seems she’s always betraying her nerves with restless hands and she never had that trouble before. Always a baby to hold if she needed the excuse, she guesses.

Her last baby is nine years old. And so she wrings out her dish towels and stares back at an old lover with the weary openness of a woman who doesn’t really care anymore. Elvis has been her one goal, and saving him is killing her as effectively as it is him. Those last days she wasn’t sure he was going to keep making it into the courtroom, shifting in his chair not from her nails furrows but from the repeated shots in his rump. The ones that have killed him a few times over.

Jesse made a visit to him in Vegas. Elaine doesn’t know what he said but her boy has barely spoken since. She asked her son how his father was, quite aware she doesn’t know the particulars from his fevered attentions in the handicapped bathroom of the Santa Monica courthouse. Her man would crawl out of his grave for the chance to make love one last time, it’s not a good gauge. Jesse said he keeps the curtains closed constantly. That he’s not letting anyone up. Charlie barely let Jesse up. His eyes are bad, so bad the curtains stay closed, otherwise Jesse couldn’t tell, couldn’t get a good look at him. He didn’t stay for the concert. Cissy says his voice has held up this time, at least.

“Pretty terrible.” She tells Marlon, because he’s always been more friend than lover, and that’s why he’s in Memphis when it’s a fool's errand anyway.

For all Marlon will speak his mind about this that and the other on things he cares about- yet God does he *care* about Elaine and so he bites his tongue at the first thought that pops into his head. *You've been pretty terrible for years and now you decided to care and do something about it*.

Instead: "You look terrible."

Which is a gross oversimplification of his feelings, but Elaine doesn't watch as his eyes slide over her pale and wan cheeks that look thinner than he's ever seen them. She doesn't watch how his eyes drift downward to breasts that are pressing against the dress she's wearing.

They remind him of when she was pregnant with Marie. They remind him of her breasts when she cried out beneath him against her tiki bar. If he closes his eyes he can picture them bouncing in front of his face, begging for him to bury his face in them. The boy- her oldest boy was right. Marlon doesn't even need to look at her stomach and yet some sick twisted masochistic tendency compels him to as if that'll change things.

It's small. Smaller than he figures any of her bumps have been and yet it's there. Mocking and growing at its own pace.

Proof that Elaine Phipps wants to remain Elaine Presley till one of them dies and maybe even beyond. Marlon can't help the way he exhales through his nose, unable to look away even as Elaine talks,

"Marlon, are you even listening?"

No. But he needs to.

"Mind wandered off, you know how I get, Elaine." He straightens up and tries to stay alert, “So, all this really fixed things for ya, eh?” he quips sardonically and she smiles, rolls her eyes, fully aware he’s not mocking her, he’s mocking the hopelessness of it ever working.

“Yeah. It’s all coming up roses.” she snarks.

“I uh-“ he stipples his fingers on the counter and weighs his next move, “-I heard that Colonel Parker’s recently landed in some seriously hot water. Something about the audits during the divorce and how certain things don’t match up. Got it from the papers, you know how long they stretch a few vague facts. I had to read two whole pages to get ‘fraud’ and ‘debts’ out of them. Anyways, I thought you’d find that nice -hot water, all that.”

“So hot it’ll boil his coat of lies right off with any luck.” Elaine seethes and her sudden passion takes Marlon by surprise. Stirs an old appreciation for just how much verve is always bubbling beneath her doll-like exterior. His fingers itch to let out the excess in a gush around his fingers. “Illegal alien.” She expounds, warming to her argument in the way of someone long overdue a listen, “Would you believe it? All those endless homebound tours -runing Elvis into the ground on the same circuit simply because that greedy fool couldn’t tag along. Couldn’t step outside the country. Always wondered why he never crashed our time in Germany, knew he would if could. Fake, heartless, toad.”

“Fuck him.” Marlon agrees vehemently and Elaine looks up with the same appreciative eyes of a decade past when she got no arguments from him, unlike all the menfolk surrounding her most days. Marlon abides by a simple rule: if it pisses Elaine Presley off, he needs no further research to say it ain’t shit.

“Yes, well, I’ll leave that to the Justice Department, I’ve done my bit.” Elaine sighs, her little victory crow short lived and even with his bias for the unattached Miss Phipps, Marlon can see how hollow her achievements are without Elvis to pat her pretty head for them. “It’s been weeks and I- I’m afraid he’s angry Marlon.” they’re not talking of the Colonel now, Marlon can tell by her love-sick face, “I knew he would be, with the divorce and probably with framing Parker but -he was so kind that day. So kind I thought he might’ve forgiven or just, I don’t know but now, now he won’t even answer my calls. Marie hasn’t gotten through either and -it’s not like him, Marlon, it’s not.”

“You got something pressing to tell him?” Brando asks and doesn’t even bother to hide the way his eyes flick back over her ripening form, pondering if her boy hadn’t been silly after all, going on about her not noticing. If he were a woman, a pretty woman like Elaine still is, Marlon would be weighing those growing tits each day with pride and mesmerization -but then again, Elaine’s had more on her mind than appreciating her own assets like a horny old star who never learned to aim for his own league.

“No I only wanted to-” she bites her lip as if unsure or else what she wants is unspeakably optimistic for a woman who just threw it all away. “I missed his voice.”

_______________________________

<<< || 16th, AUGUST 1977 ||

The knock at the door startled them both. Elvis pulled his back from it and faced it like he was gonna defend his wife from the mob he suspected was outside. Old habits die hard.

“Y’all?” Jesse yelled through the thick wood, “There’s half the city crowdin’ outside, there’s not gonna be a path to squeeze through soon.”

“Yeah alright son, thank you.” Elvis cleared his throat as he dropped her hands, straightening his posture fully. “You ready?” he asked dully, eager to get the worst moment of his life over.

“I gue- I- yes.” she stumbled over her meaning and smoothed out her black jacket.

"Daddy?" Jesse's voice was heard over the wood once more and both Elaine and Elvis took matching deep breaths, sweat droplets falling on Elvis’s eyes with a wince.

It's not pity that had Elaine putting the glasses back on Elvis’s eyes, her fingertips brushing against his temples in a simple gesture she's done a million times before. No, it's her last hurrah as his wife, her last action as his wife. They may have signed the papers within the past hour and legally she may be Elaine Phipps once more but until they walk out of this bathroom and this courthouse she was Elaine Presley, wife of Elvis Presley. A low hum reverbated against her chest before she pulled away, a soft smile across her lips.

"There there, Mopey, all better," she whispered in the sort of tone she only uses for the children when bandaging a hurt. "Let's- let's go face the music."

“Got me more nervous than any curtain I’ve been behind,” he joked even as it falls flat and his breath comes quicker and quicker. This was the beginning of their new life as separate entities. As an ex-husband and an ex-wife.

The door wasn’t that heavy when he shut it earlier and yet it felt as if someone had remade it out of concrete as Elvis tried to push it open once the lock clicked open. He could already see the flashing bulbs from the cameras and the press of the mass of people outside waiting for them. They were no stranger to crowds but this one was one none of them wanted to face. A look was exchanged between the three of them as their shoes clicked against the floor of the courthouse, a silent acknowledgement to try and get to their waiting cars as soon as possible.

"Jess! Mama!" Elvis and Elaine looked up through the mob of people as they pushed and pulled at each other trying to catch a glimpse of the former couple with their oldest son. They found themselves half blinded by flashes of cameras and the sun's own light, trying to find the source of the bellowed words. "We're over heyer!"

Jack then. Jack who was growing more and more into Elvis’s twin if not in bulk but in charm and whose shout sounds something like Sargent Presley’s in the army. Elaine looked at Elvis, biting her lip as she did.

"Soundin’ more like me everyday." Elvis commented as if he was commenting on the weather. It had never been hard to talk to Elaine. Yet in this moment, Elvis found himself at a loss for words. And from the way Elaine was looking at him, the feeling was mutual. Matching pink tongues darted out to wet dry lips and Elvis opened his mouth, his arm outstretched as if he was going to grab at Elaine's only for his oldest son to pop up between them, taking Elaine's arm without a second thought.

"I've got you mama. I gotcha, let's go."

The look he leveled at Elvis made every single moment in this courtroom for the past five months seem like child's play. To have his oldest son look at him like he did with any suitor that tried to come Elaine’s way, hurt. But that was his life now wasn't it? That's Elvis Presley’s life without Elaine Phipps. That's Elaine Phipps's life without Elvis Presley, protected only by her sons and her daughters from a man she once called husband. The man she once loved with every fiber of her being or so Elvis thought. Make peace with it, Johnny said. Make peace with her, Johnny said. Elvis didn't think that it would feel like this.

“I know you do, Jesse. Let me say goodbye to your father.” Elaine said as softly as she could in order to avoid the prying ears of every journalist between here and her car. “Jack and your siblings aren’t going anywhere. Not in this crowd. Even if Jack’d run them over to protect me.”

A smile unbidden crossed Elvis’s lips at the joke between their eldest and Elaine. She wasn’t wrong, but that was his boys and their love for their mother in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Capable of murder to protect her the same as him. She- she would be alright even if- even if what he suspected to be true was.

“Jack drove us here, all of us.” She explained as her eyes flitted across his form one last time to check for imperfections and for signs he might be needing anything. “I’ll make sure Ella calls you about-”

“It’s fine, Elaine. Made my bed, gotta lie in it now.” His eyes scanned across the crowd, even as he winced from the light of the sun and the flashes even through his sunglasses, finally settling on his car with Colonel Parker in the passenger seat, waiting for Elvis with a look of pure displeasure and mild panic on his face. “Gotta get him and I outta here ‘fore I give him a heart attack.”

Elaine’s face hardened at the words, and Elvis, in a fit of nostalgic responsibility for her happiness, moved to place a soft kiss against her cheek, squeezing at her hands as he did.

“S’been the joy of my life knowin’ you, Miss Phipps.”

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. 🌹

@eliseinmemphis

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

[embarassedwithapicketsign]

comfort hungry phoebe x reader

rpf!!!

pls dont be mean i dont claim to be a good writer i literally just need more boygenius content and took it into my own hands, im aware this isn’t good <3

this is also extremely self indulgent im chronically single and touch starved atm

phoebe was never one for emotions, perhaps stemming from her childhood years begging to be loved, or maybe her innate fear of vulnerability. she didn't like to dwell on the whys too much, her friends had accepted her odd ways and her ever revolving partners had managed, although not without difficulty. her favourite pet name for her ex was 'dude', a funny running joke at first but then a sad testament to the lack of intimacy within their relationship, and when her first girlfriend admitted that she loved her all phoebe could force out was an awkward smile and a quick 'you too'. it wasn't that she didn't feel, in fact the girl felt so much that it hurt, it pained her to see how her inability to express her emotions affected her relationships but it just never felt right.

that was until she met her girlfriend. phoebe was enamoured with you from the moment you were introduced after one of her shows by some mutual friends. your smile was what first attracted her to you, but it was your ability to make her feel completely comfortable with herself that made her stay. now, almost a year into your relationship phoebe couldn't get enough. she still wasn't big on being affectionate in public, but today she found herself craving your touch, catching your eye from across the room filled with people she couldn't care less about. she smiled as you recognised her discomfort, always in tune with what she needed, and made your way to her. linking your two hands together phoebe squeezed tight letting the sweet smell of your perfume distract her from the blurring noise of the conversation happening around her.

when a brief lull arose in the discussion, phoebe couldn't help but drag you away to a secluded corner. she hated these things, glorified industry networking parties, but ‘the record’ came out in a few months and their manager insisted her and the boys went so naturally you had to come along too. 'fuck's sake', phoebe muttered, resting her forehead on your shoulder, feeling you move as you giggled.

'phoebs, it's not that bad, just an hour or so left and we can leave, i promise', you ran your hands through the blondes hair, feeling her sigh before she lifted her head and held your gaze with wide eyes. she usually managed to push through these things on autopilot but she'd been having a bad few days which quickly turned into a bad week, falling back into her cruel cycle of self hatred and nihilistic thoughts and all she wanted to do was be at home cuddled up with maxine and of course, you.

wrapping her arms around your waist you couldn't help but notice that she was tugging you closer, pulling you into her despite the curious eyes that usually would send her back to her anti-pda ways. you too ignored the stares and melted into her warm body, sensing her need for comfort. 'i love you so much baby', you whispered, rubbing your thumb softly along the strip of skin where her shirt had separated from her trousers, 'we can go right now if you want, i know you're not feeling good.'

biting her lip in thought you could practically see the cogs working in her brain and she sighed before answering, 'no, i promised jb and lucy i would be here', you were about to interrupt her to tell her what she already knew, that her bandmates wouldn't care if she left and never came back once she was safe and feeling okay, but phoebe gave you a pleading look, 'i know, but i want to be here for them, they were so excited for this.'

'okay, but say the word and we'll leave' you hesitantly replied, wanting nothing more than to wrap phoebe up in your bed with a steaming cup of tea and a promise to never let anything hurt her. she looked at you with grateful eyes, lifting her head from where it had fallen on your shoulder to press her lips against yours. 

as if sensing they were being spoken about lucy and julien bounded over and took in the stance of their two friends, 'the heart eyes over here are insane’, joked julien, before throwing her own heart eyes at lucy who was instead focused on the way phoebe kept herself firmly in your hold, despite both of you expecting her to move away like she usually did. 

phoebe lightly smiled murmuring a quiet retort to her best friend, slipping effortlessly into their usual back and forth relationship. joining the conversation you tried to ignore the woman clinging to you, not wanting to bring attention to the fact that she was still attached to you but that became impossible when her hand grabbed yours and placed it on her back, looking at you with puppy dog eyes. you knew what she was looking for, and holding back a smile you dragged your nails lightly up and down her back the way she loved. she craned her neck to stare up at you and your cheeks flushed at the intense love in her eyes. 'i love you sweetheart, thank you for being here’, phoebe said, the earnestness in her voice making your heart squeeze. smiling like an idiot you kissed her forehead, continuing to rub her back.

'this is sickening phoebs', julien interrupted, a grin on her face, as much as she loved making fun of the blonde she also loved seeing phoebe so comfortable in her relationship for the first time. 'shut up' phoebe muttered, finally pulling away from you to hide her blushing face. you laughed at the look on the boys' faces as they finally saw this side of phoebe, the one which you gladly experienced every day. phoebe was so full of love. she had so much of it to give and you were on the lucky receiving end of it. 'i hate all of you guys' she said, finally emerging from behind her hands, her red cheeks apparent.

'no you dont', said lucy, shaking her head softly at their friend.

'no i dont'

[beevean]

If I’m being honest, you are all getting way too hung up on fake diseases and attacking a writer as if he personally attacked your family. It’s a strange obsession you have and you guys always come at any small nitpick as if it’s the end of the world. It’s a weird obsession and you have all been doing it for years. Maybe you liked Sunset Heights getting a remix but you also play victim when people don’t like the 2010s games. You can see Sonic is more successful now and doing things much better but you just like to sit in your anger towards the series for years. I’ll add that you’re much more sane in your reactions than RandomtheFox, but this whole side of the fandom here is so pathetic. The endless loop of anything new coming out for Sonic, and your little posse hating on it because it isn’t the meta era or because Ian Flynn has his name on it makes me glad you guys are a small minority in the fandom.

Do you want to know why we're discussing this?

If you go back and read our discussions, see how much we brought up with this little detail!

I looked up the effects of low gravity on the human body: I learned something new about science. I tried to put into words why this detail is harder to accept than Sonic breathing in space: this is about stories and world building. I immediately found a replacement idea. We discussed about SA2, its gameplay mechanics, its cutscenes. Someone even brought up the idea of drawing parallels with AIDS and how it would affect Maria. Negativity can stem from a place of reasoning, "how would I do that?", and it makes me use my brain in a fun way. I'm aware it's a inconsequential detail, but I'm having fun!

As for the rest of the message, yeah, we are a minority. Which makes me wonder why you care so much about a group of, what, four people?

Why don't I get any engagement when I'm positive, but suddenly people are up my ass when I talk about something negative? I didn't even tag most of my posts. Bro half of the Sonic fandom blocked me already because I'm a dirty sinning IDW non-enjoyer. I am not bothering anyone.

By the way, my negativity about IDW once even resulted in me writing a fic about it. Again, creativity and genuine discussions about writing a story and its downfalls. It nourishes the brain.

I don't like this new direction for Sonic. There, happy? I don't feel catered to, as a 2000s fan, by all this "REMEMBER WHEN WE WERE COOL????" stuff, not to mention I'm just not a Shadow fan so seeing him with wings and shit does nothing for me. I am annoyed because this used to be a franchise dear to me, but the current environment, both games and fandom, alienates me. I am also aware that, precisely because I'm in the minority, I'll just have to wait until ST changes trend again.

If my writer side activates when I talk about a writing decision I don't like and I'm having fun dissecting it, let me, alright? You can find me cringe, if you want to, but I'm not doing anything different than other fans, just directed towards a less acceptable target and in the privacy of my blocked blog.

Also: to be perfectly honest, if it only takes me one day of mild bitching to get anons yelling at me that I'm a joyless bastard doomed to be sad because I refuse to be happy, it kind of makes me want to be saltier out of spite. I'm already a bad person, might as well, right?

[dawnrider]

For the bodyguard au prompt, can I please request InuKag:

"You're not paid enough to die."

"Sometimes it's not about the money."

I love all of your stories by the way! You’re an incredible writer!

@somegoodcrumbs you are so sweet! Thank you!🥰

This one-shot... very much got away from me. 😅 I started it this morning and well... 😐

In The Blood || 3375 Words || CW: Injury, blood, villain death

Inuyasha groaned, cursing the way his vision blurred for a moment. He had to pull it together, and fast. Kagome was depending on him. As it was, she was fussing over him, trying to bind his shoulder so it would stop bleeding everywhere and to stabilize the joint a little. “A sword! In this day and age!” She was ranting at an inconsistent volume, sometimes mumbling, sometimes stage whispering loudly in his ear. She knew to keep quiet so as not to give away their position, but she was obviously upset.

“They’re youkai, Kagome. They don’t give… ah… a shit about modern social conventions.” He gasped as she cinched the makeshift bandage particularly tight to add compression to the wound. While grateful for her help, and that she knew what to do, he hated that she was so proficient at it. He was supposed to be strong enough not to need tending, but it had happened enough times in his tenure as her personal guard that it had become old hat to her at this point.

That didn’t mean he didn’t get an earful about it every single time.

“You really should be…” he grunted as he shifted against the wall, twisting his ears to listen for any pursuers, “making a run for it. While you can. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they recover enough to follow.”

She huffed at him. “I’m not leaving you here to die.”

“It’s my job to die for you if it means you are safe,” he reminded her. Except it was far more than his job at this point. His very being thrummed with the need to make sure she was safe. Which really made him want to move, to get her to safety, but his body just couldn’t cooperate yet.

Kagome barely restrained herself from punching him in the shoulder. “You're not paid enough to die,” she reminded him, trying to sound lighthearted. Inuyasha could hear the tremble in her voice, smell the tears collecting in her eyes. He caught her cheek, turning her toward him.

"Sometimes it's not about the money."

She sucked in a breath, swallowing a sob. He both loved and hated that she was trying so hard to be brave for his sake. It spoke to who she was, strong and kind. But it broke his heart that he was so weak that they were in this situation now. “You idiot,” she breathed.

Inuyasha froze when her lips found his unsuspecting. Her breath was soft, shaky, but he could feel the conviction behind it. Why? echoed in his brain, rattling around in his skull. So stunned by her kiss, it didn’t truly register that it was happening until it was over.

He didn’t miss the embarrassment that flickered on her face, but was quickly squashed by a serious frown. “Can you stand at least? I think I can get to a car.”

“Kagome…”

“I remember how to hotwire it and I can pull it up so you can get in.” Inuyasha growled. “Then we can get out of here and…”

“Kagome!” She jolted, turning to look at him. She was wide eyed and a little pale. Inuyasha never wanted her to look at him like that again. She was just close enough that he could tug her shirt, pulling her off balance and into his lap. He tucked her head under his chin, his good arm looping around her shoulders to hold her against him. “Just give me a little more time. I’ll be ready soon.” She nodded.

Inuyasha wasn’t sure how long they sat there in silence, the cold concrete of the parking garage pillar against his back. His ears were constantly on a swivel, listening for any sign that they’d been found by the youkai out to destroy the one geneticist who could finally make it so youkai didn’t outlive their human partners by centuries. Or lose them to illness or injury. A discovery that harmed no one had become the source of a spattering of rallies and attempts to get her lab shut down.

Inuyasha didn’t understand why it infuriated them so much. It would benefit so many. Even other youkai who were not as long-lived! It was rare, but hanyou with youkai partners could stay with their mates as well. There were too many youkai that had withered away after the loss of their mates to ignore the benefit to youkai. Their numbers weren’t exactly growing exponentially… 

A few of the more vocal rabble rousers had been screaming about human vampires stealing their blood, but he had discounted them as anti-science misanthropes. The kinds of people who refused to actually read what the science said, or even attempt to understand it.

Today they learned the hard way that some were willing to take it further than yelling…

In hindsight, the press conference to try to clear up misunderstandings had been a mistake. It had given the enemy a chance to corner them out in public with advanced notice of when and where she would be. The lab had organized a relatively small crowd of journalists, not wanting to overwhelm Kagome. She was a scientist, not a public figure. She was a better speaker than one might have guessed, and she handled all the questions accurately and gracefully. It wasn’t until the end when they were leaving that disaster struck.

Fortunately, the attackers hadn’t expected a hanyou bodyguard.

Unfortunately for Inuyasha, one of them carried a sword and knew how to use it.

He managed to beat them off, incapacitate them just enough that he’d been able to scoop Kagome up and make a run for it. After leaping several tall buildings in more than a few bounds, he’d lost too much blood to keep going, forcing him to find a place to hide them until he could recoup some strength.

The itchiness woke him, startling him when he couldn’t recall having drifted off. The soft hands against his chest soothed him enough to keep from jumping up, looking around wildly. “It’s ok. We’re ok,” she whispered. She was still in his lap, still curled against his chest, whispering soothingly to calm his racing heart. “There’s an access door over there. I think I can get it open.”

“How long have you been thinking about that?” He took in a sharp breath as the itching became nearly unbearable. Good, it’s healing. “How long have I been out?”

“Only about twenty minutes, really.” He frowned. That was a lie, but he wasn’t going to call her on it. “Are you alright if I…”

“I can move now, I think,” he murmured, gently shifting her off his lap and taking a minute to press his fingers to the wound to try to lessen the itch. There was only minor discomfort instead of pain now, a dramatic improvement, but he could tell that if he tried to use the arm too much, it would reopen the stab wound. His next goal was to get on his feet at least, a feat in itself, but he managed it without swaying. Mostly.

“Are you sure?” Kagome asked, her lower lip caught anxiously in her teeth. He nodded, then took several steps, making sure they didn’t echo on the concrete. “This way,” she breathed, hesitating before taking hold of his good hand. Inuyasha winced that she was suddenly so wary of him, but he understood.

He realized that she’d taken her heels off and stuffed them in her purse, now walking in her bare feet to make her steps as silent as possible. He wanted to lift her, keep her from potentially hurting herself… but he just couldn’t trust that shoulder yet. 

The door was old, but it was clearly a security access. Which meant a phone.

Benefit of concrete structure: sturdy, blocked scents, muffled youki.

Drawback: Really, really, bad cell service.

Kagome found a small section of pipe near the stairwell and handed it over, Inuyasha using the leverage to pry open the door. There was an ungodly screech of rusted metal bending, but the lock popped in response to Inuyasha's inhuman strength. Grimacing at the racket, he ushered Kagome into the relatively small room, pulling the door shut behind them. It was dark and the lights didn’t work. Inuyasha was beginning to fear any phone they might find might not either.

He covered his eyes reflexively when a light popped up. “Phone’s good for something at least,” Kagome murmured. Shining it around the space, she made a small sound of triumph when she spotted a phone handset in the corner. She was quick to pick it up, sighing in relief when the distinct sound of a dial tone filled their ears. The line ringing was like music and Miroku’s voice on the other end sounded heavenly. “Yes, we’re ok. Mostly. Well…” She glanced at him. Inuyasha gave her a look, wiggling his ears at her. Can hear every word. She sighed, then told him the building address where they were, going off of the information on the dusty old business cards on the desk. “We don’t know where they are, but they haven’t found us yet.” Miroku was silent for a long moment before conveying that the team would be there to pick them up within ten minutes. “We’re on the fourth level down. Can you… Yes I know but… Miroku, we’re lucky he’s standing.”

Inuyasha snarled at that. “I can get us to street level.”

“Inuyasha…”

“I can do that. I wouldn’t risk it if I couldn’t do it.”

Kagome sighed. “Alright. I’m trusting you.”

His golden eyes flashed. “Better be.”

She stayed on with Miroku as long as they could to make sure everything was going to plan until they needed to make their way up. The garage was still silent aside from the occasional drip of condensation from a ventilation unit and the small amount of outside noise that drifted down through the central spiral. Inuyasha insisted on going first, keeping her close at his back so she was behind him.

The warmer air from outside was just barely tangible once they reached the second floor down, the humidity feeling a little sickly. Inuyasha slowed his steps at the sound of something moving, as if shifting through paper. Kagome grabbed the back of his shirt and he lightly gripped her arm to pull her around to his front.

Not a moment too soon as a tail the size of a firehose came flying at them from over the sidewall of the ramp above.

Biting back a yelp, Inuyasha hauled Kagome off her feet into his arms and leapt out of the way. There wasn’t much room to move, and they weren’t high enough in the structure for there to be openings for him to escape through. Damned underground garage!

“You are trapped. Give usss the woman and you live, hanyou.” The sound of what they now knew to be scales over concrete made Kagome shiver in fear. “Ssshe will bleed usss all dry. Even you.” Inuyasha only held her closer.

“The fact that you refuse to understand the science is only part of why you’re stupid!” The snake didn’t take kindly to that, rearing up and hissing at them, baring its fangs. Inuyasha just barely tucked them out of the way as it lunged at them, ready to strike. He needed to get further up the ramp, get them closer to the team coming for them so he could at least pass Kagome off to friendly hands. He got them halfway to the spiral before the stomping of feet stopped him in his tracks. The distinct sound of metal scraping against the concrete made his ears flip back in discomfort.

The damned sword again… Kagome whimpered, turning toward him and instinctively covering his injured shoulder with her hand. “Got off light the first time, dog. Won’t make that mistake twice.” This youkai was more human in appearance and Inuyasha got the feeling he was some form of cursed-human-turned-youkai. Perhaps a warrior who went too far and was overtaken. It was a lot more common in centuries past but, as Kagome said before, in this day and age?

“Keh. You’re just pissed I got the best of both of you.”

The youkai grinned, baring sharpened teeth. “I considered letting you live to wallow in your failure after killing the scientist bitch, but now… I don’t care.” The change in his tone was all the warning Inuyasha got before the youkai was in motion, faster than expected, and his leap to the side went awry. Kagome tumbled from his hold, yelping in surprise as much as pain. Inuyasha felt the heat of blood bloom on his chest. His shoulder screamed as he scrambled to get up, tried to get to Kagome. But the youkai was there, slicing at him so that he had to dance out of the way, putting more distance between he and Kagome. Inuyasha snarled.

“Behind!” Kagome’s call gave him just enough warning to elude the snake trying to lunge for his back, leaping up and catching hold of a pipe and swinging out of the way. The snake couldn’t stop its momentum, sending it headfirst into the blade of its comrade who seemed to hold no regard for his compatriot.

“Stupid,” the blade-wielding youkai spat, flicking the blood onto the concrete and stepping over the snake now still on the ground. Inuyasha used his swing to his advantage, piking himself over the youkai’s head as he tried to take a swipe at him and took off toward Kagome.

“Move!” he commanded her, yanking her into his side as he continued up the ramp. The other youkai was not all that far behind, his heavy breathing and deranged laughter ringing in the echoey space. He wasn’t as fast over longer distances, the strategic part of Inuyasha’s mind noted. “No wonder you lost us before. Stupid and slow!” Part of him hoped the rage would cause the youkai to make a mistake. One he could take advantage of…

“Maybe don’t antagonize the asshole getting ready to swing a sword at you, Moron,” came a voice from above. Inuyasha didn’t believe in angels, and definitely not in the form of mangy wolves, but Kouga’s voice was a godsend.

“Take her, Dipshit!” Despite their banter, Kouga didn’t hesitate to leap down, landing lightly and scooping up Kagome on the fly. She squealed at the sudden change of pace, her eyes wide and face pale over Kouga’s shoulder as the distance between them increased. Inuyasha forced his eyes away from her and increased his speed just enough to outrun the youkai at his heels. He needed a better way to disarm his opponent. He couldn't move fast enough to knock him out the way he had before. Certainly not without getting another hole in his person for his trouble. As it was, his right arm was practically useless.

The blood isn't, the thought came unbidden. 

Inuyasha glanced around, wondering if he was beginning to lose it from blood loss. 

Blades of Blood. It was a command and one he seemed inclined to obey. 

Without realizing, his left hand plunged his claws into his own wound. He rotated, continuing his backward momentum while flinging the blood coating his fingers toward the gnashing face of his pursuer. The youkai howled in pain, slowing to a stop and dropping the sword to the ground with a clatter. Inuyasha was stunned… But not as stunned as when he slammed backward into the sidewall of the ramp and knocked the wind out of himself.

He almost went over too, and would have had a hand not shot out to catch his torn and bloodied shirt. “Miss Kagome will be very upset if you fall, you know.”

“Y-Yea,” he rasped. Pretty sure there’s a broken rib or four in there… “Thanks, Jinenji.” The much larger hanyou nodded his head, hefting Inuyasha up and onto the next level of the ramp one handed. The youkai who had been chasing them was still screaming his rage, but Inuyasha saw the tail end of a black coat disappear around the corner.

A moment later and the youkai was silent.

Miroku wouldn’t kill him… probably. Tempting as it might be when he had ambushed them, tried to kill them both, and even killed his own partner. They needed information, and Miroku was very, very, good at getting it.

Sniffling sobs met his ears when he was able to focus again, grimacing when a soft weight collided with his side. “Inuyasha!” Her eyes were scrunched closed and she had a reddened scrape across her cheek and forehead. But she was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. She was alive, and mostly unharmed. “Now I have to wrap you up all over again!”

Inuyasha let out a weak laugh. Definitely a few broken ribs. “You can wrap me up as many times as you want.” He fought back a grin at the annoyed look on her face. “I know, I know, you wouldn’t have to if I was more careful.”

“Can you move?” Miroku’s voice asked distractedly. His eyes were on the bound youkai being carried out of the parking structure by Jinenji and Kouga, the wolf bitching the whole way about having to deal with a lowlife like this.

“Give me a few minutes?” The monk nodded, peeling off his coat and tossing it to Kagome. She rolled it up and put it under his head, pulling the last of her button down shirt from her purse to rip into skinny strips. “There’s a kit in the van, you know.”

“I’m worried you’re gonna leak out all over the floor before I can get to it,” she sucked in a sharp breath, trying admirably to pull herself together.

“Kagome?” She bit her lips, focusing on her task. “Hey, Kagome,” he said a little more softly.

Finally she let her eyes meet his. He winced as he reached across with his left hand to cup her cheek, bringing her face toward his as he stretched up as much as his position would allow. It was soft, and only a moment, but the press of their lips was exactly the reassurance they both needed. “Oh…”

“Hm. Next time, let’s try it without the near-death experiences, ok?”

She blinked at him, then rolled her eyes, laughing softly.

“Only if you promise to quit trying to die on me,” she scolded. Inuyasha smirked as he opened his mouth to tease her about liking him in this position because it meant she got to baby him, but was cut off by the clearing of a very large throat.

“The perpetrator is under control and the others are ready to leave.”

“Oh. Yes. We’re coming, Jinenji.”

“Miroku has requested that I ‘carry his ass like a baby’ if I have to.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable at the obvious order to repeat what the monk had said exactly. “I really do not want to…”

“Nah. I might need help to my feet, but after that, I’m good,” he confessed. Had the wolf been there, there was no way he would have admitted to that, but current company wouldn’t give him a hard time about it. Jinenji waited for Kagome to finish wrapping his shoulder before offering him a hand up. He had to swallow a yelp when his ribs and shoulder both protested. Loudly. But at least he was upright again. The three made their way the rest of the way up the ramp and to the waiting van, Inuyasha accepting a little more help to get in than he would have liked. Fortunately, Kouga kept his trap shut.

“First stop, holding cell, second stop, hospital!” Miroku called jovially from the driver’s seat. Inuyasha rolled his eyes and groaned, but didn’t argue. Kagome would lecture him about the risks he would be taking for misaligned bone growth or bacterial infections or punctured lungs… He’d happily listen to all of it for the sound of her voice, but he’d rather she do it after she was seen to at the hospital.

Then he could relax and listen to her all day.

Or forever. That’d be fine too.

[syn4k]

🌿

unfortunately the only way to solve not wanting to create things is to not create things until you want to create things again.

"but Six!" i hear you protest over the angry yells of all my followers. "that can't be true! i hate that!"

i hate it too. But listen up you self loathing chucklefucks this is IMPORTANT.

if your brain and body is telling you that you are tired and that you need to take a break, fucking listen to them. Do not ignore them and continue making things anyways.

I do not give a fuck about your making one thing per day streak. I do not give a fuck about your follower count or engagement or statistics or whatever the fuck. I do not fucking care how stubborn you are. This rule is set in the laws of the universe itself just like the laws of physics are.

If you do not schedule time for yourself to recharge, your body will automatically do it for you and it WILL NOT ASK POLITELY.

that's what burnout and writer's block IS! you cant make shit if you're too fucking tired and depressed and busy trying to function as a person and don't have any energy left over for creative work! creating things takes ENERGY and EFFORT even the most self loathing low quality shitpost stick figure youve ever doodled on the back of an napkin. That takes effort too. This is your body realizing that you're going past your own limits despite everything and forcibly shutting you down so that you physically fucking cannot anymore for your own health.

Full stop.

If you take the time that you need to rest and regain energy and use it instead to continue doing things that require energy, your body will force you to allocate that time to rest at some point eventually.

So yeah. Sleep in hard over the weekends. Do nothing. Be unproductive. Fuck capitalism and FUCK the Protestant work ethic. I am being so fucking serious right now. This isn't just me repeating what I've heard, this is me sharing things that I've had to learn the hard way over the span of literal fucking years because my dumb ass kept ignoring it too.

You are allowed to, and encouraged to, politely turn down outings with friends and family if you're too tired.

You are allowed to, and encouraged to, take a day off from school or work if you wake up and know in your bones that you are too tired. (Make sure to let your teachers know beforehand. They'll understand. Skipping a day of work is a whole nother can of radioactive horses that I don't want to open right now but others here may have advice. Check the notes.)

You are allowed to, and encouraged to, do nothing.

You are allowed to, and encouraged to, be "lazy" (if you're not enjoying the forced time off, you're not being lazy).

If you can only do the bare minimum to take care of yourself (i.e making low-effort meals, only using the bathroom twice a day, etc) then that's okay too. The more you rest, the more energy you'll slowly build up to do more things like going to the grocery store so that you don't starve and getting those assignments done and taking an extra two minutes to make yourself a glass of something warm in the mornings so that you don't want to die quite as much. Also, when you can, ask your friends for a script and call your doctor about prescribing you depression medication because I love you and this is not normal and you deserve better.

Living life is not supposed to make you want to die, and surviving is not the same as living.

your body has a built in hierarchy of needs and at the top of the list is creating things, which you can only do once you're at a certain level of energy and wellness. if something's wrong, your drive to create will be the first to go.

it's scary, but you'll be okay

be gentle and kind to yourself. imagine that your brain and body is a horse: kicking it when it's down and yelling at it to move won't help. you have to meet it where it's at and feed it and comfort it until it's ready to move on again. you can't write trail songs if you've got no path to roam

this quickly spiraled out of my hands but i am very passionate about this subject and also i love u. good luck.

[tiredistic]

"BRAT"

Pairing: Regina George x Janis imi'ike

Words: 1622

Content warning: Smut, Absolutely no fluff. Angst, a hint of barking..? manipulation. kinda?? Black mail, Cheating, general mess. Hate sex.. Power dynamic,

Summary: Regina is sleeping with other girls, and Janis deals with her. They end up fucking because they're still madly in love.

A/n: Just this little fic bc writers block is hitting kinda hard.. Idk where this was going I just wanted them to fight then fuck ykwim?

Regina came back to the apartment, slugging in through the door, her mascara smudged and her hair damp from the rain. It was late, yet Janis sat there on the couch, her back to Regina. She knew she was fucked.

"Where did you go?" Janis asked, not bothering to look at the blonde. Janis knew the answer, she just had to ask. Something in her wanted to forget all about it, but how could she? 

"You know where." 

She turned to Regina, capturing her face, sympathy daring to invade her brain. Regina was so fucking hot, gosh Janis hated being mad at her. She had to I mean how can you not? You know your girlfriend is sleeping with other girls, how else would you react!?

"What the fuck were you thinking? You keep throwing our relationship out the window!"

"We never had a relationship! We weren't even a big thing! Gosh I don't know why you get so fucking dramatic." Regina snapped.

"So what are you doing here!? We live together for god's sake. Were we nothing when we fucked on at least every surface in here?"

"Okay we had sex move on! If I want to go to sleep with other people I don't know why it's your problem!" 

"Everything you do is my problem! When you come home drunk and high all the time, who takes care of you!? What about when your back starts acting up??" 

"Oh yes my saviour! Thank you for doing everything for me, shut the fuck up." 

"Why does everything have to be a struggle with you!? Why can't you understand that you're hurting me?" Janis pleaded, "I thought you loved me"

"I never said that I loved you."

"You did! What happened to us!?"

"Oh my gosh, Cady- shit i mean jess-"

"Oh my shit they were so right about you!" Janis complained, "You just screw every girl you see! Fuck you for making me feel like I was something to you"

"You are something to me."

"Act like it."

Regina then grabbed Janis's face, pulling her in for a heated make out session. Janis leaned into the kiss, her hands on Regina's wet shoulders. Regina was making out so intensely, Janis felt the hatred on Regina's tongue. Janis, being the bad bitch she is, doubled the passion, their tongues fighting for dominance.

Their bodies intertwined, then they found themselves in the bedroom. Regina started to strip, peeling the wet clothes off of her cold body. She started down at Janis, teasingly playing with herself, saying things like:

"Lets just fuck and forget all about this." 

and,

"They say make-up sex is the best."

Janis wanted to enjoy it. Janis wanted to feel something again. But right now, she felt like this was just a coy, something to win her back just for Regina's emotional abuse. Gosh was it working. Just looking at Regina doing her usual complaining made her shiver, it was no help that the blonde was dripping wet and naked. She felt herself already getting wet.

"I dunno. I thought the name Jess fell out of your mouth a minute ago... I don't think I can forgive you." Janis played. If this was a game just for Regina to have her fuck buddy back, then she was going to make the best of it.

"I swear baby, Jess was just a toy, your my real deal." She traced circles on the sheet, leaning into Janis, trying to seduce her.  

"Fine. If I'm the real deal.. You'll do as I say." Janis whispered into the blonde's ear, she grabbed her jaw harshly leaving slight red marks on her face, "Get on all fours and bark for me if you're loyal."

Regina paused, she couldn't believe this request. All stages of grief flashed across her face, before she kneeled down on the floor before Janis. She gave Janis the, "are you fucking serious.." look before letting out a pathetic bark,

"arf..?" She sighed, her eyebrows creasing. This was so weird. 

"Is that all you got? Is that how you treat me after fucking cheating on me with multiple girls? Is this your way back into our relationship? a pathetic bark?" Janis scoffed.

The power dynamic was so different then what she was used to, it really shocked her. It also made her so turned on she could feel her cunt dripping down her leg weather she liked it or not.

Janis grabbed Regina by the hair, pushing her head up perfectly to make eye contact. 

"I said bark, bitch."

"Ruff!!"

Janis mused, letting go of Regina's jaw, kissing her gently, almost like a reward.

"By the end of the night, I might just forgive you."

"Why don't you just forgive me now.. it wasn't that deep." 

"I dunno if I'm over you hooking up my close friends, or the whole female population."

"I'm not going to be able to touch you tonight am I?"

"Considering you were just at some hoe's house before coming here.. no."

Regina sighed, getting up from the floor and crawling on the bed, laying on her stomach away from Janis, thinking they were done for the night.

"They never could fuck me like you." the blonde said softly, "Please baby.. let's forget all about that, yeah?"

Janis slapped Regina's ass, leaving a sharp red mark. Regina yipped, turning back to Janis sharply, attempting to roll over.

"what the fuck was that for!?" She hissed, tears forming in the corner of her eyes, and her face flushed from arousal and pain.

"You think I'm done with you? You have hickeys all over your backside!"

"Those bitches.. I told them not to mark me.." She said quietly under her breath, but Janis heard. 

Janis was furious, but she was also glad. She had more things to hold Regina accountable for.

"You let everyone hit your pussy? I never knew Regina George was such a whore." Janis teased, sliding her fingers along the girl's cunt.

"I like to think- I'm very selective." She gasped, her head digging into the pillows as her hips we held down.

"I don't think Hayliee B. is being selective." She slipped a finger in, wiggling it ever so slightly.

"Janis- it wasn't that serious-" She squirmed.

"Maybe Paige G. has something to say about that, hm? Was that serious?" Janis said, slipping her second finger in. 

Regina gripped the cover harshly, letting out a lengthy moan. She tried to grind herself on Janis's fingers but with no avail.

"Jan- Janis that was so long ago.. She doesn't matter, only you do." 

"Awee, is that the sorry excuse you pull out of your ass every time a girl finds out your bullshit? Is that why you came home looking like an absolute mess?" Janis seethed, pumping the fingers into the blonde. 

"maybe its what you told that bitch before coming here!" Then she added a third finger. 

Janis noticed the slight blood on her fingers as she fucked her dumb. Regina was drooling, her eyes rolling back as she whined and cried into the pillows.

"Tell me i'm the best you ever had." 

Regina nodded,

"Say it!" Janis yelled, slapping Regina's ass again.

"Your the best- your the fucking best..I swear" the words spilled out from her mouth in a desperate plea.

Janis sped up, she loved hearing the girl's raspy voice as she helplessly trembled on her fingers.

"'m gonna come! gonna come!" Regina moaned, her eyes shutting and her body starting to tremble.

Then Janis pulled all three of her fingers out of the whining girl.

"What the fuck!?" Regina caught her breath, she turned around to find Janis smirking like a mad man.

"Please Janis, it wasn't even that bad, I don't deserve to be punished like this!" 

"Just how much times did you come for other girls?" Janis teased.

"Not much- they could neve get me off like you" Regina cried.

"Is that so? Get off on my leg then."

"Baby-" 

"Do it, slut"

Regina climbed on her leg, grumbling and complaining to herself on this 'bull' Janis was putting her though. She looked at Janis, who was leaning back, looking at her intently. 

The blonde started slowly grinding on her leg. 

"This better than earlier? This better than the bitch you fucked?" she tilted her head.

"So much better."

"Address me as mistress alright? or I will punish you."

"okay... mistress"

"Bark."

Regina listened, right away this time. She barked loudly and with no hesitation. Her eyes not meeting Janis's once.

The cycle went on for a while. Feverish humping to Janis's leg, while Regina was subjected to whatever the brunette wanted.

"Close?"

"So close-" Regina's breath spiked as her body started to tremble. "Please mistress-"

"You wanna come?"

"Yeah." 

"What are you to me?" 

"I'm just your bitch, fuck.. yours only.." She moaned, her head rolling back. She grabbed Janis's shoulders as an attempt to hold herself up.

"What am I to you?"

"You're my mistress. Janis, you're the only person for me." She puffed out, her hips getting tired from the rutting.

"Is that right? So you're done with all the other side chicks?" Janis questioned, she was having so much fun. 

"YES! Come on Janis- please just let me come! Please, please.. fuck" Regina cried desperate for release. Her hair stuck to her face as her mouth gaped open.

"Come."

Regina let out a long scream as she coated Janis's leg. Her head slumped onto the brunette's shoulder. Her body twitched momentarily as she just had a 28 yard stare in her eyes.

Janis caught the shaking girl, letting her ride out her high.

"Was that good?"

"So good mistress." she whispered, falling asleep on her girlfriend.

[mooooonnnzz]

Hi moonie darling 🫶 hope you’ve been doing well!

Can I request a lo’ak relationship headcanons ? The ones you did for neteyam are so cute and dreamy 🥹 I was wondering how you’d interpret a relationship with that troublemaker 😚 thank you in advance and good luck with the blog 💙

The Perfect Pair // Lo’ak x GN! Reader

❀ You and Lo’ak’s relationship headcanons <3

♡ Content: WARNING mentions of scars and picking at them, just a lil heads up!! angst but barely enough to ruin your day FLUFF lo’ak and reader are very cute shy lo’ak bc i love him being shy BUT HES SHY JUST FOR A LIL BIT

♡ WordCount: 1k

♡ Quicknote: sorry for taking absolutely forever to post this 😭 i have gotten bad writers block and i’ve been in some weird mood slump lately BUT I FINISHED IT SO HERE YOU ARE <33 hope you like it 🫶 and thank you for the luck, you’re very kind ❤️

expect to patch up this poor boy 24/7

there isn’t a day where he doesn’t come to you, honoring a new scratch on his body from his reckless behavior 

and it’s not like he does it on purpose 

he doesn’t mean to always get hurt, he just doesn’t think about the consequences until he’s actually facing them

“Lo’ak!” You rushed towards the boy who was staggering over to you, his hand clutching his injured arm. “What happened?!” Your eyes examined his body, your heart stopping at the large red gash on his side. Lo’ak uncovered his arm with a shaky hand, hissing at the blood that stained his palm. “I tried to do tricks with my Ikran and you know where that got me.” He said defeatedly, his head hanging low. “Let’s deal with those injuries, okay?” You grabbed onto his arm that wasn’t hurt and brought him inside the tent. He sat down on the floor, groaning in pain when he moved a certain way that strained his body. Scouring the tent, you picked up some healing ointments, healing paste, a cloth and medical gauzes that were gifted to you from the scientists. You sat next to Lo’ak, facing his side. “Can you lean to the left for me?” You ask, popping open the ointment. Lo’ak leans to the side, a few grunts and groans leaving his lips. “This’ll sting.” You warn, pouring a good amount of ointment on the cloth. “I know, you tell me that all the—SHIT!” He curses, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth. “Lo’ak!” You smacked his upper thigh with your free hand, using the other one to lightly tap on his wounds with the cloth. Lo’ak pressed his lips together and screwed his eyes shut. “I wonder what goes through your head when you do this.” You say, wrapping the gauze around his waist. “Nothing.” Lo’ak replies, laughing at his own joke. “What a shocker.” You plainly said, moving to the next cut. 

i’d like to say he has a lot of scars on his body

and he doesn’t really mind them, until his mom started pointing them out

theres frown on her lips as she talks about how reckless lo’ak is 

she even shows them to jake, who just either stares with disapproval in his eyes or says something along the lines of “well, what can you expect? the boy doesn’t even use his brain.” or “how can you expect him to care for his own well being when he can’t even think right.”

from then on, he started hating the scars on his body

he hated the unwanted attention he’d get from his mom, especially when she brings over his dad 

you comfort lo’ak whenever he falls into his hole of self hatred 

Lo’ak sat by the pond, fingernails scratching one of his scars. A habit he developed when he no longer thought the scars that littered his skin were cool. A ripple broke through the still surface of the pond. He didn’t have to look around to know that it was you. Sitting right beside him, you pressed a kiss to his temple. “What’s up?” You ask, your tail wrapping around him to provide a little bit of comfort. Lo’ak dug his nail into his scar, his eyes glaring at the white ragged skin that stretched to his mid forearm to his elbow. “My scars.” He grumbled. “I hate them.” He started picking at it. “Stop, you are going to make it worse.” You grabbed his hand, halting his movements. “You liked your scars, what happened?” You watched with worried eyes as Lo’ak sighed. “My mom always points them out and the look that she gives me makes me feel like shit.” His ears tucked behind his head. “And sometimes, she brings my dad over to look at them. As if my moms looks weren’t enough, my dad doesn’t hold back to insult me.” His bottom lip begins to tremble and your heart cracks. “I just do not know why they look at me like—like they’re ashamed of me!” He sniffs, roughly wiping the tears that were threatening to escape his eyes with his arm. “I hate crying.” He muttered grimly, tucking himself into a ball. “It is good to cry,” You begin softly, hand coming to caress Lo’ak’s back. “And you are not a disappointment.” You say with such certainty that Lo’ak almost believes it himself. “How are you so sure?” He looks at you, awaiting your answer. You started listing off all the wonderful qualities Lo’ak has, like how he’s so strong and doesn’t take no for an answer, how he doesn’t back down and never gives up, how he’s so annoyingly persistent with things and is curious about everything. As you said more and more things about Lo’ak, the more you saw him visibly perk up. It was like you rebuilding the broken pieces, slowly but surely with care, you made Lo’ak whole again. Lo’ak sniffed, rubbing his eye with his fist. “Thank you.” He mumbled, snuggling closer to you. 

LO’AK IS VERY SHY WHEN IT COMES TO PDA

like he’s blushing a whole ton when you hold his hand around his family

and just kissing his cheek?? he’s on the floor hyperventilating 

you love messing with him because his reactions are priceless

“Lo’ak.” You call out. He turns his head over to you, raising a brow. You lean towards him and kiss him on the cheek. “I love you.” You said against his skin, smooching him one last time before leaning back. Eyes intently watching him to see his reaction. As always, his ears rear back to his head and there’s a bright blush tinting his cheeks. “Oh.” He squeaks, his eyes are casted downwards and he can’t even look at you without stuttering. “Why are you so nervous?” You teasingly asked, tail whipping behind you playfully. “Because you! I—You…Ugh.” He runs a hand down his face, dramatically sighing. “What’s wrong, Lo’ak?” You wrap your arms around his back, pulling him closer to you. “Y/N!” He whines.

THOUGH WHEN HES SURE NOBODY IS WATCHING

hes hugging you close to him and latching onto you like a koala 

LIKE IS THIS THE SAME GUY WHO WAS NERVOUS TO LITERALLY HOLD YOUR HAND?? 

“Can you let go of my arm?” You politely asked, looking down at Lo’ak, who had your arm clutched in his hold. His head comfortablely resting on your shoulder. “Nope!” He says with a devious grin. “Lo’ak, I have to go.” Trying to remove him from your arm is a lost cause, might as well chop it off so Lo’ak could have it for himself. Giving up, you lean on Lo’ak. He makes a happy noise and clings himself closer to you.

and hes begging for your kisses, or he’s kissing you 

Lo’ak is covering your face in a mess of kisses. “Lo’ak!” You giggled out, hands finding purchase on his shoulders. You pushed him away from your face, still feeling his kissing ghosting your face. “Too much.” You huff out loudly. Lo’ak rolls his eyes and puckers out his lips. You’re preparing yourself for another round.

later on into the relationship he gets better with pda

he isnt afraid to show that he loves u 🫶🫶

“Is Lo’ak actually holding their hand?” Kiri’s eyes are wide from her shock. She hides her grin with her palm. “No way.” Neteyam is equally as shocked. They watch Lo’ak pull you in for a sweet kiss in horror. “What is that thing Dad said earlier?” Neteyam asked, voice raspy as if someone sucked his voice out. “He finally became a man.” Kiri whispered out. Cringing as she watched you and Lo’ak cuddle with each other. 

If you want to be added to my taglist dm or comment me! + request are open <3

Taglist: @writingsbybirdie @tzurue @lokisblueskin @niawritesbs @yoluvrz @kenzs-world @neteyamsmate4life @froglogblog @wondxrgurl

[jennay]

Come Back Home

Jolly x reader

An: Random idea I had that I got stuck on and required way too much help from @a-villain-vying-for-attention then decided to make her a character since she basically came up with the ideas and I wrote it. Lol thanks for being my shadow writer for times when my brain decides it's done thinking.

Words 2200

Jolly Master List

This is chunked into four sections bear with me. I hate transitional writing 😂

"Please don't tell them. They'll just worry, and next thing you know, they'll be at my door, and it's just not the right timing for me to come back. I need to finish my work here, and it's not completely horrible. I think I just miss everyone, and I feel isolated." You admit over Facetime to your best friend, Kayla. "It just wasn't supposed to be like this. “Moving away from you guys was literally one of the worst decisions I've made."

Kayla sighs, "I don't mean to say I told you so, but I did." She laughs, "But the worst part is, Noah told you, Jolly told you, and you still just said bye bitches. Do you know how sad it is not to have you here? I have to deal with them all the time, by MYSELF."

You peel yourself off the couch, dragging your feet through the dining room and to the back door.

You brace yourself for the inevitable assault of the sun, but it still hurts like hell when you open the door and get blasted by its rays. "Fuck." You groan. "It's bright." You squint your eyes and cover them with your hand as you stumble to the camping chair you set up on your porch for such occasions. You hated the daylight. You wished you could be a nocturnal creature, but sadly, you had to pretend to be a responsible adult, even if you sucked at it.

"Wow, look at you, Dracula." She mocks you from the other side of the video call. "You look like you're about to die over there, paler than a ghost and skinnier than a twig. Do I need to come over and feed you some blood? I know it's only been six months, but I will literally come over and mother you to death. I'll bring Noah too, and we'll play house. God knows we need some practice." She flashes a big smile. "You know, for the future and all that jazz."

You laugh, shaking your head, "This is new for you!"

"Yeah, well, now I'm just working on convincing Noah that it's a good idea." She tucks her hair behind her ears. "So I need you to come back because I'm not raising these imaginary kids without their badass aunt."

You roll your eyes at her, "These kids don't even exist yet, so I think we have some time, and besides, I don't know if I'll feel any better moving back. If I have to watch HIM date other people and it not be me…well, I'd rather stay here and suffer in silence."

"Well, he's miserable without you, and why are we not using his name?" She laughs again. "Mopping and shit, constantly.”

You shrug, "I think he's probably fine. I basically threw myself at him and got no reaction. I literally slept in his bed the night before I left." You pause, growing frustrated. "Maybe we're just supposed to be friends; maybe he only sees me as a friend. That's OK. I can't be mad about that, but it always felt like there was something more, you know?"

Kayla groans loudly, "You both suck. If you would've just let me meddle, I could've set you two up."

"I don't want you to set me up! I wanted something natural." You say with all seriousness. "I wanted him to say it."

From behind Kayla, Noah pokes his head into the view, "He's dumb...guys are dumb." He gives you a face that says, duh.

"Well, now I'm here, and I can just say fuck it. I'll find someone here."

Noah's laughter rings through the speaker, "And then break up because all you're gonna do is fucking compare the two and be a whiny baby about how he's not Jolly, so you had to break up? Fuck off, y/n." He chuckles again. "Just come home."

You shake your head, "No. You will have to come to drag my dead body home before I willingly come back."

Noah grabs the phone from Kayla's hand, and you meet with wide eyes. And in a serious tone, Noah says, "Dead or not, at least you'll be home where you belong."

Kayla, Noah, and Jolly were lounging on the couch, munching on some greasy take-out that Noah had ordered from the nearest pizza place. While Jolly was engrossed in the latest episode of Bob's Burgers, Kayla was shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

She couldn't stand the sight of him, acting like nothing was wrong, like he wasn't the reason her best friend wasn't living with them anymore.

Noah noticed his girlfriend's glare and chuckled softly, nudging her elbow with his. "Chill," he whispered in her ear.

"NO!" Kayla shouted, startling both Noah and Jolly. She slammed her food on the coffee table and turned to face Jolly with a furious expression. "I'm sick and tired of pretending like everything is fine. I want my friend back, and if this is what it takes to make you use your brain, then so be it!" She pointed an accusing finger at Jolly, who looked confused and scared. "You need to go get y/n back right now or get on the next flight to Sweden because I can't stand having you around. You make me so mad, both of you, pretending you don't care about each other. She's depressed as shit living there with her fuckin awful family, but she'd rather stay there than come home because of you!" She roughly gets off the couch and storms out of the room, heading for the stairs. "You're such an idiot," she yelled over her shoulder at Jolly.

Noah raised his eyebrows and bit his lip to stop laughing as he saw Jolly's dumbfounded face. Jolly put down his food and looked at Noah with a puzzled expression. "What did I do?" he asked innocently.

Noah shrugs and says, "I think it's more of what you didn't do…"

Kayla comes back down the stairs, holding her food in her hands. She glared at Jolly one more time and flipped him off, then walked out of the room. "Buy the damn ticket!" she screamed from the hallway.

Noah heard the door slam and shook his head. "Well," he said, standing up and grabbing his food. "There's your answer. Bring y/n home."

"How am I supposed to do that?" He loudly asks.

"I don't know but you need to figure it out, Kayla might actually kill you in your sleep."

You grab your coat and head for the door, feeling a sense of excitement and anticipation for the day ahead. You were going hiking with your sister and her husband, and you couldn't wait to explore the great outdoors with them. As you glance at the clock, you groan in annoyance, realizing you're running late again. You can't help but wonder why you're always so disorganized and frazzled.

You pull the door open, taking a deep breath of fresh air as you step outside. Suddenly, you're nearly choking on air as you see a familiar face staring back at you. Jolly stands there with a backpack over his shoulder, his long hair draped over his shoulders, and a black backward hat covering the top of his head. He's dressed in black skin jeans and a deep red plaided flannel, looking effortlessly stylish and cool.

Your shock disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by annoyance at the sight of Jolly. You can't help but feel irritated that he's here, disrupting your plans for the day. You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel a little bitter still.

"Hi." He quietly says, looking from you to the ground, feeling awkward. He hadn't planned what he was going to tell you.

"Can I come in?" he quietly asks.

You nod your head, stepping aside. "I was leaving, but I guess this kind of changes my plans," you say, rolling your eyes. "What are you even doing here?" You say as you follow him to the living room. "I've tried so hard not to think about you; I moved states, Jolly, and now you're at my house. Are you trying to make my life hard?" You don't sit down knowing you're too heated to stay in one place.

Jolly doesn't sit on the couch either. Instead, he sits on the armrest, staring at you with confusion and annoyance; he folds his hands in his lap and allows you to continue. Why was everyone so irritated with him? He didn't know what he did in the first place. "What did I do?" He questions.

You're eyes dart back to him. "You treated me like I was special, OK? I thought I was special to you…then, you go and date other people." You say, running out of breath. "Then I dated other people because I thought you didn't want me and I was right, you didn't care at all, but then I dumped them because all I could think about was you!" You dramatically cover your face with your hands, pacing back and forth. You enter your kitchen and stare out the sliding glass door. Your back facing Jolly as he observes you. "I stayed in your bed the night before I left, and you still let me go."

"I thought you were leaving for a job! I didn't want to be the reason you didn't go!" He whines. "You told me you were leaving for a job."

You still don't turn around to look at him, knowing he was right, "I just thought you'd ask me to stay if you really wanted me."

He stands straight, walking toward you; you feel his hands on your shoulders, spinning you around to face him. His dark eyes scan your face, wishing he wasn't the reason you were upset.

He leans in close, his breath warm on your face. "You were always special to me," he whispers, his voice low and sincere. "I never meant to hurt you. I was just confused and scared. I didn't know how to handle my feelings for you. I was afraid of losing you, so I pushed you away. I never stopped thinking about you. I came here to tell you that. To tell you that I'm sorry. To tell you I need you."

Jolly pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for a sign of forgiveness. He gently cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. He smiles softly, his eyes shining with hope. "Can you give me another chance?" he asks, his voice pleading.

You feel a surge of emotion, a mix of anger, pain, and love. You want to scream at him, to push him away. But you also want to hug him, to kiss him, to hold him close. You're torn between your head and your heart. You look into his eyes, and you see the sincerity and the regret.

You see the man you fell in love with, the man who made you laugh, the man who made you feel alive. You feel your resolve weakening, your walls crumbling. You lean in and press your lips to his, answering his question with a kiss.

"So I'm bringing you home." He smiles against your lips. Pulling back, his brown eyes search yours, "This long distance thing isn't how I want to start this." he gently kisses your forehead.

You nod knowingly, "I guess we should start packing."

Jolly smiles, running his hand through your hair, "I'm pretty sure Kayla has a timer set."

You giggle. "She is absolutely crazy." You lean up, kissing Jolly again. "But it's why we love her."

He nods in agreement, "Plus she's Noah's problem."

With a cautious glance, you gently push the front door open, hoping no one will notice your arrival and ambush you as soon as you enter the house.

You sneak into the living room on your tiptoes, holding Jolly's hand.

Noah and Kayla are so engrossed in the TV show that they don't even look at you.

You pretend to be nonchalant and sit down on the recliner next to them, giving them a hard stare.

Her eyes widen as she realizes who you are, and she jumps off the couch and runs toward you. You're home! This is fucking amazing!" She screams in your ear. "I was expecting you guys to take more time, to be honest…you both suck at directions. I don't know how you managed to drive all the way back here." She laughs as she releases you from her hug and embraces Jolly instead, "Look at you. I can finally be in the same room as you without being pissed off. I'm so proud of you." She jokes with him. "Wow," She scans the room and sees the three of you together. "So, is it official now? Can we all just admit how stupid the two of you were? I mean, come on, you could have just moved down the street instead of moving two states away." She snuggles up to Noah on the couch. "I'm not going through this again. You guys have to sort things out by yourselves from now on." She says and acts like she's dismissing you.

Jolly chuckles, sitting in the recliner; he grabs you and makes you sit on his lap, catching you off guard.

You shake your head light laughter falling from your lips, "Well, I missed you too, dick."

You lean into Jolly's chest and wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth and heartbeat. You sigh in contentment and happiness, glad to be home with the people who loved you the most.

[meet-you-at-the-north-star]

All-Nighter

Robert Leckie x Writer! Reader

Summary: you’re working late on a project and your eager boyfriend is being annoying. But also kinda sweet.

Notes: fluffy, a little suggestive I guess

Word count: 900

I wrote another sentence, realizing two seconds later that I hated it just as much as the rest of them. I sunk back into the chair with a groan, fingers rubbing my face and my eyelids. I briefly glanced at the clock I’d put on the table right next to my typewriter.

Almost Midnight? Was that right? I shook my head, dispelling the thought instantly. I needed to focus on the task at hand and nothing else.

Not long after my fingers were back on the keyboard again, I heard the light sound of steps behind me.

“Still not done?” the voice of my newly acquired “roommate” asked.

“If you’ve come here to make fun of me, you can go right back where you came from” I didn't take my eyes off the page, continuing to write, still in search of that rare, magical feeling when the words just seem to flew directly out of my brain.

He chuckled: “Not exactly”. He stepped closer until I could sense that he was standing right behind my chair.

“It’s getting very late, I thought you might use a break” He leaned down slowly started leaving a trail of kisses on the side of my neck, getting dangerously close to the collarbone.

“No, thank you” I gently pushed his head away with my hand, earning a disappointed groan from him.

“Come on, you’ve been sitting here for hours… as your boyfriend, I think I have a the right to be concerned about your well being” He protested.

I finally stopped typing and glanced up at him in disbelief, only to find him staring back down at me, his hands now coming to rest on my shoulders.

“Oh sure, I’m sure it’s all selfless worrying about my health on your part and you’re getting absolutely nothing out this” I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, can a fully selfless act really exist after all?” He rebutted, clearly looking pretty satisfied with his own defense.

“Don’t get philosophical with me Leckie, you know that’s a battle you cannot win” I glared at him warningly.

He gave a hearty laugh. “It’s definitely too late for that” and then the cheeky look on his face was back, “Especially since my plans involve much better ways to spend our time”

Once again I completely ignored his attempts of seduction. “Our time? You mean my time. Tell me, how would you feel if you were running late on a really important article and I barged into the room wasting your precious time?”

“I’m not sure I’ve actually ever had that problem my-” He realized his mistake right before finishing the sentence, his eyes widening, but it was too late.

I abruptly stood up. “Out. Right now.” I began pushing him towards the door with all the strength I could muster.

“Wait, I didn’t mean to say…”

“Oh, save it, I know exactly what you meant, mr. Highly Successful Author Who Can Do No Wrong” The sarcasm was now dripping from my tone.

He’d been backing away, clearly allowing himself to be pushed as to not to anger me any further, but right at the end he stopped, grabbed my wrists and gently pushed them away.

“Please, I’m sorry, that was very insensitive of me.” He looked at me straight in the eyes and I could see please don’t hate me written all over his own.

“You’re an amazing writer and you’re absolutely going to finish this in time, despite the interferences of your idiot boyfriend” He stated softly but firmly, like a fact.

I could tell that his apology was genuine and my rage came to a halt for the moment. “That’s much better” I conceded, still processing the whole thing.

“It is?” His lips curved in an hopeful smile.

“Yeah.” I felt my body relax, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had accumulated, and I smiled back “Thank you for saying all that.”

“It’s true” He said with a shrug of his shoulders, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Alright. But you’re still getting out of this room and you’re not allowed to open that door for the next 30 minutes” I warned him. “Or I swear to god all you get to do tonight is sleep. Possibly on the couch.”

I saw his mouth instinctively open to protest (his most natural reaction to everything) or say something else, but he managed to control himself, confronted with the seriousness of his situation: “Yes, ma’am”

“Oh, and…Lucky? On more thing” Both my tone and expression had softened considerably and he smiled at the nickname.

“Yes?”

Without a warning, I suddenly pulled him down by his shirt and kissed him hard, locking his lips on mine and tangling both hands in his hair to pull him impossibly closer and not allow him any escape.

When we finally broke off the kiss, his eyes were closed and he was panting, his forehead resting against mine.

A rebellious curl hung in front of his eyes as I backed away and I didn't miss the opportunity to move it aside with my fingers, delicately.

“See you in half an hour” I smirked.

[kerubimcrepin]

Live-read: The Wheel of Destiny #1, Atcham.

You can find this article on the Dofus MMO’s site, by simply googling it.

Before I begin this post I want to acknowledge multiple things:

On the hierarchy of canonical media, web articles are like... the bottom of the barrel. I already suspected this, but season 4 fully retconning Eva's parents from the lore articles sealed the deal. For this reason, take these as nothing but the sort of canon that will get retconned at the first available opportunity.

I recently found out that the Wheel of Destiny 8, the one about Kerubim, seems to use stolen fanart by Flowerimh, which is sad. I don't know where else to put this, because I don't want to make a separate post about this. Flowerimh isn't even active anymore...

Despite these two things, let us proceed to read this article together:

So, this article happens anywhere from one year to a decade before Joris was born, and at this time, Atcham and Julith were already acquainted and spending free time together.

Spoiler alert: They are searching for Kerubim.

Keke getting called a "precious runt" is on par with the shit Joris gets called. Wonderful. I do wonder why they would search for him in Brakmar. Someone confused him for Atcham? Maybe they asked Kerubim himself, and he didn't want to deal with them, and so, sent them to Brakmar on a wild goose chase?

I will not be asking "what did he do" because, like, Fifi Pretty Calves exists. He has enough enemies to have a price on his head.

I am literally in love with him, and every single way he is described in this part of the text.

"He had a preference for sibilant sounds", "Aw, poor little puppy", "the only reason he hadn't robbed them blind is because he wanted to know more".

He was so excited.... he thought they wanted him (not carnally).... 😢

He takes a lot of pride in his work and insane behaviours.

Atcham considers himself an extraordinary adventurer and a valiant fighter. AND HE ISSSSSS. But it is interesting that besides being a killer for hire, he probably also adventures.

[Taps this meme I made about Kerubim and Atcham once again]

He was so ready to be the one people wanted to kill just once, and they ruined his whole fucking evening.

Imagine this being your day-to-day life, for decades. Just people laughing at you, laughing because you still hadn't caught on that you're the joke, and laughing when you finally understand that, and get upset.

Laughing about you behind your back, to some random stranger, too. Because they still hadn't realized they're literally talking about him.

I think this is a good time to say that I headcanon Atcham as autistic. It is simply a headcanon, but one rooted in the themes of his character. I think it is a fitting conclusion, (albeit, just like my hcs of Joris having ADHD and OCD and Kerubim having comorbid BPD and HPD, very accidental one, on part of the writers).

I could talk for hours on the way neurodivergence, disability, body issues, and violence-as-response-to-abuse intersect in Atcham's character, — or the way he hates everyone preemptively, because he knows that they will probably hurt him, yet still tries to be at least a bit kind and fair to others (....who aren't Kerubim).

I am probably not autistic, — however, I am neurodivergent, and I love & relate to him, so yeah. Always rotating this bingus in my brain.

Imagine this being your whole life.

I read descriptions of Atcham being cool and fast, and all the analysis leaves my brain as I say "awooga hummina hummina".

The fact that nobody ever wed him is literally so unrealistic, like WHAT DO YOU MEAN you don't want the weird, mentally ill, neurodivergent twink.

We never see Atcham's home in Brakmar, but from the description of "tattered", and the way his bed looks in the comic panel I inserted earlier in the post, it is safe to say his home is the definition of "girlrotting". It probably smells. Bad.

Says the woman whose kindness will also be the death of her, — and her ruthlessness too.

Because of her visiting his home so nonchalantly, and their interactions as a whole, I like to view Atcham and Julith as somewhat close friends, — as close as two very emotionally repressed people, who have a huge age difference, and don't like to admit that they feel anything positive, can be.

He probably didn't mourn her, — not after she was presumed dead for ten years, and not after she died for real.

But he probably still thinks about her, once in a while.

[hms-no-fun]

Currently struggling a lot with getting very excited about a project, writing a lot, editing that writing until it's way more polished than what I can come up with off the cuff, and then being too intimidated to add to the document anymore since the previous good writing still gives off this looming intimidation if that makes sense? The more I write the greater the fear is I'll crash the story into a ditch that reveals the premise can't work. have you had that "its not all coming together shit theres a snag thats really important that i missed" moment? I realize it's pretty inevitable for that to happen, but whenever I write myself out of a moment like that I always second guess that I'm still overlooking something important or taking the easy way out. I know it's probably just all about pushing through but I worry that by pushing im just further diluting the original spirit of the project? Sorry for the all over the place ask, hope you have a good day :3

this is always a tough situation to navigate as a writer. happens to me often, and it has taken me a very long time to come even remotely close to being able to deal with it productively. believe it or not, i actually have quite a lot to say about this, so prepare for that below the break.

first of all, no, it's absolutely NOT all about pushing through. i find "pushing through" can just as often make the problem worse. keep in mind that i can only speak to my own experience and process, so any advice i might give here should only be taken insofar as you personally find it useful.

this is a form of writer's block. there are many different types of blocks, each with their own causes and hypothetical treatments. a big part of becoming A Writer as such is learning the difference between them, and developing methods for dealing with them on a case by case basis that don't involve substance abuse. don't do cocaine. that's step one.

most of my blocks are in the vein you describe. i'll be writing a scene that feels good, until i cross a threshold somewhere and suddenly the whole thing feels dead in the water. the first thing i do when this happens is stop writing. it's hard to stop when you're on a roll, i know. life is short and it's hard enough to write even on a good day, but sometimes you can just tell that you're on the wrong track and at that point you're probably not gonna be able to write your way back on.

once stopped, i check the basics. have i eaten recently? am i hydrated? have i taken my medications? these are rarely my problem (i keep a big water bottle with me at all times and my gf makes sure i'm fed), though you never know how useful a snack break can be. most of the time if the problem isn't with the text, it's that i've been writing for too fucking long and i need to clock out. learning to clock out is SO hard. but as i've been getting into the habit these last couple months, while i generally write less per day i ultimately end up writing more over time. i can feel my brain cooking when i've been writing too long. it's a muscle like anything else. if you did a bunch of overtime shifts at a more physical job, you'd need time to recover too. your body isn't a machine, your brain isn't a computer, and living things are inconsistent. it sucks but you'll have a better time all around when you learn to work with your body instead of against it.

another question is, have i showered recently? i find showers tedious and boring. also i still have depression even though my life is a lot better than it used to be. i lived on my own for a very long time as a deeply closeted self-hating trans woman, so my hygiene habits are not always up to sniff. as much as i hate to admit it, showers help. i can't tell you how many times i've sat at a godfeels chapter or video script and just felt fucking miserable, only to come back forty minutes later from a shower, full of creative energy. i despise self-help shit. just not a fan of the culture of positive attitude wellness check stuff because you can't self examine your way out of your class position. sometimes the problem is that you're broke. sometimes life fucking sucks and you just don't have the art in you, and that's okay. there's a common misconception that if something bad happens to you, at least you can make an art to get through it. but in my experience it's actually a lot harder to make art about bad times when you're still in them. most of the time it takes months if not years of safety and recovery before you can really face it head on artistically. so like, be nice to yourself. it's not your fault that you live in a society.

but also sometimes literally you just need a shower or to eat some leftovers or to go to fucking bed. i hate it every time that is true because i want my problems to be real and philosophical and not just some dumb body thing that happens to everyone. alas, no one can escape the quotidian obligations of simple mortality.

THAT SAID! this stuff isn't usually my problem, and often i find that what's solving the problem when i do step away to eat/drink/shower isn't even the specific activity, but the act of stepping away at all. getting my mind off it for a sec. when i hit a block that doesn't feel completely insurmountable, i like to back away from my computer and pace around a bit. then i'll stare at my big whiteboard with a marker in hand and just let my mind wander. i don't even write anything half the time! but the mere act of trying to compartmentalize the problem into something brief enough for shorthand helps me spot the pain points.

one of my favorite books is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which despite what you might assume from its title is NOT a self-help book but instead a work of philosophy from 1974 taking the form of a travelogue. what Robert Pirsig explores in this book is what he calls the Metaphysics of Quality. basically he's trying to understand the split-second judgments we make of things we like and things we don't. i absolutely do not have time to go into the specifics, just know that his Quality refers to the abstract certainty you have when something is Good or Right or Correct or Qualitatively True. like how you pull your hand away unconsciously when you touch a hot stove, but for ideas. you just Know.

a scene that really sticks with me from that book (probably the most famous scene) is when Pirsig describes needing to fix a mechanical problem with his motorcycle only to be stopped dead in his tracks by a stripped screw keeping him from removing the engine cover. he talks about being so focused on the obvious solution to the primary complex problem that, on encountering a smaller, simpler problem that has to be dealt with first, he finds himself completely stuck, calling this "a zero of consciousness." it's a problem so annoying and minuscule and stubbornly unsolvable that you just want to hit the thing with a wrench and throw it in a river. addressing this new problem, this block, requires an adjustment in thinking. and here i'm going to quote a pretty lengthy passage, but don't worry, i'm typing it out by hand with the book in front of me so there's no time saved on my end:

Consider, for a change, that this is a moment to be not feared but cultivated. If your mind is truly, profoundly stuck, then you may be much better off than when it was loaded with ideas. The solution to the problem often at first seems unimportant or undesirable, but the state of stuckness allows it, in time, to assume its true importance. It seemed small because your previous rigid evaluation which led to the stuckness made it small. But now consider the fact that no matter how hard you try to hang on to it, this stuckness is bound to disappear. Your mind will naturally and freely move toward a solution. Unless you are a real master at staying stuck you can't prevent this. The fear of stuckness is needless because the longer you stay stuck the more you see the Quality-reality that gets you unstuck every time. What's really been getting you stuck is the running from the stuckness [. . .] Stuckness shouldn't be avoided. It's the psychic predecessor of all real understanding. An egoless acceptance of stuckness is a key to an understanding of all Quality, in mechanical work as in other endeavors. It's this understanding of Quality as revealed by stuckness which so often makes self-taught mechanics so superior to institute-trained men who have learned how to handle everything except a new situation. Normally screws are so cheap and small and simple you think of them as unimportant. But now, as your Quality awareness becomes stronger, you realize that this one, individual, particular screw is neither cheap nor small nor unimportant. Right now this screw is worth exactly the selling price of the whole motorcycle, because the motorcycle is actually valueless until you get the screw out. With this re-evaluation of the screw comes a willingness to expand your knowledge of it. [. . .] What your actual solution is is unimportant as long as it has Quality. Thoughts about the screw as combined rigidness and adhesiveness and about its special helical interlock might lead naturally to solutions of impaction and use of solvents. That is one kind of Quality track. Another track may be to go to the library and look through a catalog of mechanic's tools, in which you might come across a screw extractor that would do the job. Or to call a friend who knows something about mechanical work. Or just to drill the screw out, or just burn it out with a torch. Or you might just, as a result of your meditative attention to the screw, come up with some new way of extracting it that has never been thought of before that beats all the rest and is patentable and makes you a millionaire five years from now. There's no predicting what's on that Quality track. The solutions all are simple-- after you have arrived at them. But they're simple only when you know already what they are.

this is, in brief, my entire creative philosophy when it comes to writer's block. i share such a lengthy passage because i think it's useful to underline that we're not talking about a problem that is necessarily unique to the labor of writing. this process is a human process. it's just that with writing, the nature of the block itself is often much more difficult to identify than a stripped screw.

there's a couple things i do to try to identify what's got me stuck. a lot of times what happens is that everything in a scene felt good until it didn't, and then everything after that moment fell flat. so i'll go back and read the whole thing and just try to feel the scene. is everyone in character? is their dialogue too quippy, or too aggressive, too expository? are we in the midst of a conversation that has simply gone on way too fucking long? i know it can be torturous to reread your own stuff but idk what else to say except get used to it. especially when you're still early in the drafting phase! like if you know you're not gonna release this thing imminently, there's no reason to be precious about the stuff that's good or to beat yourself up over the stuff that's bad. i know that compulsion to try to Get Everything Right The First Time is strong, but it's completely unsustainable.

sometimes the block is that i just don't feel like writing narration. i've always sucked at grounding a scene with descriptions of the place. lately i'm trying to get away from relying solely on descriptions of staging/blocking, but it's hard for a bitch like me who mostly prefers writing dialogue. i've gotten a lot more comfortable with putting notes between dialogue exchanges like [character moves, looks at picture, has a dramatic thought, other character fiddles with object]. it can feel like cheating sometimes but it's not. there's no such thing. no one will know the route you took to get to the end. they will only see what you show them, when you decide to show it to them.

sometimes the block is in some minor or major betrayal of the story's spirit. the (Terezi) & Jade scene i talked about in this ask is a good example. i hit a point where nothing was working anymore. no one would talk to me. the light was gone. i can always tell when i made the wrong choice. it's such a particular sensation. as though i'm walking and i realize i no longer recognize the road i'm on and must've made a wrong turn somewhere. the solution to this particular block is introspection, retracing my steps, because the wrong turn isn't always obvious. maybe it's that someone in the scene is being too mean, or that i've failed to accomplish what the scene exists to do in some way, or that someone's made an uncharacteristic choice that now everyone in the scene is arguing about and it's like, man, this is taking too long, i'm not enjoying this anymore.

another example from A1 is the second half of the solo. i'd had most of the jasprose scene, the karkat-calliope-roxy scenes, and the vrisrezi-jade scenes written since i posted the A1 chorus. where i ran into trouble was that i needed to get jane, jake, and (terezi) to show up. my original plan was to have them arrive one by one, thus allowing their individual dramas a moment in the spotlight before being subsumed into the group. not a bad idea in theory but in practice it was fucking tedious. here we have a bunch of characters already immersed in the scene captured by the intrigue of Jade being enigmatic, and then some unawares jagoff wanders in and suddenly everyone has to stop what they're doing and be like "hey hello how are you what's up" and then they explain how they got there and then they ask what's up and it's such a DRAG. honestly i would say the majority of my creative blocks by volume are moments when the story really wants me to just cut to black for a smoke break and come back when somebody gets mad enough to throw a punch. i mean that's the the development of A1 in a nutshell. originally everyone was gonna start the track locked up in space-jail on the hopebringer, jade would show up all apologetic and say what she expects padua's deliberation to be, then the whole cast would see her throw a fit over a decision she knew was coming, they'd all be absolved of guilt and let free, then they'd all argue about who's staying or going with Jade in the morning, they'd split up to go pack their stuff and then...

well that was exactly the problem. i wanted to get all the pertinent things out of the way. jade's code switching, voidthought, some EWL teases. give the whole cast a chance to react to it. i thought that would be expedient, because it got the Plot out of the way and gave time to characters for Feelings. if that version of the scene had come at the end of chapter 8, it might have worked. but i realized that as soon as jade's audience was no longer captive, i had no fucking clue what to do with them anymore. we already knew who would go with jade, so acting like that's some kind of mystery is just lame. i started writing A1 from a place of desiring informational density & a quick pace, because we've got places to go and things to do. but if the real purpose of A1 is to explore why these characters choose to go with Jade, then that needed to be done with a lot more care and precision. that's when i decided to let Jade spend two days underground making the earth right again, so that she has to come to everyone individually rather than the other way around. and it muddies her motivations, if you don't mind the pun. it puts her at an appropriate remove from the others. i ultimately wound up conveying all the same information as in the original version, but i did it in a way that was more appropriate thematically and artistically. it wound up being longer road than i anticipated, but this is a long story and in this case the longer road was better for the journey.

take the chapter where Jade visits Roxy. i needed some time with Roxy alone to set the scene, since she's the first person Jade decides to visit and i like writing about the insides of trailer homes. i wanted to get some politics from Jane in this chapter, so hey, why not throw in a televised speech? oh, and then i can have some tucker carlson types remind us that Earth C is a fucking mess. i wrote all that, and it was good, but it was just Roxy watching tv. i tried to get into Jade's arrival and couldn't. so i went back and realized, oh, Roxy should be yelling at the tv the whole time! now we get Jane's politics, Roxy's reactions to those politics, as well as bits and pieces of context re: Jane's relationships with Karkat and Roxy. now when Jade arrives, we can play with the question of whether she heard the speech from outside Roxy's door, and why neither of them was physically at the speech in the first place. there's tension and imbalance in Roxy's state of mind when Jade does arrive, so we're more inside her perspective than we usually are, which in turn helps us identify with her when Jade starts infodumping about antimemes.

so often for me, working through a block is a matter of doing a better job utilizing what's available to you. going back to the A1 solo and trying to bring Jake, Jane, and (Terezi) into the scene. i finally returned to it after a couple months of being sick and dealing with life problems. i was frustrated because i'd hoped to be several tracks in to 3.2 by now, and instead i was confronted with just how much more of this thing is left and how long that might take if i couldn't pick up the pace. this thing NEEDED to get done.

and then i remembered that Jasprose is literally right there.

and that was it! problem fucking solved! i had jasprose drop all three of them into the scene completely unceremoniously using manic teleportation through a fenestrated plane, and from there the entire rest of the chapter erupted out of me in a single go. it's such an obvious solution to the problem that you as reader probably assumed it was the plan from the very beginning. but it's like Pirsig says: the solutions all are obvious-- after you've arrived at them.

then there's the problem of overwriting. i actually did i think four different versions of the opening to the A1 solo. the first person narration was a late addition. i tweaked that scene so so so many times. it kept feeling close but not quite. when i did the thing where i reread to find where the block happened, instead of actually reading the thing i just kept finding spots where i could write more. i can extend this anecdote. this line could be better. maybe a comma here would work better than an ellipsis...

this can be good because sometimes what's blocking you is that you skipped over something that needed more time. maybe some information or a dramatic emphasis that gives the stuff you can't yet write the momentum it needs to get going again. but i've gotta be real careful doing this, because i can do it forever. and then, as you describe (hey look, i'm actually talking about your specific problem now!), that hyper-polished section sets everything else up to fail by comparison.

i think the trick is knowing the difference between when a scene needs an editing pass vs when a scene just straight up isn't working. when it's not working, sometimes you do just have to throw it all out and start over. but if it's good enough that you feel like all it's missing is better dialogue and some more description, then you can hold off on that polish until the rest of the thing is done. this conundrum is most common at the beginning of a chapter or story in my experience, precisely as a result of the process i've been describing this whole time. when you hit a block and retrace your steps, you can always find things to fix. so it's sort of natural that any given chapter becomes less polished the further along you get in to it. that's why it's so important to understand the differences between all these different types of blocks, and to remind yourself that literally nothing you've written is finished until the moment you've made it public.

a big part of getting the A1 solo out the door was me swallowing my desire for perfection in every exchange and saying, no, this is good enough. it's not 100% what i want, but it's close enough that it just isn't worth the effort it would take to get there. sometimes there are scenes that are worth that effort, but they are always rarer than you think and they're never the ones you'd expect. i will freely admit that there are a lot of characters expositing their motivations in this chapter. i tried to embed as much of that in humor or drama as i could, but sometimes you just have to shrug your shoulders and walk away and hope your readers will be nice to you.

of course the funny thing is, once i finished the chapter and had all the panels sketched out and wiped my hands clean of the whole affair, janet needed two weeks to make the images. so i ended up having time to polish up a couple of those things that i felt were lacking after all. but those additions were radically small and intuitive, because i'd divorced myself from the raw production and had committed to so many directions that i *couldn't* change much. i'm so used to writing for release that i don't know what to do with myself when my part of the job is done before i can kick it out the door. i've come to find that waiting, taking breaks, walking away and coming back, do wonders for your ability to egolessly examine your work and identify what's wrong. sometimes you just need a day or two to sleep on it.

and sometimes you realize that you've really just over-written a scene, out of preciousness or insecurity or whatever else, and the result is so much bigger than everything else you want to do that it's more expedient to just scrap it. i hate when this happens, man. i did this with an early version of the A1 chorus, when Jade is stuck in space alone and shouting about how unfair her life has been. you know sometimes there's an emotion in a scene that's addictive. some bit of pathos that you just feel down to your bones, fuck me man, this is so GOOD, this is so JUICY, this shit has QUALITY. it's so good you don't want it to be finished. so you keep writing it, and writing it, and you rewrite it, and you add to it, because you really want to squeeze every drop of emotion you can from the thing. and then you wind up with a bloated melodramatic mess that's so overplayed you've annihilated everything that compelled you to write it in the first place.

i want to be clear that this isn't wasted work. nothing you ever put to the page, no matter how ultimately useless it might prove to be, is wasted work. the way i see this whole process, top to bottom, is that there's this thing. i don't know what it is, but it's there. maybe it starts with an image, or a line of dialogue, or a relationship, or a natural vista, whatever. it can be anything. what matters is it's a sign pointing you in a direction. it's something that has Quality that you can feel with such potent immediacy that you have no choice but to write it. the act of writing is something of an expedition, because the real magic of it comes when those disparate signs start colliding with one another. an image becomes a scene, a house, a world, a universe. sometimes these signs lead to dead ends, but with experience you learn to tell the dead ends from the rough patches. you learn how to make your own way. you do this by listening to what this thing is telling you. every story i've ever written has known better than me what it wants. i can impose so much onto it, i control 90% of the process at least. but that other 10% cannot, should not be quantified or controlled but simply understood. if you try to bottle the flame, you'll just end up snuffing it out.

no artist really knows why they do what they do or how they're able to pull it off. they can tell you their methods, their process, their coping mechanisms, they can write ludicrously lengthy diatribes on tumblr in response to an innocuous ask, but you can't pin down the soul of the thing. Quality is ephemeral, because it's first. it happens before you've had time to think, like putting your hand on a hot stove. you just know. and you have to trust that knowledge to carry you forward, not second guess it too much, not try to wrangle the thing into a shape it doesn't want to assume. sometimes this requires writing scenes that you don't love, because it's easier to build a messy bridge between the moments that drive you than it is to perfect every single moment out of an artificial commitment to like, Being A Good Writer or whatever.

a lot of this is just practice. you get better at communicating with your creative impulses. but also i think it helps to internalize that nobody sees the rough drafts, nobody sees the duct tape. and nobody knows the perfect vision you'll be convinced you failed to meet. nobody has ever made a perfect thing, and no one ever will. who wants to be perfect, anyway? godfeels wouldn't be what it is if i wasn't willing to let it be messy. if i'd tried to do it better, it never would have gotten done, and nothing i'm doing now would have even conceptually gotten to exist.

also, it's okay to abandon shit when it stops feeling good. i have so many unfinished books kicking around from my 20s, dude. i feel bad about some of them, but ten years not finishing books is still ten years spent writing. it's actually quite rare for good ideas to result in finished works, because good ideas are cheap and they're not all for you. but you gotta keep trying anyway because sooner or later you'll catch a spark that has real gas, and if you've done the work you'll be ready for it. it'll feel like destiny. it'll feel like magic, how matched that idea is to your skill level. but it won't be magic, it'll be skill. if you hadn't put the work in to know how to follow that intuition, it'd be just as dead an end as everything else you never finished. you do the work so that when you get lucky you can take advantage of it. so in that context, writing is quite low stakes. if it's not good enough, fuck it, try something else!

anyway i hope there's some decent insight buried in here somewhere. thanks for such a good question!

[hotxcheeto]

❥ 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭

"𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝘁, 𝗰𝘂𝗽𝗰𝗮𝗸𝗲."

❥ 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀 - 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁

❥ 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜

❥ Ace of Spades | Angst + Fluff - An old friend comes back from the dead, and you just so happen to using everything she taught you. Even if you hate her at the moment, her tactics aren't half bad.

❥ My little Angel | Fluff - After becoming some ones science experiment, you grew wings. You like them sometimes, but you girlfriend Vi, she likes them all the time.

❥ My Dead Girlfriend | Angst + Fluff - You loved her, and then she left. Dead and gone you thought, until she comes back. And then you realize, damn, you still love her.

❥ The Nameless Drink | Fluff + Very Slight Angst - You love to sing in a bar you own, running it to keep yourself a float. A song that means so much to you is sung, and a girl in the crowd just so happens to recognize your lyrics.

❥ Painting & Panting | NSFW + Fluff - You just want to paint but your mischievous girlfriend has another idea.

❥ Brains and Brawn | Angst + Fluff - You always did the talking, she did the punching. You were a coward, and after you ran away from her, somehow she'll always find you. Even when you blame yourself, she'd never blame you for a second.

❥ Boring Books Filled With Blurry Ink | Tiny Angst + Fluff | MODERN AU - Studying for important exams can take a lot out of a person, but don't worry, Vi's here to make sure you take care of yourself. She'd do anything to make sure you're alright.

❥ Sorry Won't Cut It | Angst - You're reckless and you know it, and you're girlfriend? She freaking hates it.

❥ The Girl With Nothing but a Name | Fluff - You're a reckless writer who loves a story. You meat an equally as cocky girl who just so happens to take interest in you. But all you know about her is her name. And she'd love for you to learn more.

❥ The Letters I Left for my Love | Angst + Fluff - You'd write a letter to her everyday, leaving them in a box you designed. Only you and her can open it, and when she finally finds it, she finds you. Her lost love that never stopped writing her letters.

❥ For You To Be Okay | Angst + Fluff - Vi would do anything to make sure you're okay, even if you think you're being ridiculous.

❥ Scarred Skin | Angst + Slight Fluff - You have burns across your body, scars that will never go away and you hate it. Gods you hate them. But Vi, she loves you. And she loves them, even when you don't.

❥ Sweet as Sugar | Fluff - You're Viktor's sister, a well known inventor ranking high. But you're also a cocky bastard, and that catches a certain girl's eye.

❥ Pressure for the Pain | Fluff + Very slight Angst - You don't get hurt often, but Vi makes sure that if you do, you'll be okay just as long as she's your caretaker

❥ My Only Sunrise | Angst + Fluff - You lost your Sunrise when she died, but now she was back and you could truly see the sky.

❥ Doctors Orders | Fluff + NSFW - Vi makes sure to patch you all up, but of course she has to have some fun with it.

❥ Prison Wife | Fluff + Slight Angst - Vi and you are in prison, you're her prison partner, she's your prison wife. It just makes sense.

❥ Intruder | Fluff + Slight angst - You hadn't seen your best friend in years, going from thinking about her to hearing a knock at the door. An intruder deciding to pop into the house. But thinking about it, why did they knock? And why do they know your name?

❥ Tension in the Air | Angst + Fluff - Vi and you have an equal hatred for each other. Jealous of the other. Angry at each other every time you have to interact. That's until you say too much, and she begins to realize, maybe you aren't so bad. And maybe, the anger hid just a bit too much tension in the air, and maybe she liked you a bit, or a lot... yeah definetely not. Right?

❥ High Spirit | Slight Angst + Fluff - You were too sweet for the world and Vi knew it, some people were assholes. She just there to always remind you of that.

❥ Late Night Routine | Fluff - Vi has been working her life away for you, more then you could in an entire week to give you a safe place to live. So you decide to treat her with a nice dinner and a whole lot of cuddles.

❥ Teenage Dream | Slight Angst + Fluff - You've know Vi since the beginning of the end. Teenagers forced to grow up in a world that has everything against them. But you have each other and that's all that matters. From beginning until end, Vi is your forever

❥ Going Nowhere | Angst + Fluff - You were dragged from home a long time ago. Your step-dad not being the nicest. Vi believed you left her, and now that your back and the air has been cleared. You make sure to tell her you're not going anywhere.

❥ Hold Me | Fluff - You haven't been feeling the best, good thing Vi is here to take care of you.

❥ Graceful | Fluff - You're a ballerina, Vi loves to help and watch you practice. Even if she doesn't listen.

❥ The Boxer and the Bubble Bath | Smut + Fluff | MODERN AU - Vi comes home to you very nicely sat in a nice hot bubble bath. Sore from training she doesn't need an invite to get in, and then you make sure you take good care of her, and she always does the same for you, since your her perfect little wife after all.

❥ Seven Sensitive Minutes | Suggestive | MODERN AU - Everyone is playing seven minutes in heaven and hoping to make your ex jealous you play along, until it lands on her and another guy. And you have to make a choice that you end up not regretting.

❥ Countdown | Fluff | SOULMATE AU - You expected and dreamed of meeting your soulmate in a cute and romantic way. Well Vi makes sure to crush that idea, along with a few ribs.

❥ Pretty Nurse | Fluff - You're Vi's lover, that sometimes doubles as the pretty nurse that takes care of her when she's sick.

❥ The Three Times Vi Wasn't Sure, and the One Time She Was | Fluff - Vi didn't know if you were gay, you were just always so open, so free, like a fairytale character that spoke in riddles. But at some point, she figures it out. With a little help from you of course.

❥ Fragile as Glass | Angst + Open Ended - You have taken care of Jinx since Vander died, protecting her. But she brings all of the mess right to you as usual. Though this mess, is a bit nostalgic.

❥ Street Affairs | Smut - She can't wait to have you, literally, her jealousy can't wait. See that alleyway? Exactly...

❥ Dinnertime | Smut + Fluff - Vi loved to care for you, especially after you've been working yourself away to keep you guys afloat. And seeing her after so long spent away from her arms makes you feel... excited, to say the least.

❥ Old Memories | Fluff? + Slight Angst - You run into an old friend.

❥ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

❥ Vi With a Short Big Spoon | Fluff

❥ Spicy Piercings | Fluff + Kind of NSFW

❥ Cheek Kisses | Fluff

❥ Tracing Her Skin | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ SFW & NSFW Headcanons | NSFW/Smut + Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ Enemies With Benefits w/ Her | Angsty + Smutty + Slight Fluff

❥ Having an Affectionate Girlfriend | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

❥ smut drabble #1

❥ 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

❥ Fight Club | Part 2 | Angst + Fluff - You fight to survive, and then you see an old friend again. But you aren't too happy about who she's with.

❥ Better Than a Prison Wall | PART 2 | Angst + Fluff - Anything is better than staring at a prison wall. Including seeing your family that casted you away. Or so you thought they did.

❥ Thief Vi and Her Princess Masterlist | Fluff | ROYAL AU - A princess meets a thief, and just so happens to fall in love.

❥ Beachy Beauty | Part Two | Fluff | SEMI MODERN AU - You're the adopted Kiramman, the notorious for being sweet and great with the kids of the family. And while taking care of them on the beach vacation the family annually takes, you just so happen to meet your sisters new friend. Who she forgot to mention, was very attractive.

❥ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜

❥ I Don't Know You... Yet | Fluff + Slight Angst - You're Vi and Jinx's sister, and you meet and enforcer that just happens to catch your eye, but you guys aren't very close just yet. But she'd like to be, now will you let her?

❥ 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬

❥ 𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐲𝐧

❥ Out of Reach | Fluff - Your girlfriends love to put your potion ingredients higher then your arms can reach.

❥ Sleepy Morning Light | Fluff - You and Vi want to sleep, Caitlyn however needs a bit of convincing.

❥ Welcome Home | Fluff + NSFW - You and your dominance wasn't what they were expecting, but they aren't complaining.

❥ Busted Face | Angst + Fluff - You'd run into some people from your past you just happen to have a rough relationship. Punches are thrown on both sides, and the girls are left to help you pick up the pieces.

❥ Predicament | Fluff + Suggestive - Your girlfriend just got out of prison, and brings a friend who just so happens to be an enforcer. Oh, and did I mention you kill people for a living?

❥ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

❥ Poly Relationship W/ Them | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ NSFW Poly W/ Them | Fluff + Smut/NSFW

❥ Dealing with Their S/O's Inner Child | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚

❥ Them With a Pregnant S/O | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ Relationship With Vi & Sevika | Fluff + Slight Angst

❥ Having a Teeth Insecurity | Angst + Fluff

[iantimony]

tuesday line go up (derogatory)

hello from the end of my workday. writing this on my office computer as i watch my simulation crash in real time in the background. convergence line go up :(

listening: astonishing legends the body on the moor part 1, for some reason astonishing legends is such good Cleaning And Organizing noise to my brain. i've raised my eyebrow at some of their conclusions sometimes but i love a good unsolved mystery that doesn't focus on true crime what i can say

more 00s, just whatever shit the spotify algorithm spits out basically..."hard and heavy headbanging tuesday afternoon". i think for brevity i am going to focus on posting only the things that stuck out to me or are ear worms at the moment, which for this week is miss murder by afi, the kill by 30 seconds to mars, and out of control by hoobastank, especially the line in the latter after the chorus that goes 'and i may never know the answer to this endless mystery' that for some reason tickles my brain.

reading: Bring Back Those Pumped Italian Sodas (Anna Hezel): i LOVE italian sodas. the candy shop on main street near me does italian sodas and it is my favorite little treat to do a hot girl walk downtown and get a little bevvy to come with me. they whip so hard. bring them back everywhere!!!!!!!!!!!!

elitism is the enemy of the people (Mina Le) and the linked The machine in the garden. (Emily Sundberg) ... discourse(tm) about What Substack Is For, which means nothing to me as a non-substack user. i use a rss reader to follow a few specific substacks but i do not use the platform even a little bit. sundberg seems to disparage the list format (shoutout to miss deb perelmen who i saw in there as an example of things that are pushed on the platform now) (deb's newsletter is one of the ones i follow with my rss feed lol) slash the concept of "list of content I’m consuming" which. looks at my weekly roundup posts. lol. i do understand to an extent, though - does my weekly roundup post make me a Writer(tm)?? i would kinda agree that no not really.

this zine that i think i reblogged yesterday is very cute.

watching: i saw the new alien movie with a friend! it was really good, i enjoyed it, i did look up the jumpscares beforehand because i do not do well with those in theaters especially the big imax ones, but it ended up not being necessary - the local theater here has no imax or any of the big surround sound gimmick things, which i actually prefer, and it also means the tickets were dirt cheap. 10/10 experience. the movie itself was fun, the correct amount of peen/vag imagery that one would expect from an alien movie. important to note that the dehumanization of an android character (who is also the only black character and strongly autism coded) is a big plot thing, it is not Good that he is treated that way and that is also a plot thing but it is important to know going in so it's not a surprise (thanks to someone in a server i'm in for pointing that out, i didn't clock it as being potentially triggering when i saw it but i was like ohh yeah that does make sense to warn people about). really good cast and plot overall, there was only like one point where i was like "whyyy nooo that makes no sense, why would you do that" (without too much spoiling, the gravity turns on and off in a portion and they were just. zooming up an elevator shaft using the lack of gravity. like why would you not be staying near the ladder. you KNOW it's going to turn off at some random point. anyways), but in general the decisions the characters made were really reasonable which made it very fun to watch the consequences of like, yeah, that is also the choice i would have made, shit. the ending made me go EUGH!! in a good way. lots of good easter eggs that i probably missed some of. made me weirdly nostalgic for my dad because when i was growing up he had a life-size hyper-realistic rubber facehugger model. he used to mime getting attacked by it. my mom hated that fucking thing. it must have gotten thrown out or given away at some point. anyways, as the kids would say: it's kino

thank u celestialtourguide for ur dropout login xoxo, i have been watching a lot of 'make some noise'. i love how sometimes you can hear the crew laughing in the background.

youtubesphere:

jimmy robins: The Fallout of Watcher's Betrayal, what sparked me looking more at dropout. also found out from the comments section that sam reich is son of robert reich ??? wild

finished the george r r martin problem. basically: yeagh

dangelo wallace: not gonna link em all but his videos on chapell roan, katy perry, blake lively, and starbucks. pop culture updates that mean nothing to me. good background noise tho

mina le: underconsumption-core, travel outfits, and Paul Mescal’s shorts, the luxury of privacy & the celebrity vs. influencer paradox. my boyfriend is a proponent of the tiny inseam shorts and i wholly encourage it. more of that, please, from everyone.

made in the moment: My Crafty Boston Apartment Tour. as someone who is also just moved into my own apartment alone for the first time and is in the process of making the space feel like mine, this hits interestingly.

playing: dnd as normal. i finally got to go mask-off, was replaced by a doppleganger like six months ago and finally got to pop off and kill some guys and beat the shit out of my friends lol >:b i have also moved the game that i run to biweekly instead of weekly. i just have too much fucking things happening and dm burnout real.

making: evil eye coasters! these made me very nervous because of how streaky the underglaze is! so i did the tedious task of re-coloring in around my sgraffito lines of my [redacted] coasters. clear coated them and crossing my fingers. these coasters are also too thin, two of them are too warped to use as coasters so ill have to figure out what to do with them. maybe drilling a hole (carefully...) so i can hang them up somewhere? the [redacted] coasters are like twice the thickness so i don't think they'll be warped as bad thankfully.

i also. made. mesopotamian foot bowl :) i did not have a reference image at the time because that happened to be when the t mobile towers went down for a few hours last saturday so i kinda just freeballed it but he looks. so silly i love him. i think im gonna have to modify him, i was chatting with the studio owner about it and she was like "if you threw that bowl on a wheel you should hollow the legs out, wheel pottery twists slightly as it dries and that plus the drying rates being different will make them just pop right off", which, i can always glue them back on! but i should give him the best odds possible. bonus lil tushy

i made a BIG BOWL !! it's not really clear from the image but it's the most clay i've ever thrown at once, i think it's like. 2.5 lb?? i didn't actually weigh it first oops i should weigh it. but it's like a foot across at the top. i put it on little ball feet to use as some sort of display bowl i think.

and there's one more bowl that is really unremarkable so no picture for now.

fiber art: made a fucking. magic the gathering card cozy for a friend that my local mtg group is putting together a care package for. it's so fucking stupid i love it. not gonna post a pic of the front, it's just a dark red border to hold the card in. i might outline the swamp symbol with matching embroidery floss (or maybe navy??) to make it pop more, might also sew a small square of fabric on the inside to hide the loose ends. colors were chosen to match his main commander which is braids

eating: FINALLY finished the gyudon. um . didn't cook many more recipes. i was going to do one pot chicken meatballs with greens and deb smittenkitchen's corn bacon and parmesan pasta last night but i spent two hours wandering walmart like my ancestors wandered the desert and came home and just had leftovers lol. the cooking will commence......today after i post this and go home.

misc: the midwest is hot this week! fml! on the plus side i don't think my average energy bill in my new place will be worse than my old one despite the worse insulation based on the mid-cycle energy report email i got, on the minus side now i am not splitting that cost so technically it feels more expensive :( thankfully i have finally been finishing the process of closing my dad's accounts so i will have a little padding in my bank account, plus i think i am supposed to get the fellowship i won deposited soon?? shrug. i booked some flights using credit card points that in retrospect i should have booked with Money because of that fellowship but oh well. i am still in the Everything Is So Expensive stage of moving as i finish getting furniture and miscellaneous home goods, hence the two hour walmart wander yesterday. i still need a couch. i think i am getting a frat house walmart futon for like $150 just because it's space efficient and won't break the bank and will be easy to sell when i move out. i should probably order that before i go visit home for 3 weeks ...... anyways. that's this tuesdaypost done and dusted.