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[ baby life updates !!

- I’m finally taking driving classes

- my tummy hurts

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[ i just think it would be fun to have an ISWM watch party amongst us delinquents , is this too much to ask

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“ I HEARD A RUMOR THAT YOUR FAVORITE MUSICAL IS GREASE “  / anonymous​​ / send a rumor your muse heard about mine and they will confirm if it's true or not .

“ IS ‘DAT JUST because you like irony , or ‘cause you can’t name anyt’ing else ? “  said from underneath the body of a shop truck , it makes sense , at least . mostly. he wiggles himself from underneath , grimacing at the effort as well as the greasy oil patch he just dragged himself through , and waits impatiently for the officer on duty to hand him the correct wrench. 

“ S’ CABARET , actually - thank’y, boss,” he mumbles, before ducking back under the never-functioning steel trap. “ s’jus nothing relatable ‘bout a bunch of teens trying t’fall in love with each other, y’know? nothing against the musical, just ... not my whole thing. plenty relatable in cabaret, though. plenty. “

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“ HEY I HEARD YOU CAN SING !! CAN YOU SING ME A SONG ? RIGHT NOW ? PLEASE ? “  / @jumpinagain​​ / send a rumor your muse heard about mine and they will confirm if it's true or not .

“ WHAT ARE YOU , some kinda animal ? ‘ave some goddamn respect ! “ or patience. or something , yancy thinks, cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth. he casts a momentarily wary gaze around the room, before waving the question away like he’s shooing a fly, leaning back fully into his chair. “ ‘can i fuckin’ sing ...’ course i can sing, jackass , but i ain’t here to pull party tricks - you think i’m a goddamn songbird ? pullin’  tunes out my ass on command ?. ask me to fuckin’ sing again, i’ll show youse singin’ ... “ he delves into angry grumbles soon enough, and when the moment of irritation is over over, he makes a mental note to keep his voice to himself the rest of the afternoon. 

IT LASTS maybe forty minutes. 

“ ... FEELING THE RAPTURE grow , like a flame burning brightly ... ~ “ his mumbled tenor floods the empty space of the library , lapsing into distant hums and whistles to accompany the thumbing of pages. the quiet’s never done him good , and without a throng of prisoners to turn his sanctum into a madhouse, he’s the only thing available to make noise. pity he can’t hold a grudge. “ ... and I still can see blue velvet through my tears, “ 

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For every "♡" I get I'll give a tip on how to win my muse's heart.

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“ ORSON JAY BARNUM “  / @warwonpink​ / call my muse by his full name

THE CLARITY of william’s words fills yancy with terror.

 HE FEELS NUMB , cold , even. from anyone else - from everyone else - that name becomes a weapon . a threat . a naughty word . even when paired with the ever-dulcet tones of wil’s voice ( only barely missing the usual exhuberance ) , his name sounded dusty and foul , mis- and disused. he didn’t feel any anger towards william , just an ever-rising fear that didn’t suit the ragged and rugged man he’d built himself up to be in wil’s presence. he knew william could see through that , as clear as if he’d been made of glass , but wil was kind enough to extended the olive branch of playing dumb most of the time . allow the boy his pride , in the absence of anything else . 

HE DIDN’T THINK he’d ever had the chance to witness this side of yancy , at least , and that was a blessing and a curse . yancy didn’t want to be seen like this . yancy didn’t want nonchalance from william , and he certainly didn’t want comfort - that , he’d figured out , would likely be like the blind leading the blind .

BUT HE WAS seeing it now , certainly . seeing the unhinged panic blaze in his eyes , a sensitive kind of madness reserved only for those who had never been themselves . what were any of them to do about the other ?

YANCY RAN a hand over his face once , twice. william’s expression was begining to make him feel ill , sickly sweet recognition rotting yancy’s teeth from the inside out . his palms were iced with sweat , his stomach one giant nauseous knot in his torso - acknowledgement didn’t suit the pair of them well , their relationship built on confusion and disillusionment , and yancy supposed that’s what really had done him in . it was like dionysus sobered . everything shattered just long enough to let the light in , and now yancy was blind and on fire. 

“ WHY DO YOU know that , “ he rasped , taking a heavy seat on whatever had become available . “ why do you remember that , why - ? “ yancy breathed hard , swallowed down the dagger materializing in his throat, and put his head in his hands permanently . “ youse shouldn’t even be here , you know ? you should ... you should just leave me alone. leave me to my life and i’ll leave you to whatever you’ve got left of yours! “ 

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[ how most people picture parole’d yancy: leather jacket, blue jeans, pocket comb, the Fonz but make him sexy

How I picture parole’d yancy: absolutely covered in engine oil, hair past his shoulders because he can get away with it now, barefoot woods goblin

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[ get ready for month old ask responses fuckos

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Send a rumor your muse heard about mine and they will confirm if it's true or not!

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“ ORSON JAY BARNUM “  / @multiimadness​​ / call my muse by his full name

UH OH. 

YANCY ( THANK YOU VERY MUCH ) sets down whatever gizmo is in his hand currently, and slowly spins on his heel to face arthur. jesus christ, he hates that - he hates that more than just about anything. who the fuck calls him orson anymore - peeved or not ? he wasn’t orson, he was yancy. and whoever the hell dared to called him by his father’s last name was more than begging for a bruising. 

BUT THIS WAS murderslaughter. and last he checked, he couldn’t go around clocking the warden. so he plastered an awkward smile on his face, took off his glasses, and shoved both them and his hands in his pockets. “ oof. uh, ‘ey, warden ! long time, no see! you , uh ... you need somet’in? or you just ... being angry for fun today ... ?”

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Call my muse by their full name, see how they respond.

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  mayday  ,   mayday  ,   do   you   copy   me  ?   i’m   feeling   incomplete   in   the   world   you   made   for   me  .   mayday  ,   mayday  ,   can   you   hear   me   now  ?   ‘cause   i’m   counting   down,   and   baby  ,   we   can’t   stick   around  .   there’s   no   more   time   for   you   and   i  .   

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send ⚠ to pick up/carry my muse

If a multimuse, specify which muse

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HE SEEMED TO perk up considerably at the idea of a new thing to stick in his mouth and smoke, though that excitement almost instantly faded away. it sounded disgusting, and he wanted no part in it, in spite of the intrigue. besides, like gunther had handily pointed out, cigarettes nearly grew on trees (or, the ground, anyway) as it was; it’s much easier to just plant tobacco than drag along cartons of the synthetic stuff.

YANCY PUFFED his cigarette in silence for what seemed like ages, though he was happy to do so. the taste was close to invigorating, a sparkle finally reaching his eyes for the first time in a long while - though that was neatly snuffed out at the mention of cryo. god, he never wanted to think of that stuffy fucking box ever again - a shiver shot down his spine, and he grumbled once more around the twig between his teeth. “ yeah, i - ... look, it’s a neat sentiment, but ... youse don’t gotta worry any. i’m a big boy, i can take care o’myself.” 

THE FEAR WAS not, of course, that he’d be babied - gunther didn’t seem the type to coddle at any rate - but the fear that somehow, somewhere, he’d be letting gunther down. letting everyone down. he was not this bundle of shining potential everyone thought he was, but ... he could try, he guessed. nothing hurt for trying. he’d start, he decided, by bringing a small smile to his lips, removing his own cigarette to speak clearly. “ ... it’s appreciated, though. honest. you, uh ... youse seem like a good guy. i ‘tink i can count on that.” 

cont. from @theauthorlives​​

YANCY ... had been pretty skittish lately. 

IT WAS an understatement, actually, to say he’d been avoiding crowds. no, yancy had plainly been avoiding anyone - ever since mark had yanked him out of the little hidey-hole he’d made for himself, yancy’d been running himself ragged to lay low. don’t get attached. don’t get caught. he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong by just ... being alive, sure, but ... 

BUT FREEDOM was new. surely he’d get bitched at for something. 

GUNTHER WAS COOL. that was the only solid decision he’d made about anyone; laid back, inconsequential, gunther just did what he thought he needed to and didn’t make a fuss about it. it still took him three weeks to pick up the balls to approach him. 

YANCY DIDN’T NEED a light. yancy still had matches tucked in his back pocket. he forced himself to approach anyway, slow steps, like a cornered animal; he lit his crinkled cigarette, took a long drag, and sighed loudly in relief - hundred years without a smoke’ll do that to you. “hm?” he mumbled, finally taking a chance to meet gunther’s eyes, instead of staring at the floor with feigned interest. 

“ ... YEAH. S’BEEN long enough; you’d t’ink they’d invent a cig ‘dat won’t kill you anymore ... “ maybe that didn’t make sense to gunther, based on whatever scientific process had been made since the 1950′s, but he tried to hide his growing unease the best he could. “yeah. yeah, i, uh ... i know youse. i’m - ... “ he juggled his name in his head for a moment, trying to decide; this was a fresh start. he could go by his government name for once, instead of what the boys in the clink called him. 

“ MY NAME’S YANCY, “ he grumbled, defeated. orson just didn’t feel like him anymore. “ everyone’s been treating me okay, i guess. ‘aven’t had any issues, or nothin’.” 

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TV SEEMS to sway the longer yancy stares at him. his eyes, too bright and too shining wet to be anything more than alive and afraid, focus and unfocus at rapid-fire intervals. his breath swells in his chest, gets caught, claws its way out by force; yancy doesn’t feel like moving. yancy doesn’t feel like doing much ever again. 

HE’S WONDERED, timeline after timeline, if this is what death really feels like. if he ever becomes old and brittle and lies in an uncomfortable hospital bed, surrounded by family and friends, is this the same sensation that will haunt him? he likes to think differently; he comforts himself with the idea that a real death is like air. that, if he were to die for keeps, he would not feel his body - he would feel his last thoughts run thin through his brain like rain through a clean gutter; they would empty into his heart, flush out any last trace of fear, and water the grass and clover underneath. he’d die with a smile on his face, and nothing in his skull except pleasant hum. 

THIS DEATH, yancy thinks, is much too rich for his blood. it clogs his veins like honeyed wine, lures him in for another taste. everything, down to the words in his throat, is molasses thick and jumbled; he swallows, licks his lips, and tries to speak anyway. 

TV THINKS HE has a chance, and yancy has never been good at denying tv their opinion, but he tries anyway. “look at me, wynn. i - fuck, i can’t hardly see straight. i can’t do it this time.” his throat is dry and sticks to every syllable; eventually yancy has to cough, doubled into himself with a ragged gasp. even if he got out, he thinks, even if tv could get him past those gates, what good would it do him? was dying with fresh air in his lungs worth it when he couldn’t hardly breathe? 

YANCY TRIES ANYWAY. if it would make tv happy, he’d try anything, he supposes. he stands, legs deterorating beneath him, and he clutches the back of the chair for some much needed support. will he be able to walk, even after he’s gotten his legs firmly under him? one arm clutches around his middle, and he begrudgingly separates himself from the chair. his hand finds the wall, then tv’s shoulder; then he sags. 

“WE CAN’T ... GO FAST,” he wheezes, blood dotting the corners of his mouth, trickling down his cupid’s bow. “ ... but i’ll try. i can still ... try. “ 

“ STARING. “   for sender to find receiver sitting alone staring at a wall, covered in blood, and to touch their arm . / @etvidentium​

THERE IS NO saving yancy. he’s known this for a very long time. 

HE’S LIVED IN this bubble for too long, he thinks; maybe a decade or two ago, sure, he could’ve been coaxed out of his den; a few before even that, he would’ve jumped for joy at the chance to get the hell out of these brick walls. before that, yancy admittedly has no clue what he’d want, besides revenge - besides his nails digging into someone elses neck. there was a time when throwing a dented baseball bat or a chipped knife down a ravine was a good stress reliever, when violence and tranquility went hand in hand. now, it just makes his heart pound to an unsettling degree. 

HE THINKS it might be ready to pop by now. does this mean he’s weaker than he once was, or that he’s come full circle? both ends of the spectrum bring adrenaline in spades. 

IF HE ENJOYED IT, yancy thinks, there wouldn’t be this heavy swirl of something sitting in his gut. his limbs wouldn’t feel like lead, his eyes glassy paperweights in his skull, set to bore a hole into the brick before him. he was tired. he didn’t feel like moving. tv was doing him a big favor by dealing with the dead weight on his behalf, the corpse of murderslaughter unceremoniously dumped in the back garden. he’d snapped. it didn’t matter, of course; murderslaughter wasn’t a real man, and the ghost that haunted that poor meat puppet was well and truly alive, making the prison boil and seethe around them. the walls were vibrating; or was that just his eyes. 

YANCY LOOKED DOWN. removed his hands from the stinging gash in his abdomen, black and red blood mingling among the wound. at least he could tell whose was whose. he hadn’t gone down without a fight, and maybe that was something for his conscious to grapple with later. 

HE REGISTERED tv looming behind him before he felt the hand on his shoulder. feeling was difficult right now; took up way too much of his energy. he looked up at them first, with big, bleary, saint bernard eyes, then looked down at where their arm was stretched out to, and gave the hand a tight lipped smile. whether it was to beckon him, or to provide an amount of comfort, he didn’t know. the latter was pretty hard to come by. 

“HEY, YOUSE,” he said, tone jovial but weak, as he finally relaxed into the chair. he tried to turn a tad, look tv in the eye, but the wound smiled and spat more blood onto his shirt and he had to pause and breathe instead. “all done? you’re a good pal, buddy, y’know that? I, uh...” 

YANCY LOOKED DOWN once more, eyed the wound, and then turned his attention back to tv. “might, uh, have to leave this life alone. i’m gonna be damn near useless ‘til it’s healed up, and I don’t know if we’s got ‘da time to waste on that. might be ... worth starting over here.” 

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[ my noodle isn’t noodling enough to answer new asks rn, but go ahead and like this for me to send you asks and thereby compound this issue

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Send ‘🎤’ for my muse to sing a snippet of a song that reminds them of your muse. 

If the emoji cannot be seen, Send ‘Melody’.

For Multimuses: Please Specify Muse(s).