#Tidy (trash) art

[sleepyzz0h]

Trash dweller x the little trashmaid crossover

Since the comic was my inspiration for his species

[rachymarie]

Turtle: a schizospec poem

I'm being pushed, slipping away from this realm (state of sanity)

Vultures swirling from every direction

All eyes on me,

Expecting the performance

Not long now

The mask has fallen

People feel so-called compassion

But take no action

We should be raising hell

For all those left behind

Where is the outrage for the afflicted

Feeling like the discarded

Unwanted scraps of society

Once surrounded by support

Shell suddenly ripped from me

But turtles need their shell

Hoping i did

What i could to convey

The hurt of yesterday

[feshsticks]

[stanart4clearskin]

a/n: heavily manifesting this type of boyfriend

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who isn't good at responding at any of your calls and texts because he's either studying or reading. he'll make an effort and turn his ringer on so that he hears a ping every time you text him but it ends up getting to annoying so he shuts it off. in turn he continues to miss all of your texts.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy to bring you a book whenever he comes over to your dorm. he loves being able to talk to you about his favorite books so he buys you a copy so that you can have your own and the two of you can talk about it.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who never makes you feel stupid when you can't understand something. he explains it to you in a way that you can grasp but doesn't infantilize you.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who has posters of his favorite comics or movies up on his dorm walls. his desk is covered in stacks of books and there are papers constantly scattered over the floor. even though he's incredibly smart, he can never manage to keep his space tidy.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy to carry around a small notebook wherever he goes. he loves to write poetry so he keeps the notebook around so he can write when inspiration strikes. most of his poems are about you.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy to write traditional love letters. whenever your gone for a trip or he's gone for tennis, he'll spend time writing you a love letter that he embellishes with small sketches of you and him.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who has a typewriter. after getting a typewriter, he spent hours using it and typing up even more poems for you. whenever you come over to his dorm, he lets you use his typewriter because he knows you find them fascinating but don't want one of your own.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who can't talk to girls. the first time you talked to him, asking if he had a pencil you could borrow, he went red in the face and nervously searched through his pencil case for an extra. he spent so long trying to find the perfect one for you that you had said it was fine and asked someone else to borrow a pencil. art had felt awful afterwards and vowed to talk to you again. it took him a month to finally talk to you again--all he did was ask to borrow your eraser (and he stuttered through that).

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who is a giver. he loves to eat you out like it's his life mission. most of the time he thinks going down on you is more enjoyable than sex because he knows all of his hard work is to make you feel good.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who will just spend hours with you in bed, studying your body. it's not even all that sexual as his hands travel over every inch of your skin. he studies your body like it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and it is.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who is always scared that you're going to break up with him. he's worried that you'll realize he isn't good enough for you and that you'll leave him for one of stanford's football jocks. he's scared that his quietness is something you secretly detest him for (even though it's something you absolutely adore about him).

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who can't cook for shit. even though he's an intelligent man, in the kitchen he is a hopeless case. he lives off of cereal and microwaveable foods. part of the reason he was always so excited for break where he could return home was so that he could eat proper food that his grandma made for him.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who has to know how something works. he sees a cool invention in a movie? he's busting out his laptop and doing hours of research on it. sometimes you have to take his laptop away from him when you two have movie night because you can never just enjoy a movie with him.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who makes little trinkets out of random pieces of trash he has. he takes cardboard boxes and paperclips and makes you cute little animals that he'll leave on your desk when he has to head to tennis practice before you're awake.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who loves kissing. he could spend forever kissing you and never get sick of it. sometimes when you two are cuddling, art will just kiss every inch of your skin that he can reach. there's something so therapeutic about his lips on you that he can't resist.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy to use apple music. he doesn't understand why you like spotify so much and even made you a presentation of why apple music is the superior streaming platform.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who surprisingly loves PDA. even though he can be quite shy, he loves showing his affection for you in public because it shows people just how much he loves you. he knows that he doesn't need other people's approval on how much he loves you but he secretly likes telling other guys to back off of you by pulling you into a kiss.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who absolutely hates alcohol. he's gotten drunk a few times but the hangovers the next morning where enough for him to never want to drink again. whenever the two of you go to parties, he's more than happy to stay sober so that he can watch over you and make sure no ones tries anything.

NERD!ART DONALDSON is the type of guy who asked his grandma for her ring before the two of you started dating. he knew it seemed crazy to already want to marry a girl he wasn't dating but there was something about you that art just knew he had to marry you in the future. soon after the two of you graduate from stanford art proposes.

[worfsbarmitzvah]

in the coming weeks, months, and years PLEASE be mindful of posts that rile you up but include no useful or actionable information.

an example i just encountered on tiktok: “they’re banning these books!!!” who is banning them? what, exactly, do the bans entail (are they banned from being taught in schools, removed from school libraries, from public libraries, etc)? in what parts of the country? is this coming from school boards, local legislators, or somewhere else? what is the source of this information? am i supposed to be able to do something about this, or am i just supposed to get mad, leave an incredulous comment, and scroll on?

social media makes it easier than ever for people to feed off of fear and anger. misinformation spreads like wildfire online. BE DILIGENT. do not let people use your outrage to farm engagement. direct that energy toward action based on verifiable information. attend local government meetings. find a real-life community (even one that isn’t oriented toward activism — you will make connections that will be essential in the coming years whether your community is a volunteer group or a dnd campaign).

you are not obligated to complete the work, but you are not free to abandon it. getting worked up over posts feels righteous, and you think you’re gonna put that energy away to do Something with it later, but i know from experience that that doesn’t work. you overwhelm yourself with all the bad news and you keep doomscrolling.

here are some actions that make a difference:

get some rubber gloves and a trash bag, go for a short walk, and pick up all the litter you see.

donate to the aclu.

draw or write something. in times like this we need art.

call your local food bank and see if they’re looking for volunteers or donations.

this website lists various ways you can help undocumented people.

go to or contact your local public library and find out what groups, activities, and programs they have available. even if there’s nothing there for you, get a library card and use it regularly.

there is so much more you can do, but it will vary from place to place and person to person. my point is: find what you can do and do it rather than doomscrolling for four years straight.

remember to practice self-care. you cannot boil an empty kettle. tidy up your living space, take a bath or shower, do some stretches or jumping jacks or push-ups, take a few deep breaths.

if you are a minor right now, especially if you won’t be 18 before the next election, your job right now is to SURVIVE. that’s everybody’s job, but kids and teenagers especially. do not burn yourself out on despair before you ever get to cast a ballot. i know it’s terrifying right now. i was 12 on january 20, 2017. i know how you’re feeling. it won’t be easy and the you that you are in 2028 will not be the you that you are today. be good to your friends, do your best in school, and take care of your body and mind. that is your ONLY job. you might see kids your age doing activism, like kids my age saw greta thunberg and x gonzález during trump’s first term. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE THEM. you just have to keep yourself going. the future needs you.

again, whatever you do, DO NOT GIVE IN TO DESPAIR. do not give your attention and energy to people that just want your like and your outraged comment. save that energy for things that help heal the world.

[opheliann-darling]

𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞.

Yandere Suguru Geto x Female reader.

Synopsis: Based on this art. Suguru will always come to find you.

Tws: Alcohol use, Implied toxic relationship dynamics, Mild religious symbolism, possessive & obsessive behavior.

enjoy.

Night was in its prime, streets dark with few lamps illuminating yellow; the moon blushing behind clouds, casting threads of rays into air. Suguru wouldn't usually be out at this hour except for two reasons only : hunting cursed spirits or picking you by your toes for the hundredth time— maybe more, he lost count. As usual, you were faltering near a place neither of you know: drunken, eyes bloodshot, rose perfume laced with alcohol, barefoot, one of your heels missing, the other's strap barely clinging to your ankle.

“You’re drunk” he said flatly.

You giggled “I'm pretty”, twirling a half spin, skirt flaring around your ankles, showcasing a nanosecond picture of your knee. the torn strap slapped your ankle with each motion, and you nearly tripped over yet you seemed too hazy to care.

“Saw a cat” you chuckled with a full throat “Black one. made a wish”

His jaw tensed “You look horrible”

“But you still see me pretty… Priest” you slurred, still laughing.

Ironically, even in your intoxicated state, your tone kept that sweet octave— not the one of being drunk and vulnerable, more of coquettish and bratty. like you knew you had that leash around his neck: he's fully aware that you're sipping up all of his jar of patience and chewing his forgiveness and spitting it back, like it's totally yours, not a boundary you shouldn't cross. and it terrifies and warms him at once.

Wordlessly, He approached you and carried your wobbling form swiftly. making you walk would waste time, after all, it's late and the twins are alone asleep at home. your arms recognized the position and went straight to his neck, enveloping it in a trusting embrace. silence stretched as he walked, his tempo calm and measured.

“What did you wish for, Love?” He breaks the silence with the question. you hummed, five seconds before answering with another giggle “That's a secret”

“Keep me guessing again huh?”

“It's…fun”

He glanced down, finding your missing heel thrown carelessly near a bench. He bent to pick it up, inspecting it: still good, not torn like the other one. Only then did he notice that your fishnet stocking was ripped. He exhaled, never in one of these nights you kept something tidy, including yourself.

“Priest…” you whispered, saccharine, dangling between awakening and tipsy sleep.

“It's Suguru, darling.” He corrected, sliding the stockings down your thighs “and Yes?”

“I wished that you'd find me first” you yawned “Before anyone else… before morning..”

“Your wish came true then.” He threw the stockings across the room. Tomorrow, he'll throw them in trash with your heels, they were damaged, not serving any purpose anymore. He can buy you new ones— anything to keep you giggling and dolled up.

“...and in another life too…”

His eyes widened, his head quickly flew to look at you; already asleep, chest rising and falling, no care in the world for everything and everyone. he blinked slowly, memorizing your features, lines and contours melted to pure rest; your trademark sass and brat flayed to innocence and meekness he almost can't believe it. Suguru wouldn't have imagined being led someday, let alone by an irresponsible young woman who frequently runs away when bored and comes back when hungry like a cat. the thought of being in every life to be used by you should sound dreadful, yet he doesn't mind— oddly enough.

He tucked you in, planting a kiss on your temple. tomorrow, and the day after, and next week, next month and years and in other lives, he'd be after you to save you from your handmade disasters and walk you home when you run yet again.

[xervn]

like a french girl 🎨

part 1 - paint me | part 2 | art major ellie x dance major reader | ellie photo

ao3 link

summary: ellie had been struggling with finding the perfect model for her art final. that was until she saw you.

18+ MDNI | 2.2k words | tags; college au, pining, only a little explicit, no use of y/n, not proofread

disclaimer: not an art or dance major, don't shoot!

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Scribble, scratch, throw. This has been Ellie’s routine since she moved onto campus.

Why? Her professor told her that she draws the human body like it’s lifeless. Ranting about how they’re too one-dimensional and have no depth, her lines are too sharp or not sharp enough; flat and boring in looks and in feeling. 

Now listen, Ellie has nothing against criticism. She respects her professor and she’s aware that her drawings lack “vitality”. It’s been something she’s struggled with for a while now, an effect of some recent events and overall adjusting to college life. 

Ellie isn’t unable to grasp the anatomy of the body, in fact it’s the opposite. She knows the human body is complex and needs thorough observation. The way the sun hits the skin, the hairs on a knuckle, the creases of a smile. Wide, small, big, tall; no two bodies are exactly the same. 

Really, the imagery is so clear to her, but she finds it impossible to transfer the life and motion of the body onto a piece of paper without truly understanding the person. The way she sees it, every body has a story, and in order to make a good piece she needs to know that story.

Since art school is filled to the brim with inspiring, exciting, and vibrant people, she has, of course, tried to talk with them. She attempted to get to know the models, ask them general questions and hope something clicks. Unfortunately, that has yet to happen. She can’t really ask her friends either without it getting awkward. Imagine, “ Oh, hey guys! Can you guys get naked and pose in one spot for my homework?”   Hear how weird that sounds? Even though she’s sure Jesse would definitely be down, she values her eyes.

 Any “muse” she could possibly ever want was right in front of her, so why was it really impossible for her to find one?

 Well, because Ellie didn’t find anyone interesting enough. She’s not shallow or anything, it has nothing to do with how the model looked, Ellie has had several good-looking models. It was more about how she perceived them. It’s just that she hasn’t seen a model that made her ask questions like: “ How’d they get that scar?”  “ What does that tattoo mean?” Stuff like that.

The last interesting model she had was probably a fucking homeless guy she shared a blunt with outside a gas station many moons ago. Till this day, he might be one of her best pieces. There’s not a lot of moments like that here.

Nonetheless, Ellie saw this developing– extremely lame— personal requirement of hers annoying as shit. It’s holding her back big time, but she couldn’t help it even if she really wanted to.

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It’s practically useless to keep trying. The tiny voice in Ellie's head presses her to keep going, keep failing, but enough is enough. She is seriously burnt out and any more of this might kill her. The only thing that could help right now is a meaty slice of pizza and a blunt as soon as she thought of it.

Ellie clears out her desk, knocking the stack of crumpled paper into a conveniently placed trash can; a placement made from her constant trials and errors. She pushes up, and stretches widely, obnoxiously groaning like an old man by the end of it. She quickly tidied herself up, tying up half of her hair into a ponytail and throwing on a dark-green flannel shirt she had to sniff before wearing over her plain white tee. She takes a quick look into her floor-length mirror, making sure she looks presentable before grabbing what she needs to head out.

Just as her hand reached for the silver knob, Ellie felt this overwhelming urge to look back. God, she knows what she is going to look back at, but she really hopes she doesn’t. Unfortunately, her eyes land on her sketchbook, laid flat on the desk underneath a lamp’s warm light. She shouldn’t.

She needs a break. She knows she needs a break, but there is a twinge of hope, faith, lodged somewhere inside her. The same faith that’s kept her from dropping out every day for the past four months. Ellie groans as she drags her feet to her desk where she whisks up the brown book and shoves it in her tote bag with an accompanying pencil. She swivels back to the door and strolls out, silently praying her mood improves in the next hour.

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The cafeteria was surprisingly crowded, but Ellie managed to get her pizza without saying ‘fuck it’ to the line. Still, the thought of eating between this buzzing mess when she was in such a shitty mood turned her off. Thankfully, she knew that everyone would be everywhere but the upstairs balcony, especially during this chilly time of year. No sane person would eat out there, and she’s not particularly sane. Ellie saunters off to the balcony and sits herself at a small table facing the view.

It only took a glance around before she came to the realization that the view is not really a view. There’s only a dorm a few feet away, directly across. It’s a large brick-laid, generic building with wide windows. If it weren’t for the blinds, the view into a room would probably be good enough to read a label on something. Ellie’s freckled face grimaces at the thought, imagining what it’d be like if someone watched her rage as she messed up her homework over and over from this distance. Despite that, she thought it’d probably be a pretty good spot to live in. It’s close to the cafeteria and probably a lot bigger than her 1x1 dorm.

With a twinge of curiosity piquing her mind, Ellie glimpses over the windows, and for the most part, they are all closed.

All closed, but yours.

Yours doesn’t even have blinds. You’re on the 3rd floor and almost completely unobscured in a black camisole, sitting on your questionably roomy windowsill with a leg perched up. Ellie can see the fairy lights strung up in your bedroom, and a line of succulents closer to the window; ordered by size, which she briefly thought was cute. 

You aren’t facing the window, so she can only see your back. What she could see, though, is you doing your hair, occasionally swaying to what she can only imagine is music. Your room is high, but low enough for her to identify you if she had the pleasure of knowing you. Knowing you, reverberates in her head. Does she know you? Has she met you before? Amongst that babble, there is one more question she is slowly trying to gather an answer to. 

Time passes, most definitely shorter than Ellie would have thought passed. Her eyes have been glued on you the whole time, she even forgot about her, now freezing cold, pizza just so she could gawk at you. She still hasn’t seen your face yet, barely even a glimpse, but she already thinks you are stupidly beautiful just by the way you move.

From the graciousness of your movements alone, she thought there was no way in hell you didn’t know she was watching. At some point, your arms got tired, so you smoothly rolled your aching shoulders back; stretching into an arched, effortlessly perfect posture. Ellie’s eyes traced that slight curve of your back as if you’d disappear if she broke off from you.

There is no way it gets better from that, is what she thinks to herself, only to be shut up immediately after when she sees that perfectness of your back stay as you bend over and shift onto both knees to grab something far away, bringing your shorts in view. So short— so tight , they could easily be mistaken for panties. 

It was unexpected to say the least, Ellie could feel her face heating up and had to look around her to see if anyone else could see what she was seeing right now. Ellie wondered about the practicality of those shorts, wondered what exactly they were supposed to cover, leering at the plush of your ass peeking out. She thoughtlessly lets her jaw drop before muttering out a low, impressed, and barely over a whisper, “Well, fuck.”

You must’ve noticed your shorts riding up, since you quickly pulled them down after you grabbed what you wanted. Ellie clears her throat, internally scolding herself for being so gross— so perverted. Her brows furrow in embarrassment from all the dirty thoughts she brewed up in that moment. But for some reason, she still doesn’t look away. Well, there’s a list of reasons for her to look away, but she feels like ignoring it. 

Then a cold gust of wind bites past her face, clearly a sign from the universe that she should snap out of it, and snap out of it she does. 

What the hell happened to her? What is it about you that she keeps leaning into? Suddenly something clicks in her brain. After months of creative agony, something finally clicked. She has sat here completely fascinated by you and she couldn’t tell sooner?

In all honesty, to say she is just “interested” in you would be an understatement. Yeah, now she thinks you’re the perfect model for her final, but she wants to know you beyond just the drawing. A plus is that you just happened to be hot, and Ellie has never been attracted to a subject before, so the whole thing was new and exciting to her. Just the thought of drawing you made her remember why she loved art so much.  Ellie reaches for her tote bag sitting in an empty seat beside her, pulling out her sketchbook with more enthusiasm than she probably ever has. She sets the book down, opening up a blank page with one hand and tightening her grip on her pencil in the other.

She looks back up at your window, ready to sketch your life onto paper and..  Shit. You’re looking back.

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Today has been a good day for you, your teacher chose  you to teach the choreo you’ve been working on for weeks to your classmates. It was an obvious ego booster for you. You felt good and you wanted to look good too, even if you weren’t going out anywhere. It was just one of those nights. You wanted to experiment with your hair, thinking maybe you’ll do something new before your next practice. Dye it, cut it.. something.

It’s been a while since you started, and after several wrist and shoulder cramps, you were finally finished. You take a look into your hand mirror, peering at your reflection. You’re satisfied now, looking exactly how you’re feeling if you minus the dingy sleep clothes you’re in. 

♫ My heart, I never be, I never see, I never know. ♫

Grimes? Really? You pout, upset that your playlist didn’t magically read your mood. What you need is real 2000’s hot girl music. Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, or Beyoncé for crying out loud.

“Alexa, skip!” You shout across the room, just loud enough for the device to hear. 

The stupid thing doesn’t even light up, so you call out a few more times but to no avail. Isn’t the whole point of that thing to be voice automated? You sigh and look around for your phone, and seeing it���s nowhere in front of you, you figure it’s behind. You twist your torso to find your phone behind you and luckily you do. As you pick it up, you casually glance out the window without any expectations. 

Did you see a figure in the blur as you looked away? You question your eyes, but you decide to take another look and just find out for yourself.

You peer back down and your eyes meet with someone else’s. The sudden eye contact between you and this woman instantly mortified you. Your heart sunk, and all you could do was raise your brows stupidly. She was surprised too, even in the dim light you could see her shocked expression boring back at you. Not only that, it went on for way longer than it should have. Any normal person would’ve looked away, but her eyes lingered on you before she hastily turned away. 

You’ve been sitting here, dressing up your hair, listening to your music without a care in the world. Far too absorbed in yourself to realize there’s someone outside your window. You slide off your windowsill and out of sight. Just as your bottom finally hits the wood floor, you feel the coldness of it against your skin and you’re immediately conscious of the fact that your ass was literally out at some point. 

The poor girl was trying to eat her food and you were bending over in front of your window like a harlot. It certainly didn’t help that she looked kinda hot. Did she? You peeked over your windowsill, hoping to get another look to really assess her hotness, but she was already gone. Whatever, maybe she didn’t see? But she looked embarrassed… embarrassed for you probably!

You hide your face in your hands and topple to the side, letting out a fake sob. Oh, god. You can already imagine Dina’s face when you tell her. You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at that thought. That was humiliating as shit, but it’s whatever. It’s not like you’ll see her again. 

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side note: if you have any tropes you'd like to see w/ this universe pls do drop an ask 🤭

click 4 more!

[orbitariums]

rum punch | patrick zweig x black fem reader

writing this because patrick is definitely the type to text you like “if you wanna pull up just to get fucked here’s the addy”

obsessed with this song right now (rump punch by cash cobain) and listened to it over and over while writing this. i recommend listening to compliment your reading experience 🙏🏾 it’s sooo challengers especially patrick zweig coded. let’s review: “top five nasty, you ain’t even gotta ask me” and “soon as you leave i miss u too, like damn”; “don’t be asking questions like a interview cuz you really know what we finna do”...  “i just made her cum twice you ain’t make her cum once”?!!>!##? that’s patrick DOWN. sorry it must be said… 

so a little drabble-ish thing is ahead! contains: cheating (ooops), degradation, smut

it started when you started dating your current boyfriend, or at least that’s what you would tell yourselves to make you feel better about the whole ordeal — not that patrick cared much to begin with. but anybody who knew you and patrick knew that this had been going on for far longer than either of you would care to admit, or that either of you had enough introspective ability to even realize. every single playful shove, every time you squeezed his hand to deflect from parting at the end of a hangout, the way he’d stack his legs on top of yours while you were studying even though he knew you “hated” it, his thumb circling your hand, your head on his shoulder during a late night movie sesh with art and tashi, eyes fluttering closed until you found sleepy heaven in the perfect crevice of his neck. nearly every time you saw each other, which was frequent, you were touching without touching. art, who wasn’t one to make crass comments often, would always tell patrick: “it wouldn’t even make a difference, you should just go ahead and fuck each other. the shit you two do is more than just sex.”

it was 11:16 pm when you called him. your boyfriend had sped off in the middle of the night in a fit of anger after an intense argument about the same thing for the hundredth time. you were so tired. you’d been so close to texting or calling him before, but you refrained — you didn’t want things between the two of you to get messy when nothing in your life was going right in the first place. but now that you were nearly slumped against the wall with tears hot against your face, so tired beyond comprehension, you could blame it on the delirium brought on by exhaustion. you told yourself you just needed the comfort of your close friend, who always made you laugh.

“patrick, can i come over?” you’d asked, your voice trembling, your face buried in your sweater sleeve. 

patrick had never heard you sound so upset — he’d never even seen you cry. when you were around him, you were always so jovial and giggly. so when he heard your voice on the phone, so late at night, sounding so fragile and fractured, his eyebrows immediately knit together with concern, and he sat up on his couch. 

“yn, are you okay? is everything alright, you sound—”

“i’m fine,” you sniffled, breath catching on your voice multiple times. “just-just need a friend. please, can i come over?”

you couldn’t see it, but his features softened, and some wedge in his heart seemed to shift over,

“yeah. yeah, of course you can.”

he was so confused, but just glad to know that you were at least okay, taking pride in the fact that he was who you wanted to be around, whatever was going on. he made some rushed efforts to tidy up his bachelor apartment, sweeping crumbs under the rug, tucking in pillows on the couch, throwing yesterday’s takeout into the overflowing trashcan, and swiping the trash off his coffee table. 

he couldn’t believe how shrunken you looked when you appeared in front of his door that night, clad in an oversized stanford hoodie and sweatpants, slippers, tears still welling up in your eyes. this couldn’t be the same yn pushing him off of her with excessive force and maniacally cackling at his stupid jokes. 

“wh-”

before he could get a word out, you threw your arms around your waist, plopping your head down on his chest. he stilled for a moment out of shock, then relaxed into your touch, embracing you with his arms around your shoulders and down your back, holding you because he knew that’s what you needed right now. 

and then you were pulling away, sniffling and wiping away your tears, finally feeling some ounce of comfort now that you were with him. you knew, you knew, this was what you needed, as much as you had resisted this very thing. 

“it’s chris,” you said, moving past him and inside his apartment, groaning as you plunked down onto the couch. 

now, looking out the open door at the hallway ahead of him, patrick was nodding to himself silently, like he had come to some realization. he sat beside you, and you turned to him with a pout. and it was then that patrick knew he was not a good man for thinking about how pretty you looked with tears streaking your face and your lips pressed together in a girlish pout. 

“he’s like… intimidated by me or something. every single thing i tell him about my day, about work, about my friends, my wins… he’s always finding some thing to harp on like i’m some villain stopping him from achieving his finance bro dreams. he hates that i’m living my life because he isn’t living his yet. so every thing i earn, he just picks it apart and tears it down, questions my motives for everything.”

“he’s a dick, alright?” patrick said, in that ever so frank tone that you honestly missed, and wished you could hear during these arguments with your boyfriend. “yn, i’d never… we wouldn’t treat you like that, me and art and tashi. we’re your real friends, we celebrate you. that’s how a relationship’s supposed to go. he’s a stupid fuck.”

you grinned a bit at his correction, the corner of your lips turning up.

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“can i ask you something though, yn?”

“mhm?” you looked up at him with such innocent doe eyes that he didn’t want to call bullshit, but he was calling bullshit. 

“why… why’d you come over here? why not to tashi or your mom’s or… anyone else? why me?”

you sighed deeply, shaking your head,

“because, patrick, i… i just… want you right now.”

his face impossibly close to yours, intruding your senses and all your walls before you even realized they were up. 

“how do you want me?” he asked, his voice the softest it had ever been, his breath tickling your cheek. 

you were hoping you wouldn’t have to finish your sentence, and patrick knew it — his hands gripped the sides of your face with a stronghold, and then your lips were crashing against each other like a wave coming to the tide, foaming and sputtering and wetting the cracked sand at the shore. and it didn’t take long before you were climbing on top of him and straddling him, your clothes falling off one by one. his rough hand clutching your breast and squeezing, another in your panties navigating your clit like a fucking expert, making your back arch against the air. then your legs by your head as patrick drove himself into you, tender and slow and making you see stars instead of his face and the ceiling. fucking every tear out of you, turning your sobs of pain into sobs of pleasure. your moans were like a choir to him, licking flames against his earlobes each time you whimpered his name, leaving little half-circle imprints in his back with his nails. sweat dripping down his forehead as he clutched his eyes shut and tried not to come too fast, tried not to let the way you wrapped around him like a fucking snake— pussy squeezing his cock, legs trapping him inside you, hands roaming his back like new found land — make him lose focus. 

“fuck, your fucking moans. d’you have any idea how much i’ve thought about this? f- fuck, if you come to me crying again, i’m not gonna go so easy on you.”

if he had an ounce of self-respect, he’d have stopped you after the first time (he didn’t have the discipline to deny you completely), but something about him stirred at the unpredictable predictability of it all. he knew that at least once a week, you’d come crying to him over something your asshole boyfriend did to you, it was just a matter of what day of the week. 

he liked when you came over on friday nights most, because more often than not you’d stay the night, sometimes the weekend, making the excuse to your boyfriend that you were sleeping over at a girlfriend or your mother’s house. but really you were just spending the whole weekend getting fucked by your recovery boyfriend patrick, who would scrape up the little money he had to order food from your favorite thai restaurant every night and watch what were, in his opinion, the most insipid movies he’d ever seen — because he knew that less than halfway through you’d be split open on his cock, sobbing with pleasure into his shoulder as princess diaries became a distant echo in the background. his hand on the small of your back, his vision glazing over as he stares ahead at the tv, too enraptured by the sweet whimpers you make while you’re (attempting to) ride him, the sounds of your slick pussy swallowing him whole in slow intervals, panting and gasping as he speared you open because he was: “so big, patrick you’re so big.”

he’ll snap out of it then, find his hands wrapped around your waist and his lips buried in the crook of your neck,

“it’s okay, baby. you can take me.”

“i’m trying,” you wailed, the frustration so clear in your voice that it almost made him laugh. 

instead, he wrapped his hands around your waist firmly, leading you down onto his cock himself. 

“fuck!” you shouted out, practically collapsing forward onto him. “patrick, please—”

“if you can come to me crying just to get dick, you can take it.”

you gasped at the directness of his words, punching yourself for how much it turned you on. and he knew it too, by the way your pussy throbbed around his dick. you couldn’t see his face, but you could practically hear the shit-eating smirk in his voice as he grabbed your asscheek,

“yeah, your pussy loves it though. and you love being my little slut behind closed doors when your boyfriend isn’t acting right.”

you couldn’t control the moan that tumbled out of your lips when he said that, and definitely not the screech you let out when he started to thrust up, jackhammering into you so his cock reached the hilt. 

“that what you wanted?”

“yes, yes!” you wailed, nodding desperately, positively wrecked as your head practically hung over his shoulder, enveloped in a world of pleasure. 

“yeah… i know…”

and sometimes he won't be so nice. he'll be damn near using your pussy like a fleshlight, his body practically covering yours as he fucks you like an animal, hard and fast and rough, your pussy squelching around his cock each time he rams it into you. he'll use you like he's the one that needs comforting, like your pussy is the only safe haven he knows. and it's only fair, the way you hide out in his house and act like his dick is your life source. he fucks you like he's an athlete and this is his sport, tennis be damned. he'll degrade you anyway he knows how — because he knows you love it, knows it makes you finish two times as fast.

"he doesn't fuck you like this."

"you're such a fucking slut. come over here crying acting like you don't pull up just to get fucked." he'll laugh as he says this, and you want to smack his chest in indignation, but you can't manage anything but moans.

“you’re such a good girl. letting me use this pussy when i want.”

"there you go, squeeze my cock like it's yours."

"pussy's so greedy, getting fucked by the both of us. still so fucking tight."

"your boyfriend's probably wondering where you are." this has made you come twice now.

"whose pussy is it?" (and even though you have a man, you tell him it's his every time. sometimes he doesn't even need to ask, sometimes he fucks you so good that you just scream out: "it's your pussy — it's your pussy, daddy", and he'll chuckle and say: "i know.").

and you let him say these things and more, because he fucks you like no one ever has, like he knows something you told him in complete and total secrecy. like it's something so complex — but all it ever takes is one touch.

your friends have noticed something is different between you two, but it's honestly not a big jump from before — only this time, you guys sealed the deal and were actually fucking now. of course, patrick can't keep his mouth closed for long and ends up bragging to art, and you tell tashi because she's one of the girls, and now there's this unspoken understand between all of you. but no one feels the need to intervene, because honestly... it makes sense.

and you’ll have a conversation with him every other time, telling him “we have to stop doing this.” and one day he replies, 

“yn. not to be a dick or anything, but you’re the one who calls me. you act like you're coming over for comfort, but we both know it's my dick doing all the comforting."

and you know it’s true, you know patrick is right even if he is an asshole. but you won’t let that stop you from texting him: thai food and a movie? everytime your boyfriend fucks up. and patrick won't stop you either.

[ghost-writes00]

more modern day pevensie sibling headcanons

Peter:

-listens to imagine dragons.

-was kinda a jock in highschool but thought the kids who took it super seriously were weird.

-loves horses, begged his parents for riding lessons when he was little and dreams of owning a house with a stable.

-suffered from toxic masculinity in his youth, don't worry he got better.

-the best a giving gifts, he keeps a list on his phone of what people want/need and updates it frequently.

-distanced himself slightly from his parents after their reaction to Edmund coming out but hasn't cut them off completely.

-has a tictok account where he dances and their not thirst traps but he's a handsome guy who is genuinely having so much fun, and that's so attractive.

Susan:

-loves charli xcx and Sabrina carpenter.

-Lucy and Edmund Introduced her to chappell roan, her favorite song is good luck babe and she insists that it's nothing deeper.

-started having kitchen dance parties with her siblings when she noticed they were upset, everyone joins in and they don't stop until everyone is laughing.

-everyone's emergency contact.

-functions better under pressure.

-she has a very neat and tidy room and a set aesthetic.

-loves her siblings very much but can't wait to live on her own.

-has a aesthetic tumblr blog.

lucy:

-she really loves musicals. her favorite is wicked.

-dreams of starting a animal rescue.

-listens to Florence + the machine and the crane wives.

-really into Renaissance fares and gos all out with her costumes.

-her favorite holiday is Christmas and she still kinda believes in Santa.

-really good at card games, like crazy good.

-super messy room but knows where everything is.

-still has all her stuffed animals from when she was a baby and remembers all their names.

-collects lps toys.

Edmund:

-still has his webkinz account from childhood.

-amazing at chess and card games, taught lucy everything she knows.

-lowkey a goth, listens to mcr and she wants revenge.

-he plays lps with lucy and it will always end up about mean girls doing drugs.

-Black cat energy.

-can surprisingly hold his own in a fight.

-had mostly girl friends in highschool, but not in a gay best friend way, they were all lesbians.

-hes happy that he doesn't live with his parents anymore but wishes he had his own place.

-dropped out of law school, and entered a art college.

-secretary enjoys trash tv.

[serenadeonacanoe]

Honestly, I'd piss him off on purpose. Chapter 2:

Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character

Genre/Warnings: Smut, Angst, Fluff, too tired to beta

Tags: Artist!Namjoon, Yoongi and Tae are the best flatmates, Enemies to Lovers I guess… more like brats to making out in the storage unit, OFC is an idiot.

More chapters on AO3

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

Even the sound of my own nails rhythmically tapping on the counter was annoying me. To be fair, it didn’t take much today to blow my fuse, which had never been particularly long in the first place. But after a week of being belittled by old white men and working endless hours of unpaid overtime, I’d about had it.

Welcome to the art world. You know well before you enter that the hours are brutal and the job market is more than frustrating, but you love art. You’ve got good organizational skills, you’re resilient, charming when it counts, and you tend to romanticize things even when you know you shouldn’t. It’s too late to turn back now.

"That’s why I don’t use an agenda or notebook. If something’s important enough for me to attend, I simply won’t forget. I know you youngsters are all about bullet journaling and expressing yourselves by mapping out your lives, but really it’s just another way to procrastinate instead of getting to actual work."

For a second, I considered throwing my damn notebook in the buyer’s face, but that probably wouldn’t have helped my CV or the new job I’d have to look for starting tomorrow. At the very least, I should’ve screamed at him a little. Mainly that I didn’t care. That I had PMS. That my shitty shower in the shitty apartment I shared had broken and no dry shampoo in the world had fixed my hair this morning. That goddamn it, how the hell was I supposed to remember every phone number, every call my boss had to take, every art handling transport I’d organized if I couldn’t write it down somewhere.

Instead, I smiled. Died a little inside. Complimented him on the gift of his exceptional memory and asked whether he’d like another cup of coffee.

“What a dick.” Samantha murmured, more to herself than to me, once the guy had finally left. It made me snort under my breath. She usually didn’t say much, but when she did, it was straight to the point.

In the end, it didn’t matter that he was a dick. Didn’t matter that everyone at the gallery thought the art he’d bought from us over the last few months had been neither smart nor impressive purchases. Just expensive. And flashy.

“Doesn’t matter now.” I said with a sigh, glancing at the clock. It was Friday night and we were about to close. Since it was my birthday on Monday, I’d taken two days off, the longest break I’d had all year, and I was looking forward to being the lazy slob for a few days I was maybe always meant to be.

In silence, we answered a few last emails, tidied up the desks and counters so that potential buyers coming in over the weekend wouldn’t suspect anyone had actually been working here. A white desk. A huge iMac on it. That was all they needed to see. Folders, pens, and apparently especially agendas had to be hidden away in drawers.

At five to eight, I threw on my coat and Samantha gave me a tired smile. Probably happy for me. Just exhausted.

“Have fun then? Don’t get too wasted?”

“Oh…” I grinned, smug. “You have no idea. Gonna take a bottle of Moët with me from the bar and drink it in my bathtub after eating a huge pepperoni pizza by myself and dancing to only the finest of '90s Euro Trash.”

I couldn’t help it, I felt it necessary to give Sam a little demonstration, waving my arms up and down while swaying my hips in a way I probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t had even a small audience. Or maybe two?

A quiet scoff behind me made me turn around fast, slowly lowering my arms. Sam bit her lower lip, and there I was, standing like an idiot in front of HIM, of all people.

Men didn’t have to be old to annoy me. Or white. Yes, those were usually the ones that pissed me off most, but no one had managed to do so quite like Kim Namjoon lately.

And now he was standing there, looking me up and down, stopping at my hair. The crazy, too-much-dry-shampoo-because-the-shower-broke hair.

“Nice.” he said, then looked over at Sam.

“I’d like to take a last look before Sunday’s opening, if that’s okay?”

I stood there, shoulders dropping, completely ignored.

“Uhm, actually, my babysitter has to leave in about an hour and I’ll need to be home by then.” Samantha replied, impressively calm.

“Of course.” Namjoon said with a slight smile. “Anyone else still around? Chris, maybe?”

Of course, Chris hadn’t been in today. It was Friday, and unless important guests had announced themselves, the gallery owner didn’t come in on Fridays.

“I’m afraid not. But maybe Charlotte has a few minutes?”

Well. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I felt a little betrayed.

“Wouldn’t want to keep anyone from their important Moët-Pizza-Dance Party plans.” Namjoon said before I could get a word in. His voice dropped to that hushed, deep disapproval, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his rather expensive-looking coat. Silence. Then he just walked off toward the room where his exhibition had been set up all week, showing without saying it that I’d be staying, whether I liked it or not.

“Well, thank you for pushing me under the bus like that. Really appreciate it.”

“I’m so sorry. But I was serious. I can’t lose this sitter. She got Jamie to eat vegetables. Vegetables!”

Samantha was suddenly in a rush, grabbing her jacket and purse, showering me with promises to make it up to me. We both knew that wouldn’t happen and it wasn’t necessary. Staying late was normal. I just hated that it had to be today. And because of him.

I heard the door close behind Sam and stood there for a second before putting my bag down again. Usually, I would’ve followed the artist, asked if I could help somehow, but nah… My ego was bruised up enough already - especially remembering the little dance. I closed my eyes.

Fucking hated the guy. Always had. Well, not quite.

I’d thought he was cool for about five minutes when he first came in. We’d heard about him for a few months before. I think I’d even seen pictures of him at some point, but those were nothing compared to seeing him in real life.

He came in all cheekbones and an all-gray outfit, quick pace, observant gaze. Incredibly hot. He also completely ignored me.

That's how it started - a bruised ego. He couldn't know that it was my weak spot.

I had studied art and its management, but often felt more like a glorified secretary. My colleagues and I were doing all the behind-the-scenes work while Chris strolled in for a few hours, reaped all the money, and got the recognition. I knew this wasn’t unique to the art world, but it still got under my skin... I’d imagined life in my late twenties to be a bit more glamorous than living in a tiny apartment on the outskirts of the city... spending Friday night waiting for some rude artist dude to finally leave so I could lock up.

But what I probably hated most about him was that I admired him. Purely for his art. Really. Even the way he acted like I didn’t exist every time he came in didn’t stop me from admitting that - at least to myself. The stories behind his massive collages were clever, well thought-out. And even without knowing the context, the aesthetics alone were stunning. His work reached into something deep, and standing in front of it, I always had a hundred questions. Whenever he brought in a new piece, I was the first to sneak a peek in the back before it got hung.

"I don't get why you have such a problem with him. He’s just... quiet. I think he might even be shy. Stop being so sensitive and just ask him out already." I had almost strangled Sam for that comment a couple of weeks ago. Stop being so sensitive. What did that even mean? Words like that made me want to cry and scream at the same time, which would, of course, be perceived as even more sensitive. But when had being numb become something to aim for? I didn’t say anything because I liked Sam, and I knew what she meant. At least I thought I did. That maybe I wouldn’t care so much if I wasn’t actually attracted to Namjoon. I’d never said it, but she knew. She knew that if I didn’t care about something, I didn’t waste my time on it. But if something pissed me off? Yeah, there was usually more to it. I hated that she could read me that easily. Still, he was a dick. And I still just wanted to go home.

He took his sweet time. After an hour, I walked up to him, a little speech prepared about how he could come back first thing tomorrow. But when he turned around, he just lifted a hand between us like a barrier and turned away again. I hadn’t seen he was on the phone. "No, it’s nothing. Just one of the gallery employees." he said. And okay... if I wasn’t about to explode before, I definitely was now. I stood there for a moment, fuming, then walked back to the office area. My hand shook as I began switching off the gallery lights one by one. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as I’d hoped, but still felt good. Two minutes later, only the light above my head and the one by the door were left on. I figured I’d at least show him which way to go - he clearly needed help.

When Namjoon stepped out from one of the darker corners, he looked even more annoyed than usual. He squinted at me, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. "Seriously?" he shouted, nearly walking into one of the flyer shelves. Not the first time I’d seen him do that, so maybe it wasn’t the lighting’s fault.

I felt oddly triumphant. By the time I had my coat on and turned off the last two lights, ready to finally lock up, Namjoon had just about made his way to the door. He was still on the phone, standing right in the open entrance. I gave a little groan when he didn’t even notice me standing behind him... or maybe he did and just didn’t care. Instead of clearing my throat or trying to squeeze past him, I just placed my hands on his back and gently pushed until his feet hit the pavement and he turned around. For a second, he looked like he was about to push back. Or trample me.

"Okay, what the hell is your problem, Charlotte?" His voice was hoarse, his eyes dark. God, he was hot. I hated him so much. "You." I replied, deadpan. Then I turned back to lock the two bolts on the door and punched in the alarm code. I couldn’t help but feel smug - apparently, he knew my name. I pictured him staring at the back of my head, flustered. Couldn’t be sure though. All I knew was that when I turned around, he was still there, arms crossed over his chest, mouth set in a straight line, watching me.

"Do you always act like that at work, around people who could get you in trouble?" He had a point. He could get me in trouble. But I was too fired up, my heart racing. "Is that a threat?" "An observation." "Only around the ones I don’t like." "Cool." "Great." "Enjoy the dance party. Sounds shit."

And with that, he turned around and walked off, coat flying open in the wind. Unfortunately, it made him look cool. I ABSOLUTELY HATED HIM. I didn’t say another word, just walked off in the opposite direction - only to realize minutes later that my car was the other way. Still, I kept walking for a bit before turning back. It took a while to calm down. Only cuddling up with my cat in front of some trash TV finally did the job. But by then, I’d realized something I wasn’t sure I liked. Yeah, I thought he was a prick. And yeah, I should’ve just played it cool. That would’ve been smarter in a lot of ways. But I’d also kind of... enjoyed myself. In the most fucked up way.

Seeing that stern look, that intense way he loomed over me... yeah, I’d piss him off on purpose. Literally.

[jasper-book-stash]

May 2025 Reading Wrap-Up

I spent most of this month chipping through one book between various problems going on. And then several books through various, worse problems going on.

1/10 - Why Did They Publish This?

None applicable.

2/10 - Trash

None applicable.

3/10 - Meh

None applicable.

4 to 6/10 - Mid-Tier

Joy At Work: Organizing Your Professional Life | Marie Kondo, Scott Sonenshein

So, this book sucked and didn't suck to a far lesser extent than it sucked.

For the most part, in the Marie Kondo portions (except when talking about specific other people) Marie will use a lot of "we/us" and "me/I", while Scott will use a lot of "you" (direct you, not general you) and "he/she" in the narration instead.

Another thing that got me about this book is that it's...privileged, I guess is the word. The example people and the authors are all well-off enough that they can just quit their jobs and work solely because they want to work in whatever field, rather than having to keep an eye out for making sure they can cover all of their bills.

It also has a pretty heavy focus early on about making more money for the company being a motivator for tidying up around your work space, which also puts me off.

Most of this book was the Scott asshole. Ultimately, I think it comes down to this: The ex-Silicon Valley tech bro who's now a professor should not have been involved in the writing of this book. He was grindset-focused rather than paying attention to Marie Kondo's own lessons in the book.

Overall, 4 out of 10. There are some helpful things in here, but it's not worth it overall. Read Marie Kondo's other books on tidying instead.

7 to 8/10 - Good With Caveats

The Dharma Of Star Wars | Matthew Bortolin

So firstly I want to say that this book is actually meant for fans of Star Wars who are interested in a Buddhist analysis of episodes one through six, and that it was published in 2005 (well before most modern Star Wars stuff, obviously). My passing knowledge of Star Wars via the LEGO adaptation of it and pop culture understanding via Tumblr memes and shitposts managed to get me through it, but this was still a hefty little book that I struggled to get through. Regardless, I have come away from it with a better understanding of Buddhism, so...I guess I win anyways. Ultimately I would rank this as a 7 out of 10.

Devout: An Anthology Of Angels | Freydis Moon, Dorian Yosef Weber, Angela Sun, Ian Haramaki, Tyler Battaglia, Daniel Marie James, Morgan Dante, Cas Trudeau, Aurelio Loren, Rae Novotny, Rafael Nicolas, Emily Hoffman, Quinton Li

DISCLAIMER: Watch this video about Freydis Moon, consider it required watching because of all of the brownfacing.

If you like angels in a really horny way and don't mind a lot of heavy themes, this is the anthology for you. Each work has its associated content warnings at the top of the chapter so you can skip ones that don't interest you. It's mostly stories, but there are also poems and a few pieces of art. Overall, I give this an 8 out of 10.

9/10 - Very Very Good

Destroy All Humans. They Can’t Be Regenerated, volume 3 | Katsura Ise, Takuma Yokata

Yes, I'm continuing this series, and yes, I still love it. Honestly I'm living for the drama.

A Sign Of Affection, volume 1 | Suu Morishita

This is a series that I started because I saw it recommended in a BookTube "what I read this month/quarter/year" whatever video and it seemed interesting. Deaf characters aren't something I often see portrayed in manga, and the narrative respected the female main character and didn't shortcut past any of the realistic problems she would have.

10/10 - Unironically Recommend To Everyone

None applicable.

[h0neybunns]

Random hxh hcs || send request

————-————-——————————————

- Hisoka 1000% has a soft spot for any cute animal and he definitely spends hours playing with kittens when he thinks no one is watching

Kurapika is a very talented chef and he likes to make his own recipes and he posted it online on his food blog

-Leorio loves bad romcom movies he watches them fully and posts a detailed review on movie rating websites under the user “MedicianMan”

- Killua is a huge fan of video games, and he's very competitive, and he rages and trash talks his teammates.

- Illumi is a huge neat freak, and he's always organizing and cleaning his surroundings. He's very particular about the way things are arranged, and he expects the same level of tidiness from everyone.

-Kite makes dad jokes and they always fall flat but.

-Shalnark is a huge fan of horror movies and him and leorio got into a argument on a rating form about a movie (he didn’t know it was shalnark)

- Palm is a huge fan of romance novels.

- Kalluto is a huge fan of fashion but he only wears the same few outfits

- Feitan is a huge fan of martial arts movies, and he's always practicing new moves and techniques.

-Leorio is a huge fan of coffee and will spend outrageously amours of money on coffee and equipment.

-Gon really likes puzzles but can never solve them

-Hisoka has a yt channel where he exposes fake magic tricks to ruin the magic from kids

- Kurapika is a huge fan of history.

•chrollo and illumi have really crusty lips (FIGHT ME ON IT)

-Neferpitou doesn’t understand what a coat hanger is and played if it for hours like a cat

-Pouf has a glitter trail whenever he walks

-every 10 mins leorio has to lick his lips because they are so dry none knows why he uses chapstick and everything

——————————————————————

I had to upload again cuz I didn’t know I deleted it lolll

[oysters-aint-for-me]

i’m going to make a boring To-Do List post because The Girl MAY see inside my house tonight and i still have so much cleaning to do oooh my god

i have to

clean/change litter boxes (priority numero uno)

clear/organize table

clean under table

move Boxes of Shit* somewhere hidden

throw away random stray trash (bag of chips next to desk, old chocolates on fridge)

throw away old cat food cans that have been on my corner bookshelf for like 5 years

clear bookshelf

clean under desk

wash and dry dishes

clean dish rack

clean sink

organize bathroom counter

clean toilet

scrub bathroom floor

organize the one bathroom cupboard that doesn’t have a door

sweep and vacuum living room floor

scrub living room floor where it needs it

clean/organize hutch

neaten entry way

recycle worn out cardboard cat scratchers

wash windows if there’s time

tidy the car

*i had about 10 boxes full of random stuff (arts, crafts, memories, keepsakes, electronics, etc) that have now been dwindled to maybe 5 boxes, which is impressive but i’m not done with them yet so they need to be hidden away for appearance’s sake

aaaagh that’s so much to do! i better get started i guess. but it’s also manageable. i don’t have to do EVERYTHING i guess. changing the litter boxes is most important. i have like 6 hours…..

and yeah maybe she won’t care how messy i am but i wanna make a good first impression, and my house is already a little dingy and weird aside from my minor hoarding tendencies so i feel like i need to put my best foot forward. and anyway this is a good opportunity to do a lot of cleaning that i’ve been meaning to do for a while now. but i don’t wannnaaaaa i wanna read my book and cuddle with my cats!

[norestforthespookywriters]

Tempo

NOTE: Eventually the hours-long boring-ass meetings that I am writing these in WILL stop and I will be NORMAL again. Until then, sorry not sorry.

TEMPO

The apartment was, originally, something of a steal. Haunted - or it had been. But Quill Kipps was an agent, and he’d made quick work of the gibbering mist in the hall and the Dark Specter that had been - mostly - manifesting in the kitchen.

Taking the cost of removing the spirits off the price of the apartment had been mutually beneficial. The client got a much-needed cash infusion. And he got a home all of his own, away from Fittes, away from family, away from the pressure that weighed on him, he sometimes wondered if it was the reason he was so small – thin, nearing on scrawny, and several inches below an average height.

In the tidy apartment - updated with newly-laid wooden floors, recently-restored built-in bookshelves, large glass windows that let in all the sun that could be had - he could forget the responsibilities that plagued him outside the walls.

He didn’t have to keep anyone alive, except himself. He didn’t have to take care of anyone - not a trainee, not an agent, not a client, not a long list of siblings that never called anymore but that his paychecks had kept alive when his parents’ couldn’t.

He was vaguely aware that he had - essentially - had his future sold so they could survive. That he had been sacrificed, not because of his abilities - though they were significant, once - but his age.

He was the eldest. And that made him responsible.

If not responsible, perhaps, then still correctly the one to bear the burden. To pay the cost.

On the river Styxx, the coin was his youth, and the passage for the rest of his parents’ brood was that precious ticket to adulthood.

He didn’t mind, most of the time, because it had given him something precious: Fittes. A place to thrive. A chance to be - rather than one of a dozen - a singular things.

So he liked his small apartment. He liked the way the sofa he’d hand-picked sank just so when he sat, low enough that his feet didn’t dangle inelegantly like a child’s. He liked the table he’d found discarded with the trash and re-finished himself.

He liked the work of it - the tidiness, the emptiness.

The apartment wasn’t large - one bedroom - or in a particularly nice area. It was, more properly, an investment. A gamble, because when the scrawny red-headed Fittes agent had purchased it, the area had been almost bad.

Almost.

And that had changed - more rapidly than he’d anticipated, even.

But he’d also fallen a bit in love with the place. With the four chairs from a second hand shop he’d reupholstered himself, from the shower he’d re-tiled, slowly, agonizingly, over a long, dark winter, the sink basins he’d visited in the store a dozen times before finally finding on sale and snapping up.

The house had the same feel as he did - contained, and neat, and efficient.

Sure, there were trophies, medals, trinkets from his past in shadowboxes on the wall. The kind that people expected to see, when they visited a Fittes agent - the best of the best. His rapiers were neatly arranged on a rack by the door, simple, clean lines that let the rapiers themselves - each one a work of art - take the attention.

It wasn’t that he liked gaudy things, precisely. Jeweled chains, and so on. It was just that with his ghastly pallor, his red hair, his spattering of freckles, he had to have something to pull the attention away. To take the eyes off the parts he liked least, and put them on the thing he was most proud of: his success as an agent.

His success, on his own.

He made his own meals - nutritious, if a little bland and regimented - did his own chores - scheduled, because he liked the routine of it - and made his bed each morning. He spent time reading, or working out - practicing rapier techniques, or pondering strategy games. Quiet activities. Tasks he could do entirely on his own - entirely at his own leisure.

And when the phone rang, he got to decide if he was going to answer.

He always did - always - but the choice was there, and that mattered.

Not that anyone ever called for him, precisely. For the Fittes agent, maybe. Or for help, if it was family.

But Quill himself?

No. He was what he’d been turned into by early labor: a tool, honed to excel at a craft he’d already - nearly entirely - outgrown.

So when the phone rang, midway through the dishes early evening, Quill wasn’t exactly surprised. But he wasn’t precisely expecting it, either.

He answered quickly, efficiently, like they’d taught him at work.

“Kipps,” he said, juggling the phone to one shoulder.

“Quill Kipps. I’m so glad to hear you’ve decided to answer my call.” The voice was melodious, husky, and all too familiar: Penelope Fittes, the head of his agency. The beautiful, dangerous, nearly reclusive head of his agency.

He was familiar enough to be afraid.

[likeadeuce]

challengers #wipwednesday

Artashi friend zone/ Artrick divorce

“Help me finish this pizza,” said Tashi

Art looked uncertain, and Tashi pushed the box in his direction. “I can tell you want to. This is a special occasion. By the power invested in me as Tashi Duncan, I grant you permission to cheat on a training diet for once in your life.”

This made him smile. “You think better of me than I deserve. As always.” He took a bite and chewed, for a while, then put his pizza down and said. “When I first got to the academy, right, when I was twelve, I was -- well, you saw the slide show they put together for the party.”

Tashi had put the slide show together for the party. She'd gotten an album of digitized photos from his parents, and no one else recognized` the face they would need to cut out of all the pictures.

“I was so fucking skinny. They put me on this bulking regime that was all, like, boneless chicken breasts and brown rice. Eggs with every meal. Sandwiches with almond butter because of all the peanut allergy rules in the dorms. I was supposed to eat every few hours -- you know how this works -- so we had all these shelves of healthy protein rich snacks in our bedroom --”

Art was constantly lapsing into nonspecific “we”s and “our”s when talking about his school days, never mentioning the name that got his words to make sense. Tashi might not have noticed except that she had an aunt, recently and nastily divorced after thirty years of marriage, who talked around her ex-husband the same way. Breakups were bad enough; Tashi had been through her share. This was being cut off from the story of your own life.

She and Art ought to talk about it.

For now, she listened while he told her about twelve year old boys and their improvised late night snacks. “Whatever, organic almond butter on rice crackers tastes fine at three AM. But if you screw off the top of an Oreo --” He made gestures to demonstrate what he was describing -- “Scrape the frosting off with your teeth, and then just -- slop as much almond butter there as you can. Squeeze it shut, lick what’s left off the sides. Now that is a good mouthful of food. And if it’s good once, it’s good -- thirty-six, divide by two -- eighteen times. Now. Do you want to guess what happened when we had to get up at five and run wind sprints? ”

Tashi stuck out her tongue and mimed vomiting, a silly regular-girl face to make him laugh in appreciation, which he did. She bumped his shoulder with her fist and said, “You know a tennis player’s a phony if they don’t have a dozen good puke stories.”

What she didn’t tell him was that she’d heard this one before, from Patrick. All of Patrick’s stories, when Tashi knew him, had Art in them

.“So,” she said. “Is that how you learned to always stick to your diet?”

“Oh yeah. Never drank, smoked, got high or snuck onto the girls’ halls, either. Always perfectly well-behaved.”

He finished the last of his pizza, then picked up the box and started to tidy up the trash. Once he’d gathered it, he didn’t know what to do with it, so he put it all down and sat by Tashi again. “If anything it’s a story about how, if the school or either of our parents, gave a shit, we should have been separated for being a bad influence on each other.”

Tashi suddenly, dearly wanted to know the ways Art had been a bad influence on Patrick. But that wasn’t this conversation.

“You think that would have worked?”

“Probably not. Still feels like, if it had, it would have saved a lot of bullshit later.”

“If you weren’t joined at the hip with Patrick, you wouldn’t have met me.”

That night at US Juniors had felt like magic while it was happening but afterwards, when there were still the three of them, they’d hashed out the history. Art wouldn’t have gone to the party without Patrick egging him on; Patrick would have gone back after saying one starstruck hello if Art hadn’t dug his heels in.

“I would definitely have met you.” He gestured around them. “Same school, same town. Not that big of a tennis program. Would honestly be kind of weird if we never played doubles together.”

“But would you have MET me?” That first night had come after an extraordinary day, when Tashi felt the pulse of possibility all around her and would have done anything to keep it from ending. She felt more fully herself, a living and limitless being, and she was ready to show that self, in the silliest and most profound ways, to a pair of boys she’d just met and had no reason to trust. They could have met at team orientation, run drills together, been paired up by coaches, while Art flirted awkwardly and Tashi labored to keep up her boundaries.

“I’ve had a lot of doubles partners," Tashi said.

[maxdibert]

I dgaf about the haters, I like your headcanons about Mary. Could you tell us what kind of things she used to do for Lily?

Well, Mary was many things. Mary was a servant, Mary was a cheerleader, Mary was whatever she needed to be just so Lily would tolerate having her around, and that way, she could benefit from Lily’s popularity. Mary secretly practiced dark magic spells, spells she found in forbidden books, all to succeed socially, to become more like Lily, to be like Lily. She was quite obsessively fixated on Lily in a disturbingly unhealthy way, she envied her and admired her in equal parts.

She was one of the main people constantly talking trash to Lily about Snape, because she couldn’t stand the fact that they’d been childhood friends. So she spent all her time speaking badly of him. Not that Lily paid her much attention, since Lily was too focused on herself, but Mary put a lot of effort into trying to be Lily’s only friend. She was also super obsessed with getting Lily to say yes to James, because she thought that maybe then she could hook up with Remus.

Mary also did things without Lily asking her. Like, for example, she would wash Lily’s underwear twice a week, and she also took care of her school uniform. Sometimes she’d even try on Lily’s clothes to see how they looked on her, without Lily knowing. She was an absolute creep.

Once, she tried brewing Polyjuice Potion so she could turn into Lily for a few hours by stealing hair from her hairbrush. She wanted to feel what it was like to be that popular, even if just for a little while, but she was terrible at Potions, so she ended up turning into some kind of faceless creature and couldn’t leave her room for three days.

She used to tidy up Lily’s dorm and prepare her things for class, because she literally acted as her personal maid. Lily loved that, though she didn’t realize Mary wasn’t doing it out of kindness or helpfulness, but just to stay close to her and benefit from the people Lily hung out with.

Mary’s middle name was Rolanda, so her full name was Mary Ronalda McDonald.

She used to lie all the time. In the magical world, she’d claim her mother’s side (her mum was a witch) came from an ancient, ultra-wealthy, powerful wizarding family from Switzerland—which was a lie, because she was actually from a regular area in Ireland. In the Muggle world, she’d say her father’s uncle had founded McDonald’s and that she could eat for free at all the restaurants, which was also a lie. She was a compulsive liar. She made up illnesses and health problems so people would feel sorry for her and invite her to parties and social events.

She saw other girls as potential enemies and was always badmouthing them to Lily so Lily wouldn’t pay attention to them and would only hang out with her. She also did this whenever Remus Lupin dated someone, even if the girl was some first or second-year kid, since Lupin only dated younger girls, because he was into barely-teen girls from a young age.

Mary was kind of paranoid and always thought people were talking about her behind her back. In reality, no one paid her any attention at all, but in her mind, everyone was out to get her.

She didn’t just do laundry and mundane tasks for Lily; she also carried and packed her luggage at the end of term or for the holidays, and always offered to meet her at King’s Cross Station to serve as her personal butler.

Mary even tried to do love spells and voodoo on Lupin to make him notice her, but it never worked. She honestly had no talent for the Dark Arts or for practical subjects in general, so she wasted her money on books and ingredients for nothing.

She went down in history as one of the most irrelevant and forgettable students to ever attend Hogwarts.