#best selling wig

[tbawig]

Pink blue orange 12″ short natural wavy bob synthetic wig

[spellboundwigs763]

Top-Rated Human Hair Wigs: A Comprehensive Guide to the Best Sellers

Make sure you get the best for your money and buy one of the Best Selling Human Hair Wigs on the market. Our selection of wigs offers you a wide range of styles and colors to choose from, so you can find the perfect look for any occasion. Shop now and save!

[strangerexee]

(4) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗��𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

It was a couple days later.

You still couldn’t get the damn smell of him off you.

You washed up twice, too.

Didn’t help that every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did that lil flip thing like he was texting you right now.

And he was texting.

Not blowin’ your phone up, not tryna run game, just… consistent.

“U eat today?”

“Let me know when you get home”

“What u doing Sunday”

“Send me a pic”

And every one of those little dry-ass texts made you bite your bottom lip and giggle like you was 16 again.

You didn’t even tell your friends everything yet.

You was tryna gatekeep a little. Keep it soft and sacred. But babyyyy…

You liked this man.

You really did.

So when he hit you like:

“yo my people throwin something Friday, u tryna slide?” you ain’t hesitate.

You threw on the real cute outfit too.

Crop top, jeans that made your lil shape do what it needed to do, hoops, lipgloss hittin’…and you threw on that same hoodie he gave you just to be annoying.

You told him, “I’m not dressin’ up.”

He texted back, “I already know u gon be fine, idc.”

Like it was that simple.

And of course it was.

The party was jumpin.

Like…somebody’s backyard turned into a whole scene.

Lights strung from the fence, music bumpin’ from a giant-ass speaker tower in the corner, girls dancin’, people posted up in little circles with red cups, full tables of bottles and plates of food and somebody uncle tryna get the aux.

You pulled up with your girls but instantly spotted him — Smoke.

Black tee, big chain, jeans hangin’ just right, and those same intense-ass eyes that always made your legs weak.

He came straight to you, didn’t say a word at first — just slid his hand around your waist, kissed your cheek like it was owed, and whispered, “Didn’t I tell you I wanted to see you again?”

You grinned like a fool.

“Thought you was playin’.”

“Do I look like I play wit you?”

Whewww.

Somebody come pick you up. You not gonna make it through the night.

Y’all walked around for a little—he introduced you to a couple cousins, some friends, his best friend, TRINAAAA — she hugged you and she smelled nice and she so pretty — then met some dude named “Man Man” who sold dirt bikes on the side — and everything felt…easy?

But of course, of course, somebody had to come ask him to handle something.

You ain’t hear the whole convo, but you caught enough:

“…bro trippin’ with the bottles…”

“…nah, I’ma fix it, stay right here.”

He kissed the side of your neck.

“Gimme like five minutes.”

You nodded.

No biggie.

Until ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

You wasn’t pressed, but like…this a lotta people you don’t know. And your friend…where outta sight.

Music was loud.

Your cup was gettin’ low.

Your girls had wandered off to find plates and take selfies.

You was kinda bored.

So you started minglin’. A little.

Couple girls waved you over like, “girl you too cute to be standin’ there by yaself, c’mere.”

You ended up talkin’ to a couple of them —nothing crazy.

They was funny.

Some girl named Nessa was tellin’ a story about her baby daddy tryin’ to sell her wig on Facebook Marketplace.

And just when you was laughin’ and about to ask for another drink —

You see him.

Smoke.

Or…wait.

You blink.

Nah. That’s not Smoke.

Same build.

Same lil mustache.

Same face damn near.

But something was off.

The walk? The energy?

Different.

He had on a red shirt, first off.

Gold watch, tattoo on his neck that Smoke ain’t have.

He was talkin’ to somebody but then his eyes landed on you.

And whewww…he looked you up and down like he was tryna figure out if you was edible.

You felt your throat get dry.

Then he started walking your way.

Confident. Slow.

Like he knew you was gonna stand there and take it.

“Damn,” he said, smirking as he got close. “You must be the one my brother been actin’ funny behind.”

You blinked.

“You stack…?”

He grinned.

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you.”

And lawddd.

The voice?? Just as deep.

Smile? Just as fine.

But the vibe? Whole different breed.

Smoke was smooth. Quiet. Watchful.

But Stack? Stack was a problem.

Loud. Flirty. Ghetto.

He leaned in way too close when he talked.

Looked at your mouth when you answered.

Licked his lips when you laughed.

“Yeah I been hearin’ about you,” he said, eyes glintin’. “He don’t ever bring girls around the family but now look — gotchu walkin’ round here in his hoodie, lookin’ all cute and shit.”

You laughed, shy.

“Stop.”

“Nah I ain’t even flirtin’ for real. Just sayin’. If I saw you first? You woulda been mine.”

EXCUSE ME???

Your heart damn near did a lil jump jump.

He winked.

“But it’s cool. I’ma let him have you. For now.”

And just like that, he walked away.

Left you blinking and tryin’ to catch your breath like…

Who tf was that and why he got me feelin’ like I just cheated??

You turned around — and who you see walking back up like he just missed the whole interaction?

Smoke.

“Sorry bout that. Had to check a situation,” he said, looking calm and casual as ever. “You good?”

You nodded real fast. A smile creeping on your face.

“Yeah, I just…I met your brother.”

His jaw ticked.

“Yeah. I figured he’d find you.”

You raised a brow.

“He ‘lil flirttt.”

Smoke looked you dead in your eyes.

“He don’t mean nothin’ by it. He just talk too much.”

You smiled.

“He told me if he saw me first, I woulda been his.”

Smoke leaned in real close.

Tugged you by the waistband of your jeans till your chest was almost pressed to his.

“Good thing he didn’t, then.”

And just like that?

You forgot all about Stack.

Or tried to, anyway.

You kinda forgot there was two of them.

Like…deadass. For a minute?

You was lost in the sauce — Smoke’s sauce.

All wrapped up in that deep voice, that slow walk, that ‘you-mine-until-I-say-you-not type’ shit.

But then Stack came floatin’ through the function like a walking distraction.

Grinnin’ all bold. Chain glintin’. Mouth reckless. Lookin’ like he ain’t never heard of a moral in his life.

And it hit you all over again:

TWO OF THEM.

Two of him.

Same face. Different fonts.

One lookin’ at you like you a whole meal, the other treatin’ you like dessert he already claimed.

And you? You standin’ there like Future in 2012 talkin’ bout:

‘Fuckin’ two bad bitches at the same damn time.’

(Okay, maybe not fuckin. But like. Thinkin’?? Wonderin’??? Daydreamin’ a little???? Don’t judge.)

Anyway.

You try to get back to the vibe — smooth and chill and pretty — just bein’ held against your man’s side, watchin’ the party from the edge of his hoodie.

You still grinning about the twin thing when she comes up.

Yeah.

Her.

Some girl in a lil two-piece set, lashes long enough to fan Jesus, hips switchin’ on autopilot like they got Bluetooth.

She don’t even look at you at first.

Slides right up to Smoke, touches his arm like she forgot who he came with.

“Heyyyy Elijahhh,” she says, voice way too soft.

(And yeah — Elijah. Like government name.

You ain’t even know that shit yet and she droppin’ it like a social security number.)

You blink.

Oh okay.

She flippin’ her hair, playin’ in his bracelet like she bought it.

And Smoke…?

He steps half a step back.

Light. Polite. Barely noticeable.

But you see it.

“Wassup, Asia,” he says.

And he don’t smile.

Not even a lil.

She giggles.

Like he told a joke.

He didn’t.

“I been textin’ you,” she says, all fake poutin’. “You don’t fuck wit me no more?”

And that’s when she look at you.

Right at you.

Then back at him.

Then smirks.

“Ohhh. I see what this is. My bad. I ain’t mean to interrupt.”

You smile real sweet.

“And yet — you still did.”

She blink.

Smoke grinned at the corner of his mouth but said nothing.

So you took it there.

Polite, petty, poetic.

“Anyway. You good though? You tryna be around or you just tryna be seen?”

She scowled.

“Oh don’t get cute.”

You blinked.

“…Baby I woke up like this.”

Smoke’s whole body shook tryin’ not to laugh.

You felt his hand slide around your waist, real slow.

Possessive. Warm. Heavy.

“She straight,” he told Asia, finally.

A gentle version of ‘you can go now.’

And she did.

Slow. Swishin’. Still talkin’ bout ‘we’ll see.’

But you ain’t care.

’Cause his hand stayed put.

And he whispered, lips right by your ear:

“You been waitin’ to say that, huh?”

You grinned.

“Swear I didn’t. She brought the energy, I just matched it.”

He laughed, low.

“You funny as hell.”

You leaned back into him.

“You ain’t tell me people was gon’ try to test me.”

He kissed your cheek.

“You pass every time.”

Later, y’all end up posted up by the side gate — away from the crowd, tucked behind somebody’s car.

Music still bumpin’. Stack walkin’ around in a ski mask for no reason.

But you and Smoke?

Y’all quiet now. Real still.

He leaned back against the fence, pulled you between his legs, arms draped around your waist like he needed to feel you close.

“I don’t like loud parties like that,” he mumbled after a while, chin on your shoulder.

“So why you invite me?”

“Wanted you to meet my people.”

You turned a little to face him.

“…You like me or somethin’?”

He looked at you.

And the look??

That sht did something to your chest.

“Ion invite people to shit. Ion cook for people. I definitely don’t sleep next to ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

“But you do all that for me?”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“…Damn.”

The party kept going — but you was already gone.

Floatin’.

Drunk off him.

Off this.

You’d almost forgot what it felt like to be wanted.

Not for a night, not for convenience—but for real.

This man was making it real hard to play it cool.

And lowkey… you didn’t wanna play at all.

You just wanted to keep bein’ wrapped up in his hoodie.

Kissed slow behind fences.

Claimed in front of petty girls.

You ain’t say none of that out loud, though.

Just smiled and pulled him closer, whisperin’ like you was tellin’ a secret:

“Next time your twin flirt with me, I’m tellin’ him I’m spoken for.”

Smoke smirked.

“You better.”

You wasn’t drunk drunk.

Not like…on the floor, crying-in-the-bathroom, slurring-your-secrets drunk.

But you was…

tipsy.

Real cute drunk.

That sweet lil zone where your mouth got no filter and your hands do what they wanna do.

So when y’all ducked off again — behind the shed this time, some dark corner where the porch light couldn’t see you — you got real bold.

Smoke pulled you in, all warm and low and heavy-handed with the touchin’, and you?

You just started kissin’ on that neck.

Real gentle-like at first.

Just lips.

Slow. Pressin’. Lingerin’.

Right under his ear where he smelled like cologne.

He went real still.

Didn’t stop you. Didn’t say nothin’.

Just exhaled real quiet — like he was tryin to keep calm.

You grinned.

Then did it again.

Right a little lower, where his hoodie hung loose at the collar, skin warm underneath. You nuzzled there, then kissed down to his collarbone just because you could.

“Aight…” he warned, voice tight like he was holdin’ back a smile. “That’s how you act off five lil cups?”

“Five and a half,” you mumbled into his neck. “Lemme live.”

He tilted his head back. Let you keep goin’.

Shiiiii.

You was in your own lil world.

High off vibes. Off his skin and the weight of his hands pressin’ down on your waist. His fingers flexed a lil every time your lips hit the right spot.

“You always this affectionate?” he asked, real low.

“Nah,” you murmured. “I just like you.”

He hummed.

“You tell all the niggas that?”

You grinned against his jaw.

“You the only one still around, ain’t you?”

Then you snatched his phone.

Playfully, of course.

He ain’t even fight you on it. Just watched you scroll through his camera like he was amused.

No wild shit in there — just lil selfies, some blurry gym pics, one video of Stack rappin’ in the backseat and soundin’ like he needed water.

You turned the camera to yourself.

“Smile.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For me.” you said, like duh.

Then scooted up close, leaned into his side, and took it anyway — your face real cute, his real unimpressed but lowkey grinning in the corner of the frame.

You giggled, looked at it again.

“Wait wait wait — we fine as hell.”

He smirked. “Say it louder.”

“WE FINE AS HELL!” you whispered-yelled, crackin’ up.

Then you took another one. This time he kissed your cheek right as you clicked.

That one? You saved to his favorites. Respectfully.

You kept takin’ em too.

Layin’ on him. Tongue peekin’. Lashes poppin’. Lookin’ like y’all was already three months deep in a soft launch.

He ain’t stop you once.

Just kept lettin’ you lean on him, arms heavy around your waist, head tilted like he was memorizin’ the way you smiled.

You bit his lip, thumb still flickin’ through the lil gallery.

“You gon’ delete these later?” you asked, tryna play.

He looked at you like you was dumb.

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

You blinked.

“Cause you’re weird.”

Next thing you know, he takin’ the phone back, scrollin’ a bit — and now he’s takin’ one. Of just you this time.

Candid as hell.

Neck kissin’ fresh. Lip gloss poppin’. Lookin’ real claimed.

“Lemme seeee,” you whined, tryna grab it back.

“Nah,” he said, tucking it in his pocket. “That one mine.”

You blinked.

“You keepin’ it?”

“Yup.”

“…So I’m your lockscreen now?”

He grinned slow.

“Not yet.”

You gasped, all fake-offended.

“Wow.”

Then he pulled you close and whispered:

“Don’t worry. You workin’ your way up.”

After that?

You damn near climbed him like a tree.

Tipsy and flirty and feelin’ way too comfortable.

Kissin’ on his neck again, tugging on the strings of his hoodie, actin’ like you ain’t just argue wit some girl two hours ago over this same man.

You didn’t even care about the party no more.

Didn’t care that Stack kept poppin’ in and out the side gate yellin’ ‘y’all nasty as hell!’

Didn’t care that your lipgloss was smudged or that your phone was probably dead.

All you cared about was the way he was lookin’ at you.

Like you was all warm light and soft touches.

Like he was seein’ a part of you nobody else even tried to notice.

“You gon’ spend the night?” he asked, fingers playin’ with the hem of his hoodie you wore.

You shrugged. “Maybe. You gon’ behave?”

“No.”

You smirked.

“Well then.”

Lil taglist — @sertonins - @crimsonxm00n @klssngss @juicypinksblog @mingisg00dgirl @stilestotherescue @imperfectlyperfect78 @hoouno06 @kirayuki22 @christinabae @pinkpantheris @kxllanxtdoor

[pinkie-quinns]

rocker eddie/actor steve | exes to lovers | fame au p6 (final part)

p1 p2 p3 p4 p5 interlude

Steve thinks about second chances, as he walks along Greenwich Ave. He thinks about them when he tosses the wig in a garbage can that reeks of puke. 

And he thinks about them, when Eddie opens the door, eyes catching on the rip in Steve’s jeans, the liner under his eyes. When he lights up & says, “You came.”

Yeah, Steve thinks about second chances.

He offers Eddie a small smile as he walks in, can’t bring himself to acknowledge it all. The world of them. Him going. Eddie playing that song.  What that could mean, like, actually mean. Can’t do it yet.

He likes this place better than the mansion in LA. It’s messy and grungy with stupid, corny shit plastered on the walls. Feels more… Eddie.

They walk out to the balcony. It overlooks a tiny little green space, his neighbors’ homes. Eddie lights a cigarette and offers one to Steve. Steve quit years ago. Eddie knows that now. He takes it anyway. 

“Last tour I sold out Madison Square Garden and now I sell out Forest Hills.” Eddie’s chuckling, “Like I’m back at the trailer park.”

Eddie’s third album didn’t do the numbers his first two had. So they’d downsized, just a little.

Steve sighs, he didn’t fly all the way out here to coddle his ex, “It was a good show, Eddie.” 

“Yeah.” He drags, smiles to himself. “It was a really good show. I’m really glad you saw it, baby.”

Steve cringes, full body shiver. Eddie doesn’t seem to realize what he said, Steve’s sure as hell not gonna clue him in.

“How’d your meeting go?”

Steve tries to play it off. “Good. Pretty good.”

Eddie chuckles again, leans into him that way he always does, like personal space is more of a suggestion than a boundary. A hand brushes his cheek, a light, teasing tap of knuckles, “What’s pretty good, Harrington?”

Steve smiles into it. Can’t help it. “There’s uh… you know that blacklist script I mentioned last month? There’s probably a lead there for me.”

Eddie lights up again, bright and true, “Steve, that’s amazing.”

Steve snorts, “Not jealous?”

“Nah, I’m happy for you ba-” Eddie catches it this time, chokes on his drag, coughs and flounders, “Happy for you, man.” 

Steve’s not sure if he can do this, actually. Can’t face this Eddie. The one whose ego isn’t a storm cloud, who’s okay failing, who’s okay seeing him succeed. Who’s honest and sincere and wants the best for him. Eddie who would lose thousands of fans just to sing Steve’s favorite song. 

Eddie’s eyes are shiny, “But you’ve been good?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good. Keeping busy. I filmed an Amex commercial. Good money. Made my agents happy.” He’s rambling around it. He squints into the dark, drops it casually as he can muster. “I’m gonna start seeing that country singer, probably. The one with that Kansas song? Our people are setting something up.”

Eddie’s face falls, the sun out with a sentence. “What are we doing here, Harrington?”

Steve’s tone is bleary, sheepish, “What?”

“Been losing my mind this last month. Can’t stand not having you around. But you- you’re dating?”

It’s a shrug, it’s all he's got, “Sure.”

Eddie’s hunched, shoulders tight. He talks small. “You told me you loved me. Before you left.”

Steve huffs a breath. The air is cold. “C’mon. You were like, obliterating my brain with your dick. I say impulsive shit like that all the time.”

He doesn’t. They both know that. 

Eddie clicks his teeth, shakes a whisper. “Nah. You don’t.”

Steve falters, trips on his tongue. He finds his voice low and hoarse, he can barely say it, “Please don’t hold me to it.” 

Eddie won’t look him in the eye. He blinks up at the sky, “I love you. For the record. I um, I never stopped. Guess I’ve been pretty obvious about it.”

“Eddie, c’mon. Don’t do this. It’s not fair.”

“Date Dorothy.” His laugh is glacial. “I don’t mind. It won’t be real, right? Those things never fucking are.”

“I don’t know– it could be.” The ground’s falling under Steve’s feet. “Down the line, or whatever.”

Something cracks, crumples. “I had you. God fucking damnit. I had you and I–”

Steve’s not expecting the sobs until they happen. Flemmed and shaky and pathetic. Those brown eyes silver-wet like moons. 

Eddie pushes his palms into his cheeks. “Sometimes, after you leave, I just stare up at the ceiling and try to invent like, time travel or something. Just to go back and slap the shit outta myself. I was a goddamn coward. Couldn’t face it. Could talk around it, sure. Write it into my songs like that was honest. But, nah, I couldn’t look in the mirror. Definitely couldn’t look at you. I’m facing it now. I need you to know that. It won’t fix all shit I did, won’t fix the stupid fucking way I tried to fix it the first time. It’s there, it’s out, hell, it’s goddamn double platinum.” He sputters it out miserable, “But I am trying. Even if this– if we can’t. Need you to know I’m facing it now. I want to be better.”

Then Eddie looks right at him, looks at Steve like looking is enough to break his heart. “And I don’t wanna be selfish anymore cause it’s poison, Steve. But fuck. I know I don’t deserve it but if you’ll have me, I’ll– I’m there. Whatever way you’ll take me.”

“Eddie.” Steve doesn’t know why he’s here. Why he keeps digging this wound, ripping out stitches.

“Please? Can’t walk away again. Don’t have it in me.”

“Yeah.” Steve laughs. “You only do that when it’s easy.”

Eddie flinches. Shoves a ringed hand into a pocket. “Too late, huh?”

Steve scratches the back of his head and turns on his heel, “We can’t keep doing this.”

He gets as far the kitchen. Eddie quicksteps in front of the counter, blocks his out. But he’s cowering, ducking his head. “Did you um, like the song?”

It swells up all at once, that bone-deep cruelty of it. A gust turned tsunami. “Not really, Ed. Kinda broke my fucking heart.”

“Shit,” Eddie clicks. “Yeah, I, um, I’m not all that good at the grand gesture thing. Probably should have figured that out by now.”

Steve lets it all in. The red that’s been thrumming through his body since this whole thing started. Lets it possess him. He pushes into Eddie’s space, callous and cruel. “You’re really fucking me up, here. Do you know that?”

“I– I’m not trying to.” Eddie blinks. Frustratingly earnest. 

“What we’re doing– Whatever this is. It makes me feel pathetic. I’d be the dumbest asshole on the planet if I took you back.” He’s screaming now. The balcony door is still open. He doesn’t care if anyone hears. He wants them to hear.

Eddie’s lip is shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you.” Steve murmurs. The red’s coming off in whisps, quicker than it ever had, easier than it should. 

Eddie’s smile is weak. His face is wet. “I know.”

“You ruined me.” He leans in, finds half a punch in it. Last one he’s got. 

Eddie closes his eyes, brow furrowed. “I know.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” He’s tired. Bone tired. Tired of the ache that only ever seems to go away around, well–

Eddie’s guilt is plain. It's all of him. “I’m sorry.”

Steve takes a breath. He thinks about second chances.

“You really want to be with me?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s already burrowed in. Ribs and guts and blood. “Got my priorities way out of whack for a minute there. Jesus, way too many minutes there. But yeah. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.  You’re it for me, Stevie.”

Steve groans, taps his forehead lightly against a shelf. Eddie’s hand lands steady at his arm, awkward and cautious and right. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No.” Eddie says soft. “You’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.” Steve shakes his head. Waves a finger into Eddie’s chest. “You sang Dave fucking Matthews.”

“Don’t remind me, man. They’re gonna start shattering my CDs.” He pauses, sincere as ever. ‘I, uh, wouldn’t take it back though.”

Steve groans again, presses his head into Eddie’s shoulder. “No, you don’t get it. You sang Dave Matthews and now I’m gonna have to call my team and tell them it’s not gonna happen with the country singer.”

Eddie blubbers, big Saturday morning cartoon recalibration. “You’re– what?”

Steve shrugs, catches his eye. “Now I’m gonna have to talk about my coming out journey with Angie at People and dude, she’s been on my ass about it for years. Total sore winner.”

He’s shaking his head, “Harrington… Steve. Stevie.”

But Steve keeps rattling on, “I’m gonna have to tip off the paparazzi that Dark Pines star Steve Harrington was spotted sneaking into Eddie Munson’s brownstone at midnight for a secret rendezvous. Gonna have to go for a jog around the block first thing tomorrow, with like, more hickeys than a teen who just got their first girlfriend.”

“You’ve really thought about this, huh?”

Eddie’s back pushes into the edge of the kitchen counter. And Steve thinks about that photo that forced them together again, about Eddie’s easy grin, about the soft adoration high on his cheeks, about never being so young. He thinks about fucking up and growing up and growing apart and changing. And he smiles against chapped lips that taste like cigarettes and coming home.

And he says, “Gonna have to find someone to give me the hickeys.”

And Eddie lights up like the sun, “I know a guy.”

And Steve, well, he thinks about second chances. 

[bobwess]

Listening to my friend recount a story (in an angry rant while pacing) about being on set in 2020. Of doing an ageing look and being given a 3 day warning to get a wig she didn't know she had to get and then being given a very small budget to do so.

And how she was trying to explain to production that in fact there were no wig stores open, and that budget wasn't going to cover a good wig even if they could go to a wig store and really REALLY wasn't going to cover an even halfway decent wig if they had to express ship it from wherever the fuck was actually open and selling wigs in 2020.

And she was like "we ended up with the absolute most hideous piece of shit wig and did our best and somehow it was MY fault it looked bad."

And it wasn't Supernatural, but I imagine there is a HMU artist in Vancouver with an identical angry pacing rant ready to go.

[yoshikoooo]

WIND BREAKER HCS|Fem! Reader

Featuring: umemiya hajime, Sakura haruka, kaji ren , jo togame. synopsis: your friend needed help in their butler cafe, and you agreed forced to cooperate. Reader is simply crossdressing. Warnings : Fem! reader, slight ooc, slight suggestive on umemiya and togame's parts, cursing, established relationship, role playing, reader is flirty.

"Y/n, I beg you!" Shima pleaded desperately, clutching onto your leg with an iron grip, her eyes pleading beneath the butler-style outfit and wig that transformed her into an uncanny likeness of one hell of a butler. "Huh? You expect me to wear those lame ass suits—" watch your mouth girl "It'll only be for a day, I promise. You'll get paid handsomely, and all you have to do is smile at the ladies!" Her grip tightened on your leg, eliciting a frustrated groan from you, annoyance etched across your face. "Damn it, but no pictures nor words can leak," you insisted firmly.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･SAKURA HARUKA °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The cutest tomato in the whole world. come fight me if you disagree

"So why the heck are we buying a damn cake here in a butler café?" Sakura whispered loudly enough for the group to hear, earning a chuckle from the man with tasseled earrings. A reaction of a virgin is honestly amusing right suo?

already tapping his foot anxiously as he noticed that almost the cafe is filled with women. 'fuck fuck fuck fuck-'

This cutie patotie is scared. but wont admit it.

He felt like he just walked on a tigers den.

"Their cakes are the best-selling. Hiragi wanted us to get one since it's Tsubakino-san's birthday," Nirei explained, causing Sakura to click his tongue in mild annoyance. "Why can't we just buy it at a normal cake shop"

suo who is watching their captain's every movement is amused at the situation.

"That doesn't make sense; they're just wearing some fancy suits," Sakura remarked, unimpressed.

He had some thoughts that what if you were one of the customers here

'.....'

and that created some kind of fog on his lungs and suddenly he felt his head clouded.

it was clear that he kind of not wanted that.

He would be jealous

especially when his eyes landed on a particular butler. The suit was perfectly tailored, fitting the butler like a glove. As the butler helped a lady who had stumbled, a chorus of delighted squeals erupted from nearby women, clearly enamored by his looks and chivalry.

"Wait, that butler looks familiar," Suo echoed Sakura's thoughts as he observed the butler assisting the lady. "H-huh, Y/n-san...?" Nirei suddenly exclaimed as the realization dawned on him. 'huh' Sakura watched you smile sweetly at the ladies. "W-What is that idiot doing here—" "Oh, Y/n-san looks good in a suit. I didn't know she had that kind of hobby," Suo remarked, watching their leader turn red as he looked at you, handsomely serving. 'Surprisingly it suited you' "Eh, did Y/n-san not tell you?" Suo questioned, glancing at Sakura, who shook his head. "No..." Just then, you took an order from the counter. "Y/n, that's a takeout for the Furin boys over there," one of the chefs informed you, making you freeze on the spot. "F-Furin?" you stuttered, slowly looking at the group already watching you. "Damn it," you muttered, deciding to remain professional and maintain the butler façade as you approached their table. "Young masters, your le fraisier cake is served for takeout. Please enjoy," you said, flashing them the same charming smile you usually reserved for the ladies. "O-Oh, thanks, Y/n-san!" Nirei stammered, causing your brow to twitch. 'Fuck, they know.' "You look so handsome, Y/n-san," Suo added, smiling beside Nirei. 'Was that really a compliment?' Then you looked at the half-haired boy, seeing him averting his gaze. "No compliment from you, young master?" you asked, smirking at your boyfriend, who was as red as a tomato. with a big huff, He quickly stood up and made his way to the door, the other two following suit, prompting you to follow them as well. "I shall await your return, young masters," you said, your voice smooth and confident. With a swift, practiced motion, you took Sakura's hand and placed a light kiss on it, earning a startled shriek from him. Your mischievous eyes met his, watching him tremble and turn an even deeper shade of red. 'Just how red can you get?' "Y-You idiot!"

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮KAJI REN ✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮

Won't notice that it was you at first cause this man won't stare at a random dude in the eyes.

Why would he make his way out for just a random dude wearing a cringey cosplay?

Excuse me, that is your girl over there

you didn't inform him about the butler cafe. Cause why? It was embarrassing. uwu

You can't handle any more degradation.

You were honestly fighting demons when you agreed to buy something on the store with this stuffy, uncomfy, cringey outfit.

you prayed to be invisible for a day. The humiliation is eating you inside out, and if your boy found you wearing that, urgh Go bury yourself in some hole.

This boy is a judger. Basically would eye you up and down and his eyebrow would twitch.

He won't be honest with you, he did not want to admit that you honestly looked handsome. Tsundere things...

irritated by the fact that you were an inch taller than him now. What kind of fucking miracle of a shoes did they give you?! He had some urge to burn those shoes away.

The chefs at the café asked you to buy cream from the store, noting how busy the place was with so many customers. On your way back, you got caught up in a fight. Just as you were about to fall, a large hand grabbed your shoulder a bit roughly, steadying you. The familiar scent of sweet vanilla reached your senses. He quickly stood you upright, not daring to look at you directly. Why would he even look at a man? Before you knew it, the fight ended, and the blonde was about to scold you for just walking into a fight. "Hey, what were you doing—" he started, but stopped midway when he realized it was you. "H-Hey—" "What the heck are you wearing?" he asked, his eyes scrutinizing your outfit. "Haha, ain't I handsome?" you said with a grin, flashing him the signature smile that made the ladies at the café squeal. "Have you gone crazy?" he remarked harshly, as expected, making you chuckle awkwardly. "Now now, I'm just helping a friend," you explained, and the blonde in front of you nodded lazily. 'A friend, huh?' "Oops, I still need to give them the cream," you said, glancing at Kaji, who seemed to be watching your every move. He remained silent, appearing somewhat out of it. 'You're going back there in that outift...? seriously?' "Young master, will you give this lowly servant a kiss before I go?" you teased theatrically, causing his eyes to widen and his face to flush a deep red as he tried to hide his embarrassment. You smirked at his reaction, taking the opportunity to grasp his hand and gently remove the lollipop from his mouth, replacing it with a soft peck on the lips. "H-Huh?!" "Sweet," you mumbled just loud enough for him to hear, watching him remain still and red as you placed the lollipop back in his mouth. He looked like he is about to explode. "Just you wait until we get home," he threatened, though his flustered state made it less intimidating. "Oops," you thought, quickly turning and running back to the café as fast as possible.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・UMEMIYA HAJIME・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

A big ball of sunshine here.

Hajime was shocked when he just saw a random dude wearing a fancy suit walking by.

"What a fancy guy" he remarked as he continued eyeing the guy.

but looking up close, His smile widened.

He honestly loved how you look so good in that butler outfit.

But why didn't you told him at least? This big boy's kokoro is hurt urgh. and yeah, you forgot to tell him since you were busy contemplating your life decision.

He might ask you to cross dress again. oh god no.

But then again you'd already lost your dignity the moment you agreed to this, so what was there to lose now? still no.

looking at you again, ah- How badly he wanted to just keep you to himself.

Doesn't mind the PDA that much so when he approached you, he quickly locked his arms on your waist.

Remember, there are furin boys all over the town-

"Eh, I-Is that Hajime-senpai—" one of the Furin-coated boys stammered, eyes widening as they saw their strong captain kissing a... man? A butler, specifically? "Shit, should we tell Y/n-san?" "I-I'm not sure." "But how do we tell her?" Click "I'll keep a picture in case she doesn't believe me." "Wait, let's just pretend we didn't see anything." Meanwhile, you glared at the white-haired man in front of you. Your eyebrows twitched in annoyance. How the hell are you not even taller than your man despite wearing these huge ass heels? You still looked small standing next to him, frustratingly unable to match his height, unlike how you towered over some of the ladies. "Hajime, I still need to go back," you said, trying to remove the strong arms of the man in front of you. "Hmmm... I want a hug from my butler," he cooed, nestling his head against your neck. "No, we're outside, Hajime," you whispered, but he simply hummed in response. "You're too handsome, I'm getting jealous," you heard him pout against your neck, making you sigh in disbelief. "I'm wearing makeup."

"Still." You cupped his cheeks, and he finally stopped nestling into your neck, making you smile softly. "My dearest lord, may you permit this lowly servant of yours to return to tending his duties?" you said, slipping back into your butler persona. You took his hand and placed it gently on your cheek. "Such a devoted servant," he replied with a grin, finally releasing you but not before planting another kiss on your forehead. "Don't make me wait too long." You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips. "I won't. Now behave while I'm gone."

____ A day passed, and the usual buzz of activity surrounded you. Some of the Furin boys approached you, their curiosity evident. "Y/n-san, are you alright with our captain?" one of them asked, a hint of concern in his voice. You shrugged it off with a smile. "It's the same as usual," you replied casually. But then, one of them pulled out his phone and showed you a picture. Your eyes widened in shock as you saw the image of you and Hajime kissing while you were in your butler outfit. You forced an awkward smile, your mind racing. 'I-I can't say I'm the one he's kissing right...?'

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆TOGAME JO⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

This sly dog. Although I don't mind, arf arf.

He was drinking ramune when a handsome dude passed him by.

"Cosplay....?" he mused slowly, noticing the man's attire wasn't just an ordinary suit. His gaze followed the man, who had paused because a cat was blocking his path.

How heart warming it is to see a guy wearing a fancy suit to stop infront of the cat just to pet it. I mean who can't resist the furballs?

He had thoughts on how the hell did the guy handle the heat despite wearing such layers?

Cause if he was wearing one, He's sure He'd rip it hours ago.

and when he caught a glimpse of the face- 'Huh?'

He did kind of contemplate if that was really you. I mean you looked more... handsome?

His smirk widened as he confirmed it was you by the distinctive placement of your moles.

Slowly and unnoticed, he walked up to you. Just as you stood to return to the café, you were suddenly pinned against a nearby wall.

you shriek as you slowly opened your eyes to see the perpetrator.

"Hey, prince charming," the deep voice of Togame made you flinch and look directly into his eyes. His glasses slightly hid his amused gaze.

"Jo! Are you really serious?" you said in disbelief, sighing in relief that it wasn't one of the creepy dudes.

He brushed off your comment, continuing to eye you with a playful intensity.

"Looking hot, ain't ya?" he smirked as you shrank under his gaze, still pinned against the wall.

"You think so too?" you smiled sheepishly, the corners of your mouth lifting as the man before you giggled.

"I can't believe I've been dating a man this whole time," he joked, his voice mockingly disheartened.

You chuckled softly, reaching up to grab his chin.

"Young lord, would a kiss suffice as an apology?"

Your eyes glistened with mischief, catching him off guard with your sudden change of attitude. Who knew you had this cheeky side too?

You sure do like testing his limits as he leaned in closer to you.

"I don't think a kiss would... suffice," he said slowly, his breath warm against your skin.

Your heart raced as you felt the heat of his body pressing closer.

He leaned in, his lips barely brushing yours, teasing and testing your resolve.

"I think you'll need to do a lot more than that to make it up to me,"

With a sudden, bold move, you closed the gap between you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was both soft and demanding. The intensity of the moment made your heart race, but you pulled away before things could escalate further.

"My break is about to end," you said, noting the disappointment in his eyes despite the lingering smile on his lips.

"Eh... ditch it," he replied casually. You pecked his lips again, and with a swift movement, you slipped past his hold.

A cheeky smile escaped your lips as you glanced back.

"no can do,"

He watched your figure fade into the distance, a mixture of amusement and something darker in his gaze.

"right...I'll see you later anyway,"

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Happy New Year! (Yandere!Fortune Teller x GN!Reader)

A delighted squeal sharply cut through the quiet chatter of the line for the fortune teller. It was a small little illegal shop that popped up overnight and was all over (Reader's) feed. Their best friend, and the reason why they were outside in the cold so early, tugged on their coat sleeve.

"They must have gotten a good one." She smiled playfully, and still a little drunk.

The fortune teller was apparently incredibly accurate. Even skeptics had been posting all morning about how this guy was able to tell them full names of people in their lives and dates of events that already happened he shouldn't have been able to guess on the first try.

"Missy, it's cold as hell.." (Reader) whined, their head also hurting a tad bit from the amount their friend had them drink a few hours earlier to welcome the new year. ".. and I just want a burrito."

Missy clicked her long acrylics in front of (Reader's) face. "And I want a girlfriend. C'mon, just a few more minutes! Please! You don't even have to get your fortune done, just stay with me, emotional support!" She huffed and stamped her boots while dramatically letting her arms fall to her sides heavy enough to make a loud whump against her coat.

They knew their friend wasn't actually a brat, but it was a fun little "act" ; she enjoyed putting on, especially when she was all dolled up (as she called it). So, as what usually happens, (Reader) rolled their eyes theatrically in a show of pretending to give in. The woman with the pink and blonde fashion wig smiled wide and squeezed (Reader's) arm lovingly.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first, (Reader) thought that the man was a mannequin. A beautiful body propped up at a table, with a veil over the top of his head and silk clothes, but other than the fact that he was beautiful, there was something too basic about his features and too perfect about his skin to be human. Like a mall mannequin: with a dusty pale skin tone with zero blemishes or imperfections, his eyebrows looked so fine that they were maybe painted on, and the blonde hair under the veil was so light in color, (Reader) thought he was bald and that the lightly golden coloring was more silk.

Yes, he was beautiful, but looking at him was uncomfortable, like people describing the uncanny valley of robots.

He opened his eyes, revealing dull grey irises, that helped humanized him (at least, in (Reader's) opinion).

"Welcome, Miranda and (Reader)." His voice was also weirdly perfect, making (Reader's) skin crawl, but looking over at Missy they saw she didn't feel anything other than awe.

"Ohmygawd, how did you know our names?!"

He smiled very softly. "It's my job." A thin hand with long, delicate fingers motioned for the two friends to sit before him.

As the cards were laid out (Reader) allowed their mind to wander. Not only did the guy in front of them weird them out, but they believed that fortune tellers were scam artists. They knew it could be fun to just see what your future might look like, and wanted to be respectful for people who actually believed in tarot and stuff like that, but people setting up businesses promising to read your future and then just reading some generic script then charging you a hundred bucks is how you get vulnerable people to fork over their life savings. (Reader) only agreed to go because to make sure the "fortune teller" didn't try and change the price on Missy or sell her a bunch of unnecessary shit.

The man clapped loudly, startling (Reader) back into focus. "You will meet a woman this year.

You will meet her in two months, at the book store across from your job. The two of you will be searching for the same book, and it will feel like fate. Don't be afraid to ask her out for coffee, because she'd love to discuss the series with you."

Long nails scratch the back of (Reader's) hand as Missy impulsively grabs it. "Are you.. sure she's.. y'know..." she raised her eyebrows.

The man looked puzzled for a second before responding with, "The ending you always wanted for NaNa."

Missy nearly cracked her neck turning to (Reader) as quickly as she did, whining happily "Oh my god...." before burying her face in their chest. Then (Reader) felt the tears, and realized Missy was more drunk and exhausted than they realized.

"Uh, thanks, did she already pay, or?"

"Would you like your fortune read now?"

He seemed unfazed by Missy's minor meltdown.

"Ah, no thanks."

"I'll give it to you free. Call it a two for one deal."

Alarm bells were ringing in their head. "Why?"

He was silent for a second, like he was listening to something, just as he was when he told Missy she was going to be living out her headcannon fantasy. "Something's just telling me I should give you a fortune reading."

Missy wiped snot across (Reader's) chest before raising her head. "Oh, are you getting read too?"

"What? N-"

"Can we get burritos after this?"

They looked down at their best friend in the entire world, and sighed. "Yeah, if it's completely free."

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even compelling completely scrunched up in concentration, there was a concerning lack of wrinkles, leading (Reader) to the conclusion that if this man was in fact human, he most certainly had botox.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open wide. He looked up at (Reader), staring deep into them without blinking.

"What?"

He didn't answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. But his face began to change into an odd shade of pink.

The wig wearing woman loudly gasped "IS THEY DYING?!" while clutching (Reader's) arm in mock horror.

"I'm not dying!" (Reader) shoved their friend off, feeling overwhelmed by their current situation.

The fortune teller reached across the table, and without asking, grabbed one of (Reader's) hands, observing their palm intensely. But he could only do so for a second before they yanked their arm back and stood up.

"Missy, let's go, I told you this guy was a fucking scammer."

Like a switch had been flipped, Missy held up her middle finger and called the man a creep, apologetic for not trusting her best friend. "Why did he grab you like that? So gross!"

The two left. They would later get burritos and watch half a movie before passing out. This moment was creepy, but ultimately, nothing to them.

He had always been gifted.

But when they left the gifted medium on the floor, images of what he had just been shown were still fresh in his mind.

The tarot cards were a gimmick, just there because that's something people associate with being able to see the past, present, and future. Was he a scam artist? Maybe, to some. He never gave people the fortunes they didn't want to hear, and only reminded them of memories they liked. You don't get tipped if you tell someone their child is going to die. And we all need money.

Then (Reader) came into his pop up shop, another skeptic, and he figured if gave them a reading for free and made it really good they would be the type of person to tip him out of guilt. But for their future all he saw was... him.

Him?

He had never thought about himself. He was creepy and disgusting. His presence made people uncomfortable. If he focuses hard enough he can speak to the dead. No one wants to be friends with that. No one wants to love that.

No future is set in stone. There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities, and he can see them all. And while (Reader) sat in front of him, staring at him with their beautifully tired eyes, he searched through every single one.

It was.. exciting, he had to admit, seeing himself with someone. He didn't know this person at all, but it wasn't hard to feel some kind of affection for them seeing a future where they felt affection for Him.

He couldn't even remember the last time someone willing held his hand. Maybe when he had to cross the street with his mother? No, she required him to wear gloves.

While staring at his client, he couldn't help but watch their entire life. He was supposed to look through their memories briefly to get a sense of the "past", but like time didn't exist, he watched their entire life play out. They made him feel things.

Even when (Reader) called him a scammer, he still loved them. After all, he did kind of lie by omission to their best friend: Missy's new relationship would only last five months.

But it was okay if they thought he was creepy or a scam artist. Because he already saw the future.

And he knew every single correct step to take to make sure they were smiling at him like they were in that vision.

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Happy New Year everyone!!!!!!

Let's hope that this upcoming year is better than the last!

I'm a really pessimistic person, so I'm trying to be hopeful. I'm also trying to find ways to reduce stress since I can't afford to take care of my mental health (haha). I'm getting white hairs. White. Ain't that crazy? It's stressful trying to not stress out lol

Does anyone else play future telling games on New Year? As a kid my family would all play MASH to see what our future is going to be like hahaha and a lot of my younger coworkers this year were talking about eating grapes under tables? Very cute <3

I hope you all had a great new year, and didn't get too drunk, stay hydrated, and if you have and future telling game memories for me years tell me about it!

Let's make 2025 better than 2024!

[etherealily]

𝕓𝕦𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 // 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗱𝗮𝗶𝗿.

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader, brother's best friend (ahhh!), you don't get it, i love this man

Warning: Cuss words .

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics

Desc. : Finnick makes quite an impression.

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

"Hey, what's up, man, if you could just pack up- oh."

You don't even have to turn to know just who in the hell was standing in front of the window of your family's bakery. And this is the one day you decide not to care about how frosting-splattered your apron is, how flour-smeared your hands are. So your brother wasn't lying. He really was all buddy-buddy with Finnick fucking Odair. And this was the one Thursday you decide to actually fill in for him.

"Uh, be right out, sir."

Sir? Sir? Did you really just call him Sir? Well, I mean, yeah, he's a customer, but still... sir? That's too fake. He's going to wig out, he's going to-

"Of course. Take your time. I'm in no rush."

-Be uncharacteristically patient. Hm. Weird. Odd.

Quickly patting off the flour on your hands and watching the flakes fall onto the counter, you wipe your palms roughly on your apron, turning around.

His eyes are fucking ethereal. It's everything you can do to not immediately think of how you would go about replicating the sea-green of them into a frosting colour, or something. However, you decide, it'd be very hard, seeing as there were a kaleidoscope of other hues in there, a tinge of gold, here and there, like flecks of stardust, for one.

The muscles at the front of his arms - across his chest, as he stands - clench, as though he's tightening them. And then you realise : he's waiting.

"So sorry for the wait. How can I help you?"

"Who are you?"

What ?

"Excuse me?"

"Not interrogating you.", he informs you, raising a hand to cut you short. The fucking audacity . "Never seen you before."

"Well, you're seeing me now."

"How do I know you're not just someone stealing from the store?", he inquires, in mock concern. His eyebrows raise just slightly, playfully, even, as he trains his eyes on yours.

Does he also think about how he can replicate the colours in other people's eyes, or is he normal?

"Uh, I've got a key , for one.", you retort, jiggling the keys that you've shoved deep into your apron's pocket.

He shrugs, interlocking his fingers tightly as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. "Could be stolen."

"I'm the owner's daughter, Y/N ?"

"Insufficient proof of that.", he shoots back, teeth grazing ever so slightly on his bottom lip as he battles a smirk. "C'mon, do better than that. I'm this close to calling the Peacekeepers, y'know?"

"I can bake a cake?", you suggest, unsure why you're even going along with this.

Oh right, because he's Finnick Odair.

"So can I.", he replies, now resting his elbow down on the windowsill of that godforsaken window your family sold their goods from. You'd always thought it was cute, but now, with the lack of a counter between the two of you, like the normal bakeries, you were resenting the idea. "You're not really selling your identity, you know?"

"I'm literally baking a cake right now.", you exclaim, pointing at your clothes and the oven in which a hopefully delicious cake was rising. "What kind of pathetic thief would help the store they're stealing from?"

"You could be trying to blend in."

"Okay, look, I don't care what you think, Sir. I'm the owner of this place, so you either get your goods or go."

"Good.", he chuckles, softly, although his tone turns slightly, seamlessly more serious. "That's good. That's the response you give, you got that?"

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What?"

"If someone ever makes you doubt who you are, if someone ever...", he swallows, licking his lips for a moment, looking away before continuing, "... ever forces an identity on you. I don't care what you think, I know who I am . That's what you say."

"You came all the way here, did all that, just to... teach me a life lesson?"

"You don't like it? Come on, that was a cool segue, you gotta admit.", he asks, clearly shoving whatever else he was feeling into the back burner as he snickers.

"Threatening to call the Peacekeepers on me? Oh, yeah, that's very cool ."

"Hey, I managed to get your name, didn't I? Doubt you'd have let me get that far any other way."

Not true. You'd have given him your name. Hell, you'd have given up your last name for him, had he asked normally.

"And what do you need my name for?"

"I don't know.", he shrugs, palpably pushing any dirty responses he might've had away. "Maybe I just want to know?"

"You must have a reason."

"You know what, yeah, usually, I have a reason for everything.", he replies, giving you the charming smile you've seen on television almost a thousand times. "But this time, I don't."

That was so infuriatingly expected. Of course Finnick Odair couldn't have just fucking asked for your name like a normal person.

"Do you at least have a reason as to why you're at my store?"

"Your family's store, sweetie, and yeah, I do.", he says, pointing at a tray of half-a-dozen shimmery blue cupcakes with the number '4' frosted boastfully onto them. "Pack those up for me, will you? My order."

"Insufficient proof of that.", you reply, crossing your arms and mirroring his position from when he'd said those words. "Unless you've got a receipt, which we don't give to urgent orders so there's no chance you could have one , I don't see how you're walking away from here with them."

He laughs, heartily, nodding as though impressed. "Funny. Look, let's not make this more complicated than it should be, yeah? You're a pissed off, whiny little girl who can't take a joke, and I'm Finnick Odair. Just give me the cupcakes."

You scoff, audibly scoff at that. The nerve of him. "I'm not a little girl."

"Your brother tells me you cry when you see butterflies? Like... full-on bawl?"

You'd fucking murder your brother the next time you saw him, that was for sure.

"They're ethereal, and very rare."

"They're insects.", he reasons, shaking his head as he rests his head on his palm, tilting his head and gazing at you condescendingly, like you really were a child.

"Shut up."

He snorts, softly. "Give me the damn cupcakes, sweetie."

"Or what, you'll seduce me into giving them to you?"

His face falls, for a moment, his grin faltering. Then, with a sigh that was an infuriating mix of amused, disappointed and enigmatic, he nods. "That's what I'm known for, right? I could do it, you know? Really effectively, too."

"That wouldn't work on me."

"Give me the damn cupcakes, Y/N."

"How do I know you've paid for them?"

"You'll have to take my word for it. It's called trust, ever heard of it?"

"It's called not being a pompous asshole, ever heard of it?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you turn your back to him, bringing the tray over to the window sill. "Brought your own bag?"

He nods, a slightly triumphant smile - that you choose to ignore, thank you very much - on his face as he hands it to you, then nodding to the bag. "It's all the rage in the Capitol, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I see the Capitol freaks with it all the time on TV.", you mutter, gently bringing out each cupcake and placing them in each indent in the box you'd brought out. "Any embellishments you want before I put them in the bag?"

"Like a bow or something?"

"Yeah, like a bow, a card, some extra sprinkles taped to the box.", you shrug, feigning nonchalance. The urge to draw him was getting way too strong, and it was the most peculiar feeling ever - one you'd never felt before. Capturing him, in a way the cameras he was always swarmed by never could, that would be perfect.

"Yeah, card would be nice."

"What would you like on it?", you ask, sliding a card over from the cardboard box overflowing with them, as you click open a pen.

He raises a brow. "Do you have good handwriting?"

You tsk, shoving the pen in his face. "Here, you do it, then."

He giggles, mischief swirling in his eyes as he takes the pen from you. "Probably best." He clears his throat, dramatically, giving you a matter-of-fact look before he begins writing. "Dear President Snow, wishing you a Happy Reaping Day, with a delicacy from District Four- uh, what do you call these, sweetie?"

"Cupcakes?"

"Something cooler." He narrows his eyes at you, tapping the pen on the counter.

"Cupcakes from the Bakery Around The Corner? Seriously, this is District Four, we're not the Capitol - we don't have fancy icing and a quirky little name for each of our orders."

"Yeah, but he does this thing where each year, you have to bring a new delicacy from your District.", he mutters, a slight scoff present in his voice. "Reaping Day special. So I need a cool name."

Interesting. That almost sounded like resentment, from the Golden Boy to the President.

"I'm flattered you consider my cupcakes delicacies."

"Okay, look, your cupcakes are good, delicious, even, but they're not delicacies.", he reminds, keeping the stream of insults you were throwing at each other going. "I just need to give him something other than seafood this year, apparently."

"Well, that's stupid. We're the fishing district."

"Like he gives a flying fuck. What Coriolanus Snow wants, Coriolanus Snow gets."

You snort, covering your mouth. "That's his name?"

"What, did you think it was President ?", he asks, still not looking up from the card as he spins the pen around between his fingers - both calloused and delicate, preserved and wild.

"No, I thought it'd be something more normal."

He tsks. "Seriously, come up with a name for these things."

"They're for you , so call them Odairs, or something, I don't know. Should stroke your ego, too, so it's a win-win."

"These are supposed to be delicacies. Like, a form of pride among our people. I can't name them after me, no matter how awesome that would be.", he adds, with a slight grin.

"Whores from District Four.", you chuckle, shaking your head. "Call them that."

"Why, 'cause I'm the 'Whore from Four' ?", he asks, smirking. "That's a no-no word, you know?"

"Yeah, well, my patience is thinning with you, Odair."

He snickers, softly, chewing the inside of his cheek, still staring at the card. "You know what, fuck it. Whores it is."

"Really? Just go with no card."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, a card is expected.", he sighs, spinning the pen around. "I should just call them whores. But, you know, spelt with an 'h'. What's he gonna do, ask around the District 4 marketplace for 'hores'?"

You laugh. "Hey, if that works...", you salute him, nodding. He writes with soft, almost enchanting strokes, and then signs his name.

"Thanks, Y/N.", he adds, after you finish taping the note precisely to the centre of the box's lid, before gently lowering it into his Capitol bag. "If this works, I'm paying you extra."

"If President Snow comes around asking for my District-famous 'hores', I'll pay you extra."

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

The muffled rush of the waterfall, and the feathery tufts of grass you were laying on almost help you enjoy life , for once, and help you forget that Reaping Day is tomorrow. Almost.

"You know you're not supposed to be out here, right, sugar?"

And then suddenly, the 4 o'clock sun isn't the thing that's blinding your senses.

It's him, instead.

Towering over you, almost gleaming hair threatening to spill over and disrupt the calm in the pool of his eyes, he tilts his head mockingly.

"I know."

He gapes in mock scandal. "Aren't you the little rebel?", he muses, raising a brow in amusement before offering you his hand.

You grab it, and he hauls you up with admirable ease. "Your cupcakes were a hit, sweetie. Absolute hit.", he informs, with the twinkly grin that comes with being Finnick Odair.

His mildly calloused hand still grips yours tightly.

"I see. You're welcome."

He shrugs, nodding. "Yeah, I suppose you deserve the thanks."

The silence sweeps past you, the only sounds embossed in both of your hushed breaths, in the gentle songs of birds, the faint roar of the waterfall, and suddenly, his voice, smooth as a wave embracing the shore.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

When Finnick Odair asks you to trust him, you do. Rule number one of the rule book of... well, life.

"If you take me to some Capitol party-"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I promise, the last place I'm ever taking you is the Capitol. In fact, it can be said I'm doing the exact opposite."

You raise a brow. "What, you're taking me in the opposite direction? As far away from the Capitol as possible?"

His eyes dart around, above, behind and beside you, before they finally land on yours, and he nods, slowly, hesitantly. "Yeah, exactly.", he muses, his words drawn out as if he was unsure of them, too.

Bad sign.

"You're taking me out the borders?", you hiss, lowering your voice and glaring sharply at him. "That's illegal, Golden Boy."

"Don't call me that. Not here, in District 4."

You scoff. The audacity running through his veins was insufferable. "I'll call you whatever I damn want to. You trying to get me killed or turned into an Avox?"

"I'm trying to show you something!", he snaps, using his tense grasp on your hand to draw you closer, so that your foreheads were borderline touching. See, this was bad, this was bad, this was-

"Just let me!", he continues, his voice almost pleading. "You think I don't know it's Reaping Day tomorrow? That you could get picked to go die in the Games?"

"No, you're just the one helping us go die."

"You shut up.", he hisses, a finger in your face. "Don't say things you know nothing about. I'm a mentor."

"Did you even try with the tributes from last year? Or the year before that? Because I heard that-"

"What you heard is fucking-", he cuts himself short, taking a deep breath. "Please. Just follow me. For the love of God.", he orders, gently tugging you along.

Not like you even wanted to pull away - this was Finnick Odair.

"What is it you love most about District 4?"

"What?"

"District 4. What is it you love most about it?"

"It's home.", you shrug. "What else is there?"

"Yeah, but I mean, with time, any place is home. Have you never wanted to leave, to explore?"

It's times like these you realize your parents' bakery isn't that important- you'd sell the whole thing to figure out what was going on in that angelic head of his. His words lilting through your senses like sea-breeze.

"I'm exploring as much as I can right now."

He pauses for a moment, turning around. Dimples. "I'm glad I can be your guide, then."

Shut the fuck up, freak of nature. Stop with your beautiful words.

You almost say that. You don't, though.

"Okay, can you jump for me?"

"Jump?", you ask, looking over his shoulder at the huge gap between the part of the rock you were on, and the one you were supposed to go to. "No way."

"Come on, you can do it.", he says, leaping over the humongous gap as if he were playing hopscotch. "I'll catch you."

That's not the part you're worried about. The part you're worried about is you chickening out in front of the Finnick Odair. The interviews he would go through.

'Oh, yes, Hunger Games or not, tragic deaths have always been part of my everyday. Just the other week, a girl I knew slipped near a waterfall and plummeted to her death. Tragic. But I got over it because I'm Finnick Odair. I'm hot. And rich. And did I mention, hot?'

The entire nation wouldn't mourn you. It'd mourn the fact that poor Darling Finnick Odair had to watch you die.

"I don't know about this, Odair."

"Trust me."

That's the second time this man had asked you to trust him tonight. Rule of life.

"I swear, it'll be worth it. Take a leap of faith. Literally."

You grimace, pursing your lips. Your eyes move-

"Don't!", he yells, suddenly, waving his hand from across the abyss so your eyes land on it. "DON'T look down. Just look at me. Leap to me."

Reach for his eyes. Those pools of moss green and cerulean blue that make you want to embrace and destroy the planet for being able to create something so perfect.

It takes a couple of seconds for you to convince yourself he'll catch you. It's an excuse to look at his muscles, yeah, but still, he's strong enough. He'll catch you.

I won't die in front of Finnick Odair.

And you leap.

Instantly, your feet slip on the wet rock on the other side, and you grip onto Finnick's shoulders as he wraps his arms around you.

"Toldja."

"Shut up. I almost died."

"So dramatic.", he chuckles, gently letting go of you as he leads you further behind the waterfall, the tufts of grass on which you lay now faintly visible through the gushing water between you and them.

"There's a tiny cave kind of thing here. Look."

You squint, kneeling down in front of the entrance.

"Don't be shy. Come in."

You crouch down, taking his hand as he leads you further into the cave, walking gingerly until you see a tiny pool, illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight spilling through from a crack in the stone above.

Good god.

And around it, as though crafted for you, placed for your perusal, were hordes of glass-blue butterflies, fragile, delicate, and oh-so-ethereal, twirling around each other, bathed in all directions by the beam of light, which flowed through their transparent wings.

Finnick Odair, marry me.

"So?", he asks, breath gently brushing your ear. "What do you think?" The eagerness in his eyes was obvious, as though he were a child showing you the scribbles he'd just made.

"I..."

"I thought, y'know, I mean, I get excited about the ocean, so there's no reason for you not to get excited about butterflies."

"How did you find this place?", you ask, breathless.

"That's a secret."

Your eyes are transfixed onto the flapping of wings, the distribution of gold, the surreality of it all. It's almost godly. It's so breathtaking, you genuinely need to sit down. He sits with you.

"Are you scared for tomorrow?"

"That's a secret."

He smiles, softly, though the sadness in his expression is palpable and inevitable. It irks you. The way he is supposed to be, according to you, is spinning around the shoreline, laughing as he dances with the waves, sand on his hands and knees, a tan kissing his skin. That's how he must remain, and that is how you will draw him, if you ever get to.

After a tiny while, though, he leans back, against the rock behind him, eyes still trained on your awe as you watch the butterflies glide around blissfully, before looking out, at the curtain of water flowing and concealing the entrance of this little slice of paradise he'd found for you.

"You know, you could just stay here till tomorrow. You don't even have to go to Reaping Day."

"Oh, yeah, because that's smart. I'll be arrested."

"Then just don't go back."

"Leave my family to get punished?"

"Please tell me you didn't need tesserae."

"Well, before you, barely anyone from our District won, and if they did, they most definitely didn't share."

He groans, running his hands over his face. "So it's not even a fair chance."

You shake your head. "It's fine, though." Has been for five years.

He scoffs, borderline laughing at you, derisively. "Please elaborate."

"If you managed to find the one tiny place on earth where butterflies still thrive, and it happened to be here, by the waterfall I spent my whole life admiring, then, there's a chance I won't be reaped."

"You're extraordinary. Genuinely. Phenomenal. Splendid. Fabulous. Amazing." Was that awe in his voice? Awe at... you? What you just said?

"Are you buttering me up because I might be picked to die tomorrow?"

"I'm buttering you up because you're incredible."

Drawing him isn't enough.

Sonnets, prose, stories, love songs, ballads.

Those would be enough.

"If I get reaped, you better mentor me good."

"If you get reaped, you'll win. I'll get you sponsors, I'll train you so that you'll be an absolute force to reckon with."

The promises are beautiful and fragile and absolutely ludicrous. But that would be the name of his biography.

"If I survive, we're coming here every day."

It's like you've already resigned yourself to the fact that you were going to get chosen.

"You're a Career. You'll be fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Silence suddenly enters the cave.

"We should go."

Both of you say it, both of you agree, and both of you get up.

"Thank you, Finnick."

His name tastes oddly sweet coming out of your mouth. However, the next moment shows that his lips taste even sweeter.

His fucking dimples.

"C'mon. I think this time, leaping will be easier."

What he means by that, you don't know.

Not like you want to, not immediately. Spending your whole life trying to figure him out seemed like a solid career plan.

You leap again.

[jellyfishsthings]

The Marks We Leave

WARNINGS: The second part (lets gooo!!!), this is a bit funnier, character and friendship development (shock), the reader becomes a teacher (*gasps*), Sirius' mendling, students mendling as well, Sirius being a bad influence (he becomes a Quidditch Coach)

part 1, navigation

July 1978 – One Week After Graduation

The envelope landed on your breakfast plate with a sound like a slap, splattering yolk across the table. Your heart lurched against your ribs as if sensing the blow before your mind caught up. For a moment, all you could do was stare at it—parchment crisp, Ministry seal glinting—while the walls of Grimmauld Place seemed to close in, tighter and tighter.

"Ministry Internship Offer – Department of Magical Law Enforcement"

Walburga's smile was all teeth. "Your future, girl. Orion pulled strings."

You didn't need Legilimency to read the subtext: Becoming an Auror means becoming our puppet.

That night, you found:

Your personal books vanished (replaced with Sacred Twenty-Eight Genealogies)

Your potions kit confiscated ("Unseemly for a lady")

A silver bracelet charmed to monitor your movements

The note read: "Wear this or face consequences."

You left it on your pillow as you climbed out the window, heart hammering with both terror and exhilaration.

A brief flash of memory haunted you as you dropped onto the garden path: Orion’s hand tightening on your shoulder the day you accidentally bested him in a debate. Walburga’s furious whisper: Know your place, girl.

You didn’t look back.

Diagon Alley Attic Flat – August 1978

The room cost 15 Galleons a week. You paid for it by:

Brewing Pepper-Up Potions for dodgy apothecaries (Knockturn Alley didn't ask for licenses)

Translating cursed runes for Borgin & Burkes (barely dodging a mummy's curse)

Selling your hair to a wig maker (who didn't need to know it was Black family hair)

When the landlord banged on your door demanding rent, you:

Repaired his broken stairs with a wandless charm (he took 5 Galleons off)

Convinced him you were a war widow (the black mourning robes helped)

Considered obliviation (but even you had limits)

The attic flat wasn’t a home—it was a hiding place.

You noticed the smells first:

Damp wood from the leaking roof, a sour tang that clung to your robes.

Burnt potions from last night’s botched Pepper-Up brew, the acrid sting of over-boiled mandrake root.

Mothballs and dust, because the previous tenant had apparently been a century old.

Then the sounds:

Muffled shouts from Knockturn Alley below—"I ain’t payin’ for cursed goods!"—followed by the sharp crack of Apparition.

Rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers, finding every weak spot in the shingles. A steady plink-plink-plink into the cauldron you’d set under the worst leak.

Scratching inside the walls. Rats or something worse. You didn’t investigate.

And the feel:

The drafty window, its warped frame refusing to shut fully. You’d cast Reparo three times before admitting defeat. Now you just stuffed the gap with a stolen Daily Prophet.

The grit of the floorboards underfoot, rough as a Kneazle’s tongue. No amount of Scourgify could lift the grime of decades.

The weight of the silver bracelet you’d left behind, its absence like a ghost around your wrist.

You curled tighter under your threadbare blanket.

The silence was worse than the cold. It crept in slowly at first, a low hum behind the daily scrounging and spellwork. But as the weeks wore on, it grew teeth. It gnawed at the edges of your mind, filled the cracks in your resolve, and made the lonely flat seem cavernous. You caught yourself starting conversations aloud, half-hoping for an answer that never came. You missed:

Remus' sarcastic notes in the library

Sirius' dramatic entrances

Even Peeves' annoying rhymes

Just you, a leaking roof, and the gnawing question: What now?

Spinner's End Primary School – September 1978

The Muggles didn't ask questions when you volunteered to tutor struggling readers.

Real Reason #1: The children's wide-eyed wonder when you "guessed" their favorite colors (simple Legilimency)

Real Reason #2: The way their laughter drowned out Walburga's voice in your head

Real Reason #3: Ten-year-old Liam handing you a scribbled note: "You shud be a reel teacher"

That night, you stared at the Hogwarts letter you'd never sent:

"Dear Professor Dumbledore, I wish to apply for—"

You burned it. (Again.)

Your hands shook longer this time.

August 1978 – One Month After Graduation

The first owl arrived at your shabby London flat at 3:17 AM, its talons scraping against the fire escape.

You nearly hexed it before recognizing the familiar, precise handwriting:

"Black – Found this in 'Advanced Defensive Magic' and thought you'd appreciate the margin notes. The author clearly never met you. Page 42 proves your theory about counter-curse harmonics was right all along. Don't let it go to your head.

R.J.L."

Tucked inside was a chocolate frog card of Cassandra Vablatsky.

You wrote back immediately: "Lupin – Vablatsky's theories are outdated. Page 42 is basic. Turn to page 157 for what actual brilliance looks like. (Though I suppose even you can't be right all the time.)"

You added a dried fluxweed leaf as bookmark.

You didn’t admit it aloud, but you tucked that first letter under your pillow.

October 1978 – Full Moon Night

The pounding at your door came past midnight.

Remus stood on your doorstep, bleeding through his shirt, eyes wild with post-transformation haze.

"Safe house compromised," he rasped.

You didn't ask questions. For a half-second, you hesitated—because letting anyone past your threshold wasn't something you did lightly anymore. You tightened your grip on the doorframe, heart hammering, trust and fear locked in brutal stalemate.

But one look at Remus' battered face, and you shoved doubt aside.

You yanked him inside and went to work:

Dittany on the worst gashes

A stolen pain potion from your last St. Mungo's visit

Your only clean towel sacrificed to bandages

"Why help me?" His voice was raw, like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had.

You stirred the soup you’d conjured, the steam curling between you. "Page 157."

A beat. Then his laugh broke into a cough, wet and painful. You passed him the stolen pain potion, watching his throat bob as he swallowed.

Later, when he finally slept, you learned two things:

Werewolves steal blankets, curling around them like they’re trying to armor themselves against the world.

Remus Lupin murmurs in his sleep—half-formed words, too quiet to decipher. You leaned closer. Still couldn’t tell if it was a spell or a plea.

You stayed awake, listening to the rustle of his breathing, the drip of the dittany bottle, and wondering when exactly you started trusting him more than your own family.

October 1978 – Diagon Alley

You stared at the Daily Prophet ad with disbelief. "You're joking."

"'Defense Instructor Wanted – Must Enjoy Children?'" Remus sipped his tea, his lips curling into a smirk. "Hogwarts is hiring."

"Teach together?" You let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Flitwick would resign within a week."

Remus’ grin faded, and his gaze turned inward, more distant. "They’d never hire me anyway. Not with..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair, the words left unspoken between you. The thing neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You slammed the paper down, frustrated and filled with a sudden surge of righteous defiance. "Then we start our own damn school."

A nearby witch inched away, her pumpkin juice spilling in her haste.

The tension lingered in the air, thick, unspoken. For a moment, you both sat there in the uncomfortable silence that followed, the weight of what you’d just suggested pulling down on you both like an anchor.

"Maybe you're right," Remus said, voice softer. The weight of his earlier words hung in the air, unresolved. "Maybe the world isn't ready for us to teach."

But then he looked at you—really looked at you—and something passed between you both. A silent agreement. A mutual understanding that nothing in the world could keep the two of you from going after this ridiculous dream, together.

The Safe House – November 1978

The rain had been relentless all evening, pattering against the cottage windows like it was trying to break through, and yet the fire inside had never seemed more inviting. You sat, hunched over the table, staring at the blinking VCR like it was a dark omen.

"This box tells stories without magic?" You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Remus chuckled, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the faded scars on his arms. The scars you had come to know so well over the last few months. "Better. It shows them." He patted the spot beside him, his voice warm, inviting you closer. "Come sit before you hex it."

You eyed the contraption suspiciously. "If this is some werewolf prank—"

But then the screen flickered to life, and you froze.

0:03 Minutes In

You jumped in your seat, wide-eyed. "Merlin’s beard—is that real stars?"

Remus’ shoulder shook with laughter as he leaned closer. "Just wait."

0:12 Minutes In

Your eyes narrowed. "That’s not how space works!" You were already on your feet, popcorn flying as you gestured at the screen, ranting about hyperspace physics.

0:47 Minutes In

"LIAR! No sword can do that!" You were too wrapped up in the scene to realize you’d conjured a handful of popcorn that was floating above your head like a shimmering cloud.

Remus caught your wrist, pulling you back down beside him, his grin a mixture of admiration and mischief. "It’s called a lightsaber. And you’re adorable when you’re wrong."

By the time Han Solo smirked onto the screen, you realized something—something profound. You hadn’t been that carefree in... well, in far too long. You could almost taste the possibility in the air—the potential for joy in your life again.

And when you stole Remus' jumper for warmth, he didn’t say a word, just let you wear it. The small, unspoken intimacy made you feel like you might just be getting the life you’d wanted all along.

When the credits rolled, you sat stunned.

"Muggles," you breathed, "are geniuses."

Remus’ smile was softer now. "Told you."

You apparated to London at 3 AM to raid a video store.

The clerk gaped as you dumped 37 VHS tapes on the counter:

Every sci-fi film in stock

A documentary about microwaves (“They cook with lightning!”)

The Muppet Christmas Carol (“This frog wears clothes!”)

Remus found you at dawn, asleep under a fort of stolen blankets with Blade Runner still playing.

(He didn’t have the heart to tell you the TV wasn’t even on anymore.)

December 1978 – Flourish & Blotts

"Hogwarts salaries are criminal," came a familiar voice from behind you.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Remus had this way of making the air around him feel a little warmer. Or maybe it was just you.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, letting a little teasing note enter your voice. "Here to finally admit my shield charm theory was superior?"

"Here to buy this for you." He tossed something lightly at your head.

You ducked, but the book he threw landed neatly in your hands.

"When Wands Fail: Teaching Magic to the Non-Magical"

You winced. "I’m not—"

"Brilliant enough?" Remus raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk returning. "Please. You made Slughorn cry twice."

The shopkeeper shot you both a scolding look as you both dissolved into laughter, a sound so natural now, so effortless, that it almost made you forget what had been between you before.

November 1978 – Hogwarts Headmaster's Office

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Miss Black requests... a teaching position?"

"Not for me." You shoved Remus forward. "Him. He's—"

"A werewolf," Remus said quietly.

"And?" You turned to Dumbledore. "You let a half-giant teach. The poltergeist is practically staff. My grandmother once cursed this office—"

"[Y/N]." Remus pinched his nose.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe we have an opening in Defense..."

You glanced at Remus, whose tired eyes flickered toward the floor. "And?" you repeated, a challenge rising in your voice.

His eyes met yours. A beat passed. Then he looked away, unable to mask the soft relief in his features.

"He's better than most," you muttered, suddenly unsure if it was a defense of him or just your own unspoken fear of rejection.

Dumbledore smiled as if he knew exactly what was going through your mind. "I’ll have the letter sent to you tomorrow."

24 December 1978 – Your Flat

The firewhiskey was a mistake.

"Admit it," you slurred, poking his chest. "You kept my third-year Charms essay."

Remus' ears turned pink. "Evidence of your inferior conjugation technique."

"Liar!" You lunged for his satchel.

What spilled out:

Your annotated copy of Magical Hieroglyphs

Every note you'd ever left in library books

A chocolate frog card ("For emergencies")

The silence lasted three heartbeats. Then you both reached for the whiskey again, the tension between you momentarily forgotten, swallowed up in shared memories.

The firewhiskey bottle sat between you and Remus like an unspoken challenge.

You eyed it briefly before reaching for the bottle, the glass cool under your fingertips. The silence between you felt too heavy, too thick—more than just the usual quiet that passed between friends, or maybe something that had been between you two for years now, but had gone unnoticed until tonight.

Remus didn’t move at first, his eyes following the bottle as you poured a generous amount into each glass, his jaw tight. When you slid one of the glasses toward him, he only glanced at it before looking back at you, like the glass was just a part of the air, something to avoid.

"Don’t think I’m going to make a toast," you said lightly, trying to mask the knot in your stomach with a forced grin.

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes flickered, momentarily distracted. "I wasn’t expecting one."

You swallowed the first sip before he did, feeling the burn down your throat, the warmth spreading too quickly, too fiercely, making everything feel sharper—more present. You tried to ignore the buzz that wasn’t just from the alcohol.

You couldn’t.

"What’s going on, Remus?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you winced at the sharpness in your tone. "You’ve been... different."

He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the tension building in the space between you, thick and unspoken. You leaned forward, setting your glass down with more force than necessary, the sound too loud in the room.

"Nothing’s going on," he replied, his voice low. "I’m just—"

"Just what?" You cut him off before he could finish, the frustration creeping into your voice despite your best attempts to stay calm. "You’ve been avoiding me for weeks."

For a moment, he looked down at his glass, staring into the amber liquid as though it held all the answers. You hated the quiet, hated how he refused to look at you, as though something in his gaze would break something in you that you weren’t ready to face.

But you didn’t look away. You wouldn’t.

"Not avoiding you," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words hit hard. "Just... keeping my distance."

You could feel your heart stutter. "Keeping your distance?" you echoed, not quite sure if it was a question or an accusation. "From what exactly?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he swallowed hard, his hand tightening around his glass. There was a hesitation in his eyes when he finally glanced up, but it wasn’t the hesitation you were used to. This time, it wasn’t doubt. It wasn’t uncertainty. It was something heavier—something that made your chest tighten and your mind race.

"You’re drunk," he said finally, as if the words had been prepared in his mind for too long, and now they were just coming out in a rush.

"No, I’m not," you snapped back, pushing your glass away, annoyed with yourself for how easily you let the edge of bitterness slip into your voice. "I’m not drunk, Remus. I’m just—"

"Just what?" he interrupted, finally meeting your eyes with a flash of something you couldn’t quite read—something cold. "What do you expect from me? After everything?"

The words stung, but you didn’t back down. The whiskey was in your blood now, making you feel more brazen than you usually allowed yourself to be.

"Expect?" You shook your head, but the frustration only deepened. "I don’t expect anything. I just want to know what’s going on with you. With us."

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to calm himself, but you both knew it wasn’t that simple. The room felt too small now, the air too thick with unspoken words. There was so much hanging between you two, like a fragile thread stretched too tightly, and the tension was suffocating.

You stood abruptly, unable to stay seated any longer. Your steps were sharp on the old floorboards as you paced, back and forth, feeling the pressure of his gaze following you.

"Why won’t you just tell me?" you demanded, finally stopping to face him, the weight of his silence crushing you. "What are you afraid of?"

His fingers twitched at his glass, but he didn’t move otherwise. He was so still it felt like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I’m not afraid," he said finally, but the words were strained. "I just—"

"You just what?" You took a step forward, the movement sudden, almost desperate. The space between you was too wide now. You had to bridge it, had to understand what he was holding back.

His eyes darkened, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something flicker in his gaze—something you weren’t ready to face.

"I’m not going to do this with you," Remus said, his voice quieter, the words harsher. "Not tonight."

He stood up then, so suddenly that it took you a moment to register the movement. His chair scraped roughly against the floor, the sound almost too loud. You didn’t move, but your heart picked up pace, pulse pounding in your ears.

He was inches from you now, and you could feel the heat coming off of him, the tension in the air so thick it felt like you were both suffocating under it. You weren’t sure who moved first—him or you—but before you knew it, he was standing there, just close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.

He didn’t touch you. But the space between you had narrowed, and every inch of the room seemed charged with something you couldn’t name.

"Then what are we doing here?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the tension making it feel like your words had weight—like they would tip everything over if you said the wrong thing.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he took a step back, shaking his head slowly, his face unreadable now. "Go to bed," he said, his voice soft, distant.

The words hit you like a slap.

"Go to bed?" you echoed, feeling something in your chest crack, though you weren’t sure what. You turned your back on him, the frustration boiling over in your veins, and grabbed the whiskey bottle. You poured another glass, the liquid sloshing over the edge as you swallowed it in one quick gulp. It burned again, but it didn’t numb what you were feeling.

Not yet.

"I think we’ve said enough for tonight," Remus added, his voice barely audible now, but it cut through the thick air in the room.

And with that, he was gone—back to the couch, away from you, leaving you standing there with your glass, alone again, with only the heavy silence and the weight of what was unsaid lingering between you.

Spinner's End Primary – November 1979

The children's laughter still echoed in your ears as you packed away your lesson plans—"Mythical Creatures of Britain" (heavily edited to exclude any actual magic, of course).

You were, undeniably, starting to get the hang of teaching. And you had the students to prove it. They loved your classes, which you weren’t sure how to feel about at first—especially considering that most of the time, you were pretty sure you were making half of it up as you went along.

The Muggle studies you taught were the easy part. You'd spent a good portion of your life not really understanding the world around you—so teaching kids about how their world worked didn’t seem too complicated. But there was still that nagging voice in your head. The voice that said you didn’t belong. You’d never quite shut it up. And yet, the feeling of purpose you got from those children—especially Liam, the little boy who had never known magic, but still somehow believed in it—was becoming something you looked forward to every day.

“Miss? When I grow up, I wanna be just like you,” Liam said, tugging at your sleeve.

Your quill snapped in half, the tip flying across the desk.

The little boy’s innocent words filled the silence of the classroom, and the room suddenly seemed much too quiet. Too loud. Just like you?

No one had ever said that to a Black before.

You looked down at your hands, realizing you were still gripping the broken quill. Slowly, you pried your fingers open, as if to release something you couldn’t even begin to name. No one had ever asked for your example before, let alone the kind of example a Muggle child would look up to. You weren’t sure whether you should be honored, or frightened, or maybe a bit of both.

Liam’s earnest face still hovered in your mind as you finished gathering your things. Just like you.

The idea tasted strange, like it was something you’d never quite imagined for yourself. The Black family had made their position clear—you weren’t meant to be anything other than their shadow, their echo, their next shining example of what it meant to be part of the most “distinguished” bloodline in wizarding society.

But now, here you were—living in a shabby little flat, teaching children who couldn’t even see the magic you held in your blood. They only saw the human part of you, the part that was just trying to do better. And in their eyes, that was enough.

You sighed, collecting the rest of your papers and sliding them into your bag. One thing was certain: this was going to be a day you wouldn’t forget.

That night, you sat at the kitchen table in your tiny flat, the warm glow of a dying fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. The only sound was the occasional snap of the logs in the hearth, and the scratch of your quill as you wrote a response to Remus’ latest letter.

"P.S. Peeves flooded the Charms corridor again. Flitwick mentioned needing a creative teaching assistant..."

Your fingers hovered over the parchment for a long moment. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the idea of Hogwarts—it was the opposite. You’d loved Hogwarts, even when you’d hated it. It was home, in a way. The vast, echoing halls, the flickering torches, the sense of belonging that had eluded you even after all those years.

Still, you weren’t sure if it was right for you. The castle was filled with ghosts of your family’s past, of expectations, of people who would demand you fall in line.

But then your eyes fell to the crumpled drawing of you as “The Best Teacher Ever” that Liam had given you. You hadn’t even asked for it. The little boy had drawn it without prompting, proud of the fact that he’d been able to spell your name right, even if it was a little crooked.

You ran your finger over the drawing. The words “BEST TEACHER EVER” were written in messy, bold letters, alongside a crude rendition of you holding a wand and a book.

For the first time in ages, you could almost feel something resembling hope welling up inside of you. Magic wasn’t just about wands and spells—it was about the wonder, the curiosity, the sense of possibility that made you believe in something better. Maybe teaching at Hogwarts wasn’t about confronting your past, or being who everyone expected you to be. Maybe it was about showing the next generation how to find magic in the world—even in places where it wasn’t supposed to exist.

Your hand gripped the quill. The decision was made.

The fireplace flared green with the unmistakable pop of the Floo network, and Remus Lupin stumbled through, brushing soot off his robes like it was a badge of honor.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “I’m beginning to think Sirius has it out for me.”

You raised an eyebrow as you caught sight of him. “What happened now?”

“Let’s just say,” Remus sighed, smoothing his hair back into place, “if I never end up covered in soot and surrounded by firecrackers again, it will be too soon.”

Before you could respond, you reached over and shoved the crinkled Daily Prophet ad at his chest. He looked at it curiously before his eyes widened.

“For Hogwarts?” he asked, blinking. “But you said—”

"I know what I said." You crossed your arms, trying to stand your ground, even though you didn’t feel entirely confident. “But look at this." You pointed to Liam’s drawing, trying not to let your voice waver. "This is why magic exists.”

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Well, now I know why Peeves is always causing trouble. Flitwick owes me five Galleons for that.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it feeling a little strange coming from you. “Don’t get any ideas, Lupin. I’m serious about this.”

Remus nodded, his face becoming more serious as he looked at you. “You’re going to be amazing, you know that, right?”

You swallowed. “I hope so.”

The Interview - July 1980

The day of the interview arrived. You stood in front of Dumbledore’s door, your hands shaking as you adjusted your robes for what felt like the millionth time. You weren’t sure whether to feel nervous, excited, or terrified. But you’d already made your decision. This was where you were supposed to be. Even if you couldn’t fully shake the ghosts that would inevitably follow you through those gates.

When the door opened, the unmistakable smell of lemon drops and something faintly nostalgic hit you. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“Miss Black,” he said, his voice warm as ever. “Here to critique our curriculum?”

You placed your Muggle teaching portfolio on his desk with a dramatic flourish. “Here to improve it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes lit up with curiosity. He’d never been one to shy away from boldness. As you laid out your ideas for him, you could feel yourself growing more confident. This was your moment.

You explained:

“Teaching Non-Magicals About Magic,” your pet project, which was mostly inspired by the Muggle students you’d taught. You wanted to bridge that gap between worlds, to show how magic could exist not just in wands and spells, but in the hearts of people who couldn’t even see it.

“Why First-Years Should Learn Wandless Magic,” the idea sparked by one of Liam’s failed shoelace-tying attempts. His frustration had turned into an experiment with his wand, which had gone hilariously wrong. It was the perfect example of why students needed to understand that magic wasn’t just about following instructions—it was about thinking.

For dramatic flair, you casually slid a chocolate frog onto the desk. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled again. “Now this is a worthy addition to the curriculum.”

You beamed. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

After a brief silence, he looked up at you with his characteristic twinkle. “When can you start?”

As the Hogwarts gates loomed ahead of you, the setting sun bathed the castle in a warm golden glow. You could hear Remus beside you, adjusting his robes with the ease of someone who had already been a teacher for some time.

“Last chance to back out,” he teased, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You flicked his nose, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Try to keep up, Professor Lupin.”

Somewhere within the castle, Peeves’ cackling echoed through the corridors, followed by a shriek from a first-year who had probably just witnessed one of his latest antics.

And somewhere in London, Liam pinned your goodbye note to the wall, that simple piece of paper a symbol of everything you’d left behind—and everything you were walking toward.

You could almost hear Walburga’s furious scream in the distance, her portrait cursing your name as if you were a traitor to everything she held dear.

But none of that mattered anymore.

You were free.

And you were about to teach at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts Staff Room – December 1978

You were wrestling a second-year’s essay ("Five Uses of Mandrake Root, None of Them Loud Enough for Peeves to Hear") when Remus stuck his head around the door.

"Don’t hex the next visitor," he said, tone suspiciously careful.

You narrowed your eyes. "Define ‘visitor.’"

He only smiled, irritatingly cryptic, and vanished.

You wiped ink off your hands, shoved your hair back into something resembling order, and opened the staff room door—

—and stopped cold.

Sirius Black lounged against the opposite wall, arms crossed, boots scuffing the ancient stone. Same ridiculous hair. Same reckless grin. Same air of someone who never learned when to quit.

It was like a Bludger to the chest.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

"You look like hell," he said, breaking the silence, like it was normal to show up after a year and a half of radio silence.

You blinked slowly. "And you look exactly like the sort of bad decision I barely escaped."

Sirius laughed—a startled, real laugh—and pushed off the wall. "Still sharp, then."

"You’re not supposed to be here," you said, fists clenching against your sides. "You don’t get to be here."

"Yeah, well." He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. "Heard my sister’s corrupting young minds. Figured I ought to see it myself."

You hated how the word sister twisted in your gut. Like you didn’t deserve it anymore.

You turned on your heel. "Thanks for the inspection. You can go now."

"Merlin’s tits, would you just—" He caught your elbow as you tried to push past him. "Would you stop running for once?"

You wrenched free. "Oh, that's rich. Coming from you."

"I always needed you," Sirius said, voice low and furious. "You were the only one who knew what it was actually like. You—"

He cut off again, seeming to realize how loud he was getting. Across the hall, a first-year shrieked at a misfiring Filibuster Firework.

Slowly, Sirius dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled, ink-stained letter. He shoved it into your hand.

You unfolded it with numb fingers.

It wasn’t elegant—half-spelled-out rants against Walburga, messy apologies scratched out and rewritten, stupid memories of stealing Firewhisky from Orion’s cabinet and setting the drapes on fire. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t eloquent.

It was raw and stupid and real.

The last line, written three times and crossed out twice, simply read:

"Wish you were here. —S"

You stared at it until the ink blurred.

When you looked up, Sirius was watching you like you might hex him anyway.

Instead, you shoved him—hard—so he stumbled a step back.

"Idiot," you muttered.

Sirius grinned like you’d handed him the bloody Quidditch Cup.

"You’re still an absolute menace," you added.

"Runs in the family," he said smugly.

"You’re not allowed to act like we’re fine," you snapped.

He raised both hands. "Not fine. Never fine. Only slightly less terrible now."

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Sirius dug something else out of his pocket—a small, battered wooden plaque enchanted to hover in midair. In elegant script, it read:

"Professor Black: Definitely Smarter Than Sirius. Probably."

Underneath, in tinier letters, it added:

"But still short."

You snorted. Loudly. Sirius looked obnoxiously pleased.

Across the hall, Remus leaned casually against a tapestry, arms folded, wearing the most irritatingly smug expression you’d ever seen.

You hurled the plaque at his head.

Hogwarts – January 1979 (Two weeks after Sirius crashed into your life again, and one week after you banned him from the staff room for bringing in a Crup that peed on your shoes.)

You were halfway through a lesson on Wandless Defensive Charms when the first paper airplane whizzed past your ear.

You turned sharply.

The culprit—a third-year Ravenclaw—was trying very hard to look innocent while her friend smothered a giggle.

Another paper airplane flapped its way toward your desk, enchanted to do an elaborate loop-the-loop before dive-bombing into your open textbook.

You plucked it up.

Professor Black + Professor Lupin = TRUE LOVE 4EVER (Complete with badly drawn stick figures holding hands, hearts everywhere, and an offensively large nose labeled Remus.)

You crushed the note in your fist, cheeks burning. "Five points from Ravenclaw for catastrophic artistic skills," you announced coolly.

The class dissolved into snickers.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

Remus leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Interrupting your fan club, am I?" he said, voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Get out," you hissed, feeling your ears turn pink.

He had the audacity to smirk. "Flitwick sent me. Apparently you owe me the Defense Cup?"

Murmurs rippled through the students.

You narrowed your eyes. "I owe you nothing, Lupin. My first-years performed a flawless group Disillusionment Charm. Your third-years, meanwhile, turned a Boggart into a—what was it?—tap-dancing vampire bat?"

He straightened, mock-offended. "That bat had form, Black. You’re just bitter."

"Please," you said icily. "If talent were contagious, yours would have died of loneliness by now."

The third-years howled with laughter.

Somewhere in the back, you heard someone stage-whisper, "They’re definitely snogging when no one’s looking."

You whipped around. "Detention, Greengrass!"

Remus coughed to hide a laugh.

"And as for you—" you whirled back to face him.

"Careful, Black," he murmured, low enough only you could hear. "You're blushing."

You hated that he was right.

You hated it even more that he looked smugly pleased about it.

"You’re insufferable," you said, snatching the crumpled love note off your desk and stuffing it into your pocket before the kids could immortalize it.

"You’re competitive," he shot back.

"You’re cocky."

"You’re brilliant."

You blinked.

Remus smiled—genuine this time, a little soft around the edges—and for one breathless second, all the teasing drained away, leaving something raw and bright between you.

Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and said, "Staff meeting at four. Try not to lose to me again."

He winked—winked!—and sauntered off down the hall.

You stood there, stunned, as the class dissolved into chaotic gossip behind you.

Later, at the Staff Room...

You slipped into your usual chair, late because a fourth-year had hexed her own shoelaces together. Flitwick was just announcing the results of the House Cup predictions.

"Best Classroom Performance," he said, peering over his spectacles. "A very close call this year, but... Professor Black edges out Professor Lupin by one point."

You froze.

Remus groaned theatrically. "You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?"

You smiled sweetly. "Never."

Sirius—perched in the corner chair like he belonged there—whisper-shouted, "Kiss already!"

You hexed him under the table.

Three Days Later – Hogwarts, Great Hall – Staff Breakfast

You had just sat down to your tea when a first-year Hufflepuff slid a folded note under your elbow and scampered off.

You stared at it, suspicious.

Unfolded it.

And nearly choked on your tea.

It was a betting pool. Titled (in very messy handwriting):

"WILL PROFESSORS BLACK AND LUPIN EVER STOP FLIRTING AND START SNOGGING??" —Buy-In: 2 Sickles—

Odds:

Within a week: 5 to 1

Within a month: 2 to 1

At the next staff meeting: 10 to 1

Never, because they’re stubborn idiots: Even odds

At the bottom was scrawled:

"Organized by S. Black (Quidditch Coach)"

You crushed the paper into a ball, cheeks flaming.

Across the table, Sirius gave you a gleeful thumbs-up, shameless as ever. "Business is booming," he said, stuffing toast into his mouth. "You two are very inspiring."

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re organizing gambling rings in Hogwarts?"

"Friendly wagers," Sirius said innocently. "Teaches them math skills. Practical education."

Remus, seated two spots down, was studiously buttering his toast, refusing to look at you. His shoulders shook suspiciously, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Care to place a bet yourself, sis?" Sirius added with a wink. "Could win enough to buy yourself a new broom. Or a lifetime supply of patience, which you’ll need if you ever plan on putting up with him."

You hexed Sirius' butter knife into a frog.

The first-year Hufflepuff cheered.

Later – Corridor Near the Library

You caught up with Remus as he was shelving a stack of confiscated Zonko's products.

"You knew about the betting pool," you accused.

He gave you a look of fake innocence. "Knew? I’m offended."

"You're a terrible liar," you said.

Remus shrugged, smirking. "I prefer to think of it as... selective honesty."

There was a charged pause.

"You know," he said casually, "we could always rig the results. Split the winnings."

You stared at him.

"You’re suggesting," you said slowly, "that we fake a scandal to profit off of Sirius' idiocy?"

Remus smiled wickedly. "Only if you think you can keep up, Black."

Your heart did something traitorous—fluttery and ridiculous.

You forced your voice to stay steady. "You're on, Lupin. But no touching."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

The unspoken "yet" crackled in the air between you like a live wire.

Two Saturdays Later – Hogsmeade Village

It started innocently enough.

(Well, as innocently as mutual blackmail and competitive stubbornness ever could.)

The plan was simple:

Stage a cozy "date" in public.

Let the students and Sirius witness it.

Watch the betting pool implode.

Then—profit.

Easy.

Flawless.

Unbreakable.

You should’ve known better.

The Three Broomsticks – 1:03 PM

You arrived first, heart hammering, regretting every life choice that had led you here. You wore your least ratty teaching robes, the ones with only one ink stain, and had even attempted a casual braid—because professionalism, obviously.

(Definitely not because you’d overheard Remus once mutter that he liked it when your hair was "out of your bossy face.")

Then he walked in.

Soft jumper. Rolled sleeves. Laugh crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Casual disaster personified.

You wanted to throw your butterbeer at him.

Instead, you smiled sweetly and said, "You’re late."

He shrugged. "Had to dodge three different groups of students tailing me. Pretty sure two Slytherins are disguised as furniture."

You snorted into your butterbeer.

1:27 PM – The Betting Pool Observers Arrive

Sirius swaggered into the Three Broomsticks, arms full of chattering third-years, fourth-years, and at least one Hufflepuff trying to take clandestine photos.

You and Remus made a show of scooting closer together.

You accidentally kicked him under the table.

He accidentally spilled a bit of butterbeer down your sleeve.

"You’re terrible at this," you hissed under your breath, blotting your arm.

Remus smiled innocently. "You said no touching. I’m simply obeying the rules."

You gritted your teeth. "I'll hex you."

"You’ll have to catch me first."

The students leaned closer, visibly vibrating with excitement.

Sirius placed a fresh parchment betting sheet on a nearby table and loudly whispered, "Odds have changed!"

2:00 PM – The Plan Derails Spectacularly

At some point—maybe when you were mock-arguing about whether Mooncalves or Nifflers made better pets (he said Mooncalves, you said Nifflers, obviously)—Remus’ laugh turned real.

Soft.

Unfiltered.

It hit you in the ribs like a rogue Bludger.

You found yourself smiling back, helpless.

For a second—just a second—you both forgot about the students, the bets, Sirius' waggling eyebrows in the background.

It was just you and him.

Your hand brushed his when you reached for your drink.

Neither of you moved away.

The silence between you stretched taut, buzzing with something dangerous.

You cleared your throat first. "Careful, Lupin," you said, voice too rough. "Start looking at me like that, and they'll think it's real."

He tilted his head, considering.

"What if it is?" he said, very quietly.

You froze.

Then, blessedly, the Slytherin disguised as a chair fell over.

The entire bar exploded into chaos—students shrieking, Sirius howling with laughter, Madame Rosmerta threatening to throw everyone out.

You shoved back your chair. "We’re done here."

Remus followed, still laughing, dodging a flying Butterbeer mug.

Sirius shouted after you, "FIVE GALLEONS TO ANYONE WHO GETS A PICTURE!"

You hexed the camera into a chicken.

Back at Hogwarts – Gryffindor Tower Entrance

You both collapsed against the wall outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, wheezing with laughter.

"You know," Remus said, wiping his eyes, "for a fake date, that was—"

"—an unmitigated disaster," you finished.

"Disastrously fun," he corrected.

You nudged his shoulder. "Don’t get used to it, Lupin. I still intend to beat you for 'Best Teacher' in the year-end evaluations."

He smirked. "You'll have to work harder, Black."

The Fat Lady harrumphed loudly. "Are you two coming in or just standing there making moon-eyes?"

You glared at the portrait.

Remus just chuckled and offered you his hand.

You didn't take it.

(But you also didn't step away.)

One Week Later – Hogwarts Staff Room

It started with a memo.

An official, Ministry-approved, wax-sealed Hogwarts memo pinned to the staff notice board:

Annual Staff Awards: Nominate your favorite professor for:

Best Dueller

Most Inspiring Lecturer

Most Likely to Secretly Hex Peeves

Best Mentor

Students encouraged to submit ballots by month’s end!

(Bribery strictly forbidden. Probably.)

You and Remus immediately locked eyes across the room.

Challenge. Accepted.

The Interference – aka, Sirius Black's "Master Plan"

Sirius cornered you during a late afternoon in the courtyard, a suspicious gleam in his eye.

"Alright, sister dearest," he drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re obviously in love with Moony."

You choked on your pumpkin juice.

"Excuse me—?"

"Don't lie to me," Sirius said smugly. "I recognize the Symptoms: Glaring fondly. Mock-arguing over academic journals. Smiling when he’s not looking."

You elbowed him hard in the ribs.

He coughed dramatically. "Abuse! Sibling betrayal!"

You tried to storm off, but he followed.

"And Moony is obviously in love with you. Tragic pining, long stares, general tragic Remus-y behavior."

"Goodbye, Sirius."

"—Which is why," he continued undeterred, "I’ve entered you BOTH into the Best Mentor competition."

You froze. "You what?!"

He beamed. "Winner gets eternal glory—and a special prize dinner in the Great Hall. With candles. And flowers. And live music."

You stared at him in horror.

He patted your head. "You're welcome."

Meanwhile – The Student Gossip Network

The students had not missed the "fake date" fiasco.

Now they were actively meddling.

Examples:

A Gryffindor anonymously hexed pink confetti to rain over you and Remus every time you passed each other in the corridor.

A Hufflepuff "accidentally" switched your and Remus’ graded essay piles, forcing you to argue ferociously about the proper penalties for spelling errors.

The Slytherins ran a betting pool called "When Will They Finally Snog?"

(It was disturbingly profitable.)

The Duel – Great Hall – Two Weeks Later

It wasn't a real duel.

Technically.

It was a "Teaching Techniques Demonstration" for the students, judged by McGonagall, Flitwick, and Madam Pomfrey.

But you and Remus both knew it was war.

He arrived first, robes immaculate, hair tidy, wand tucked neatly behind his ear like some insufferable academic heartthrob.

You showed up five minutes late with your sleeves rolled up, a fire in your eyes, and a hex already brewing.

Round 1:

Remus taught a "Creative Shield Charms" demo by using a giant conjured badger as cover.

You countered by demonstrating "Advanced Disarming Spells" and launched his wand into the rafters.

Round 2:

He calmly demonstrated nonverbal spell duels.

You cheated by muttering insults under your breath until he laughed and lost concentration.

Round 3:

You had to improvise a "Cooperation Exercise."

You and Remus had to cast synchronized Patronus charms.

His silver wolf circled protectively around your phoenix.

The students literally swooned. You almost swooned.

Almost.

The Verdict

McGonagall cleared her throat, surveying the room.

"After much... spirited debate," she said, lips twitching, "we have decided..."

Long, dramatic pause.

"…a tie."

The Great Hall exploded with cheers.

Sirius booed dramatically from the back.

Remus grinned over at you, pushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

You rolled your eyes—and smirked.

"Best two out of three?" he murmured.

You arched a brow. "Winner buys drinks."

He laughed under his breath. "You're on, Black."

Epilogue – Staff Dinner Prize

The "prize" Sirius arranged was everything he'd threatened:

Candlelight.

A harpist (a harpist, Sirius, really?).

Suspiciously heart-shaped treacle tarts.

You and Remus spent most of it mock-arguing about curriculum updates, laughing until your sides hurt, and absolutely, resolutely not holding hands under the table.

Not yet.

(But someday soon.)

Sirius, grinning from the shadows, collected ten Galleons from a very annoyed Flitwick.

Late Night – Hogwarts Library – December 1979

The castle was asleep.

Well—most of it.

You paced between the darkened stacks of the library, a dozen books floating lazily behind you, levitating under a lazy Locomotor spell.

You should have been grading essays.

You should have been prepping next week's lessons.

Instead, you were hunting for a bloody obscure treatise on magical theory because Remus Lupin had smirked at you during dinner and said, "Bet you can’t find it before I do."

Challenge. Issued. Accepted. (Again.)

Somewhere deeper in the shelves, you heard the unmistakable scrape of a chair and a soft, amused hum.

"Giving up already, Black?" Remus’ voice floated through the dusty air.

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering faster than it had any right to.

"Please," you called back, stalking toward the noise. "I've forgotten more about magical theory than you’ll ever know."

"That sounds like surrender."

You turned the corner—

—and nearly collided with him.

He caught your elbow without thinking.

His hand was warm, steady, stupidly reassuring.

You froze, books bobbing in the air behind you.

The dim library lamps haloed his hair in gold, softening the tired lines of his face. His eyes, usually so guarded, were unguarded now—amused, warm, achingly fond.

Too close.

Far too close.

"You’re infuriating," you said, voice low and reckless.

"And you're predictable," he said, not letting go.

Not stepping back.

Your pulse thundered.

"You should let go," you said, hating how breathless you sounded.

He smiled, slow and wicked and unbearably fond. "I should," he agreed.

Neither of you moved.

The silence wrapped around you—thick and heavy, the kind of silence that knew exactly what you were both thinking but refused to break first.

Your levitating books gently bumped into a nearby shelf with a soft thud.

Still, neither of you looked away.

Still.

And then—

"You’re going to lose the 'Best Mentor' award," he said, voice a little hoarse. "Students talk. They see everything."

You snorted softly. "You’re going to lose. Your fifth-years practically worship you."

His thumb brushed your sleeve, a small, absent motion. A grounding one.

It would be so easy—too easy—to lean in.

To let the tension snap like a bowstring pulled taut too long.

Instead, you tilted your chin up, smirking dangerously.

"Bet you five Galleons," you said, "I win."

His mouth quirked.

"Double or nothing," he murmured, "if you let me take you to Hogsmeade after."

Your heart tripped over itself.

Was he serious?

Was he—

He stepped back then—finally—hands raised in surrender, eyes crinkling with barely concealed laughter.

"Think about it, Black," he said, walking away, whistling under his breath.

You stared after him, furious and giddy and aching.

One of your levitating books, forgotten, fell and smacked you on the head.

You didn’t even notice.

words: waaayyy to many

[mostlyinthemorning]

Around Schitt's Creek in 80 Days 1.02

1.02 The Drip

Johnny tries to get permission to sell the town; David and Alexis spend a night out with the locals.

IMDB Rating: 7.1

Best lines: I'm trying very hard not to connect with people right now.—and— My best to Bob Cratchit.

David's Sweaters: Unknown (l) and Alexander Wang (r)

Moira's wig (very fetching in a scary sort of way):

Playlist: Do the Doot Da Doot Doo - Hollerado

Jocelyn offered this delightful tour of her home:

Other videos: Eugene and Dan on creating the show

Today's fic rec: have you met my family by TheSuperDandy

Summary:

‘David knew exactly how attractive he was – it was his personality that was forever letting him down. But Patrick…Patrick honestly seemed to have no idea how that spoon in his mouth felt like sex to David, how the bright arc of his smile cut the world open. Or had it cut David open? Either way, it made David feel painfully awake.

Patrick continued to watch David, and the quality of his smile changed.

Okay, so maybe he knew.’

David and Patrick eat a lot of ice cream.

See you tomorrow!

[misty-235]

Modern headcannons for the sawyers, if they had internet lol

TW: mentions of war, mentions of dead animals, Lots of sweet sweet cringe mentions of sexuality

Modern headcanons:

Bubba:

He watches those sensory videos of people cutting up bits of soap, along with makeup tutorials, religiously. It makes him really happy.

Definitely has scented candles and fairy lights everywhere.

His pet chicken has her own instagram account, and he treats her like a queen. She’s managed to become somewhat of an e-celebrity.

He’s probably able to talk to a degree, write and use sign-language, having gone to some sort of school, since education for those with learning difficulties has progressed a lot since the 1970s.

A brony, but fortunately of the wholesome variety that just unironically likes a television show about cute talking animals.

Overall, he doesn’t use the internet nearly as much as his chronically online older brothers, and probably shares a computer with Drayton.

Nubbins

Is a furry. There is nothing anyone can do about it, and although Drayton regularly tells him he’s a degenerate, he refers to his hands as paws. He has an extremely mangy fur suit that he made himself, out of real animal pelts, and looks like some sort of rabid dog type thing, although it's virtually unidentifiable.

Made a YouTube tutorial on how to collect the best roadkill, and promptly got roasted for it online. However, he literally doesn’t care, and just giggles whenever anyone sends him a strongly worded email.

He has been the subject of about 5 Kiwi farms threads, and has somehow managed to become a full fledged lolcow. Again, he doesn’t give a damn and is just living his best life. He’s the definition of “cringe but free.”

Definitely posts his photography on deviant art, complete with out of pocket titles like “Headcheese” and “dead skunk :D.”

For some reason he knows all of the brain rot slang there is to know, and uses it in everyday conversation, much to everybody’s chagrin. Also ends text messages with “Rawr XD.”

Robert/ Chop Top

Total emo, complete with a bizarre haircut and neon green highlights. Of course, this is just a wig; he was injured in Afghanistan, and got his head plate when he got almost blown up by a landmine. Owns a lot of kandi bracelets.

He lurks on 4Chan, and seriously believes he’s well on his way to finding Bigfoot, and pigeons are malicious government spy drones with poisonous droppings. Also occasionally trolls random people.

Instead of loving In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, he listens to Nyan Cat on repeat.

Unfortunately, he’s also a weeb. May or may not own a body pillow, but hides it well whenever Drayton’s around. He owns at least one katana and sometimes just sits in his room making anime sounds and waving it around.

He doesn’t have a Discord kitten, he is a Discord kitten. He’s shameless, and will sell pictures of any part of his body for a few dollars. Bro is broke.

Has watched literally every shock video he can get his grubby hands on. Lemon party, Goatse, blue waffle (by the way, don’t look these up, you might need eye bleach) he’s here for it. Cackles like a maniac whilst watching, too.

Most of his search history consists of the aforementioned shock videos, “how to talk to females IRL” and “feet pics pretty.”

Drayton

“What is a mee-mee?”

Starts random beefs with other chilli competition contestants on Facebook. These get really heated, to the point of death threats.

Has been hacked about a dozen times, because his password is always “password.” He thinks this is really clever. Sometimes his brothers go onto his account post cursed stock images and ruin his credibility.

Has like 50 tabs open on his search engine at any one time. His computer is permanently on the brink of death, but stubbornly hangs on.

[tbawig]

Wholesale straight lace front synthetic wig

[jevilowo]

TEAM ASCENDED FORTRESS 2

An AU by me in which the mercs ascend to their ultimate forms

Oh God tumblr wrecked the quality-

More about the AU under the cut!

WOKE SCOUT: she started taking estrogen and instead of fixing her it made her worse. She gets into fights on twitter about neopronouns and has successfully cancelled everyone she doesn't like at least once. However, as cancel culture isn't real, this only lasted about three seconds for each. She managed to pull Ms Pauling also which is pretty cool.

SOLDIERSUNE MIKU: the ghost of Shakespearicles told him to dress as Miku and redo the salem witch trials. Only knowing one witch (Merasmus), he finished this quickly and now roams the country with Zhanna (who is now Zhannagane Miku after Mikus metal counterpart) spreading malice and wonder through the power of AMERICAN SONG COVERS. He uses a wig for the Miku effect, but is working on growing his hair out also.

MITOSIS: Pyro and Engie were shagging one time and they came so hard they did mitosis. Now theres 23 babey Pyros (count em) and Engineer is a single dad. There's a lot of Pyro Mitosis Lore™ in my head, but the basics are that they evolve into either humanoid, beastial, demonic or celestial Pyros eventually.

TAVISH, KING OF THE LOCH NESS: he did it he blew up that bloody sea monster and now he is king of Loch Ness. The self loathing has died down a lot which is great for him but his body is still a scrumpty distillery which is eh. Still, he has funky water powers and his partners Soldiersune and Zhannagane come to visit often.

KEEPER OF TIME AND SPACE GUY: Heavy was mad, he knew he'd been had so he shot at the sun with a gun. Instead of being a show off like that bitch Juno, he had a nice philosophical conversation and chess match with Time and impressed Time so much he was appointed as the guardian of Time and Time's partner, Space. His guns (the six angel thingies pictured) can turn into celestial weapons which helps in the protecting but people don't shoot at the sun so often so its a relaxing enough gig really.

GODDAMMIT ENGIE: after realising how much more efficient Gunslinger was than a lame ass human hand, Engie succumbed to his hubris and eventually replaced all his body parts with robot parts. Including his dick which led to the Mitosis Incident. Anyway. His chest is a dispenser which makes projects pretty convenient and he has a mini-sentry attached to each arm and leg, making him a walking weapon. This did not help with the god complex, but it helps with the single father thing.

THE INFERNAL DOCTOR: Medic kept attaching more souls to his own and selling them to Satan for power. Satan got so sick of this eventually he attempted to beat the shit out of Medic. By now Medic was slightly more powerful than Satan so this ended with Medic absorbing Satan's powers and basically taking his place. Somehow, his relationship with the guy who is now a celestial being was unaffected by this. If they really tried they could probably ascend even further. To godhood, perhaps. In any case, Medic becoming The Devil from The Bible did nothing for the god complex.

???: Sniper just kind of fucked off into the woods one day god knows what happened to him but Scout's convinced she saw him for like three seconds a week ago and "YOU GUYS HE HAD ANTLERS I SWEAR-"

RETIRED AND BECAME A FUNCTIONING MEMBER OF SOCIETY SPY: yeah. He's very happy with Scout's Mother (Maureen), and he's letting his roots grow out (his spy agency made him dye his hair black). He's even making an effort to be a good parent to Scout, bought her the trans flag ipad cover and everything, but she just keeps trying to cancel him. Maureen's sure they'll work it out between themselves eventually, but until then she has to keep finding more secure hiding places for the ipad (the best so far was the time she buried it under a tree a mile away, took Scout at least four hours to find and retrieve it that time)

There's also YURI MS PAULING, in which she pulled a whole polycule of beautiful women, but I'll cover her in another post.

Also TERFS DNI please. Woke Scout is just Scout being Scout (which is to say a bit stupid), and assuming all trans women are like that would be ridiculous. So fuck off.

[kaxenart]

Kaxen's BJD Hardcap Wigmaking 2024 Version

Pros of hard wig cap style:

The best method for short hairstyles (and I am a masochist who loves short swept-back hairstyles)

Are you the kind of person who gets tilted over lace front wigs having a line of extra net or not fitting your doll's forehead? This wig will fit and you can chop the wig cap even closer.

I hate hand sewing, so I never do sewn wefts with soft wigcaps, and sewn wefts don't work well for exposed hairlines so GLUE, GLUE, BABY.

Cons of hard wig cap style:

This wig will not fit on another doll unless it's maybe from the same company or has a really generic head-shape

Tools

Nonstick mat - Michaels sells Messy Mats which are very thin but stiff film mats that are nonstick. Silicone mats for pet bowls are often very cheap! A lot of craft-specific silicone mats have more price mark-up despite being the exact same thing.

Silicone spatula - for spreading glue. Just the generic silicone tools are fine. Comes in different sizes.

Glue of choice - Different glues react differently to different fibers and different colors. Pick whatever you like that has a slight flex to it and is waterproof once it's dry. If you prefer to style hair with high temperatures (especially the boiling water method), pick something that will resist high temps.

Glues I personally hate passionately: Beacon Adhesives Fabri-tac.

Why Fabri-tac sucks:

Smells terrible

Warps over time, wigs have literally stopped fitting the doll it was for

Rock hard when dry, literally the worst option for fabric???????????

Glue bottle cap always gets fucked up and useless.

Like jesus christ just get some fray check if you need fabric glue

Slicker brush: No matter how thorough you are with glue, you will have loose fiber. Comb it out. Buy two if you want to be able to have a poor man's wool carder so you can re-align fibers and use them later. WHY ARE WOOL CARDERS SO EXPENSIVE?

Fibers -

Suri alpaca: Very fine strands, low gloss, can use hair irons on it

Tencel: very fine strands, high gloss, can use hair irons on it, plant-based. Great for 1/6 scale and Anime Bullshit hair

Viscose (not pictured): very fine strands, high gloss, crinkles like hell if it gets wet, can use hair irons on it, plant-based

Silk (the silver wig lower down the post): very fine strands, high gloss, can use hair irons on it

Mohair: medium strands (thinner if it's kid mohair), high gloss, can use hair irons on it. Various levels of curly.

Synthetic: medium strands, high or low gloss depending on what you get, ymmv on hair irons check before hand how much temperature it can handle. Already made of plastic so plastic-y glue doesn't make it look weirder. Comes in the longest strands.

Wool roving (not pictured): fine strands, no gloss, doesn't really look like straight hair, but works well for styles like dreads.

Acrylic yarn (not pictured): fine strands, gloss level varies, cheap, but you pay in "spent all afternoon unraveling yarn to brush it out" MICROPLASTICS BAD.

I looked at combed mohair prices and it made me scared. How much fiber do I need?

1/3 heads (8-9in circumference): 1/2 oz is a comfortable amount for shorter styles and more the longer the hair will be

1/4 heads (6-7.5in circumference): 1/4-1/3 oz.

1/6 Mature tinies (3in circumference): 1/4 oz, the usual minimum order, will be a ton

Processing mohair yourself is cheaper, but it's a lot of cleaning and combing.

Making the wig base

Fabric base: sheer woven fabric or thin stretch fabrics (pantyhose, mesh hair nets, etc) in a color that does not clash too much with the skintone of your doll

The smaller the doll and the shorter the hair style (especially exposed hairlines!) the thinner you want to go to avoid seeing the wig cap too easily.

Cover the doll with plastic wrap, tighten the fabric as much as possible to mold to head, spread glue around so fabric will stay in this shape.

Putting rubber bands around ears helps shape.

Putting the fiber on

I'm pretty sure preparing wefts beforehand by gluing them on a nonstick mat and then cutting off pieces to stick on the wigcap is easier for exact placement, but I think that takes too long, so I just glue that straight on the wigcap.

I prefer not to use sewn wefts because I don't like that chunky line.

Work back to front and/or wherever the hair parts.

Hold up a small lock of hair and then use the silicone tool to swab a lil glue on it.

The smaller the doll, the smaller bundles you want to add the hair in so the bulk level isn't too crazy. Not as big of a deal for 1/3 scale dolls, the biggest deal with 1/6 dolls.

Hairline and hair parting methods

Rooting

I use the rooting tool from Dollyhair (but you can basically use any small hand tool with an adjustable chuck that can hold the rooting needle)

Pros:

Imitates growing hair

More versatile in styling options if you root a large sections of the wigcap because then the hair can flow in different directions without exposing which way it was glued

Cons:

Slow, the more realistic you want to go, the smaller each root plug should be. I use size 8 or size 6 needle on 1/3 dolls, but I could probably go smaller.

Tiny bits of hair and glue inside the gap may affect the fit of the wig cap.

Takes three billion years to dry the inside because you will swab glue on the inside of the wigcap and then smoosh the wig cap against plastic wrap on your doll's hair to keep the wig cap properly molded to your doll's head

Works terrible on mature tiny 1/6 wigs

TTRPG Mini Grass Style

Pros:

Fast, just put a daub of glue and slap a tuft on

Hair can be pushed in multiple directions without looking awkward

Cons:

Harder to do with longer hair and thicker fibers, may just tip over before the glue dries. Works better with short suri alpaca or tencel than mohair

Fold Over Method

Pros:

Easy!

Can hide wigcap edges

Cons:

Not realistic

Works worse with stiff fibers that may not lay flat after being folded over (may need heat treatment to work)

Ugly glue zone

Chopping the wig open to cram in fibers where the hair parting is

Pros:

Less ugly glue zone than the foldover method

Cons:

Margin for error for not warping the entire wig cap is not great! More risk than the rooting method.

Wildcard showing up with a steel chair! (mostly because this doesn't really need a separate post)

Flocking + painted edges

Pros:

Fast, swab on the adhesive and shake a ketchup bottle of fiber powder on it.

Useful for shaved hair

Cons:

Well, now you have Craft Herpes (glitter, fiber dust, y'know how it is...)

Not all doll sculptors have very flush headcap boundaries

Gotta redo the face-side of the flocking whenever you want to change the face-up

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

Ranking incidents of alleged child thievery cause I'm bored

Qui Gon & Anakin: If we were not witnesses it could sound bad. However we do know that Qui Gon did what was within his power to get Shmi out too, and this was truly discussed between them and the active choice of both Shmi and Anakin. Best of a bad situation. One thing that wigs me out a bit is Qui Gon testing Anakin's blood without asking, and the prophecy motive doesn't sit well.

Obi Wan, Yoda, and Bail deciding the placement of the twins: they believed the twins were orphans (though strangling their pregnant mother and killing all the children in your home and sentencing your little sister to death are reasonable grounds to challenge custody of two infants on imo), and Obi Wan (and Yoda, even) can reasonably be considered next of kin to Anakin, maybe even more so than Owen. Ideally Padme's family should have been involved, but the danger of Sidious knowing of them is a mitigating factor.

Maarva & Cassian: There was definitely no informed consent involved, lol. She kinda did just kidnap that kid. However as long as she is a reliable narrator then it's an understandable kidnapping. They were going to die, so….

That business with Cad Bane: straightforward kidnapping & trafficking. He lied about his identity and used hypnosis and coercion and everything.

Din & Grogu: where do I start. Well, taking Grogu back from the imperials was a rescue not a kidnapping. Also he took on the job of foster parent and spent two seasons trying to find Grogu's people. When he did adopt Grogu, it was after Grogu chose him. This is all above board and not baby theft. However, I do have to factor in him taking on the job for the imperials to begin with. Even if his conscience kicked in when he realized what he was selling Grogu into, that was a pretty extreme case. So while Din is not in the business of stealing kids for himself or his tribe, he MIGHT be in the business of stealing your kid if it's a job and he doesn't think too hard about it.

Luke & Grogu: While there was less dialogue than there was with Qui Gon and the Skywalkers, the gist is much the same. Grogu did make the call, and Luke did establish that this was everyone's choice. (and Din was a foster parent, not the parent) And he revisited it again later, too. With Grogu, anyway.

Palpatine & Maul: I just realized i barely remember. Mother Talzin gave him away, right? Did she get something in return? Hang on, didn't something similar happen with Ventress?

GOING OFF OSMOSIS ALONE: Jaster & Jango: the way I heard it: Jango was orphaned. (idk if he had anyone else). Jaster maybe made him pass some kind of test involving planting a bomb before adopting? if so that's an unusual thing to do

Baby Ludi: the way I heard it: jedi find a kid who seems like an orphan. The mother turns out not to be dead and there is a media storm about it. There is a custody dispute? Idk enough details tbh.

[headcanonforthought]

Deadpool headcanon thing?

Deadpool selling cars while outside his outfit leans on his cancer story HEAVILY. He knows he looks fucked up, he knows people can tell the wig is fake. So he goes with it. He walks with a limp, massages his knee when he sits down, coughs into her hand when he thinks the customer isn't looking. He plays up the "I'm terminally ill" act to 100. And he always makes a sale. He's the best salesmen at the branch. Because people just keep guilt buying cars because holy shit this poor guy is terminal but still has to work to afford comfort care! Deadpool knows he's coning them, doesn't care. He's making killer commission.