#there really were pen pal listings in the back of some magazines and comics back in the day

[simonsapelsin]

It's the 1980s. Young Prince Wilhelm is reading a comic book and notices a page in the back titled Pen Friends. It's a listing of names, ages, addresses, and short descriptions of kids looking for pen pals. One in particular catches his eye: a boy his age in the town of Bjärstad (so close!) who is just as passionate about his favorite superhero as he is. Lonely Wille writes to the boy, Simon, using a P.O. Box that his older brother Erik had set up for his own secretive purposes. (Erik knows that Wille could use a friend, and is willing to send and receive the letters for him.) Wille uses a fake last name and doesn't tell Simon that he's a prince.

A great epistolary friendship soon blossoms. They first write about comics, tv shows, pop music, likes and dislikes; then about their families and school, worries and aspirations (Simon is very candid; Wille sometimes tells careful half-truths to shield his identity). One day Simon mentions thinking a male comic book character is good looking, and that opens up an ongoing conversation about liking boys. Simon is sure that he's gay, and has come out to a select few people in his life; Wille is not at all sure of his identity, but is bold enough to admit feelings to Simon that he's told no one else about, and is only just realizing himself.

Simon sends Wille a photo of himself, a school portrait. Wille keeps saying he'll send one soon. He keeps Simon's letters in a shoebox tucked far under his bed. He keeps his photo under his pillow at night, and always remembers to move it into his desk drawer during the day, so the maid doesn't find it.

They start to write about possibly meeting up, since they aren't too far away from one another. Maybe pizza, an arcade? Simon writes his home phone number in a P.S. in one of his letters, asks Wille to call if he wants to, so they can make a plan. Wille memorizes the number. He goes into Erik's room when he's away, sits in front of the phone (Erik has a private phone line), winds and unwinds the long spiral cord around his fingers, picks up the headset, dials most of the digits. Hangs up when his heart starts beating too fast.

One day Simon writes that he'll be going to a new school with his sister. Hillerska. A posh boarding school, but he'll be commuting from home. It's where Crown Prince Erik went! Simon doesn't want to go. He's worried about not making any friends, about not relating to the rich kids there. He wishes he could be Wille's friend. For real.

Wille writes that he's sorry he hasn't called yet. He wants to, but he's been busy, and his parents and older brother are always using the phone when he's free. He'll try again soon. And he's sure Simon will make a friend at Hillerska.

"Mamma?" Wille knocks on his mother's office door.

"Come in, Wilhelm," Queen Kristina replies.

Wilhelm enters, and sits in the seat across from his mother. She looks up from her papers. "Yes?"

"Mamma, I changed my mind. I do want to go to Hillerska."

#there really were pen pal listings in the back of some magazines and comics back in the day #young royals #yr fanfic #penpal au #young royals fanfic #fic ideas

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 2 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29 

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul's been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS' finances, Paul's comfort levels, and Gene's libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter:  "What do you mean, what else was I doing? I woke up with tits! Don't you think that's a little fucking traumatizing?" Gene and Paul try to pinpoint the root cause of Paul’s predicament.

          Gene carried the groceries in for Paul. It felt like the lousiest apology, but he didn’t know what else to do. Paul looked as if he were seconds from tears—pretty horrifying, for Gene to try to realign his whole thought process, to try and reconcile the Paul he’d known for the last eight years with the pretty brunette currently slumped over the kitchen island—and Gene didn’t know how to mitigate that, either. Paul wasn’t much of a crier. Under the circumstances, though, Gene couldn’t exactly blame him.

           “I shouldn’t have done that.”

           “Forget it.”

           “Look—I thought it might be you from the tattoo, but I had to make sure—”

           “You made sure, okay? You definitely did that much.” Paul’s elbows were resting on the counter. His mouth was pressed against his clasped hands, muffling his words. “Fuck it, Gene. You were supposed to just write me back.”

           Gene rolled his eyes.

           “Yeah, you cut off contact with everybody a month before we go back on tour, and then you send me a two-sentence postcard and expect me to act like a fucking pen-pal. C’mon, Paul.”

           “Well, obviously, I didn’t want you coming over! You think I wanted anyone to see me like this? I already had to run Peter off!”

           So that had been him earlier. Shit.

           “How did this even happen?” Medically, it was impossible. Paul probably hadn’t had this little hair on him since he was ten years old. To say nothing of the drop in height, or the total reconfiguration of his body shape. He still looked pretty similar in the face, same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips, but the features were a little softer. Really, he looked like a good bit like his older sister, although Gene knew better than to mention it. Paul hadn’t seen Julia in at least three years.

           The guys had always made fun of Gene for his lack of discernment, and he knew there were plenty of women that looked like dogs dotting his photo albums, but Paul was—actually kind of pretty. Or would be, if his eyes, always a little sad-looking, weren’t all watery and his mouth wasn’t glued in that firm line behind his hand. Even Peter, who, oddly enough, probably had better taste in women, looks-wise, than any of the four of them, had said Paul was cute. And the tits—shit, Gene was distracting himself. Paul had taken his time answering anyway.

           “How should I know how this happened? I woke up like this!”

           “When?”

           “Wednesday morning.”

           “That’s five days. You’ve been like this for five days?” Before Paul could answer, Gene added, bewildered, “Have you gone anywhere?”

           It wouldn’t have surprised him much if Paul had holed up in the house the entire time. He did that enough normally. Gene could understand that, to a point. Gene never knew what to do with himself off-tour, either, except get laid, but Paul usually added a healthy dose of self-pity on top of the lays. Given what had happened to him, he’d probably been feeling sorrier for himself than usual.

           Paul surprised him by bringing his hands down from in front of his mouth and nodding.

           “I drove to Peaches yesterday.”

           “You drove?”

          “You think I could’ve convinced my chauffeur I was Paul Stanley?”

           “Might have an easier time with him than you would a cop.”

           “A cop? I’m a great driver—”

           “You don’t have a license right now.”

           Paul’s lips pursed and he went quiet for a while. Like the full magnitude of his situation had only just dawned on him. Not that Gene wasn’t sympathetic. This was going to screw him over, too. The new tour a month away, and their frontman not only entirely unable to prove his identity, but—really, assuming he got the other guys and their management to believe him, what was he supposed to do? Strut onstage in that sequin-studded jumpsuit, singing about the dick he didn’t even have? Even Bill Aucoin couldn’t spin a story about Paul getting a sex change into anything close to palatable for the magazines and papers. If they didn’t get this shit fixed and turn Paul back into a guy, KISS was sunk.

           Gene let the silence hang in the air rather than try to fill it up with small talk or reassurances. He got up and started taking Paul’s groceries out of the paper bags, just to give his hands something to do. A wrapped package of deli meat, several cans of Tab, a bunch of celery, and a loaf of sandwich bread were all that was in the first bag. The groceries of a depressed catalog model, not a rockstar. He put it all up in the pantry and fridge unceremoniously. Paul didn’t have a breadbox, so Gene left the loaf on the counter next to the sink. The second bag of groceries was just as dismal, maybe worse—peanut butter, saltines, apples, and, horrifyingly, a box of Kotex. Shit. Had Paul already given up on going back to normal, or—

           “You’re not on the rag, are you?”

           “Fuck, no. Put that back.” Paul was going crimson. Gene felt sorry enough for him to drop the Kotex back into the bag and return to his seat across from him at the kitchen island.

           “Are you planning to just wait around for it? Haven’t you done anything yet?”

           “Gene, I don’t know what to do. I did get some books sent over.” Paul got up and went to the living room, returning with some paperbacks under his arm, which he dumped on the kitchen table. Usually, Paul’s reading material consisted of teenybopper magazines with his face on the cover, contracts, and his own unflattering comics of his bandmates. Now Gene found himself next to copies of The Lesser Key of Solomon, The Secret Lore of Magic, and LaVey’s The Satanic Rituals. He could’ve sworn the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up just from cracking the spines. Gene tried to swallow his nerves as best he could, tried to look at the whole deal clinically, never mind what years of yeshiva and the start of rabbinical school had taught him, but every sigil-covered page made him feel a bit ill.

           “You haven’t tried any of this, have you?”

           Paul snorted.

           “Fuck, no. I’m already going to hell, there’s no point in expediting the trip.” He blew his bangs out of his face with a breath. They settled back in front of his eyes almost immediately, and he shook his head. “I just wanted to read up. I thought if I could figure out how it happened, I could get someone else to reverse it for me.”

           “Like a witch.”

           Paul flinched slightly.

           “Well, yeah, since that’s probably who did it in the first place.” He was standing behind Gene, reaching over him and pointing at the book he’d opened. “Oh, it’s in this one. Hang on.”

           Gene shifted obediently, trying to ignore the feeling of Paul’s bare chest pressed against his back. He knew Paul wasn’t coming onto him, not consciously, at least, but—fuck, the last several years on the road had spoiled him. Every chick he got near wanted to get laid, if not by him, then by one of his bandmates. But Paul wasn’t actually a chick, a fact made all the more apparent by how utterly oblivious he was to the fact that his bathrobe was halfway open, again.

           He handed Paul the book. Paul was thumbing through it before long, in his usual way, licking his finger with every pageturn. Gene could see the remnants of black nail polish on his fingernails—still aggressively manicured—and a couple of marks beneath his knuckles.

           “What happened to your hands there?”

           “Huh? I bit them.”

           “Why?”

           Paul shrugged and cleared his throat.

           “Anyway, found it.” He pointed to a passage alongside a lithograph of a lion head. “‘Marbas, alias Barbas is a great president, and appeareth in the forme of a mightie lion—'”

           “Paul, the e on the end of ‘forme’ is silent.”

           “Shut up—‘he bringeth diseases and cureth them, promoteth wisdom’…. It’s in here, I swear—there! ‘He changes men into other shapes.’ So that’s probably the demon that whoever it was conjured up.”

           Paul looked more than vaguely pleased with himself. Gene almost felt bad for not being impressed. Almost.

           “That’s all you’ve come up with this whole time.”

           “It’s only been five days, Gene, I—”

           “What else were you doing?”

           “What do you mean, what else was I doing? I woke up with tits! Don’t you think that’s a little fucking traumatizing?”

           “You had—” Gene just shook his head.

           “I don’t have anything, Gene. You said so yourself. I don’t even have access to my own bank account. I’m done once the cash runs out.”

           Gene started to ask how much cash Paul had on hand, then thought better of it. Probably not a whole lot. Paul had the annoying habit of charging everything he could to either the label or the KISS Corporation proper while they were on tour, and not letting anyone know until the following board meeting. Off-tour probably wasn’t much different.

           “Did you make a list?” he asked finally.

           “A list?”

           “A list of anyone you think could’ve done this to you.”

           Paul shook his head.

           “That’s the thing. Nobody I know would’ve wanted to do this to me.”

           “Then maybe it’s someone you don’t know.”

           “Like who? Gene, what good does it do anybody if I’m stuck as a girl?”

           “Revenge. You have any exes into the occult?”

           “Not that I know of.” Paul cocked his head, considering. “Mostly they break up with me, not the other way around.”

           “Groupies, then?”

           “Gene, I don’t—take notes on every girl I fuck, it’s not that important to me.”

           “Did you get with anyone strange lately? Maybe, I don’t know, a cult member or something?”

           “I don’t think so—”

           “Anyone ask you anything weird? Or try and get a lock of your hair?” Gene’s knowledge of the occult was limited, but he did vaguely remember needing—what was it, the person’s clothes or hair before any magic could be done on them. At least, that was how it worked on Dark Shadows.

           “That happens every tour at least three times.”

           “I’m trying to figure this out for you.” God. Paul had had almost a week that he could’ve spent seriously researching his predicament, and all he’d done was buy a couple of books, send Gene a postcard, and sit around moping. “Did—”

           “There was this one girl who yanked out some of my chest hair a couple weeks ago,” Paul said slowly. “I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I thought it was, y’know, a kink thing. It was cool, right, kind of a you’re the boss deal—”

           Gene winced.

           “Did she say anything?”

           “She said she was going to make me feel like she did.”

           “And you didn’t think that was strange.”

           “No! It was while we were doing some S&M shit!” Paul’s face was going slightly pink. “It was fun! You go on tour and you end up with a lot of real desperate virgins and groupies with V.D. and none of them really—they just wanna do what you want, they don’t wanna ever take the lead, and this girl, she had me up against the—”

           “I get the idea,” Gene snapped, although he didn’t at all. He wasn’t picturing the encounter as it’d happened, just Paul as he was right now, up against the wall, breasts heaving, one long leg hooked around his waist. Fuck, was it hard to look at him. Gene had never been ashamed of his own lasciviousness until faced with the one person who noticed it and needed it least. “Okay. We’re going to get this taken care of.”

           “How?”

           “I’m calling Ace.”

           “Ace?” Paul was almost squeaking. “Don’t call Ace!”

           “Relax, I’m not gonna tell him what happened.”

           “Then what are you—”

           “Just trust me, Paul.”

           Gene got up and walked over to the kitchen phone. Paul looked as though he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head, watching carefully as Gene punched in Ace’s number.

           “Hey. Hey, Jeanette, this is Gene. Is Ace around? Let me talk to him for a second.” Gene rubbed the back of his head with his free hand while he waited. He could hear Jeanette calling Ace over, and a little shuffling, just before Ace picked up the phone.

           “Hey.”

           “Hey, Ace.”

           “You find Paulie?”

           “Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine. I’m at his house.”

           “What was he pulling that prima donna crap over, anyway?”

           “He’s…” It was hard to talk to Ace casually with Paul staring at him. “He’s fine. Just paranoid.”

           “Paranoid? Why?” Ace sounded a little disbelieving. Gene couldn’t blame him. “He didn’t start on some shit, did he? Thought all he took was white cross.”

           “He’s not on anything. He’s worried about the tour.” Gene paused. “You still go to that psychic, don’t you?”

           “Sometimes. Why?”

           “Do you have her number?”

           “Gene, you don’t believe in psychics or any of that—”

           “Yeah, but Paul does. I thought I’d make him an appointment, ease his mind some.” Gene watched Paul’s brow furrow, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a wary expression.

           “You’d make it for him?” Ace’s tone was dubious. “I’ve got her number somewhere. Let me find it.”

           Gene heard rustling in the background, and Ace asking Jeanette where the address book was. Jeanette said something in return, and then Gene was almost worried they’d both forgotten about the call until he heard Ace’s high voice back on the line.

           “Okay. Her name’s Suzie, she’s got a little office over in the Bronx if you wanna pop over in person. I dunno the address, though, you’ll have to call.” Ace rattled off the phone number as Gene scrambled for a pen and paper. He had to settle for a napkin. “Hey, could you tell Paul to call up Peter sometime? He’s getting kind of worried.”

           “Yeah, I will. It’s nothing personal.”

           Ace laughed.

           “Pete ain’t gonna believe that secondhand, you know that. See you, Geno.”

           “Bye.” Gene hung up the phone. Paul got up from his chair.

           “You’re getting me an appointment with Ace’s psychic.”

           “Yeah. Do you have to check your dance card first?”

           “Psychics can’t reverse curses,” Paul said flatly.

           “Do you have a better idea?”

           “No.”

           “Then you’re going.” Before Paul could protest, Gene snatched the phone off the hook again and started dialing. “Get dressed. I’m pretty sure she’ll be willing to pencil you in quick.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #gene simmons x paul stanley #paul stanley #gene simmons #ace frehley #peter criss