#tip: when you feel the sad get some cool art on you to help you feel less bad

[brwnsugcr]

u ever just book a tattoo instead of quitting your job 'cause lolololol me too

[o-sachi]

Kick It! - Heacanons (Var. WinBre)

ᯓ how would the winbre characters react to an s/o that does taekwondo? ᯓ characters; sakura haruka, suo hayato, kaji ren, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma, togame jo ᯓ tags; sfw, afab reader, no y/n

Sakura Haruka

"You're cool and all... but let me protect you still..."

He's both impressed and worried about the fact that you can fight.

Of course, he's impressed because you can do the things he does—all that flying and kicking. And even more so since you're his girlfriend.

But he's also worried since you might not need him to protect you anymore. It's so silly but the man just wants to be your knight in shining armor :(

"That kick was pretty good huh?" / "Yeah! It felt good. What's with the long face though?" / "Eh? What do you mean?"

After sparring with him a bit, he comes to terms with it in the end. He can't help but feel a sense of pride watching you move so skillfully.

Although, if you allow yourself to be "protected" every once in a while, he'll appreciate that immensely.

I should add that he's probably not as impressed about the fact that your flexible since he is like that too. To him, it's something normal. He's more fixated on the fact that you can fight.

Suo Hayato

"You got quite a kick there hm? Would be pretty dangerous if I got hit."

Suo practices a martial art himself (Aikido, I believe), so he's quite fond of that similarity between the two of you. He likes that you both have the discipline and determination for it.

He's pretty flexible himself and he achieved that through daily stretches. He'll definitely invite you to do it with him and you can talk about random things as you do.

I'm 100% sure Suo has a big ass house and inside that mansion is a dojo. He'd ask you to come over so that you two can train together and maybe even spar.

"Think you can win against me today, sweet pea?"

He finds it so funny when you try and kick him and all he does is easily evade all of it. Suo would be so cocky—hands behind his back with a silly smile on his face.

But he'll console you and reassure you after that you're good enough as it is. He's just one step ahead of you but that's alright. He insists that he has to be so that he can protect you when the time comes.

Kaji Ren

"You kick like my grandma."

HE IS THE DEFINITION OF TOUGH LOVE. Sure, he's aware you can fight, kick, or whatever. But it's gonna take more than that if you want to hear him compliment you.

He'll make annoying remarks (affectionately, of course). Without knowing it, you're actually pushing yourself to improve even more because you want to earn his approval.

Don't get him wrong though. He is CRAZY proud of you. You don't know it yet, but he brags about you to Kusumi and Enomoto. (Yes, he has threatened them before because they joked about telling you how Kaji would simp).

He's not a dick about it all the time though. He knows when it's too much and when you really can't handle it anymore—he'll comfort you.

"Shhh... you're not bad, okay? Hell, the things I'd give to have someone like you on my team." / "You mean that?" / "Of course I do, angel. Don't be sad, please?"

In sparring, you catch him off-guard a lot because of your flexibility. It allows you to pull off elaborate moves that are quite hard to read.

Umemiya Hajime

"THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND. GO, GIRL. KICK SOME ASS"

NUMBER ONE HYPE MAN! His heart would be swelling with pride every time you showed everyone your skills. He'd hate it if someone suddenly put the spotlight on him instead of his girl.

If you compete officially, you probably have told Ume once or twice to calm down while he's watching from the sidelines. Let's just say he gets a bit too heated...

"Can you believe it? Unanimous decision? Pfft, what a joke." / "Babe, it's fine... I won..." / "So? Doesn't mean they can rob you of your honor like that."

His eyes turn into hearts whenever you ask him to teach you how to fight or ask him for tips. But you quickly realize he might not be the best person to ask because he can't take it seriously (he's still gushing about how you asked him so he's a bit soft with you).

Will mope around when you ask the other guys to ACTUALLY fight with you seriously.

You relent and him if he wants to help you cooldown instead. His smile returns almost instantly. He'll even offer you a footrub after. Such a good boyfriend :(

HIragi Toma

"Hm? Oh... yeah, I guess that was good."

He's like the middle ground between Kaji and Ume. No overflowing praise or tough love. Nothing. Hiragi's so quiet about it.

While he's not good with words, you can tell that he's aware of your skills through subtle signs. You can see how he carefully observes how you move and the little nods of approval he gives you when you do it perfectly.

It has become your goal to become good enough that Hiragi will have no choice but to compliment you. He doesn't know it nor was that his plan.

He will actually refuse to spar with you. While he knows you can hold your ground, he doesn't think he could forgive himself if he hits you too hard by accident. But he'll encourage the other guys to help you get better.

But when you finally get him to agree and kick his ass (affectionately), he feels an odd wave of attraction for you all over again.

"Heh... you're better than I thought."

Togame Jo

"Damn... you got a pretty nasty kick. I think it's better than mine."

You can never ask this man for constructive criticism because he will butter you up no matter what. He'll even tell you that you're way better than him when even a baby can tell the difference in your skill.

"Nah, you gotta believe me when I tell you that kick was amazing." / "I landed on my but, Jo. It was a flop." / "I think you were just too strong." / "Sigh."

When sparring with him, you can tell he's going too easy on you. Sometimes he won't even try. He'll let you win all the time. Unless... you ask him nicely to actually fight like he usually does.

Of course, he whoops your ass with ease. But he'll put you in a bear hug after and tell you how well you did against him. Togame insists that you were one of the toughest opponents he has faced (yeah, right).

I think he's the type of guy to make stupid and suggestive jokes about how flexible you are...

On the flipside, he'd love to be more flexible himself (for fighting, obviously). So he asks you to teach him the kind of stretches/training that you do in order to achieve your level of flexibility. Plus, he just loves learning from you.

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 48

part 1 | part 47 | ao3

cw: mentions of smoking/sexual activity

Chapter 11

February

For two and a half months, Steve’s life goes perfectly. He didn’t realize how far into a pit he’d fallen until Eddie showed up to help Robin and the kids lift him out, but the difference is jarring. Golden hour sunlight after catching a matinée.

Steve spends two months blinking.

He sloughs off his sadness like a snake shedding skin; spends the winter getting back to being Steve, restocks his favorite hair products and restarts his fitness routines — morning runs through the woods, afternoon pick-up games with Lucas and some of his teammates when the weather doesn’t suck. Weightlifting in the evenings because Eddie says he likes how Steve’s arms look when they get a little big, says it’s more fun to pin him down when he knows it’s just for show.

And he tries new things, too, just because Eddie likes them or because the kids think they're cool. He reads a Vonnegut novel. He eats Indian curry. He even learns a song on guitar.

...Sort of.

Eventually.

(Actually, that whole thing goes pretty horribly and takes for-fucking-ever. Eddie spends an afternoon patiently encouraging him and doing his best not to tease while Steve clumsily moves through a beginner chord progression, and then breaks down wheezing when, after the sixth attempt with no improvement, Steve puts the guitar down in a huff and threatens to demote his pinky finger from his hand if it doesn't start cooperating. Eddie laughs so hard he tips face-first into Steve's crotch, and it takes them a sticky-spitty-sweaty half hour to get back to the lesson.)

Anyway, he likes the way their lives entangle. As easy as weaving his hands through Eddie’s hair.

He gets invited to band practice; he sits in on D&D. Sometimes he watches sports with Wayne when he's got a day off, then he heads out with Eddie for long joyrides through the countryside.

Eddie blasts his metal music when they get out to the backroads, and he talks too loudly over the bass and laughs even louder and rants about nothing and smokes cigarettes while he headbangs to his favorite guitar solos — almost lights his hair on fire on more than one occasion, fucking dumbass — and he does this silly, lewd shit that makes Steve's chest just ache. Makes it clench around the word that's been burning a hole in his tongue since New Year's Eve. Eddie wags his brows and palms himself through his jeans and asks if Steve wants to take another joyride when they get home, and Steve thinks:

God, I love you.

I love you.

How could I not love you?

And really, how could he not? And how much longer can he keep not telling him so? When it feels like the word is going to burst out of his chest Alien-style any second.

When it feels like Eddie's the reason he even has a home to get to.

Slowly — so slowly, hours spent thrifting and bartering and keeping an eye out for free stuff left out on the curb, even more hours sanding and painting and caulking and sweating to death between trips to the hardware store — they redo Steve's whole trailer. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, they exorcise the haunted tin can. They make it his; they make it theirs.

Eddie injects life into every inch of the space, fills it with weird art and funky lamps and a big, comfy leather couch that he likes to bend Steve over. Comes inside him in every room when they get done working on it as a reward; gasps in Steve's ear about how he always wants to be inside him: in his home, in his body, nestled deep inside his heart. "Keep me right here, baby," he breathes as he fucks Steve against a wall, his left hand gripping Steve's chest while he fills him from behind.

It’s perfect.

It's perfect.

Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts unless Steve asks.

And then, because this godforsaken town and everyone in it are fucking cursed, one day it isn’t anymore.

—

part 49

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[drinkyourvillainjuice]

how to not let your autistic inner child win (or how to write an if) by the secretary

[id: a student with glasses being pointed at and mocked by two students on screens, and two more offscreen with only their arms showing. the central bullied student looks sad, and everyone else is laughing. end id]

Ruhoh, is this another secretary essay? Well, yes it is! The gender politics one will eventually come around when I feel like it, but this one, as the title suggest, is about how to write an IF. And since I'm presuming most of you are on the spectrum (or on a spectrum), it gets a little tongue-in-cheek.

hehe

Anyways, if you have autism, you have eternal swag. It's just true! But having so much swag makes it a problem when writing, or doing any sort of project. This is something I've noticed from people who don't have evil autism. Those not afflicted by the rare autism version of evil autism (my autism) will often be really bad at just... doing things - despite having all the abilities to do so! I think it might be a adhd thing or something too. Anyways, I love helping people, (this is my evil autism), and I'd like to share some girl tips on how to kill your inner child :)

I think something I've noticed from people making any sort goals- online, real life, job, working, etc - is it is straight forward. ie: I want to graduate from high school, I want to make a video game, I want to journal everyday. These are all achievable using your abilities that you learn and gain through your life, and failure doesn't exempt you from trying again. Thing is, this specific thing I just described (straightforward goals) is something I think a lot of autistic people struggle with.

I deeply remember sitting down in the corner of my high school, looking like the hottest girl who played pokemon on her ds when someone who had +1% more autism than me told me that, one day, he was going to make the most cool pokemon game ever where you could date other characters and have babies and have your children go on adventure too. As a 14 year old, I thought to myself 'bitch, shut up' but also, 'this is so unrealistic, but he really believes it, uh'. And he did! And you know, I think that's okay. I think it's okay to believe that you can make things that you cannot do at the moment - I mean that's just how life it. We didn't go on the Moon thinking we couldn't

But... the guy didnt know how to code, or how to make games, or how to program, or how to develop stories, or how to make art, etc etc etc. He didn't know these things, but he wanted to make these things. And I see this to a certain degree quite a bit when it comes to creation. I want to say: it's a very important of the process but simply one part.

I think being able to imagine what you could do if you have all the resources in the world, all the time, and all the help is important - but it is even more important to look within and go 'alright with all this in mind - what can I do?'

And if you're in the field of IF, well, what can you do? Coding, storytelling, character design, plotting arcs, etc. I think the skills can be learned by anybody (sidenote incoming)

If anybody ever fucking says that art is innate, they're fucking lying. It's a skill you grind out. You work it out. You work even if you feel not creative. You write words even if they don't come to you naturally. You draw even if the images can't be conjured. You work you work you work and you make something. You cannot always make art when feeling creative because you aren't always creative. you must be willing to die for your art, yes, but you must also be willing to create without any creative sparks! If you want to be an artist, you better work bitch.

(sidenote ending) and with that in mind, you need to develop restraints onto yourself. In IF, it's actually to create restraints, and here are some I suggest for all of my fellow autists who might struggle with them. I love you guys, truly, anyways. here they are:

restrain characters.

Make three characters + a main character. Write a couple of scenes with them. Is that your maximum? Is that too much? Go up and down until you find the right amount. You can add more character when your writing is better. Stick to a minimum per scene. If you have ideas for 30 characters, you can easily melt them into 10. Seriously. Put the heat on maximum and start creating new fun dolls to play with.

2. restrain scenes

You cannot write 500 per interaction. This is a bad idea because a) you might do the thing where you run out of creativity which you need to learn to do without but it is hard and b) interactions are time limited and time sensitive. not everybody will go through them. if you have a 30k update, but most people will only see 1k... are you really writing a game for them or for yourself? I made my wife do this format:

youll gain the ability to gauge if a scene is important or not eventually, I'm sure.

3. restrain area

I recommend writing like a murder novelist. You have a closed circle, and the player cannot leave it. they can only be within that space. That space that exists within that specific story is the only thing they have access to. it can be a school, a city, a bedroom - but its limited. you create setpieces that players interact with. some set pieces are the same with just a different coat of paint on.

anyways, i believe in dreaming big, but i also believe that we have little time on our hands to create. when wanting to make something, restraint yourself. its always way more fun to find ways to break out of our bonds then just roaming free, right? I mean... maybe not. I'm not your mother, you know.

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.”��

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

[mismess]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well!

I’ve been watching Monk for the first time and have LOVED seeing your Monk fanart! The way you draw him is so fun and cool, I haven’t seen anyone draw him in a way that captures his likeness and still retains a creative style! I’ve been trying to draw him for weeks now and have had a lot of trouble nailing his features, any tips?

Hope you have a great one, and thank you for blessing my fyp with your blog! 💜

WAAH thank you !! I'm very glad you enjoy my Monk art! <3

I am shit at explaining myself and half the time I myself don't know what I did to get where I am. So I doodled him a bunch to try and feel out how i draw him.

Right of the bat I think I draw Monk a little rounder than he actually is? When figuring out how to draw someone I usually quickly trace over a photo to get a feel for the person and try to break them down into basic shapes first and build from there, and Tony Shalhoub can be a Very Square man in my eyes.

But I look at Monk and I see a softness that I must get across in my art, so I add some softness. Round his squares out a bit. Sometimes the vibes must be accounted for as well.

To me some of his most important features are his eyebrows, hairline, and most importantly and kinda ironically seeing as how sad his character is, his smile lines.

And you know, sometimes I DO draw him a little squarer, and sometimes I draw him a little rounder, consistency is also... Sometimes... Not as vital as it may seem... As long as the shapes FEEL right. Wish I could tell you my process more but I feel like I draw like that "draw the rest of the fucking owl" meme!

Your style is really cool btw! I love that columbo collection(one day I'll watch Columbo...). sorry if this isn't helpful at all lmao you have a wonderful day and/or night as well ! ^-^

[capn-twitchery]

do you have any tips for drawing expressions? it’s one thing that I always notice about your art, I love how expressive your characters are.

thank you so much!! it really means a ton bc expressions are one of the things i've focused & worked the hardest on over the years :D ♥

which ALSO MEANS--HA, YOU ACTIVATED MY SPECIAL INTEREST TRAP CARD i am now going to talk at you all for far too long about it >:) buckle up!

prefacing this by saying i Love animation, this makes me biased as hell with where i get my sources + how i study art. anyway!

i think my biggest #1 tip is don't be afraid to get goofy with it--characters don't have to look cool and stoic all the time, they can be silly! if an expression reads better, but looks a little off-model, do it anyway! make that guy look weird!

i draw little thumbnail expressions a Lot, whether for actual art or for just fun doodling. i don't have any recent ones to hand-- but here's some from a while ago. they help a ton to figure out what works quickly without worrying about actual facial features

they also help to see if i can push an expression further, it's easier to test out weird things on a tiny round doodle and then translate that into an actual drawing later on. pushing expressions To The Limits is a really good exercise in itself!

gonna put the rest under the cut bc it's getting long & i have a lot more to say

ok this in itself is a whole topic i can go on about for hours, but i'll try to keep it semi brief--i Love considering how different characters would show emotions! how one character would express sadness, how that would be different to another, how one character would smile vs. another, stuff like that!

related, giving characters individual expression quirks. twitch's :3 mouth & lazy lidded eyes if you could see them anyway & Very Smug Eyebrows, while grace has heavy low eyebrows & sad puppy eyes & usually looks at least 10% unsure at all times. it makes every single twitch smile look slightly not genuine and makes grace look. well. you know. the quirks are really fun to think of, and it makes drawing expressions feel a lot more fun when you personalise them!!

expressions can be easier to think of when you put characters in scenarios & consider how they'd react. it can also help to think of the character Moving/talking, instead of as a static image. mini comics or just adding dialogue to art helps a lot with this, i've only just started doing it and i'm having a blast!!

ok this one is weird and hard to explain and might only be applicable to me bc i can't see images in my brain-- but i'll throw it out there just in case! lots of artists make faces in the mirror to reference their own expressions, but it's never worked for me

i Do still act stuff out in my brain & make faces irl, but instead of doing it in the mirror, i just make the expression & consider how my face is moving in Words? ok for example This Comic, last panel for twitch--i'd run through the dialogue in my head and move around how i feel like they would, and list it off in Words--raised eyebrows, closed eyes, tilted head, etc etc. then i have a framework to base the expression on! and i don't need to stare into my own face in the mirror for reference. no mirror needed at all, actually. win/win. i do this for body language too

(yes this makes you look insane btw. sorry. if you do it too long best case scenario you get very dextrous eyebrows and worst case scenario you might start making cartoon character faces irl (or both) (i'm both))

not sure how much it helps specifically with expressions outside of animation, but it's a fun exercise--learning the limits of a character's face, animation calls it squash & stretch. drawing a face in the two most extreme states. so on character expression sheets you'll see weird faces like this⤵️ that's what that is

another exercise, i always have a ton of art saved that i like the expressions of. usually a lot of concept art for films. i'll do studies of them & redraw them, and/or take ocs and redraw them with those expressions! it's a great way to look at how other artists do stuff and yoink bits you like.

you'll hear this a lot if you look up Any art tips, but references & studies are great. i get a lot of inspo from disney concept art bc their artists are very talented people, but currently i hope disney studios' own hubris eats it alive. i want to see mickey mouse buried in a hole, the rat bastard. anyway some places i personally take inspiration from:

i look at a lot of animation concept art, some good sources are characterdesignreferences, livinglineslibrary, there's pdfs of animation art books all over the place too.

specific concept artists i like are jin kim & shiyoon kim !! they do Great expressions.

outside of film industry, tealin and tracy butler of lackadaisy cats are some inspirations! tracy butler has a great expressions tutorial here

if you find this stuff interesting & like reading, the illusion of life by ollie johnston & frank thomas is an incredible insight into the thought process behind stuff like this! there's a pdf here, unfortunately just a scanned copy but worth a read if you like this stuff!! specifically chapters 'character development', 'animating expressions & dialogue', and 'acting & emotions'

sorry that was an essay and a half but hopefully it was a little bit helpful!! i always love talking about this stuff so if you want anything clarified/just wanna talk about it more i am Always ready to go off >:3

[sanchoyo]

just finished echoes of wisdom!! (MAJOR) spoilers under the cut for my initial, very fresh thoughts. Lots of them

the outfits were so so cute. kitty outfit was a big hit for obvious reasons but I also loved Silk PJs and OG princess fits (dress and traveling one... <3) theres apparently a blue version of the dress and black cat outfit you get from amibos but I wasnt 100%ing and im not buying amibos just for that (even tho I would really like 2 have it akdsfk) a+ accessory designs too!!

great character designs, insanely varied for the gerudo and goron designs between every npc!! (probably the best gerudo designs to date IMO)

fav echoes were Hoard of Crows (me siccing like 6 crows on enemies) gold wind up bird u get from dampe (btw fun new role for him!!) bc I Liked Fast Money, lv 3 lizalfos (BLUE BIG BODYGUARD FOR ME) and lv 3 darknut. also obviously teddy bear. was throwing it at NPCs i liked all game

really enjoyed how many enemies returned from previous games!!! and diving!!! diving finally came back!! (LOVED the zora area, had a lot of fun with the pirate ship area over there too)

what was up with that one optional boss that was like a sentient fart. that was weird and I suspect he was supposed to come back and then I missed him on the second go around LMAO

the hebra mountain storyline had me in TEARS i was spawning teddy bears at that dude to try to make him feel better rapid fire (this did not help. sad) i was hoping i could find his brother and make him go back ;_; (cant recall the dudes name but that was the same species as the ones from twilight princess, right?)

the way i leveled up my swordfighter form SO much expecting to use it in the final boss fight and then had to give link his shit back and was unable to use it in the final fight?? INFURIATING. docking points on the rating for this game just for that shit. why give me the option to level up my sword and energy if not let me use it again null??? AUGH!!! I WANTED TO FIGHT TOO!!! NOT JUST USE ECHOES!!!

link and zelda both having to fight evil versions of each other at some point was kind of slay tho (also us having to come rescue him from the crystal? also slay) fanfic writers please have them jumping at mirrors and also seeing each other for a while tho, great concept

the final boss had me really surprised, i was 100% expecting ganon to show up or be the final boss (HE WAS ON THE POSTER...AND COVER ART...) but he was just another echo?? so where did null get that echo, exactly? was the ganon at the start that kidnapped zelda the real one, then link killed him and null echoed him from there?? unclear

null was a great final boss conceptually tho and i 100% hope they use them for future games. eldritch horror wasnt what i expected but thats AMAZING (putting their disappointing, sort of chaotic, but not hard final boss fight aside). very scary. very cool. walking around in their insides(??) to get to them (??) was awesome. love when cute games get a lil dark. adds flavor. cool new lore!!! cant wait for the lore implication theory videos to come out (do we think null is stronger than demise?? I decided I Do think so, demise is a Demon and null is some huge cosmic horror, feels like the scales tip to null being stronger...)

why was everyone at the end so shocked at what link said. whatd he say that had them shook i need to know (was it that he could talk again?? wasnt that a temporary problem from being in the void lol??)

need more games to play as zelda now. loved it. best loz game to come out since botw, maybe actually ranks higher in my mind?? (could be recency bias ofc, but it checked so many boxes for me) really fresh concept, my only real gripes are how the final boss fight played out (GIVE ME MY SWORDFIGHTER FORM BACK!!! LET ME SLICE!!) and the dang echo menu being 234234 miles long...the sorting features were nice, but still, needed a better menu for that in general. i scrolled 30 miles in the snow uphill etc.

also barely any of the ost was super stand-out to me, which (like. it was FINE but given how good the music in cadence of hyrule was they shouldve brought those guys back to do this music tbh. that game had me spoiled on good loz remixes. I stand by the fact it has probably the best ost in ALL of the zelda games.)

i LOVED the puzzles and dungeons. missed them soo much in recent loz games. i LOVE PUZZLE!!!!!!!!! none of them were too hard and it also wasnt too hand-holdy. perfect level of makes me think but not Steam my Brain type stuff.

smoothies were cute and really fun to play with. the deku scrubs were SO cute (they all used they/them too i think. based) all the CATS!! WERE SO CUTE!! just really appreciate how cute everything in the game was in general. the fact i could chuck teddy bears at enemies. best game actually

cant say i was crazy about any of the mini games but none were super hard once you had the froggy item. it felt like cheating a lil bit to use it but that was one of the items I wore until the end (along with my cute heart bow of COURSE. cant be saving hyrule if you aint cute)

fav NPCS were hebra mountain guy (conte??) the gerudo chief's daughter (she really felt like zelda's sidon, but not annoying <3) and general wright surprisingly (I really enjoyed how loudly supportive of zelda he was!! he was like YEAH OUR PRINCESS IS SO STRONG SHE CAN FIX IT AND BEAT THOSE MONSTERS!!! LETS GOO i loved that energy for us)

saying goodbye to tri destroyed me. I was crying real ugly tears. (I started thinking about my dog and saying goodbye to him last month and how much tri's speech reminded me of what I told him AUGH. its still fresh and hurts but this was somehow really healing to play. like this came at the perfect time I think)

thoughts subject to change once I watch other people's playthrus and listen to theory videos and think on it for a while but rn? solid 8/10 game (and I only docked points for the dang end boss fight really, REALLY good game up until then)

[booksandchainmail]

Pale 11.2 extra

I just want you to know I’ve been trying to be my best self and do good in the world and if there’s something that ends up keeping me from coming back to you guys I hope you know that at least.

this bit is incredibly sad to me. "If I died, I died doing the right thing" is actually a pretty good ending, but coming from a kid it's just bleak

All the not listening you did and the ignoring me and everything? I forgive you for that and I think I understand

I wonder how this will feel going on? I imagine that even if Avery is glossing over this a bit for her parents to not feel guilty, she must have done some final sour searching to reach this point. It must be weird to come to terms with everyone in your life, be prepared to not leave regrets behind, and then get to keep on going with the clean slate

Sheridan, you had my back when it counted and I can’t tell you what it means to me, or how it changed the idea of what family is in my head. You get so down on yourself but you’re so so so much better and cooler than you think you are.

oh... that;s really sweet

A beautiful woman once told me I was on the cusp of losing my connection to humanity.

lol at specifying beautiful

no comments on the rest of Avery's letter to Ms. Hardy because I'm tearing up

If I can escape the chaos do you want to hang? We can hang out with Sir and chat art orrrr We could hang out and you can take your shirt off and I can draw you orrrrrrr We could hang out and we both take our shirts off and we can pretend we’re confused about who is supposed to be painting who before finding something else to do

smooth

I told Lucy and Avery and a woman called Miss to pass on a password for a gallery I sent you.  You’re my designated replacement if anything happens and that gallery has the big rundown.  Yep, you thought you were getting to know me?  That was all the tip of the iceberg, buddy.

I'm picturing Jeremy opening this, reading it, and realizing that a girl who was a pretty new friend in his life had no outside contact closer than him

On that note? I’m writing this under the assumption that they’re there. Avery Kelly and Lucy Ellingson. No other end result is okay in my books.

oh Verona

Care and Feeding of Lucy Ellingson and Avery Kelly: I liked the headline but because I wrote it I gotta let you know the feeding part: Lucy gets into stuff like pepperoni sticks and sour foods and things that make you go WOAH (except garlic and onions apparently) and it’s all intense and crap but when you get down to it I think she likes sweet and savory stuff most.  Avery is a vegetarian and she can eat next to anything you could call food, now, but I think what matters is that it comes from a place of care. She likes fruity flavors and mellow stuff. If Lucy’s down and out and needs nourishment to get back in the game then a chance to have a savory home cooked meal or a sweet treat she can spend a bit enjoying would do it for her.  For Avery, just the fact that you notice she’s down and out is important and then you can hand her a sports drink or something and she’ll be up for more.

aww, funny and cute that she's leaning into this bit, deeply touching that she knows this about them

[Tash is] about three years older than us she’s super cool enough I wouldn’t blame you for getting a crush on her. 😉

... yeah that's fair! Don't know how Jeremy would feel about the eyes, but I love that it's not a factor for Verona

If you bring me back as a composite echo and someone wants to take me as a familiar to help clarify me further then I’m down.

what the hell. I mean a good backup plan! But a hell of a lot of pressure to drop casually at the end of this letter

If not or if that’s weird then don’t sweat it.  Thanks for being a friend.

or don't resurrect me if you don't want! wild.

I got lucky because home was the place I could come back to to unload the small things, instead.  This was pretty close to perfect. Except I haven’t come home to unload this time, if you’re reading the letter.

yeah tearing up again

Zed has agreed he’ll fill you in if someone needs to.  He knows most of the story and it’s easier for him to answer your questions than for me to explain everything here.  Imagining you going through my stuff and uncovering it all with a terrible look on your face is making this too hard to write.

Interesting to me that Lucy is the only on who leaves information for her mom to take action, I guess because neither Verona or Avery feel that their parents are particularly useful

As a last ditch effort if the cops fail and Avery and Verona are gone you can contact a man I listed on the sheet. His name is Samaniego and he organizes people who hunt monsters like one of the ones I’m about to fight.

damn that's a nuclear option. But I suppose if all the girls are dead there's no point in playing fair or easy

I don’t want this to end without there being justice.  If I was capable of accepting any other answer then I think this might be the point I gave up.  I could let Edith win, I could choose the option where I didn’t risk me dying and you having to find this letter. I can’t.  I can’t let the people who would do that get what they want and take any more power or get any more influence.

Lucy... I love how much her principles come through in this. Avery may be the soft heart in the group and Lucy all business in her letter, but peel back the focus and drive and you get this moral determination

This can’t end without justice of some sort.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨6/End

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) cucking, violence, blood, some untagged extreme events.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Here’s the grand finale, I hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You breathed shakily as you clipped the chain of diamonds around your neck. Clark stood and you watched him place his gun down. He rolled his head back and cracked his neck as he shrugged off his jacket. He slung it over the corner of the upholstered chair and your fingers fluttered down the front of your dress.

“Marcus,” he called tauntingly and clapped his hands, “I think you should see this with both eyes, don’t make me take one out.”

“Stop,” you hissed, “please.”

“What do you care about him, sweetheart? He’s a pimp,” he said brusquely.

You lowered your eyes and sniffed. He nudged you with a bent knuckle then hooked his finger under the strap of your dress.

“It’s getting late,” he warned, “let’s go.”

You stepped away from him and pushed down the zipper hidden underneath your arm. You kept your gaze to the floor as you slid the straps down your arms and shimmied out of the taut fabric. You flung the dress away and bent to undo your strappy heels. Clark tutted as he got close and slapped your ass.

“I like those, they go well with the necklace,” he purred and traced his finger up your back to snap the band of your bra.

You winced and stood. You reached back and unhooked the bra and tossed it at him with venom. You exhaled and pushed down your panties as he hummed. It took all your strength and pride not to cover yourself and cower. He came up behind you and traced your shaped with his fingertips.

“Come on,” he gripped your waist and walked you around, only feet from Marcus as he stopped you in front of the ladder, “up.”

“What?” you grabbed the rungs as he urged you closer.

“Go up,” he repeated brusquely.

You climbed carefully and when you got to the top, he tickled the back of your thigh.

“Turn around, sweetheart, and take a seat,” he demanded.

You heard Marcus sob against the gag and you turned as you tried not to slip. You sat on the top of the ladder as you faced Clark and he grasped your knees. He pushed until you let him part your legs and you felt the cool air along your cunt. He bit tip of his tongue out and kneaded your thighs.

“I’ve been patient, I can keep on,” he taunted as he leaned in and his hot breath grazed your folds, “I want to savour this, sweetheart.”

He flicked his tongue along your cunt and you hissed and clung to the sides of the ladder. He pushed your legs back so that your feet hooked around the rungs and held your hips in place. You gasped at the sensation that steamed from your loins and bit your lip. 

You put your bent finger between your teeth and moaned. His tongue moved faster as if encouraged by your weak drawl and your heart fluttered wildly. You dropped your hand to your throat and the diamonds pressed to your palm. You gulped and leaned your head back as you tried to stifle a whine.

He kept more fervent with each lap, and you pushed your thighs against his face. You looked down without thinking and the height made you dizzy. You rasped and grabbed the back of his head as you feared you would fall. He growled and sucked on your clit. You groaned as your lungs burned and your eardrums pulsed. 

You panted as the flames licked at your flesh. You turned your head away from Marcus in shame as you felt the sudden peak rising. Your hand slipped down to grasp the back of Clark’s neck and you squirmed as you came into his mouth. He kept the pressure on your clit and teased it lightly with his teeth until your legs hung limp and slowly dragged his lips down your thigh, a trail of your arousal left along your skin.

“Mmm,” he stood and shoved his hand between your legs. He pushed a finger into you suddenly and the ladder teetered beneath you. He steadied it with his other hand and added another finger, “listen to her, Marcus. How could you let this go? Priceless.”

He pulled his fingers from your cunt and held them up so that they glistened in the light. He presented them to Marcus and raised them to his mouth to suck them clean. You grimaced and looked away once more.

“Sweetheart,” he turned back and kicked the bottom rung, “you can turn around.”

You blinked at him and swallowed. You trembled as you stood on a rung and he caught you before you could fall. He helped turn you around and placed your hands at the top of the ladder and he guided you to the bottom rung. You gripped it tightly as he groped your ass and smacked it several times so the sound reverberated. 

Your flesh stung as he pressed himself to your back and nuzzled your head. He gripped your hips and rubbed his thumbs along your hips. He pulled your waist back so you were bent slightly against the ladder. He pushed apart your ass as slid two fingers down to your cunt.

He ran his fingertips along your wet folds and unzipped his pants with his other hand. You quivered as he came flush against you and bent his knees as he prodded at you from below. His tip brushed along your entrance and he coated himself in your juices before he slid just inside.

You bent your head and gulped in air as he stretched you. You reached back as he pushed in another inch and you pressed your hand to his stomach blindly. He grabbed your hand and twisted your arm behind your back. He thrust into you completely and bent to whisper along the shell of your ear.

“Feel that,” he jerked his hips so that you cried out, “perfect fit.”

“Please…” you croaked.

“Please… more?” he mocked and drew his hips back, only to slam into you again.

“Nnngghhh,” you groaned and clung to the ladder as he rocked slowly.

“This is real art, Marcus,” Clark said as he ran his hands up your side and cupped your tits, “look at her… listen to her.”

“Pl--” you couldn’t speak as your walls tightened around him snugly, begging for more even as the strained around him.

“Mmmmm,” he kissed your neck and sent a shiver through you, “so sweet.”

He nibbled playfully then sank his teeth in as he sped up. He grunted and stood back as his hips clapped against your ass. His motion stuttered for just a moment and suddenly a loop of cloth fell over your head and around your neck. He pulled the tie until it was taut around your throat and wrapped the tails around his hand.

“Ah, look at her wearing her leash like a good kitten,” he purred, “my kitten.”

You shook your head and moaned through your clamped lips. Why did it have to feel so good?

He grabbed your chin with his other hand and turned your face towards Marcus. Your head lolled in his grip and your lashes fluttered as you saw the shadow of the man you loved. You couldn’t just let that go, not in a night. A tear trickled from your eye and leaked down the side of Clark’s hand.

He kept his hand firm around your jaw and his other arm swept around your waist. He lifted you from the ladder and you squeaked. He carried you to the chair, his cock buried as deep as it would go. He bent his legs as he placed you on the cushion and you latched onto the back as he began to fuck you again; harder, faster than before.

Your voice rang out as your groans grew almost to wails. All your anger and sadness bubbled over as the pleasure forced it from your lungs. You bared your teeth and blinked through the blur. Marcus shook his head as the stool wobbled beneath him. You hated him, you hated the man behind you. You hated that you were so stupid.

You came with a shrill cry and Clark dropped your head against the back of the chair. You hugged the upholstery and whimpered as he sped up. He lifted your legs off the seat as he rutted into you, his growls savage and carnal. Your nails dug into the fabric and you closed your eyes, surrendering to the swell of ecstasy.

He rammed into you so hard you were crushed against the seat. He supported himself against the arms of the chair as he pounded into you. He huffed and swore under his breath as you felt him quake and he spilled into you. You braced yourself, disgusted by him and how great it felt.

When he finished, he lingered inside you, his knee against the edge of the seat. He slid out of you slowly and his cum dripped out of you as you sat back to catch your breath, your arms shaky as you pushed away from the cushion. He went to the table where your paints were and he took a clean rag from the bunch to wipe himself. He whistled and caught his breath.

“Did you like the show?” he taunted Marcus and tossed the dirty cloth at him, “I sure did.”

Marcus grumbled through the gag and you backed off the chair. Your walls were tender and tingly, your legs trembling, and your soul racked with shock and spite. You could hardly see as the dim light made your head ache and you shook your head as you tried to escape the afterglow that drained the energy from you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her,” Clark continued, “I can give her anything she wants and what can you do, hmm?” 

You fell against the small square table and your hand scrambled for the dark pistol. You stood straight and turned to limp over towards the men. Clark’s back was to you as your heels knocked clumsily against the wood. As you neared, Marcus lifted his head and his brow wrinkled.

You aimed at Clark but before you could pull the trigger, his arm was around yours. He pushed the gun down and you fired into the floor. He overpowered you easily as his hand wrapped around yours and you fought for control of the gun. He chuckled darkly and forced your arm forward.

He pointed the barrel at Marcus as you tried to push it away and another shot went off and left your ears ringing. You screamed as you watched the blood spread across your boyfriend’s chest. Clark released you and you fell to the floor as the gun spun across the floor. 

You got to your knees and dragged yourself over to Marcus. You reached to touch his bleeding chest and more spread onto the gag shoved into his mouth. The red stained your hands and dripped down your arms as you rose to cradle his head and his breath rattled as you pulled the cloth from his mouth. His eyes rolled back and you felt the strength leave him entirely.

“No, no, no,” you grabbed his chin and smacked his cheek, “please, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Marcus…”

You were yanked back suddenly and nearly fell over on the strappy heels. Clark spun you to face him and you hit his chest. You looked up at him as he pushed your face against him and embraced you. He hushed you as he pet your head.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he cooed, “you won’t be alone.”

Tears flowed down your cheeks and choked you. You sniffled and shook your head as you pushed weakly against Clark, “you’re a monster.”

“You pulled the gun, sweetheart. We could’ve been done…” he snarled as he dragged you over to the window and spun you against the glass, “but the adrenaline always get my blood pumping.”

He pressed you to the glass as your hands streaked scarlet along the window. You heard his zipper again and in an instant, he was inside you. You were on the toes of the heels as he shook the glass and thrust into you deliberately. You leaned your forehead to the cold pane and stared out into the night, the metallic smell of blood tugging at your nostrils.

🎨

You didn’t sleep, you didn’t even lay down as Clark moved your body how he wanted. The water couldn’t be hot enough to scald away your guilt and the memories of a night that never ended. The afterglow of the shower and your night did little to ease the horror of your existence. You felt as if the blood still stained your hands as you buttoned up the borrowed shirt.

You went to the window of the spacious bedroom and looked out as you heard the voices below. The black plastic bags loaded into the back of an equally dark car. You sobbed and smothered it with the loose cuff of the shirt. That was how you said goodbye, watching the remnants of your boyfriend thrown away like trash.

“Sweetheart?” Clark’s voice set your hair on edge and you turned to face him, a towel hung loosely around his waist, “I know it’s hard now--”

“How can you be okay?” you edge away from him as he neared, “he’s dead. You shot him.”

“Wasn’t my finger on the trigger,” he planted his hand against the wall and blocked you with his arm, “you shouldn’t play with guns.”

You sniffed and mopped up the last of your tears. He was so callous, so calculating. It chilled you completely.

“Who are those men?”

“A few soldiers,” he said as he dropped his arm and grabbed your hand, “you look tired. You should sleep.”

“I can’t,” you tried to tug away but he kept a hold of you.

“Well, if you’ve still got the energy,” he pulled you against him and snaked his hands down to your ass.

“You’re horrible,” you uttered as you grasped his thick biceps.

“To some,” he bent so that his nose touched yours, “but I can be real good to you, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, worn and weak. He kissed you and you let him. Marcus was dead because of you. You thought he was the selfish one for wanting everything this man had, but hadn’t you wanted the same? You came here to paint because you wanted to get paid. You were no different and now he was gone and you were stuck exactly where you belonged. It was what you deserved.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he parted and turned you to walk you backwards to the bed, “you’re gonna need your sleep.”

He nudged you down onto the bed. He went to the window and drew the long drapes and the room dimmed. He swept away his towel and let it pile on the floor as he climbed up next to you and reclined with a sigh. You laid back on the pillow and looked up at your reflection in the mirror set into the ceiling.

“Now that is art,” he winked at your reflection as he reached to caress your cheek, “you’ll see it soon enough.”

[kravkalackin]

It was a fool proof plan, if Lup did say so herself. She was really quite proud of it, and her mastery of the art of the grift in general. 

The fancy restaurant was extremely crowded, and also much more expensive than either her or Barry could really afford. Considering all that, there was really no reason for them to have made a reservation on valentine’s day, especially considering they weren’t even dating. 

No reason to, except Lup wanted to treat herself. And also Barry. And also lord it over her brother that she got to eat here before he did. So she came up with a plan, and valentine’s day was the best time to play it out for maximum effect. 

It was a genius twist on an old classic really. Simple, but just unexpected enough that no one would see through it. Her and Barry were going to enjoy their dinner, acting as a sickeningly in love couple for all to see, highlighted by the valentine’s day atmosphere. 

As soon as dinner started to wind down, Barry was going to propose. Most grifts would leave it at that, but this kind of place wouldn’t offer a free meal for a proposal, not on valentine’s day of all days. The most they could get was probably a free desert. No, they needed to go bigger. 

Barry was going to propose, and all Lup had to do was turn him down. Awkwardly grab her stuff and shuffle off, leaving him all sad and dejected. 

And them bam! Free steak and shrimp and wine. They would still leave a tip for the waiter, but otherwise Barry would meet her outside and it would be hilarious. 

Lup had just about finished up her meal now, and damn it was nearly worth the ridiculous price tag. She was laughing over something Barry had said, and really the easiest part of all this was the whole pretending to be in love with him thing, mostly because she really didn’t have to pretend. 

She saw his eyes flicker to hers, and then off again. She didn’t look, but she guessed the waiter was starting to head over. She stopped laughing, giving him a quick, subtle nod. With a nervous smile, he stood up. They had already been holding hands across the table, and he didn’t let go now. 

“Lup,” he started, and it was adorable how red his face already was. She knew he didn’t enjoy being the center of attention, so she would have to find some way to make this up to him later. 

“Lup, we’ve been together for a long time now. Ever since you came into my life I’ve had to wonder every day how I could have possibly gotten so lucky to even know you. Getting to actually share my life with you? I’d say it’s a dream, but there isn’t a dream out there that could live up to you,” he continued, and she could feel her face starting to heat up now as well. She hadn’t been expecting a speech. 

Probably a smart move. Garner up even more sympathy. 

“How someone like me could possibly be worthy of someone as intelligent and loving and beautiful as you, I’ll never know, but that day in eighth grade when you called me a nerd and made me help you and your brother catch the class mice you accidentally let loose was legitimately the best day of my life. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without you, and I don’t ever want to let go.” 

“Shit,” Lup whispered under her breath, having to blink rapidly as her eyes started to get all moist. She didn’t expect him to be so good at this, why was he so good at this? 

“I love you Lup, with all of my heart,” he said, finally getting down on one knee now. With the hand that wasn’t holding hers, he pulled out a small ring box, having to finally let go to actually open it. 

“So I need to know. Lup, will you marry me?” 

“Yes.” 

Barry’s eyes widened, genuine surprise on his face instead of the fake devastation that was supposed to be there. It took Lup’s brain a moment to catch up with her words, and when it did she nearly slapped her hands over her mouth. 

“O-oh? Awesome,” Barry said, clearly trying to recover from her going incredibly off script. When he reached over Lup let him slide the ring onto her finger. 

And well, there was nothing left to do but fucking lean into it, so when he stood back up Lup pulled him into a kiss. The restaurant broke into cheers around them, and when they finally pulled apart Barry looked like a tomato. 

“Might I be the first to say congratulations,” their waiter said, and Lup forced herself to grin up at him over the wishing for death she was doing inside. Well, the wishing for death mixed in with the absolute euphoria of finally getting to kiss Barry. 

“Thank you,” she managed, watching as he put down what she could only assume was a free heart shaped chocolate cake with vanilla ice-cream. 

And also the check.

“Uh, Lup?” Barry asked after a moment, seeming to have finally gotten the ability to form words back again. Instead of responding Lup quickly reached over, flipping the check before she could actually see any of the numbers. 

“If I don’t see the numbers they can’t hurt me,” she said in a rush, and Barry was looking at her somewhere between befuddled and endeared. 

“I don’t- I don’t think that’s how it works,” he said, and Lup shook her head. Taking a spoon, she started shoving cake and ice cream into her mouth. If she was going to pay for this, she was going to enjoy all of it. 

“Nope, totally how it works,” she said. Barry chuckled at that, starting to eat some of the dessert as well. 

“Fair enough,” he said, and it was quiet for a moment. 

“I’ll... pay you back for this,” Lup whispered quietly. Barry waved her off, and she could see that he was eating more of the ice cream than he should. Considering the night though, she couldn’t blame him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he insisted, but they both knew that wasn’t going to happen. After a moment she could see his eyes glance towards her hand, which was still wearing that engagement ring. “Hey do we... do we need to talk about uh, anything? After this?” he whispered, and Lup kind of wanted to die. 

But she also really wanted to kiss him again.

“Maybe. Can we make out again first?” she said, and despite the shade of red of his face Barry quickly nodded. 

“Definitely,” he said. 

“Cool,” she said, and yeah, there was going to be a lot they needed to talk about, but also really not that much. 

They had already pretty much said everything. 

[parkerlyn]

How would the ROs feel about an MC that’s always complimenting them in a genuine manner, even for the smallest of things?

Ahhhh somft 🥺 Haven’t done one of these in ages so please forgive the rust on these drabbles askdjfkd (still working on the art prompts slowly in the background)

Written in the early dating phase, thank you for the ask! ❤️

The Healer: "You're amazing."

The Healer laughs, bright and clear, while they bring their hand down from the shelf. "I think I'm just tall in this case."

"Tall and amazing."

“Yeah, alright.” A chuckle echoes through their chest as they hand you the jar with a smile. 

Cool glass greets your fingers, but when you try to open the preserved fruits you’re met with the unbreakable hold of the sealed lid. The metal slides under your grip at another attempt, still not budging, the only evidence of your effort in the pain at your palm.

You sigh and hand it back to them, and they twist it open with an infuriatingly quick 'pop' before handing it back to you.

“Tall and amazing and the best jam jar opener,” you state matter-of-factly as you happily take the jar back. The syrupy sweet smell of honey and peaches accompanies another round of the Healer’s laughter.

“You did most of the work,” they say in assurance before a mischievous smile works its way over their mouth. “But are there any other small things you want done? I’m starting to get used to this string of compliments and I’m kind of curious how many you can remember in a row.”

Leaning the jar against your lips, you hum. “You don’t have to do anything, I can make that list on my own.”

A quirked eyebrow joins in from the Healer as they let you mull over your thoughts.

“Tall and amazing and the best jam jar opener, the best Healer, the best hugger-” They laugh. “-the most genuine, most gorgeous, the best laugh and eyes-haver-” They snort at your phrasing but the eyes in question narrow over their rising cheeks, smile spreading wider as they hold their hand up.

“Okay, yes, thank you, my ego is never coming back down, going to be grinning for days,” they babble back and hold their hand out for you to take as they lean against the counter. With a step forward, you gently place the jar on the wood surface before letting your fingers smooth over their outstretched palm, hands turning downward to intertwine together while you take another step closer.

True to their statement, the smile never leaves, and they bring their free hand up to brush a thumb over your cheek and down the soft skin by your ear.

“My turn to shower you with compliments about all the things I like about you?”

Your eyes close against the touch. “Do tell.” 

A soft exhale follows their thumb as they turn your head to the side.

“Actually, maybe I can show you.” 

The Sage: When you remark on how wonderful they are, there’s the briefest widening around their hazel eyes as the glow from their face fades. But it morphs instantly into a polite and measured “Thank you” while they carefully close their book. Formal and stilted, but not uncomfortable. 

It takes a few more trips of you hovering around the Archival Library to observe that this is their default. Mask on, manners sharp, neutral in all ways, in case the compliments have an ulterior moment.

There’s a pang of sadness in the realization.

A sudden determination carries into your steps, your previous reasons (or excuses) for being in the Library all but forgotten as you march your way to where you last saw the Sage. They hear you coming first, tilting their head upward and letting an excited smile slip through their professionalism.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were still-”

“You’re amazing.”

They gape, blinking, mouth trying to lure a response from their throat. 

You continue before they can refasten their formality.

“And lovely, and stunning, and more brilliant than all the stars in the sky.”

With your added barrage of compliments, their mask seems unable to be placed properly, and they slowly reshelve the book in their hands with their face turned. It takes an awfully long time, you notice, their hand tapping the top of the book’s spine once it’s settled, with a few more pats down its length for good measure despite the already snug fit.

When even they realize that shuffling their fingers over the book is redundant at this point, they let their wrist fall and tap a quick rhythm against the bookshelves.

“I’m not sure I can hold a candle to you but-”

They let it loose now. The delight, the happiness, the quiet exhilaration at your words. They almost raise a hand to their mouth to try and stifle the soft smile, but decide to let it shine outward as their eyes crinkle into a blissful, serene joy.

Instead of trying to restrain their expression, they wrap their fingers around your hand, pulling you closer and a few steps farther between the corridor of volumes. You let them lead you, let them turn and raise your hand to their lips, let them place a fleeting, secretive kiss against your knuckles before dark hazel meets your eyes.

It comes as a whisper. No caution or apprehension. All tenderness and adoration. 

“Thank you.”

Oisein: You can’t help the out-of-place comment, admiring Oisein’s glowing freckles as they scrunch up their nose over a particularly stubborn scuff on one of their leather bracers.

They look to you as the sweet words slip out. At first with an almost fearful shock, until they compose themselves with a breath and an arched brow.

“Alright then, what’re you after?”

“What?”

A smirk twists the corner of their mouth, eyes narrowing and darkened. “Complimenting me while I’m making the most unattractive face I can muster over some rancid bracers? What is it, yours need fixing? You break something? Piss off the Magesmith again?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take that job from you."

“Good. I’d be devastated.” Oisein gives an exaggerated ‘phew’ with a swipe of their hand over their forehead, light laughter quickly following. Jokes aside, they lay the bracer down and fold their arms. “But really, what’s this about?"

You lift your face from your palm, the weight easing from your elbow on the table. “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful.”

After a hesitant pause, they make the same face from before, face twisting and freckles shifting on their cheeks as they scratch below an antler. Flickering light spasms through their pointed ears and down their neck, and they curse under their breath. Hands fly to cover their exposed markings, glowing gleefully regardless of their permission.

Their voice comes out a murmur.

“Should’ve grabbed my earring, I can usually hide that, damned things...” they trail off before taking a few steps toward you, that familiar smirk starting to curl through their lips. “Maybe I just need some practice?”

You lean back into your palm and feel the corner of your mouth lifting to match their expression while they close the gap between you, step by fluid step. Lavender eyes bore into yours as they settle their weight against the table, lifting a knuckle to trace from the base of your ear, along your jawline, down below your chin.

A slight pressure raises your face as they lean forward with a whisper on their tongue.

“Tell me again.”

Despite the many chances they have, nothing seems to be able to mute the light cascading from their skin.

The Magesmith: They scoff at your compliment, brushing it aside with the soot from their work, and go back to fumbling with the bits of metal in front of them.

You frown. "I mean it."

Their eyes flash between red and pink. "You don't have to do that."

“What?”

“Do the-” they wave the small tweezers in their hands in your general direction and sigh. “-the thing. You don’t have to always compliment me or do the cutesy talk and-”

“Can I not just compliment you?”

“No.”

The frown pulls further at your mouth. “Why not?”

A sigh sags through their shoulders as they put the tools down and run a hand through their hair. Auburn loosens from the hold of their headband and covers their eyes before their fingers pinch together at the bridge of their nose. Their lips press into a thin line, jaw set, fingers sliding down the side of their face to scratch softly at their chin before they wrap their hands around their neck.

When they don't respond, you continue.

"I'm not just doing a thing because I feel like I have to, if that’s what you’re thinking," you start quietly. "And I have it on good authority that I'm just stating facts when it comes to how incredible you are."

Another scoff sounds at your conclusion, though this one seems tinged with another emotion. Worry settles in your gut when you read the disgust on their face until you realize it's something else.

Embarrassment.

And a swirl of color that reaches the tips of their ears.

You grin.

"You're sure you don't-"

"Don't say it. You don’t have to- ugh," The response is curt as they turn away, reaching to busy their hands with their tools again, hiding their eyes and twisting something in their arm.

But the vibrant smile that breaks through tells you all you need to know.

[weelittleweasley]

bar maid (b.w.)

prompt: a long night at the leaky cauldron and the late shift can only mean one thing: a boring night. but when a new face pops into the bar, the mood shifts drastically.

pairing: bill weasley x fem! reader

warnings: drinking, mentions of the war, language (literally once), sexual references

word count: 4.5k

taglist: @harrysweasleys​ @gcdric​ @lumos-barnes​ @whizboingies​ @lumosandnoxwriting​ @pxroxide-prinxcesss​ @c-t-h​ @another-lonely-heart-blog​ @starlightweasley​ @parseltongueswriting​ @shilohpug​ @peachypotter​ @vogueweasley​

“Another round of ale, Albert?” you ask with a smile as you wipe down a section of the bar from its previous attendants. The damp dish towel wipes across the mahogany bar, leaving streaks that shine underneath the bar lighting, the faint smell of chemical lemon lingering in the air mixes with the overwhelming scent of lager and spirits. 

Albert flashes you a toothy grin and gives you a shrug. “Eh, why not. It’s a Friday, isn’t it?” Albert laughs before sliding you his brass mug down the length of the bar as you stealthily catch it in your hand. You fill the mug with amber ale, teeming with white foam, smelling of wheat. “You’re too good to me, (Y/N),” Albert tells you with a grin before taking a sip of his usual drink of choice. 

You were a bar maid at the Leaky Cauldron and Albert was one of your regulars. Now, you didn’t think that you would be a bar maid after graduating from Hogwarts and trying to become a professor, but the world had a funny way about it, didn’t it? Being a bar maid meant you got good tips and had the luxury of creating your own schedule, but it also meant when you worked, it was long hours of standing on your feet and serving cheap ale and lager to annoyed businessmen and exhausted workers from the hours of five o’clock to two o’clock in the morning. Work was grueling, but you tried to make as much fun of it as you could.

“It’s the least I can do, Al,” you sigh, flopping the dish towel over your shoulder as you lean over the bar. “Any juicy gossip for me today? I’ve been bored out of my skull since I clocked in and I still got another five hours ahead of me. I need some entertainment,” you groan, cracking your knuckles against the wood of the bar. The thought of another five hours dealing with more alcohol, more grumpy patrons, and another tired night made your head ache. 

Al takes a long sip from his mug, wiping the foam from his upper lip before speaking, “Not much gossip, I’m afraid.” You throw your head back and groan, taking an annoyed sip from your water. “Nothing interesting has happened, my dear,” he huffs in just as much annoyance as you. “We’re living in dark times, all news is usually disappointing, scary, or both. I’m looking for something hopeful just as much as you are,” Al confesses.

You tighten your ponytail and push your baby hairs away from your face, hands flopping on your shoulders as you slump over. Albert was right. The thought of a looming wizarding war over everyone’s heads was enough to keep everyone living in fear of when it would all come to a head and pop. At least working at the pub took your mind off of things, even if it was just for a few hours of the day.

“However,” Albert’s tone changes as you dart your eyes to him, curious. “I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the name Fleur Delacour? I heard through the grapevine that she has recently started working at Gringott’s. Desk job, but people were confused as to why should would come all the way to London for a silly desk job,” Albert explains before sipping from his ale again.

Your eyebrows furrow as the name does ring a bell. “The name sounds familiar. I certainly didn’t go to school with her or else I would know who she was. But the name is oddly recognizable...I’ll ask my younger sister when I speak to her next. She’s at Hogwarts now. I’m sure she’d know,” you tell Albert. “Anyone else take up a job? Familiar names or faces?” 

Al searches his memory for anything else. He presses his tongue to his cheek. “Yeah, there was someone else. William...I don’t remember the surname for life of me, but it was William something...” he trails off.

You think for a moment, trying to scan your brain for a William that you might know. But you drew blank. It had been so long since you saw anyone from your graduating class. You had spent most of your time in the pub or studying or applying for new professor jobs. But no one was looking to hire an under-experienced professor in these times, no matter how good your marks were at Hogwarts, regardless that you were top of your class in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. The thought makes you infuriated because you knew you could teach this new generation of wizards better than anyone else.  

Shaking your head, “Well, whatever, if he was important, you would know his name.” Albert shrugs. “I need to go bring in some kegs from the back, I’ll be back in a second,” you tell him before go around the bar, walking to the back of the Leaky Cauldron, hearing snippets of conversations here and there, most people talking about the news or their families. It was sad; just two years ago people would be roaring with laughter, telling stories and jokes, recounting happy times. Now, everyone was so focused on how the world as you knew it may be crumbling around you. 

The cool fall air wraps around you as you push the door to bring the kegs from outside in as you pull your jumper over your hands to make some make-shift mittens. “Bloody hell,” you whisper to yourself as you see three kegs lined up outside for you to bring in. “Seriously, Tom?” you groan as you grab one keg and start dragging it. “I don’t get paid enough for this, I swear,” you grumble. 

“Need a hand?” a voice interrupts you as you drag the steel keg across the cobblestone. 

You look up and your eyes meet a pair that you haven’t seen in years. An instant smile rises on your lips as the all too familiar red hair is swept in the wind. “You’re kidding,” you laugh as you stand up straight, brushing off your jumper as he smiles widely at you with a chuckle. “Bill Weasley as I live and breathe?” you laugh as you run towards him, Bill engulfing you in a large hug. Your arms wrap around him tightly as he picks you up, your feet leaving the ground as you giggly madly as Bill sways you back and forth. 

It had been years since you had seen Bill Weasley. The two of you had attended Hogwarts together in the same year and became fast friends. You had always admired how Bill was so smart and confident in himself (borderline arrogant, but in the sexiest best way). Bill was a popular one at Hogwarts, but through it all, he always managed to make time for you since you liked staying out of the lime light. Bill was well-loved and revered at Hogwarts, so it was obvious that he became a prefect during your time. And that’s when you two started to drift apart. He became busy doing his things and you became busy with your own studies. After graduation, the two of you went your separate ways, but you always wondered where he had gone. 

Bill sets you down on your feet, his hands still on your hips as he smiled brightly down at you. He looked so mature now, longer red hair tied back in a ponytail, but he was still tall, thin, and undeniably handsome. The hunter green jacket he sported clung onto his tall figure, underneath a button down that was unbuttoned just enough so you could see the chest hairs that poked out from the loose material. Hanging from his ear lobe was a fang earring that wasn’t there before. Bill had changed, but in a way that caught your eye in a way that has never happened before. You gulped. 

“Godric, (Y/N), you haven’t changed one bit,” Bill laughs as he takes a good look at you as you mentally curse that you had been wearing something different than your old blue jumper and leggings with stained boots from the bar. “How long has it been? Seven years?” he speaks as you nod. “Bloody hell, it feels like yesterday we were at Hogwarts,” he recounts the memories fondly as your heart warms to the same memories.

You smile brightly, “Time flies, Weasley.” He chuckles. “We can talk more about it if you help me bring in these kegs and I’ll treat you to an ale on the house. Or are you more of a lager man?” you ask as you walk back over to the steel kegs that wait to be dragged into the pub. 

Bill chuckles as you grab one keg, starting to drag it into the pub. Without any hesitation or effort, Bill picks up the remaining two kegs in each of his hands, muscles flexing underneath his jacket as he shakes his head. You gulp and avert your eyes, trying not to focus on the way he so effortlessly carried the heavy steel kegs as you pushed yours in. “More of a whiskey kind of guy if you got any of that,” Bill tells you as you push the kegs towards the back of the bar, Bill places his two next to yours. “I didn’t know you were working at the Leaky Cauldron.”

Walking back to the bar with Bill by your side you speak, “Yeah. Been working here for a while now since there seems to be a hold on hiring newer, younger professors,” you roll your eyes as Bill laughs. Bill remembered how badly you wanted to be a professor and teach the younger generations of wizards and witches magic. It was your dream, but now it was on pause. “What about you? Why are you back in London? Last I heard of you, you were in Egypt!” you nudge his arm with your elbow.

He gives you a smile, happy that you had been keeping your tabs on him. “I was in Egypt for a long while. Loved it, really. But I came home to help my family out with the Order and such. I’m working at Gringott’s now at a desk job. Very exciting, I know,” he rolls his eyes as you giggle, making your way behind the bar.

A William working at Gringott’s. I should have known, you think to yourself. “Hey Albert,” you call over the man who sits just a mere stool away from Bill. “That new William who's working at Gringott’s now? It’s not just any bloke, he’s a Weasley,” you smile at Albert who looks over to Bill with a look of realization. “Bill, this is Albert, one of my regulars. Al, this is Bill Weasley, we went to Hogwarts together.”

Bill gives Albert a firm shake shake and warm smile. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Bill beams. “You’ve been in good company with this one, I’m sure,” Bill winks as Albert chuckles lowly.

“That I have been. She’s great company and serves an even better mug of ale,” Albert speaks as you smile sweetly at him, Bill laughing. “I would love to stay and chat longer, but I gotta get home to the family,” Albert tells you and Bill, putting on his coat before digging into his pockets and places and handful of coins on the table to pay for his drinks and tip you generously as he usually did. “I’ll see you on Monday, my dear,” Albert calls as he walks towards the door, you giving him a salute goodbye.

Bill speaks, “He seems like a good guy.” You nod as you take out a glass and start to pour him a generous glass of Fire Whiskey before placing it front of him. “How did you know I take it neat? What if I wanted it on the rocks?”

You give him a knowing look. “I know you, Bill. Last time I checked, you were drinking Fire Whiskey straight from the bottle at your graduation party,” you recall with a light chuckle as Bill groans at the memory. “You were off your rocker that night, I’m tellin’ you,” you start to laugh harder, remembering how Bill stood up on the dining room table of the Burrow, singing along to music that he blasted as everyone laughed and sang along with him. Graduation was such a happy time in your young adult life, you wished you could go back and relive it.

He rubs his face with one hand and speaks, “We were a mess that night, weren’t we?” 

“We? Don’t drag me into this, Weasley! I was perfectly happy having one drink, but it was you who made me drink bloody Daisyroot Draught! The smell now makes me sick,” you contort your face with disgust as Bill laughs. “I will admit though, I’ve missed you quite a bit,” you confess, playing with the edges of the dish rag in your hands as you look up at Bill.

Slowly, a smile finds its way onto Bill’s lips as your heart flutters gently as his eyes look into yours. He still had the same eyes that you adored so fondly as a child and teen. In his eyes contained all the memories of Hogwarts and late nights and sleepover at the Burrow. His eyes had laughter and joy in them that you so missed during times like this. You missed Bill Weasley. For more than one reason.

“I’ve missed you more than quite a bit,” Bill reveals as you allow heat to rise to your cheeks. “I missed having my partner in crime around. Sneaking into the kitchens and then getting caught by McGonagall,” he recalls.

You laugh, “Stop, and then she asked if she could join us!” The two of you are in hysterics at the memory of eating leftovers and sweets in the kitchens with Minerva McGonagall as third year students, chatting about school and life after Hogwarts. McGonagall had always taken a liking to the two of you. She always said that you two were peas in a pod.

Bill smiles and takes a sip from his whiskey before speaking, “How long are you working tonight? I’d be happy to stay with you until you clock out.”

Your eyes widen and you shake your head, “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I’m the closer and we don’t close the bar down until two in the morning.”

With a cheeky smirk, Bill huffs, “Well, we’ve got a lot to catch up on and we got...” he looks at the clock on the wall, “four and a half hours to kill. So, start talking, (Y/N). We’ve got all night,” he speaks, dropping his left eye in a wink as you smile with a blush. 

-----------

For the next four hours, you and Bill caught up on everything. And by everything, you mean everything. His life after Hogwarts sounded much more interesting than what you had been doing to keep busy. Bill had been spending his time as a Curse-Breaker for Gringott’s, going on missions throughout Egypt, coming home to London here and there. You smiled as he recounted his stories with such passion and love in his eyes. It was evident that Bill loved what he was doing and he was sad that he couldn’t continue doing his job, now being stationed back in London at a boring desk job. Quite the downgrade from fighting and defeating mummies to working an office job.

Soon, people were filing out of the bar as closing time approached until it was just you and Bill in the pub. You had moved from standing behind the bar to sitting on a stool next to Bill, leaning on the bar as you listened to his deep baritone voice speak to you. 

Bill placed a hand on your knee, giving it a squeeze. “(Y/N)? Tell me something,” he speaks.

“Anything, Weasley,” you smile at him, sleepily.

Bill chuckles, “Why are you working as a bar maid when you could be going out and doing what you love? Teaching. You’ve always wanted to teach students magic and it doesn’t seem fair that you are parked behind a bar pouring ale and lager to lazy blokes.” You roll your eyes and shake your head. “I’m serious. What’s stopping you?”

You sigh and recount everything that has held you back from doing what you want. First off, no wizarding school in the United Kingdom was hiring any professor right now due to the climate of the wizarding world. The only other option was moving to America and maybe teaching there at Ilvermorny? Maybe Beauxbatons in France? But it wasn’t a guarantee that you could find a job with such little teaching experience under your belt. “Besides the hiring freeze? I have no experience teaching, Bill. Plus, I want to make money for myself right now so I can save it up and move into my own place rather than living in my small flat with a bunch of my mates. The only other jobs are abroad and I do not have that much money to make a move like that. Besides, my whole family is here. My friends. And you’ve just come back now and leaving just seems illogical,” you sigh, knowing that your dream would have to wait.

He shakes his head, “Excuses, excuses.” You shake your head and take a sip from the whiskey that you had poured yourself, the amber liquid warming up your chest and stomach. It tasted like graduation. “If I can teach a year at Hogwarts, then you certainly can. Besides, you were just as good, if not better, than me in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’m sure they could use your help more than ever right now.”

Looking up at Bill, you see how tender and soft his gaze is on you. He really meant every word he spoke to you with genuine honesty. Looking at Bill now was like looking at someone who you had known forever. He really hadn’t changed one bit. He was witty and kind and smart and sweet. Your Bill. But at the same time, he was different. He had become so mature and ruthless and brave. It was a new Bill, a Bill you could get used to. 

You look down and see that his hand was still placed on your knee. Clearing your throat, you shift in your seat and Bill retracts his hand, digging it into the pocket of his jacket again as you take a sip of your whiskey. “Well,” you start, “I know I would be a better professor than you...I’m better at a lot of things than you,” you tease him as he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh yeah? Do I smell a challenge?” Bill laughs as you shrug. “Ah, ah, don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart,” he leans back in his chair, tongue pressed to his cheek as you gulp, the nickname making your palms sweat. “Go on,” he speaks, daring you to challenge him. “You chose.”

Trying to ignore the rapid increase in your heart rate, you swallow hard. “Fine,” you smile before reaching over to the other side of a bar, grabbing a jar filled with a red liquid and multiple bright red cherries. Twisting the cap open, you pluck out two maraschino cherries, one for you and one for Bill. “I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue faster than you can,” you smirk, flirtatiously biting the cherry of its stem as Bill’s eyes widen and he gulps, shifting in his seat.

He clears his throat, “Yeah? How much you wanna bet?” 

You think for a moment, trying to find a wager that would make this worth your while. “If I win, you pick up the tab from tonight,” you smile.

“I thought this was all on the house?” he scoffs with a smirk.

“Not if you lose,” you sing song, making him roll his eyes. “And Albert told me about a new worker at Gringott’s. Fleur Delacour? Yeah, you’ve gotta ask her out on a date,” you smirk. 

Bill’s eyes widen. “Fleur?!” he exclaims with a laugh. “She’s my co-worker! Plus, we’re just friends. Nothing’s there,” he reasons as you shake your head.

You laugh, “Well those are my terms if I win. Gotta get you out on the dating field, Weasley.” You tease him as he smirks, looking down at the whiskey glass in his hands. “And if you win?”

He thinks for a moment, swirling the whiskey around and around in his glass, pondering what his terms would be. Bill bites the cherry off the stem as you watch his lips move carefully, like you were in a trance of some kind. You quickly shake it off, trying to keep yourself from getting distracted by him. “If I win,” Bill huffs, “then first of all, the drinks are on the house. Second, you’ll have to stop by the Burrow because once Mum hears that you’re in London, she’ll have a cow,” he laughs as you giggle. Molly Weasley, what an angel. “And third of all,” he speaks, leaning forward on his elbows so he’s closer to your face as you inhale sharply, “I’ll ask whoever the fuck I want on a date.”

Your heart stops for a moment as your whole body tingles as the words all from his lips. You can’t take your eyes off of his you are frozen. Bill smirks at your reaction before slowly leaning back in his chair, biting down softly on his lower lip as you gulp. “O-Okay then,” you manage to make out, trying to reorient yourself as Bill chuckles. “Count of three?” you speak before placing the cherry stem in your mouth as Bill does his. “One...two...three.”

With that, the two of you start twisting your tongue around the cherry stem, trying to tie it before the other could. Your heart is racing a mile a minute and your stomach is doing flips as your mind is screaming what the hell is going on. The entire time Bill doesn’t take his eyes off of you, staring into yours. The act felt so inherently sexual that you could feel your palms sweat and a second heartbeat between your thighs grow. This was a terribly good idea. 

You can feel the cherry stem in your mouth finally slip into a knot as your eyes widen in victory, hand flying up to your mouth so you can show Bill the work you have done. As you hand reaches your lips, Bill’s fingers slyly pull his cherry stem out of his mouth just mere milliseconds before you. “I win,” he speaks.

“You cheated!” you instantly accuse him, pointing your finger at him.

Bill chuckles, “How did I cheat? I won fair and square and you know it, you sore loser.”

You shake your head, “I clearly won, you saw me! You had to have cheated, just so you could get free whiskey out of it!” Bill just shakes his head and grabs your chair, pulling you closer to him as you fail to notice as you keep rambling nervously. “Admit it, Bill, you just don’t like to admit that you’re not Hogwarts’ golden child anymore. You’ve out grown that title. Step aside for the new winner which is me, of course. You know I won, come on, Bill. I def-”

“(Y/N)?” he asks softly.

You realize that you are mere inches away from Bill now, his hands resting on either side of your stool. You inhale slowly and gulp, trying to calm yourself down to prepare for the inevitable. “Yes, Bill?” you respond just as softly.

“Shut up,” he whispers with a smile.

“Okay.”

Without further hesitation, Bill leans forward and connects your lips together as you inhale deeply, kissing him back and wrapping your arms around his neck instantly. Bill’s hands slide around your sides before hoisting you onto the bar, him standing between your legs as he kisses you deeper. You wrap your legs around his torso, drawing him closer to you, needing to feel his body pressed against yours. His lips move against yours with deep desire that he had been saving for so long and finally, you both were getting what you wanted for so long. His mouth tasted of the whiskey as you took more and more of it, drunk off of his kiss. 

His hands held onto you tightly, not daring to let you go as you lightly moaned into his lips, making him smirk. Bill’s tongue was cool against yours as he massaged yours with his, snogging you right in the middle of the bar. Your mouths moved together, lusting after the other’s touch. You hands ran down his chest and his abs as he groaned gently into your mouth, making your stomach flutter as you smirked softly. Bill’s hand cupped your cheek before making its way to the back of your neck, pressing your lips harder against his. 

You wanted to take him in this pub just like this, but Bill pulls away before you can push off his jacket. The two of you are breathless from kissing, chest heaving up and down, a smile on both of your faces as you blush a wild crimson. “You win,” you surrender to Bill who chuckles.

“I always win, sweetheart,” he winks before kissing you again, this time short as you whine when he pulls away. “And since I won, that means that this whiskey,” he points to his glass, “is on the house, you’ll be joining the Weasley’s for Sunday dinner, and on Monday night, you’ll be taking the night off so I can take you out on a proper date rather than just snogging on the bar of the pub,” he speaks as you laugh.

You run your fingers through his hair, “You mean you do like snogging me on the bar?” you tease him.

Bill furrows his brows, “Hey, hey, slow your roll. Don’t put words in my mouth now.” You laugh, placing your hands on his shoulders. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than snog you in every location of his pub,” he winks as you roll your eyes. “But I reckon a girl like you should be taken out on a proper date by a bloke like me, eh?” 

Pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, you speak against them, “It’d be my honor.”

“Wicked,” he smirked, giving your sides a squeeze before hoisting you down from the bar. “How about you lock this place up and I’ll walk you back to your flat. Can’t have precious cargo like you roaming the streets alone,” he speaks with a gentle tap on your bum as you roll your eyes.

You shove his shoulder teasingly, “Hey, just because you came back from Egypt, Mr. Big Shot, doesn’t mean you make my decisions for me.” Bill chuckles as you smile, “But yeah, I’ll let you walk me home, Weasley.”

[sapphirelass]

Deal? - Remus LupinxDaughter!Reader

Hi! :)

Deal? (Part 1) | Oh, darling... (Part 2) | I’ll be by your side (Part 3) 

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Please note:

1: I don’t own any of the gifs used, nor any already established characters, so credit to the authors and original creators - You have done a phenomenal job :)

2: English is not my native language, as I was born and raised in Sweden. I have, however, studied English for almost a decade, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem, I just thought I’d let you know ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You probably already knew this, but still XD

(Y/N) - Your name

(Y/N/N) - Your nickname

(Y/H/L) - Your hair length

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I swear, my next story won’t be about Umbridge XD

Word count: ≈ 2300

Warnings: Umbridge, angst, slight swearing

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I do not wish to criticise the ways of the school, however you have been exposed to some rather irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed - not to mention” the toadlike professor threw a dark glance at a sandy haired student and smirked evilly, “extremely dangerous half breeds”.

The student in question raised her hand angrily, and glared at Professor Umbridge. “Yes?” the teacher smiled sweetly, “miss… Lupin, am I correct?”

“Yes, (Y/N)!” she began, “but that’s besides the point. Look, I know what you’re doing, but Professor Lupin was the best DADA teacher we’ve ever had, and I’d be more than happy to bet everything I own on that being quite a common opinion in this classroom!”

Most of her fellow classmates nodded furiously, and the young girl turned her head towards her professor, who immediately cleared her throat and declared: “Well, I’m afraid simply being a beloved teacher doesn’t really matter, dear.  Werewolves are still extremely dangerous creatures. They are beasts that are undeserving of respect and that should not be allowed to be part of our fine wizard community. They are uncontrollable, and highly likely to injure or possibly kill young witches and wizards, including their own children.”

She flashed a cruel, yet pleased, smirk as (Y/N) furiously stood up, despite Hermione desperately trying to force her down.

“You have NO IDEA what you’re talking about!?” she whispered angrily, her nails digging into her palms as her fists clenched. “You have probably never even met one of these so called ‘half breeds’, have you? No, you were most likely just told some bizarre stories containing more lies and made up facts than truths, and decided to put that worthless ‘knowledge’ - if you can even call it that - to use by spreading rumors and destroying the lives of innocent people.”

Umbridge looked frantic, and was about to speak up, but (Y/N) got there first. “I despise people who look down on others. People who claim to be better than everyone else. People like you. You certainly don’t deserve respect!”

She took a deep breath, and was about to continue when Umbridge’s shrill voice forced her to stay quiet. “That’s quite enough! Detention, miss Lupin. The rest of the week, five fifteen, don’t be late”.

***

A few hours later, (Y/N) made her way back to Umbridge’s office. She knew her friends had wanted to talk to her, but she had done her absolute best to avoid them all afternoon. She simply didn’t feel like explaining to them why she had done what she did. She’d gladly do it again though. Her father was the kindest, wisest, most incredible person she had ever met. He had done everything in his power to give her a good childhood, and no one had the right to insult him. She’d defend him to her last breath if that’s what it would come down to.

She knocked on the door carefully, and pushed it open when she heard a shrill, terrifying voice sing a sweet “come in”.

“Oh, miss Lupin, almost late I see!” she said arrogantly. (Y/N) didn’t have time to answer before her teacher continued. “Sit down.”

***

The detentions went on for another four days before Umbridge told her she didn’t have to come back the following evening, but that she better hold her tongue unless she longed for more. (Y/N) tried to keep that in mind, but still lost her cool a few more times before the end of the semester. However, the Christmas holidays were approaching, and though her red, swollen hand caused her to worry slightly, the idea of seeing her dad and godfather caused her enough joy to tip her mood over to “mainly happy”.

She stepped off the train with her friends, and immediately spotted her father on the platform.

“Dad!!” she shouted, and threw her scratched arms around his constantly scarred torso. “Merlin, I’ve missed you so much”. She buried her head in his shoulder, simply enjoying the feeling of love and safety that he somehow instantly gave off.

“Hello, darling!” he said gently, returning the bone-crushing hug. “I missed you too, believe me…”

(Y/N) wanted to stay like that forever, but eventually let go as she intended to at least try to keep her… problems… hidden. She had never really been able to keep secrets from her dad, and therefore didn’t want to do anything he would consider “out of the ordinary”. If she did, he’d figure it out, or persuade her to tell him everything within minutes, and she knew he’d feel guilty if he realized what she had done for him. She understood perfectly well that the scars on her hand were deep enough to be visible for the rest of her life, and that nothing she would say could convince Remus Lupin that it was not his fault. She was left with one option: He could not, under any circumstances, know. Ever.

They carried her trunk together, and walked a few feet behind the rest of the gang.

“So?”, her father inquired, “How are things? You all doing okay?”

“I suppose”, she answered, “Our new DADA teacher is quite a daft prick though.”

“(Y/N/N)!”, he muttered sternly, casually trying to hide a smile, “Are you sure that’s the right word? Sounds rather rough, doesn’t it?”

The witch shrugged. “No, I think it fits rather nicely. It’s almost as if she’s trying her very best to prevent us from learning anything helpful…”

“That’s… well, that doesn’t sound very promising, does it?”

“No, hence the slightly offensive description… But enough about her, how are you? Had any company while I was gone?”

The older wizard smiled, easily noticing the tone of his daughter’s voice switch into a far more joyful, energetic one - One he knew and loved!

“Oh yes, I’ve spent quite a bit of time at headquarters, and Sirius essentially isn’t allowed anywhere else, so we’ve done a lot of catching up. There is, believe it or not, a lot to talk about after 12 years without seeing each other, so it’s been very nice.” He turned to her, smiled even broader and added a quick “But I’ve still missed you.”, before quickening his pace to catch up with the others.

***

Later that night, (Y/N), Remus, Harry and Sirius were sat in the living room of number 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry and Sirius were playing catch with an old snitch they had found in the house, lazily throwing it back and forth. (Y/N) lay on a sofa, a thick leather bound book tightly clutched in her hands and her head resting on her fathers lap. He was deeply invested in A Guide to Medieval Sorcery, and father and daughter were simply enjoying a nice, calm evening.

All of a sudden, Sirius grabbed the snitch, sat up straight and reached out towards his godson.

“Harry, what’s that on your hand?”

The dark haired boy pulled the sleeves of his jumper further down and mumbled a quiet “nothing”.

“Sure, let me see then”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry abo…”

Harry didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence, as Sirius had risen from his seat and forcefully grabbed his left hand. The slightly faded “I must not tell lies” was still readable, and Harry winced as the look on his godfather’s face went from composed to furious in a matter of seconds.

“Who?”

“Sirius, I…”

“WHO?!”

By this time, both Remus and (Y/N) had put their books down, and were carefully observing the “argument”.

“It’s our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Umbridge. She’s quite generous when it comes to giving detentions. But mine’s really not that bad now. It barely hurts anymore…”

“That’s totally barbaric!? Moony, we have to…”

“Harry”, Remus interrupted his old friend with a worried look on his face, “What do you mean by ‘quite generous’?”

His heart practically skipped a beat when he felt his daughter shift uncomfortably, however it was Harry who answered.

“‘m quite sure half the Gryffindors have been to her office at least once by now. Even when you’re not really doing anything wrong, she’ll make up a ‘reasonable’ excuse…”

As Harry spoke, (Y/N) had unconsciously been pulling the sleeves of her jumper closer to her fingertips. Remus obviously noticed and made eye contact with Harry, nodding discreetly towards his daughter as if to ask if she too had… well… yeah? Harry closed his eyes, knowing full well how his friend wanted to hide her scars from her dad. It had taken hours of convincing before she had even let him, Ron and Hermione see, and he understood why she didn’t want Lupin to know. He did, however, not like the idea of lying to his former professor, and nodded slightly.

Remus closed his eyes looking simultaneously sad and angered, sat up straight and muttered “(Y/N/N)?”

The young witch took a deep breath and was about to move away from her dad, but he was faster and quickly grabbed her hand. He was very gentle, but she flinched anyways, as her last detention had taken place only a week prior.

“(Y/N/N)”, he repeated, “show me”

“Dad”, she mumbled quietly, “‘tis fine, don’t worry”

“(Y/N)!” His voice sounded far sterner now, “I’m serious. C’mere”

“No, I don’t want…”

“It’s not a question of whether or not you want to, Love”, Sirius explained before his friend could think of a response. “Show your dad.”

“But…”

“(Y/N/N)”, Harry mumbled, “Just… just do it”

“No! I can handle it! Stop making it sound like I’m too weak to do so!”

She felt a tear escape her eye, and stood up to leave the room when Remus waved his wand and locked the door.

Taking yet another deep breath, his daughter turned around, made her way across the room, pulled her left sleeve up and slammed her scarred hand down on the table for the other three to see.

“There! You happy now?!”

A flood of tears were streaming down her face, as her dad, godfather and best friend leant closer and read seven deep-red, awful, heart wrenching words:

***

I must not defend filthy half breeds

***

Remus put his head in his hands and stood up, while Sirius moved closer to his goddaughter and pulled her into a tight hug. Harry joined the embrace and comfortingly rubbed her back.

“why? Why (Y/N/N)?”, her father whispered quietly, his voice barely audible.

“I… I couldn’t…She… sorry…”

The usually calm, collected girl was completely lost for words. Shaking. She had no clue what to say, all she knew was that she had to let her dad know that she was sorry. Sorry for making him feel guilty. Sorry for causing him so much pain. Sorry for not being strong enough.

She walked over to him and noticed heavy, wet tears on his face too. Carefully she wrapped her arms around him, and together they sank down onto the cold floor. They sat there for what felt like hours before Remus finally spoke up, repeating his previous question.

“Why, darling?”

She met his sad gaze and collected her thoughts before quietly whispering “She keeps saying horrible things - pure lies - and she’s enjoying it. She’s throwing insults my way every chance she gets. If I don’t stand up and fight, everyone will think she’s right, and she’s not. Nothing will ever change unless someone works for it, and as soon as that someone backs down, they’ve lost. I’m not having that.”

He looks back at her, his eyes full of pride. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“You mean besides being the most phenomenal dad imaginable?”

He chuckled softly, ruffled her (Y/H/L) hair and held his hand out. (Y/N) slowly placed her hand on her father’s and shifted her gaze towards the floor as he examined the neatly written letters. With a worried expression on his face, he grabbed his wand and moved it back and forth over the scars while quietly muttering a few carefully chosen words. The pain immediately became more endurable, and after putting his wand away the older wizard grabbed his daughter’s shoulders gently, and looked at her in a sad, yet determined way.

“(Y/N/N), as honourable as your intentions are, please don’t do this for me. I’m not going to tell you to back down, but if you’re going to keep it up, don’t let it…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I can’t stand the thought of you getting injured because of me. I’m not wo…”

“Yes, you are! Stop saying that! I’ll be a bit more selective, if that’s what you want, but don’t you dare tell me not to fight for you. You are my dad, my only family, and there is not a single person on this planet less deserving of disrespect, insults and hate. Dad, you’re amazing, and I’m not letting her fool people into thinking you’re not.”

After a moment of silence, a quiet, “I still don’t like it…”, escaped his lips.

“I know.” She sighed, “That’s why I originally didn’t plan on telling you.”

(Y/N) was fiddling with her fingers, not quite meeting her fathers warm gaze, when she suddenly sat up and said, “Let’s make a deal? I promise to choose my fights more wisely, and in return, you won’t blame yourself for the consequences of said choices? Sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

Her father sighed, but reluctantly answered, “Fine, as long as you promise me one more thing.”

“Hmm?”

“You won’t hide scars or pain from me ever again, no matter whether it’s physical or mental, okay? You’ll let me know, and let me help, always!”

She held her right hand out, her dad shook it and they shared a smile. This time, a true, pure one that actually reached their identically green eyes.

“Deal!”

~ L

Part 2 Oh, darling...

Masterlist

[nicknellie]

@julie-n-phantoms requested: I saw this really cute idea once, about Willie having a whole bunch of different fun flavored chapsticks and making Alex guess what they were when they kissed. So maybe that, and Willie just keeps using it as an excuse to kiss Alex at the most random times and poor Alex keeps bluescreening?

This is so cute omg I love it! It ended up kind of short because I’m extremely tired and haven’t written Willex in a while, but I’m still very happy with how it turned out. Thank you for the request and sorry it’s taken me so long to get round to it, I hope you enjoy! Title from I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry (ofc lmao).

The Taste of His Cherry Chapstick

Not for the first time, Alex found himself questioning exactly how the rules around ghosts worked. He had been a ghost for quite some time now and he kept thinking that he should really have these things figured out, but being dead was a lot trickier than it seemed. Alex could sit on chairs, but he could also walk right through them; he could change his clothes, but he still hadn’t figured out how his clothes became invisible to lifers just like he was; he didn’t have a body, but he could still get hurt (he had Caleb to thank for cluing him in on that one). He had long ago accepted that the rules of being a ghost would always be hazy and muddled and that sometimes he would just have to get on with it, but every now and then something would happen and it would totally stump him.

Like right now. Willie was putting chapstick on and Alex was simply could not wrap his head around it.

“Why do you need to do that?” he asked Willie, breaking the soft silence between them. They were sat in the studio on the sofa together, Willie with his legs casually crossed over Alex’s lap, lying back as he applied the chapstick.

Willie shrugged easily, popping the cap back on and slipping it into his pocket. (Pockets were another ghost thing Alex didn’t understand and he might have spiralled into that a little more if he hadn’t been so fixated on the chapstick.)

“Stops my lips getting chapped,” Willie said. “It’s kinda in the name.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Alex replied, “but you’re a ghost. Can your lips even get chapped?”

“Yeah, that’s why I bought the chapstick,” Willie explained, meeting Alex’s bewildered look with an amused smirk. “That and the fact that it’s a nice flavour. Do you want to test it?”

Alex shook his head violently. “Absolutely not. I don’t trust it. How can we still use it even when we’re dead? There are some things that should not cross the line between life and the afterlife, and this is one of them.”

Willie giggled. “Alex, it’s literally just chapstick.”

“I know that. I’m not using it.”

Willie rolled his eyes affectionately, but then the amused smirk he’d had on his face morphed into something much more mischievous. Alex knew that look – it meant Willie had got an idea and there was absolutely no way of telling whether or not it was a good one.

“Well,” Willie said slowly, sitting up and shuffling so that he could properly look Alex in the eye, “there’s more than one way you could try it out.”

“How?” Alex asked sceptically.

Willie’s only response was to lean forward, that devilishly cute little smirk still on his face, and press a sweet, chaste kiss to Alex’s lips. It took Alex by surprise and was over before he could even kiss Willie back as Willie pulled away with a soft, self-satisfied smile. Alex, meanwhile, was still struggling to process what had happened. It wasn’t like he and Willie had never kissed before, but the fact that he hadn’t been expecting it combined with how brief it was and how happy Willie looked to have solved the chapstick issue meant that his mind was lagging a little as it tried to catch up. It did not help that Willie was beaming at him, looking effortlessly adorable.

“So?” Willie prompted after Alex had been silently staring at him with his mouth open in shock for almost a minute. “What flavour do you think it is? Do you like it?”

Alex dragged his mind back down from where it had been launched into the heavens. He reminded himself that he was here, with Willie in the studio, that conversations only worked if both people were talking, that staring was rude, and that there had in fact been a point to the kiss. He cleared his throat, trying to school his features back to neutrality but knowing he failed when Willie giggled, and then licked his lips.

“Um… is it cherry?” he guessed. His mind was still a little foggy and more focused on the fact that Willie had kissed him rather than what flavour the chapstick was.

Willie grinned, digging the chapstick out of his pocket again and showing Alex the label on the tube. “Yeah, man! You’re right, great job!”

As Willie settled back into his original position with his legs kicked over Alex’s lap, Alex pushed his momentary panic out of his mind and tried to be normal again. He had thought it would be a one-off, that one kiss and his one guess, and that would be the end of it. But apparently, Willie had other ideas because it just kept happening over and over again.

The second time it happened was in the middle of the night. Willie had got the bright idea of going to the museum at midnight to see all the art and exhibits in the dark. It had turned out to be an amazing idea – the low light gave every painting and sculpture a completely different energy, some more sinister, others infinitely more sad, some seeming so different to how they were during the day that it would have been hard to tell they were the same piece of art at all. Alex followed Willie around the museum with an affectionate smile on his face the whole time, a loving warmth in his chest as he listened to Willie talk about all the art and what it meant and who made it. It was always endearing whenever Willie talked about art; his passion and enthusiasm and the way his face positively lit up was enough to make Alex fall in love a thousand times over.

It was going so well and Alex felt unbelievably lucky that he got to be the one there with Willie. But then Willie stopped talking for a moment and Alex watched him reach into his pocket and pull out his chapstick. He couldn’t help the way his mind wandered to the last time this had happened, when Willie had pressed that one gentle kiss to his lips and backed away. When he saw Willie’s eyes light up, he knew he was thinking of the same thing.

“Want to try?” Willie asked. It was an innocent enough question, but they both heard the implication behind it – Willie was asking for another kiss.

Alex loved kissing Willie, but it still made him nervous every time, mostly because he couldn’t believe someone as incredible as Willie would actually want to kiss him. So momentarily, his nerves caught up with him and he couldn’t reply to Willie, not with words at least. He gave a quick nod before swallowing his nerves and cupping Willie’s jaw to pull him into a kiss.

He made sure this one lasted longer than the other, but it still wasn’t more than a few seconds. Alex tried not to pout when Willie pulled away, but smiled to himself when Willie rested their foreheads together.

“What flavour do you think it was?” Willie asked quietly.

Oh yeah, that was what Alex was meant to be figuring out. Well, he didn’t think he could really be blamed for forgetting that detail when just a moment ago he’d been kissing the love of his afterlife. Again, his mind took a ridiculous amount of time to get past the excitement and giddiness of the kiss and actually focus on the question he’d been asked.

“Is that cola?” he asked after a minute or two.

Willie dropped a feather-light kiss to the tip of Alex’s nose (and Alex was not too proud to admit it made him go slightly weak in the knees) and then pulled back with a smile. “You’re two for two. You’re getting good at this game, hotdog.”

“We’ll have to keep playing so I can get even better,” Alex replied. It might have been smooth if not for the fact that he was blushing so profusely that he could literally feel the heat in his face, and his voice was a little pitchy with a cruel mixture of nerves and the awkwardness that came with not being very good at flirting.

Willie didn’t mention it though. He just smiled softly, squeezed Alex’s hand, and said in a low voice, “Oh, we’re definitely going to keep playing.”

The third time it happened, Alex wasn’t expecting it at all. Half because they weren’t alone, and half because he hadn’t seen Willie put the chapstick on.

Julie and the Phantoms had just wrapped up a gig. Flynn had hired them to play at her birthday party (well, less ‘hired them’ and more the fact that the boys had wanted to give her a birthday present but they were all ghosts which made things like that very difficult, so they and Julie had offered to provide live music at her party instead) and it had gone brilliantly. Not only was the crowd enormous because Flynn had invited practically the whole school – which meant the band would get tons of exposure – but they had clearly been loving the music too. They were easily the best crowd the band had ever played too.

But maybe Alex was biased – he tended to say every crowd was the best crowd just as long as Willie was in it.

Willie and Flynn hadn’t actually met because they were yet to find a way of making Willie visible to lifers, but Flynn had heard enough stories about “Alex’s super cool skateboarder ghost boyfriend” to know that he could be counted as a friend, so he had been invited. As always, Alex had sought him out in the crowd and played like he was only playing to Willie. That was always when he performed his best.

When they finally finished their set and headed into the makeshift backstage area (which was really just Flynn’s bedroom), Alex barely had time to register what was going on as Willie came running into the room, grabbed Alex’s face and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. Alex distantly registered a few cheers from his friends, but he was too distracted to bother telling them off. All that mattered was the fact that Willie was kissing him and it was even more of a rush than the performance had been.

When they finally pulled away, Willie breathed, “You killed it up there! I swear, I’ll never get tired of hearing you guys play. I’m proud of you.”

“If you’re proud of all of us then how come only Alex gets a kiss?” Luke asked. Alex knew that he was joking, but he still bundled Willie up protectively in his arms, ignoring the way that just elicited laughter and ‘awwww’s from his friends.

“You liked it, then?” Alex asked quietly. He knew Willie always loved their performances, but it always felt amazing to hear it.

“I loved it, just like I love you,” Willie whispered back. Alex melted a little. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?” Alex asked. “The performance?”

“No,” Willie said, that sly smirk back on his face. Suddenly Alex realised what was going on, how he’d been caught off-guard. “My chapstick. Did you like the flavour?”

This one was totally unfair. Alex hadn’t know he was supposed to be thinking about the chapstick. He’d been so caught up in Willie that it had been the very last thing on his mind. Briefly, he entertained the idea of kissing Willie again to try and get another taste, but he knew if he did that he probably wouldn’t be able to stop and he wasn’t so keen to do that while his friends were still in the room, even if they weren’t paying attention anymore.

“That’s cheating!” he said. “I didn’t know we were playing.”

“You’ve gotta guess, hotdog,” Willie returned with a laugh, “those are the rules.”

“You never told me there were rules.”

“You never asked.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” he admitted reluctantly. “Was it… I don’t know. Blueberry?”

“Not even close,” Willie said. He pressed another kiss to Alex’s lips and pulled away before Alex could lose himself in it, which was disappointing but probably a good thing.

He tasted it this time, doing his best to focus on it, but it was very difficult with Willie so close and so cute. Still, the proud smile he got from Willie when he finally guessed watermelon made his restraint and effort completely worthwhile.

From then on, he learned to expect it. To look forward to it too. He went shopping with Willie to buy new multipacks of fun flavours (though shopping was another weird thing as a ghost because even though they left money on the counter it felt a lot more like shoplifting) and they continued their guessing game for months and months. But truth be told, it had started to feel less like a game and more just an excuse to kiss each other. It took another month or two for Alex to realise that had probably been Willie’s plan all along anyway – when he asked Willie about it, the laughter he was met with was more than enough answer.

But he wasn’t complaining. He got to kiss his boyfriend all he wanted, and neither of them ever got chapped lips.

[hungryslothwrites]

incorrect quotes tag game

Tagged by @thepixiediaries (as well as @moonscribbler!), thank ye kindly.

rules: use this quote generator & list as many quotes as you like using characters from your WIPs, then tag as many people as quotes you listed.

This was fun! I will be using characters mostly from my current, un-intro'd WIP.

Tagging @worldstogetlostin @druidx @writing-is-a-martial-art @thatprolificauthor @shineywrites, anyone who wants to do this.

Kitkat: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my actions.

Isaiah : When life gives you lemonades, make lemons! Life will be all like "whaAttT?"  Kitkat: Life lessons that schools can't teach you.

Kitkat : This is a very powerful artifact. You’d be messing with some forces we don’t fully understand.  Pearl: That sounds like a dare to me.  Kitkat : Oh my god.

Isaiah : The Ocean is a soup.  Kitkat:  Kitkat: Do elaborate.  Isaiah : What are needed for something to be a soup?  Kitkat: Erm... Water, salt, some form of vegetation, and personally I prefer some meat in mine.  Isaiah : *Tilts head*  Kitkat: The Ocean is a Soup.  Isaiah : The Ocean is a Soup.

Isaiah : Kitkat, how could you possibly have gotten into this much trouble in one day?  Kitkat: It... It didn't take me the whole day...

Kitkat: *gets set on fire and screams in agony*  Kitkat: Nah, I’m just kidding. Fire does nothing to me.

Isaiah: Don't quote me on this, but I believe murder is illegal!

Demon: Hey, I took your soul last month and-  Ashley: No returns.  Demon: *sobbing* But it's making me sad...

Mar, after getting a library card: Now I know what true power feels like.

Ashley, holding a gun: If the conspiracies about life being a simulation are true WHOEVER'S CONTROLLING MY SIM I JUST WANNA TALK.

Samuel: Isn't it amazing how I can feel so bad and still look so good?

Ed: If karma doesn't kill you, I f***ing will.

Ed: What has the galaxy ever done for you?! Why would you wanna save it?!  Kitkat: Cause I’m one of the idiots who lives in it!

Naomi: Go to sleep or you'll hate yourself in the morning. Alan: I'll hate my self in the morning regardless!

Samuel: Who hurt you?  Ed: *snorting* What, do you want a list?  Samuel: ...Yes, actually.

Ed: Why do you think I don’t like you? I do. I would kill for you.  Ed: Ask me to kill for you.  Samuel: ...First of all, calm down-

Pearl: I’m sick and tired of being called 'mortal' like, you don’t know that. Neither do I. I have never died even ONCE. Nothing has been proven yet. Stop making assumptions. It’s rude.

Yasmin: Helpful grammar tip: “farther” is for physical distance, “further” is for methaphorical distance, and “father” is for emotional distance!

Samuel: Oh, so when crows remember people who wronged them and hold grudges, its “intelligent” and “really cool”.  Samuel: But when I do it, I’m “petty” and “need to let it go”.

Alan: Why is it so hard for you to believe me?!  Naomi: ...  Alan: Oh, right. The lying.

*Isaiah is crying after a breakup*  Kitkat: There there, Isaiah.  Isaiah, still crying: Thanks, but how did you get into my room?  Kitkat: Great question—

Yasmin: You disgust me.  Kitkat: *eating a kitkat sideways* I realize this and don’t care.

Kitkat: We’re going to defeat you with the power of friendship.  Yasmin: We’re not friends.  Kitkat, holding an axe: We’re going to defeat you with the power of incredible violence.

Kitkat: Bottling up negative emotions is bad for your health, so you shouldn't do it.  Ashley: I know, that's why I bottle up all my emotions, both positive and negative, so it cancels out.  Kitkat: Th-that's not how that works-

Pearl: When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade. Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! I don't want your damn lemons, what the hell am I supposed to do with these? Demand to see life's manager! Make life rue the day it thought it could give Pearl lemons! Do you know who I am? I'm the person who's gonna burn your house down! With the lemons! I'm gonna get my engineers to invent a combustible lemon that burns your house down!