magazine articles and clippings

Riddle Me This

Joker x Reader

Masterlist | Requests

Prompt: Can you do one where the reader is The Riddler and her inspiration was the joker, and she gets taken hostage by him when he’s doing a heist at her bank (the bank being her day-job) +if you can find a twisted way to turn it into smut my emotions would appreciate it. Thanks :)

Warnings: Light violence, smut.


“One-hundred, two-hundred, three-hundred, four-hundred. There you go, Mr. Johnson, have a great day,” you say as you hand over crisp green bills to the stranger before you. 

Working a bank wasn’t necessarily you dream job, but it paid the bills steadily. There were other things you enjoyed doing during the day, but this was normal. The more normal you came across to people, the better. 

The bank was not your only daily task at hand. By day you were a humble teller. By night, you played a larger role in society. A role that wasn’t one anyone could forget. You’re The Riddler, one of Gotham City’s finest criminals. 

As a child, your wants were simple. Growing up, super heroes and super villains alike came and went. But after a while, the entirety of it all grew on you. You became fascinated with their lifestyles, their “work.” Secretly, you kept news articles and magazine clippings. Your favorite, however, was an insane man known as The Joker. He was your secret, your favorite escape from normalcy. His crimes were gruesome, brutal, but somehow, they all still seemed to have a joke attached to them. His partner in crime was Harley Quinn, and you envied everything about her, especially how he seemed to adore her. 

You loved literature, and aside of your villain fetish, books were another escape from the dismal life you led. When you became The Riddler, you turned that into something further, something darker, and something intriguing. 

It’s almost closing time, and there are a few people in line with last minute pay-day checks waiting to be cashed. Your eyes move from the clock to the line, and everything in you just wants to go home today. 

“Next!” You call out, a forced smile placing itself on your lips as you watch the next person move forward. As she approaches the counter, she beams at you. You want desperately to roll your eyes. The day’s been rough, and you can’t believe the optimism in this girls face. 

“Can I cash this here? My boss said it might be a little difficult..”

She hands over a check, and you’re ready to tell her ‘of course.’ When you look down, you notice the absurd amount on it paired with smiley faces and “ha ha ha” in what looks like blood. Your heart seems to have stopped beating as you look up at her again, the indicative heart tattoo on her cheek moving slightly as she winks at you. In the same moment, a gun goes off behind her, causing the rest of the staff and patrons to scream and take cover.

A slow, drawn out, mocking laugh billows through the room, and you’re ready to  reveal your own identity to them. Looking around, you know you’ll land yourself in a world of trouble with your only steady income if you reveal yourself as The Riddler, another of Gotham’s now famous criminals. Usually you’d be proud, but for now you think you can handle this covertly.

“Gee, puddin’,” the blonde says with a pout, turning back to the man no one could forget, “She can’t cash it..” 

He walks over to you and she steps away, handling the other now-hostages with a smile and a revolver.

His gun points directly at you, and though you feel intimidated, you know better. You smuggle in your own gun everyday and hide it under the counter. It was none other than the one you use for your own crimes. 

“No bullet proof glass? What a shame..” He says, leaning over the counter and staring into your eyes, confirming that you, too, are now one of his hostages. His gun is firm in his hand as he grips the counter around it, smacking his other hand down.

“I’m havin’ a little party here tonight, and you’re invited! In fact, you can hand out the party favors. Aren’t you lucky…”

He studies your features as he speaks, as if he remembers seeing your face before. Though you haven’t formally met, he was your inspiration and you have crossed paths before on more than one occasion. 

You glare up at him, knowing he was trying to figure out where he’d seen you and assuming he wouldn’t remember. Standing up, you cock your head to one side.

“Oh yeah? And how do you expect me to do that?” You ask, it takes everything in you not to throw some sort of riddle at him. Being naturally quizzical already will just have to do for now. You point to the emergency button that comes with every bank teller position, unsure if someone else had the time to pull the silent alarm. Something in you didn’t want to, though. Be it the criminal in you or not, you have other plans.

His icy gaze shifts to your hand and back up to your face, not without taking a detour of the rest of your body in the {F/C} dress you wore today. His jaw clenches and his tongue runs along his metal teeth before he speaks again. You catch yourself staring, feelings of all kinds building up within you. 

After all, he was your inspiration to join the life of crime, and you adored him. As a normal person, and just as any other criminal would, you had to suppress that. You wondered how many other people in your “line of work” had to do the same. The only lucky one was Harley Quinn. She gets to fawn over him and worship the ground he walks on, but she was always just a pawn in his games and everyone knew it.

All that money in there,” he gestures towards the drawer in front of you with a coy grin. “It’s gonna go to my dear friends who are arriving soon.. You, doll face, get to play host, and, pass it all out.”

You lift your finger from hovering over the button and smirk, shrugging now with both hands in the air. 

“You gonna make me?”

A hostage screams from the corner, telling you to do what he wants. A loud bang follows and you realize it wasn’t from Harley’s gun. You look over to see one of your coworkers now lifeless on the floor, a slight pang of guilt washing over you. It wasn’t like you to feel bad over anyone, but you knew she had kids at home, and they didn’t deserve that. He puts the gun to his lips and blows on the end, winking at you now.

“And if anyone else wants to say anything, they can get their ticket outta here the same way,” he says loudly, eyes still on your features, knowing everyone can hear him. Silent cries proceed as you step back, suddenly wanting to give him the money before you lose another daytime friend.

The wheels in his brain are turning as he continues to examine you. Harley tosses him a bag and he throws it at you. Catching it against your chest, you begin to think. 

“You look scared, honey, are ya? Let me make it better, hm?” He coos, the sarcasm thick in his last sentence. “Just come out here,” he mockingly coaxes. “Let daddy show ya it’ll all be okay..” He laughs afterwards, gesturing for you to step out from behind the counter with his gun. 

You feel as though you have no choice as you covertly slide your hands under the desk and pull out wads of cash you’d been smuggling out for yourself throughout the day, concealing your gun within in pile in your hands.

“Att’a girl..” He says, his grin widening before he speaks again. “Harley, go get Frost.”

“He’s not here, though, boss,” she says, a frown forming on her lips as she backs up towards the entrance.

“I didn’t fucking ask that, Harls..” He shoots her a look and she immediately draws into herself, sighing quickly before hopping out of the door.

“Ah, ah, ah… No moving..” He says to the others who are now trembling in fear in each others arms.

You walk down the small area behind the counters with the cash and the gun loaded in your arms. As soon as you step out from behind it, you toss it all at him and point the gun at his head.

“Two can play at this game,” you say, pulling the hammer on the gun and staring at him with what little confidence you had in front of someone who was like a hero to you. How the tables have turned.. you think.

The money slowly drifts down from the air and onto the floor around him. He twitches, the anger brewing in him like the darkest of storms.

“I don’t think you’ve got the guts..” he starts, looking down at the name tag on your breast. “{Y/N}..”

Your name on his lips is something of a silent prayer. Trying to keep your hand from shaking, you bring your other hand to hold your wrist.

“You wanna bet?”

Before you can grasp what’s happening, he’s got you by your {H/C} hair, and dragging you into the back room. He grunts as he picks an identification card off of a desk and uses it to unlock the door. While you’re being dragged inside, you bring the gun to his chest and struggle to break free.

“Let me go!” you spit.

It’s only seconds before he reaches over and removes the gun from your hand, throwing it down and slamming the door behind you. Piles of cash are laying around, and you look at it in awe. Had you only known this sooner you wouldn’t have needed this job in the first place. Silently damning yourself, you wince as he pushes you up against a wall.

Your eyes are shut as you hear the hammer click on his gun again, and you expect the worst. This is it.. Murdered by my own hero.. By the one man I’ve admired for years..

“You’ve got such a gorgeous face… A familiar one, too..” he grumbles.

Shocked, your eyes pop open. What did he just say?

“Excuse me?” You say, the sarcasm now laid thick in your own voice.

“Cut the shit, Riddler.” He says, making your heart jump. “I’m almost surprised you withheld the notion of making me answer one of those.. God awful riddles!” He says now, the volume of his tone rising.

Hearing that almost hurt, and if you didn’t already know it was because he could never figure them out, you may have cried. Instead, you felt slightly triumphant.

“Ya wanna riddle me a new one then?” You ask with a smirk, feeling the gun press closer into your temple.

“I’d rather do something that even you won’t be able to decipher,” he says, his hands curtly on your thighs, pushing your dress up and then undoing his own black pair of pants.

“No panties, today, huh..?” He rasps, his fingers just barely grazing your center.

It was all happening so quickly for you. Just the rough touch of his cold hands on your warm skin sent a tingling feeling to the rose between your thighs. Before you knew it, you were being picked up and shoved against the wall. Your head bangs slightly on the wall as he does so, and you bite into your lower lip, a hand instinctively reaching for his green locks.

“You’ve been dying to do this, haven’t you?” You say, hoping with everything he gives you the answer you’ve been dying to hear for years as you give into the carnal desire that the two of you held for each other for so long.

“Oh.. More than you know..” he growls, kissing the tops of your breasts, trailing each kiss to your clavicle. His tongue runs along your neck and you can’t stifle the soft moan it elicits from you.

“Mm, purr for me like a kitten, baby girl..” he mumbles against your skin as he quickly and roughly slides his thick shaft in between your slick folds.

A large inhale is all you can give as you feel him sliding into you. A dream come true is feeling him speed up, your entire body rubbing against his as he does so. You moan louder as his fingers grip into your ass now, pulling on his hair with your own slender digits.

“I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember..” you sigh between breaths, watching as his hard expression twists into that of pleasure.

His groaning could drive any woman wild, and you buck your hips along with him as you do everything you can to feel his cock push even deeper against your sweet spot.

“Oh baby..” he growls again, unraveling at the seams as he begins to bring you down harder on his member. He took pleasure in being wanted, especially by you. It wasn’t everyday he met a pretty face that was on the same caliber as himself, and Harley had grown to be old news by now.

Every time you feel him enter you entirely, your body begins to tremble with waves of pleasure. The closer you get to your own release, the more you want to scream out. His teeth dig into your skin, leaving mark after mark as he can control himself less and less.

The feeling between your legs is almost insatiable as he strokes into your core. You want more of him, all of him, all at once.

“Oh daddy, give it to me..”

Its like your words alone changed him. He pins you against the wall now, just low enough so can he thrust into you with everything he’s got. He accepted the challenge and was passing with flying colors as you begin to moan at the top of your lungs.

You shudder with ecstasy, gasping and moaning. It’s exhilarating as your nails trail thin cuts down his toned, tattooed back, only adding to the heat engulfing your swollen clit being stimulated by the friction of his groin against yours. He finishes in you, painting your walls as you throb around his large shaft, making it impossible for him to torture himself in the best way possible with you any further.

Continuing to thrust up into you, he can tell you’re completely lost for words. Your mouth is agape as you’re unable to stop him from inflicting the immense amount of pleasure on your extra sensitive core. It almost hurts in a way that you could fall in love with.

You can feel his cum dripping from your folds as he pulls out slowly, setting you down on a table full of money next to the two of you. Trying to catch your breath, you stare up at the ceiling, a hand resting over your chest as he cleans himself up, pocketing money off the same table you’re now sitting on.

He looks at you with a smirk, clearly proud of his power over you as your {E/C} eyes meet his again.

“So you’re gonna be a good little hostage.. And hand over all the cash to the nice men who are comin’ to visit.. Or I’ll have to do this again.. Understand?” The smirk on his lips already tells you something else is coming down the pike for you later anyway, and you slide your fingers between your legs, carefully wiping up some his cum and rubbing it between your fingers with your own smirk.

“I hear you loud and clear..”

“Puddin’!” You both hear from the other room, causing your heads to immediately snap towards the door. “Ya boys are here!”

10 Reasons Why All Creative People Should Keep an Art Journal:

1) A written journal documents the facts of our experiences, an art journal documents the inspiration we glean from these experiences, and the creative process of acting on that inspiration.

2) Adding an entry to an art journal every day gives us a reason to use our creativity on a daily basis.

3) An art journal is a place where we can experiment with new mediums and techniques without fear of failure or judgement.

4) Art journals document the way our creative ability progresses, we can look back on old ones to see how much our styles have improved.

5) Art journals help us preserve every aspect of a memory- small trinkets like ticket stubs and receipts can be complimented by a creative expression of how we felt at the moment being documented.

6) Our journals give us an excuse to save all the little things we would otherwise have had to throw away- a flower from behind an ear, a note left by someone we love.

7) Because creativity comes from the world around us, art journals allow us to include more of the outside world than written journals. Newspaper clippings, photographs, pamphlets, and magazine articles can be included to provide the context in which each art journal is created.

8) Because of their disorganised nature, art journals can serve many functions. Your journal can be a class notebook, a sketchbook, a diary, a day planner, a scrapbook, or anything else you might need to use it for.

9) There’s an amazing art journal community on Tumblr that can give great feedback and criticism on the entries that you choose to share and also provide inspiration for sufferers of artists-block. Its a great way to get involved with a creative community.

10) Finally, a well loved art journal becomes an extension of your soul. It gives comfort when it is near and is a source of personal pride. It is as close as we can come to preserving ourselves, and is therefore a necessary part of the creative individual’s life.

EMMA FERRER OPENS UP

Hepburn’s granddaughter, Emma Ferrer, steps into the spotlight and opens up to BAZAAR. Plus, see her fashion shoot shot by Richard Avedon’s grandson, Michael Avedon, here.

The first images I have of her are, interestingly enough, when she was quite young,“ Emma Ferrer says of her paternal grandmother, Audrey Hepburn. "I remember seeing a photo of her jumping on a trampoline—I believe this was before I understood that she was famous. But I remember thinking that she looked like a friend I wish I could have had.”

Of course, Audrey Hepburn—or simply Audrey, as she will forever be known—has always been a luminous presence: She was a brilliant actress, a timeless style icon, and a tireless crusader for the world’s underprivileged children as an International Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF. She was also a devoted mother who put aside her career at its peak to raise her two sons, Sean Ferrer, whose father was Audrey’s first husband, the actor Mel Ferrer, and Luca Dotti, from her second marriage (to the Italian psychiatrist Andrea Dotti).

One thing that Audrey never had the chance to do, though, was enjoy the experience of being a grandmother. In late 1992, she fell ill during a UNICEF trip to Somalia and died a few months later, in January 1993, of a rare form of abdominal cancer.

Emma Kathleen Hepburn Ferrer, Audrey’s first grandchild, was born in Switzerland in May of the following year to Sean and his then wife, Leila. Now 20, Emma is the eldest of Sean’s three children and spent most of her adolescence in and around Florence, Italy, where Sean, who runs an agency that deals with intellectual property and is also a filmmaker and keeper of the Audrey flame, lives outside the city. (Luca, his wife, and their daughters occupy his mother’s former apartment in Rome.)

“Muse” is an overused word these days, but that’s exactly what Audrey was for the legendary photographer Richard Avedon. She was, in a word, his inspiration, and their interaction played out over a number of years in the 1950s in the pages of Harper’s Bazaar. Avedon photographed Audrey on the streets of Paris, in fashion stories, and several times as a cover subject for the magazine. Even though he worked with some of the biggest models of all time—Suzy Parker, Dorian Leigh, Carmen Dell'Orefice—he was completely enamored with Audrey as a subject, and she loved sitting for him. (FOR THE FULL INTERVIEW - CONTINUE READING AT HARPER’S BAZAAR)

Demand and Supply

Pairing: NicoMaki
Summary: Maki has a secret hobby which may or may not involve collecting pictures of Nico. 
Notes: This is not what I was meant to be writing, but I wanted to do something for Maki’s birthday. So here we are! 
Words:  ~2000


The monitor of Maki’s computer was the only source of light in her dark bedroom, and she couldn’t stifle a yawn from having another late night. A glance at the bottom right of the screen revealed the time: 3:30am. What was such a bright, talented young girl doing awake instead of resting for school that day? The answer was simple.

She was collecting photos of Nico online and saving them to her hard drive.

Meticulously backed up both physically and to cloud storage, Maki’s collection of Nico pics was her secret pride and joy, with an emphasis on secret. It was something she was sure the others would never suspect, and damn did she want to keep it that way.

Tagged by date, location, situation and cuteness rating out of ten (slightly redundant, because Maki never gave a rating less than seven), archiving Nico’s cuteness was a full-time job for Maki. Hence why she found herself up in the middle of the night, trawling through every website and search engine for pictures of Nico that she might have missed.

She had many good pictures (her collection reached petabytes last week), but there was a problem.

‘It’s not enough,’ Maki muttered to herself, squinting at the screen unhealthily. ‘I need more Nico-chan.’

Maki had now reached the point where she had collected every picture of her girlfriend that there was on the internet. And scanned every magazine Nico featured in, clipped every newspaper article and recorded every program. She had cleared her backlog of Nico, which meant that the trickle of new photos could no longer satisfy her.

She had reached peak Nico, but she needed more than what was being produced. Her demand for Nico pictures outstripped supply. It was basic economics. So to correct this awful failure of the free market, Maki decided to take action.

Being a Nishikino, and like most other members of the bourgeoisie, Maki knew this was an opportunity to finally put all her money to good use. If demand exceeded supply, all she had to do was increase supply to restore equilibrium!

With that thought in mind, Maki clicked onto the search bar, ignored the auto-fill prompts all containing the words Nico Yazawa and cute and typed in something very different instead.

How to hire paparazzi.

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How Hermione Granger Became The Big Sister I Never Had

I was 5 years old the first time I met Hermione Granger. It was 2001, and I, along with the rest of the world, was eagerly anticipating the release of the first Harry Potter film. I must have read the first book already, because I clearly remember obsessively collecting any relevant newspaper clipping or magazine article that crossed my path. I coveted any and all merchandise sold to publicise the film’s release. I remember, when it came out, sitting in a dark cinema with my aunt and uncle, craning our necks because (presumably, as no adult would be so stupid) I had insisted that we sit in the front row. I have, for these reasons, always said that I began loving Harry Potter at age 5. Truthfully, though, I have no recollection of the first time that first line was read to me. Truthfully, those books and their characters have been a constant in my life ever since I can remember.

I was an only child: an island, albeit an island quietly content with my lot. I preferred to sit in solitary corners, reading books of rapidly increasing complexity, rather than run around with my peers and risk grazing a knee or – god forbid – breaking a sweat.

Like so many girls my age, I found myself in Hermione Granger. Even at 5 I was a bookworm, a tiny baby-nerd whose growth into a fully fledged know-it-all was inevitable. I was, of course, far from the first person to latch on to the only female lead in the most popular book series on the planet. I don’t claim to be special among the thousands of girls who idolised her, who crimped their hair and waved plastic wands when Halloween rolled around in an attempt to emulate their hero. Maybe you, dear reader, were one of those girls. But I was 5, and I didn’t know you then (unless I did, in which case – small world, huh?), and anyway, that’s the thing about books: As soon as they are opened, their world and their characters exist entirely for their reader.

It took me years to come up with the perfect term to define my relationship with Hermione. It couldn’t be friendship, because she was slightly too far out of reach: She was older and smarter, and already had friends whose adventures I could only observe, in awe, from a distance. Role model didn’t seem right either. I felt a role model had to be someone established in their wisdom and ready to lead. Albus Dumbledore was a role model (an incredibly flawed one, maybe – but that’s a different essay). Hermione was just a girl trying to navigate adolescence and save the world. And I could relate, at least, to the former.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized what Hermione had been to me. I both recognized myself in her and aspired to be more like her; I don’t know now, at 21, whether I love her so much because I am so much like her, or if I am so much like her because I have loved her so much. I studied her movements as she navigated ages 11 to 17, and as a result, she unwittingly guided me through the triumphs and troubles of girlhood. I envied her successes and learned from her mistakes. Hermione Granger had become the big sister I never had.

In hindsight, it’s astonishing (and very Hermione-esque) how much guidance I found in the limited information I was given. There’s no denying – as much as I wish Hermione Granger and the Brutal Destruction of the Patriarchy was a thing – that the protagonist of the Harry Potter series is, in fact, Harry Potter.

Regardless, though, I managed it. I took cues from the girl who found herself thrust into completely unfamiliar territory and studied my way out of any difficult situation I found myself in. I learned that it’s okay to cry when friends suddenly start walking past you in the corridors at school and acting as though you’re a stranger. I realized that even if I spent hours in the library, was petrified by a gigantic snake, and solved a centuries-old mystery, a boy would probably get all the credit anyway. And I taught myself to execute the perfect winged liner, because I learned that brains and beauty are not mutually exclusive and that if you want to let loose and dance at the Yule Ball with an internationally renowned Quidditch player then goddammit, you go, girl.

My granddad died almost exactly a year after the final book came out and almost exactly a month before my 14th birthday. He had spent the majority of his life working as the headmaster of a local high school, but retired almost immediately after I was born, therefore spending the majority of my life simply as my Nandad: white-haired and blue-eyed and – in my young mind – full of a world of wisdom. Early on in my obsession, when I was too young to read Harry Potter alone, he read the books aloud to me, his slightly softened Cornish accent intensifying tenfold upon any encounter with the character of Hagrid. He never could correctly pronounce “Hermione”, and I always laughed when he tried.

He died on a Saturday and my small family spent it, as English as ever, knocking back innumerable cups of tea in my grandmother’s small, stuffy living room. That night I went home and picked up Half-Blood Prince and read and read until my head was filled with thoughts of nothing else. I finally drifted into sleep.

The funeral was held a few days later in the small church still frequented by my grandmother. When it was over, exhausted and with dried teardrops on my glasses rendering them almost impossible to see through, I turned again to Half-Blood Prince. I read as Hermione, Harry, and Ron mourned their own white-haired, blue-eyed headmaster and, for the millionth time, was carried through my hardship by characters who had come to feel like family.

Though she helped me through my teen troubles from a distance (and through rereads), Hermione had, for all intents and purposes, left me alone at age 13. The last book came out just a week after my 13th birthday, and I lived through my adolescence without a word from Hermione. A lot of things happened in those almost nine years: I lost friends and made friends and lost friends again, left school and graduated from university, experienced my first relationship and my first breakup, moved to the capital city, and started my first real job. It wasn’t until almost a decade later – aged almost 22, worlds away from that 13-year-old – that I saw her again. It was 6 June, and the opening night ofHarry Potter and the Cursed Child.

I can only describe walking into that theatre as like seeing an estranged friend or relative after years of limited and unsatisfying communication. I was both excited and anxious; after all, neither of us were teenagers any more. What if we’d grown apart? What if we were just different people?

Thankfully, my anxiety was misplaced. The Hermione of Cursed Child was everything I could have wanted. She was a leader; she was a lover; she was a rebel. She was living proof that life does not offer one path, and one destiny, and one outcome, but hundreds of thousands of possibilities just waiting to be explored.

At 21, Hermione Granger showed me that I can be anything. She taught me not only that change is good, but also that a life without it is tedious and stale. She taught me to love fearlessly, even when it comes at a cost. She taught me that nothing is more important than friendship, and loyalty, and bravery, and happiness. And, 16 years after we met for the first time, she is still teaching me some of the most important lessons I will ever learn.

It’s been almost a decade since I last picked up a Harry Potter book for the first time, but I have continued to return to them when I feel sad or lonely or in need of guidance. It feels like falling into the comfortable embrace of my oldest friend. I have many favourite lines from throughout the series, but I always find myself back at that final chapter of Half-Blood Prince, reading Ron and Hermione’s words of assurance for Harry, and knowing that those words will always belong to me, too:

“We’ll be there. We’ll go with you, wherever you’re going.”

Chapter 13 - At the End of the Day

Words had not been necessary at the park, which was fine by Finn. He didn’t think he was very good with words, anyway. He much preferred to show people how he felt about them. When Rae had chastised herself for letting Finn do too much for her, he shook his head. Though he sometimes felt tied down and overworked in his position, he didn’t feel he could ever do enough for her. It never felt like work, helping her with the darkroom, or serving her at table. On their walk back to the house, they each glanced over at the other every few seconds. Finn couldn’t say exactly how wide his grin was, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it actually reached ear to ear. And Rae seemed quite pleased, herself. Neither was doing a particularly brilliant job of hiding how they felt. If they rushed the walk to the park, they made up for it by taking the long, slow way back. 

In between glances, Finn struggled to remember what life had been like before this girl had arrived, almost three months ago now. He was sure he must have filled his thoughts with something. Now, there was only room for one thing in his head: Rae. 

When they arrived back at the house, they had to part again, like they had after the picnic. Rae smiled at him as she dragged her gaze away, pausing to shake her head before she walked up the stairs to the front door. Finn watched her until the door latched, then closed his eyes to fix the afternoon in his memory, the glint of sun on the water, the dappled shade of the trees, the feel of the breeze on his face, the lilt of Rae’s laughter, the warmth of her hand in his. He wished they had brought Rae’s camera, a photograph of the two of them together would be such a wonderful thing to have. But it wouldn’t make it any more real, he thought.

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