#sour lemon strikes again

[lynxgriffin]

I just reread paper trail within a day, been awhile since i read it last lol. A bit obsessed with deltarune again

Can you draw lemon ralsei with a gun-

Who gave him that????!

Also dang, that's a fast reread! Thanks so much for the read, though, and yessss more of the DR obsession!

[interfated]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Lemon boy ! . . . ( 西村力 )

— pairing: 西村力 x reader — contains: slight angst, fluff — now playing: 一子青葉

Lemon boy - Cavetown . Part 2

"There once was a bittersweet man and they called him Lemon Boy. He was growing in my garden, and I pulled him out by his hair like a weed"

Riki Nishimura.

You were new to school and he was appointed as your guide. You tried to make friends with him but he wasn't very talkative.

Despite that, you were still nice.

You'd see him in class, which was all of them as you guys shared the same itinerary. Every time you spotted his eyes you'd walk over and smile, trying to strike up a conversation, he never had it.

He'd stare at you blankly, and walk away quickly. Not wasting any time to say goodbye.

You thought you got close when he finally replied to your nuance but he only let out a short "Okay" and walked away for what felt like the billionth time

"And like weeds do, he only came and grew back again, so I figured this time, I might as well let him be"

You were curious as to why he was so blank all the time so you followed him through his day. Not in a creepy way, he knew you were there, but he didn't tell you to leave so you continued.

The whole day he didn't speak to anyone.

He ate alone, walked to class alone, and studied in the library alone. Never once did you see him talk to a friend.

-

The next day you asked around.

"He doesn't have any friends."

"He's weird..."

"He never talks, it freaks me out"

"All I know is he's an asshole"

Mixed with

"Leave him alone, it's a waste of time trying to be friends with him."

"Why are you talking to him anyway?"

The weirdest was when a girl said "Don't talk to him...You'll be cursed for eternity." and walked away laughing.

Intrigued you followed him again the next day.

Not once did he bully anyone like everyone made you think. He didn't even look up from the ground most of the time.

You got tired of all the same replies people were giving you, not even actual intel on him, just insults and bad-mouthing. Until one girl told you to ask an old friend of his, Jake Sim.

You met him in his algebra class, which you conveniently shared with him. "Jake!" He looked at you with surprise, probably because a stranger knew his name, but you didn't let him ask questions before you started interrogating him.

The questions went on for about a minute before he got a chance to answer, but luckily he answered them without questioning why you wanted to know. Because that would've been another long minute.

"Uhhhhhh, it's confusing. He was being bullied for a while" He paused "Not like serious bullying but they told him he was annoying, talked too much, etcetera. You get the drill"

You frowned at him

"Well, why aren't you guys friends anymore?"

He sighed and looked away kinda guilty-like "He turned like... bitter. You know? I know it's not his fault but it got hard to be around him. Almost sour like a lemon" Jake mumbled the last part and looked down at his paper, only to look back up at you and see a scowl on your face, "like a lemon?"

"yeah, lemon boy. That's what everyone calls him"

You were thankful for the info but annoyed so you left without saying bye, grimacing at him on your way out

"Weird..." Jake thought

"Lemon Boy and me started to get along together"

You weren't going to let the mean things people said, or the warnings they advised, stop you from trying to be his friend.

He wasn't mean to you, if he was that would be a different story, but he's not. So you persevered

You continued to talk to him in every class, his chair being right behind yours made it easy. You'd talk his ear off during break and even started sitting at lunch with him.

The first day you did, you had seen him sitting alone at a table in the far back, right by the doors. You had sat in front of him, he looked up at you as you started talking.

This time he didn't get up and walk away (Though you wondered if it was just cause he was too hungry to walk away from his food), but rather he just sat there. He wasn't necessarily acknowledging you but he wasn't ignoring you either. He'd occasionally look up at you then go back to eating his food which was good enough for you.

"I helped him plant his seeds and we'd mow the lawn in bad weather"

At the end of the day, walking in the halls, you overheard the English teacher lecturing Riki about his dropping grade.

Telling him to either work harder or get a tutor. Even the teachers were mean to him.

It wasn't that Riki wasn't trying, nor was he dumb. Literature just wasn't his strong suit, and that's where you came in.

You barged into the room, happy and energetic as always.

The teacher pointed to you "Ah, here. She's doing wonderfully, why don't you have her tutor you?" You looked at Riki and smiled. The plan is going perfectly.

Riki on the other hand looked at you, then the teacher, then the ground, and walked out past you. The teacher glared at him and shook her head, looking back at her paper.

You simply just shut the door and followed Riki, like you had been for the past 2 weeks now. "I really don't mind tutoring you by the way! I love English" You ended it with a sweet chuckle

Riki just looked at you, took a deep breath in, and nodded.

He continued walking and you continued following him, assuming you were going to the library to study.

You were right, and when you got there Riki took a chair in the far back of the library, not without a few stares as he walked through.

Sitting down with him you didn't want to waste time.

You pulled your books out and started. English was your favorite subject so you were very excited which made you talk even faster then usual.

Riki's mouth slightly agape he muttered quietly, "Slow down please.." He looked up at you, "Just a little" he said even more muttered than the first sentence.

You, shocked at hearing his voice for the first time, sat there with your mouth open. It made him nervous so he looked down at his book and started flipping to the page you were on.

He let out a little "sorry." which you quickly said was okay, and told him not to apologize to which he nodded.

It was nice hearing his voice, kind of deep, and super quiet. It was clear he was shy cause it was a little shaky but you thought his voice was cute so you took what you could get.

He didn't say anything for the rest of the session, simply just nodding and letting out a small "Oh" here and there.

7pm, when you guys were finally done, you asked "Next week after school?" as you grabbed your bag and gave him a smile.

"mm," he replied, nodding.

You gave him one last smile and wished him goodnight.

"Goodnight Riki"

If only you had stayed for a moment longer, you would've seen the slight smile that made its way to Riki's face.

"It's actually pretty easy being nice to a bitter boy like him"

The weekly tutoring sessions continued, and so did talking to him in class all day, so did sitting with him at lunch, and so did following him around school.

You even started sitting right next to him at lunch, rather then sitting across from him.

It made him nervous at first but eventually, he started scooting closer to you.

Rather than just looking back between you and his food, he started reacting

"But it was so annoying cause he was like "It's my house if I want to eat the ice cream, then I can eat the ice cream" but man I bought it" You complained before stuffing a spoonful of rice in your mouth, not expecting Riki to reply at all but he let out a small laugh

It was the cutest thing you ever heard.

It was soft but real. Not some fake laugh, he seemed genuinely kind of happy.

You smiled at him but looked away when he looked back at you and finished your story.

Riki started replying to all the little stories you told him.

Whether it was his adorable little laughs or small "yeah?"'s, he was warming up.

"So I got myself a citrus friend"

Riki started talking first.

Poking your back in class to tell you a dumb joke, giving you little notes, telling his own little stories, ranting about his weekend.

At one point he even asked if you wanted to walk home with him.

You smiled big and loudly said yes, to which he replied with a laugh and said okay.

From that point on you guys started walking to and from school together every day, you spent all day at school together and you even started hanging out after school. You were completely inseparable at this point.

He was the sweetest person ever, he was kind, caring, gentle, and he had the cutest smile ever.

You didn't understand how people could hate such a sweet boy, but you were glad this lemon boy was your friend.

@ featki

[calia23]

The agent of chaos is coming! To help people complete the RPF Summer Camp challenge, I decided to come to your inbox with the next question:

If the MotoGP riders were fruits, what would they be?

Please share these ask so we can all get more badges and make this more fun. Also, feel free to ignore this if you want.

Agent of chaos says goodbye.

OMG GOD! Thank you so much, anonymous! I actually wanted to write something specifically about fruit to participate because, although I like the topics, I don't feel ready to tackle any of them, and fruit was the safest bet. So, thank you, because I've been putting it off, but this question has put me on alert again.

So here we go! I hope this counts as a summer camp entry because I'm really excited.

If the MotoGP riders were fruits, what would they be?

Marc Marquez: I've always associated him with red, so maybe an apple or a strawberry (searching for red fruits, I discovered the red Pitahaya). So I definitely consider Marc a Pitahaya, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. That doesn't mean I consider he soft, but I think he's softer than it looks.

Alex Marquez: would be a peach, soft on the outside, but with a firm core. At first glance, he seems calm and discreet, lacking Marc's charisma, but he has determination, perseverance. Like the peach, he has a natural sweetness reflected in his calm demeanor, but also a "hard core" that means he won't let anything get to him. He's not always the most outstanding fruit in the basket, but when he's at his best, he can be one of the tastiest.

Fermin Aldeguer: could be a mango the freshness and youth he possesses and the energy he displays. And you can also see that he's a very sweet guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, like a mango; he doesn't hide anything.

Pecco Bagnaia: On the other hand, I definitely consider Pecco a more classic fruit. Something like a pear or an apple. He doesn't attract much attention, but he's always there.

Fabio Quartararo: It's definitely the opposite; he draws attention. he would be a visibly striking fruit, like a pineapple. I don't know, but I also associate pineapple with something modern. I'm reminded of Marco from One Piece. They may not have the same personality, but I definitely think they have the same vibe.

Johann Zarco: I think he could be a banana. You never know how ripe it will be until you cut it open, and the skin is often deceiving.

Jorge Martin: I guess it could be a watermelon. Everyone expects it to be sweet, but you might find that it doesn't taste like anything, it's all water.

Maverick Viñales: It has a Kiwi vibe, it may seem boring, but it definitely surprises.

Enea Bastianini: Like grapes, maybe? They may seem like a small thing, but you can definitely never take them for granted.

Jack Miller: He's like a chili, you don't know when it's going to explode, but when it does, you feel it.

Brad Binder: He's a blueberry, small but powerful. He's that driver who doesn't always seem like a star until Sunday comes around, and he proves he's still there (sometimes).

Marco Bezzecchi: would be a strawberry, young, vibrant, and with a freshness that's hard to ignore. He's striking, and he knows it. Although he might be a dream that needs to reach his full potential (in terms of riding).

Pedro Acosta: could be consider him a lemon, because even though it's young, it has a sour taste, or an intense and competitive personality. Also like a lemon that needs to ripen.

Luca Marini: could be also be considered classic, but a bit more specific, as a green apple. This fruit is known for its tangy, refreshing flavor, which may symbolize his analytical and detailed approach to racing.

Franco Morbidelli: could be a plum, discreet and elegant in appearance, but with a sweet, complex, and characterful interior, perfectly reflects this fruit that surprises those who take the time to get to know it well.

Raúl Fernández would be like a grenade: on the outside, he seems serious and reserved (Honestly, I don't know much about him, so I'll go with that)

Ai Ogura: could be a mandarin small, agile, and full of energy. And always ready to surprise with its intense flavor.

Somkiat Chantra: could be a melon with a surprising sweetness, big in presence and with plenty of energy to offer.

Miguel Oliveira: It could be a pear, simple and discreet, but with a sweet and pleasant flavor. It doesn't immediately attract attention, but you know it's there.

Fabio Di Giannantonio could be blackcurrant: small and acidic, with an intense flavor that stands out for its freshness, character and aggressiveness.

And that's all my comparisons. Of course, some are more detailed, while others are more superficial. And I'm not shying away from the subjective nature of my opinion. The amount of things I've read about the meanings of fruits will remain with me.

[ttlynotmemoods]

Hamzah #3

Lenny hadn���t planned to stay long.

Simone had begged — voice notes with drawn-out pleases, three follow-up texts, a subtle dig about Lenny being “a little ghost lately.” Lenny only agreed because the money was good and the location was already on her way home. But from the moment she stepped through the condo door, she regretted it.

The party was the wrong kind of loud. Glossy bodies filtered through gold lighting, holding stemmed glasses full of pink foam and bad decisions. The music throbbed like a headache just under the skin. Everyone seemed dressed for a scene in a movie that didn’t know what it was trying to say.

Lenny kept her hood up. Got the job done. Declined a drink from a guy wearing two chains and no shirt. She was edging toward the door when she heard it — that laugh.

Low, a little surprised. Familiar.

She turned her head.

Hamzah.

He was near the kitchen, solo cup in one hand, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be comfortable. Curls slightly rumpled. Sleeves bunched around his elbows. Smiling at something someone had said.

Then he looked up. Like he felt her looking.

And smiled like a weight dropped off his chest.

She blinked.

Then walked.

“You good?” she asked as she reached him.

He grinned. “Barely. This isn’t really my scene.”

“No kidding.”

“I came with friends,” he explained, as if he owed her something. “Martin, Mandy... uh—”

“You have friends?”

He started listing them, brow furrowed. “Yeah—Martin, Mandy, sometimes Tyl—”

She raised an eyebrow.

He paused. Realized. “Okay, wow. You’re an ass.”

She shrugged. “Just surprised. You strike me as more of a ‘texts at weird hours and disappears for days’ type.”

He sipped his drink, dramatic. “Not true. I’m extremely lovable.”

She gave him a long look. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Of course, i was wondering when you’d ask.”

The gas station glowed like an airport terminal for the damned. Fluorescents sharp as razors. Inside, it smelled like lemon cleaner and fryer oil from a fast food joint half a block away.

Lenny beelined for the snack aisle. Hamzah headed to the back corner where the slushie machine churned in place like a lava lamp left on since the last evening.

“You’re getting one too,” he called.

“No, I’m not.”

He filled a cup halfway with radioactive blue. “Don’t make me drink both and turn into a smurf.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Lenny.”

She sighed and joined him. “Fine. Blue.”

He beamed. “The people’s flavor.”

She grabbed spiral Cheetos on the way to the register. He added a Snapple and a bag of sour gummies without blinking. The cashier didn’t even look up.

Outside, the pavement sparkled with the remains of the evening’s rain and scattered glass. Hamzah kept pace beside her, one hand curled around the slushie, the other tucked into his hoodie pocket.

Her apartment was the same as always — clean, quiet, curated. Warm in its own detached way. The kind of space that didn’t need to be explained. Plum was already watching from her perch near the window, eyes narrowed, tracking Hamzah’s entrance like a neighborhood watch volunteer.

“She remembers you,” Lenny said, toeing off her sneakers.

Hamzah bent slightly, respectful. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am.”

Plum blinked once. No response.

“She’ll come around.”

He followed Lenny to the living room and dropped onto the couch with a sigh. She sat beside him, legs tucked up. They cracked their drinks, and the blue slushies turned into something syrupy and sweet on their tongues. The TV hummed in the background — some show about bees that neither of them cared about.

They ate Cheetos in silence, but the noise didn’t feel like isolation. It felt like a language both of them understood.

Then Hamzah leaned forward and nodded toward the fridge. “I saw that line last time.”

She didn’t follow his gaze. Just said, “Niko wrote it.”

He tilted his head. “Who’s Niko?”

“This poet. Buys shrooms or whatever every few weeks. Pays in crumpled bills and riddles.”

“Friend?”

She smirked. “If you ask him, he’d say something like ‘kindred flames held in mirrorlight.’”

Hamzah blinked. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It might be.”

She grabbed another spiral from the bag, speaking without looking at him. “He gave me a zine. That was the least cringe line.”

“But you kept the line?”

She looked at him then. Not sharply. Just long enough.

“I think it’s funny when someone sees me and thinks I’m something sacred.”

He didn’t joke. Just nodded. “I don’t think it’s funny.”

She blinked. Looked away again.

Then, slowly, stood and crossed to a drawer by the wall. Pulled out a slim, stapled stack of paper and held it up.

“You want the full thing?”

Hamzah raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

She tossed it beside him like it was a pizza menu. “Enjoy the secondhand embarrassment.”

“You kept it.”

She laughed. “Doesn’t mean it means something.”

“But it’s on your fridge.”

She opened her Snapple. “It matched the magnets.”

But her voice was soft. Lighter. She didn’t sound dismissive — just honest.

Hamzah thumbed through the zine. Quiet chuckles at the dramatic ones. A thoughtful hum at a few others. He didn’t make jokes.

Plum jumped down, slinking across the floor, and after a moment’s pause, curled up at Hamzah’s hip, tail flicking once before going still.

He glanced down. “...Is this approval?”

“She tolerates you.”

“She’s curled up next to me.”

“She’s cold. You’re warm. It’s transactional.”

He grinned. “Like you and me?”

“Worse,” she said.

But her smile didn’t fade.

They sat like that: the hum of bees from the TV, the sugar settling in their veins, the cat pressed into his side.

After a long pause, Hamzah said, “You ever think about why you let me stay this long?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “You haven’t asked for anything.”

“I’m sitting on your floor reading poetry written about you.”

She shrugged. “That’s not asking.”

Hamzah nodded. Let the quiet fill the space again.

A line from the zine lay open on the page in front of him.

“And even when she stays, she keeps her shoes on.”

Hamzah didn’t say anything. Just stayed where he was.

TAGLIST: @karstynluvsmusic

[ishouldgetatumbler]

<< < ao3 > >>

Artemis sat on the wooden desk the boys shared, broken communicator strewn across the table. He took it apart to figure out how it works, and only then did he understand how broken it was. He looked at his watch, making sure he hadn't lost track of time. He blinked, trying to clear the blur from his cyclopean vision. 7:55. He watched the boys and thought.

He was reaching an important age, or so Butler had told him. An age where it was important for him to begin engaging with his peers, the girls and perhaps boys of his classes.

Butler was absolutely correct.

Children were like embryos, constantly shifting, gaining depth and complexity.

Not him of course, his mind had been a infinite crystal of cool calculation since he could remember.He has learned things of course, but his mind had stayed the same, a sharp and efficient machine of function and cold calculation expanding to contain the new information, but not changing.

His peer's minds would never be what his was, but they had become people at least. They had their own desires, their own drives and ambition. His peers were now smart enough to be manipulated.

Of course it was easy to trick a six year old, he'd spent a lot of time doing it, but the fruits of his labor were essentially nil. Children knew nothing he didn't, and could acquire nothing he couldn't acquire easily.

The people around him are tools and, for once, they were useful tools. Sturdy enough to survive, smart enough to solve simple problems on their own. Finally the most plentiful resourse was actually something he could exploit.

Damian seemed like a simpleton trapped in genius's mind. Sharp witted, capable in combat and insatiable desire to punch his problems in the face repeatedly. He was, for Artemis' guess, furious beyond reason that he couldn't couldn't solve Artemis by punching him in the face. There were truly few problems that couldn't be solved with extreme violence, and Artemis was proud to one of them.

Danny seemed like he was hiding something, but his secret would offer little to Artemis until he could unveil it. Asking directly would only tip his attention that Artemis wished to know.

"Did your father or mother make the device?" Artemis asked Danny, watching Damian.

The boy's face soured like he sucked a lemon, his every feature screaming 'I thought you said he was no one' in a frustrated growl.

Artemis grinned a slimy little smile.

"Kind of a joint process." Danny said airily, "do you know them?"

"They're famous in certain circles. Infamous in many others." Artemis answered vaguely.

Danny nodded, his parent's polarizing impact known best to him.

Artemis has learned of them through his work in 'esoteric' sciences as he prefered to call them, they were geniuses with ectoplasm and often measurable on gieger counter at some distance.

"If you want to repair it, we'll need to steal some things." Artemis said, looking over the device.

Damian made a face.

"Borrow without permission or intent to return," Artemis said after a moment, "better?"

"Why are you antagonizing me?"

"not sure. why are you so easy to antagonize?"

Damian marched to Artemis, raising his fist like a gavel to strike down solemn judgement. Artemis looked up from his tinkering, glancing to Damian's threatening scowl, then back down to his watch. 7:57 Damian scoffed and turned away.

"I'll let you know when we find something I need," Artemis said, looking after Damian as he left "I'll do this." He made a quick gesture with one hand.

Damian immidiately mimmicked him, his hands forming the same odd rounded shape.

"Stealing from these guys?" Danny groaned.

"Listen," Artmeis inerjected.

"How? They have cameras everwhere!" One of boys said, Artemis did not care which.

"LISTEN!," Artemis said again, raising his wristwatch, "the mics will get hot in here at lights out at 8, it's currently-"

"What?" Damian barked, "how much do you know, what are you-"

"It's currently 7:59, I need you too-"

"Why did you wait until now you-"

The lights dropped.

In darkness, someone roared and a fist collided with Artemis's one good eye.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Lovely M! Your requests are open! So I was wondering if you would mind writing a lil something for my favourite wolf boi (or Celegorm!) With the prompt "jousting"

I'm feeling something comedic, but I'm ultimately leaving the vibe up to you

As always, you're welcome to make it lemon-y sour if you would like, preferably fem!reader, and maybe set in the normal time frame or thereabouts

Thanks in advance if you decide to write this! <3

Right. Since you prefer the normal time frame, how about Celegorm learning to joust somewhere in Middle-Earth?

This won’t be smut, but I’ve added some NSFW elements all the same.

“Little game”

Pairing: Celegorm x Fem. Reader (Mortal | second person POV) | Location: Middle-Earth / Himlad | Prompt: Joust

Themes : Soft | NSFW

Warnings : Kissing | Teasing | Innuendo | Use of a weapon (Lance)

Word count: 1.2k words

Summary: Celegorm is frustrated after not having mastered the lance quickly enough.  

Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

"My lord! That is not how you couch a lance!"

Celegorm closed his eyes and groaned in frustration. Here he was, a son of Fëanor, a student of none other than the great hunter Oromë himself, failing to wield what was, to all intents and purposes, a heavy stick with a blunted end.

"This is cumbersome!" He complained, "and wholly unsuitable! I insist you hand me my sword immediately!"

"No." You took your time walking to the end of the sparring field, where a straw target was already mounted onto a pivot. "You wanted to learn, my lord. Now learn. Come now," you said, tugging at the straps, the shield, and the leather war-hammer stuffed with tufts of wool. "Surely you, a son of Fëanor, are not admitting defeat."

Celegorm narrowed his eyes, the tips of his ears flushing red and twitching in anger. "Hold your tongue, woman."

"Hold it?" Wicked humor fills your eyes. "What a shame, for I thought you dearly loved it when I swirled my tongue around the tip of yo…"

"Enough!" Red-cheeked, embarrassed, and more than a little inflamed, Celegorm gave you a cheeky grin. "Enough. Very well. Teach me how to couch this wretched thing." 

You helped him with his grip and the angle of his aim. "Lean forward in your saddle," you counseled. "It will help with your balance. Keep your eye on the target. Extend your arm fully just before striking. The speed of your horse will do the rest."

Celegorm listened and took your advice to heart. He held the lance firmly, tucking it under his arm for support. You backed away when he dug his heels into his horse, and it broke into a gallop, racing towards the straw target with all the speed it could muster, its hooves tearing up the grassy earth beneath it. Celegorm waited until the right time, just as he was told. He extended his arm and released, just as he was told. The blunted end struck the shield square in the center. Celegorm hooted in triumph, then howled in agony when the target spun like a top and the stuffed war-hammer struck him square on the back. You ran to him as soon as it happened, alarm coursing through your body. 

"My lord!" You cried. "My lord, are you hurt?"

"Just my blasted pride," Celegorm answers quickly, ridding himself of the lance. It fell to the earth with a soft thud. "Tell me. How old are mortal children when they acquire skill with this weapon?"

"Ten and six for most, my lord," you replied, pausing. "If they are strong enough to wield it." 

"Ten and six." Celegorm sputtered in disbelief. "Eru save me. And how old were you?"

"The same age or thereabouts. Some are deadly with the lance by the time they reach that age."

"Deadly with it." Celegorm stammered again, ashamed that an elf should struggle to master a weapon. "If my brothers learn of this, I will not hear the end of their teasing."

"All the more reason for you to practice," you reply. You had heard of Celegorm's brothers and how they competed against each other. You felt for him. "But enough for today. We will start again tomorrow."

Celegorm dismounted and walked with you back to the tower house he had come to call home, to the chambers that gave him some peace. Once safely ensconced in his bedroom, you helped him undress.

"You said you were unhurt!" you exclaimed. An angry bruise had formed, just beneath his shoulder blades. "Pray give me a moment. I have a balm for it."

"No." Celegorm crawled onto his featherbed, biting back a helpless whimper. "Leave it be for now. Come, lay beside me a little."

The world outside changed and darkened. Golden light gave way to the dark, the animals of the night, and the full moon. Torches came to life, their light chasing away the gloom. A dog barked just beneath the open window. Someone shouted orders. 

Celgorm was silent, brooding over his failure. You propped yourself on your elbow. "How are you, truly?"

He turned to face you, his rich blue eyes half-hidden in shadow.

"Ashamed," he confessed. "I am an elf, one who was born in Valinor, and a prince of the Noldor besides. And yet I struggle to master a weapon." 

"This was only your third day, my lord." You reached out and brushed stray locks of golden hair out of his eyes. "There is no shame in not mastering a skill so soon."

"Yes, but mortal children do. By the time they are ten and six!"

"Because our world is more dangerous, we have no other choice. Do not fret, my lord. You will be unhorsing the best of them before long."

The games, or jousts, as the Edain called it were something they devised to train and prepare hopeful warriors. Celegorm had heard of it, after establishing a lordship for himself in Himlad. Those from amongst the Edain would ride against each other, seeking honor, gold, and glory, companions to shower them with all manner of favors. He was told the next games would be held on another turn of the moon. There was still enough time for him to learn. Celegorm grew more hopeful. 

"Yes," he decided. "I will be ready then. Now, what shall we do to pass the time?"

You wrinkle your brow. "Read, perhaps? Shall I call for some candles?"

"No." Celegorm sat up, shaking his head, and said, "No. I am not in the mood to read."

"No books?" you said, tilting your head to the side and smiling slowly. "How about a game of dice, then? It is all the fashion now."

"As my brother Curufin would tell you," Celegorm said gravely, "I should be allowed nowhere near a game of dice. Or any game of chance, for that matter." 

You smiled and sat up straight. This was all just part of a little game that both of you played every night without fail. Celegorm would fuss, you would offer other amusements, and Celegorm would fuss again. The game inevitably ended in fits of laughter and passionate embraces. 

"Hmmm." You narrowed your eyes in mock concentration. "No books and no games of chance. How about some music, then?" 

Celegorm's eyes blazed then. "Oh yes. I know just the music I want to hear now, and only you can provide it."

The true meaning of what he said was not lost on you. You made yourself look sober and grave, and replied thus: "You commanded me to hold my tongue, my lord, and I am not one to ignore such commands. Because of this, you will have no music from me."

Celegorm clapped his hand over his heart. "Oh!" He lamented. "Would you forgive me for my careless command, sweet y/n? How can I atone for it? Should I plead? Go to my knees? Abase myself like a lowly creature before my wounded love?" 

It was hard to remain stern after his little display. You laughed, in small burps at first, before breaking into fits of it. 

"You, my lord, are impossible." You leaned forward and kissed him. Celegorm slid his arms around you, his sweet breath leaving you dizzy and weak. "But I am glad you are mine."

"As I am glad you are mine," Celegorm laid back down, taking you with him. "Now come, loosen that beautiful tongue for me."

[melmodest]

YOU CHOOSE TO LOVE

– I love you.

– I'm sorry you do.

If you love me,

accept my apologies.

It was your gravest mistake

to fall for someone

who doesn't know how to love you back.

You choose to love a catastrophe,

who plays knives and needles,

shutting doors with a loud thud,

locking them from the inside

to make a twisted point.

You choose to love a troublesome kid

with a snarky temper,

sharp-tongued,

and a behavior of the weather,

who could've grown into a serial,

but a brain deviation prescribed 'to live in their own head'

and handed a maladaptive daydreaming.

You choose to love a ghost,

wandering on Earth goalless,

because they've died one too many times,

there is no memory of an unfinished business they're chained to,

no beacon

that can be found,

can gift the ghost freedom.

You choose to love a respiratory sickness,

a virus that wants to be friendly,

but its core is a burgundy paint leaking,

acidulous,

puts you under the influence of a theatrical tragicomedy too fast,

a show of low quality,

definitely underfunded,

makes you gasp from a perpetual sultriness,

selfish in its desire to gloat over a wilting flower.

Everything I do is a warning sign on the road.

You fall asleep peacefully,

I take a detour towards the backdoor.

You trust me, and I keep disappointing.

I run in circles, but God knows,

I've tried

and tried,

and tried again.

I tried to sign up for a restart.

It didn't work, so I stopped.

If you love me,

accept my apologies.

I'm sorry for being such an unsweet thing to enjoy.

I am a sour lemon eaten plain,

a bitter taste of espresso,

a rocky path you keep tripping over,

but because of your gigantic and unbending stubbornness

refuse to withdraw.

I'm not a prize glorious enough for you to carry with pride.

Just a stranger who pops up uninvited,

spits nonsensical stories and strikes unhinged smiles at you,

who dances around jollily and feeds you

with promisespromisespromises.

– Please, don't love me.

You choose to love a car crash.

The aftermath of is an epitaph.

– I'm sorry. I do.

.

[lixorloveslicorice]

what if I sent you an anonymous ask about sour lemons again? Do you want that? Do you really wish to suffer? You believe yourself to be god yet lighting does not strike at your fingertips

what if i bashed you against the wall until you were red mush but in a cute way

[meowtchatea]

All it needs is a Hi- again

A fleeting yet recurring moment that spins one’s mind into a world of pink, sweet, haze of clouds. That rush of adrenaline you get—recalling a seemingly trifling interaction that sends you back in a flurry daydream. Time and time again, the feeling never gets old.

The thrill of teasing yourself to reveal the romantic truth, is one of many teenager’s exulting experiences with romance. The sensation of sweet pink rushing to your cheeks, oh the innocence, the naivety of being young, and experiencing an inkling of love. That sweet eye candy that strikes an electrifying jolt of lightning through your body.

The smell of fruity citrus lingering in the air; lemon, watermelon, and grapefruit. The weather’s gloom has waned, gleaming a subtle ray of sunshine through the window. Its as if the time of the universe has come to a halt for this moment to come true.

The sugary sweet and sour smell melding together, upon the candy’s unwrapping; permeating the tip of your nose with a tingling sensation, gleaning into the thrill and excitement that’s about to come. Sweet and sour crystal candy rocks are beginning to pop, slowly setting off a chain of sparks from your mouth to the deep, thumping beat of your chest. Sparks of igniting romance are coming alight. Your heart is thumping erratically, and slowly, as the sensation of a newly found heat is rushing to your cheeks.

“Would you like to have some candy?” I asked softly. Relieved the thumps of my chest couldn’t be heard.

I smell a voice as sweet as honey, mixed with the refreshing scent of citrus; that sweet sourness. “Yes”, he responded in a gentle and coarse tone. A wave of goosebumps suddenly came over me. The popping of the sugar stopped, and the tangy sensation has built an insatiable craving for this taste to happen once again.

The sweetness is unbearable to keep inside, and the sourness is numbing my cheeks so sweetly in cherry red. It’s hard to keep the steam inside with this sugary encounter. How could I possibly keep this to myself?

That very sweet eye candy I had given a sweet and sour hi-chew candy to, is gazing upon my eyes longingly. My heart is tied up in knots, as his?

The sweetness of my gaze, and the sourness of the unanticipated reciprocated gaze; enveloping the sweet taste of the hi-chew candy with a twist. What a gratifying chew. Now all it needs is a Hi- again, before I get to taste the sweet and sour popping together again. Savouring the burst of a zing arising from this dynamic taste, when will I say Hi-?

-mj

06.03.25

[rainbowjay20]

My Aunt asked why I was writing down what I was eating.

I have the watch with the blood sugar, but that makes no sense without the food to match to it.

Well, in theory..

May 8th

9:37pm- 2 scoops EDY'S Light Ice Cream, Caramel Delight(1/2 fat)

-3 Tablespoons Carmel Sauce

-2 Tablespoons Sanding Sugar

May 9th Thursday

4am -Slice of Little Debbie Lemon Cake

9:30am -12oz Salted Carmel coffee(Target brand) + 4 oz of Fat Free Half and Half (No Sweeteners)

10:15am -Mini Lemon Bundt Cake

10:30am -Arnold Palmer 22 oz

1pm -Very, very, very small (very, very) piece of cheese(snuck off the one that the dog got, just a string)

-1 Baby Carrot while putting away Groceries

-Power C Vitaminwater (finished at 9:50pm)

2pm- 1 small sip of Sprite

3:10pm- 1/10 pound RB, 2 Slices Lettuce Kaiser Roll W/1/2 Tbsp Mayo

-1 Mini Lemon Bundt Cake

-2 (TwoBite) Brownie BAL

4:15 -Sour Cream UTZ Chips

-0.78oz Rice Krispie Treat

5:45pm -Cherry Water Ice

7:15-7:30pm(app) -0.78oz Rice Krispie Treat

8:30pm -15oz Salted Carmel Java Monster

-2 (Two Bite) Brownie Bites

So you would think my blood sugar would go up at the times when I was eating the high sugary food. Pygmy Zebra strikes again.

The three evil desserts.

But these numbers are not the signs of diabetes. I took care of my Dad long enough to know, this is way too low for a diabetic. It's not doing the crash and burn after eating food that is so common in reactive hypoglycemia.

So WTF?! I gotta find a "House". Even if they put me through a ringer to diagnose me.

There is something, maybe not bad, but something. It's driving me crazy.

I will be found out eventually, I guess. Until then I will continue to collect more data.

[atsoraasayoma]

I just read all three. Fantastic. Takeru and Hikari the agents of chaos strike again! They are also sectioned off in two of these stories together and I am all for it! I can imagine them both getting drunk off lemon sours now lol.

A translation of the three audio dramas that were distributed during the first three weeks of Digimon Adventure 02 THE BEGINNING‘s theater run (October 27-November 16, 2023), featuring short stories with the movie’s characters.

[ladycatofwinterfell]

Sweet as cake

Summary: Ned surprises his wife with lemon cakes

Did someone say fluff? Because this is just that and nothing else

It had seemed like a stupid thing, but he knew every worried thought was worth it when he saw the light in her eyes. That such a small thing could bring so much happiness, it was strange. Though at least she was happy so that did not matter.

“You sent for lemons?” she asked, her voice a bit higher than usual.

Ned had never seen her smile as wide as she did when she watched the lemon cakes sitting on the table.

“I did.”

“For me?”

“For you.”

Last time she had been with child she had eaten every cake she could get her hands on and lemon cakes had been her favourite. And lately Ned had noticed her appetite for sweet things increasing as she grew rounder around the middle and so had decided he might as well secure the supply. As well as make sure she could have what she liked best.

“Oh Ned, you’ll make me weep.”

She grabbed his face and forced his head down, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then on to his lips. It was too quick for him to return it, he had barely realised what she was doing before she had turned back to the plate of cakes standing on the table before them.

“This really was not necessary, but thank you, my love” she said.

By the end of the sentence she had already taken a large bite out of a cake. Ned could only stand there and smile as he watched her close her eyes and hum with contentment. He wondered if there was a greater joy than the one in him as he knew he had made his wife so very happy.

Once she opened her eyes she seemed to realise he hadn’t touched the plate.

“Take one!”

“Oh no, they’re for you” he responded.

Ned had never been particularly fond of cakes and similar treats, the sweetness was not at all something that appealed to him.

Before he knew it she had one right under his nose.

“Take a bite.”

Who was he to refuse that?

It wasn’t bad at all, the slightly sour sweetness was a pleasant taste, but he wouldn’t have wanted much of it. Not that he would have been able to take another bite as Catelyn had finished the rest of it while she looked at him with glowing eyes.

“It was good” he said, nodding.

“So good!”

Somehow Catelyn managed to fit an entire cake into her mouth, giving her a striking resemblance to a squirrel.

“My beautiful lady” Ned chuckled.

He leaned down and kissed her nose before turning to pour himself a cup of wine.

“Your round and happy lady” Catelyn managed to get out after chewing for a bit.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ned went to sit on the furs they had placed in front of the hearth. She followed, carrying the plate of cakes and placing it in front of them.

“I feel like a child” she sighed as she arranged her skirts around her. “But also I have been wanting these for weeks.”

“And yet you didn’t ask for it.”

“The cost and work required didn’t seem justified when I considered that my only reason is that I’m with child and always hungry for everything sweet.”

Had their coffins been empty and their people starving it would have been an issue, but as it was they had means to fill their castle with everything required to make her sweets.

Ned reached out with his free hand and ran it through her hair. When she was with child it was even thicker and more lustrous, he thought more of it than was reasonable. A large part of his time was spent thinking about when he could touch it again.

“That is not an issue as of now” he told her.

“Once winter comes I will kick you out of my bed because if you get me with child and I can’t have whatever food I wish I will go mad” she informed him in turn.

“Then I’m very happy for that summer has yet to end.”

She moved closer to him and he welcomed her with open arms, let her lean against him. She was warm and soft and lovely. The flickering light from the fire in the hearth gave her a wonderful glow.

“Not more than I, dearest husband.”

She turned her face up and kissed him. He could taste the lemon cakes on her lips, feel how she smiled.

“Had I not already been with child I would have commanded you to put one in me now” she mumbled as they parted. “But that is already done so I will just eat my cakes.”

“Do so” he chuckled.

“Oh nothing will stop me” she said and took another bite of a cake.

Never had a woman shoving more cake into her mouth than could possibly fit been so endearing.

[silkenstarlight]

a night in crimson valley

Summary: Reader is a bartender at the Crimson Valley Motel. After she is accosted by a drunk John Walker, a familiar face offers her protection and comfort.

Pairing: Biker!bucky x bartender!reader

Warning/s: language, violence, alcohol use; sorta fluffy end

Word count: 5.6k

Author’s note: I’m unsure whether I want to turn this into a series; please let me know your thoughts!

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Her nose burned with the scent of blood and cheap vodka, no matter how hard she scrubbed.

In the early days, when she had first been stationed at this bar, she had stocked the cupboard beneath the register with supplies. Lemon-scented bleach, candy-blue windex, a dried up tube of wet wipes. Every night before closing, she had tugged on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and gone to work. Rubbing, scouring, swabbing away every spilled shot, every stray fingerprint. The dirt and spit and grime seemed to accumulate instantly, and yet, she continued her sisyphean housekeeping, trying to paint over the bar’s run-down reality with a layer of chemical gloss. But, all of that effort was to no avail; this was a roadside establishment, so there would always be sloppy drunks, and there would, most assuredly, always be bar fights, new stains to replace old. No use in hiding it.

Now, she’d grown numb to it, the cleaning supplies below the register covered in an ever-thickening coat of dust. The once shiny, lacquered surface of the bar now reflected dully beneath the low light, encrusted with old dirt and sour deeds. The floor was sticky, a years’ worth of spilled cocktails accumulating in a tacky glue trap. The mirror behind the bar, its surface cloudy and warped, reflected the late-night debauchery of men in desperate need of respite.

Every night, she wiped foggy glasses with the same gray, fraying rag, watching the same blurred, bearded faces pass through. The Crimson Valley Motel, owned by (Y/N)’s father, was a dependable option for truckers looking for a night away from the cramped quarters and lumpy cots of their vehicles. With its low nightly fares and extensive parking, and her father’s promise of discounted drink prices at the attached bar, customers returned without fail. Even still, she tried not to grow too attached to any patrons. They were just passing through, after all, with separate lives waiting for them beyond the road and the walls of the motel. But, sometimes, she just couldn’t help herself. 

Bucky Barnes was one such case.

The first things she had noticed the moment he walked into the bar two years ago were his eyes. Piercing blue, stern and ever-watchful, set beneath the overhang of his perpetually furrowed brow. That first night, he had nursed his whiskey glass with two gloved hands, staring at the bar’s surface as if he were trying to memorize every intricacy and flourish in its woodgrain. She had appreciated his presence ever since, so quiet and watchful, a stark departure from the raucous drunkards and wild military men who usually frequented the Crimson Valley Bar. And, despite the fact that he drank as much as the other patrons, he never seemed affected by the alcohol, his gaze as clear and haunting as ever, even well into the dark hours of morning. It almost made her laugh, his perfect stoicism and strong  jaw, the classic image of unperturbed masculinity. But she could sense the ghost of some deep sadness in the downturned set of his mouth. His shoulders always seemed tense, and he continually shifted his weight in his seat, peering over his shoulder every once in a while, as if suspicious that he was being watched. It made her swallow any skepticism about his demeanor, instead deciding that he was likely a very broken man, deserving of the space and quiet his countenance demanded. For that reason, she never asked him any questions, never made a move to satiate that burning curiosity within her. Better to keep a respectful distance than stir up unwelcome memories. 

She had never even really spoken to him, and only knew his name because she once caught his signature on a receipt. By the time she read it, he had whisked away to spend the night in his motel room and prepare for departure early the next morning.

Whenever he came back, it was like she could sense his presence, could feel his steely gaze sweeping the bar. It was comforting, a sweet bubble of solace beneath the humming neon and peeling rock n’ roll posters, a space of quiet surrounded by the pressing screech of electric guitar and deep boom of drums. She never knew when he would return, his trucking routes and schedule difficult to predict with such minimal information, but she secretly looked forward to it. Another day, another opportunity to unwrap the quiet mystery of Bucky Barnes.

Tonight, the bar was crowded. Hopeful thoughts of seeing Bucky retreated to the very back corner of her mind as she poured sparkling streams of amber liquid into lines of waiting glasses, shaking and stirring and swirling again and again in the rote, mindless motions that a full house required. She had no room to daydream, not on a Saturday night, when more lonely truckers sought out the bar for company, and when the local military base flooded in on their night out. In a room full of loud men with wanting mouths, she needed to work quickly.

On nights like these, the men mostly left her alone, too absorbed in their own festivities to take much note of her. Beyond the simple “pleases” and “thank yous,” they seemed to recognize that any attempt to strike up a conversation would interrupt her flow and leave her begrudging, frustrated, and not exactly an ideal conversation partner. But, some men couldn’t take a hint.

She had been cutting lemon wedges, concentrating on creating an even slice and avoiding her fingertips with the dull knife blade. She counted each slice before pouring the wedges into a chilled metal bowl, her movements precise and rhythmic. 1, 2. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, pour… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, pour… 1, 2, 3--

“Hey, bartender! I asked you a question.”

She knew it was John before she even bothered to look up. She sighed heavily, placing the knife on the counter and wiping her hands before tilting her gaze upwards.

John Walker was another regular here, but her opinion of him was very different than the tentative infatuation she harbored for Bucky Barnes. To put it simply, she did not like John. Whenever he swaggered past the bar’s threshold, flanked by his two favored cronies, she shuddered. Unlike the relatively polite regulars who frequented the bar, John was demanding, expecting (Y/N) to cater to his every whim without complaint. He was, apparently, a favored recruit at the military base. She just thought he was a privileged asshole. One time, he refused to tip her because she didn’t smile at him when she served his drink. And, another time, he broke his glass on purpose just to watch her clean it up.

Now, he was staring at her, head cocked and arms crossed, expecting an answer to a question she hadn’t heard him utter.

She sighed again, leaning against the counter. “Sorry, John. Didn’t catch your question.” Her voice was flat, lacking in genuine sympathy. “Mind repeating it?”

“Can’t even listen,” he said to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. “As I asked earlier, did you water down my fuckin’ snakebite?”

She stared at him, eyes boring into his cold blue ones, and she thought for a second. She was annoyed by his interruption, but this could go poorly if she didn’t handle it with care. If she said the wrong thing, he could get offended, and she was the only woman in a room full of men. She could hold her own in a fight and had some experience with self-defense, sure, but that wouldn’t hold up against a man with John’s stature and training. She couldn’t predict if any of the other men in the room would come to her rescue if things went south, but she couldn’t really blame them. He was tall and strong, and had a temper to boot. But his fragile masculinity, which compelled him to talk down to her and order such ridiculous drinks as a snakebite, wouldn’t survive if she talked back. So, her decision was made.

“Well, John,” she said, her voice low as she smirked. “Usually, you’re already plastered by the time you make it to my bar. I always have to water down your drinks because you can’t hold your fucking liquor.”

His face darkened, brows drawing downwards in a chilling expression of anger. He gritted his teeth together and pushed back from the bar, motioning to turn away from her and back to his friends. “I can handle my liquor just fine, thank you.”

She cleared her throat, catching his attention. “Actually, just last weekend, you threw up all over the parking lot. My poor Pops had to clean it up.” She chuckled at the memory of her father, grumbling with a bucket and mop in hand, as John sat with his head in his hands in the front office. “You might not remember it, John, but I do. We all do.” The incident had occurred well before closing time, so many of the bar’s customers had seen it with their own eyes. One or two had surely caught it on camera.

“Are you fucking mocking me?” A vein popped out on his neck, his face growing read and hot.

She felt her pulse rise in fear, but she ignored it, hand resting next to the knife on the counter. “Maybe I am.” She leaned forward, leering at him. “What are you going to do about it?”

“What am I going to do about it?” He laughed incredulously, picking up his half-full glass and examining its amber-colored contents briefly before hurling it at the mirrored wall behind her.

She ducked, shielding her face from splattering liquid and broken glass. “Shit.” She dropped onto her hands and knees and crawled, frantically clambering below the bar for the cleaning cupboard. She knew how this encounter would go, but she was starting to realize that she shouldn’t have pushed it. He had never actually threatened her physical harm before, resigning himself to simply being an asshole. Tonight, that had obviously changed.

“Nuh-uh, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His voice was still loud enough to pierce her eardrums over the pulsating music. He reached down to where she was, grasping for Windex in the dusty, cavernous cabinet, and roughly gripped her hair in his fist. He pulled up harshly, causing an unpleasant sting to radiate down her scalp. The breath caught in her throat. 

She had fucked up. Badly.

He wrenched her close, until their faces were just inches apart. He examined her face, his own visage arranged in an unpleasant sneer. She looked straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down, even though she was frightened of what he might do. 

“I should put you in your place.” His voice was quiet, only audible to her. She shuddered, lip curling in distaste. The sour taste of bile rose on her tongue at the violating way his eyes scanned her face, as if he were a predator examining his prey. A few patrons were watching, pausing their conversations to watch the show. But, none were helping, jumping up to arrive at her aid. A dark pit grew in her stomach at the observation.

He loosened his grip on her hair and she moved to pull back, but before she could, he spit in her face, a thick, hot wad of saliva landing on her cheek. Her mouth gaped in disgust, nose flaring, and she stepped back, wiping the insult from her face with her sleeve and slipping the knife she had been using earlier into her hand, concealing it behind her back. She retreated until her back was flush with the mirror behind her, eyes flitting wildly, trying to find a gap in the crowd where she could disappear and distance herself from him. But all she could see was his face, his hooked nose and hooded eyes, that awful, sneering expression, as he prepared to jump over the bar and bridge the gap between them. 

But, before he could, his head slammed into the bar’s wooden surface with a sickening crack!

Her mouth dropped open in confusion, the rushing bout of adrenaline quickly waning in her veins as she took in the sight of John, head pinned to the counter by a gloved hand. Wait, is that--?

Her suspicions were confirmed when she looked up from John’s floundering figure to find Bucky, his hand firmly wrapped in John’s hair, his face contorted in an expression of rage. She had never seen him like this, nose scrunched, eyes dark. His eyes briefly flickered to hers, and when their gazes met, his face softened slightly, as if to provide her with some sense of reassurance. The breath stalled in her throat, but before relief could flood into her limbs, she saw John stirring in Bucky’s grip.

“What… what the fuck, man?” John turned his head, cheek pressed against the bar’s cool surface, to stare at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

“Watch yourself, buddy.” Bucky’s voice was gruff and uncaring.

“Buddy?” John scoffed. 

“Well, what’s your name, then?”

A laugh rose in John’s throat, bubbling over into a bitter, joyless sound. He was trying to intimidate Bucky into backing off, shifting his weight below him in an effort to distract him.

It didn’t work. Bucky simply pressed John’s face even harder into the counter, until the breath whooshed from John’s lips in a muffled, defeated gasp. 

“I asked you a question.”

“Fine-- fine. Name’s Walker.”

“Well, Walker,” Bucky replied, leaning in close until his face obstructed John’s vision. “Keep your fucking mitts off my girl here.”

“What?” She couldn’t help it as the question left her lips in a surprised gasp. Bucky’s eyes flicked up to her again, lips pulling down in an embarrassed grimace, as if he hadn’t meant to call her that. 

That moment was enough time for John to act.

Bucky grunted and stumbled back a couple of steps as John pushed out from under him. There was no time to think, no time to act, before John strode towards Bucky and socked him straight in the nose, Bucky’s head whipping violently to the side.

(Y/N)’s heart plummeted into her stomach. She stayed anchored to her spot in front of the mirror, unable to move. There wasn’t much that she could do. Now that John had initiated a physical fight, he likely wasn’t going to stop throwing punches until either he or Bucky collapsed. And with Bucky eliminated as a threat, there would be no one standing between John and her. With that thought, she brought the knife out from behind her and clutched it to her chest like a lifeline. She watched Bucky and John with rapt attention, waiting for the fight to turn back in her direction again.

Blood began to gush from Bucky’s nostrils in a thick stream, staining his lips a wet scarlet and dribbling down his chin. But, he smiled, shaking his head slightly and chuckling darkly. 

“You’re really askin’ for it now, Walker.” 

Before (Y/N) could even blink, Bucky sprung, landing a jab and a right cross that hit John square in the chin. He grabbed John by the collar and slammed him into his knee, the pure force knocking the wind out of John’s chest with a meek groan. Bucky pushed John roughly into a table and John stumbled, causing a chair to clatter and fall, but he remained upright, leaning heavily against the table.

“You going to fight back at all?” Bucky’s goading tone took (Y/N) by surprise. Why was he egging him on?

John snorted and cracked his neck, trying to shake an encroaching sense of uncertainty from his limbs. He pushed off from the table and began a slow, circling orbit around the center of the room, sizing Bucky up with a violent, wolflike gaze, pushing the other customers flush against the wall. Bucky simply stood in place and watched, trying to anticipate John’s next move.

John stopped circling when he was directly across from (Y/N), Bucky between them. She felt John’s gaze slide from Bucky to her, his eyes languidly raking over her body, sensing out her fear. When he saw the knife in her hand, he raised an eyebrow in disapproval, shaking his head. Her heart pounded, adrenaline beginning to thrum through her veins once more. 

John widened his stance and bent his knees, assuming an athletic stance in preparation to tackle Bucky.  Bucky imitated his movement, planting his feet firmly into the floor. John inhaled deeply through his nose, once, twice, and then, he took off, running towards Bucky at full speed.

The room watched in silence, holding a collective breath. The only sound was the pounding of John’s boots against hardwood, the music paused long ago.

He hit Bucky with the force of a mack truck. It was enough to knock anyone off their feet, even someone who had fared as well as Bucky in the fight so far. John hit him so hard that they went flying, suspended in the air for a moment. For (Y/N), it felt so much longer, watching her savior struggle against the grip of his opponent in midair, uttering a quiet “Shit!” as his back slammed into the floor. And then, Bucky was still, John crouched over his immobile form, a triumphant smile plastered on his face.

(Y/N) felt her body move off its own accord, pushing away from the wall, past the safety of the bar’s counter, towards the aftermath of the fray. Her legs quivered, a hard lump rising in her throat as she pushed towards the edge of the crowd. She couldn’t see Bucky’s face, his head concealed by John’s hulking body. A shudder wracked her body, her hope waning.

It was like John could sense her presence. He looked up, his sickening grin showing glistening, too-white teeth. She flexed her fingers, adjusting her grip on the knife. John’s eyes caught the movement, sensing the glint of low light against the blade, and he smirked. He was about to rock back onto his knees, to get up and finish what he started, when Bucky’s head slammed into his.

Disoriented, (Y/N) stepped backwards, once again flush with the crowd. One moment, she had been preparing to fight, to let the blood-soaked evening devolve into even more violence. Then, the next, Bucky had suddenly reanimated, an almost superhuman force driving power into his limbs. He bucked John, still reeling from the unexpected headbutt, off of him with an aggressive, thrusting twist. John tumbled and collapsed on the floor next to Bucky, who slowly knelt, then stood, eyes on John the whole time. When John didn’t budge, splayed on the floor with a distant, vaguely dazed expression, Bucky turned his gaze to (Y/N).

The room was dead silent, save for John’s labored breathing and the sound of Bucky’s boots against the hardwood as he slowly walked towards (Y/N). The room seemed to fade around the two of them, the confused, awed, and fearful faces of the spectating patrons blurred together in an anonymous mass. It smelled of sweat and rust and spilled liquor, but she didn’t care, because Bucky was okay.

“Anyone else?” Bucky asked the rest of the room, not taking his eyes off of (Y/N), even for a moment, lest she disappear, or worse. But she didn’t, staying rooted to the same spot, eyes glistening with gratitude. And no one responded to Bucky’s challenge. 

When Bucky came to a stop a foot in front of her, the other customers began to quietly file out, afraid to utter any remarks that may provoke another altercation. John’s two cronies picked him up from the floor, hefting his arms over their shoulders and bolting for the exit, his boots dragging on the floor. (Y/N) watched them exit, watched them stuff John into the backseat of their car before they peeled out of the parking lot and took off with the screeching sound of retreating rubber.

“You know,” Bucky said, his voice soft in spite of the evening’s violent course. “You don’t have to worry about using that. You’re safe with me.” He pointed at the knife, still clutched in (Y/N)’s hands.

She looked down at the knife in her hands and then looked up at him, formulating a response, when she noticed that he had a gash on his jaw, as well as a still steadily-flowing nosebleed. The knife clattered to the floor as she reached for his hand. “You’re bleeding.” Her voice was thick with worry, regretting the fact that he had suffered for her sake.

He shook his head. “I’ve gotten worse.”

“Let me help you.” She glanced urgently around the bar, now empty save for the two of them. “I can close up and bring the first aid kit to your room. I owe you, after all of that.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He paused for a second, considering. “But, sure. A couple of bandaids wouldn’t hurt.”

She smiled. “I’ll be there in ten.”

His brows creased together slightly, a chagrined smile curling his lips upwards. “Oh, I’m not leaving you alone just yet. We didn’t see where Walker went. He could be waiting just outside with those two other guys.”

She knew that both she and Bucky had seen them drive away, but she nodded anyways. “Alright. Just let me grab the first aid kit and my keys.”

“Deal.”

She picked the knife up from the floor and walked back to the bar, placing it gently in the sink. As Bucky walked towards the entrance, surveying the parking lot outside from the small, frosted window, she reached into the cabinet of cleaning supplies, pulling out a rusted, white box with a blaring maroon cross emblazoned on its front. She blew off the thin layer of dust that coated it and stood, grabbing her keys from the hook next to the mirror and joining Bucky at the entrance.

He turned towards her, noting the first aid kit, and grinned. “Room 102, here we come.”

She returned his smile as he opened the door, midnight air washing over them in a brisk, drafty waft. They stepped outside, engulfed in nighttime chill, and she shut the door and locked it, fumbling with the cold metal of the keys. Bucky stepped closer to her, his arm brushing against hers, his body emanating an intoxicating warmth. She welcomed his proximity, wondering if he could sense the fact that she was cold, as they walked across the parking lot to his motel room.

He pulled his key from his back pocket and slid it through the card swipe, the door unlocking with a crisp click. She was looking out at the parking lot, at the trees and darkness beyond, wondering if John and his friends were in fact lurking out there somewhere, biding their time for the right moment to strike again. He was definitely the type to hold a grudge for a night like this. If he didn’t retaliate tonight, he would soon, would let her soak in the fear for a few days and then arrive at the bar unannounced with dues to pay.

Bucky cleared his throat, and (Y/N)’s attention snapped back to him. She looked up at him, eyes wide and surprised, and found that his smile was gentle and knowing. 

“You’re safe with me. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s cold.”

When they stepped inside, they were greeted with a welcoming warmth. The door shut behind them. He walked over to the little oak nightstand next to the single queen-sized bed and turned on the bedside lamp, its bulb washing the room in a dim, glowing halo of amber. She sighed, muscles relaxing, seeming to melt into the warmth, into the comfort of being somewhere besides the bar. She placed the first aid kit on the bed and shrugged off her cardigan.

“So, doc,” Bucky teased, approaching her at the foot of the bed. “What’s the plan? How’re you going to fix me up?”

“Well,” she said, squinting as she examined his face. “We’ll have to wash all that blood off first, so I can assess the damage.”

He gestured to the bathroom with one hand. “Lead the way.”

They walked into the bathroom and he flipped the light on, its white fluorescence a stark contrast from the soft light in the other room. She grabbed a bleach-white washcloth from the shelf above the toilet and turned on the faucet, dampening the cloth under the steady stream of water. She turned off the faucet and stepped back as Bucky leaned against the sink, crossing his arms.

“This might sting,” she said quietly, stepping into the space between his legs, his stance framing hers. He simply nodded in response. She tried not to think about their sudden proximity, the fact that she was alone in a motel room with a man who had risked his own safety to protect hers, a man she had been secretly pining over for a while now. Instead, she smoothed the wet washcloth in her hands and brought it up to his face, dabbing gingerly at a stream of blood that had dried on his cheek. When she brushed against the cut on his jaw, he winced, a sharp huff of breath leaving his nose.

“Sorry,” she apologized, trying to handle the cloth with light fingers. “He really got you there.”

“Even if that’s true, part of me thinks I should thank the guy.”

(Y/N) paused. “W-what?”

“Well, he’s an absolute ass. Deserved what he got,” he chuckled. “But now, I’ve got the pretty girl who works at my favorite bar taking care of me. It was definitely worth a couple of scrapes.”

“I--” her response died in her throat, choked by the deep blush that was creeping up her neck. She paused dabbing at his face, looking at him quizzically.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, noting her creased brow and parted lips. “Too soon.”

“No-- no. It’s okay.” She shook her head and smiled, moving the washcloth to his upper lip as she wiped away the evidence of his bloody nose. I just didn’t think you felt that way, too.

After a few more minutes of tense silence, (Y/N) trying to avoid direct eye contact the whole time, lest her blush return, his face was clean. She stepped back and examined her handiwork before throwing the bloodied washcloth in the waste bin and leading Bucky back into the main room. She sat down on the bed, its springs groaning in a rusty bounce beneath her, and she opened the first aid kit, searching for a suitable bandage for his jaw. He knelt on the floor in front of her, placing his hands on the bed on either side of her, caging her in with his arms but refusing to let his touch drift any closer without permission. He watched her fingers flit indecisively between the different band-aid choices. 

Finally, she plucked one from its box, carefully unpeeling its wrapping. Bucky tilted his head slightly, allowing her easy access to the cut on his jaw, and she delicately placed the band-aid over it, careful not to press too hard against the tender skin. Her touch unconsciously lingered a moment longer, lightly caressing his face with the pads of her fingers. But after a few seconds, when she didn’t pull away, they both inhaled sharply, his face quickly growing hot. Their eyes met, and she dropped her hands to her sides, his piercing blue gaze boring into hers.

 He blinked and stood, walking over to the door and hunching down to glance at the parking lot through the peephole.

“I should get going,” (Y/N) said, voice hushed as she snapped the first aid kit shut. She stood, grabbing her cardigan, preparing to meet the cold outside and run to her permanent room. “Thank you. For everything.”

He turned away from the door. “Hold on.” His voice was grave, a stark contrast to the light, flirty turn of the evening since they had entered his room. “We still don’t know if he’s out there.”

(Y/N) bit her lip and shifted her weight, silently grateful for his hesitancy to let her be alone. “What are you suggesting?”

“You can take the bed.” He gestured to the spot on the carpet between the bed and the door. “I can take the floor.”

“A-are you sure?” 

“If I was in your position, I wouldn’t want to be alone,” he said, voice rough and quiet. “But, it’s your decision to make. I can walk you back to your room, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

She thought for a second. She agreed with Bucky’s observation that John may still be out there, lying in wait, and he had been spot-on with the remark that it would be frightening to be alone after tonight’s violence. So far, Bucky had proven himself to be good. She felt comfortable around him. He didn’t try to touch her, and he still gave her options, despite the fact that he seemed oddly protective of her. She knew that he wouldn’t hurt her, that he wouldn’t try to slip into bed next to her in the darkest hours of morning. He was a good man. He would live up to his promise and give her space, acting as a blockade between her and the outside world. For tonight, he would be the promise of warmth, of comfort, of safety.

“I think I’d be more comfortable here. With you.”

“Alright.” He offered a simple reply, walking over to her and taking the first aid kit and her cardigan from her, placing them on top of the dresser. “You’ll be safe with me,” he reassured her, bending down to look her in the eyes when he said it, uttering each word with heavy truth.

She nodded and bit her lip. When she felt her blush creeping back up her face, those stern, icy blue eyes of his fixated on her, she turned away, directing her attention towards the bed, hands smoothing over the covers. She grabbed a pillow, its blanched case stiff and rough from continual washing, and handed it to him. He smiled and took it, humming a low laugh and placing it on the floor next to the bed.

She pulled back the sheets as he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Her eyelids were suddenly heavy, her body absolutely exhausted, but grateful for a safe place to rest after the day’s peril. She felt herself lull into a hypnotic state of rest before she could even pull the covers over her body, listening to the rumble of the motel’s heater and the whoosh of cars driving past on the distant highway.

Bucky finished in the bathroom and tiptoed to the closet. He grabbed the extra blanket from the top shelf, its woolen fabric starchy and coarse, and plopped it onto the floor next to his pillow. Then, he looked down at (Y/N), curled up on the bed, already halfway into a dream. He sighed, a soft smile gracing his lips, and he reached for the blankets on the bed, pulling them up over her sedated form. She shifted under the covers, settling into their warmth, and he turned off the bedside lamp, the room submerged in a sudden, but not unwelcome, darkness.

                                                             ✧

She woke to light streaming through the gap in the curtains.

The room smelled of lavender detergent and carpet cleaner, and of something distinctly masculine and unfamiliar, the scent of mint toothpaste and rainfall. She stretched, her body grateful for a restful night as memories of the previous day trickled back in. John’s threats, Bucky’s heroism. Her shyness, her inability to tell him how she felt, despite the fact that he so clearly reciprocated those feelings he had hinted at.

She sat up in bed and looked around the room. On the floor next to her, the spare blanket was folded neatly, the pillow she had given to Bucky the previous night stacked on top of it. His duffel was gone from its perch on the dresser. Any trace of him had disappeared, save for the scent that hung in the air and the memories that clung to (Y/N)’s brain.

She sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. She had a lot of work to do today. She supposed that she should probably clean up the bar after last night’s incident, and should break open the cleaning supplies that she had left untouched for so long. She wished that she had had the chance to say goodbye to Bucky before he left, a faint sense of longing gripping her throat. But, at least the cleaning would take her mind off of that, for the time being.

As she stood, she brushed through her hair roughly with her fingers, gathering the first aid kit and her cardigan. She surveyed the room one last time, bathed in soft morning light, when a square of white on the nightstand caught her eye.

Brows furrowed with confusion, she walked over, abandoning her things on the bed. On the nightstand was a notepad, an uncapped pen sitting next to it. A brief note was scribbled on it.

Call me if he comes back. 

Or, if you need me. For anything.

-Bucky

The message was followed by a phone number.

(Y/N) ripped the note from the pad and stared at Bucky’s slanted, spiked handwriting for a moment, noting the sharp angles and rushed script of his letters.

She stuffed the note in her back pocket and smiled.

[hypolimnions-a]

So she has been to France – and seen quite a lot of it, from the sound of things. Oliver's embarrassingly poorly traveled himself, only having left England a few times on rote family summer trips to lodges and resorts, so he feels a level of envy upon hearing this. He tries not to look like it.

"I'd love to travel more, see the world for myself... Maybe next summer I'll find a way to escape England." He says it with a playful tone, clearly in jest, but he's serious about the idea of 'escape'. That's one of the major downsides to attending university; you're more or less rooted in place.

Initially, he can't for the life of him understand the appeal of staying holed up in a hotel when you're in a foreign place. Then again, he spends much of his time at Saltburn – beautiful and historic in its own right, if dreadfully English – just lounging around by the water, so he supposes he can understand. Oliver would choose a beautiful place to go to relax, too; he essentially already has.

Oliver gets his drink from the bartender and leads them just off to the side, out of the way.

"The sour part's lemon juice. It's meant to be, anyway– some places use this foul powdered mix..." He pointedly takes a sip, making playful eye contact as he licks a spare drop from his lip. "These ones are safe, though." He extends the glass to her, pleasantly surprised she'd even asked. It strikes him as bold. "Go ahead."

"I like to hear it anyway." It feels like an unholy confession. Compliments are supposed to be dealt with an air of humbleness and polite dismissal. But she devours praise when she can get it and can't bring it in herself to lie and say she doesn't like it. Her soul demands to be fed, in more ways than one. And telling her she's pretty is definitely one of them. Despite all that, she shrugs.

She does notice he doesn't wave off her flattery. She likes that he doesn't.

"Oh, you should go some time! Paris is my least favorite but it's still nice. Anywhere outside of that, I've liked a lot." He's right in thinking she picked the perfect place to unwind. And it was done on intent; she wanted some sleepy little town and she hopes it's as perfect as the pictures. "I guess I could be anywhere though. Probably spend more time at a hotel than anywhere else." Hotels were home and in that regard, it's no surprise she'd want to spend a lot of time there to find comfort. Besides, traveling for her was more like trying on places to find somewhere she'd like to stay long-term and less like a tourist with a checklist of must-see landmarks. Not that she didn't enjoy sightseeing too.

"What's the sour part? I don't know what I want yet. Maybe something with mint..." She's had amaretto before but the sour part is throwing her off. If it's sour like candy, she won't like it. But if it's sour like citrus, it has potential. "Could I try yours before committing to copying you?" Maybe she's crossing a line but it's a party, and anything goes here, right?

[ladykissingfish]

What do you think, in today’s world, the Akatsuki members’ favorite foods would be? Doesn’t have to be their canonical faves either. Love your blog/all your quirky little posts! ❤️

thank you for the love for my blog, I appreciate it!

and I like your question. let’s see, um, well Hidan and Deidara I can see being typical young guys and just living off of fast food. I can see Deidara eating like 40 McDonald’s chicken nuggets in one sitting, covered in a mix of bbq and sweet and sour sauces, and still complaining about being hungry. Hidan I can see being a burger guy, the bigger and thicker, the better. And not just a burger but a burger loaded with pickles and tomatoes and onions and half a cow’s worth of cheese. Topped with a mountain of ketchup-drenched fries that Deidara (if he’s eating with Hidan) will filch half of. Oh, and soda. These two can down an entire 12 pack of Coke each or just guzzle two liter bottles.

Kakuzu and Kisame, I can see being a bit more evolved in their tastes. Kisame being half-shark probably has an appreciation for fine sea food, like salmon or mahi mahi; or I can also see him being the type to go to one of those conveyor belt sushi places and just amassing stacks of plates at his elbow. Kakuzu, well the old guy is cheap af, but on the few occasions he’s not, I can see him enjoying a nice steak, rare, maybe with sautéed onions and mashed potatoes, and some sort of cruciferous vegetable. Kisame strikes me as a water drinker and Kakuzu (again when he’s not being cheap) either a good glass of wine, or a scotch.

Sasori doesn’t eat, but if he DID, I can kinda see him having a thing for soufflés. Like wanting to make them on his own and always working on perfecting his recipes to make the fluffiest creations ever. Making a soufflé requires a lot of precise baking work and attention to detail, which I feel someone like him would be good at. Also see him as being the kind to enjoy a cold glass of milk, and *chocolate* milk if he’s being “adventurous” that day.

Konan, she has such a lovely slim figure and I imagine she eats in a way to keep herself in shape, so mostly healthy foods like salads, yogurt, lean proteins and a variety of fruits and vegetables. But when she allows herself a “cheat” day, I can see her being just as big a fast food eater as Deidara and Hidan. For some reason I picture her going to Taco Bell, ordering a nachos bell grande and like 4 chalupas, eating it all, hiding the evidence and working out twice as hard the next day, to make up for it. Also see her being like Kakuzu in that she enjoys an occasional glass of wine, maybe a hard drink every now and then.

Obito and Itachi, they grew up in the Uchiha clan and the Uchiha never had a lot of money or resources, instead learning to stretch what they had to make delicious meals. So I think each of their favorite things to eat would be home cooked things, simple yet tasty. Maybe for Obito garlic-roasted chicken and potatoes, or possibly a marinated roast beef. For Itachi, I can see breakfast as being his thing, like big homemade breakfasts like his mother used to make: pancakes, fried potatoes, sliced tomatoes, eggs, bacon, or maybe once in a while something like an apple tart. Both of them strike me as tea drinkers, although I see Obito as drinking his tea plain/black and Itachi using a lot of honey or lemon or sugar as sweeteners.

Nagato, I think he’d really be a fan of pasta. Easy to eat, easy to digest, and so many different types. I think a vegetable lasagna would be his favorite type, noodles and ricotta and mozzarella, spinach, zucchini, carrots, peppers … and he’d ask Konan to make this for him at least once a week. He’s not a big eater in general but with this I can see him having 2 or 3 servings. Also see him as being a coffee drinker, although he’s trying to cut back because the caffeine probably isn’t very good for his heart.

and Zetsu … well, his eating habits would be hard to stick into a modern day world, right? But maybe he’d enjoy some unique cuts of (cooked) meat, stuff like roast rabbit, or herb-crusted rack of lamb, or maybe even quail or squab. Like Kisame, I see him as being solely a water drinker.

[industriallyinsecure]

Hey there! I really love your writing and was wondering how you think yandere la squadra would react if their object of obsession ended up hitting on them? Like, the hitmen are just one step away of putting their horrible plan into action, fairly sure that their darling has no idea who they are and suddenly they are sliding into the seat in front of their yandere, buying them a drink/coffee and asking for their number. Would that crash the masterplan? Would the yandere tone it down or get worse?

Okay so basically in my mind there are two groups: the ones that use it as an ego boost and the ones that are skeptical/unsure. I’m sure you can guess who is who hehe

Also thank you so much for the lovely compliment!! I’m glad people enjoy my writing :)

Formaggio definitely wasn’t expecting your cute little self to sashay up and try to woo him! It just makes it even better and fuels his love even more. Less likely to snatch you, but more likely to be a bit touchy and overbearing. Man absolutely craves validation so having the object of his affection is a huge ego boost. Won’t shut up about it when he gets back and proudly waves your number in front of the naysayers (Illuso).

Illuso expected it. With his gorgeous brown locks, who wouldn’t want him? Not that he ever doubted you’d resist him anyway. But, he didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Just stares at you with his evil red eyes and makes witty comments at you until you either leave or say something that intrigues him enough. Either way, it’s not long before the same brunet man is pulling you into your hotel mirror later that night.

Pesci is, well, scared shitless. He thinks that maybe one of your friends paid you to do this, or maybe you knew he was stalking you? Either way, his hands are clammy and sweaty as you smile so brightly at him and explain you saw him sitting all alone and wanted to see if he was interested in some company. However Prosciutto advises him about the situation is how it will go down. If he’s persistent enough, Prosciutto would get tired of him gushing about you and just say, “take them for fucks sake.”

Prosciutto almost leaves the coffee shop because he thinks he’s been found out. Probably just enjoying his cigarette and espresso when you pop up and nearly scare him shitless because he’s used to anonymity (as anonymous as he can be being blond and well dressed in public). When you say you’ve been peeking over at him and finally got the nerve to come over, he just furrows his brow and takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette, trying to play off his indistinguishable anxiety. You shyly write down your number when he refuses the cafe latte you offer to order him, and he knew right then you were too sweet to just let go.

Melone is all but screaming in excitement. Not only were you the perfect partner for him, but a willing one!! That made things much easier for him! In addition to being overly handsy for someone you had “just met”, he immediately goes down the list of questions he already had the answers to. Flirts with you relentlessly, you couldn’t out flirt him if you tried. Ends with you reluctantly leaving and Melone with your number, and unbeknownst to you, a sample of your genetic material.

Ghiaccio doesn’t know how to handle it. On one hand, great!! You’re interested!! On the other hand, he’s never been good with people that aren’t patient. Or new people. Or just people in general. He ends up scowling at you for most of the interaction, face unreadable as you twiddle your thumbs and try not to look up at his “just sucked on a lemon” sour face. Absolutely hates it, but runs after you asking for your number. Because he’s emotionally unstable, this just makes his tendencies worse. Emotionally constipated and in love? Horrible mix for this poor ice baby.

Risotto almost stuck his pastry knife through your hand when you suddenly tapped on the table lightly and appeared in his view. He had been too busy focused on the restroom door (where you had been) to see you scuttle up to the big scary brooding man in the corner of the room. Shyly offering to buy him another espresso, Risotto can’t help but feel like this is a trap somehow. How had you escaped his watch (he had been too absorbed in his thoughts to see you leave the restroom)? Against his judgement, he lets you buy him one. Even though it’s like talking to a brick wall, you leave him your number and smile brightly at him, telling him you hope to see him again. Like Prosciutto, he has the urge to scoop you off the street and into his care. With the scum littering the streets, and horrible people at every turn, Risotto’s need to keep you pure and untouched by the grimy world is suddenly multiplied tenfold.

Gelato and Sorbet weren’t really expecting it. While you only had said that they were an adorable couple and paid for their lunch, they were still baffled. Gelato was trying to strike up conversation, but Sorbet remained stoic, a firm grip on his over enthusiastic boyfriend. It was obvious that you weren’t hitting on them (at least they hoped so. Too many times had someone come up and asked if they could watch), but it still lit the fire in Gelato’s stomach. He has to keep from causing a scene and having Sorbet take you. Too bad they didn’t have a getaway vehicle, otherwise that’s exactly what they’d do.