#and i made the word count small and the prose simple so that nobody gets bogged down lmao

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

We’re the Bad Guys: Part 8

We’re the Bad Guys: Masterlist

Poe Dameron x Reader (eventually), First Order!Reader

Summary: From the day you were born, you were taught the rebels and their New Republic were the bad guys. But, after you crash land on a remote moon with only the Resistance’s poster boy for company, things begin the change.

Based off of this drabble and headcanon

A/N: Poe is back baby!  This is also the most action I’ve written with basically no dialogue breaks in a while, so please bare with me.  Prose were never my strong suit.  And please remember COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS, I NEED VALIDATION TO SURVIVE!!!

Word Count: 3.0K

        Poe Dameron wasn’t worried about you.  He wasn’t.  Wherever you were in the galaxy, he was sure you were doing just fine.  You were too stubborn to do anything else.  

        All the same he found his mind wandering to you more often than he liked to admit. 

        You hadn’t fully left his mind since crash landing on that forest moon.  He had tried more than once to find you using a combination of stolen flight plans, Tie-patrols, and even old Imperial military records.  And for his efforts, all he could find were lists of meaningless identification numbers and dead ends. 

          It made sense.  After the Empire fell, many high ranking officers decided to cut their losses and flee rather than fight, erasing all personal data they could from the archives on their way out.  From what you had told him, he assumed your parents must have been fairly high up the chain of command given their clear devotion to the former Empire and the pressure they put on you to see their vision come to reality.  

        A sharp pain came to his stomach every time he thought about it.  You didn’t deserve that.  Nobody deserved that.  The only relief he could find was to remind himself of your message. 

        Maz Kanata had brought it to Leia herself, presenting the data card you had given her with confidence and a knowing smile. 

        “Commander Dameron can confirm it’s legitimacy,” Maz had assured.  “It’s from his Pilot after all.” 

        In the moment, Poe had been taken aback to have you referred to as “his Pilot”, but over time, he had grown to like it. Every mission he had gone on over the last three months had been a success because of you after all.

        With your intel and the collaboration of other spies in the field, he and the rest of Black Squadron had to come out on top with barely a single scratch between them.

        It should have been cause for celebration.  It was a cause for celebration. But every time a toast was made to the success of The Resistance, he had to wonder why you weren’t there with them. 

          Maz hadn’t given him much, just an assurance that you were doing what you thought was best, whatever that meant. 

        He was sure you weren’t still with The First Order.  That bridge was clearly burned.  But you still hadn’t come. 

        Poe wasn’t worried.  He really wasn’t.  He just knew he’d feel a lot better if he had some idea of where you were; or even where to look. 

        A small string of whistles and beeps interrupted his thoughts. 

        Poe blinked, turning his attention to the small translation screen of his X-Wing.

        “Yeah BB-8, I’m fine,” Poe said, still a little distracted. “Just thinking.”

        BB-8 gave a long beep. 

        “I am focused,” he assured.  “And don’t worry, Pilot hasn’t let us down yet.” 

        BB-8 whistled, unconvinced. 

        “You don’t have to know someone’s name to trust them,” Poe countered, though admittedly a little embarrassed. The fact he didn’t know your name did gnaw on him at times. On the other hand, he felt he knew you well enough through your actions. 

        He knew you could have killed him on that moon, but hadn’t. He knew you had risked everything to bring the Resistance the information they were now using against The First Order. He knew Maz wouldn’t have brought information to Leia if she wasn’t completely sure of your intentions. And he remembered the regret in your voice when you said you didn’t have a choice in who you were. It wasn’t much to go on, but it spoke of a person who wanted to change, and that was more than anyone could ask for. 

        “Look, I trust them,” Poe said.  “That’s just going to have to be good enough for now.” 

        BB-8 gave a low whistle and nothing else.  

        Another beep came, this time from the control panel, prompting Poe to ease the ship out of hyperspace. 

        The streaks of starlines cleared to reveal a solitary ocean planet covered from north to south with varying shades of grey storm clouds. 

        Poe didn’t know the name of the planet and likely never would. The Unknown Region was named that for a reason after all, but it didn’t matter.  What mattered was the tiny First Order base located on one of the many small patches of land scattered across the surface. 

        The plan was simple enough.  While your information had proven invaluable to The Resistance, the clearance codes you provided were reaching their expiration date.  Luckily, you had also provided them with the location of a lightly guarded out post with all the codes they would need for the next few months at least.  

        It would be a simple snatch and grab, just him and BB-8.  So long as the ship wasn’t spotted on the approach, everything would work out just fine. 

        Poe put both hands on the controls and guided the ship down into the swirling storm.  

        It didn’t take him long to realize exactly why the base was so lightly guarded.  While the storm provided easy cover, it also proved to be a better obstacle than a squadron of trigger happy Tie-Fighter pilots.  

       “Better hang on to something,” Poe warned.

        The ship shook violently in the wind as bolts of lightning flashed through the cockpit window.  

        Poe could feel the electricity in the air, and evidently so did his controls.  Dials and lights flashed across the board.  Another jolt rocked the ship. Warning beeps and sirens echoed in his ears, but he ignored all of them.  

        He lowered the ship even closer to the grey waves until they all but broke against the underside of the ship. 

        BB-8 let out a long beep of panic. 

        “We need to keep low,” Poe said.  “We go any higher, they’ll read us on their sensors.” 

        A great rumble roared in his ears, whether it was from the sea, the sky, or just the heavy rainfall pelting the cockpit window, he couldn’t be sure.  

        Another warning beep came from the controls. 

        Poe looked down and felt a grin spread across his face. “Land, dead ahead.  We’re nearly there buddy.” 

        He pushed the engines harder, sending a spray of sea foam in his wake. 

        In the distance, he could start to make out the reflective black of smoothed stone shooting out of the water in deadly sharp angles.  

        “BB-8 scan for a place to land, any sort of cavern should do the trick.” 

        The droid whistled in reply. 

        Poe kept his eyes on the sky.  There hadn’t been any ships leaving or entering the atmosphere as far as he could see, but there was no telling what those dark clouds could be hiding. 

        Soon enough BB-8 gave another whistle and the coordinantes to a small cave just big enough to fit an X-Wing appeared on his computer. 

        As they came closer, Poe began to spot the lights of the military base, just where you had described it.  It wasn’t a great fortress.  No doubt The First Order assumed the planet’s natural defenses would be enough.  But he could make out the outline of blaster cannons along the outer walls.  

        He pushed the engines just a little harder and drifted just a little lower, relying on the dark background of the ocean and blinding rain to cover his approach. 

        The lights were becoming brighter.  The white of Stormtrooper armor could now be seen clearly amongst the slabs of onyx stone. 

        “Hold on!”

         At the last minute, he turned the X-Wing into a sharp one-eighty, sending a spray of water up and over the engines. 

          From the parapets above, it appeared as if a large wave had just struck against the rocks. 

          He sped into the cavern, barely having enough time to slam the breaks before hitting the back wall.  For a moment the X-Wing hovered as he and BB-8 took a moment to breath. 

        “Not bad, right?” Poe quipped. 

        BB-8 let out a dizzying whirl in response. 

        Poe chuckled as the ship floated to the ground. 

        “Alright, keep the engines running,” he said, as he climbed his way out of the ship. “I’ll be back in no time.”

        BB-8 let out a string of concerned beeps. 

        “Hey, have some faith buddy.  It’s me.” 

        The droid gave a doubtful low whistle, causing Poe to frown. 

        “Look, I’ll call you if I need a pick up.  Just be ready.”

        BB-8 beeped an affirmative, watching as Poe slipped a poncho over his head and walked out of the cave. 

        The rain hit harder and colder than anything Poe had experience in a long while.  After barely ten seconds he was drenched from head to foot.  Even with the added protection of the poncho, he could feel the water streaming down his spine and seeping into his shirt. 

        Making his way up the cliff face, he was silently grateful he thought to use a spike rather than BB-8 to retrieve the data.  He couldn’t imagine how he would have been able to carry the droid without constantly slipping on the smooth stone or even getting a basic grip.  He could barely do it on his own.  

        He was about to pull himself up over another break in the cliff face, when the all too familiar sound of Tie-Fighter engines cut through the rumble of the storm.  Poe pressed himself hard against the wall. There was nothing else he could do.  If the patrol spotted him, he was dead.  Holding his breath, he tooked skyward. 

        Three Tie-Fighters flew past, each hugging close to the waves just as he had done on the approach.  It was then he realized just how lucky he was.  If he had landed even a few minutes later, they would have spotted him.  

        He then frowned.  You hadn’t mentioned a Tie patrol in your report.  Was there someone else on the base and this was their escort?  Or did you leave it out on purpose. 

        Poe shook the thought away.  No.  You hadn’t misled them yet.  You wouldn't mislead them now.

        The patrol passed by without pause and Poe continued his way up the cliff. 

        Eventually, he made it to the top finding cover just outside the perimeter of the base. 

        He let out a breath of relief.  There were hardly any guards posted outside the base, just like you said.  

        Carefully he crept along, making sure to keep low until he reached the door. With one quick spike and a little luck he was inside before the guards passed by again. 

        The corridor in front of him was brightly lit, cold and the same shade of black as the stone outside. 

        He started to make his way down, only to stop at the sound of his own squishing boots.  Turning around, he could see the wet trail of rain following behind him.  There were similar trails around the entrance, but most if not all were heading toward the corridor on the left.

        He had a decision to make.  Either continue the way he was going and hope he worked fast enough for his water trail not to be spotted, or follow the water trail toward what was most likely the barricades, grab some dry clothes and then complete the mission.  

        He stood a moment, only for his decision to be made for him.  Coming from the side corridor were a pair of newly dried Stormtroopers.  Turning on his heel, he all but ran down the corridor, deciding he’d have better luck with the possibility of Stormtroopers than the ones right in front of him. 

        He mumbled the directions to himself as he navigated through the maze of identical sterile hallways. 

        “Right, two down then a left, right again, straight ahead, one more left and then third door on right.” 

        He stopped in the middle of the hall, directly between two doors. 

        “Or was it the left,” he mumbled.  He closed his eyes, picturing the map of the base in his mind.  If he was facing south, but wait, which way was south? 

        The clamor of armor interrupted his thoughts.  Time to make another decision. 

        He turned to the door on the right.  Another spike, and he was in. 

        Upon entering, he saw he had chosen right.  One empty room with an unattended computer module.  His luck really was paying off. 

        In two strides he was behind the computer and already placing the spike in the unit.  This one took a little longer to crack, but the spike did its work.  Another ten seconds, and he was in.  Pulling an empty data card from his pocket, he placed it in the proper slot.  Another twenty seconds and he could get out of here. 

        A knock came at the door. 

        “Who’s in there?” a modulated voice called. 

        Poe snapped his mouth shut, not daring to breath.  Maybe if he just pretended no one was there…

        “Identify yourself,” the voice snapped.  “We know you’re in there.”

        He breathed out a curse.  Of course, they followed the water trail. 

        “Just changing,” he said, wincing at his own unconvincing lie.  “Be out in a minute.” 

        The troopers didn’t respond, but the sudden burst of blaster fire at the door’s controls was enough to answer enough. 

        Poe pulled his blaster from his belt and spun his head to the data card.  Just a few more seconds…

        The door of the room hissed open revealing two Stormtroopers with their blasters at the ready. 

        Poe didn’t give them time to fire. Four shots and the two troopers were down. 

        The computer gave a small ping and Poe yanked the data card out of it’s slot. 

        Rushing to the door, Poe peaked out to see if his luck was about to run out.  

        It was a solid split down the middle.  There were no troopers in sight, but the distinct sound of armor in a hurry could be heard coming down the corridor.  

        Poe made a break for it, going back the way he came.  

        Breath hard, he stopped at the first intersection.  He had made a left here so that meant, he had to make a right...right?  He turned his head desperately from side to side only to stop when he spotted a stream of water running along the floor.  He almost laughed.  Follow the puddles. 

        Making a quick right, he ran along the empty halls following his own trail of wet floor back to the exit.  He was almost there.  Just one more turn. 

        He slid, almost falling over as he made a last hard bank toward the exit.  Just a few most feet and he was gone. 

        It was right then and there his luck ran out.  

        Four freshly dried Stormtroopers emerged from the barricades, all of their blasters trained on him. 

        “Freeze!” one of them shouted.

        Poe did, but only for a moment.  Quickly spinning his heel he made to go back the way he came only to come face to face with four more Stormtroopers. 

        “Hold it right there,” another one of the troopers said.  “Drop your weapon.”

        He didn’t fight them.  Silently, he lay his blaster on the ground and  placed his hands behind his head. 

        The one who shouted the order approached him, holding his head high with the confidence of a bully surrounded by his cronies. 

        Without a word, he slammed his blaster into Poe’s gut, making him double over in pain. 

        It was official then. He was fresh out of luck.

        A pair of troopers dragged him along and unceremoniously slung him into one of the holding cells.

        This really wasn’t going according to plan.  They had taken his blaster, his comm, and more importantly the data card.  It wouldn’t take them long to realize what was on it.  Protocol would demand they change the codes again and all information he gathered would be rendered useless. 

        Poe battered the thought away.  He couldn’t focus on that.  He needed to find a way out of the cell and find a way to contact BB-8. 

        The click and hiss of the cell door opening interrupted his thoughts.  To his surprise, he wasn’t met with the sour face of the base commander, but rather the masked black face of a Tie-Fighter pilot.  

        “Room service?” he quipped.  “I gotta say, it’s about time you got here.  I could really use a towel.”

        “This is the one who you found sneaking around the base?” the Tie-Pilot asked.

        “Yes, Commander,” one of the Stormtrooper guards said. “We’re running ID now.”

        “There’s no need,” they dismissed. “I know exactly who he is. This is Poe Dameron, ex-captain of the Republic Navy and current commander of The Resistance’s Black Squadron.”

        Poe gritted his teeth.  This really wasn’t his day. 

        “Leave us,” they continued.  “And make sure to turn off the security cameras.”

        “Sir?”

        “This pilot has vital information pertaining to the Resistance, including where their base is.  I’d like some time alone to help loosen his tongue.” 

         They then took a step forward, examining him closely through the black of the mask.  “And besides, pilot to pilot, I’d like to know where and how he landed his damn ship.”

        The troopers nodded in understanding. With a few presses of a button, Poe saw the red lights of the cameras turn off as the door slid shut.

        “At last, we’re alone,” he said, sardonically. “Should I dim the lights?”

        “That won’t be necessary, Commander.”

        “Lights on then, kinky.”

        The commander stiffened slightly.

        Poe braced himself.  If they swung with their right, he could block it, take them by surprise and make a grab for their blaster. It might take a few tries, but all he needed was an opening.  The problem was, the commander wasn’t hitting him.

        Instead, they made a motion that could only be described as an eye roll without the eyes. 

        “Are you always this much of an idiot, or am I just lucky?”

        Poe frowned.  “Excuse me?”

        “What, you don’t recognize me?” they said, in an almost teasing tone. “I’m hurt.”

        Poe’s frown deepened.  That voice, he had heard it somewhere before. 

        The Commander gave a small sigh and without another word, removed their helmet. 

        Poe felt his jaw drop. 

        “Pilot?”

[samwrights]

Elixir - Punk!AU mini-series

Hi guys! So I wanted to write something a little different. Not necessarily a “choose your own adventure” but something along those lines. This mini series will be a Punk!AU where the reader is in a band where your story depends on the person you choose! While no place is actually mentioned, I’m thinking Chicago (home sweet home) for setting. I’ve been working on this between requests and, while the requests keep coming, I’m trying to get the routes going. For now, I present to you the prologue.

Thank you quarantine, necessary drives to my Starbucks, Halestorm, Neck Deep, Pierce the Veil, and Paramore for inspiring these babies. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: there will be swearing, smoking of cigarettes and weed, consumption of edibles and alcohol, cheating and possibly be NSFW. I haven’t decided on the last one yet. Everyone will be of legal US age for consumption of nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol in the present day (18+ in some states for tobacco, 21+ in for everything else). However, there are mentions of underage consumption/distribution of alcohol. These are genuinely mature themes! If you are unable to understand that these themes are not encouraged to be re-enacted, specifically cheating and underage consumption/distribution of nicotine, alcohol, or marijuana, please do not read for your own safety.

A complementary playlist can be found  »  here

Photocredit by @scandeniall​

Word Count: 3504

Prologue is below the cut!

You had been trying to ignore the gnawing thrum of discomfort that had worked its way into your intuition the last few weeks, but today the dull throb had transcended into an alarm blaring at the back of your consciousness. Like your body was trying to tell you something that should have been painstakingly obvious, yet when you attempted to pinpoint the cause, you fell short with an answer.

Period? Nah, too early for that.

Food poisoning? That wouldn’t last multiple weeks.

Pulled a muscle at the gym? That was a joke, considering you hadn’t gone to a gym since your senior year of college.

Anxiety? Well that was a given, considering you had a nasty gut feeling about something.

Stress? Stress was nothing new. In fact, stress was a very familiar friend to you.

What the fuck was it?

Even meditating on the thought for the last three hours, an answer had yet to come to you. Without ever finding one, you reluctantly pull the plush covers off of your queen sized bed and push yourself up to sit on the edge before checking your phone’s lock screen for the time. 1:23pm. You still had quite some time before you needed to leave for band practice, but you knew full well that laying in bed any further would encourage your current laziness. Making your way around the clothes that haphazardly littered your disheveled bedroom floor, you entered your bathroom to shower and get ready for the day.

The warmth of the water did little to quell the unsettling feeling that emanated from your gut. You even attempted to center your with old therapy tactics such as identifying all of your surroundings, such as which muscles of your body the shower was raining upon or the different notes in your voice that reverberated off the shower walls as you subconsciously sang. When that had failed, you allowed your mind to wander through the metaphorical meadow that resided in your brain.

At first, your mind focused on whatever lyrics fell from your lips, recognizing the prose as one of your band’s songs. Connecting the words that were committed to memory with people, your mind began to wander to your friends—the three boys you were thankful enough to call your best friends of a decade and members of your band, Elixir—Tetsurō Kuroo, Takahiro Hanamaki, and Yūji Terushima.

Kuroo, or Tetsu as you sometimes called him, was the guitarist of Elixir and the “mastermind” behind the name of your little group. Mastermind being a relatively loose term, as at the time, you all had felt indifferent to the name. But as nobody had come with any better alternatives, you all had stuck to it until it had grown on you. Kuroo was a year younger than you and, outside of the band, was a chemist for a small time company at the ripe age of twenty six. As you thought of him, you let out a soft snort that nobody but you could hear, thinking of his disheveled raven haired locks that framed his face; thinking of his earlobe holes that had been stretched out to nearly half an inch in diameter; thinking of the myriad of tattoos that littered his body from neck to toe. Sometimes, it did seem a little funny that this man had to wear a lab coat on the daily. You were so proud of him and of his accomplishments. He was ambitious and driven, focused on his goal of succeeding in both his field and with his band. Whether that meant recording an album and touring or just continuing to have fun was unknown, since really he would be fine with either or both.

Entertaining your analytical thoughts about Kuroo brought you to the bassist of your band, Takahiro Hanamaki, as you had met them both at your high school jobs in a local cafe. Makki, though he initially seemed profoundly reserved, had a relaxed sense of humor that typically came at the expense of others. At the time, he was a distinct contrast to Kuroo’s loud, antagonistic nature. Now, the two of them began to take bits and pieces of each other’s personalities. While Makki’s cool, composed self remained, he also was not one to avoid baiting someone just to crack a joke or tease them, an attribute he had adopted over the years of exposure to you and the guitarist. However, his laidback attitude was almost never immediately acknowledged by strangers, as his lanky build and harrowing, deep set eyes typically intimidate those who don’t know the light hearted bassist. And while he wasn’t the most “modified” member of the band, many saw the two eyebrow rings that rested above the right brow and, in conjunction with his natural features, immediately assumed the impression that Makki was unapproachable. You always had a soft spot for Makki and his slightly misunderstood ways.

Speaking of misunderstood brought your mind to the youngest member of your quartet—Yūji Terushima, or Teru as you affectionately called him. While he was only a year younger than the boys, two years in comparison to you, he was the life energy of the squad. When he had entered the cafe in which you, Kuroo, and Makki worked at for his first day, it felt that the final missing piece of the puzzle had been found, though you didn’t know it yet. It had been a year later, with you officially accepting the role of supervisor instead of trainer and Kuroo being your replacement. The two hit it off swimmingly and, while Makki didn’t necessarily match his energy, he compensated with humor. Terushima was, and still is, a wild thing. He breathes life into the rest of you by offering up crazy adventures that varied from a simple 2am Walmart trip to breaking into forest preserves at the dead of night to swim in a creek even though you had finals to attend to the following morning. In a sense, Terushima was the very reason Elixir had been born. After all, he was the one who encouraged each you to learn covers of songs until the interest had been sparked enough to learn how to properly play everyone’s respected instruments.

Backtracking your thoughts—finals. Finals meant university, and university was probably the most wild time of your life. As the friendship between the four of you continued to blossom with years passing, you all had made a pact to attend the same university. At one point, it had been tricky, trying to decide on where you were going to go and if you wanted to wait for Teru to catch up due to the age gap or if you, as the eldest, were going to pave the way for your juniors. It came as a surprise to the boys when you announced that you would wait, taking a two year gap in order to save money to lessen the blow of tuition in your bank account. Even more surprisingly, Kuroo and Makki had agreed with each other to do the same—what was the point in you staying behind and waiting for Yūji if they weren’t going to as well?

Waiting for Terushima turned out to be the absolute best idea ever. While you were initially hesitant to be rooming with three boys, friendship be damned, the four of you getting an apartment together for your university years was the best chaotic good moment you had ever been involved in. In a way, you all had gotten to celebrate many firsts together because of it. Did it bother you that you were a slightly older freshman? Sure, a little bit. Did it matter? Not at all, considering you were able to start buying liquor and beer as a sophomore in college and, as soon as your younger peers found out, you had turned it into a business to help pay rent for your shared apartment. Oddly enough, Terushima was the one who handled all of the expenses and calculated what you should be charging for your, ahem, “services”. Go figure, the youngest of you all was a math whiz. There was one unwritten rule for the apartment—no parties. Period. You could use your services to grab whatever supplies needed, whether it be alcohol, weed from a dispensary, or cigarettes, they were for your guys’ personal use only. Home was meant to home, and that was that.

Home; probably the single most important word in the entirety of your personal dictionary. While home was most often defined as a place in which a person or family resides, it meant something entirely different to you. Being home meant being with your best friends, your family. It meant being free to be yourself, unapologetically and unabashedly. And, maybe after rummaging through every single thought and analyzing each one through a metaphorical microscope, maybe that was where the disturbance in your intuition—that nasty gut feeling residing in the pit of your stomach—was coming from. There was something that you could not quite place that was disturbing your freedom, your home. Coming to the realization that your hot water had now gone cold, prompting you to shut it off and seek refuge and warmth in a fluffy towel and robe. Had it gone cold in that moment—the moment you realized why you had been on edge? Or had it been running cold out of irony that you had been in meditation for so long you hadn’t even realized it? You would never know the answer.

2:07pm. You still had plenty of time before band practice, considering both Makki and Tetsu would still be at work for another hour. To give them ample time to unwind from their work day, practice always started at five in the evening. In an attempt to kill time, you opted to make yourself a small lunch before sitting down to do your hair and makeup so as that you felt more comfortable being in public. Not that the boys cared—they lived with you for four years in university, they knew what you looked like at your absolute worst. Perhaps it became a habit to do so when you re-entered the working world as a full fledged adult three years ago.

2:29pm. After having your lunch, even taking the time to do all the dishes before moving into your next task—getting ready. While you didn’t feel the need to go overboard on your appearance, since it was just practice after all, you still had a solid hour and a half before Elixir was supposed to meet. Having plenty of time to kill allowed you to take your time to forego some self-care as well; maybe giving your locks a little extra tender love and care if you felt you needed it; plucking stray eyebrow hairs that had grown just a bit further outside of your desired shape. You checked the time on your phone again after you felt your look was complete, hair, makeup, and all. How the fuck had only an hour gone by? That was way more effort than you normally put in, or so you claim, yet time seemed to be mocking you.

3:36pm. If you could magically waste time picking out an outfit to wear to practice, you were doing so now. One part of you almost wanted to chuck on the leather pants you would potentially be sporting for tomorrow evening so as to give them a slight stretch and make them more comfortable while you performed. Another said to just keep it simple, and stick to leggings and a nice loose tee to keep you at ease. The last option that your mind entertained was wearing shorts and a tank because it always got so hot in Terushima’s basement during practice. You even went so far as to try on multiple shirts and tops that were essentially the same, swapping out different preferred accessories to see if you liked the look, if only to make the minutes tick by. Hell, you even tried multiple pairs of shoes, lacing each foot individually before the clock had passed four in the afternoon. Eventually, you tied on your typical, everyday combat boots despite the wasted minutes trying to do a wardrobe check. Now that there was only an hour left for Elixir to begin arriving the at the drummer’s family home, you decide to give yourself ample time to stop by and grab coffee for everyone.

4:13pm. You send a text message out to your mates, waiting for them to reply with what you knew would be their typical orders. Well, as typical as it could be considering Terushima was always trying out crazy concoctions. One by one they responded and of course, your assumptions were correct when Teru sent in his drink that took up four rows of text. “What in the actual fuck?” You grumbled out, squinting at your phone while simultaneously trying to enter your car. Following your typical routine of turning on whatever guilty pleasure playlist you were feeling in that moment and lighting a cigarette, you glanced at your friends order one more time before ultimately deciding to place the order online. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself ordering Yūji’s stupid drink. After placing the order, you made your way to a Starbucks closest to the aforementioned boy’s family home.

The drive to Terushima’s wasn’t a particularly long, even with the coffee run. Traveling between two suburban towns typically only took about twenty minutes regardless of the direction you were coming from, though you hadn’t taken into account the long line wrapping around the Starbucks Drive-thru. Not that it mattered—you were still on time for practice. Even if it seemed all of your friends were already here. Cautiously exiting your car with the tray of drinks in one hand while you let yourself into the Terushima residence.

His parents greeted you warmly as you always did before you made your way down to the basement. “Ayeeee, there’s momma.” Makki greets, taking the tray from your hands and distributing everyone’s respective drinks. Small talk place between band members, distracting you from the other three people in the basement—your bandmates’ girlfriends. When you did finally acknowledge their presence, you gave them a tight lipped smile, so as not to be rude, though they only gave a blank stare before bringing their attention back to the phones in their hands. You gave a roll of your eyes. It wasn’t that you didn’t like them, per se. It was more along the lines of you were the only female in the band and they automatically assumed that you were out to steal their mans. Not the case, especially considering you all formed the band before any of them were even in the picture, but go off.

Having already finished your beverage from earlier, you began plugging in the microphone into the amplifier and tuning the guitar you used for a small number of songs. Everyone else seemed to be ready to go except for you, who was strapping on the aforementioned guitar to prepare for the insanity of an opening that is Kuroo’s masterpiece. Besitos, he called it. Spanish for little kisses, you often wondered where the romantic title had come from considering the narrative was less than pleasant, even foreshadowing murder in the final verse. When you asked him about the inspiration for the lyrics and the title, Kuroo did nothing but laugh, adding in, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

The second song was a project curated by your drummer, Terushima. Brick by Boring Brick was a song that he claimed was inspired by his girlfriend, which was an endearing gesture if that were the truth. But from what you and the rest of Elixir had known of his girlfriend, she didn’t come off as a person plagued with baggage. Not that you could base it solely off of appearance, but with her and Yūji’s short lived relationship, it was a bit unbelievable that he had unlocked her tragic backstory in a matter of three months. Then again, what did you know? You didn’t even remember her name.

The title of the third song, Growing Pains, always made you laugh at the irony considering that Makki’s tall ass wrote the song. While a romantic, upbeat love song from Teru didn’t strike you as a shock, it certainly did coming from the bassist. Emotions that danced in the “love” category didn’t really sway him often. Maybe his girlfriend was just that special to him? You weren’t sure, because once again, you knew none of their names. But you knew for a fact that the song seemed to call for something more stable, endearing growth together and support for each other, which had you questioning how long had you been apart from your friends.

After the third song, you were winded and uncomfortable and no amount of water you chugged was helping you with sweat and dehydration. “I’m gonna die tomorrow.” You joked after setting your water bottle down by your microphone stand.

“We’re only a third of the way through the set, headass.” Terushima joked, pulling down his lower left eyelid and sticking his tongue out to you.

“For real, it’s only been like twenty minutes since we started practice.” Kuroo chided.

“Yeah, but can we smoke instead? I think there were a few things we should tune up before moving onto the next third of the set.” You looked to your guitarist with pleading eyes, holding a cigarette and lighter between your fingers. Makki, without saying anything else, pulled out a small bowl and packed it. He knew that any form of pleading made Kuroo a weak man, which inevitably meant a smoke break was up next rather than continuing on with work.

“Fine.” Despite the mock defeat in his tone, Kuroo is already gliding up the stairs, taking two steps at a time with you in tow. More steps could be heard, but they were lighter than the boys you had come know so well, meaning the three stooges were most likely following suit, despite them not being smokers themselves.

You and Kuroo were currently seated on a stone barricade as you lit your cigarettes, the rest of the crew picking at sporadic seats along the wall. Teru and Makki were next to each other to share their bowl while their girlfriends sat on the outside of them, just to your right. Kuroo’s girlfriend had taken up occupying the space between you and your guitarist and, maybe for a moment, you were wondering they were deliberately arranged this way.

The worst part of the girlfriends accompanying practice, in your eyes, was not their presence, but rather the fact that you felt like you couldn’t even talk to your best friends, your bandmates at band practice, because they were too busy comforting them so that they “didn’t feel out of place”. Regardless, you respected your friends enough to not make the situation more difficult for them—if you needed to say something, you could say it in the basement where spectator talk was not welcome. Out of the corner of your eye while you were internally monologuing, you see the lanky arm of Makki offering you the bowl, a few cinders of his hot still lit. With poor timing, he grabbed your attention while you were exhaling the smoke in your lungs, unintentionally doing so onto his girlfriend. “Shit, I’m sorry.” She rolled her eyes, though you know you didn’t do it on purpose. Whatever, she had her truths. You held up your hand that squeezed the filter of your cigarette between your index and ring finger. “I’ll get it on the next turn,” making Makki shrug and pass the small glass bowl back to the drummer.

A couple more drags of your cigarette soothes your craving for nicotine and when the paper had finally burned all the way to the end of the filter, you tossed the butt into the dead fire pit that acted as the center for your gathering. Terushima stands up real quick to hand you the bowl that had been nearing its end—giving you the last couple hits before it was cashed. When it came to marijuana, you didn’t smoke very often, but today you were grateful for the offering. Maybe the high would take the edge off of your...anxiety? No, that wasn’t it. Irritation seemed to be a better fit.

The seven of you shuffle back into the basement, rearranging yourselves, and knocking back a beer. “Okay, so before we move on, is there any song that you guys think we should work on before moving to the next third of the set?” You asked, your back towards your audience while you looked at your bandmates in earnest. They looked at each other, before locking eyes with you.

“Is there anything you want to work on? You’re the one who’s switching around with instruments and you’re the one who runs around on stage so we’ll leave it up to you.” Kuroo says evenly. You pursed your lips in uncertainty, think back to how each song sounded.

“Ya know what, let’s work on...........”

[ Besitos ] » Kuroo’s Route

[ Brick By Boring Brick ] » Terushima’s Route

[ Growing Pains ] » Makki’s Route.

BONUS: Terushima’s Starbucks order.

[ineffable-dads]

A. Z. Fell and Co.

Good Omens OCs, Peter Walsh, Isabelle Crowley, Snake!Crowley, FLUFF, Awkwardness, Peter being a soft bean

Summary: The first time Peter Walsh and Isabelle Crowley meet.  Crowley is amused.

A/N: I know nobody is going to read this, but I just wanted to write about my OCs meeting. If, however, you do read this PLEASE COMMENT AND REBLOG!!!

Word Count: 3.3K

           Peter Walsh stood silently for a long while staring up at the words scrawled carefully across the top of the corner shop. 

          A.Z. Fell and Co. had long been a rumor among the lecture halls at University, particularly in the religious studies department.  Students, professors, and even professors of the professors talked about the shop like it was a mystic castle on the moors, only appearing in the light of a blue moon.

          Despite his major or perhaps because of it, Peter put little stock in the supernatural.  Similar description of the supposed owner across all tellings as a dapper, slightly plump middle-aged gentlemen with white blonde hair and blue eyes and a propensity to kick one out of the shop with polite determination, could be written off with some degree of logic.  

          Strong genetics could certainly be a factor if the business was passed down through the generations. There was also the fact people had the amazing ability to create images out of whole cloth.  For example, it is widely accepted in the western consciousness that the devil is associated with fire and the color red.  There was no evidence for it and even some decidedly against, but the image isn’t liable to die any time soon.  A.Z. Fell and Co. and its mysterious owner had simply fell victim to a similar affliction, Peter was sure of it.

          All the same, there were things about the stories that did intrigue him; namely, the supposed quantity of quality religious text which lay within it’s walls.  It was why he had tried to find it when he was in London, how he came to discover it had moved some twenty-five years previously, and was what finally brought him to the South Downs to a tiny shop snuggly placed in the corner of a quaint seaside village.  It had taken him some time to get there and he wanted to breath in the moment of a job well done.

          “Right,” he told himself.  “Best foot forward then.”

          A small chime of the bell welcomed him as the distinct musk of old books washed over his senses.

          It was a bookshop if ever a shop had books in it.  It was the kind of bookshop he read about as a child just before the protagonist was whisked away on some wild adventure. It had the right smell, the comforting soft browns of faded spines and the perfect temperature for curling beside the nearest window and laying there for hours.

          He only had to take a cursorily glance at the titles to know the rumors didn’t do the collection justice.  He picked up a random book to find not only was it a first edition of The Voyage Out, but it was signed by Virginia Woolf herself.  

          Upon seeing the signature, he all but snapped the book shut and placed it back on the shelf. He wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to breath near the collection.

          His eyes made a quick turn around the space.  There was no one else there.  Not even the mysterious owner who he was growing more curious to see.  The door was unlocked and there was no closed sign. Just as it occurred to him, he ought to call out to someone, he heard a small rustling behind one of the shelves followed by low, indistinguishable whispers.

          He let out a small breath, relieved he hadn’t accidentally committed a minor felony, and wandered over to the line of shelves.  He turned the corner ready to greet the mysterious Mr. Fell, but the words died before they could even enter his throat.

          A woman stood before him.  A very pretty woman.  A very pretty woman near his own age, who looked more at home among the shelves than anyone had a right to.  She was dressed like a bookkeeper from her long skirt and buttoned up blouse to her large round spectacles. In her hand was cradled a tanning copy of what could only be a first edition of Oscar Wilde’s Poems in Prose. Even her mass of black curls only seemed to cement the impression of an eccentric intellectual as they perfectly framed her high cheekbones and brought a compliment to her dark skin.

          The only thing to prevent his eyes from focusing solely on her, was their current preoccupation with the massive black python wrapped around her neck as comfortably as a knitted scarf.  Its large head hung gently in the air at the same level where the woman held her book. If Peter hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was reading along.

          “Can I help you?”

           The words snapped him back to attention as he tore his eyes away from the snake.

          He was suddenly very aware of the pounding in his chest and the fact his eyes had been wide open for solid minute.  He blinked a few times in a row to make up the difference all while willing his heart to move back to a jogging speed.

          He focused his attention now fully on the woman. This did little to help his nerves, but he found it easier to deal with.  He had only been scared silent by something capable of killing twice in his life.  One time after crossing through the neighbor’s yard when he was six only to be confronted with their rather enthusiastic guard dog and another after nearly getting hit by a spooked horse when he was twelve. Both experiences left him rather shaken and he hadn’t developed a system for coming down after the experience.  Being scared silent by girls decidedly prettier than him, however, was something he had perfected.

           “R-religious texts?” he managed.

           The women stared at him a moment, a look of surprise quickly running across her features.  “Two shelves down, near the front desk.”

           Peter nodded, and quickly moved in that direction.

           He was only partially aware of the murmuring behind him.  The words “your idea” and “doesn’t scare easy” being the only clear ones. A part of him wanted to linger on the words and their meaning, but more pressing matters pushed the urge aside; namely, the largest collection of Bibles and books of prophecy he had ever seen in his life.  

          His mouth gaped as he stared at the titles.  It was a theologian’s dream come true.  

          He let his eyes wander up and down the shelves not daring to soil any of the spines with his bare hands. He wondered if he should ask for a pair of gloves, but quickly dismissed the notion. The idea of having to face both the woman and her snake gave him a fresh wave of anxiety.  Instead, he pulled his sleeve over his hand and carefully pulled a book off the shelf.

          A deafening hiss came from behind the book just before a flash of black scales snapped out of the dark opening.

          Peter jumped back, barely managing to keep hold of the book.  The snake stared back at him with dangerous yellow eyes. Another hiss filled the air as its tongue flicked in and out of its open mouth.  Peter then remembered snakes smelled with their tongues and was left with the same feelings a chicken has when cornered by hungry fox.

          “That one isn’t for sale.”

          The voice came straight into his left ear.  He whipped around to see the woman standing barely three feet from him. Her arms were crossed, her eyes narrowed, and her lips were pressed into a fine line. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if he should be more frightened of her or the snake.

          With caution, he slowly moved his hand back toward the shelf.  

          The snake seemed to understand as it retreated from it hole, allowing him to put the book back in its place.  Unfortunately for Peter, the snake had decided to take a more precarious spot on top of the bookshelf, allowing it to keep its eyes on him and within biting distance.

          Peter moved down the shelf, his eyes glancing between the snake, books, and the woman equally.  His hand went for another title only for the snake to give the same warning hiss.

          “That one isn’t for sale either,” the woman confirmed.

          Peter didn’t even bother to look as he hand when for another book.  

          Another hiss.

          “Not that one either.”

          A pause followed.  Peter felt the need to stay something, but the number and variety of stressors currently looking at him left him drawing a blank.  He could only think in clichés and so let out a cough.

“Are these all on reserve?” he asked.

          The woman’s expression didn’t change. “They’re not for sale.”

          He nodded. His mind clinging to the wall as it crept cautiously towards an idea. He wasn’t going to leave empty handed. He was sure about that, but clearly a change of tactics was in order.  Part of the legend of this place was the owner attachment to all of his books. Of course, he wouldn’t have a shop if he didn’t want people to at least look at the books, would he?

          “Well, what if I don’t want to buy one?” he said, his mouth moving at the same pace as he mind; slowly, but with forward momentum.

          “Excuse me?”  The woman’s tone was more curious than accusatory.  

          Peter felt a small relief, giving him the boost he needed and picked up speed.

          “I just want to look at them,” he explained.  “I’m a student, you see, and frankly I can’t afford this stuff to begin with.  Not stuff! I don’t mean it like that.  I just mean…this is an amazing collection and I wouldn’t want to sell them either.  But, you see, I really, really need to look at these books.  Study them, I mean.  I’ve got a dissertation to finish by PhD, and I literally can’t find works like this anywhere else.  You don’t have to sell them to me, if you don’t want.  And if you’ve got buyers for some of them, I understand, but if I could just read them.  I’ll rent them if you like.  Or hold my kidney’s ransom or whatever it is you want, but…”

          He took a breath, finally getting his thoughts in some kind of coherent order.

          “The simple fact is; I need these books.  And they’re not going to be much use to anyone sitting on the shelf.  Books are meant to be read and appreciated and learned from, and that’s what I’m trying to do.  So, let me. Please.”

          The woman, stared up at him with an unreadable expression.  Despite his instincts, Peter maintained eye contact. Even if he couldn’t express why, he knew it was imperative he didn’t so much as blink during her investigation.

          A small tug came to the corner of her lip until it formed into an amused half smile.

          “That was quite an impassioned speech.”

          She looked just a little impressed with him, and Peter felt his heart beat harder against his ribs.  He was sure he was blushing too but was in no position to do anything about it.

          “I meant it,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, given the state of his insides.

          “I’m sure you did. Was that your plan all along?”

          “What?”

          “Well you’re not from around here, obviously,” she said, matter-of-factly. “So that must mean you heard about this place when it was in London.  And if you heard of it, you must have also heard about how the owner doesn’t actually like to part with part of their collection.”

          Peter knew this was coming to something and so said cautiously, “More or less.”

          “So that begs the question,” the woman continued, “was your plan to come all the way down here to the South Downs, to treat the shop as your own personal library?”

          Peter opened his mouth.  It hung there a moment, but no sound came out.  He closed it again.

          She looked at him expectantly, with the same unreadable expression he was starting to think was her default setting.

          “It wasn’t plan A.” He said it slowly, unsure what line he crossed but trying to show atonement for whatever it was.

          The woman let out a laugh.  It was clear, bright, and if it hadn’t been at his expense, he would have enjoyed it immensely.

          “I’m just messing with you,” she assured. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

          Peter blinked. “What really?”

          She nodded.  “I’ll have to double check with Papa, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

          “Oh,” he said, unable to keep the smile off his face.  The legend might still have some truth to it yet.   “Your Papa is the owner, then?”

          “Yes.”

          “So that would make you Ms. Fell?”

          “It would make me Ms. Crowley,” she corrected.

          The look of confusion must had been evident on his face as she elaborated. “My Dad got first dibs on the name. Though that does leave me curious, do you call every girl you meet, miss?”

           “Only the ones that scare me.”

           A wide smile spread across her face and Peter was faced with the mortifying realization he had said the words out loud.

           “If I told you my name was Isabelle, would you be less scared,” she asked, still laughing at him behind her eyes.

           Peter’s lip twisted upward despite himself.  He did like her laugh, even the silent ones.

           “Just a bit,” he said. “I’m Peter by the way, Peter Walsh.”

           He offered her his hand, which she immediately took in hers.

           “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Peter Walsh.”

           “Nice to meet you too, Miss Isabelle Crowley.”

           Their hands dropped.  Peter swore he could feel his hand tingle ever so slightly.

           “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around then,” she said.  

           “Yeah,” Peter said, the thought of seeing her again leaving his brain a little fuzzy.  He would be seeing her quite a bit if this worked out with her Dad. Almost every day.  He did have a paper to finish after all.

          Her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.  

          His stomach dropped then.  He had been staring too long.

          “Right!” he said, just a little too loudly. “Of course you will.” He pointed vaguely towards the door behind him, not having it in him to fully turn away from her. “I’ll just see myself out and see you tomorrow, maybe?”

           She shrugged. “Only if you want to get started sooner rather than later.”

           He stared to nod. “Yes. Good. Research. Books.  I definitely need to get started. Tomorrow.” He couldn’t stop nodding, even as he slowly made his way towards the front door.

          His back hit something hard, and it was only then did he realize he hadn’t bothered to turn around.  He whipped around to see the shelf he had run into rock slightly, but not damage had been done.  

          Just above his head, he heard a small hiss.  He looked up to see the snake staring at him. He didn’t think snakes were capable of showing any real emotion, but in that moment, he could have sworn the serpent was laughing at him.

          He looked to Isabelle.  She was trying her best, but the smile on her face would not be contained by the hand over her mouth.

          Peter gave a short laugh, as if that would make it less embarrassing, and all but ran out of the shop.

           The door shut behind him with a chime as cool sea air poured into his lungs. He took heaping gulps of it as if he had just come up from a deep dive.  It hadn’t been real, had it? Logically it must have. It had just happened.  All the same, the cobble stones beneath his feet, the sun glowing behind thin cloud, and the breeze against his skin felt more real than anything he had experienced in the last ten minutes.  He turned back around, half expecting for the shop no longer to be there, like in all the story books where the protagonist can never find the little door beneath the staircase or the hole in the fence once they come back from the other side.  But there it stood.  The sign A. Z. Fell and Co. still hung over the shop door.  Shelves of books could be made out through the window and Isabelle Crowley walked among them, book in hand, and the snake draped once again around her neck.  

          Peter took another breath and let it out slowly.

           “Fuck me.”

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

           Isabelle couldn’t hold it in any longer.  As soon as the door chimed shut, she let out a hearty laugh.

           Her Dad joined her, his laughter coming out in a series of high pitched hisses.  

           “I think that went rather well,” he mused.

           “Yes, you’ve successfully traumatized a grad student,” Isabelle said.

           “Asss if you wasn’t your idea.”

           Isabelle rolled her eyes and walked over to the shelf the serpent was perched on. She held out her arm, allowing him to slither down and curl himself around her neck.

           “Do you think he will come back?” Isabelle asked, idly.

           “Oh, I think ssso,” Crowley answered.  “Ssseemed like the determined sssort.  Besidesss, he’s got a reason to come back.”

           Isabelle nodded, taking a quick glance around at the shelves of books and all the knowledge they contained.

           “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “There really is no other place like it, is there?”

           Crowley hissed out a chuckle.  

           She looked down at him, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

           He shook his head.  “Nothing Izz, just sometimes, you act exactly like Aziraphale.”

           She laughed it off, or at least tried to.  The sound never even made it to her throat.  She had assumed he was referring to her clear love of books, but something in his eyes told her otherwise.

           “What did you think of him?” Crowley asked, before she could linger on the feeling.

           “Who? Peter?”

           Crowley shot her a sardonic look.

           She shrugged, not knowing what else to do.  “I don’t know.  He seemed nice enough.  A nervous wreck, but you did almost bite his face off.”

           “Is that all?”

           She stood silent for a moment. She wasn’t sure what to make of him.  Everything in his demeanor and tone painted the image of a shy, slightly awkward academic. He was slim, but not overly so.  Tall, but not too tall.  A little pale, no doubt from the lack of sunlight in dark achieve basements.  His hands fidgeted, but she didn’t get the impression he was perpetually nervous.  All the same, there was something else about him.

          His little speech spoke of an underlining passion. He knew what he had come there for and wasn’t going to leave until he got it. It hinted at a confidence she was interested to see more of.

          Yes, she would like to see him again.  She would like to talk to him and see if she could get him to smile that wide smile which lit up those green eyes of his. She couldn’t think of a single person she’d met with proper green eyes like that.

          “Wouldn’t mind talking to him again,” she admitted. “Why do you ask?”

          Crowley rocked his head from side to side, giving the effect of shrugging without shoulders.  “No reason, just ssseemed like a bright young lad.”

          Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why is it I feel like you know something I don’t?”

           “That’s because I do.”

           Isabelle frowned, but Crowley countered by playfully nudging her with his scaly head.

          “Nothing you need to worry about, my girl, crosssss my heart.  All will reveal itself, soon enough.”

           She wanted to press the matter, but let it go.  If her Dad wanted to play his little game, she’d let him.  No real harm could come of it.

           “So, which one of us is going to tell Papa we’re allowing someone to rent his books?”

           “I did no such thing,” Crowley defended.  “That’sss all on you.  You explain it to him.”

           She let out a groan.  

           “No good deed goes unpunished,” he teased.

           “Right,” she grumbled.

           It really was going to be a trick convincing her Papa.  But then she thought of Peter, and all her doubts melted away. She could do it.  She told him she could, and she would.  No matter what it took.

[thefeministherald]

Your Ultimate Women-Write-The-Best-of-Everything 2019 Reading List

The Voyeurs (Graphic Novel)

"The Voyeurs is the work of a mature writer, if not one of the most sincere voices of her literary generation. It's a fun, honest read that spans continents, relationships and life decisions. I loved it."—Chris Ware, Acme Novelty Library

"As she watches other people living life, and watches herself watching them, Bell's pen becomes a kind of laser, first illuminating the surface distractions of the world, then scorching them away to reveal a deeper reality that is almost too painful and too beautiful to bear."— Alison Bechdel, Fun Home

"A master of the exquisite detail, Bell provides a welcome peephole into our lives."—Françoise Mouly, The New Yorker

The Voyeurs, was named one of the best books of the year by Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, and the Atlantic.

Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity

In this brilliant, breathtaking book by Pulitzer Prize winner Katherine Boo, a bewildering age of global change and inequality is made human through the dramatic story of families striving toward a better life in Annawadi, a makeshift settlement in the shadow of luxury hotels near the Mumbai airport. As India starts to prosper, the residents of Annawadi are electric with hope. Abdul, an enterprising teenager, sees “a fortune beyond counting” in the recyclable garbage that richer people throw away. Meanwhile Asha, a woman of formidable ambition, has identified a shadier route to the middle class. With a little luck, her beautiful daughter, Annawadi’s “most-everything girl,” might become its first female college graduate.

Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, and Me: A Graphic Memoir

Cartoonist Ellen Forney explores the relationship between “crazy” and “creative” in this graphic memoir of her bipolar disorder, woven with stories of famous bipolar artists and writers.

Shortly before her thirtieth birthday, Forney was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Flagrantly manic and terrified that medications would cause her to lose creativity, she began a years-long struggle to find mental stability while retaining her passions and creativity.

Searching to make sense of the popular concept of the crazy artist, she finds inspiration from the lives and work of other artists and writers who suffered from mood disorders, including Vincent van Gogh, Georgia O’Keeffe, William Styron, and Sylvia Plath. She also researches the clinical aspects of bipolar disorder, including the strengths and limitations of various treatments and medications, and what studies tell us about the conundrum of attempting to “cure” an otherwise brilliant mind.

Darkly funny and intensely personal, Forney’s memoir provides a visceral glimpse into the effects of a mood disorder on an artist’s work, as she shares her own story through bold black-and-white images and evocative prose.

The Woman in Cabin 10

From New York Times bestselling author of the “twisty-mystery” (Vulture) novel In a Dark, Dark Wood, comes The Woman in Cabin 10, an equally suspenseful and haunting novel from Ruth Ware—this time, set at sea. In this tightly wound, enthralling story reminiscent of Agatha Christie’s works, Lo Blacklock, a journalist who writes for a travel magazine, has just been given the assignment of a lifetime: a week on a luxury cruise with only a handful of cabins. The sky is clear, the waters calm, and the veneered, select guests jovial as the exclusive cruise ship, the Aurora, begins her voyage in the picturesque North Sea. At first, Lo’s stay is nothing but pleasant: the cabins are plush, the dinner parties are sparkling, and the guests are elegant. But as the week wears on, frigid winds whip the deck, gray skies fall, and Lo witnesses what she can only describe as a dark and terrifying nightmare: a woman being thrown overboard. The problem? All passengers remain accounted for—and so, the ship sails on as if nothing has happened, despite Lo’s desperate attempts to convey that something (or someone) has gone terribly, terribly wrong…

1222

Nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel, from Norway’s #1 bestselling female crime writer—a “beguiling” (The Washington Post) “good old-fashioned murder mystery” (The New York Times Book Review) set in an isolated hotel where guests stranded during a monumental snowstorm begin turning up dead. A train on its way to the northern reaches of Norway derails during a massive blizzard, 1,222 meters above sea level. The passengers head for a nearby hotel, centuries old and practically empty. With plenty of food and shelter from the storm, the evacuees think they are safe, until one of them turns up dead. With no sign of rescue and the storm raging, retired police inspector Hanne Wilhelmsen is asked to investigate. Paralyzed by a bullet lodged in her spine, Hanne has no desire to get involved. But when another body turns up, panic takes over. Complicating things is the presence of a mysterious guest, a passenger who traveled in a private rail car and now stays secluded on the top floor of the hotel. No one knows who the guest is, or why armed guards are needed. Hanne has her suspicions. Trapped in her wheelchair, trapped by the storm, and now trapped with a killer, Hanne knows she must act before the killer strikes again.

Robot Dreams

A Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year A PW Best Book of the Year An ALSC Notable Children’s Book A YALSA Great Graphic Novel

This moving, charming graphic novel about a dog and a robot shows us in poignant detail how powerful and fragile relationships are.

Borderlands / La Frontera: The New Mestiza

Rooted in Gloria Anzaldúa's experience as a Chicana, a lesbian, an activist, and a writer, the essays and poems in this volume profoundly challenged, and continue to challenge, how we think about identity. Borderlands / La Frontera remaps our understanding of what a "border" is, presenting it not as a simple divide between here and there, us and them, but as a psychic, social, and cultural terrain that we inhabit, and that inhabits all of us.

Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened

Every time Allie Brosh posts something new on her hugely popular blog Hyperbole and a Half the internet rejoices. This full-color, beautifully illustrated edition features more than fifty percent new content, with ten never-before-seen essays and one wholly revised and expanded piece as well as classics from the website like, “The God of Cake,” “Dogs Don’t Understand Basic Concepts Like Moving,” and her astonishing, “Adventures in Depression,” and “Depression Part Two,” which have been hailed as some of the most insightful meditations on the disease ever written.

Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking

Now a Netflix series! New York Times Bestseller and Winner of the 2018 James Beard Award for Best General Cookbook and multiple ICAP Cookbook Awards Named one of the Best Books of 2017 by: NPR, BuzzFeed, The Atlantic, The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Rachel Ray Every Day, San Francisco Chronicle, Vice Munchies, Elle.com, Glamour, Eater, Newsday, Minneapolis Star Tribune, The Seattle Times, Tampa Bay Times, Tasting Table, Modern Farmer, Publishers Weekly, and more. A visionary new master class in cooking that distills decades of professional experience into just four simple elements, from the woman declared “America’s next great cooking teacher” by Alice Waters.

Monstress Volume 1: Awakening

Set in an alternate matriarchal 1900's Asia, in a richly imagined world of art deco-inflected steam punk, MONSTRESS tells the story of a teenage girl who is struggling to survive the trauma of war, and who shares a mysterious psychic link with a monster of tremendous power, a connection that will transform them both and make them the target of both human and otherworldly powers. About the Creators: New York Times bestselling and award-winning writer Marjorie Liu is best known for her fiction and comic books. She teaches comic book writing at MIT, and leads a class on Popular Fiction at the Voices of Our Nation (VONA) workshop.

Persepolis

Marjane Satrapi's best-selling, internationally acclaimed graphic memoir. Persepolis is the story of Satrapi's unforgettable childhood and coming of age within a large and loving family in Tehran during the Islamic Revolution; of the contradictions between private life and public life in a country plagued by political upheaval.

Nobody Nowhere: The Remarkable Autobiography of an Autistic Girl

Donna Williams was a child with more labels than a jam-jar: deaf, wild disturbed, stupid insane... She lived within herself, her own world her foreground, ours a background she only visited. Isolated from her self and from the outside world, Donna was, in her words, a Nobody Nowhere. She swung violently between these two worlds, battling to join our world and, simultaneously, to keep it out. Abandoned from all connection to the self within her, she lived as a ghost with a body, a patchwork of the images which bombarded her. Intact but detached from the seemingly incomprehensible world around her, she lived in what she called 'a world under glass`.

After twenty-five years of being misunderstood, and unable to understand herself, Donna stumbled upon the word 'autism': a label, but one which held up a mirror and made sense of her life and struggles, and gave her a chance to finally forgive both herself and those around her.

The Ice Princess

The psychological thriller debut of No.1 bestselling Swedish crime sensation Camilla Lackberg.

A small town can hide many secrets

Returning to her hometown after the funeral of her parents, writer Erica Falck finds a community on the brink of tragedy. The death of her childhood friend, Alex, is just the beginning. Her wrists slashed, her body frozen in an ice-cold bath, it seems like she’s taken her own life.

Meanwhile, local detective Patrik Hedström is following his own suspicions about the case. It’s only when they start working together that the truth begins to emerge about a small town with a deeply disturbing past…

The Vampire Chronicles: Interview with a Vampire, The Vampire Lestat, and The Queen of the Damned

In 1976, nearly 80 years after Bram Stoker published Dracula, Anne Rice's bestselling first novel, Interview with the Vampire, breathed new life into the vampire myth. Now, in one chilling volume, here are the first three classic novels of The Vampire Chronicles; Interview with the Vampire, The Vampire Lestat, and Queen of the Damned.

Adulthood is a Myth: A Sarah's Scribbles Collection

Do you love networking to advance your career? Is adulthood an exciting new challenge for which you feel fully prepared? Ugh. Please go away. 2016 GOODREADS CHOICE AWARD WINNER FOR GRAPHIC NOVELS AND COMICS! These casually drawn, perfectly on-point comics by the hugely popular young Brooklyn-based artist Sarah Andersen are for the rest of us. They document the wasting of entire beautiful weekends on the internet, the unbearable agony of holding hands on the street with a gorgeous guy, and dreaming all day of getting home and back into pajamas. In other words, the horrors and awkwardnesses of young modern life. Oh and they are totally not autobiographical. At all.

Nimona

Indies Choice Book of the Year * National Book Award Finalist * New York Times Bestseller * New York Times Notable Book * Kirkus Best Book * School Library Journal Best Book * Publishers Weekly Best Book * NPR Best Book * New York Public Library Best Book * Chicago Public Library Best Book

The New York Times bestselling graphic novel sensation from Noelle Stevenson, based on her beloved and critically acclaimed web comic. Kirkus says, “If you’re going to read one graphic novel this year, make it this one.”

Nemeses! Dragons! Science! Symbolism! All these and more await in this brilliantly subversive, sharply irreverent epic from Noelle Stevenson. Featuring an exclusive epilogue not seen in the web comic, along with bonus conceptual sketches and revised pages throughout, this gorgeous full-color graphic novel has been hailed by critics and fans alike as the arrival of a “superstar” talent (NPR.org).

Cultural Anthropology  Barbara Miller

Cultural Anthropology presents a balanced introduction to the world’s cultures, focusing on how they interact and change. Author Barbara Miller provides many points where readers can interact with the material, and encourages students to think critically about other cultures as well as their own. Featuring the latest research and statistics throughout, the eighth edition has been updated with contemporary examples of anthropology in action, addressing recent newsworthy events such as the Ebola epidemic.

Captain Marvel Volume 1: Higher, Further, Faster, More

Kelly Sue Deconnick

Hero! Pilot! Avenger! Captain Marvel, Earth's Mightiest Hero with an attitude to match, is back and launching headfirst into an all-new ongoing adventure! As Captain Marvel, a.k.a. Carol Danvers, comes to a crossroads with a new life and new romance, she makes a dramatic decision that will alter the course of her life - and the entire Marvel Universe - in the months to come. But as Carol takes on a mission to return an alien girl to her homeworld, she lands in the middle of an uprising against the Galactic Alliance! Investigating the forced resettlement of Rocket Girl's people, Carol discovers that she has a history with the man behind the plot. But when the bad guy tries to blackmail Carol and turn the Avengers against her, it's payback time! Guest-starring the Guardians of the Galaxy!