#when the only tool you have is a hammer everything looks like a nail

[air3d3lalm3na]

The people who make and reblog these posts and the people who end up being into transmasculine people IRL has gotta be a circle

Green Day solicit donations for HIV/AIDS organization, 1994

[moonstruckme]

What about decorating for Halloween with poly!jily? Like pulling out decorations and putting them up and everything. You can totally ignore this if you're not feeling this since I know you're just trying out writing for them

Love you, Mae 🫶

Thanks for requesting babe!! Love you <3

cw: one slight suggestive remark (sorry I couldn't help myself)

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 891 words

You’re taking a break, chewing on one of the pumpkin muffins you and Lily made this morning and watching your lovers squabble over the bats. 

“Right, but they’re meant to be flying,” says James, good-natured in his arguing and clearly enjoying getting your girlfriend riled. “If they’re stuck to the wall they’ll look like they’re only crawling up it.” 

“They’ll still look like they’re flying.” Lily’s standing with her arms crossed, one hip jutting out, glaring daggers at where James is holding the bats out of her reach. “But if you hang them from the ceiling they’ll be too spread about. This way they’ll look like they’re flying out from the chimney.” 

“So your plan is to make everyone think we have bats in our chimney?” 

“You’re being intentionally daft.” 

“Angel.” James turns to you, his smile poorly repressed. “Help me out here.” 

You lick a bit of cinnamon from your thumb, considering them. “If we hang them from the ceiling, you’re going to be the one who’s constantly hitting your head on them, Jamie.” 

Lily looks triumphant and James double-crossed, but neither of them can contest your point. 

“Can you put them up, please?” Lily pecks him on the cheek, smug with her victory. “I’m going to go hang cobwebs upstairs.” 

You go to help James, grabbing the stepladder on your way. 

“Traitor,” he mutters as you set it up beside the fireplace. The kiss he gives you doesn’t bespeak any true disdain.

You hum against his lips, pushing the hair off his forehead to lay your hand over it fondly. “Your head will thank me.” 

James chuckles and steals another kiss. You let him divert you for a handful of seconds before saying, “Pass me a bat?” 

He does, and you hold it up to the wall. 

“I’m thinking we can put a few of them from here down to the fireplace, and then spread out from there. Yeah?” 

“Yeah…” James watches you pick up a nail and hammer from where he’d left them on the mantle, brows furrowing. “Be careful, lovie.” 

“I can handle tools, James.” 

“I know, but just—” he winces as you tap the hammer against the nail “—watch your fingers.” 

“I am, relax.” 

James does not relax. Though you do the first few bats with no trouble, he flinches each time you bring the hammer close to your fingers. Once when you have to hit the nail a bit harder, you hear a frightened hiss from behind you. 

It’s impossible to resist teasing him when he gets like this.

When you start on your fourth bat, you intentionally hit the nail with just a bit more force than necessary. 

“Ow!” 

“Shit!” James is on you in a second. You cradle your hand close to your chest where he can’t see it. “Baby, let me have a look. Did you break it?” 

“Ah, shit.” You keep the corners of your mouth firmly downturnt, wishing you could will tears to your eyes to put on a real show. 

James takes the hammer from you, setting it down without tearing his eyes from where you’re holding your hand. The look of distress on his face is so heartbreaking you can’t help yourself anymore, a grin breaking out over your face. 

“Sorry, I’m only messing with you.” 

James’ mouth drops open, the second look of betrayal you’ve received from him today. 

“Oh!” He gawps at you. “Oh, you are in so much trouble. You’re in for it later.” 

You feel your grin widen. “You promise?” 

James shakes his head at you. “Minx,” he whispers. 

“What’s going on?” You hear Lily coming down the stairs. You turn, eager to tell her about the joke you’ve just pulled on James, but when she emerges her eyes widen in horror. “What are you doing?” 

“We’re putting up the bats,” you say. 

“Oh my god.” She rests her forehead on the banister, delirious laughter spilling out of her. “We’re never getting our deposit back.” 

“It’ll be fine,” you promise. James goes to collect her, tugging your overwrought girlfriend the rest of the way downstairs and tucking her under an arm. “I’ve already bought spackle. How did you think those pictures were hanging in our room?”  

This doesn’t appear to help matters. Lily’s lips part in realization. “With command hooks,” she murmurs, almost to herself. But she seems to shake it off, marching over to you and commandeering the hammer and nails. “Sweetheart, you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“That’s what I said!” James agrees vehemently. He reaches for the hammer. “Here, I’ll do it.” 

Lily holds it well away from him. “You’re just as likely to hurt yourself. Haven’t either of you ever heard of tape?” 

You frown, stepping down from your stool. “Seems like a lot of plastic waste.” 

Lily rolls her eyes at you, smiling. “I know,” she says, cupping your face to press a kiss to your cheek. “And I’ll apologize to the environment personally, but that’s my trade-off for having two sweethearts with all their fingers.” 

“Are you hearing this?” James is aghast. “She’s saying she would love us less if we didn’t have ten fingers! How cruel is that?” 

But Lily’s laugh twinkles through you like starlight, and she’s wrapping her arms around your waist, and you’re nothing if not easily plied with affection.

“James, you’re being intentionally daft.”

[ghostbeam]

1.3k words Bakugou Katsuki x reader, aged up characters, Bakugou is an art student, a little angsty, he’s kind of a huge asshole in this at some point but he’s kind of just trying to get under reader’s skin, I’m so out of practice in writing him I hope it’s okay, set in the same universe as my charcoal artist!Dabi and oil painter!Tomura, sorry if this sucks and is pretentious

Bakugou’s studio is impeccable. 

Everything has a place. His tools are all lined up, hammers and chisels and rasps all hanging from nails stuck into a large board on a wall. Beneath them are three tool carts filled with various electric saws and files, all placed meticulously. Besides that is a hand truck, you assume for moving the bigger sculptures he works on. He has one corner of the room reserved for all of his statues and uncarved stones, the largest ones pushed towards the back. The smallest stones and sculptures sit on tables near by, all set—what you have to guess—an inch apart from one another. There’s a standing desk with shelves of art books and comics beneath it. The entire middle of the room is covered in a tarp that looks immaculate, like he’s never worked a day in his life on top of it, though you know that’s not true judging from the half finished giant stone sitting atop of the clean tarp, tools sitting on the last step of the stool he’s using to reach the top of the sculpture. It’s draws your eyes immediately upon walking in—the stone that looks as though something is crawling from inside of it. 

The last wall is covered in brown sketching paper, three rolls of it mounted on one side so that it can be stretched across the entirety of the wall. The paper is filled with a multitude of sketches and scribbles, notes scrawled across that you can barely read due to the obvious urgency they were written with. 

Being inside of his studio feels personal—intimate—like you’re taking a peak inside of his brain, but Bakugou doesn’t seem to mind. Tearing your eyes away from the giant in the middle of the room, you watch him bring an extra stool to the table he’s cleared for the two of you to work on. 

The project is simple. You’re both meant to agree on one artist with an emphasis on a single medium of theirs. Both a seven slide powerpoint and a six page essay are due about the topic. Bakugou was assigned to be you’re partner. Despite his obvious bad attitude and the constant frown he wears, he was surprisingly open to working with you. You let him pick the artist, but he wouldn’t let you leave without choosing the medium. So even though your interest in your major is slowly deteriorating, you chose the first one that came to mind. 

So now you sit in Bakugou’s studio (brain, heart, soul), listening to him as he explains the importance of your artist during their time period, eyes flickering between the text in your book and the stone in the middle of the room. 

“Stop.” Bakugou’s voice snaps you out of the trance you’re in, swiveling your stool between the textbook in front of you and the stone to your right. You feel his hand come down on your knee, pausing your movements so that you’re facing him. 

“Huh?” You ask, eyeing the size of his hand on your leg. 

“Moving back and forth like that. It’s distracting.” Distracting. If only he knew how distracting his giant stone with the person/monster/angel crawling up out of it has been for you. 

“What is it?” You ask him, spinning your stool again so that you’re facing the unfinished sculpture. His hand slips from your knee. 

He glances at it for a moment before shrugging, “I dunno yet.”

“What do you mean?” You ask him.

“Exactly what I said.” He sighs, already annoyed with the conversation. “I don’t know what it is yet. I have to keep going until I—”

“Free it.” You interrupt, eyes still on the stone. “Until you free whatever’s inside, right.”

He’s quiet for a moment, head turned towards you as you observe his statue. You see him nod out the corner of your eye. “Yeah. I have to free it.”

When you look back at him, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gone is the permanent frown across his lips, the harsh line between his eyebrows. You think maybe its curiosity, maybe suspicion. 

What it really is, though, is that Bakugou is suddenly struck with the feeling of being understood. And he didn’t have to tell you a thing. One look at his rocks and you saw it. He’s not sure how to feel.

“I used to feel like that.” You tell him. His frown returns. You recognize that feeling, like something deep inside is screaming to get out, that feeling that you have to set it free or it’ll die inside of you. You used to feel that way every time you pushed your brush into a blank canvas. 

“But you don’t anymore.” He gathers. There’s a harshness to his voice, almost angry, but not angry at you—angry for you. 

“I think I lost it. I think art school sucked the life out of me.” Whatever spark you had died inside of you like you always worried it would. 

“That’s bullshit.” He tells you. He stands from his stool and pulls you up with him. He drags you to the giant stone in the middle of the room, and up close you can see the cross hatching he’s done to it at the top where the limbs seem to start. “You can’t keep your eyes off of this. It’s making you feel something.”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything anymore. You’re just talented.” You shrug.

“I know I’m talented.” He scoffs. “That’s not what you care about. You care that she gets out. You care that I turn this cold, unforgiving piece of solid fucking rock into something beautiful.”

“Or horrifying.” 

“It’s not gonna be horrifying.” He speaks, his lips close to your ear as he keeps you turned toward the stone. 

“You said you don’t know until it’s done.” You shiver.

“No, you said that.”

“You didn’t disagree.”

“Stop fucking—” He sighs loudly from behind you. “Yes, freeing it is a part of it. But I already know what it becomes. I knew the moment I hauled that fucking stone into this room. And you know it too.”

You don’t think you do, but Bakugou says this to you with such conviction, you think you believe him. You turn around, breaking yourself from the hypnosis the rock has put you under. 

“I thought it was weird that you didn’t jump at the chance to choose our artist. I had to practically force you to choose the medium. Maybe art school sucked the life out of you, but you let it.” The truth is harsh, makes you flinch away from him, but his hand reaches out for your wrist to bring you back. 

“You don’t have to be so fucking mean.” You wrench your wrist from his grip. 

“You think this is mean?” He spits. “You paint, and you sketch, and if you fuck up, you paint over it or you erase it. If you fuck up with this—” his palm slams against the stone in a loud thud next to your head. “—that’s it. It doesn’t forgive you.”

“So what? I’m some kind of lesser artist cause I don’t chip off pieces of stone? Fuck you.” You push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

“No, you’re a lesser artist because you gave up.” He takes another step forward, his nose just inches from your own. “Whenever you wanna resurrect whatever the fuck died inside of you, you know where to find me.”

He’s off of you in a second, halfway across the room by the time you catch your breath. Squaring your shoulders, you march your way toward him. You hate that he’s right, even if only a little bit. His sculpture did make you feel something. They all did. You haven’t felt that excitement in such a long time, or that jealous pit in your stomach you used to get whenever someone was so good at something it made you want to be better. You envy him. How could a place that slowly ruined you build and mold a man like him?

“I didn’t give up.” You seethe. He turns towards you, towering over you with that same frown on his face, but his eyes have that familiar look in them from when you spoke about his giant.

“Prove it.”

[artaxlivs]

This is ridiculous.

Eddie has important stuff To Do. He's a busy rockstar with a never ending list of stuff his manager and agent keep reminding him that he needs to get done while he's not on tour.

But. His house is being remodeled. And one of the carpenters or handymen or journey...men? journey people? whatever. One of the dudes in a tool belt. Well - he's hot as all hell and Eddie can't seem to find a single fuck to mark off that To Do list.

Every day this man shows up in jeans that hug his ass, a tool belt slung low to one side and this pristine white polo shirt with a logo over his left pec. The other people - people not men because there are actually three women in the mix, all with arms that could crush Eddie, and if he was into chicks, he'd be looking respectfully - are all in various dark colored shirts with a similar logo on the back or in the same spot on the chest.

But White Polo is the only white polo. White Polo must be in charge. He does seem to give a lot of orders. He's got big sexy hair and a strong voice. The first time Eddie was close enough to hear him talk, he had some feelings about that strong voice giving orders. The kind of feelings he explored later that night in his own bed. Alone.

It's not a mean voice though, not aggressive. Rather, it's the kind of voice that steadies you in a storm, that you can rely on. The kind of voice that probably sounds gravelly and sleep mussed on a Saturday morning. The kind you want to wake up to. The voice that Eddie wants to wake up to.

And it's not just the voice and the looks. It's the competency, too. Earlier this morning, White Polo was helping the crew put some kind of wood frame up. He hammered something in and then twirled the hammer and stuffed it in the tool belt all without looking. That was going directly to Eddie's spank bank. Maybe he could find other things for them to remodel so White Polo never has to leave.

"Mr. Munson?"

Eddie startles, almost dropping his Garfield coffee mug. There's a lot of noise in the house and he was sort of doing one of the things on his list. Writing a song in his head. It was definitely not about a man in a tool belt. Nor was it about anyone getting nailed.

Jesus Christ.

Clearing his throat, Eddie turns to White Polo, "It's just Eddie."

"Well, Just Eddie, I'm Steve." His voice is soft, strong though, with that little bit of gravel. It's not Eddie's fault at all that he's imagining him whispering in Eddie's ear when they're both sleep warm and too comfortable to get out of bed. "Looks like we'll be done here in another two days."

"Oh." He says dejectedly, not meaning to have such an honest reaction but he can't help himself. He's wasted three days just glancing at White Polo - Steve - from afar. Now Eddie's on a time limit. Two days isn't nearly enough time. Would it be inappropriate to invite him to dinner? Or to stay? Ask him for --"Coffee?"

Steve smiles and it's kind of small, like it's a secret smile, just for Eddie. Brushing his hair back over his ear, Steve says, "I shouldn't but...your coffee smells kinda great so...sure."

Grinning, Eddie tells him that he gets the beans from this little mom and pop shop that brews their own beans. The band discovered them on tour years ago and he still gets his beans shipped from them every few months. He's babbling but he can't seem to stop himself, telling Steve about different roasts and his fancy machine that cost more than his first van back when he was sixteen and living in a trailer park.

Leaning against the counter, Steve listens patiently, watching Eddie with hazel eyes and that little smile. He's got these cute moles that Eddie wants to kiss. Broad shoulders he wants to feel pressed up against the backs of his knees.

Shit. He almost spills the coffee when his face suddenly heats up at that.

"Everything okay?" There's concern in Steve's voice and he reaches out to steady Eddie's arm. His callused fingers brush Eddie's arm just over his bat tattoo and...oh.

It's like nothing he's ever imagined. So much more than all the stories. It's the biggest, brightest, most intense thing Eddie's ever felt. Just a brush of fingertips and the spots light up with gold. Three brushes across the bats' wings and a fourth smaller one off to the side. Eddie can feel the tingling on the underside of his forearm where Steve's thumb must have brushed as well.

Surging forward, Eddie cups Steve's cheek, leaving a bright gold palm print on his jaw, a thumb smear up by the cheek bone, bits of gold in the shapes of fingers curling along the side of his throat, and one little dab on the lobe of Steve's ear. Their lips are pressed together before Steve's fully reacted to the soul bond but that's okay. They don't have two days, they've got forever.

A few years later, when Corroded Coffin wins album of the year at the Grammys, Gareth takes the mic away from Eddie as he's doing all the polite thank yous to managers and agents etc - and he thanks Steve, telling the world, "If Steve had never been a hot guy in a tool belt, Eddie would never have written Golden Bats, Hammer of Love or, Eddie's favorite," Gareth says, grinning and leaning really close to the mic like it's a secret, 'cause it kind of is, "Ride the White Polo."

My Masterlist

While there are other gold touch soulmate mark fics, I've only ever read them in @kangofu-cb's Gold on Your Fingertips in the Winterhawk fandom and it will always be both one of my favorite soulmate fics and one of my favorite Clint Barton fics.

[stxrborne]

PRECISION

|| Feitan x neutral! Reader ||

|| dt to @after-witch @ddarker-dreams @depravitycentral for inspiring me to finally get off my ass and write, and also for their amazing works ofc! check them out! ||

It’s ironic, Feitan thinks, to sew up the wounds of his victims. But they can’t die just yet.

His thin, long fingers push the needle through the victims skin of their inner thigh, and he gives out a light scoff in mockery when they whimper. Little rich boy can’t handle a little pain? He hates these rich types that think they can pull one over on the troupe. They were fun to interrogate, they always worked up his temper where taking it out on them was something he looked forward to. Due punishment, not only for their bratty, pretentious attitude, but their lucky pull in birth circumstances. Feitan acts as their comeuppance.

He’ll give it to this victim, however, still holding on to the information despite it all. Usually his male victims would start spilling whatever they knew when Feitan picked up a hammer and pushed their thighs apart. But here his victim was, crying and whimpering, and now a eunuch, and still not speaking.

Feitan finishes his stitches with a clean knot, and sets the needle and thread aside on his medical tool tables. He likes to pride himself in his efficiency and perfection. After all, torture required just as much knowledge of the human body as a surgeon. The image of Feitan as a doctor, in a different life, flashed in his mind and he laughed aloud. Maybe. Maybe if he was born lucky. Maybe if he didn’t have to learn surgery and amputations from the cruelty of his home.

After all, doctors can’t save everyone. And he didn’t see the point in willingly putting that responsibility and burden on yourself. Especially for ungrateful rich brats.

No, it was much easier to take life than to protect it. Much more fulfilling too. Other people aren’t your responsibility.

How funny though, Feitan thought. To now have something to willingly burden yourself with.

His ears pricked up to his victim shuffling in his chains, and he turned to them. The man wasn’t remarkable, only one person really was in Feitan’s eyes. The only thing noticeable now was the man’s family crest Feitan had carved on the skin above his heart.

How can you claim to belong to something, if you can’t even mark yourself with it? When you die, how will people know where you belonged to?

Feitan takes the man’s face in between his hand, and moves his head around to inspect his work. He debated between leaving the cut next to eye, dropping a few drops of an infectious bacteria into it so the eye would eventually eat itself. It’d take about a week, and then another for the infection to spread to the rest of the body.

Feitan couldn’t help but smile at the image. He gripped his victims face with his nails, and told him so.

“It’d be funny to see you swell up with blood and pus. I wonder if you’d get fat like an ugly cyst, but you already don’t look all that different from one.”

He let him go unceremoniously, and watched as his head fell forward. Feitan will grant him the mercy of sleep. After all, a dog will still endure abuse if you feed it often enough.

“Feitan?”

He heard you before you reached the basement door of course. He knew where you were in the house at all times after all.

You knew you weren’t allowed to open the door. If you needed him, just knock or call his name. You think it’s because he’d have to kill you if you saw what he was doing.

He knows that, and thinks you’re silly. He wipes his bloodied hands with a clean cloth as he walks to the door. His eyes meet yours when he opens the door, and his gaze doesn’t leave yours as he closes it. You don’t even know what color the walls of the basement are.

Feitan looks you over, with the same precision he gives to everything. You’ve been picking at your hangnails again and for some reason you didn’t bother bandaging your thumb, where you had ripped and tore at the skin enough for it to bleed. Another thing is that you’re wearing nothing but a towel, which means one thing.

“I want to take a bath,” you say, your clasped hands nervously squeezing themselves. It was another thing you weren’t allowed to do on your own. You didn’t understand why, and you didn’t understand why he did the things he did. He’d set the water the way you like it, even though you don’t remember telling him. He scents it with fragrances and oils that you can tell are expensive, in your favorite scents too. He helps you in and then holds out your towel so he doesn’t see your naked body, and he swiftly turns and closes the curtain. He does the same when you’re ready to come out.

He has a chair he sits on, quietly and unmoving as he watches your silhouette. Maybe it’s a kink or fetish of some kind, you think. It had taken you a while to get use to. But something tells you it wasn’t that exactly. One time you had slipped when washing your body, and before you could fully gasp out in surprise, you were in his arms with his face to the side.

He didn’t act the way you expected a kidnapper would. But it still didn’t explain why you were here at all.

Feitan nods at you, and you lead the way. You’ve learned he preferred to be your second shadow than to be your leading light.

Your large bathroom was attached to your equally large room. Funny how you’ve started to refer to them as ‘yours’. It’s difficult not to, when he is somehow able to let you decorate it the way you want. Feitan does that often, you’ve found. No matter how expensive your request, and you have tested that, he will get it for you. You’re scared to ask how.

He begins his routine when you both step into the bathroom. He gets the water to the temperature you like and let the bath tub fill. The sound of the tub jets fill the air, and you watch as he drips expensive oils into the water. His movements are methodical, and somehow he’s figured out the ratio of water to oil that’s right for your skin.

Feitan doesn’t dare mix the water with his hand.

Your nose is soon filled with the scent, and you feel your tense shoulders slowly let go and relax. He’s watching you, you know that. He stops the faucet when the tub fills up, and you walk up the small steps and stand in front of him.

A part of you is always tempted to touch. His pale skin is smooth and such a contrast to his dark hair. This close, you can see just a hint of green in his black eyes, the way they don’t seem to blink. You wonder if he is even human.

You nod softly and he moves behind you. You can’t even feel his presence, hear his breath, and you slightly jump when he reaches to gently clasp the small fold that holds your towel up.

Feitan waits until you calm again to continue. He never touches you directly, not even a stray touch from any finger. He takes off your towel and spreads it as a barrier between you and him.

But then you do something that has his heart beating and stopping erratically. His breath catches in his throat, your gaze turning to him and he feels trapped beneath it. How do you not know how much power you have over him?

His eyes instantly move to the way you nervously bite at your lip. Somehow he can know everything about you, how you think, how you word those thoughts, and yet now, he can’t believe what he thinks you’re going to say.

“…help me?” You say slowly, so quietly that a normal person wouldn’t have heard you.

But you know he did. And you don’t drop your eyes from him.

Feitan, in return, lets the towel drop.

[justlookfrightened]

Needing a hug

Filling a prompt from @shygryf: A pining Bitty is jealous watching Shitty be casually affectionate with Jack.

Bitty wasn’t sure when he noticed it for the first time.

Maybe it wasn’t the first practice, but it was early.

Shitty was allowed to touch Jack in a way that other players — other people — weren’t.

Shitty clapped Jack on the shoulder when they were skating out onto the ice, slung his arm around Jack’s waist when they walked around campus, even — more than once — kissed Jack on the cheek.

Sure, Shitty was usually very drunk when the kissing happened. It usually followed Shitty making some kind of proclamation like, “Jackabelle! You magnificent specimen of a Canadian moose!” And Jack usually shrunk away a little bit — something between a flinch and a cringe — but he didn’t react violently, or yell at Shitty, or even look really displeased.

If it was anyone besides Jack, Bitty might have started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed intimacy with men.

But it was Jack. The manliest of men. The straightest of arrows. Totally no-homo bro, as Holster would say.

Bitty had almost asked Shitty about it, once, when he was a frog. When Jack had seemed to be in a round robin of yelling at Bitty, sighing and rolling his eyes at Bitty in exasperation, and pounding on Bitty’s bedroom door so early in the morning it was by rights still night. And that didn’t even count Jack disparaging Bitty’s nutrition. 

Bitty had complained to Shitty about Jack and his Captain Hard Ass ways.

“It’s like he’s always watching me, just waiting for me to screw up,” Bitty had grumbled, wrapped in a blanket and sitting with his back against the wall while Shitty smoked a joint in the Reading Room on top of the Haus porch. “He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Shitty had said. “He’s really not a bad guy.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bitty said. “He likes you. He thinks I’m going to torpedo the team.”

“If he didn’t think you could contribute, he wouldn’t bother helping you,” Shitty said, like it was the most logical thing in the world.

“Helping me?” Bitty said, arching an eyebrow. “You mean by waking me up a full five hours before my first class three days a week?”

“You didn’t faint once at practice last week,” Shitty pointed out.

“Still,” Bitty said.

Shitty drew on the joint, making its end glow orange, then breathed out a cloud of smoke before he said,  “You know how they say that if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail? That’s Jack. The only tool in his box is working harder than anybody else.”

“Hasn’t he ever heard ‘work smarter, not harder’?” Bitty retorted. “And he doesn’t act like that with you. You, he hugs. Or at least hugs back, when you hug him.”

Bitty stopped and ran the sentence back. Did it make sense, or was he getting a contact high?

Shitty didn’t respond, instead asking, “How long until pie, brah?”

Bitty checked the timer on his phone.

“Comes out in a couple minutes,” he said. “But you have to let it cool before you eat it. You want me to whip up some muffins? Those you can eat warm.”

That was the closest Bitty ever got to talking about it with Shitty. He never brought it up again, maybe because it wasn’t too much longer before Jack and Bitty were on the same line, and Bitty was getting his own share of physical affection from Jack.

And, of course, from everyone else on the ice when their line (Jack) scored.

Bitty had spent years keeping his hands and body to himself to avoid the way people pulled away like being gay was contagious or something. Now he found that the camaraderie and joy in post-goal cellies was a balm to his lonely soul. Especially since the whole team already knew he was gay, and no one cared.

Moving into the Haus his second year gave him a whole new view of the Jack-Shitty relationship. Sure, Shitty was over the top with everyone, but he was also respectful. He had been the first on the team to ruffle Bitty’s hair, and the first to back off when Bitty recoiled. Even though Bitty tried not to show his distaste; he knew Shitty meant it affectionately.

Shitty roughhoused with Ransom and Holster, play-fighting and bro-hugging and noogie-ing with abandonment.

He did all those things with Jack, too. Even if Jack somehow always won even the play-fights.

But there was more. Shitty sat next to Jack on the gross couch, sides plastered up against each other, when there was a movie or game night. Shitty jumped into Jack’s arms and hugged him when they returned from winter break, and Shitty was in Jack’s room at all hours.

This morning, when Bitty had tried to go to Jack to ask about practice, he found an underwear-clad Shitty cuddling a (fully clothed) sleeping Jack in Jack’s bed. Shitty had just put a finger to his lips to tell Bitty to be quiet, and didn’t say a word about it.

Bitty backed out of the room and shut the door quietly, wondering why his heart hurt.

It shouldn’t make him sad that Jack and Shitty were comfortable expressing physical affection within the bonds of male-male platonic friendship. Or that Shitty was, and Jack was okay with it.

Bitty paused for a moment inside the door of his own room to be proud of how far he had come in terms of understanding gender dynamics, mostly through Shitty’s informal tutoring of anyone within earshot. Two years ago, before he came to Samwell, he would have looked at the scene in Jack’s room and immediately labeled it “gay.” Now he looked at it and knew that while he was gay, all he saw was Shitty attaching himself like a limpet to Jack, in order for Jack to get past his anxiety enough to rest.

He’d learned a lot about Jack, too. The upcoming parents’ weekend must really be getting to Jack, for all Jack’s parents seemed friendly and proud of their son.

Maybe it was that Bitty wished Shitty would come and hug him like that when he got overwhelmed? Shitty’s physical interactions with Bitty had been careful since the hair-ruffling incident, more than a year ago now; Shitty always hesitated just for a moment, something Bitty had come to understand as a non-verbal check-in to make sure the intended touch would be welcomed. 

Bitty kind of wished he wouldn’t, kind of wished the guys would include him in their rough play like he was just one of the guys. The thing was, he knew the only thing that was stopping them was Bitty himself. All he had to do was join in — he was sure of that — and they would pile on him as happily as they piled on one another, just like they did in cellies.

And all he had to do for Shitty to hug him would be to tell him it was okay, that he wanted that. Or even to hug Shitty first.

He wondered if Jack and Shitty had ever had a conversation like that, back before Bitty knew them.

Shitty: “Brah, is it okay if I hug you?”

Jack: shrug

Shitty: “I’m serious. Your body belongs to you, Jackabelle. I want to know if it’s okay.”

Jack: “If it’s not, I’ll tell you.”

And Jack had never said it wasn’t okay.

So maybe there was a conversation Bitty should have with Shitty, but that wasn’t what was making him sad.

Maybe it was that Jack was anxious, and needed someone like Shitty to help him rest?

But Jack’s anxiety had nothing to do with Bitty. It was just a part of Jack, a part that he tried (sometimes unsuccessfully) to keep under wraps by acting like a hockey robot. Which he very much was not, Bitty had come to learn. And that sometimes, when Jack’s anxiety got the better of him, he lashed out at people (like Bitty) who were in the way.

Bitty should be grateful to Shitty for helping Jack, whose behavior towards Bitty had undergone a marked change by the end of last season, a change that showed no signs of shifting back. It was like playing good hockey had somehow made Bitty a Real Person in Jack’s eyes.

That wasn’t fair. Jack continued to treat Bitty like a Real Person, even when Bitty’s phobia came roaring back at the beginning of his second season and even Hall and Murray were talking about cutting him. Maybe it was just familiarity that did the trick?

In any case, Bitty didn’t want Jack to suffer — didn’t want anyone to suffer — from the kind of anxiety that plagued Jack, so he was grateful to Shitty for helping in a way that he couldn’t.

Bitty climbed out his own window to the Reading Room and sat with his back against the wall  because that was where he felt safest, not because he couldn’t be seen there from Jack’s room, and rolled that kernel of a thought around in his head.

He felt sad because Shitty could help Jack in a way that he couldn’t. 

That didn’t make any sense, though. Of course Shitty could help Jack in ways that he couldn’t. All people were different (maybe Shitty more than most, his brain unhelpfully supplied); he couldn’t be jealous of Shitty for using his unique strengths and skills to help their mutual friend Jack.

Because Jack was their mutual friend, even if Shitty was Jack’s best friend.

Well, of course he was. Shitty had known Jack longer, had helped Jack acclimate to college life in the States (and Bitty was proud that he didn’t call it “America” anymore, now that he knew people from other North American countries), was closer to Jack’s age, and even if it shouldn’t matter, closer to Jack’s social class. Bitty should be happy just to be allowed to tag along.

Bitty didn’t begrudge Shitty his best-friend status with Jack.

He just wished that he could hug Jack like Shitty did.

That was it.

He wished he could hug Jack (and maybe have Jack hug him back, the way he did Shitty?). Bitty was craving the comfort of physical contact, which he’d denied himself for too long. He’d have that conversation with Shitty, and maybe he’d jump into the next group wrestling match …

And then, maybe — maybe then he would be able to hug Jack.

[kwanisms]

🎄 Tales from Camp Holiday Special 07 🎄

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➮ Joshua × fem!Reader wc: 9k summary: While helping set up for a Christmas special at his church, Joshua is reintroduced to Y/N who is offered to help him set up. While working, they reminisce and Joshua apologizes about everything that summer. genres/themes/au: angst, fluff, smut; holiday themes, religious undertones; non idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, mentions of pregnancy, religious themes, sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist: @yoonguurt @wonw00t @aikisbbq @enhacolor @duchesskaren @sherituhhh @wonderfulshinee @gaebestie @drunk-on-dk @seokgyuu @salty-for-suga @aaniag @dnylwoo @1004luvangel join my taglists: main | TFC: Holiday Special closed! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: sorry this took so long lol i was stumped at where to take it, but managed to figure it out by moving a scene around. Joshua is always a subject that is fun to explore as every seems to see him pretty different. I love seeing what everyone comes up with for him. A reminder that the taglist for this series is now closed! Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging as it really helps out and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: protected sex (finally lmao. He has learned from his past), a lot of heavy petting & making out in a church backroom lmao, car sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, choking kink, finger sucking, degradation, impact play (light slapping), slight exhibitionism, and I think that’s all of them! If I missed any, let me know!

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Joshua wouldn’t say he was as deep in his faith as he used to be but he still attended church regularly. Less out of faith and more out of routine and a sense of community. So when the holidays rolls around, he inevitably ends up volunteering to help with the extra activities like the nativity play as well as teaching Sunday school. This year was no different.

Except that it was completely different.

“Can you hand me that hammer?” Joshua asked, pointing at the claw hammer sticking out of the tool box. Jeonghan huffed, bending down to pick it up and handing it over. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into helping you with this,” he grumbled, checking his watch.

Joshua looked up at his friend. “Impatient?” he asked with a smirk. Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “I have work in an hour,” Jeonghan said, glancing around quickly before adding in an “asshole” under his breath, making Joshua laugh as he lined up the nail and started hammering it.

“This won’t take long,” he promised as he started hammering a second nail into the wood. “Besides, isn’t this fun?” Jeonghan eyed him suspiciously. “Not particularly, no,” Jeonghan answered before glancing around. “I feel… weird.” He looked up at the cross on the wall behind the stage they currently stood on. “Oh it’s not that bad,” Joshua snorted as he finished hammering the nails in.

He handed Jeonghan the hammer before starting to push the frame of the tiny stable over until it stood upright. “Hmm, not bad,” Jeonghan said, tilting his head to admire Joshua’s handiwork. “You’re like Jesus’ dad. A carpenter.” Joshua rolled his eyes, lightly smacking Jeonghan’s arm.

“You’re an idiot.”

“What?” Jeonghan hissed, holding his arm and looking more offended by the slap than the insult. “You even have the same name!” Joshua turned to give Jeonghan a bewildered stare. “You’re thinking of Joseph,” he said as he started to grab the brown cloth fabric and the upholstery staple gun. 

“Mary’s husband was Joseph. Joshua was a warrior who led Israel in the conquest of Canaan after the Exodus from Egypt.”

Jeonghan stared blankly at his friend. “I have no idea what any of those words mean.”

Joshua rolled his eyes, gesturing for Jeonghan to help him hold up the fabric backing of the stable. He started to staple it into place, making sure it was pulled taut over the frame. “He was essentially a military leader,” he explained further. Jeonghan’s lips parted in an O as he listened. 

“Good for him,” Jeonghan said as Joshua continued to staple the backing on. “Power to the people or whatever.” Joshua snorted again as he finished stapling. Jeonghan checked his watch again. “Look, I’d love to stay and talk to you about EXO but I have to leave now if I want to make it to work on time,” he said, starting to head for the steps. Joshua nodded.

“Of course. And thanks for your help,” he said as Jeonghan descended the steps. “Drive safe!” Jeonghan waved as he headed down the aisle and out the door into the lobby of the church.

Back on his own, Joshua was able to focus on the less taxing job of painting the stable. It wasn’t much, just some brown paint here and there but Joshua always went above and beyond.

“Looking good, Joshua!” a voice said, drawing his attention. Joshua looked up to find Father Y/L/N walking towards him, his wife in tow and one more familiar face. Yours.

Joshua felt a rush of blood to his head as he stood up straight, making him feel lightheaded. He hadn’t seen you since summer camp all those years ago. He’d tried, keep an eye out for you every year until he finally quit working there once he got his full time job.

Not one sign of you at the camp. He feared the worst when he didn’t see you again the next summer after your last… meeting. Upon returning to his cabin, Joshua remembered that the two of you hadn’t used a condom and knowing your father was a pastor, he probably didn’t allow you to take birth control.

It had really eaten away at Joshua.

Especially when he learned that you’d left the next morning citing a family emergency. And thus began Joshua’s months-long panic-stricken search but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to dig up any social media accounts under your name.

Not a single trace of you had been left behind for him to follow but here you were, years later and looking even more amazing and beautiful than the last day he’d seen you.

“Joshua, you remember my daughter, Y/N?” your father asked, placing a light hand on your back and gently pulling you forward. Joshua was rendered speechless. He’d never been speechless.

If Jeonghan was still here, he was certain he’d never hear the end of it. Joshua stared at you, stunned and silent longer than he should have because the next thing your father did was ask if he was okay.

Joshua shook himself mentally. ‘Get it together, you idiot!’

“Uh, yeah,” he finally stammered out, turning to look at you, meeting your gaze. “Hey, Y/N, how have you been?” He hesitated briefly, uncertain of how much physical contact was appropriate.

Should he shake your hand? Go in for a hug? What was allowed? Especially in front of your parents. Joshua had literally been inside you before but that was years ago. He settled for neither and instead gave you probably the most awkward wave he'd ever given in his life.

If your dad didn't think something was up before, he’d certainly be suspicious now. Whether or not he was, Joshua wouldn’t know as your father simply smiled, looking from you to Joshua and back.

“It’s been a while, Joshua,” you noted, not looking away from his face. Joshua swallowed nervously, hoping neither of your parents caught onto his increasingly bizarre behavior.

Either they were oblivious or just didn’t care as to why the usually calm.and collected Sunday school teacher was suddenly losing his cool and metaphorically shitting bricks.

“Yeah,” Joshua replied lamely. “Y/N’s been out of the country for work,” your mother suddenly piped up, sounding exceedingly proud of you. A shy smile graced your lips, reminding Joshua of the quiet demure young woman he’d met all those years ago.

Despite the smile, you certainly did not carry yourself the same way.

“Wow, that’s incredible,” Joshua said, looking away from your mother to meet your gaze. “She’s back in town, looking at apartments. Isn’t that right, dear?” Joshua could see a hint of amusement in your eyes.

“Something like that, mother,” you replied dryly. Before either of your parents could say anything more, you spoke again.

“I think I’d like to stay here and help set up,” you offered quickly. “You two go on ahead without me.” Your mother and father exchanged quick glances of surprise before your mother spoke.

“Are you sure, dear?” she asked. You nodded quickly, moving to stand beside Joshua. “It’ll give Joshua and I a chance to catch up.”

Your mother and father looked at one another one last time, Joshua holding his breath that they would just give in and say yes without trying to pry. He wasn’t ready for that conversation yet and he was certain he never would be.

Seemingly moved by your willingness to volunteer, your parents gave in without much resistance, cooing over how sweet you were to volunteer your own time to help out.

They told you they would be back later to pick you up and where to meet them before they both bid you and Joshua farewell.

Once left alone in your presence, Joshua suddenly had no idea what to do, how to act, or what to say so you took the lead, turning to face him. “So,” you started. “What’re you working on?”

Joshua employed your help in painting the stable. It wasn’t exactly riveting work and it left his mind free to wander. Neither of you made any attempt to fill the silence or bridge the glaringly obvious gap between you.

Time seemed to whizz by and yet it also appeared to stand still.

On top of that, he managed to knock over the can of paint.

It would seem he just couldn’t win today.

“Shiii-oot,” Joshua started to curse but caught himself, glancing at you. Upon hearing his half curse, you looked up at him with a bewildered look. “Shi-oot?” you asked, a note of amusement to your voice. Joshua stared at you blankly until you burst into laughter.

And what a sweet laugh it was. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until he heard it again.

“What the fuck is ‘shi-oot,’ Joshua?” you managed to wheeze.

A smile spread over Joshua’s face as he realized he’d been holding back and being so uptight for no reason.

Despite all that had changed, it was nice to see some things hadn’t changed at all. You shook your head, still chuckling as you grabbed a nearby rag and started to clean up the spilled paint.

“I’ll go grab a mop from the cleaning supply closet,” Joshua said, setting his brush down carefully and stepping over the spilled paint as you set the can upright.

The cleaning closet wasn’t far, just in the hall outside the nave. He grabbed the mop and a spray bottle of cleaning solution. Upon returning, he was surprised that you managed to get a bulk of the paint off the floor.

He walked over, spraying the spot generously. You got to your feet as Joshua waited for the chemicals in the solution to work. “I’m gonna go grab another can of paint,” you announced. Joshua leaned the mop against one of the benches. 

“I’ll come with you,” he replied, following your steps. “I have to let this stuff sit for a few minutes anyway.” While it was true the solution needed a few minutes for the chemicals to break down the materials in the paint, Joshua really wanted an excuse to spend more time with you. 

He should have known it was a bad idea. He should have foreseen what was going to happen considering your history the last time the two of you were alone together in a store room.

You weren’t sure who made the first move, but one minute you were trying to match paint, the next Joshua had you pinned against the wall, his thigh wedged between yours as his tongue explored your mouth, hands skimming over your body with practiced ease. 

“Fuck,” Joshua grunted as your hands tugged through his hair, pulling his head back slightly. “You still sound just as pretty as before,” he heard you murmur, your lips ghosting over the skin of his neck. “And you’re much more confident than before,” Joshua mused as you pulled back to look at him.

He pulled you in for another kiss, muffling your moans as you rolled your hips, grinding against his thigh.

‘What are you doing? You need to stop this! Remember last time?’

“Wait, wait,” Joshua said softly, pulling back to look at you. “Stop.” You looked up at him, confused as he held you still. “We can’t do this,” he stated, his voice slightly breathless. You felt a small tug at your heart. “Oh.” Your stomach started to sink as the gravity of his words settled. “I see.”

Sensing the shift in your demeanor, Joshua held you firm as you tried to turn and pull away from him. “That came out wrong,” he started quickly. “I meant, we can’t do this here,” he clarified. You looked back up to meet his gaze. “What?” you whispered.

Joshua’s hands moved up to cup your face. “Let me be perfectly clear,” he explained. “I want this. I want you,” he continued. “But not here.” Joshua looked around the backroom. “We’ve done this before,” he added. “I don’t want to do this again. I want to do things right with you.”

You stared back at him, searching and studying his face. When you came back here, following him, you had expected the same thing as before. The sexual tension had been high since being reintroduced.

As you stared back at Joshua, several questions ran through your head. ‘Has he felt this way since the last time? Has he been thinking about this since then? Did he want to pursue something more involved, possibly romantic with you? What was his end goal?’

“What are you saying?” you asked softly, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his thumb stroke your cheek tenderly, making you resist the urge to lean into his touch. “It means,” he started softly, looking into your eyes. “That I want more from this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, breath catching in your throat.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about that day,” Joshua continued. “To think about what we did, how it affected me, and even moreso, what happened after. I was sure that you had gotten pregnant,” he paused, gauging your reaction.

You said nothing, wanting him to finish his thoughts in their entirety before you spoke. Sensing this, Joshua continued his narrative.

“And that got me thinking. Had me thinking about the future, about what I want in life, and about you. I wondered where you ended up. Wondered what you were doing in your life. And the more I thought about the possibility that I had a kid out there, the more I started to accept it as reality.”

You shook your head quickly. “I’ve been on birth control since I was 16,” you explained. Joshua’s eyes widened in surprise. “You have?” he asked quickly to which you nodded. “Mainly for my endometriosis,” you added. “But the added not getting pregnant aspect has been nice, too.”

Joshua let out a soft laugh, shaking his head before he looked back up at you, hesitating before taking a deep breath. “Anyway, as fate would have it, you didn’t get pregnant. I don’t have a kid out in the world. And for some reason, that doesn’t bring me any relief. It almost makes me feel… sad.”

Your brows knitted together as he finished his sentence. ‘Sad?’ you wondered. ‘He wanted me to have his child?’

“Don’t get me wrong,” Joshua said suddenly. “I’m glad you didn’t have to put your life on hold to raise a child alone. I’m glad your life went on and you were able to do the things you always talked about,” he added with a smile. It wasn’t the usual smirk you’d always gotten from him. It was a kind and genuine smile.

A very rare one.

“It also means, if you wanted, we could start over.”

Your eyes widened. ‘Start Over?’

“I realize that things have definitely changed but if you’ll let me,” he continued. “I’d like to do things properly this time. Take you on a real date. Court you properly in a way that won’t make your dad hate me,” he added. You let out an unexpected chuckle.

“He doesn’t hate you,” you replied. “He has no idea what we got up to all those years ago.” Joshua felt relieved, feeling his body relax just a little more. “As for starting over,” you continued and Joshua tensed up again. ‘Here it goes,’ he told himself.

“I’d love to, actually.”

Joshua froze, staring at you unblinking for a few moments.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Really?” he asked. You nodded, letting out a giggle as the realization of your words dawned on him. “Oh, shit. Sorry,” he apologized quickly. “I'm just… honestly, I'm shocked. I thought for sure you'd turn me down!” You let out another giggle, watching his excitement rise.

“How does Saturday sound? We can go get coffee. Or go to a museum. Or a movie if you’d prefer that? Whatever you want to do!” You smiled as he rambled on, listing off idea after idea for a first date. You reached up, covering his mouth to cut his rambling off.

“Coffee and a museum sounds great.”

╾───────────────────⭒✧⭒──────────────────╼

You were able to help Joshua finish his projects and set them aside to dry for the rest of the day before the show the following day. Joshua got ready the next morning, a mix of nerves and tension. Not because of the show but because of seeing you again.

When you agreed to start over and go on a date with him, he’d been over the moon and riding that high the whole way home but upon waking the next morning, he was a ball of nerves.

He arrived early at the church, dressed in a nice pair of khakis and a navy blue suit jacket. He’d packed a pair of jeans to change into after the show to help take things down and keep his clothes nice and clean. Setting up was simply putting sets in place and making sure all the costumes and props were ready to go.

Joshua was mainly in charge of handing out programs, and making sure the ushers did their jobs escorting people to their seats. It wasn’t a hard job particularly, but most of the ushers were young teenage boys who liked to mess around. Not that Joshua blamed them. He was a teenage boy once. He understood.

The doors to the church opened at six pm, allowing for an hour for the guests and congregation to find their seats. It was an hour full of ‘welcome’ and ‘would you like a program?’ By the time the show was about to start, Joshua was internally cringing for sounding like a parrot the whole time.

As the last few of the guests trickled in, Joshua’s heart skipped a beat. You’d arrived with your parents and it was all he could do to not stare at you as you walked closer, chatting with your mother. Instead, he allowed himself to look quickly over your body, taking in the ensemble you’d chosen.

As you and your parents drew nearer, a genuine smile spread across his face unlike the one he’d been forcing earlier. “Ah, Joshua,” your father said upon noticing him. “How good to see you again.” You turned your head, gaze falling on Joshua and he could have sworn, he’d seen your eyes sweep over him quickly as well as the look you gave him. 

It made blood rush to his head and not the one with the smile on it.

“Good evening, Father Y/L/N. Mrs. Y/L/N,” Joshua said with a nod before his eyes fell on you. “Y/N,” he added with a smile. “Would you like a program?” one of the teenage boys to Joshua’s left asked, interrupting the moment as yours and Joshua’s eyes had been locked on one another.

“Yes, thank you,” your father answered, taking two from the boy and handing one to his wife. You looked back at Joshua, glancing at the programs in his hands. “Could I have one of those?” you asked softly. There was a tone to your voice. Almost like you were asking for something more than the program but all the same, Joshua nodded, handing one over to you.

“Enjoy the show,” he said as your parents started to head into the nave. “Thanks,” you replied, opening the program and glancing over it quickly before looking up at him. “See you after the show?” you asked, a hint of hope to your voice. Joshua nodded, heart skipping as a smile spread over your face.

“See you after the show, then,” you said softly before following your parents inside.

Joshua stood at the back of the nave, against the wall as the show started but he couldn’t focus on his students standing on stage and acting out the birth of Jesus. All he could focus on was you sitting three rows from the back, eyes forward as you watched with what anyone else would assume was rapt attention.

Joshua might have as well if he hadn’t caught you turning to gaze back at him before the lights dimmed.

The whole show, Joshua kept his eyes on you, watching every shift, every light chuckle, and the way you leaned over to whisper something to your mother. In the low lighting he could still see the way your lips pulled into a smile as you let out a soft laugh, covering your mouth with your hand.

He felt like he could look at you for hours but he’d never admit it for fear of sounding like a creep.

So he’d keep that to himself.

When the show finally ended, the lights came back on and the guests started to trickle out while the staff started to slowly clean up the stage. Joshua made a point of making sure to wish everyone a goodnight and a Merry Christmas.

Thankfully, you and your parents were among the few to remain behind, your father speaking to the other pastor. Joshua saw your head turn in his direction, watching you speak a few words to your mother before following the crowd in his direction.

He looked away quickly, continuing to say goodbye to the guests as they passed him. Moments later, you joined him. “Found you,” you said softly, making him chuckle. “Now what?” you asked. Joshua smiled, after turning from a guest.

“Now I have to help clean up,” Joshua answered. “Could I stay and help?” you asked suddenly.

Joshua’s eyes widened but before he could answer, another voice spoke up.

“You ready to head home, dear?” your mother asked, drawing your attention. You glanced over at Joshua quickly before speaking. “Actually, I think I'm going to stay behind and help clean up,” you replied, smiling at your parents. You noticed the way your father glanced at Joshua and back. 

“How will you get home?” he asked. Joshua looked at your parents.

“I can drop her off, if you’d like,” he offered. 

Your mother cooed at the kind gesture. “Oh, you don’t have to go out of your way to do that,” she started but Joshua shook his head. “I don’t mind at all,” he explained. “It’s not out of the way and it’s been a while since Y/N and I have seen one another. Could give us some more time to catch up while I drive her.”

Your mother smiled at him, throwing an unreadable glance your way before she turned to your father. “Y/N will be fine,” she started. “Let’s get home before the snow starts, dear.” Your father nodded and looked at you. “Don’t be too late,” he said softly. “We have plans in the morning.”

You nodded and waved them off as they exited the room before turning to Joshua. “You didn’t have to offer to drive me,” you said softly as you moved to stand beside him and help taking down the set. “It’s nothing,” Joshua replied. “Like I said, it gives us a chance to properly talk.”

The task of taking down the set wasn’t nearly as complex as putting it up and soon you were walking out of the church with Joshua, heading to his black sedan. He unlocked the door and opened it for you, only shutting it once you were safely inside before heading around to the driver’s side and getting in.

Joshua started the car, pulling out of his parking space and following the line of cars heading out of the parking lot, turning onto the road and following your directions towards your parents house. Small flurries had started to fall, collecting on the grass and starting to pile.

You chatted animatedly while Joshua drove, following your directions that led out of town to your parent’s farm. It wasn’t far out of the city but it was still a considerable distance from the town.

You glanced over to find Joshua looking at you before he looked back at the road, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?” you asked softly. He shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied. “I just like listening to you.” Your cheeks and the tips of your ears burned as you looked away.

Your heart was thudding in your chest, the tension from earlier in the supply room returning as you had both essentially cucked yourselves. You were still needy but you couldn’t tell if it was just your or if Joshua felt it too.

“Why do you keep staring at me like that?” Joshua asked softly, glancing at you and you shrugged. “I just like looking at you,” you replied. Joshua let out a chuckle, checking his rearview mirror and his smile fell instantly. “What the-?” he cut himself off. You noticed the flashing of red and blue lights from behind and your heart sank. ‘Are you serious?’ you wondered, turning in your seat to look out the back window.

Joshua slowed the car, pulling onto the shoulder before putting the car in park. He waited patiently as the cop car stopped behind him, lights still flashing as the officer got out of the vehicle and started heading towards the driver’s side window. Joshua rolled it down as the officer drew level.

“Evening, officer,” he said pleasantly. “What seems to be the problem?” The officer leaned down to look into the car and noticed you. “Where are you two headed?” he asked, directing his attention at you. “My parents’,” you answered. “They live outside the city on their farm.”

The officer turned his attention to Joshua. “The roads are starting to ice in places,” he explained. “Just warning everyone before something awful happens. You make sure to get where you’re going and soon,” he continued. Joshua nodded. “Are we free to go?” he asked to which the officer nodded.

“Just make sure to be careful.”

Joshua thanked the officer and waited for him to return to his vehicle before putting the car in drive and pulling off the shoulder as he sped back up to the normal speed for the highway. “Am I the only one that was shitting bricks back there?” he asked, a shocked laugh escaping him.

You shook your head. “No, I was kinda freaking out a little, too. I was wondering what we could have possibly done to warrant being pulled over.” Joshua nodded as he checked his rearview but the cop car was no longer in sight, nor were the flashing lights.

“I wasn’t speeding and I know for a fact that my tail lights work just fine,” he explained. “I almost thought it was going to be a sobriety check,” he continued. You nodded as he continued to drive, adrenaline coursing through your body. “Turn up here,” you voiced, pointing at the country road.

Joshua slowed, turning his blinker on and made the right turn onto the first of many country roads to get to your parents’ farm. He turned on his brights, illuminating the edges of the roads. The snow was coming down even heavier, blanketing the grass and starting to gather on the road.

“I’m going to have a time trying to get back home through this,” he whispered more to himself but you still heard him clearly. “Maybe my parents won’t mind if you stay the night in the guest room,” you replied. “I’m sure my mother would feel better if you stayed rather than go back into all of this.”

Joshua felt a stirring in his chest and stomach at the thought of spending the night at your parents’ house, so close to you and yet unable to have you. He had half a mind to turn back and head to his place instead but reminded himself he’d already told your parents he’d bring you home.

“I’m sure I’ll be okay,” he replied. You shook your head. “Just watch,” you said softly as you looked out the window. “She won’t let you leave and she’ll insist you stay in the guest room.”

“Wanna bet?” Joshua asked, looking at you and back at the road. “Okay,” you said quickly. “If I win, I get to pick where we go on our date,” you said, making him laugh. “And if I win?” he asked, glancing at you. “You can pick a time and place and do whatever you want to me.”

Joshua’s face burned and he hid his shock with a cough and clearing of his throat. “Alright,” he replied.

“You’re on.”

Suffice it to say, Joshua lost the bet instantly. As soon as he pulled up, Joshua insisted on walking you to the door to make sure you got up the steps safely. The door opened almost instantly and he was very quickly ushered inside by your father. Not long after, your mother appeared and began fussing.

Joshua tried to refuse but you had been right and your mother insisted he stay until morning. Joshua caught your eye and smiled, returning the same smile you were currently giving him.

“Show our guest to the guest bedroom, Y/N,” your mother said, drawing your attention. “Make sure he knows where the towels and extra linens are. And where the flashlight is just in case we lose power.”

You nodded to your mother to show you heard her instructed and beckoned Joshua to follow you through the hallway to the right. “The house is a true ranch style,” you explained as you passed a half bathroom. “Three bedrooms and two baths on this side,” you continued.

“This is the guest bedroom,” you said, stopping at a door and opening it, flipping the light on.

It wasn’t anything grand or spectacular. There was a queen size bed with light natural toned linens. The bedframe, dresser, two nightstands and bench at the end of the bed were part of the same set. Against the back wall at the head of the bed was a large picture window with curtains drawn mostly shut. To the right was a doorway into a dark room.

“Guest bathroom,” you explained, leading him over to it and turning on the light. It was a standard bathroom with a vanity and double sink, a separate room for the toilet and a shower tub combo with a glass rolling door.

“The towels are in here,” you explained, walking over to the sink and opening a lower cabinet door to reveal shelves stocked with towels. “There’s some generic shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in here,” you added, pointing to another cabinet door.

You turned off the light and ushered him back into the bedroom before leading him over to a door in the wall opposite the bathroom and slid it open to reveal a closet with built-in-shelves. “We keep the extra linens in here. Pillows, blankets, sheets, etcetera,” you said, showing him inside the closet.

You shut the door and walked back over to the door to the hallway.

Joshua walked over and peered into the hall for any sign of your parents. “And where’s your room?” he asked softly, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you closer. You jerked your head gesturing down the hall. “Last door,” you replied. Joshua glanced at the door and then back at you.

“And your parents?” he asked nervously. “Other side of the house is where the master suite is,” you answered. “So opposite sides.” Joshua’s brow raised and he offered a cheeky smile before letting go of you. “She get you all squared away?” your father asked with a smile. Joshua nodded.

“Yep, all set,” he answered. “Alright, we’ll we’re heading to bed,” he announced, leaning in to kiss the side of your head. “Don’t stay up too late,” he said, shooting the both of you a smile before he headed down the hall towards the living room.

“We should probably turn in as well,” you said softly. Joshua nodded, although he really didn’t want you to go to your room and be so far away from him but it’s not like it was another world. You were down the hall. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Even with the daylight, I’ll still have a drive ahead of me.”

Well, goodnight,” you said shyly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. As you pulled away, Joshua pulled you in for a proper kiss, nuzzling his nose against yours before letting you pull away again. “Goodnight, beautiful,” he murmured, smiling as you bit your bottom lip and turned to retreat to your bedroom.

He shut the door of the guest room and walked over to the bed, pulling back the sheets. He mentally cursed, forgetting to turn off the light and walked over, flipping the switch off and returning to the bed. He stripped himself of his pants, folding and setting them neatly on top of the dresser before climbing into the bed and pulling the covers up, sighing in relief to find the bed was actually pretty comfortable.

He wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d get, knowing you were just down the hall but he rolled onto his side, shutting his eyes and hoping exhaustion would catch up with him and that sleep would come soon.

You had changed into your sleep shirt, tossed your dirty clothes in the hamper and made your way to your bed, turning your light off on the way and climbing into your nest of blankets and pillows. Laying back against the pillows, arms crossed, you stared up at the ceiling and tried to focus on getting rid of the throbbing ache between your legs.

‘It was just a stupid kiss,’ you told yourself. ‘Why are you getting so worked up over a kiss?’

You rolled onto your side and tried to will yourself to sleep but the throbbing just made you press your thighs together to find some sort of relief only none would come. You were still tense and turned on from your encounter in the church back room with Joshua and your new panties were already sticking to you.

‘I guess I’ll just take them off!’

You shimmied out of your panties and tossed them in the direction of the hamper. You were settling back when you had a great idea. “No panties,” you murmured. “It just might work.”

You pulled back the covers and got out of bed, tiptoeing over to the door and opening it quietly. You hoped that Joshua was still awake. It hadn’t been that long but you were sure he was exhausted so he might have fallen asleep already. You crept down the hall, listening for any sound of your parents.

Upon reaching the door, you knocked lightly, calling Joshua’s name through the wood.

The first time, there was no answer so you tried again. This time you heard a muffled “yeah?” through the door and opened it. “Y/N?” Joshua asked through the dark. “Are you okay?” he asked, propping himself up. It was dark but you could still make out his silhouette from the built-in bathroom nightlight.

“Is everything oka- Y/N? Yah, what are you doing?” Joshua hissed as you shut the door and snuck over to the bed, pulling back the covers and climbing in. “We’re gonna get caught and then your dad is going to throw me out into the snow,” he continued as you snuggled up to him. “No he won’t” you whispered back.

Joshua opened his mouth to retort but you cut him off with a kiss, one that he immediately leaned into. “You created a problem,” you murmured against his lips, pulling him closer so his chest was flush with yours. “Problem?” Joshua asked in between your kisses.

“What kind of problem?”

You grabbed one of his hands, guiding it down between your thighs. Joshua’s eyes shot open as he realized you’d gotten into the bed without any shorts or underwear on. ‘Fuck.’

“Are you insane?” he hissed but you ignored him, pushing him onto his back as you climbed on top of him. “Y/N,” Joshua said, his voice low like it was a warning. You leaned over, taking his face in your hands as you kissed him. You felt his arms wrap around your back, holding you against him as he kissed you back. “If I get killed by your dad, I’m coming back to haunt your ass,” he murmured before sitting up.

You let out a soft giggle as he took your hands from his face and pushed you onto your back, hovering over you as his hips rested against yours. On instinct, you wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a gasp as the cloth of his underwear brushed against you, giving you a minute amount of friction.

“If we’re going to do this,” Joshua said softly, one hand moving up to cup your cheek as he looked into your eyes. “You’re going to have to keep it down,” he continued, thumb stroking your cheek. “Can you do that for me, angel?” You nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you breathed out. “Of course. I promise.”

The moment the words left your lips, Joshua rolled over, pulling you on top of him, guiding your hips over his growing erection. You breathed out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut as you followed his guidance. “Show me how bad you want it,” Joshua murmured, hands sliding from your hips up to your waist, pushing your sleep shirt up and glancing down at your naked lower half.

You grinded against him, leaving a trail of your arousal on his underwear. He’d have to wash them the minute he got home. “Hang on baby,” he murmured, halting your movements. You pouted at him as he chuckled, guiding you off his lap before he shimmied out of his underwear to avoid you soiling it any further.

“Come here,” he said softly, holding his hand out which you took eagerly, allowing him to guide you back on his lap, his half hard cock resting against his abdomen. “Sit down,” he instructed, his voice breathless as you did so, letting out a whimper before covering your mouth with your hand.

“Sorry, Shua,” you whispered, looking down at him. “Just feels so good.” Joshua reached up, cupping your cheek tenderly. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured before taking your hips in his hands. “Come on now,” he urged. “Show me how badly you want my cock.”

You whined softly, grinding against him with renewed vigor, the heat of his cock against you driving you crazy. “Please, Shua,” you mumbled, trying to keep the volume of your voice down. “Please let me ride you. Wanna feel it inside me.”

Hearing your breathless voice whining for his cock almost made him break his resolve but he wanted to tease you just a bit longer. “No,” he replied, his fingers digging into your hips. “Keep going, baby girl. Show me just how bad you need it and then I’ll let you have it.”

You let out another whine, a little louder this time, grinding harder and feeling the underside of his cock drag through your slick folds against your clit. Your thighs shook from the sensation, fingers curling into the sheets on either side of Joshua’s head.

“That’s it,” he urged. “Keep going. Just like that.”

Joshua’s hands moved your hips faster, guiding you over his cock and pulling you against him at the same time. You let out a gasp, shuddering at the feeling, trying to fight against Joshua’s grip but failing as he pushed and pulled your hips, bucking up into you with a stifled groan.

“J-Josh,” you stammered, arms shaking as you struggled to keep yourself up. Sensing your arms were about to give out, Joshua sat up, rolling you over onto your back and pinning you under him as his hips rested against yours, settling between your thighs. “You know how hard it was for me to not pull over earlier into an empty lot and fuck you in the car?” he whispered, rolling his hips as his lips brushed against your jaw, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

“How hard I was thinking about doing just that?”

You whimpered, holding back a moan as his cock continued to glide through your folds.

“About as hard as I am right now,” he continued. “Josh, please. I need you,” you whimpered softly, choking back a sob. Joshua lifted his head to take in the sight of your eyes shining with unshed tears, a pout on your lips. He moved a hand up to your cheek, cooing at you.

“Aww, poor baby. Feels so good?” he asked. You nodded, fighting back the urge to cry. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, rutting against you. “Bet I’d slip right in,” he continued. You nodded, babbling incoherent words between your pleas for him to fuck you.

“Shhh,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, pausing as you parted your lips and allowed his thumb into your mouth, sucking on the tip. “God, I just wanna use that pretty mouth of yours so bad,” he murmured, watching your lips wrap around his knuckle.

He could feel your tongue against his thumb, swirling around it lazily.

“Is that okay?” he asked softly, making you open your eyes. “Can I use your mouth, beautiful?” His cock twitched against you when you nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled his thumb from your mouth and pushed himself up. “Come here,” he murmured as he sat back against the headboard, helping you up and guided your hand to his cock now coated in your arousal.

You started stroking him languidly, making him choke back a moan. “Use your mouth, pretty,” he urged. “Show me what a slut you are for my cock.” No sooner than the words were out of his mouth, he had to bite down on his knuckles as you took him in your mouth, bobbing your head as you held the base of the shaft firmly. “F-fuck, baby,” he groaned.

“That’s it,” he encouraged you. “Take all of it like a good girl, I know you can.”

You moved your hand, sinking down until the tip of his cock reached the back of your throat. Joshua moved his hand to the back of your head, pushing down just a little more, letting out a shudder when you gagged around his cock. He let you back up for air, praising your efforts.

“Just like that, keep going.”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, stroking it faster before spitting on the tip, making Joshua hiss. “Fuck,” he moaned, trying to keep the sound in the back of his throat. “When did you turn into such a dirty slut?” he asked, holding back another moan as you took him back in your mouth, sinking down all the way again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten such sloppy head and watching you try and swallow him down was making it harder and harder to hold back his orgasm.

He was about to just fuck your mouth and be done with it when you pulled off, noticing his cock twitching. “Gonna cum?” you asked looking up at him. Joshua shook his head, grabbing your wrist. “Not yet,” he answered. “Come here.” He pulled you into a messy kiss, ignoring the salty taste of his precum on your tongue as he guided you onto your back.

Your thighs spread as he settled between them, leaning onto his side a little to open you up for him.

He brought two fingers to your mouth. “Open,” he instructed. You did as he said, taking his fingers in your mouth and coating them in your saliva. Joshua pulled them from your mouth, moving them down to your sex and rubbing them against your slick folds before pushing past them and teasing your slit.

You sighed as he pushed one finger in first, curling it carefully and pumping it in and out before adding the second. Once he was knuckles deep, he started curling his fingers against your walls, thumb brushing over your clit as he kept his gaze on your face.

You moaned softly, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him down to hide your face. “Feel good, baby?” he whispered in your ear. You nodded with a muffled whine. Joshua chuckled as he continued to finger you, stretching your walls as he scissored you open, prepping you to take his cock.

The tension had started when you were grinding on him but that had been localized to your clit. This tension was more. Your clit and inside your stomach like a rubber band being pulled back and increasing the tension. Soon you were going to snap. “Shua!” you gasped, thighs threatening to close and they would have had he not been leaning against on, pinning it to the mattress under his weight.

“You gonna come for me, pretty?” he asked softly. You nodded, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your moan. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me.” Your back arched off the mattress as your orgasm drew closer and closer. “S-Shua,” you whined in hid neck.

Joshua pulled back to look down at you. “Open your eyes,” he ordered. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his in the dark room and the smirk that spread over his face had yours burning. “Keep them open,” he urged. “Wanna watch you cum. Look at me when you cum,” he added.

You whined, walls fluttering around his fingers as your orgasm started to wash over you. Joshua held your gaze as his fingers fucked you through your first orgasm of the night. You whined, hips following his movements until you were begging him to stop.

Joshua let out a soft chuckle as he pulled his fingers out of your soaking cunt. “So pathetic and pretty when you cum,” he murmured, bringing his fingers coated in your essence to your lips. “Open for me,” he continued, sliding his fingers over your tongue when you parted your lips.

“Clean them for me.”

While your tongue lapped at his fingers, he pushed your sleep shirt up with his free hand, exposing your chest. “Fuck, I missed these,” he murmured, hand ghosting over your chest. He pulled his fingers from your lips, chucking when you pouted and whined for his fingers back.

“I promise you’ll get them back in a bit, baby. Let me take care of this first,” he murmured, tugging your shirt up and off when you finally sat up for him. His shirt was quick to join the pile of discarded clothes on the floor as he knelt between your thighs. “Shit, wait,” he said hesitating. “Do you have a condom?” he asked. You waved towards the guest bathroom, still coming down from your high.

Joshua climbed off the bed and snuck into the bathroom, opening the drawers as quietly as he could, finding an unopened box of condoms in the back of one of the drawers. ‘Jackpot,’ Joshua thought to himself as he carefully and quietly opened the box, placing it back in the drawer before shutting it and returning to you. He tore open the foil packet, pulling out the latex and carefully rolled it on.

Once securely on, he climbed back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs and grabbing your hips to pull you against him. He took the base of his cock in his hand guiding the head to rub against your clit, making you whine in anticipation. Joshua spit into his hand and added it to the lubrication on the condom and rested the tip against your slit.

“You still with me, angel?” he asked, looking down at you. Your eyes opened to meet his and nodded. “I’m still here,” you replied. “Want you so bad, Shua,” you whined. Joshua fought the urge to laugh at how cute you were. “Open them a little more,” he said, tapping the inside of your thigh with his free hand. You spread your legs a little wider, groaning as you felt him start to push the head of his cock into you.

“Mmm, fuck,” Joshua swore under his breath. “So tight and warm,” he breathed out, easing his way in, gliding against your walls. Your thighs fell open wide as he bottomed out, letting all of him in. “Good girl,” he murmured, leaning over to press a kiss to your temple.

“Taking me so well.”

You gasped as he gave you a shallow thrust. “Sore?” he asked and you shook your head. “N-no,” you stuttered. “Feels so good. So full.” Joshua smirked against your skin, pulling back and giving you a singular thrust, relishing in the sound that escaped your lips and the way your walls clenched around him. “So. Fucking. Tight,” he hissed in between thrusts.

“But taking me so well. Like you’re my own personal slut,” he groaned, hips setting a steady pace as he thrust into you. “My own little fuck toy, right?” he asked. You nodded weakly. Joshua scoffed, fingers closing around your throat firmly but not so tight you couldn’t breathe.

“Answer me, you dirty little slut,” he growled. “Yes,” you gasped. Joshua raised a brow. “Yes what?” He slowed his hips, allowing you a moment to speak. “I’m your little fuck toy,” you whispered. He smirked, picking up the pace, his hips hitting your ass. “If only your father could see his little girl right now. Getting railed by the Sunday school teacher.”

You whined, your hands wrapping around his wrist as he held you down by the throat. Your walls fluttered around him and he chuckled softly. “Of course the little slut likes getting choked,” he scoffed. “Such a dirty whore,” he murmured. “Too bad you aren’t more of a brat,” he continued. “Would love to fuck the attitude out of you.”

“Shuh-Shua!” you whined. His pace quickened, releasing your throat and moving his hand up to your mouth. “Open,” he ordered. You obeyed immediately, welcoming his fingers in your mouth to shut you up. “Gonna fuck you for real now,” he muttered, his free hand moving up your stomach to your chest, squeezing and kneading.

“Should I turn you over and fuck your like the slut you are?”

You moaned against his fingers and Joshua chuckled lightly, pulling his fingers from your mouth before pulling out of you, giving your pussy a light slap when you whined in protest. “Turn over on your stomach,” he ordered. You rolled over, muffling a squeal as he grabbed your hips and lifted them, grabbing one of the pillows and folding it in half to place under your stomach.

Once he was satisfied, he guided the head of his cock back to your entrance, pushing into you with ease and taking both your hips in his hands. “Now you really need to be quiet,” he warned. You cried out into the sheets, muffling your moans and mewls as Joshua pounded into you from behind You were sure the sound of his skin hitting yours would wake your parents up but surprisingly, you didn’t hear a peep from them.

“Fuck,” Joshua groaned, hands sliding to squeeze your ass. “Next time I think I’d like to fuck your ass,” he growled, letting out a breathless laugh when your walls tightened around him. “Does my little cockslut want that? Want me to fuck your ass? Bet you’d even let me do it without a condom, wouldn’t you?”

You nodded fervently, keeping your face hidden in the sheets. “And I bet you’d let me fill you up. Just fill your ass with cum and turn you into my own personal cum dumpster. Wouldn’t you?” You nodded again, gasping as you felt his nails dig into the flesh of your ass.

“I’d fuck you so hard you would be able to sit or walk,” he groaned, hips faltering as his own orgasm drew closer. “Fuck, m’not gonna last much longer. You close, angel?” You whined in the sheets, begging him for more. “Touch yourself then, sweetheart. Do what sluts do and get yourself off. Cum on my cock like a good little slut.”

Your hand darted between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and working circles around it in time with Joshua’s thrusts. With each pass over your clit and drag of his cock against your walls, your orgasm drew near. The tension pooling in your abdomen snapped and you released, a gush of warm liquid rushing out of you as you came with a muffled cry.

Joshua wasn’t far behind, the spasming of your cunt pushing him over the edge and he leaned over your back, sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he emptied into the condom, hips riding out both your climaxes until he finally slowed to a stop.

After a couple moments, Joshua pulled from you, letting out a deep inhale as he pulled the condom off and tied it off before getting off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. You could hear the faucet in the sink running before it shut off and Joshua returned with a wet washcloth, starting to wipe you down and clean you up.

Once he’d finally wiped the remnants of your release from your lips and thighs, he helped you put your shirt back on before pulling his and his underwear back on and settling under the covers with you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

Silence washed over you before he finally spoke. “So, this isn’t exactly the way I wanted things to go,” he murmured in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek and tugging your closer. “But I still really want to take you on a proper date.”

A smile spread across your face and you turned to look back at him, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I’d really like that,” you said softly. Joshua’s lips spread into a smile before he pressed a couple of chaste kisses to your lips. “But only if we can keep having mind-blowing sex afterwards,” you whispered, making him bite back a laugh.

“I think I can manage that, angel.”

ⓘ Graphics made by me. Content and support banners made using a template by cafekitsune. I do not allow reposts, translations, or continuations of my works. All writing and graphics are ©️ kwanisms.

[regina-the-sorceress]

So I get asked a lot why I talk like a druid but dress in black like a necromancer. And the truth is that I like the aesthetic, it makes me feel good. People don't have to dress a certain way to be a certain kind of person.

And on the subject of druids; they're a lot more rigid in their beliefs than they like to pretend. Most specialty casters are. Can people cause harm to the natural order? Of course. Does that mean we need to completely separate ourselves and live in seclusion? Of course not.

Pyromancers see every problem as something to burn, necromancers haven't met a corpse they didn't want to raise, druids haven't met a tree that didn't need protecting. It all gets exhausting when you realize how stuck in their ways these specialists are. "When the only tool you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail."

I'm out here building a toolbox, sometimes you need a wrench, sometimes a hammer, or a drill. But if you limit yourself to just what you know, you lose sight of all other options.

A man came to me, he was having sunstroke daily with his farm work, and the local healer just kept fixing him over and over. I gave him one of my sun resistance necklaces, he hasn't needed to see that healer for sunstroke again. The healer was good at his job, but he couldn't see past his specialty to the underlying problem. His solution was either come in for daily healing or stop working.

This is what I mean by sustainable magic. Magic that works, long term, for the problems people face every day.

Sorry I got off topic, so yeah, I dress in black, wear black lipstick, black nails, show my skin off, and in general am pretty chill despite looking like a teenager's idea of a hot necromancer. Anyway! Have a pleasant day!

[blueberrypancakesworld]

It was his will - Under the banner of heaven

Priest!Samuel x fem!reader

warning : +18, smut, kinda naive/inncoent reader, religion as right for actions, implied serial rapist, kissing, some blood play, afab-reader, mentioning of kidnapping

Summary : The priest of a small congregation together is not easy. Especially when God is always giving you new plans and after an "accident" he had to build this existence. He did not pursue his nature until he laid his eyes on a beautiful single flower that was just waiting to be picked by him.

Info : So this has to be one of my darkest ideas for his charcters but I really wanted to write it. A corrupted priest using his power for his own right...jup I want that. So have fun reading this be aware of the warning and have fun reading ;)

masterlist

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

°Religion. He was the executor of God's word, so it was only right that everything the Lord told him to do went to him, wasn't it? It was his right, his power to do what he wanted because deep down in his inner being, which was not yet taken over by religion, he knew that he could do anything as long as he put the ,,Amen" behind it, it was too easy. Too easy, unlike his brothers, to become the leader here and not the tool like his brothers around him. Not a carpenter in his own company but a man of power...like his father. His father who had left blows on him after the first accident but then it was a marming and in the end it was egall. Because only the power of God mattered.

°Then the new beginning in the new little community of only a few hundred people, not even a thousand, it was perfect to build the church there and the influence of the Lefferty family was known throughout Mormon circles and for the first time he felt what this cohesion through religion really was. What power this could give one, this power that was simply given to him as he hammered the last nail into the wood for the church of the community, the only church in the community, the shelter under his leadership. Samuel Lafferty. He and his wife would become the example of the image of God with his children preserving the image of perfection but even without them he alone would be the leader of this group. 

°A group that was completely at his mercy, they were a community that had no one else to turn to and had only him as their patron and sanctifier. He was their god of all. He was God's power and word and always kept the lights on in the church and the lamps burning because he knew that lost souls would come to him and he hid behind his smile and understanding look as he had always done since the incident that forced him to leave the city and found this one. This sucubus, the demoness so stupid as to scream her filthy hands at him to push him a god away from her, he had no choice because he had to judge the evil and lewd, didn't he? He had no choice but to put his hands on her first to look at her body and take it to try to clean the body of the slut. He hadn't intended to spill blood...had he?

°But what did he care, it was over and he had left so much more blood that it wouldn't change the fact that God would forgive him. He was the voice of God, the wolf who took his sheep and ate them up with skin and hair until there was nothing left but an empty hollow to feast on again and again and again. On which he could feast, on which he could lay his hands, on which he could satisfy his lust, on which he had a place for his "seed" that he did not want to give to his wife. Because in reality he hated her, he hated her and the children, it was his father's duty that had compelled him. He had never been used to it, he had been destined to this by God. However, he wolf quickly realized that sheep felt comfortable around a hunter. That they didn't run away but came closer and closer until he could just grab them.

°Why he had his demoness in the cellar, the church turned off the light when the trap had snapped shut until he got bored, the fire of the hen, the demon went out and she got cold, he no longer had his fun now for one last time maybe but it was tiring and he felt he needed a new one. A new toy. A new toy didn't last long it was always like this the last few times and then it was dead his toy was a casual affair. Until he saw her in this enclosure with the sheep. She was perfect, she wasn't like the other sheep, she wasn't the same, she had a real demon inside her. A demon that he knew only he could exorcize.

°He then waited until the evening slowly came over the village and said goodbye to his wife, the kiss on her cheek almost making him sick. If he could, he would part from her, leave her and all this behind him, all he needed was the new sheep, all he needed was her and a place. It would be perfect, but the voices around him, his wife's verbosity and his children's giggles brought him back to reality. A reality that the wolf had to accept until the doors opened and closed and a broad grin appeared on his lips. My darling went through his mind and he walked through the group of people who were pledging for the evening mass to get to her.

°,,Good evening, priest," she said and he could see her tension slipping away as if this simple house of God was really demanding everything of her. He stretched out his hand and placed it on hers, feeling how his understanding was right - warm, soft skin, perfect to leave his mark on. ,,God will rule over you, lay his hands on you and make you clean from everything, my sheep, I'm glad you're here," he greeted her and finally took his hand from her before placing it on her shoulder. He brought her into the church and he saw it. Saw how she hardly dared to look at him, how she was beaming with warmth, she didn't seem to know what was happening to her. It was the natural attraction to faith in its form

°She sat down with the others on the wooden benches, he led the service and said the prayers, read from the Bible, praised his congregation and, true to form, his eyes were always on her. She was too special to be left in this place. It was only his right to take care of her and put her on the right path, to drive out the demon and exercise his power over her, because there was no such thing as rejection. She didn't have that choice, she should consider herself lucky and above all worthy that he had chosen her. That all the other victims of his word and deeds were nothing compared to her. She just let him burn in the fire of hell, she threw herself at him as if there was no other choice. He saw exactly how she was the last one to get up from the bench, probably the last one to stand when it came to the blood of the Lord.

°He held the golden chalice in his hand and gave one after the other a sip. He felt a wave of excitement go through him as she was the last to go, it seemed as if only she existed when she came to him. She knelt dutifully as if she had been made to do nothing but serve him, kneel for him, take him and fulfill his wishes. He put the cup to her lips with more force than necessary and had to suppress a grin as she backed away. A frightened virgin in the face of her true husband. However, he put his hand on the back of her head for a moment it looked to the others like he was helping her but he couldn't help but imagine her between his legs sucking his cock so good for him, the tears running down her cheeks forcing her to take more. But as quickly as he had these "righteous" thoughts, they disappeared again and he released her. He saw her brief, almost apologetic smile as if it was all her fault... but wasn't it?

°He saw her stand up again, her gaze going to the ground and back to the bench. It was only moments before, after a final prayer, he shuffled the sheep and made his way through the crowd until he reached her. Touching her on the shoulder, she turned to face him, but was met with kindness. ,,My dear, I have a request, well, you could say God's request. I would like to hang up some pictures of the children for tomorrow and prepare other things I thought you could help me?" he asked and saw after a few moments that she had no idea that her naivety would harm herself when she nodded and agreed to hide from her other sheep. He took her with him and told her to go to the alat and he closed the big double door to keep her with him. The sheep was in his paws and the wolf could drop his costume.

°,,You know, maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but we know each other, don't we? Tomorrow afternoon I'll give my blessing to the young new couples in our parish," he began and walked down the aisle towards the altar, seeing how he had her she naturally asked what it was about with a certain shyness. But he let her fidget it still took a little time so he walked past her his eyes still undressing her. The white cap on her head hid her hair and he wanted to slide his hand into it, pull it, see how she sounded. The dark blue dress covered her body, leaving only her hands free. A true virgin in this damned unholy place. He went to the altar, took the chalice again and looked at her reaction. Would she respond to this subliminal provocation or ignore it?  What would his sacrifice do, it almost drove him mad. ,,That's nice, our community needs more couples... even if I won't be there," she almost whispered and her gaze went to the ground, her eyes no longer looking at him.

°But he wanted it, he needed her to look at him, he wanted to see her reaction. ,,Why is that? You're a pious, good and pretty little flower," he made the first move and put the goblet down, seeing that she was still looking at him, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress. He made her nervous, turned her on and entered her head without her being able to do anything because it was her distorted thoughts, sinful thoughts that let him in. ,,Answer me why not dear?" he asked, placing his cool fingers under her chin, lifting her head and watching her despair grow. He knew he had power over her and it was stimulating.

°He could feel her tension, she was in a turmoil oh he could just hear it in her heart, in her hot bloodbane where the lifeblood was, he wanted to hurt her, wanted to see what she looked like, what she would do. What would she do when he put the fiery cross on her skin. ,,You need a mark, the touch of a man dear...it's your naivety that led you to the devil," he chided as he let out an excited grunt as his hand traveled up her side to her breasts. Not wearing a bra, with a flower in her hair and a smile that was too sweet. A slut, a demoness his next victim. He squeezed the soft skin and heard her gasp, the first of many sounds once he had her, down in the cellar under the church the real reason for the construction. Down in the purification room on the snow-white bed that would soon be stained with blood when he took her. He was sure no, he knew he was her first, that he would stain her, that he would take the brut if she carried one, that the pain would be nothing more than his care. ,,I beg no Samuel I will-" but he interrupted her pleas it wasn't meant for up here but his bitch had yet to learn that she would learn she would be good for him. With his hand around her neck, his hand that was on his slowly slipped away but he praised her with a kiss on her neck that she kept her hand on the cross.

°She kept it there a good girl in his eyes but he wanted more his now free hand ran over the fabric undoing the buttons that held the fabric together on her chest. Her cry came over muffled as he put his hand over her mouth, his fingers moving into her mouth, the warm fruit just one of her many inner assets. The coughing and gasping as she didn't know what to do but he wanted all the more from her. Letting his hand wander on her skin and down her torso, he left red streaks behind, her wiggling and her excited fear only made him press himself even more against her, his hardness getting a wave of excitement every time. ,,You have no idea how dirty you are but do you want me to tell you something?" he asked and the silence hung in the air for a moment before she nodded as best she could and pressed herself against him in a moment of surprise as his hand slowly went down to her center.

°She nodded again not knowing what to do but she had a choice in the face of a man of God. A man of God who wanted her, she should be grateful, shouldn't she? ,,I will take care of you, purify you, accept you and be with me due...but you are better than all the others, I know it" he told her what he was true, what he wanted and what he was going to do. His cool fingers ran over her cervix, lathering her cheeks as she should not have been attracted to all this. But maybe he was right. Maybe he was right about everything, manylicghf she was possessed, unclean and had to be cleansed by him.

°,,Please-my Lord...make me whole," she begged slowly, her head intoxicated by the wine that was different from the others, her insides burning with desire as the others simply trusted him and he could strike. His jaw closed around her and he ate her. He felt her attempts to get free diminish as the drugged wine did its best and after a few minutes she lay almost motionless in his arms. He carefully took her body in his arms, the light of the candles in the kitchen illuminating her. He watched her, still aroused, as her breathing slowed, his lust for her only increased.

°He looked around, his gaze averted from the cross and the candles went out, the trap snapped shut and the wolf carried its prey into the cellar. Down the stairs into the great room. It was pleasant, except for the blood on the floor, which was splattered on the walls, the bare light and the chains of eggs on the walls and the bed. He couldn't risk losing his darling, not as long as he didn't get tired of her. ,,Do you see how nice it is here?" he asked her, knowing he wouldn't get an answer as he laid her on the bed and placed the necklace almost over her neck, ankles and wrist. He could play with her, use her like his personal doll, direct her and show her off. Perfection as soon as the cross cleanses you went through his mind as he looked at the cross on his neck, the metal already dark from the flames of how often he had used it to place it on the skin of his victims, but she. She would get it often enough.

°He reached into his trouser pocket, took out the knife and began to cut her clothes off - she didn't need them for what he was going to do to her. He looked at her naked body, his hands wandering over her body, the flawless skin seemed so pure. He left red streaks on her and saw how warmth left itself on the scratches. Her breasts were so soft that he slowly moved to her on the bed, but she still didn't realize that in her dream she must have perceived it differently. ,,What are you dreaming about?" he asked, kissing his way down her neck, leaving bites and marks harder and harder. He wiped away the blood he had pulled from her neck.

°But like everything, it was only the beginning as he spread it over her body with his fingers. He tampered with her breasts, pinching the sensitive nipples and despite her fainting, a shudder went over her body. ,,Oh I know you can feel me, can you feel my lust? Consider yourself lucky for my attentiveness," he greeted her and rubbed his arousal against her, his hands around her neck, hardly waiting for her to wake up and see the marks he had left on her. The stains of his cum on her thighs stained the bed. He stroked her hair in farewell as he rose from her, looking at the demoness first, seeing the creature that needed to be cleaned. But inside he knew that once again, by his own word, his own right, she was his next perfect victim. His property forever.

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

@angelsanarchy , @thatsthewrongwallcraig , @unforgettable444 , @roryculkinsgf , @icarus-star , @oceansrose2002 , @bibliophile221b ,

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

My biggest problem with leftist thought, and the thing that ultimately keeps me from considering myself genuinely leftist, is that nothing in the world -- absolutely nothing -- can function without boundaries. We know this from every level of our own lives -- if we don't or aren't permitted to establish and preserve healthy boundaries for ourselves, we will always end up victimized by someone or something, intentionally or unintentionally.

And leftists and leftist communities are honestly pretty good (with exceptions, but *generally* pretty good) at the skills and systems that help people locate, articulate, and maintain boundaries with people they love -- or more broadly, among people who are in an overall positive relationship. That's why the praxis tends to revolve around cultivating Beloved Community, mutual aid, and the like -- because those are the contexts in which leftist practices of consensus, consent, conflict resolution, and restorative justice absolutely flourish. You know the saying about when you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail? Those things are the hammer that leftists own; of course they are keen on the idea of a world full of nothing but nails.

The problem is that boundaries are still completely vital, foundationally vital for human life and well-being, when you are among people who do not love you. And the *problem* problem is that the tools and techniques for establishing and securing your boundaries are not transferable. What works within the Beloved Community fails outside of its scope. If it ain't a nail, it simply cannot be hammered. You can *hit* it with your hammer, but you're not going to be pleased with the results.

The world that leftists imagine can *only* consist of a communion of beloveds. They don't have a tool set for dealing with anyone else. At best, attempts to establish boundaries simply fail, and they get run over by their opponents. At worst, they put down the metaphorical hammer and switch over to, as Audre Lorde would say, the Master's tools, and become functionally indistinct from any other ideology enforcing obedience through fear and punishment.

I love the values and vision of leftist movements, but I just can't get past this issue where it seems like they fundamentally run out of ideas when it comes to the hard reality that not everyone on Earth is your friend now, *or ever will be.* As much as I believe we can and should (must, even!) massively expand our communities of care, the notion that we'll one day live in a totalizing Fellowship of All Humankind governed primarily by a worldwide commitment to loving our neighbors -- well, I can say with quite a bit of confidence that I won't live to see the day. And I think people alive right now deserve to hear the best possible solutions *for the world we currently live in,* not the hypothetical world that leftists would be really good at organizing.

Liberalism is obviously not without its shortcomings, but it was forged on top of the ruins of a civilization that had all but destroyed itself through centuries of brutal, relentless violence aimed at eradicating religious, ideological, and political opposition, and its central, powerful insight is that *eliminating your enemies* is not a worthwhile goal. You simply have to figure out how to exist alongside them, and liberalism is, at its heart, a set of contractual principles and functional boundaries that are designed to work while you're living among people you don't necessarily like even a little bit. And that's going to keep being the situation on the ground for a while now -- you will have to resolve conflict in your life more often, and with greater stakes, when you're in confrontation with someone who has not agreed to view you as a loved one. That's when you need the boundary-setting tools of civil society, as distinct from the tools of Beloved Community.

I don't think leftists really have tools appropriate to civil society. They just keep telling me things like "we make us safe," which is beautiful, but like, who the fuck is "we"? Because some of Us are making the rest of us extremely unsafe right now, in ways that we cannot put off addressing! I happen to agree that the *best possible* redress for most of our problems begins with choosing love and solidarity, but that's currently only *barely* actionable in our own individual relationships. It's not actionable *at all* on the systemic level.

And I just don't feel like I have any more time to waste on solutions that can't be practiced. Right now.

[softer-ua]

What I think I love the most about BNHA is that Horikoshi is one of a few storytellers who have figured out that change doesn’t come from remolding a personality but giving that person new priorities and more prospective

Instead of having just one life changing event open Katsuki’s eyes and catapult him into being a good person Horikoshi has had Katsuki repeatedly knocked down to prove that Katsuki’s values didn’t align with his goals and that he was going to HAVE to change

You can’t be a great hero without being /heroic/. Winning is getting the job done, but winning isn’t the job, saving is.

If you don’t prioritize both you get neither.

So Katsuki learns the value of different strengths, aiming to hold himself to better standards, and gaining new skills. He’s still reaching for the same goal but with new priorities about how he gets there because the journey matters as much as the destination

If you spend the whole road trip raging at your fellow travelers it’s going to spoil the view when you get where you’re going

Katsuki is still an agressor, still stubborn as a mule, and still full of grandiosity

But he’s learned a new perspective, has sorted out his priorities, which gives him a more morally positive way of being

He hasn’t gotten gentler, but what deserves his ire and wrath has shifted.

It’s becoming more pointed instead just blanketed across everything. Anger is a tool, but when a hammer is the only tool you have every problem looks like a nail

He’s still unyielding but he’s not stubborn for the sake of it anymore. You still quite literally have to hogtie him to subject him to something he doesn’t want, but he considers what others want, the skills they offer, and they’re insight as he relentlessly chases his goals

He’s gaining control of his own obstinance now, it’s becoming a tool instead of a hindrance. Which is great because it’s another fundamental pillar of his character, it should be developed not erased

He’s still about himself, but what he considers to be his has definitely shifted

He still values victory above all but what that victory looks like is different, it’s no longer about knocking everyone else down and being the lone man standing above everyone.

It’s about ensuring that he isn’t the lone man standing and that he get to stand with everyone else

[sol-consort]

Well, Solas and Gaia kissed (I locked in the solas romance), and it was good, and now he calls me "my heart" occasionally and I like that but I'm still waiting for him to crack my back like a glow stick and shove his magic staff up my coochie wizard style. But also, I feel guilty because I'm planning an "exit strategy" by flirting with Cullen in case things go bad so I can rebound with Cullen in case anything happens. I mean, everything's going good rn (almost too good 🤔) but, I've seen so many people saying that the Solas broke them and even you warned me about him so I'm scared, like I'm extra sensitive I cry watching max and ruby, I cried when Ashley and Shepard reunited in me2, I cried playing Andromeda becauseit was set 6000 years after the og mass effect trilogy. My point is I get heartbroken really easily, so I'm worried, I'm shaking in my boots, I'm clutching my metaphorical rosary, waiting for something to go wrong. If I was smart, I would probably leave at the first sign of trouble, but knowing myself, I will probably stick it out for the angst and then complain about it later.

AN EXIST STRATEGY i can't

honestly, I'd be lying if I said i don't do the same thing. Always keeping a side hoe in case things go south with the main babe. That was Jacob for me in ME2, I went as far as his romance allowed, broke up with him, then dated Garrus as far as his romance allows, broke up with him, then finally locked in with Thane. Man, that is one awkward ship crew I tell you.

I'm trying to like Cullen but it's...eh. Like a human noble is his ideal partner and guarantees the best ending but I'm not getting the appeal about him. He's like Any other frat fuck boy, except his frat is the templars with a strick moral code. You can go to any bar during football season and spot 7 of him there.

Maybe I just don't know him enough well? Josephine's comment stuck with me, the law of instrument one "If the only tool you have is a hammer, it is tempting to treat everything as if it were a nail."

Also, because it's EA and Bioware, I'm lowkey worried his romance will have reinforced gender stereotypes, and I'll be treated as The Wife™

Kaidan romance didn't have that problem, but he was soft and into stronger women, Idk if it's applicable here. I swear Cullen's insta following page would be filled with those "alpha" type pages who post about "cultured men" and "embrace your inner sigma" I also installed a mod to give his face a slight tan bc he looked like uncooked raw chicken breasts. And shiny new armour.

For now, I'm flirting with Casaandra and having the time of my life. The flirting is basically me gawking at her swinging swords so powerfully and her getting flustered and saying nonono it's nothing special. She's an idealist with a kind heart I'm on my knees. Also new armour mod.

Josephine might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and her cleverness. Oh my god. I want her biblically. I installed so many pretty dress mods for her! I cycle through them and feel my soul heal whenever I visit her. She's the one I like most so far, I might lock in with her after taking a spin or two around.

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

It's kind of amazing, how the same people that say men can't be victims of bigotry, have a sliding scale to determine if they're the evil victims or the evil oppressors.

And neither yields progress.

https://www.tumblr.com/yourtoradorasextendedwarranty/749502524503080960/i-have-to-ask-how-is-it-that-man-or-bear?source=share

It's not even that it's a sliding scale. Like I said in the post they don't actually care.

It's actually kind of unfortunate but a lot of people on the progressive left and the neoprogressive left and certain individuals on the moderate to farther sides of the right have this general mentality of "my ideas are correct no one else's are therefore~" and will use that idea concept to basically suppress everyone that's not them. And while from a moral degradation standpoint I kind of understand where the right is coming from some people go too far.

Fact of the matter is, a lot of instances come about where the progressive left in the Neo progressive left think that they actually care or pretend to care about individuals when in actuality they don't they see people as tools and those tools are meant for them to beat other people with. Because like the Marxist they tend to be, the Hammer is a huge part of the hammer and sickle. And to a hammer every single thing looks like a nail. The issue comes from the fact that there are individuals who believe that the left actually cares about them but whereas progressives are involved oftentimes there is actually no care at least not genuine care it's all superficial shit. And that's just a fact they will use a class that they think are evil and oppressors as victims when they need to to use them as a cudgel to hammer everything down.

But that is unfortunately just progressivism in a nutshell. A group of people who want to slam on the gas in whatever direction they're pointed to by their Marxist leaders. And I'm never going to stop calling most people on the left Marxist because unfortunately a lot of them tend to be or have very Marxist ideals. Sadly that's just the world we live in. Groups of people that pose and pretend to actually give a damn about you and your plate only to then stab you in the back because you're the wrong sex, you're the wrong ethnicity, you're the wrong country, you're the wrong orientation, you have the wrong political ideology. Because if you pay attention and me and several of my follows and mutuals have also parroted this a lot, I have heard more racially charged slurs directed towards Black and Hispanic individuals from progressives and Neo progressives whenever it turns out that those individuals happen to lean right. They are hateful assholes who's only goal is "the cause". And that cause is communism. No one matters so long as they get there supposed communist Utopia.

[mysterious-cuchulainn-x]

Born in Darkness

Inspired by @vihola's post about her Consular and Inquisitor swapping places, and the fact that I ended up listening to "They Rule the Battlefield" this morning.

Jedi Miraathis is, I think, a bit more cautious than he is as Inquisitor; his family's escape from the Empire impressed him with the value of risks but also exactly what "risk" in that sense means. Sith Talryn is... well, see below.

For fifteen thousand years, the Jedi stood as the guardians of peace and justice in the Galactic Republic. But the Jedi had an ancient enemy, a darkness once banished to the black gulfs of uncharted space... and five thousand years after it was thought destroyed, that darkness returned.

And that was the end of everything.

Fire engulfed the planet, burning in all gradients and kinds. The concentrated plasma of turbolaser fire, raining down from the cruisers that floated within sight overhead; the acrid, smoking conflagrations of ruptured power lines and flammable construction materials, ignited by the bombardment; the searing lines of lightsaber blades as the Sith marauded across the world.

Coruscant had fallen.

And the Jedi had fallen with her.

Not ten yards from Talryn, a bald Master lay with his armor cuirass melted to slag. His right arm lay considerably closer. And, standing over the body, a figure of solid darkness, his murderous red saber humming with intent as he strode forward...

"Child."

Talryn's breath caught in her throat.

"There is power in you, child," the Sith mused, growling, and Talryn's terror only grew. "These parasites would have wasted your potential. But I do not waste. Look upon your future, for I shall make you a sorcerer."

Talryn woke with a gasp, forcing her hammering heart to slow its pace as she reached out across the Desmodus, steadying herself on the presences of her followers.

It was the Jedi's fault, that zabrak scholar in the desert.

"If every you wish to speak, or to escape your situation, I will do all I can to be available and assist you."

Escape. Assist. Her.

So what if Lord Andern had lied, so what if she had clawed her way out of the slave pits with blood and lightning, so what if she was nothing but a murderer and a tool—she was Talryn of the line of Kallig, and she needed no one's pity.

But... was it truly pity?

Jedi were fools, weak and naive and incapable, but that scholar... they had not crossed blades, but he had held more than his own against the Rakatan terrors in that buried cave. Surely he knew what she was, and no Jedi would have granted that pity.

Or perhaps she had overestimated him, and he would return to wherever the Jedi had fled to when their temple burned, and in the smoldering salvage of their archives he would find her name—on public broadcasts from Balmorra, in rumors and stolen secvids from Nar Shaddaa—and realize in agony how deluded he had been.

And then they would cross paths again, and at her master's order she would kill him.

The Force shall set me free.

A lie, like all the rest. Crueler, perhaps, but inescapable: there was no freedom in the dark side, only crushing power. Better, for those who could still choose, to die rather than be bound as she had.

But that Jedi had not been moved—at least, not by terror.

"If you intend to unleash your cruelty on the galaxy," he had said, not to her but to that artificial revenant, the long-dead prisoner who had made his cage a weapon, "Then I will stop you here, before you can inflict more suffering."

Talryn's nails dug into her palms at the memory; to say such things in her presence, in the company of a Sith—

But that was when he had turned to her.

Turned to her, a shattered composite of malice, and offered his empathy. The fool. Deluded, light-blind, stumbling idiotically in a galaxy already burned to ash.

"There is light in all places," he had said, as though Dromund Kaas were not a place, "in all things. Some beings must be stopped, but the light can but be slowed. Block it, trap it, chain it; it will find a way. All that is required is the decision to do so."

And then he had made his offer.

"There is one way of the Force," Talryn had sneered, "It is the way of death and destruction. Choose to be destroyed if you like, but I will not be so fragile."

The zabrak bowed his head, keeping his judgement—his weakness—to himself, and Talryn scowled. At least a fight would end something, instead of this interminable, unofficial treaty.

"I travel for Alderaan next," he spoke again. "After that, I know not. I do know that the reach of the dark side is long and its grip hard. Its powers of distortion are terrible... but only you can decide who you are, and what it is that you desire. Can the dark side grant you that?"

With that, he had finally vanished, and now Talryn sat alone in her cabin, thinking on his words.

If she had been a moment faster—lightning down his back, screams of agony and betrayal—Zash's sickly, approving smile.

No.

The dead Master's corpse in her nightmare.

Lord Ardern, his heart destroyed by Force corruption and the pressures of his so-called pragmatic sorceries.

Marshall Cheketta and his Jedi guards, withered and dismembered at her own hands.

She was Talryn of the line of Kallig, heir to mysteries older than the Emperor. She had survived the first conquest of the Republic, survived Sith stewardship and slavery and Korriban. She was an acolyte of the dark side, ruthless and unforgiving...

...and it would not take a Jedi to tell that she was dying.

It was hardly a unique affliction among Sith, of course, at least if her own masters were any example. Those who commanded the Force would always overpower those who obeyed it, but the Force exacted a price in return.

What did she want?

Survival. Strength. What else was there?

What had she lost, that night before which nothing was left to her, and after which she had nothing at all?

[vvatchword]

Protection

Dr. Lamb selected an office building down in the Neptune’s Bounty Drop, one across from the train station. The building had once been a construction office, meant as a temporary base of operations for the company that had built the Atlantic Express railway. In another world, it would have been condemned. Everything had been taken by industrious scavengers: the shelving in the closets, the light fixtures, even the nails for picture frames. The toilets and sinks had been ripped out, and piles of trash and excrement had built up in the corners. The stench was thick enough to swim through. Dr. Lamb bought it for a pittance from a man who looked at her like she had claimed to be the Queen of Sheba.

It was 7 AM on a Saturday when Dr. Lamb first walked into the building as its rightful owner. The minute she stepped through the door, a few huddled squatters lurched to their feet, lifting bottles and table legs. Three men, five women, two boys, all skin and bone. She noted the shaking hands, the open sores.

“My name is Dr. Sofia Lamb,” she said. “I have purchased this building as part of a social experiment.”

The squatters stared at her blankly.

“I have no intention of ejecting you unless you are the self-perpetuating poor.” She raised her purse. “I am willing to employ every one of you.”

One of the men started to cry silently. One of the women said, “What?”

“I am willing to employ you all, including the children. Your first job will be to help me clean this building,” she said. “And if any of you are electricians or carpenters, I will provide an increase in pay.”

One of the men dropped his bottle. “I’m a plumber.”

“Good. If you will help me fix this building, and if you can suggest the services of any other skilled tradesmen who are out of work, I will increase your pay twofold.”

“I know a carpenter,” said one of the women. She struggled to rise. “I’ll get her.”

“How are we going to clean this place?” asked one of the men. “We don’t have any tools.”

“I have brought supplies,” said Dr. Lamb. “There are brooms, dustpans, and a wheelbarrow outside of this door. Are there more of you here? I am looking to employ all of you.”

The plumber led Dr. Lamb to the second and third floors of the building, calling for strangers in the darkness. Most took up her job offer. The few who didn’t spat and swore. One threw an empty beer bottle at Dr. Lamb before she had finished offering him a paycheck. Dr. Lamb barely frowned before her newly-hired mob raised their improvisational weapons and chased the violent squatters out of the building.

“We shall start with the third floor and work our way down,” Dr. Lamb said.

Dr. Lamb stood by, directing work. At first, the workers piled the trash in an overflowing alleyway adjoining the building. Dr. Lamb quickly decided this would not do. As it was, the trash mounted nearly two stories high and blocked the windows on the first floor. Dr. Lamb thought of rats and cockroaches.

“Take the trash across the street to the other alley,” she said to her workers. “We shall have to clear out the alleys on either side of this building.”

She bought two more wheelbarrows from a nearby pawn shop for a dollar, and soon the plumber and his small family were hard at work pushing them across the street.

A crowd gathered at the front of the building to watch—shifty-eyed children, men in rags carrying paper sacks, painted women with weary eyes. When Dr. Lamb saw the onlookers, she stepped out of the door and said, “I am looking for workers to help me clear this building, as well as skilled tradesmen to help me repair it. I have only a limited amount of money, so I may only employ those who ask first.”

Eyes lit up throughout the crowd. It surged toward her. A drunk man yelled, “Hey, you need a nuclear physicist?”

People popped out of every hole. Dr. Lamb bought hammers, nails, buckets, planks, and tools for the tradesmen from the local pawn shop. Dozens swarmed in and out of the doors and dismantled the towers of junk framing the building.

She had stopped to oversee some children carrying sacks of old newspapers out of the front door when a big man in a brown trenchcoat pushed through the crowd. His face was expressionless and a plug of chewing tobacco jutted from his bottom lip.

“You moving in here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Need protection?”

“No.”

“You’ll need it, lady. This place is rough.”

“I will not need it.”

“No, you don’t get it.” He leaned closely. “You need protection. Things happen to people who don’t buy it around here.”

Dr. Lamb turned slowly to face him. Her eyes were steely.

“Is that so?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Then I shall purchase protection. But not from you.” She turned away. “Good day.”

By the end of the day, her crowd had cleaned the trash out of the building and cleared much from the alleyways. She walked through the building and said, “We are done for the day; meet me on the ground floor for your pay.”

She wrote 52 checks. Twenty-one of them went to children.

The plumber turned the check over gingerly, like it might evaporate in his fingers. “How do we know these are good?”

Dr. Lamb snapped her checkbook shut. “Take them to Mulligan bank tomorrow morning.” She turned to the crowd and spoke loudly. “I am looking for men who can protect this building tonight. I will pay well.” Hesitation. Then hands shot into the air.

From across the street, three Sinclairs watched grimly.

~*~*~*~

Dr. Lamb opened the business two weeks later. It had new fixtures, new windows, a sensible sign, fresh paint. Everything that could be bought from the Drop was; Dr. Lamb reluctantly stepped outside of it to buy the sign and the paint.

The streets whispered about her; the pickpockets and vagabonds lingered at the windows. The building glowed among its broken brethren, bright and perfect.

The sign read, “RAPTURE FAMILY CONSULTATION CENTER.”

Her first inkling of trouble was when the squatters realized they’d have to move elsewhere. They gathered at her door, grumbling.

“Please understand. I cannot pay you forever; my funds are finite,” she told them. “But I can help you stand on your feet. I will discover a solution to your problem, but you must give me time. Until then, if you can find something to pay me with, you can live in the rooms on the third floor.”

“What are you, some kinda idiot? I don’t have money,” said one man.

“Then bring me an object or a service,” she said. “I will do whatever I can to help you, but we must not be parasites.”

So people gave her old luggage, jars of jam, music boxes, ratty clothes. She boarded some old women in return for cleaning the building and aid in the kitchen. It was an orphan girl’s job to let people in at all hours should they need to sleep on the sofa in the waiting room or use the showers. The plumber and his two friends guarded the building at night with makeshift clubs, and in return, she gave their families refuge in the attic.

It was difficult at first. She could not fool herself; these were gifts. Sometimes she could not sleep; her conscience gnawed at her ribs.

“You are the enabler,” it whispered. “You are creating dependents. They will suck you dry. Only look at your checkbook, your physical limitations. You are not boundless, madam; you are no god.”

Indeed, she watched her bank account with an eagle eye. The first month, her savings dropped precipitously. So she sold most of her clothes, silverware, and unnecessary furniture. She considered moving to a smaller apartment. But when she came home late at night and saw Eleanor sprawled on her bed and thought of the enemies massing around them, she turned the thought away.

She was almost never home. She rushed in and out, made cursory examinations of Eleanor’s work, and then was gone. One night she rushed in to find that none of Eleanor’s work had been done; Eleanor lay on the floor drawing mustaches on the models in a magazine that smelled like cabbage. She did a double take: Eleanor was covered with cobwebs and her fingernails were black with dirt.

“Eleanor Lamb,” she said sharply.

Eleanor flinched and jumped to her feet.

“Where did you get that?” She pointed at the magazine.

“The mail.”

“I do not recall purchasing a magazine about…” She peered at the cover. “Clothes.”

“I think it’s a free advertisement.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Did you do your work?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Lamb glanced down at the papers on the table. “You are lying to me, Eleanor. And you are filthy. Have you been bathing?”

Eleanor looked at the floor. “No…”

“Go. Take a bath this minute.” Dr. Lamb pointed at the door.

Thereafter, Eleanor was only moderately cleaner, wore mismatched clothes, and would stack old work on top of the new work Dr. Lamb assigned to fool her. Dr. Lamb was much too busy to reprimand her. Her job was one that never ended. Every weekday, she would perform her services as a psychiatrist until five, then go down to the Drop and serve there until nine or ten in the evening. She spent every weekend there, from the early morning hours until the lights dimmed for night. She often forgot to eat and slept as little as four hours a night. Her eyes were red, and the skin was drawn taut over her cheekbones.

She provided several services: vouchers for dry cleaning, a small selection of rentable suits and dresses for job interviews, temporary lodging, low-interest loans, counseling. On her lunch hour, she pored over the business sections in the papers, and took short jaunts into different sections of the city to plot the growth of various companies. If she counseled businessmen, she would ask: “Are you thinking about expanding? What about Pauper’s Drop?”

“Too much risk, not enough profit,” one said.

“Too expensive,” said another. “I’d have to buy policemen, and that’ll run the prices up too high for the people there to buy.”

So she watched, she waited, she thought. Until the poverty’s backbone could be broken, she sent applicants to the businesses with the highest growth. Every hire was like the furtive gasp of a drowning person.

When Stanley Poole from the Rapture Tribune dropped by for an interview, she gave it without reservation.

“This is not charity, this is a business opportunity,” Dr. Lamb said. “Pauper’s Drop can be invigorated by an influx of capital.”

“If you’ll forgive me for being blunt,” said Poole, “this ain’t business as it’s meant to run. This is altruism. You’re not giving loans at competitive rates, you’re giving them laughably low…”

“At the moment, it is not financially viable, it is true. But most fledgling businesses do not make profits in their first months. You must understand that I have a vision. By giving these people jobs, I am removing the parasitic element.”

“But look at what you’re doing. This lot depends entirely on you. Without you, without your money, they’ve got nothing. Altruism.” Poole smiled wryly. “You’re not benefiting the best players. You’re going after the human trash. ‘The great should not be constrained by the small,’ yeah?”

“These are the great. They were invited by Andrew Ryan himself, were they not? Their abilities are going to waste. We all pull on the Great Chain.” She spread her hands. “I am simply… rearming them.”

“And what’s it to you?” he asked. “Why should you care?”

“I believe that in the long run, it is to my best interest that the Drop is shrunk, if not done away with completely.”

“It’s said they pay you in junk.”

“They pay me what they can pay,” she said. “There is a point to this experiment. If I can start a chain reaction of productivity, it should cause a domino effect that will eventually transform the Drop itself. The profits will rise, as well as the standard of living. It will increase profits for me; it will improve conditions for everyone.”

The minute the phrase came out of her, she knew it was wrong. She closed her mouth, beheld the charged diction of the socialist, felt suddenly that she was looking in on a person she could not recognize.

“Everyone, huh?” said Poole, and sucked air under his teeth.

She looked at him without blinking. “No. You have misread my intentions. It is not that I aim to help everyone in the city. That is impossible. I seek the greatest good for the greatest number of people. This does not inherently mean taking advantage of the individual’s rights. Is my aim really that different from Ryan’s?”

The Tribune ran a copy of her resignation letter beside her interview. Soon the city was on fire. Demands for interviews poured in on every side, and soon her face was plastered all over the business section. Citizens hissed about communism. USSR ex-pats grabbed her arm on the metro, hissing, “They were starving us, and we were ‘everyone’!”

Andrew Ryan wrote a blistering Sunday editorial.

“It seems that some have misunderstood the philosophy,” he wrote. “The aim of this city is not to make everyone ‘happy.’ The aim of this city is to elevate the best of humankind. Equal opportunity has been provided; it is up to us to take advantage of it. It is no man’s duty to play nursemaid to his fellows and insulting to believe that one is required.”

The morning after the paper printed, a man in a nicely tailored suit spat on Dr. Lamb’s shoes.

“Parasite,” he said.

She looked at him. It was an acknowledgment that he existed in space and nothing more. Then she walked on as though he had ceased to exist.

But on the streets of Pauper’s Drop, the vagrants whispered about her. Strangers tipped their hats to her on the street. People appeared on the doorstep at all times of the day. These were always different from the masses who shuffled in the dimness. It took Dr. Lamb a few days to realize what made them different: the looks in their eyes, the lifted brows, the trembling lips. They were lit up from the inside.

Then the unthinkable.

The brilliant young entrepreneur who ran Demeter came into her offices for what he called “testing the veracity of this psychiatry mumbo-jumbo.” His name was Chase Milton—young, attractive, mid-twenties. Mid-session, he sat up and took her by the hand, chuckling. She froze.

“All right, all right, I’ve got to drop the charade,” he said. “I don’t need an ounce of counseling.”

She stared at him dumbly.

“Look, I’ve heard about what you’re doing down in the Drop, and I love it. That letter you wrote to the council? You’ve hit the nail on the head. You know, I’ve always thought the biggest problem about this place is that there is no heart in it. Charity with a brain, that’s what I like. Not just throwing money in a hole without aim, not just treating the symptoms, going right after the source. You’re not giving handouts, you’re setting people on their feet so they can take off running. It respects the individual, raises city standards, takes out that godawful eyesore. I like that.” He reached into his pocket.

Dr. Lamb tensed.

Milton pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and slapped it on her desk.

“Put that into your business,” he said. “I hope you understand that this has got to stay hush-hush at the moment. I want you to know it’s the closest I’ve ever come to giving to a charity in my life.”

As he rose from the couch, Dr. Lamb lunged to her feet.

“I apologize, Mr. Milton, but I can not take this,” she said. “Not in this manner.”

“Sure you can,” he said, and put on his hat. “But if you’d prefer to think of it like a business arrangement, then think of it like this: I want to expand into the Drop, but I can’t sell my goods down there without protection, and that drives the prices too high. I can’t act like you do right now, given some of my connections. My father’s Dick Milton—Farmer’s Market and Milton’s Security, you know? He’d give me hell. So open it up, and I’ll come in, open a little grocery or something.”

He walked out.

She could have chased him. She did not.

It was the first time she had ever let anyone give her money.

Dr. Lamb could hardly look at it. It made the bile rise in her throat. She stacked it neatly and put it in her lockbox, but every time she opened the drawer it was there, staring at her with Andrew Ryan’s eyes. Every time she saw it, she had to think: “This is a business; this is a loan for the use of my business.” But all she did was look.

Some days, she would stand at the top of the stairs looking into the Drop, at her white building, then at the broken structures crumbling all around her and the hunched shades shambling, and she would close her eyes. In her mind, she began cleaning out the trash, and fixing the windows, and dressing the people, and paving the street, until everything was shining and new.

At last, she took the cash and she spent it. She gave it as a low-interest loan to the plumber and a few of his cohorts, all skilled workers. They bought the building across from her own. When Dr. Lamb gave them the money, the plumber took her hand, kissed it, and said nothing.

The two whitewashed buildings sat across from each other like the gates of Babylon. They bled red ink. The papers came down to photograph them, and, laughing, called them “Lambville on Lamb Street.”

Lambs to the slaughter, sang headlines and captions. Lambs to the wolf’s den. Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?

With the plumber busy, Dr. Lamb did not purchase the services of anyone else to protect the building. His protection had devolved to a pinch of information in the background of her mind; she simply didn’t think to renew it.

~*~*~*~

One Saturday morning, as Dr. Lamb marched to meet the train, she bought a newspaper with a big headline screaming, “Fontaine Opens Orphanage in Pauper’s Drop.”

She flipped it open on the car. A big photo on the front page showed a close-up of an ample doorway, a check-in counter with flowers in a vase, and behind the smiling receptionist, a rainbow arching over images of dancing children.

“The Little Sisters Orphanage opened a new location in Pauper’s Drop on Monday. The Drop location is the sixth and newest orphanage constructed by Fontaine Futuristics. Little Sisters Orphanage only accepts girls from infancy to the age of ten. Services provided to the girls include meals, education, and healthcare, as well as questionnaires and counseling for prospective parents. When asked why boys were not accepted, Fontaine Futuristics’ owner, Frank Fontaine, said, ‘I’m going to let someone else corner that market.’

“The new orphanage was brought to the attention of the council on January 6, but following the precedent set by the previous five orphanages, it was allowed. Council members who voted for their approval mentioned concerns about mismanaged children being groomed for entry into criminal elements.

“City founder Andrew Ryan, who has voted against the orphanages in each session, said, ‘Although it is true that children cannot care for themselves, the duty falls upon their family to raise them. To foist them on the arms of an unprepared public is akin to the bloated cuckoo laying its egg in the wren’s nest.’

“‘Does this place look public to you?’ Fontaine said. The rest of his speech is unprintable.

“Some comparison has been made between Mr. Fontaine’s orphanage and Dr. Sofia Lamb’s Rapture Family Consultation Center, also located in Pauper's Drop. Ryan stated that the city council is still determining the nature of Dr. Lamb’s business.”

She looked out of the window. The city streamed past in streaks of light. When had Fontaine started building? She could not remember. She had voted against the orphanages herself. They were obvious charities. They were the claws of the parasite digging in, the amorphous blob squatting, the endless void opening.

She gazed into the eyes of her reflection. Who was this person? Two months ago, she would have been able to say. There was an unspeakable sadness in her, as though she faced her own corpse: a funeral only she could attend. To admit the death would be to rip her own chest wide open. She had never been the sort of person for great displays. She had been raised to be silent, to listen, to perform on cue: one of three quiet, washed-out shapes standing still against a wall, hands crossed on her lap.

How funny, really—that she had run so far from her father only to end up a still, pale shape listening quietly against some new backdrop. Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old…

She raised her eyes. The colorless rainbow from the newspaper’s centerpiece arced over her forehead. For a moment, the sight arrested her. Against her will, she thought of Renaissance paintings and Madonnas.

If suffering is holy, she thought, what has that made me?

She closed her eyes, but the image was printed on the backs of her eyelids.

Pain was the price paid for being alive. Suffering was unavoidable except to the dead. If she were holy, oh—imagine the holiness that rolled up from the Drop! God should look down and shudder, that great coward. After all, what kind of suffering could such divine wealth allow?

The train squealed to a slow and steady stop. Around her, dark figures rose, hunched and stinking. She folded her newspaper under her arm. When she stepped out into the Drop, winged by the homeless, she drew up short. Something was wrong.

She took her time walking toward the ticket booth, head cocked, listening. Nothing sounded any different; nothing smelled any different. But the ancient animal within her raised its hackles: it sensed electricity in the air. The urge came to her: Run! Run!

She slowed her gait, breathed through her nose. Control. There was no sign of trouble, after all; there was no reason to listen to a meaningless emotional thrill when she had her reason. She was a god in the body of a beast; take the reins and twist the bit back. One step after another. Heel to toe. Five steps, one breath. In, out, in, out. The beast would listen to her, one way or another. If she had to wrench it down against the earth, she would wrench it.

She strode out of the station, one long step after another. She could not have seen herself that morning, but dark eyes followed her; she had worn white and gray and lavender; she stood out against the basalt and earth, faintly luminous. When she stopped, it was at the station steps, looking down over the Drop.

Her breath caught in her throat.

There was a crowd surrounding her little white building.

Her heart leapt into her throat. But still, she did not run. She walked. One step at a time. Heel to toe. Left, right, left, right: a soldier. A soldier. Suddenly she felt like a giant. She could see herself in her mind’s eye—the black-and-white rainbow—looming, giant-like, seeing everything, feeling everything—was this madness?

She strode through the crowd toward the front door; the crowd parted, and no one met her eyes. Her heart missed a beat: there was a toothy hole in her window and the stench of gasoline. The shakes started in her hands and went up through her shoulders. She felt as though her consciousness welled up through every cell of her body, that she was burning with the unbearable weight of all her life, and all her years, and all her self.

But then she drew short. There, sprawled on the ground in a pool of blood, was a beast of a man in a brown trench coat. His head was staved in. A bloody crowbar lay beside him, as well as a bucket of gasoline. The street was smeared with blood and brain and bits of hair.

A man set his hand on her arm.

“Don’t get your shoes soiled, miss. Walk around, if you please.”

“What happened here?” she said.

“This guy tried to break your window,” said the man. “It’s all right. We took care of him. Don’t bother calling the police or nothing. The Sinclairs will reclaim ‘im.”

“But…”

“No buts, lady. And don’t worry.” He glanced around the crowd. “We ain’t gonna let anyone do nothing to you.”

She walked into her building and sat down in her office. She could not open immediately because she could not seem to speak.

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[nailsupplyblog]

How should hard gel be applied on natural nails?

Are you interested in learning how to apply hard gel on natural nails? If so, you've come to the correct place. We'll discuss the tools you'll need and the procedures to follow when applying hard gel overlays and extensions.

ESSENTIAL ITEMS FOR APPLYING HARD GEL ON NATURAL NAILS

You'll need a few additional items in addition to hard gel to complete the nail augmentation. Following the list comes a more thorough explanation:

A nail drill or file. A nail brush and a cleaning wipe to clear away dirt. Nail pusher. Dehydrating cleanser or a dehydrator. Primer and a protein link. If it doesn't come with a brush, use a nail art brush to apply the hard gel (see below). Forms (used to complete expansions). Hammer lamp.

You only require those basic equipment to apply firm gel on natural nails. We offer a few recommendations for goods that will do the job correctly:

Protein Bond & Primer by Lavis

We appreciate this soft and strong protein connection and primer. For better adherence and to reduce nail oil, brush on two layers. For a professional manicure, this priming is an essential step.

You might also want to try out the Valentino Super Bond Primer and Valentino Nail Prep Dehydrator. While the primer is acid-free and suitable for use with acrylics and gels, the dehydrator removes moisture and grease.

Another acid-free primer that works with gels, acrylics, and no polishes is Mia Secret Xtrabond.

In terms of the ideal hard gel to utilize, we suggest the following:

Bare Necessities Collection Lavis Builder Gel, Version 1.

With this building gel, you won't need a nail art brush because one is already included in the bottle. The easy-to-apply silky solution is extremely smooth. It is not only odorless, but it also won't harm natural nails. To achieve the ideal look, select from a choice of colors.

IBD HARD GEL is extremely popular with nail artists. Get the right kind of gel for the task you want to accomplish by making sure. IBD comes in a variety of variants, some of which are suitable for overlays and others for extensions. Additionally, transparent or neutral formulations are offered.

Finally, you'll require a method for curing the gel. The majority of brands are compatible with LED nail lamps, which use less energy and cure quickly.

UV/LED nail lamp from Lavis

This strong nail lamp with a rechargeable battery is fantastic. For various types of gel preparations, it includes four timed options. The light may also be turned on without smudging your manicure thanks to a motion sensor.

The interior of the hand-sized mirror finish cures from every aspect for consistent quality.

HOW IS HARD GEL APPLIED?

Now that you have everything you require, let's begin by going through how to apply hard gel to natural nails.

STEP 1: SET UP

Before using hard gel, it is essential to perform thorough nail preparation. Push back the cuticles and shape the nails first. Using a nail drill will make this process go more quickly.

After that, clean the shine from the nail plate to prepare it. Clean the nails and remove any debris.

Next, either use a dehydrating wipe or apply a dehydrator.

SECOND: PRIMARY

Add a protein primer or bond after that. By the time you've finished both hands, it will have air dried, allowing you to go back and give each nail a second layer.

Step 3: Apply the base Coat the gel using a brush. Make sure you didn't apply it over your skin by checking twice. then use the nail lamp to cure it.

PHASE IV: HARD GEL

Just smoothly draw out the product rather than bunny-hopping and bunching the hard gel like you would with an acrylic bead. Gravity will assist the gel in flowing into the proper C-shape on top of the nail if you turn the hand upside down. In a few seconds, builder gel levels out and settles.

Only allow the hard gel to cure for 30 seconds if you're doing extensions before removing the mold. Recurringly cure. Because the gel requires UV light to dry, the mold may block the rays, leaving the gel partially uncured. Light can enter if the mold is removed.

GEL POLISH AND TOP COAT IN STEP 5

You might require a cleaning wipe with rubbing alcohol to get rid of stickiness, depending on the brand of hard gel. The standard top coat and colored gel polish can then be used.

How Long Does a Hard Gel Manicure Take?

Usually, it takes an hour or two, especially if you're doing strong gel extensions.

What Errors Happen Most Frequently When Hard Gel Is Applied?

Preparation is essential in life, just like everything else. If you want to stop the firm gel from lifting, be sure to press back your cuticles and use primer.

How Can Hard Gel Be Removed From Natural Nails?

Hard gel is resistant to acetone. It is advisable to have a professional remove hard gels using a nail drill. You might be able to do it yourself with a hand file if there isn't any other choice. It won't be simple, though, and it will take a while. The majority of the gel must be scraped off before soaking in acetone to remove the remaining portions.

Because it doesn't pass through your natural nails and into your body, the hard gel won't injure them. Because of this, it's typical to fill in the gel where it has grown out and leave the nails with a barrier. You can just dissolve the top layer of gel polish to remove the manicure without doing the whole thing.

CONCLUSION

Fragile nails can be strengthened and made to look lovely with hard gel. It is simple to switch up your manicure without removing it because it is acetone-resistant. This flexible tool is ideal for extensions and overlays. We hope that our advice was useful in teaching you how to apply hard gel on natural nails. For great prices on all your nail care requirements, visit our weekly deals page.