#lemony gem

[lemoocado]

toy exclusive ponies!

[emoboy130]

Lemony Gem💎

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

[nachosforfree]

did a little base edit with some random background ponies, Orange Swirl, Jonagold, and Lemony Gem

base by KatsuBases on deviantart

[telekinetictrait]

you will always be in my heart, in my mind, and in your grave – lemony snicket

saw @buzzardly28's death bonnets and so of course i leapt into action. so heres some mourning looks! in order, they're inspired by the: regency period, 1830s, 1840s, 1860s, 1880s, 1900s, 1920s, and 1940s. <3 time to disappear into my hole again

cc links under the cut!

see my resources page for genetics!

regency: buzzardly28's sally hair / buzzardly28's mourning bonnets / batsfromwesteros' emma yellow coat / dancemachinetrait's pemberley gloves / gilded-ghosts' pemberley slippers

1830s: buzzardly28's ann walker hair / buzzardly28's mourning bonnets / simverses' mistress mysterious scarf / vintagesimstress' 1830's mourning dress / plumbjam's wool leggings / joliebean's satin tip shoes

1840s: buzzardly28's day hair / buzzardly28's mourning bonnets / vintagesimstress' 1843 day dress / pralinesims' reverb bead necklace (pearls) / javitrulovesims' midnight gloves

1860s: buzzardly28's day hair / buzzardly28's mourning bonnets / huiernxoxo's mulani gem earrings / simstomaggie's lenore dress / nords-sims' asalet necklace / javitrulovesims' midnight gloves

1880s: buzzardly28's 1890s hair (shhhh) / chere-indolente's dans la serre bonnet / emmastillsims' curbs birdcage veil recolor / ice-creamforbreakfast's céala earrings / chere-indolente's dans la serre long dress / glitterberrysims' onyx siren necklace / base game gloves

1900s: buzzardly28's 1890s hair (shhhh) / waxesnostalgic's brimmed rose hat / emmastillsims' curbs birdcage veil recolor / huiernxoxo's mulani gem earrings / chere-indolente's flöge v2 dress / glitterberrysims' ruby victorian necklace / nell-le's lace gloves

1920s: simmister's curbs caitlyn hair maxified / happylifesims' miss fisher cloche hat / emmastillsims' curbs birdcage veil recolor / happylifesims' 1920s day dress 7 / pralinesims' reverb bead necklace (pearls) / helgatisha's lace gloves / blueraptorsden's vintage stockings / waxesnostalgic's cuban mary janes

1940s: gilded-ghosts' wartime waves hair + dizzy dame hat + double indemnity dress / glitterberrysims' onyx siren necklace / kumikya's sheer gloves / historysims4's nylon socks / waxesnostalgic's cuban mary janes

thank you to @buzzardly28 @batsfromwesteros @dancemachinetrait @gilded-ghosts @simverses @vintagesimstress @joliebean @pralinesims @javitrulovesims @huiernxoxo @simstomaggie @nords-sims @chere-indolente @emmastillsims @ice-creamforbreakfast @glitterberrysims @waxesnostalgic @nell-le @simmister @happylifesimsreblogs @helgatisha @blueraptorsden @kumikya and @historysims4 !!

[mrghostrat]

i’m actually going THROUGH my shit for this move, rather than hauling the same old boxes of junk from one house to another. some real gems in here

1. i will never ever let go of this burnt cd my high school friend made for each of us when we were adamantly following matt corby’s run through australian idol

2. apparently my set of lemony snickets are first editions???? 🥺💛 i hope i can find 1 & 2

3. will graham build a bear thththgphpt

4. ……. there were notebooks from HIGH SCHOOL in here…….. yes that’s meticulous note taking for my homestuck/bbc sherlock au…

5. as well as hand written notes for the first outline of rechargeable 🥺 with sooooo much 2013 art

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [04]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader

Content: no warnings apply (except Lockwood being a lil dum-dum but we love him for it)

Summary: Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

Notes: [01] || [03] | [05]

Words: 4.6k

A/N: this is for @tangledinlove, my beloved, who without i'm not sure if i would be back to writing this as enthusiastically. or at all. your writing gives me a home to return to and tons of love. thank you for that.

after the cancellation of s2, i got really unhappy, especially with my writing/the story compared to the other gems on this platform, so if this at some point disappears or i stop uploading, i'm sorry in advance. until then, i keep going and creating for you guys a second home as best as i can. love you all ♥

04: there's a kind of calling

shoulder the sky (i can’t wait to show you how much) open those eyes (i know you can be, just let the rain come) there’s a kind (let the rain come down, darling) (can’t you hear it howling?) of calling, calling — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

He stands tall in the doorframe, like a praetorian from the elite Roman military force, spatula in one hand to strike, a saucepan lid, fogged from condensation, in his other hand to defend. Most importantly though, he is not wearing any pants.

Lockwood gives him a dejected look. “George. We talked about wearing no pants outside of your room.”

“I see you brought her back,” George replies, ignoring Lockwood. His small, dark eyes seem exceptionally sharp behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Why did you bring her back?”

Old retirees whose lawns you’ve trespassed on have greeted you more kindly. But as with any building you enter, the rule is not to hesitate at the threshold, so when Lockwood and Lucy walk inside, you follow right after them.

Portland Row at the edge of dawn was enticing like Sleeping Beauty. Now at evening it is something else entirely: a waft of warm, spicy smell engulfs you: tumeric, onions, safran. Roasted chicken, a lemony tang—the whole mix is mouth-watering and for a moment you get dizzy from hunger. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten; your stomach growls more horrifying than the rumbling of a Raw-bones at night.

“Look alive, George, this case is far from over!” Lockwood announces. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack, shaking out his wet hair. Cold water is trickling down the back of his neck, dampening his collar. A sudden shower has surprised you on the way back, making the ride back in the cab even more uncomfortable in addition to sitting squeezed next to Lockwood and making sure your knees don’t touch. “And she’s kindly agreed to lend us a hand.”

George eyes you, from top to bottom. His nose twitches a little as though he’s smelling a wet dog, but then he gives a twitch that vaguely resembles a shrug before he ducks into the kitchen. “I’ll get another plate out.”

“Oh, I can get take out—” you start.

“Nonsense.” Lockwood waves in the general direction of the wooden floor, signalling you to leave your bags in the hallway. “George’s food is something you have to try. Zereshk Polo, isn’t it, George? This will also give us an opportunity to decide on what to do next, and share everything we know.”

“Where’s she staying, Lockwood?” Lucy asks. Her wet hair sticks to her forehead and cheeks, and she brushes it impatiently behind her ears. “Last time I checked, we don’t have any spare rooms.” She narrows her eyes at him in a certain way that suggests she doesn’t want you bunking in her room. Not that you mind. You’re not too keen on sleeping in the same room with someone else either.

“The library was fine,” you say, dropping your bags where Lockwood has shown you. “And it’s only for this night. I’ll try and find another place first thing tomorrow.”

Lockwood purses his lips. “I would rather you stay here until we find whoever is out there thinking that you have the key. You have become an essential resource for this case, one I’d rather not put in danger.”

There’s a profound silence, only disturbed by the sizzling in the kitchen and George’s quiet, off-tune humming.

Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

A flash of bitterness passes over Lucy’s face, but it fades quickly. “Lockwood—” she begins, drawing herself up. Her voice seems dangerously sharp like the edges of broken glass, and standing between them, you’re surprised that your head is not immediately razed off by the laser sharp intensity of whatever weird staring contest Lucy and Lockwood are currently engaged in.

Lockwood’s response is his dark eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled frown. But before he can say something, you speak up, voice sweeter than saccharin, “Your resource would love to take a shower first before we start. Is that OK?”

That’s when Lockwood realises. All colour drains from his face, then comes back as two crimson spots high on his cheeks. “I—”

“Yes.” Lucy’s eyes are still on Lockwood, her voice oddly distant. “I’ll jump into the shower myself, but the boys’ bathroom is just upstairs.” When she brushes past Lockwood, she sends him a glare that is sharper than the rapier she pulls out of her holster and stuffs inside the umbrella rack. “And Lockwood will wait for his turn.”

Suits you just fine. You leave your kit in the hallway and take the bag with your clothes upstairs, past the masks and curios mounted on the wall, wooden-framed pictures and newsletter pages showing a younger Lockwood wearing a full-body fencing suit and grinning into the camera like the Cheshire Cat after winning a fencing tournament. It must be from the memorable day when Kipps got his ass handed to him, one of his less favourite subjects to dwell on from his past. Your chest twinges at the sight—Matthew would have attended too; he had been the best with a rapier out of you three, making it almost look as easy and graceful as dancing.

You draw your shoulders together and follow after Lucy, banishing the thoughts and echoes from the past before they can rise to an awful noise in your head. A shower, some food. A plan. Brick by brick you can rebuild yourself.

Lucy drops you off at the threshold of a small square bathroom, simply gesturing into the room with an awkward wave of her hand. It’s completely white-tiled with simple furniture and a few dried out plants at the windowsill. The blinds are drawn shut and with the sun setting the room is turning darker by the minute. A few dark heaps of clothing lie scattered on the ground, hiding a square vine-patterned rug.

“Thanks,” you say, fumbling along the wall in search for the light switch. Lucy hesitates a moment, and you think she might say something. But then she turns on her heels and stalks another floor up, already starting to peel out of her soaked-in, woolly sweater.

You turn to the bathroom, standing still for a moment just to test how wild your thoughts run, how loud that creature inside your head howls. What a mess you dragged yourself into—or got dragged into, more likely. You’ll have to see Kipps soon and tell him what happened, and look out for a new apartment. You stand there, unmoving, shivering like aspen leave in high wind. One thing at a time. Rome wasn’t built in a day either.

Deposing your bag in a corner, you begin unpacking what you need. A cough from the door has your head whipping around. Lockwood is leaning against the doorframe. He seems to do that a lot, you think. Some guys are just meant to loom.

“Sorry we can’t give you proper accommodations. I’m sure you’re used to different things from the Rotwell dormitories.” His eyes glide over your head as though he’s taking in the bathroom for the first time. He’s playing with the ring on his right hand, twirling it around his thin finger. You force your eyes away from his slender piano-fingers and how hot they felt around your wrist this afternoon.

“Let’s be honest, all that Pomp and Circumstance means nothing.” You return pulling clothes out of your duffel bag. “They didn’t hesitate for a second to throw me out the moment I became an inconvenience.” The confession pries something open within you: an age-old chest of memories you’ve kept firmly locked and tucked away in the recess of your mind, now yielding in his presence. The same thing has happened at the first agency you worked for, shortly after Matthew’s death. Nobody wanted to deal with the broken girl, the grieving girl who wouldn’t leave her room, who was suspended from work and then released. Had it not been for Kipps and someone else, someone very important and influential, you probably would have kept wandering in that darkness forever.

Not wanting to see the pity on Lockwood’s face, you sort your things and move towards the shower, pushing the flowery curtains aside.

After a moment, Lockwood’s voice comes again from the door. “You might want to wait until Lucy’s done upstairs if you don’t want to use the shower George and I use,” he says, but it sounds a little wrong as if those aren’t the words he wants to say but doesn’t know how to get the right ones out.

Wondering what it is he can’t say, you reply without thinking, “It’s OK. I had a brother, I don’t mind sharing with boys.”

Lockwood is very still for a moment. His face has changed. “Had?”

Only then your brain registers what you’ve said. You keep your expression blank when you look at him. “Mind if I take one of your towels?”

Lockwood answers your look alike. Something passes between you in that moment, but you don’t have the words, or insight into him, to understand what it is. He slips past you and pushes a pile of towels off the toilet seat with the tip of his slippers. “Not those. They’re George’s.”

From a bottom drawer, he pulls out a fresh towel. “Here, I, ah … hope you don’t mind.” He hands it to you and immediately, you notice it smells like him—lavender soap and clean cotton. A little like … sunlight. Clean and warm. You quickly snatch it from his hands and turn your face away, afraid he can see what you think.

When there’s nothing left to say, he shuffles out of your way. “Well then, good luck.”

You snort. “With taking a shower?”

“Imagine slipping and breaking your neck on a shower tile. I wouldn’t want a Visitor like that in my house.”

“Fair point.”

He gives a little awkward smile.

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

Lockwood pulls the door shut behind him, and you wait until you hear him disappear downstairs before you peel out of your sweat-stinking top and sliced pants. The water is hot on your skin but a welcome change. During those ten minutes your head is blissfully empty and silent, granting you a moment of respite as you focus on how the hot drops pelt on your skin. After another ten minutes, you step out before they assume you managed to drown like a turkey.

You quickly scrub yourself dry and slip into some comfortable clothes. It’s a wonder what a little cleaning up and a set of fresh clothes can do to make you feel like a normal human again. Now, if Karim’s food tastes as good as it smells, you might sleep like a baby tonight.

The steam follows in wispy tendrils out onto the floor when you open the door. The sound of clattering dishes and voices draws you downstairs where you pause at the kitchen’s entrance, unsure if you should step in. It feels as though you’re about to intrude into their sacred space—their safe haven.

Before you can think of sneaking off and getting take-out, Lockwood spots you. He’s taken off his tie and opened the first buttons of his shirt. When he moves, you see the elegant curves of his collarbones, like the frail wings of a small bird. “Come on in,” he says. “You’ll love George’s cooking.”

You blink, dazed. Step in. The smell of exotic spices engulfs you. Your mouth waters at the sight of the colourful dishes—fresh tomato and onion salad, fluffy steaming rice, an assorted cutting board with nuts, olives, feta cheese and Gouda. It is a feast fit for royalty.

As they settle around the table, you take the seat at the other side of Lockwood. Someone’s already piled an enormous mountain of rice with a beautiful golden chicken leg on top on your plate. You prepare your stomach with some strong herbal tea and freshly backed garlic naan before you dive for the main course. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a home-cooked meal, not to mention something this delicious.

“So, what did you guys find?” George asks with his mouth full. “I doubt she’d be here otherwise.”

You hardly care about his flippant attitude—not with the savoury, and slightly spicy rice dancing on your taste buts. So you just slide over the coin towards the table’s centre. Three heads lean forward. You keep chewing, blissfully relishing in the taste and texture.

“George, do you know what kind of coin that is?” Lucy asks, her lips curled around a straw as she drinks orange juice.

He picks it up, a piece of naan tucked between his teeth. In an instant, he is out of his chair and moves out of your sight. You hear a door to your right swing open, leading down to the cellar, you think, as you watch George disappear downstairs. The few minutes he’s gone you spent in polite silence, too engrossed in eating your way through the assorted finger food plates George has prepared. When he returns, he’s already inspecting the coin through a bronze magnifying glass.

“It’s not a coin, for starters,” George says. “I think it’s a … a badge? But the pins broke off, that’s why you mistook it for a coin.”

“And the symbol?” Lockwood leans closer to George, exhibiting more interest in the small object than his dinner plate. You’re already halfway done with yours. “Any idea what it could be?”

George chews on his bottom lip. “Hard to say. I mean, the symbols by themselves are pretty clear. The infinity symbol was first used mathematically in the 17th century, but it’s much, much older, dating back to Viking Age. In modern mysticism, it’s become identified with a variation of the ouroboros, that’s my closest guess. The cross is a lot more straightforward, but I doubt you want to listen to me going into Christianity in front of your salads.”

“You think you’ll have more luck finding something in the Archives?”

“The problem’s not the lack of books on symbology—it’s the opposite. It’ll take weeks to go through all and find what we might need. And for whatever reason there are even more in the restricted section; I know because Bobby Vernon doesn’t shut up about it whenever he thinks he has to be especially annoying.”

“I’m surprised he can reach the door handle.” Lockwood pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “And we’ve got no luck yet getting the access permit for our agency.”

Lucy leans over and helps herself to more rice. “Any specific reasons why?”

Lockwood scowls, and quickly glances your way. “It seems that we are too small an agency to have access to the restricted sections,” he explains, clearly unhappy.

Lucy presses her lips into a flat line. George keeps his eyes on the badge, his free hand draws the same symbol on the table cloth, his food forgotten for the moment.

“I could always ask Kipps to task Bobby to find out what this is,” you offer. “Kipps, remember him? The guy you were supposed to work with on this case.”

“It is easy to forget him, why with his little to no contribution to pretty much anything,” George replies.

Lockwood clears his throat. “Well, since technically the case is solved because we’ve contained the source, I don’t necessarily need him.” He pokes around his plate. “And since he’s paid his debt to me, I’d prefer not owing him in return.”

You shake your head. Men and their fragile ego. “In that case, I might have something for you.” You grab a handful of nuts from a small bowl and move to the hallway. Your kit is still where you’ve left it and a quick search gets you what you need.

Back in the kitchen, you flick the library pass in front of George, and relish in noticing his standoffish attitude wiped away by genuine surprise for a moment.

“Rotwell has its own research department for cases,” you explain. “We field agents don’t get access to the restricted areas, but someone didn’t pay attention when I applied. I’ve always had permission to enter.”

George touches the edges of the little plastic card as though it is a golden credit card. “You mean, I can just take it? And use it?” There’s a sparkle in his eyes, vibrant and strong and very much infectious.

“Unless you want me to ask Bobby—”

George beams at Lockwood. “I’ll go to the Archives first thing tomorrow.”

“There seems to be just one problem,” Lucy points out, tapping the plastic card with a black-polished finger. “Unless you’ve got a surprise prepared for us, George, you are not a girl.”

Everyone looks at your name in bright red letters on the card.

George scoffs. “Gender is just a social construct—”

“Luce, go with George and see if you two can find anything about that symbol,” Lockwood says. “Be discreet and cautious; don’t let anyone know what you’re looking into. Maybe you’ll find additional info on the case we have tomorrow. You know, the one for that man who looks like a rat. Best take your kit with you.”

Lucy hesitates for a moment, sharing a quick glance with George. “What are you going to do?”

Lockwood’s eyes find yours—you’ve had an idea about how to proceed next when he offered you to stay at Portland Row. Knowing what will come puts a damp on your appetite.

“We could go back to where we found the key,” Lockwood says to your surprise—something completely different than you have expected. “See if there’s anything where it could fit.”

“Who gave you the job?” you ask. “I want to know more about that Visitor. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing.” George goes back to wolfing down his food.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Lockwood repeats severely.

“You’re joking.”

“Last time I checked, we’re agents,” Lockwood says mildly. “Not comedians.”

“Kipps would usually say you’re more like clowns.”

Lockwood clears his throat. “It was supposed to be an easy job. Secure the source, stop the Visitor. DEPRAC had the job available for agencies but everybody gave up on it at one point. We read the file, so we knew what would wait for us. It got to one Dullop and Tweed operative, ghost-locked him. Another one died, unlucky fellow.” For a moment, Lockwood pauses and watches a drop of condensation run on the inside of his orange juice glass. “The client’s the Abbey Mills Pumping Station. About five months ago, they started undergoing reparations on their flooded C Station Pump House. We think that’s what laid the Source bare, it must have been submerged in the water until they started draining the station because that’s when the workers began reporting a permanent chill in one area. They started avoiding that area owning to feelings of faint depression and nausea, followed by strong miasma, ghost-chill, the feeling of being followed and watched while working. Some felt horrible anger towards their colleagues. Up to the point where they would be consumed by it, started beating each other with spanners and shovels. They found the first victim drowned, though it wasn’t clear if it was another employee or the ghost’s fault. Gave DEPRAC quite a headache, figuring out it’s a ghost problem, then finding an agency that can find the source. They dubbed him the Phantom of the Sewage Cathedral.”

You pull up your nose. “Quiet a title. That Visitor must have died there then,” you wager. “Have you checked the station’s accident log?”

“Of course not, we’re bloody amateurs,” George says drily. You bite back a sharp retort. “Nothing in the log stood out. Of course it had its fair share of accidents. It finished construction in 1868 and we all know they didn’t care much for worker’s safety back then. But during the flooding two years ago, there we no fatal accidents. No one died. And when we located the Source, there was no body.”

“You think the key got in there at some point? From where?”

George shrugs. “Anywhere? The pumping station lifts sewage from the London sewerage system into the Northern Outfall Sewer and the Lee Tunnel, which both run to Beckton Sewage Treatment Works. They key also doesn’t look like it’d fit anywhere in the pumping station. I assume it’s older than that. I’m talking 16th-century older.”

“But the thing is,” Lucy says, her hands pressed flat against the table. Her eyes are wide open, glinting. “The ghost we saw is nowhere near that old. The clothes he’s wearing are from the modern era, and he wasn’t decomposed or rotting. I don’t think he’s been dead for that long. It’s sad, isn’t it? He died and to this day, nobody knows he’s gone … nobody is looking for him.”

“Yes, yes, very unfortunate.” Lockwood waves her concern away with an impatient wave of his hand. “I am more concerned for the living though. Not only have we a dangerous Visitor on us. Whoever is looking for the key isn’t afraid of using violence to get it.”

“Maybe the ghost would find his peace if only someone brought him justice,” Lucy shoots back. You notice the anger flashing in her eyes when she looks at Lockwood, hear the impatience in his voice when he brushes her concern for the ghost off like that. Interesting.

“That’s not much to go on,” you say into the silence of Lucy and Lockwood glaring at each other. Your eyes trail around the kitchen, set on the window. Through it you see part of the garden, unkempt and overgrown. Somehow you can’t imagine them sitting out there and drinking apple juice from the apple trees, Lucy in a floaty knee-length skirt and sandals, and Lockwood with a blue cotton shirt, an enormously baggy pair of shorts with flowers on them, and sneakers. “We don’t have a name, no history, and the Visitor might not have any connection to where you found his source.” You chew slowly, cogs turning in your head. When your eyes catch George’s, he is watching you, calm but with intention. You lower your spoon, appetite ebbing away.

“Oh, but we do have one last thing that might help us.” George leans forward, brown eyes gleaming behind his spotless glasses. His face is predatory but his voice is gentle. “Our psychic Talents.”

The bottom falls out of your stomach. It’s like putting a foot wrong on a frozen creek, the crack of ice, the sudden stop, the knowledge that there is nothing beneath but dark water.

“So that’s why you guys really want me here.” Your accusation bears no malice, just the chill and composition of a sniper routinely loading a rifle before making her hit. “Did it ever cross your mind I might say no?”

George falls back into his chair, a deceptively relaxed posture but from the way he flexes his hands on the table it looks as though he’s gearing up for a fight. “It’s the best lead we got. A psychic connection to the ghost might give us a hint on who murdered—”

“We know who murdered him,” you snap. “The same person who wants to put me six feet under next.”

“Would be the logical conclusion, but we’ve made the same mistake once. It’s never that simple.”

“George.” That’s Lockwood’s voice, calm yet firm. You wouldn’t describe his posture like George’s, slouching in his seat; Lockwood is leaning back, fingers steepled. He holds your gaze, purposefully, and you have to look away from its intensity. “No more experiments with psychic connections, we agreed to that.” His brown eyes slide lazily toward Lucy who has her mouth open in what seems like protest, but immediately closes it. For a moment you think her gaze sets on the ceiling as though there is something beyond the brick and mortar, an area or room in this house that would underline her point.

The question mark must be evident on your face. “My speciality is Listening,” Lucy explains. “Touch amplifies it sometimes, but I didn’t get much except sounds from the key, rapid footsteps, shouting, a gunshot—”

“Yeah,” you quickly say before the tang of stale water and foul soil can spread on your tongue. You try and wash it down with tea, welcoming the scalding heat in your mouth. Absently, you rub the spot on your chest where you know the Visitor was shot. “Yeah, I know, it’s uh … not a pleasant source.”

“I’d like to deal with a pleasant source for once,” George mumbles. He’s finished his plate, fingers tapping now on the edge of the table. He flicks impatient looks at Lockwood, who pretends not to notice. “So basically, the only thing we can do now is trying to find something in the Archives, at least regarding that symbol. Oh, and hoping whoever’s after that key doesn’t break in here next. That would be annoying, since it wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m quite fond of our new rug.”

“I know what you’re trying, George,” Lockwood says, with the annoyance of a man who’s already said this often enough, and who also wants to move past this specific topic but can’t. “If this were our last resort, I still wouldn’t force her—or anyone to do something this dangerous.” He’s crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowed. The fact that he’s mindful of your discomfort using your Talent comes as a genuine surprise.

“You didn’t seem to mind the first time I did it,” you throw in, watching him intently. Lockwood’s shoulders draw together.

“Technically, it was Kipps who brought you in,” he says. “I do want this case solved, but I am against getting involved with ghosts in any way.” His eyes rest on Lucy for a moment, heavy and contemplative. She makes an impressive job of not meeting his gaze.

You look down at your hands as though the answer of all your problems lies within your gloved palms. Either you stick to Lockwood’s plan, keep your hands away from the key, or you stop running from your own Talent. If what you interpret correctly between the unsubtle allusions of Lockwood, Lucy’s Talent doesn’t appear to be your run-off-the-mill Listening either.

A muscle in your jaw clenches, as though you’re chewing on your words before you speak. Finally, you breath, “OK. Let me do it.”

Lockwood stirs in his seat. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I hate sitting around and doing nothing even more.”

“All right,” he says slowly. “That means you two stick to the plan and go to the Archives tomorrow. I’ll meet up with you down at the factory for our case.” Lucy and George nod. Lockwood turns to your next. “And you and me will try and see what else the Visitor can show us.”

“Are you sure it’s going to be OK with just you two?” Lucy asks.

“We should start right after dawn breaks,” you say, “when the ghost is at his weakest. What can go wrong?” It will turn out later the answer to that is simple: everything.

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear, @a-candle-maker

[lapudamuda]

Edit (18 Nov 2033): Amazing news everyone! The case has been solved! The author of this fanfic is @lemony-snickers. Here’s the link to their work: https://www.tumblr.com/lemony-snickers/680068516103274496/imagine-that-after-jirayas-death-there-will-be

Thank you!!____________________________________________

Original post:

Hello y’all!!!

God, it’s been a while since I posted & it feels like a crime lololol 💀

Anyways, I need some help finding this one Kakashi fic on tumblr. Basically, reader & Kakashi are in a relationship & she secretly writes erotic novels. The novels get to the same level of popularity as the Icha Icha series except it was catered to a more female audience. Eventually, Kakashi finds that she was the author of it & that’s basically it.

If anyone is able to locate this gem, I would appreciate it greatly!!! Tysm!!! <333

[major-sesquipedalian]

GILEAR???? DID FIG MAKE A DEAL WITH

GILEAR????????

evidence:

“curdled” — exhibit 1: gilear’s lemonade/milk coffee order that curdled

“creamy, lemony yellow light” — exhibit 2: you know gilear loves his lemon yogurt

a “ sickening gurgle from fig’s stomach” — exhibit 3: need i remind you all of gilears historically rough digestive/intestinal experiences

WHAT HAPPENED TO GILEAR. IS HE DEAD. IS HE A DEVIL. IS HE TRAPPED IN A GEM AND FIG IS GETTING MAGIC FROM HIM. WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR BELOVED LUNCH LAD/VICE PRINCIPAL/INTERN/TOUR MANAGER

okay i also of course must say that ep 1 of junior year was fantastic!!!!!!!! everything i could’ve hoped for :))))

[whoslaurapalmer]

pinocchio (as annotated by lemony snicket) 🦗

-okay objectively the way they put the book together is gorgeous -- it's enormous with these fun blue black and white illustrations by mike mignola, and it feels like, a very grand and impressive fairytale experience, which I think is thoroughly charming and the way you SHOULD read fairytales, with this, sprawling expanse of art and text, in a book that doesn't NEED to be this big but also does, bc it's supposed to capture magic and excitement and a literary journey, especially like, in a child's hands

-only thing missing is one of those ribbon bookmarks........

-it has a slipcover too!!!!!!

-lemony's annotations are inserted as extra sheets of paper with typewritten and numbered notes at the beginning of each chapter that you can take out, and have pen marks and stains on some of them, and corresponding numbers written in pen within the text, which is all INCREDIBLY neat

-I have to say that I myself have about like 2% knowledge of what happens in pinocchio and it's been an absolute actual age since I saw the disney movie. this lead to some, uh, Thoughts of my own

-but since the idea behind lemony's notes is that he too is reading it for the first time, it felt as if I was in the room with lemony snicket and we were looking at each other with increasing incredulity and horror and concern (and decreasing hope)

geppetto and cherry: /TWO arguments that lead to violent physical altercations that end with friendship handshakes lemony: ????? me: ??????????????????

the narrator: what happened after this is an almost unbelievable story, but you may read it, dear children, in the chapters that follow. me: you know, that's a vibe.

pinocchio: if you're a kid you have to go to school and school sucks me: pinocchio you've been alive for a hot HOUR AND A HALF how do you know about school????????

the cricket: kids shouldn't run away from home, or be lazy! get a job pinocchio: wow shut up /angrily throws hammer the cricket: /dead, re: the hammer me: HOLD ON HOLY SHIT WHAT THE HELL????????? JIMINY BOY'S DEAD??????????? JUST LIKE THAT????????? lemony: this happens to people you get attached to. me: I'm. hello. what the hell.

the marionettes: omg look it's pinocchio!! lemony: I do not understand how the marionettes recognize pinocchio, who just a short time ago was a piece of wood in a cottage, and thus has had hardly any time or experience in the world. me: E X A C T L Y

ghost cricket: I am the ghost of the talking cricket me: HELLO????????????????? HE CAME BACK?????????

-AND THEN HE COMES BACK AGAIN -this should come as news to absolutely 100% no one not even me but i did in fact think 'goddamn disney did a fucking number on this.'

-i do find part of all this incredibly silly though bc danhan HAS been asked if 'lemony snicket' came somehow subconsciously from 'jiminy cricket' but he's always said no. and i do believe him.

-these adventures. are horrifying. like. no seriously, what the fuck

the narrator: I don't know what happened to lamp-wick lemony: WHY DON'T YOU me: BOLD WORDS, LEMON MAN???????????????

me, some chapters later, presented with a random donkey: oh, it's gonna be lamp-wick the narrator: it was lamp-wick! and then he died. me: wait, what lemony: /performs the written equivalent of a table flip

-lemony going 'i'm nothing but a puppet controlled by the mysteries of literature alone! humanity is nonexistent and impossible!' will, in fact, stick with me for some time, i must say

and then, i'm so sorry lemony i'm cackling

lemony: NOTHING IS REAL the narrator: and pinocchio becomes a real boy. lemony: n e v e r m i n d

-there are honestly some great little lemony gems --

"these paintings in geppetto's house are examples of 'trompe l'oeil,' a phrase which here means 'paintings of things you wish were here but aren't.'"

"I am so disturbed by pinocchio's feet turning to ashes that I fainted and missed this chapter." (however this turns into a running joke of lemony fainting at the mentions of bizarre danger every few chapters which did, wear on me after a while.)

"Anyone crying does not want to die. I write this weeping."

"'Disobedience' seems like a curious way to describe the activities of someone trying to find out what happened to their father, like referring to someone chased through the streets by a panther as a 'jaywalker.'"

"There has been so much trickery in this book that this question seems to me larger and more profound than it may seem at first glance. What is the joke? Pinocchio finds himself alone and in trouble once more, and as anyone who has found themselves alone and in trouble knows, life begins to feel like some long, cruel joke that, like so many jokes, is tricky to understand."

"NEAR a farmer's wagon doesn't seem like a good hiding place. Almost any other preposition would do: aboard, above, alongside, astride, behind, below, beneath, beside, inside, on, over, past, under, underneath, upon, with or within a farmer's wagon are all better plans to avoid being spotted."

"It is often the case that people work very hard making children and then seem very eager to get them to leave the house, as if it is the thrill of making children, rather than the responsibility of raising them, which most interests them."

after geppetto says "I should have thought of this before I made him. Now it's too late!" -- "This, sadly, is a common lament among people who make other people, and if you don't believe me, wait until the middle of the night, and wake up the people who made you and ask them if they have any regrets." me: /eyeing and then? and then? what else? which is still on the coffee table, thinking about the part where danhan's son wakes him up to look at the lighthouse

-still unsure just what to make of this --

-literally no other mention of her after that, except in that last note with the 'mysterious woman' comment -i mean, tempting to think of it as bea, and i certainly did when presented with the first one, but it also doesn't really fit with bea??? -but i have no idea who i would even say it is??? -i feel like we are once again in the position of, this is danhan, choosing to write something in lemony's tone just to have a good time, i guess -there's some references in his notes early on to absinthe and nightcaps too where i was like 'danhan, your, danhan is showing.'

-i have, Thoughts i am trying to parse out -i feel like his lemony voice has changed over time and well, change comes for us all -but also that he's definitely (poison for breakfast) used lemony to say things about himself that he just doesn't want to put his name on, for reasons known only to danhan -and after reading and then? and then? what else? i do see more pieces of danhan in lemony, like i said before re: poison for breakfast that lemony has a kindness that i didn't think i saw in danhan but after reading the memoir, no, i absolutely Do see it in danhan, a great deal, and he reveals this like, silly history of lemony's name AFTER coming up with it for the right-wing material and BEFORE using it on the books, so i see more of how danhan exists in lemony (-i did not expect to read and then? and then? what else and feel personally shot in the heart by lisa brown but that also happened. god i can't get over her saying 'well if lemony snicket is so lonely why doesn't he come join us and hang out?' at the goldfish ghost reading. like. pierced to the bone, lisa.) (-oh, and you know, the rumination on the word lunatic in and then? and then? vs the use of the word lunacy here) -but! lemony is still of course his own distinct character, with his own distinct personality and everything that exists apart from danhan, all the same -and i can approach this from a vibe of, even lemony has grown out of his grief, and it's not his grief necessarily that characterizes him nor would i not want him to, i mean we all know i roll post-canon lemony around in my head very often and wish him great joy -but i do feel like when danhan does something with lemony now it is Missing something of Lemony. -which i also feel rude saying. like fucking christ who am i to tell a man how to write his own character -but he didn't always do it like this either, like hero of the story and that murder alibi book whose name escapes me and i can't find at the moment but you know what i'm talking about. i've got screenshots somewhere -anyway they clearly exist as lemony pieces irrevocably linked to lemony the character, without any, idk interference from danhan himself, as danhan -but as we move through time i feel this less with more current lemony, and there's, yknow, a sadness in it -not that i went into PINOCCHIO OF ALL THINGS expecting any particular snicket content, bc i didn't, but you really never know with danhan -idk. the musical and all its potential perils and joys is looming somewhere in the future of us all as well, so, shrug emoji?????????? -i can't say i had a BAD time reading the annotations to pinocchio (reading pinocchio is a different matter), i enjoyed them, but i do feel like, there's just something Missing, is all i can say about it -and it's not that lemony's sadness is what makes him, there is so much that makes lemony, but i just see lemony Less, in a way -SHRUG EMOJI you couldn't pay me to actually use the shrug emoji. it's funnier to say shrug emoji. -so, anyway

-oh the art really was incredible. some of my favs --

-the book in its slipcover!

-oh and lemony's author picture is the most fascinating thing i have seen in some time --

[kratomcapsules12]

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[saraacruz001]

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[patmax17]

Lemony Snicket is a gem

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[ninegems1]

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[gemstone-jewelry8]

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[angelicawatson]

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[catherinejones5152]

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