#perhaps a bit of juice or syrup….?

[eqt-95]

A double whammy? I hope you don't mind, but I think you're up to it... ❤️💜

Lena was a woman of science, and anyone in that industry could tell you that external factors could interrupt normal behavior. Like heat. 

It was summertime, and Lena did not do well in the heat. Her skin would burn, she’d melt with discomfort, and her brain would get muggier than the humidity. Sure, National City's heat was contributing, but it was nothing on the exposed arms and glimpses of midriff and polished abs her very best friend’s outfit had on display. 

Lena stood with her popsicle melting under the summer sun and pretended not to stare like she was the thirstiest lesbian on the planet. Meanwhile, Kara debated between the keylime or the berry cream popsicle from the very patient vendor with Ruby and Esme weighing their own very serious choices.

“Careful, someone might catch you gawking,” Sam grinned, taking a swipe across her own raspberry-lemonade treat.

“I’m not gawking. I was… just…”

“Admiring? Observing? Panting?” Sam offered.

“What’d you get?” she continued, not waiting for Lena’s reply before crunching into the strawberry basil popsicle in Lena’s hand.

“Hey!” was her lame, muggy-brained response. A pout came next as she looked at the Sam-shaped teeth marks in her popsicle.

“Yum,” Sam mocked, chomping down on the icy treat and shooting Lena a mischievous smirk and an antagonistic wag of her own, unmarred popsicle. 

Lena would blame it on her sufficiently over-baked patience later, but for the moment, a surge of irrational competitiveness overpowered normal social behavior which was why, without warning, her hand extended to grip Sam’s forearm and her mouth plunged downward, wrapping her lips fully around Sam’s popsicle and slurping upward.

Revenge was achieved. The world was balanced.  Sam looked mutinous. Lena grinned, wiping a small dribble from her chin. Esme giggled from the popsicle cart. Then: “Aunt Kara is eating wood!”

Lena turned her attention to the trio. Ruby was smiling ludicrously while happily licking away at her orange treat. Esme had her little hands clutched around a purple one laughing with unhinged delight. And then there was Kara. Kara who was negotiating three and a half popsicles. Half because Kara’s mouth was clearly full. And chewing. And crunching - gnawing. And looking red faced. And uncomfortable. And like she might take flight any second.

“Kara?” Lena managed, ignoring the suggestive elbow from Sam. “Are you… are you eating the stick?”

Kara immediately shook her head; eyes watering, shifting awkwardly. Then, slowly, nodded when Lena’s brow arched in suspicion.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that, right?” Ruby inserted, casually twirling her own.

And Kara simply nodded again.

—

Lena was a woman of science, and anyone in that industry could tell you about how any hypothesis was established through extensive observation.

It was through regular observation that Lena knew all of Kara’s quirks and habits. It was why Lena was quick to notice a new habit appear. Kara squirmed. She squirmed and blushed and stammered more often than usual. 

So Lena pushed the limits, checking in when Kara’s new traits showed up and, perhaps Lena was putting a little bit too much hope into it, but there seemed to be a correlation with, well, Lena.

But she needed more data. She was a woman of science after all, and anyone in that industry could tell you about the months and years it took to observe, test, and bring to market a new product.

That was where a range of experiments came in: 

Experiment no. 1: Weekly Brunch

Constant: location (Noonan’s), time, day, and table

Variable: Lena wore a low cut dress

Results: Kara dripped egg yolk onto her pants, syrup onto the table, and dribbled orange juice down her chin and onto her shirt

Experiment no. 2: Compromising Situation #1, the elevator

Constant: location (L-Corp private lift), floor change

Variable: an IT cart was ‘accidentally’ parked in the cab, taking up 95% of the space and requiring Lena to press into Kara for the full 63-floor ride

Results: Kara’s work laptop screen was crushed between her fingers

Experiment no. 3: Game night

Constant: location (Alex + Kelly’s), time, day, company, food

Variable: wine; more specifically, wine location: top shelf, hard to reach without a little black ink revealed on Lena’s back.

Results: Alex called Kara out for floating

Experiment no. 4: Compromising Situation #2, Al’s

Constant: location (Al’s), time, day, and company

Variable: their usual table was ‘missing’ one chair, leaving a musical chair situation until Lena simply sat in Kara’s lap

Results: Kara didn’t speak the entire night

Experiment no. 5: Movie night

Constant: location (Lena’s apartment), time, day, company

Variable: chocolate covered strawberries

Results: invalid

Note: experiment considered an outlier and to be noted in future studies. Before Lena could follow through with her protocol, Kara lifted a strawberry to Lena’s lips who, taken aback, bit into the strawberry. Kara replied ‘good girl’, popped the rest into her own mouth, and Lena didn’t speak for the rest of the night

Experiment no. 6: Lunch date

Constant: location (L-Corp), food, time, company

Variable: Lena ordered the greasiest double-patty available

Results: 

The experiment wasn’t going well, and even Lena Luthor’s patience had a limit for inconsistent data. That data was currently slurping her straw through the final dredges of an extra large milkshake from Big Belly Burger. That limit was when Kara Danvers stopped squirming and blushing and stuttering over Lena’s sultry, albeit ineffective, attempts at making a juicy burger look sexy.

The limit was crossed when, unaware of Lena’s greasy chin and flexing fingers and soft moan, Kara went and flipped the tables by turning Lena's anatomy into goop. How? It started when Kara dragged a finger over the cup’s inner wall and licked it clean with a demeanor that was making a different sort of mess. 

Another set of underwear ruined by a Kryptonian. And not even in the way Lena dreamed it.

It was when Kara reached a second finger into the cup that Lena’s patience let out a small whimper which years of practice covered up with a tiny cough.

“Darling,” she choked, throat tighter than the forgotten straw on the coffee table. She stretched her lips into a smile and crossed her legs. Always crossed her legs.

“Hm?” Kara asked, two vanilla-covered fingers deep inside her mouth, tongue swirling with the practice of

“I think you've sufficiently polished your milkshake.”

And Kara, blessed Kara, stared longingly at the empty cup like a puppy who'd just been abandoned on a farm. 

And Lena, cursed Lena, only then noticed the dribbles of milkshake left behind of Kara's lips and chin and now her tongue was-

“Right,” Lena said with a finality that included slapping her hands on her thighs, exhaling shakily, and standing with hopes that Kara couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary on her walk back to a desk of libido-killing work. 

“Hey Lena?” Kara asked, and when Lena turned around, Kara was standing. Close. Like, directly-in-front-of-her close. Like, Lena-could-have-wavered-an-inch-and-collided-with-her close. 

“K-Kara, what-?” she asked before taking a step back and pressing into her desk.

“You’ve got a little something-” Kara began, staring intently at Lena’s mouth.

“I-I do? Where-” Lena stammered. She lifted a hand to wipe at her mouth, only to feel it captured by a strong, warm, steady Kryptonian hand. 

“I got it,” Kara offered instead, and before Lena could process air or space or time, Kara’s lips were on hers. They were on hers and sending shockwaves of surprise and confusion and arousal and - to hell with thinking. Instinct won out, and she returned the kiss, letting out the soft whimper she’d always concealed and leaned into the softness of Kara’s lips, and gave access when her tongue trailed along Lena’s lower lip.

“I don’t think you can call these outliers anymore,” Kara smirked minutes later.

And Lena, too breathless and stunned to play calm, cool, and collected, absolutely folded: “How did you-?”

“Sam,” Kara said simply before interrupting Lena’s outrage with another kiss.

“Well, you know what they say,” Lena offered, still breathless but less stunned, “twice is just a coincidence.”

“Care to make it a pattern then?”

“Absolutely.”

Lena was a woman of science, after all.

[roosterbruiser]

would you perhaps be able to do “please talk to me” from the angst list with bradley?🥺👉🏻👈🏻

when Rooster wakes up, he doesn't get even one moment of normalcy. usually when he wakes up beside your sprawled figure, he peppers your shoulders with lazy kisses. then slink out of bed, brushes his teeth, slips into his tennis shoes, and goes for a run down the shoreline. sometimes he even watches the sunrise there, panting, taking an earbud out to hear the gulls caw. sometimes he'll even grab smoothies for the both of you on his way home, and hop in the shower as you finally woke up, lips wrapped half-heartedly around a neon straw.

but you're not in bed when his eyes flicker open for the first time today. your side of the bed is crumpled, cold. you've been out of bed for a while.

the morning light is gray--not an early morning gray, but an endless slate. one that means rain, probably.

he glances at the clock, head muddled from his deep sleep, and sees that it's almost 11am. he sits up, brows furrowed, and feels that hollowness grow inside of him immediately. it's like a jolt--something that infects wholly and completely immediately.

oh. his body is reminding him.

today is November 7th.

how could he forget?

instead of jumping out of bed like he usually does, which is a habit he vaguely remembers his father having, he allows his shoulders to slump and his chest deflate. he sinks back into the covers, feels his eyes grow heavy, and pulls the blankets up beneath his chin.

there are two days of the year that Bradley lets himself stay in bed all day: July 29th and today. the anniversary of both of his parents deaths.

you're trying to balance this goddamn tray of food as you walk up the stairs in your monkey slippers, cursing yourself for settling so many beverages on here. does Bradley really need three choices?

whatever, you think. he'll have his pick of the litter at least.

the bedroom door is cracked just enough for you to carefully back your elbow into--just enough for you to step into the room in near-silence except for the shivering glass on the metal tray in your hands.

honestly, you're expecting Bradley to be asleep still. he slept in on that hot day in July, didn't say much at all, just pressed his face against your belly and let M*A*S*H reruns play all day. after, you'd felt guilty; you hadn't done much to make him feel better, stupefied from being this close to such palpable grief. your only prerogative was being there for him, which is how you ended up staying beneath the sheets despite the heat.

but you find Rooster's knit brows and glossy eyes immediately. in your spot in the doorway, you freeze, then grin.

"well, good morning, merry sunshine!" you say softly. "how'd you sleep?"

Bradley's just staring at you, eyes moving from the tray and back up to your wanton gaze as he slowly begins to sit up against the headboard.

"fine," he tells you.

"thought you'd still be asleep," you tell him, shuffling to the bedside carefully. "hope I didn't leave you waiting too long! and I hope you're hungry, 'cause I made a little bit of everything."

Rooster, stunned, just watches you with his hands in his lap. you're wearing his class t-shirt from high school and an old pair of cotton underwear, your eyes bleary and your hair untouched. but all the same, you're grinning at him, nodding for him to move his hands from his lap.

"for your drink selection, we've got coffee, orange juice, and a strawnana smoothie--if you're feeling frisky. for our meats we've got turkey bacon, Impossible Sausage, regular bacon, and--well, are eggs meat? no, right? okay, moving on," you say, shrugging as you point to all the foods as you list. "then we've got scrambled eggs--lots of cheddar cheese and no sage this time, okay? I won't do that ever again, baby, I promise!" you press a lewd and sweet kiss to his forehead before continuing. "and then we've got two pieces of French toast with maple syrup--like that healthy kind you like, the one that gets, like, milked from the trees or whatever. we've also got a short stack of buttermilk pancakes with the sprinkles I know you like but you won't admit it, so we'll say that I like sprinkles in my pancakes! and then the usual suspects--grapefruit, cinnamon oatmeal, sliced apples, grits. pick your poison!"

and that is when Bradley suddenly lets his head tip forward, tears spurring from his eyes suddenly as if a spice had been broken.

oh fuck. this isn't what you meant to happen.

"baby?" you ask tentatively, holding the back of his head with a frown planted on your lips. "I was just kidding about the sprinkles."

with his face angled down, he can see those stupid monkey slippers on your feet. he can see the eggs you made just right, leaving out the sage you sometimes like to sneak in. he can see the different beverages and the rainbow sprinkles. he can even see the sly nibble you took out of his French toast.

he is totally and completely overwhelmed--but it isn't by grief right now. it's love. love and affection and honey and everything else in the world that is sweet and perfect.

"talk to me, baby," you whisper, shuffling to move the tray from his lap and sitting on the bed. he immediately lets his face fall on your shoulder, choking on his sobs. "please."

November 7th was the worst day of his life--one of them, at least. it was when his mother let go, moved on, left him behind. he remembers how peaceful it was when she was gone: all the monitors turned off, the IV drips empty, her face slacked and serene. and he remembers being so angry about it all--why did she have to go to be okay again?

but now it's November 7th and he's eating breakfast in bed and you're in your monkey slippers and those old panties and stroking his hair. he feels entirely swollen with it--love.

"I love you so much," he tells you, unable to put it any differently. "and I really do like sprinkles in my pancakes."

the knot in your throat dissipates at his words. you never push him to talk about his grief--only nurture it when he trusts you enough to speak on it.

so, you kiss his head a few times, hold him against you.

"that was really brave of you to admit," you tell him, a smile tugging at your lips.

he laughs through his tears, sniffling, tracing your spine with his fingers delicately.

"I know," he sniffles. not so subtly, he wipes his nose on your tee. you don't mind it one bit. "you're my best friend."

"me?" you whisper, voice thin with emotion. but you know that you can't start crying, too. so, you clear your throat. "you must be a real loser then."

he laughs weakly, inhaling all that sleep on your skin.

"yeah," he agrees. "I must."

[sirfrogsworth]

A Scam... Tutorial?

I was watching Photoshop tutorials and YouTube recommended this video to me.

And I was already skeptical. Clarity is an extremely powerful and useful adjustment in Lightroom and Photoshop and I could not think of a reason why anyone would recommend *not* using it to the extent they were using ALL CAPS.

But I was curious if there was a new technique I was unaware of. It's impossible to know everything regarding Photoshop and I learn new stuff all the time.

So I gave the video a chance.

To quote my late father... what a crock of shit.

I have seen a few scam videos in my time, but I cannot think of ever seeing a digital art tutorial scam. I found myself angry and a strongly worded comment just flew out of my brain.

I continued...

"First, no one should use clarity and texture at 100%. And I think showing the effects at 100%, as if that is a normal workflow, is highly misleading. You are creating a problem that does not exist and then offering a solution to it. And then you are using a provocative title to attract clicks. Not to mention you may be convincing beginners to abandon clarity and texture altogether when it is one of Camera Raw/Lightroom's most powerful tools. People should absolutely use clarity and texture. That is a crazy thing to tell people.

Second, high pass sharpening is… old school. It works but it can create a lot of nasty artifacts if overdone. (Personally I find it too crunchy and prefer smart sharpen on a smart object so it is non destructive). Clarity and texture are much more modern approaches to help bring out detail and I find they actually produce *fewer* artifacts than typical sharpening filters/techniques. And if you have trouble with clarity or texture adjustments in the bokeh areas, then use a local adjustment that doesn't affect those areas. You can even do a separate clarity and texture layer and use the opacity slider and the blend if and masking just like you did with the high pass. Why are you acting like you can only make a global clarity adjustment?

Essentially you are giving a worst case scenario of a clarity/texture adjustment just so you can make your technique seem like it is orders of magnitude better.

And what is even more infuriating is that you can do clarity/texture AND you can do high pass sharpening *together*. Why are you acting like it is one or the other?

I'm so confused by your motivations. Did you invent this clarity problem just so you could make a click bait-y title so you can then sell your little panel thing? And then you used an old school sharpening technique that many have abandoned so it seems like you have secret knowledge that was lost? And I could argue it isn't even a better solution. It's just a different way to achieve similar, if not worse results.

This is like if you put a pound of sugar in lemonade and then said, "Wow, this is way too sweet! You should try my superior lemonade that has a normal amount of high fructose corn syrup."

Lastly, if clarity and texture (set at a reasonable amount) aren't enough to produce sharp, detailed results, then it might be worth considering your actual photography techniques. Modern photography with modern sensors and lenses should be able to produce extremely sharp results without having to juice the hell out of sharpening filters in software. 20% clarity and texture (if that) plus a little bit of smart sharpen is usually more than enough to bring out detail in almost all of my photos and I have never been accused of having soft images.

So, if you are getting soft results, you might need to adjust how you are capturing your images. Are you using a very small aperture like f/22 on that macro image? That could be a diffraction issue. Perhaps it would be better to use a larger aperture at the lens's sweet spot and then do a focus stack.

I mean, I can't think of any other reason a person would need to do 100% clarity and texture unless they completely bungled the actual photography or were still using a kit lens.

I'm sorry but this video is a mess."

Let's look a little closer at what he did to his example.

He started with this.

Then he applied clarity & texture to MAXIMUM. Which, again, is like adding a pound of sugar to lemonade.

And by golly, it looks pretty bad!

Then he used his secret ancient high pass technique to get this.

Which looks a hell of a lot like the unsharpened image to me. And the high pass sharpening is probably only visible when zoomed in to 100% on the full resolution image.

Which is one of the issues with this technique. It isn't even noticeable on social media—the place where the majority of photos are viewed these days.

And then after showing you this groundbreaking effect that does almost nothing, he tries to sell you his Photoshop panel.

Yes, that' looks intuitive. Just hit the blue checkmark to do... something?

And what is this green eyeball with a crescent moon inside?

Only $50!

And if you want to know what the purple X button does, you need to pay another $15 for the tutorial on how to use it.

Neat.

Just to prove this is all a scam I'd like to show you an example of my own.

Here is a picture of Otis with no clarity, texture, or sharpening applied.

And here is a reasonable amount of sugar. I set the clarity and texture to where I felt they looked best.

Wow, that looks better. Not only that, you can actually see the difference at social media resolutions!

Now let's add a pound of sugar. MAXIMUM CLARITY GO!

Yep, that looks a bit rough. Because no one does this ever.

And now let's see his high pass sharpening technique.

Barely a difference on social media.

Okay, let's try zooming in 200%. Maybe that will give the high pass sharpening the victory.

Normal...

Reasonable clarity & texture...

FULL BEANS CLARITY & TEXTURE!

High pass...

Just as I said, the high pass introduces crunchy sharpening artifacts.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I much prefer the subtle clarity and texture. Perhaps the details in the eyeballs aren't quite as crispy, but in the version that isn't zoomed in, I don't think you feel like the image is soft and the normal clarity and texture adjustment added contrast and actually noticeable detail to the image.

In the end, except for the pound of sugar, these are all subtle adjustments and other photographers might be the only ones who would ever notice. The original Otis picture was probably fine to most people. So disparaging the clarity slider was even more unnecessary.

Why does this matter?

Being a beginner at photography is frustrating. There are so many resources to choose from and it's very difficult to know who is competent and who you can trust. If someone just starting out was recommended this video they could be easily be convinced it is legit. And it could set them back in their progress because they think useful tools will actually make their photos worse. They will waste a lot of time doing a time consuming old school technique in Photoshop when they probably never needed to even leave Lightroom in the first place. They could move two sliders to get similar or better results and it would only take literal seconds.

Time is valuable to a lot of people. And he seems intent on wasting everyone's time. And what sucks is that I have no real way of exposing this dude on a scale that would do anything.

I also just really hate the idea that educational content is being used to scam people.

This is some PragerU shit right here.

[elzdaizy]

Trouble After Paradise (Part 2)

Warnings: slightly sexual content, explicit language, again angst

Summary: if you haven't already, read part 1 here !

A/N: For context, below is the visual image you will need to keep in mind for this part. Trust me. It will help.

This part is also a lot shorter. The good stuff to come is in Part 3. I should have the last part up by Saturday. It’s super hard trying to write and upload during the week because I work 8 hour days!

You had spent the first ten minutes that morning after Harry left for his run, doing some laundry. It helped to keep you occupied instead of going insane as you nervously anticipate his return. You aren't sure exactly how long he's planning on keeping up the silent treatment act for but you honestly don't think you can take it a second longer.

You then made about ten pancakes, shaped in hearts, all dished onto a cute pink heart plate you purchased about a year ago when you and Harry were making purchases for your new house. It was one of those plates that only get used for special occasions and to be honest, you were using whatever you could at this point to say sorry.

You then squeezed some fresh orange juice into a glass jug and set the table for the two of you. Some coffee also prepared to be made for his return. You cut up a few strawberries and threw them into a bowl with blueberries. Making sure the few final bits and pieces were also at arms length, you placed some whipped cream and maple syrup in the centre of the table, between yours and your husbands plates.

Looking at the scene you created, you were chuffed. You don't expect a breakfast made for his return will solve all of your problems, but, perhaps it might encourage him to finally speak to you about it.

After almost an hour, Harry finally returned from his run. You knew this because you could hear the door close as you were finishing up cleaning the kitchen. Your heart sunk to your stomach.

You stand there in the middle of your house, looking awkward and not really knowing what to do with yourself, or where to look as he walks towards the kitchen. He takes off his sun glasses then takes out his AirPods, not paying too much attention to his surroundings at first as he's focusing on steadying his breathing after running for so long.

"I made us breakfast. The same way I did it on Valentines Day, you remember?" You nervously ramble to catch his attention. Pointing over to the small dining table and although Harry is wearing that harsh frown on his face as he looks and listens to you, you notice the way he seems less tense that earlier.

"Is all of that supposed to fix what you did last night?" He bluntly asks, almost straight away.

"Obviously not, Harry." You sigh and you want to roll your eyes at his attitude so badly but you restrain yourself. You walk closer to him and thankfully he doesn't back away. You can see the sweat covering the entirety of his skin. It glistens in every angle of light in your sight. His muscles larger due to excessive use of them recently.

You've barely even realised how much his facial hair has actually grown since you saw him last week. You never cared much for it in the past but this grown out moustache is quite the distracting feature for the current moment.

You're stood in front of him now, only a step away from a hug but you dare not even try to touch him. He's staring you down. You can tell from the look in his eyes that he's genuinely disappointed and it crushes your soul to know you caused that sad look.

"I thought we could talk it through over a nice breakfast." You almost whisper. "Can we sit down, please?" You then add, eyes directed towards the table.

Without verbally replying to you, Harry just walks past you and heads upstairs towards your room.

You've had enough now. You're done waiting and you're done sucking up to him. He won't even listen to you and he's wasting the time you two have by dragging this on.

You wait a few moments, covering up the food so it doesn't get cold because you know it will get eaten at some point today.

"Right! That's it! Harry Styles, I've given you your space and I've let you go mute on me, but I am not tolerating this anymore. I need you to listen to me!" You begin ranting loudly as you storm your way up the stairs.

You enter your room to find Harry still sweaty but undressing himself as he's obviously about to get into the shower. He only managed to get his hat, shoes, and shirt off before you barged in.

He's stood in the ensuite with that angry pout on again, looking as angry as ever with you. He almost opens his mouth to retaliate but you cut him off before you give him the chance.

"No listen, Harry. I fucked up massively! I know that and I have no excuse for being an idiot to forget to pick you up and to forget about our dinner.” At this point Harry is arching a brow in amusement at your boldness. He’s still visibly livid but he’s listening.

“I was so caught up in wanting to spend more time with you this week. The only way I could make that happen was to race through three days worth of work yesterday just so I could have Monday and Tuesday with you because I miss you so fucking much." You say all in one breath. You're too heated to cry at the moment but you know as soon as this explanation is over you will probably tipple over the edge.

"I should've called you and should’ve stayed in touch to keep you in the loop but my mind has been on high-stress over-drive since we got back from our honey-moon. Work has not given me a second to breathe and unfortunately I’ve let it affect us which makes me so angry with myself but you have to know I would never do this on purpose. Please." And that was it, you said all that you needed too. It was a weight lifted and you literally had to gasp for air at one point but you did it.

"I'm so fucking angry with you." Harry deadpans but his actions next completely throw you off. “I’m angry but I can’t stand not being around you anymore. Fuck this.”

He storms toward you and grabs your face between his hands with a mild force as he brings his lips down harshly onto yours in a rushed, salty kiss. It's sloppy and full of anger but you melt into him with a small whine escaping from the back of your throat as your hands snake up his broad, sweaty shoulders and yank him closer in the kiss but tugging your fingers through the ends of his damp hair.

“Will you forgive me though? We only have until Wednesday morning to be together properly and I don’t want us to be like this the whole time. I’m really sorry. Please, Harry, my perfect husband, let me make it up to you?” You coax him and use that flirty tone in your voice that you knows has him in the palm of your hand.

Your soft hands are running up and down his large biceps and shoulders. Your eyes all doe like as you pout at him. He’s finding it so hard to resist. He holds you in his arms, still. He’s thinking of what to do next.

“I know a few ways how you could make it up to me.” He smirks ever so slightly. His eyes darting to your lips as you lick them knowingly.

His eyes darken and the energy has shifted in those few moments. He’s obviously forgiven you but he’ll never say it. Instead he wants to make up the way you both like to best. Sex.

“And what do you have in mind, moustache man?” You tease. Harry raises his brows in surprise before he leans forward and starts leaving small bites into the crook of your neck. You wince at the mixed sensation of pain, pleasure and the tickling from his moustache as he attacks your neck.

“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you?” He retaliates. Yanking you towards him harshly so he can pick you up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

[oftenwantedafton]

Hush - William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 1

Word Count - 4k

Rating - Explicit

CW - sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission from Alex_zlo on X and Instagram

It’s one of those rare evenings in Hurricane where it’s actually raining.

Not just raining, either; this was a torrential downpour. Sheets of water spilling off of buildings, pummeling cars and unfortunate pedestrians, soaking earth and pavement. It’s a terrible night to be out, but you don’t want to be alone right now, the last words you’d heard you boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend—speak still ringing in your ears. We can still be friends. As if he’s doing you a favor, as if throwing away two years isn’t a big deal, all so he can shack up with someone else from work. Caught and not the least bit guilty. Acting entitled. As if it’s your fault he got bored and wanted something new. Someone other than you.

You’ve never sat at a bar alone before.

You curse the walk to the front of the building, the nearly full parking lot in the rear revealing that other patrons had all shared the same idea of going out for drinks. You’re instantly drenched, still wearing your work clothes, the office attire plastered to your skin as you duck inside the establishment and grab the first empty spot you see. You want to be numb, and you want it to happen fast. Vodka will do the trick nicely, tempered with a little club soda and syrup and lemon juice to balance out the bitterness.

You’re in the processing of securing some damp strands of hair back into some semblance of tidiness and order when you notice the man, just that slight dip of your head affording you a glance down the row of seats, a mixture of occupied and the occasional empty. Everything about him is lean and long —arms, legs, torso, everything a significant stretch. One foot is hooked on a rung of the barstool, the other easily touching the floor. He’s got some amber colored drink in front of him, the glass rotating over the beverage napkin on the counter with the aid of fingers that are also lengthy, clutching the mouth of the cup, turning it this way and that, staring contemplatively into those golden brown depths.

You’ve forgotten the fingers still resting in your damp tresses, the task already obliterated from your mind when the man’s eyes lift and find yours. Perhaps he’d felt your eyes lingering, studying you as the bartender places your order down in front of you. Beneath that thatch of dark hair—dry, you note absently, he hadn’t been caught in the rain unprepared like yourself—is a pair of the most intense eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. Gunmetal gray irises framed in lids with lashes you’re envious of, visible even at this distance, the shadowed bottom lids likely smudged from exhaustion looking like some sort of smoky eyeliner. You take inventory of his other features quickly—high cheekbones, full lips that are oddly pale, sharp nose and jaw—but it’s the eyes your focus keeps coming back to, demanding your attention in a gaze that could be anything from placid curiosity to a stern reprimand to a means of stealing your soul. Judging eyes, haunted orbs that have seen things, shaded windows that are temptation and danger all rolled into one.

He returns his attention to his drink and you feel as if you’re bursting through the surface of deep water, gasping for air, clumsily nudging your own alcoholic beverage and spilling a few drops before you can grasp it properly and take a deep swallow. A tartness fills your mouth, the level of sweet not what you’d been expecting. Heavy on the booze, though, which you appreciate as you mull things over, reflecting on what had gone so wrong with your ex.

Things had been going south for awhile in your now previous relationship, if you’re being honest. He’d never been overly concerned about getting you off, but at least he’d attempted at the outset. He’d used to suggest date ideas. Bring home flowers or chocolate. Surprise you with a bubble bath when you got home from work. There had been something there, right? You hadn’t imagined it. It was good before. Making it easier to be blinded and forgiving when it stopped being that good. Perhaps it’s like they say and hindsight is 20/20. Either way it still hurts and you don’t want to feel it. You finish the rest of the Vodka Collins and request another.

The dark haired stranger is looking at you again.

You can feel the weight of it dragging on your body. Too harsh to be considered a caress, but maybe you like the roughness of it all the same. You allow yourself to look in his direction again, appraising his features, always coming back to those eyes. What would it be like looking into those when you were fucking him?

The thought makes you set the glass firmly back on its makeshift coaster, jostling the ice cubes inside. What has gotten into you? Lusting after some guy you didn’t know, had never even spoken to, less than an hour after breaking up? On the rebound for sure. A good way to get yourself hurt even worse than you already were feeling.

The door to the entrance of the bar opens and a group of three men enter, all around your age, the cold air—it was late autumn, making the inclement weather even more unpleasant—immediately making you shiver in your damp clothes. There are more empty seats where you are, so close to the door, and it seems as good an excuse as any to move, offering up your spot, walking down the narrow aisle between the counter and the beginning of the booths and tables until you reach your goal, boosting yourself up onto the stool, your emptying drink less than a foot from the man’s on the polished surface.

It’s difficult to tell how old he is. Up close you can see the smooth skin is unblemished, largely free of any lines or creases. Still older than yourself, certainly, but maybe not by much, and even if he is, you don’t mind. You’ve never been with someone older. It’s a little intimidating. You’re usually accustomed to the consequence of being shy. But here you are. Making the first move. Being bold enough to sit beside this gentleman. No. Not the way to think of him. Some instinct tells you there’s nothing tame about this one. He’d be aggressive. Passionate. You bet he wouldn’t stop at making you explode once. A matter of pride with him. A generous lover.

You’re on you’re third drink and he’s on whatever number he’s on when your eyes meet again. He’s so pale. Even his mouth. Plush lips you want to taste.

They part but before he has a chance to speak you’re interrupted. The group of young men you’d vacated your spot for have made their way to you. What must be the leader, the more outspoken party member leans too close, his breath already smelling of booze.

“Why’d you run away? My friends and I here would like to buy you a drink.” The bearded man grins.

You shake your head, murmuring a polite decline for his offer. “No, thank you.”

“Come on. Let us help you out.” The smile widens. You find yourself unconsciously leaning closer to the suited man seated beside you.

“No, that’s nice of you, but I’m all set. Enjoy your night.” You turn away.

A hand closes over your shoulder but is instantly removed, the man with the intense eyes reacting swiftly. “She’s with me.”

His voice, the first time you’ve heard it, is low but still audible in the crowded room filled with talk and laughter, the television broadcast above the bar failing to compete with that declaration.

“Since when? You weren’t sitting anywhere near each other before.”

He clearly doesn’t hear the warning in the seated man’s tone. Trying to save face in front of his companions. You watch the long fingers dig in further, blanching the skin, his wrist twisting past a comfortable, natural angle and the youth gasps and tugs his arm away. No emotion on the dark haired stranger’s face at all during the entire exchange. Calm. His arm settling against the edge of the counter. Just looking, now. Waiting to see if he’ll be challenged again.

“Whatever. Let’s go get a table.”

The trio disappears and you realize you’ve been holding your breath for the last few moments, releasing it now with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I didn’t know they were going to cause trouble.”

The man shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“I can move if you want…”

“No need.” He sets his drink back down.

You sigh internally. He wasn’t giving you much to work with conversation-wise. “You’re lucky, it looks like you managed to escape the rain.”

“I believe in being prepared. Even for things that seem unlikely. Unfortunately, it seems I didn’t think quite enough steps ahead.” He points and you follow the direction indicated, seeing a wastebin just visible across from where you’re seated, where a sad looking specimen of umbrella is poking out of, one of the metal braces bent at an awkward angle. “Gust of wind caught me unaware.”

“So now you’re going to carry two umbrellas, in case the second driest state in the country has another monsoon like this one?”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Maybe.”

You signal for another drink. There’s a pleasant buzz thrumming through you now. A nice warmth in your face, a different kind of heat somewhere lower, deeper.

“So what brings you here on a night like this?” It sounds like a corny pickup line, but it’s the only thing you can come up with.

“The same reason most people are here, I expect. Distraction from unpleasant thoughts.”

“My boyfriend and I broke up today,” you volunteer a little breathlessly, pushing the words out. The first time you’ve acknowledged the split out loud.

“Condolences.” The next batch of whiskey he doesn’t swallow right away. You can see his jaw working, rolling the liquor over his tongue.

“I thought…I thought being numb would make it easier to get over.”

“So did I,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just can relate to that feeling. Something…happened at work today. I wasn’t even working. Wasn’t supposed to be there. It just…happened.”

The explanation sounds very vague, but you appreciate his attempt to commiserate. “So you want to forget, too.”

“Yes.” His eyes link with yours again. “But maybe there are better ways to cope.”

“Better than getting hammered and feeling numb?” He nods. “Like what?”

“The polar opposite. An over abundance of feeling. A tidal wave surge of it that drowns out everything else.”

Wait. Was he suggesting…?

The folded leg straightens and he slides smoothly off the bar stool, reaching into his pants pocket for his wallet. He withdraws a bill and tucks it beneath the glass he’s been drinking from. Eyes back on you. Waiting.

“It’s still pouring out.” You glance back towards the glass front entrance, where the deluge continues to pound the pavement.

“Yes, it is. No telling when it will end, either. Are you afraid of getting wet?”

Something in that query drags right across the place between your thighs as you face him again. “No.”

“Coming with me?”

Again. Another flare. You’d never anticipated this happening. You’d only intended on getting intoxicated. Just a brief stop before you went home to cry your eyes out.

But this, what the stranger was offering, sounded so much better. No commitment. No obligation. Just acting on instinct and mutual attraction.

You nod, digging cash out of your wallet to settle the bill before you ease off the stool, a little less gracefully than your companion had managed. He gestures for you to lead the way. You hesitate by the door. Bracing yourself for the deluge you’re about to experience.

Then you’re no longer just looking at it or thinking about it. You’re in it. A sobering flood. The man slips a hand in one of yours. The rain is cold, the droplets finding every exposed inch, seeking those that aren’t. Creeping down your neck. Inside the front of your blouse. You’re tugged along at a brisk pace. Your new acquaintance takes long strides. It’s difficult to keep up, especially wearing a narrow skirt and heels, but you’re anxious to be away from this and into some kind of shelter.

You’re led to a sedan, some older titanic model of a car from the previous decade, long like its owner who swiftly unlocks the passenger door for you. A beat of hesitation before you enter, one last unheeded caution about what you’re actually doing, and then your damp hand is squeaking on the vinyl seat as you settle inside, surrendering to your lowered inhibitions.

The door creaks as it swings shut. You wipe at your damp face, a little breathless as you watch the man run around to the driver’s side. You lean over and pull the lock up and he yanks the door open, hurriedly shutting it behind him.

A hand rakes through his saturated hair. There are water droplets clinging to those long lashes of his. He slots the key in the ignition. There are a lot of others on that keyring you note as he starts the engine. The opposite hand rests on the steering wheel. A wedding band is visible on the fourth finger.

The windshield wipers strain to keep up with clearing the window as he exits the parking lot, thumping loudly. A echo of your own pounding heart. There’s a vacant lot behind the bar’s, a relic from a strip mall that’s been abandoned for several years. He parks in the shadows, avoiding the direct glow of the street lamp that struggles to ward off the darkness. The brief burst of warm air from the vents departs as he shuts the car off, the green lighting on the dashboard extinguished. The defroster hadn’t properly gotten a chance to manage clearing the glass obscured with condensation. It feels private enough, you suppose.

You haven’t made out in a car since you were a teenager.

Funny how that all changes once you’re an adult. You get an apartment and you can fool around whenever you want. No longer having to worry about a patrol officer shining a light in a car window or a parent lecturing you about curfew and birth control.

Yet here you are. Two fugitives from the storm. A chance meeting leading to this. Whatever this was.

You’re still wearing the blazer of your suit. He’s neglected to bring a proper jacket, the suit one already removed, resting on the back seat. You struggle to shrug out of yours, finally shedding the damp coat and tossing it over his. The silence lengthens. “You’re married,” you say, cursing yourself as soon as you do. Nothing like stating the obvious. A good way to kill the mood, too.

“Yes.” He rolls the band with his thumb, the dim light from outside glinting on the gold. It’s loose. He’s lost weight since he’d first acquired it, you think.

“You ever do this before?”

“No.” Another clipped answer. The confidence he’d exuded inside the bar seems to have evaporated a bit. Maybe he was having second thoughts.

“Do you still want to do this?”

The rejection would sting, but it’s hardly the worst slight you’ve endured today. You’re a big girl. You’ll manage.

“Yes.” His eyes are still intense even in this wan illumination.

You reach for his hand. The one with the jewelry on it. Bringing his fingers to your lips. His skin is damp, cool. Your lips part to take the fourth finger inside your mouth. Teeth hooking around the metal. The flavor of it heavy on your tongue as you drag your teeth against it, easily shifting the ring up, up, up until its clutched between your lips, his finger now bare.

You remove the wedding band and set it on the dashboard, atop a thin layer of dust. The older man leans towards you and kisses your mouth. You no longer hear the rain pelting the alloy you’re encased in. You pry his lips open with your tongue. He’s a good kisser, not that you’re surprised. Those cushioned lips soft. He tastes like the rain. Like the whiskey he’d consumed earlier. His tongue strokes yours and your stomach somersaults. There’s a hand touching your cheek, your jaw. You reach for him, for the sooty hair and stiff work shirt collar and the expanse of one polyester clad thigh. Whatever you can rake your nails against, whatever flesh you can knead through the clothing. He’s got a handful of one breast, the other cupping the back of your neck. Mouth sucking and mashing along your jaw. You’ve finished the journey along his lower extremity, sliding along his crotch. Hard. Large. He huffs a small sound of pleasure, frustration, trying to get inside of your skirt until you abandon his pants just long enough to dig for the hidden zipper in the side seam, lifting your hips up so the loosened material has room to shift out of the way. There is still the barrier of your stockings and panties but that first feel of his hand between your thighs is bliss. You need him, need that dizzying oblivion that scatters your thoughts once he’s wedged inside, stroking your clit.

“Lever…side…” It’s all he spares for direction but you understand, reaching blindly on the side of the seat. It rocks backward faster than you’d expected it would. Further, too. Maybe there was something to be said for these older model cars. Certainly more space than what you had in your newer one.

You can’t imagine it’s comfortable leaning over the center console like he is, but if it bothers him he doesn’t reveal it. His mouth is back at yours, his hand working impatiently in the narrow confines, the clinging nylons restricting movement. You hastily aid him again, shoving at the offending layers concealing your sex, eagerly dragging the panties and stockings down to your ankles, letting your feet finish the job of removing them from your body.

Oh, this was infinitely better. Now the man can properly access your pussy, one thumb working in circles over your bud, his middle finger dipping inside of you. Your body’s already inviting him inside, arousal slickly guiding that violation. It’s the perfect touch, the perfect pressure. Only minutes of being intimate and this man understood your body better than your ex ever had.

“What’s your name?” This gasped beside his neck. He draws back to look at you, that solemn face hovering above yours. “Just your first name, just so I know…oh God, you’re so good at…what to say when I…”

“William.”

“Hi, William.” It suited him. You wonder what he preferred for a nickname. “It’s nice to meet you…fuck.”

“Likewise.” He’s added another finger to the repertoire of invaders, his thumb flicking and grinding your clit.

Your pelvis arches, seeking him even deeper. You’re on fire. Soaked, and not just from the outdoors. Your tongue is sloppy against his. You’re losing some finesse, lost to the pleasure he’s gifting you. The fingers inside you curl and touch that hidden space and you moan, clutching at his shirt.

“William….you're going to make me…”

Pressure. You feel ready to burst. The last thing tethering you to reality is that hand working inside of you, against you.

He kisses you. His face above yours again. Watching you. You’re lost in those eyes. Shaking violently. He’s got you there.

“William…I’m cumming…oh my God, I’m…”

Your pearl throbs and tingles, the muscles inside your canal spasming around his fingers as the back of your skull digs into the cradle of the headrest, your thighs tremoring, hips squirming restlessly against the seat. You’ve shattered, you’re broken, built up again piece by piece with gentle kisses, his hand leaving your sex, allowing you to recover.

“That was…” You don’t even have words.

“Good?” He supplies, eyebrows arching.

“No, beyond that. Amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you, William.”

“You’re most welcome.”

He climbs over you, the languid kisses and caresses growing more heated, driven, needy. His cock presses into you, stretching you back open. There is no longer the taste of rain or whiskey. Now he tastes like you, from the fingers he’d just sucked clean. The vinyl cushioned chair beneath you groans in protest at the weight being forced upon it. You’ve got a hand braced against the roof to shield his head from colliding with it. There’s just so much of him, that tall figure filling the space of the vehicle, the space inside of you. You keep coming back to his throat, to explore the taste of his skin there, easier now that you’ve loosened the collar and tie. Hints of aftershave from that morning, so many hours ago. The slight scrape of facial hair just starting to reclaim its territory rough against your tongue. Tracing the prominent arch of his Adam’s apple. You want to bite and suck his skin but you know you can’t mark a married man.

Your knee is wedged against the door. The other crushed between the console and somewhere near your new lover’s ribs. The steady, relaxed pace has quickened. Breath panted. It’s hitting deep and it’s good, like everything else with him. The way fucking was meant to be done. “William,” you gasp, and it is the first word spoken in a long time. His mouth hushes you, tongue insistent between your lips, nuzzling that wet muscle, his hips snapping against yours with more frenzy. You wish it was just a little more brightly lit, just enough to really see his eyes when he comes apart against you in a flurry of groaned motions, shaking as he fills you, flooding your insides with his seed.

His head drops between your breasts as he withdraws, his body resting on yours. It’s not the ideal place for any sort of post coital cuddling but you like it, like it when he’s back at your mouth again after he’s returned to his own seat, clothing somewhat returned to where it’s supposed to be, still leaning over and kissing you, like he can’t quite get enough of it, like he doesn’t want the intimate moment to end.

Maybe that’s it. The real reason for procrastinating. Because after this, it’s back to the real world. Sliding that ill fitting band back on his ring finger. Returning to face whatever had happened at his job while you continued to process the fact that you’ve been lied to and cheated on. Now you’ve aided and abetted this man, helping him commit the same sin. Even worse, because he was married.

You don’t regret it, though. You simply won’t allow yourself to. You enjoyed it. You needed it. Selfish, maybe, to use someone that way. Except it doesn’t feel like that either. You don’t know how to classify it, your mind still a little addled from the alcohol, from the chemicals still surging through your system. An alibi of impaired judgment is available if you need it, but you don’t think you will.

He drives you back to your car and you push the door open, the encroaching assault of damp and cold instantly reminding you that you’re going to get another shower as soon as you exit the vehicle. You’re not sure if you should thank him again. You’re not sure if you should say anything at all.

You can see his face properly, now that you’re in the bar’s parking lot, the newer bulb of this streetlamp bathing his features in artificial yellowish light, those remarkable eyes that pierce and captivate you sparkling. It’s so difficult to leave them. Your force yourself to step back outside, hurriedly shoving your car key in the lock, eager for shelter. You hear a now familiar creak of a door opening behind you. He’s left the car, coming towards you. Ignoring the downpour.

“William…”

His mouth on yours. Rainwater. The taste of someone new.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

could you write a soft scenario of poly lj and jason please?

just a quiet morning at the mansion where the 3 of them wake up and have breakfast together (with Y/N preparing their favorite meals)

I had to do HCs instead of a scenario, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. I really enjoyed this request :)

It's one of those rare mornings where the three of you are able to sleep in, where none of you have any obligations for the day and you're free to rest and relax as much as you'd like. They often wake up before you as they don't technically need sleep, and so they rest beside you in a dormant state, waiting for you to finally wake up, waiting for your arms to wrap around them, for you to snuggle up to them and for the three of you to embrace and cuddle up. It's everyone's favorite way to wake up, and delightfully saccharine kisses will be shared as the three of you procrastinate leaving the warmth of bed, content to just rest and enjoy each other's company. 

Everyone else in the mansion is hustling and bustling about, and so you all take your time to have a likelier chance to have the kitchen to yourselves, and luckily this morning you do. You all make your way there, dressed in the fancy matching robes Jason made for all of you. Jason will take his place at one of the kitchen islands, Jack will pour the three of you some orange juice, and you will set up shop at the counter to start prepping some pancake batter, as it has become a tradition to have some nice, fluffy pancakes on days like today. The two of them will sit at the island, having idle chitchat with you as you prep breakfast and begin to cook it, with you standing across from them and leaning over the kitchen island to exchange some smooches when you get the chance. When the pancakes are almost done, Jason always preps toppings, ranging from different fruits to whipped cream, and chocolate, strawberry, or maple syrups. 

The three of you will sit at the kitchen island in peace together, shoulder to shoulder as you indulge in the yummy pancakes together, customizing them all as you go. Jack often likes to brighten up the morning with some jokes, and Jason prefers to start off his days with different gossip and drama he's found floating around lately, and you're content to rest between them and comment on the different topics they bring up. Some mornings, like this one, Jason likes turning on some calming, relaxing jazz for all of you to listen to, taking breaks in your conversation for the delightful ambiance of the music to wash over you. You're in no rush to eat or clean up, taking your time and relaxing in the comfort of each other's company. 

Sometimes Jack might make you all some hot coco after breakfast if you and Jason are craving it, and you'll all retreat back to Jason's room to freshen up and get dressed for the day, whether in usual clothes or pajamas more suited for lounging about the mansion, and you'll curl up on his large sofa together, hot chocolate in hand as you rest together. These are the best mornings for the three of you, where there are no plans or expectations, where you all go with the flow at a relaxed pace and just take your time together, letting it pass gently and slowly. Maybe you'll go out later, or maybe you'll stay curled up and turn on a movie or a show, or perhaps just lay there in quiet peace. There are no expectations on a day like today, and those are the most wonderful of days the three of you think to yourselves, indulging in some of Jason's sweets and freeing yourselves of any worries. It's rare that days like today happen, and you're grateful for every single one you get. The romantic peaceful nature of resting together like this is treasured by all of you, and you find yourself hoping for time to freeze for just a bit longer as you listen to the two of them get into a silly little disagreement about things that don't even matter, as Jason sighs and Jack laughs, both of them curling around you. Today is a day for love, rest, and care, and you'll all take advantage of that. 

[copperbadge]

I desperately want to try it but they're only serving it as shots at the distillery's bar. But the head distiller talked a bit about how they're doing it (using the actual spices, not a flavoring syrup) and having made davzda at home from vodka and seasonings, I bet I could make a pumpkin spice Malort. Although given how pungent Malort is I'd maybe water it down with a bit of vodka, and at that point you might as well make a cocktail.

I could call it the Chicago Slasher, or maybe the Malort Basic. Malort, vodka, maybe a splash of apple juice, and pumpkin spice seasoning...

[sweetpee-ta]

Cherished Comfort

In the quiet dawn of Victors Village, the stillness of the morning was a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within me. The familiar ache clawed through my abdomen, the sharp reminder of normalcy in a world that had been anything but. As I peeled back the white sheets—a luxury that still felt foreign—I cursed under my breath at the sight of blood.

Peeta, still lost in the remnants of sleep, murmured from beside me, his voice laced with the haze of dreams. I slid out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and made my way to the bathroom. The cold tile was a harsh welcome as I doubled over, clutching the porcelain sink. The groan that escaped me was muffled by the sound of Peeta stirring in the next room.

"Katniss?" His voice was sleepy but edged with concern as he called out. The shifting of the quilt and a quiet thud told me he'd encountered the unexpected stain.

"In here, Peeta," I managed to say, my voice tight with pain.

The sound of him attaching his prosthetic was swift, a testament to his ever-present readiness to aid me. He appeared in the bathroom doorway, worry etching his features. "Katniss, where are you hurt?"

I shook my head as he fumbled with the first aid kit he grabbed from the mirror cabinet. "Peeta, that's not going to help," I said softly, the embarrassment creeping up my neck.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "I... okay. Just tell me what you need."

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. It was absurd how such a natural process could bring so much discomfort, both physical and emotional. "Peeta, I'm on my monthly period," I finally confessed, the words almost a whisper. "I'm fine, really. I'll clean the sheets in a bit." Even as I said it, I knew there was no need to beat around the bush; he would have learned about this in school, just like I did. "I just need to shower quickly."

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but his concern didn’t waver. "Of course. But I'll take care of the sheets. Don't worry about it," he said quickly, already moving out of the bathroom to strip the bed. "What else do you need, baby?" Recently, Peeta had started peppering his speech with endearments, a new habit since we began sharing a bed and exchanging chaste kisses after he returned to Twelve. Each time he called me something tender, it sent a warm flush through me, making me blush despite the frequency of his affectionate words. It was a sweet addition to our slowly unfolding intimacy.

"Can you get me some pain relief pills from the downstairs cabinet? And maybe something to eat with it? Nothing big," I requested softly. Holding the sheets, Peeta returned to the bathroom and leaned in close, his baby blue's radiating concern and affection. I found myself lost in their depths, so full of love and care.

"Of course," he murmured. He leaned in to kiss my cheek gently, his touch a soothing balm.

Once he left, I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over my aching body. When I returned to the bedroom, the sight of fresh sheets and the faint smell of Peeta on his pillow were unexpectedly comforting as I lay down.

He came back with a tray laden with more food than I had asked for: a tall glass of orange juice, thickly sliced bacon, scrambled eggs, and fluffy pancakes stuffed with both blueberries and chocolate chips, drenched in maple syrup and butter. Just the way I liked it. The care he put into every detail was visible, his eyes searching mine for approval or perhaps forgiveness for assuming he could fix everything with food.

"Thank you so much, Peeta. You didn't have to do all this," I said, overwhelmed by his kindness.

"It's the least I could do. I just want to take care of you," he replied, his smile gentle and reassuring. He extended his hand, offering me the pain medication along with the glass of orange juice. I accepted them gratefully.

His presence, the meal, and his unwavering care made the pain recede, if only for a moment. "Help me eat some of this, please?" I asked, returning his smile.

"If you insist," he chuckled, reaching for the bacon and joining me in a quiet breakfast that felt like the most natural thing in the world. Despite the chaos that had once threatened to consume us, this simple domestic scene was a poignant reminder of our survival and the new life we were building together.

As he sat beside me, I couldn't help but think that no matter the trials, having Peeta by my side made everything bearable. He was my anchor, my unexpected gift in a world that had taken so much. I knew then that I would spend every day trying to deserve the love he so freely gave.

[harvestmoss]

Mabon

Here is what I have planned for Mabon, just like last sabbath, this includes activities, food, some spells, etc. It's more of a blog type post rather than tutorial. But perhaps this could inspire some of you into what to do today or next Mabon or whatever!

🍞 Foods

Apple Pie:

190c, 20-30 min.

Add 320g flour, 15g sugar, and a pinch of salt. Then add 220g butter. Slowly add 90 ml ice cold water. Careful not to warm up the butter, the crust must stay cold.

Add 6 apples, lemon juice, 130g brown sugar, 2 tbsp flours, cinnamon, nutmeg, all spice, cardamom, etc. 

Place the filling inside, then the second crust part on top, brush with an egg yolk.

Coffee:

1 tsp spice mix of cardamom, cinnamon, all spice, clover, a bit of pepper, nutmeg.

1 bit of caramel syrup.

1 tsp sugar.

Pour in coffee.

Top it off with foamed latte milk and a bit of the spice mix for decoration.

Fruits:

Mabon is the celebration of the second harvet, the fruit harvest, so I'm planning on eating lots of fruits like fig, apple, and berries, because that's what I have currently in the fridge. I'll have a glass of wine for dinner as well, my dinner is not Mabon themed this time around so no need to write it here.

🍎Spells

Bury a needle or a knife underneath your front door, it’ll kill anything you don’t want entering and protect your home.

Create a protective belt by cleansing the fabric or cord through smoke. Ornament with bells, mirror, charms, amulets, satchels, beads, etc. If it’s a cord, add 9 knots.

Carve a candle with your information and add desires to it. Dress it with Flying Devil Oil, light it for protection and to rid yourself of minor curses you might have let hang on to you.

🍂 Activities

I'm planning on swimming this afternoon-evening.

I'm planning on watching a movie tonight.

I'll be doing a bit of cleaning.

[eoieopda]

Jade, I’m so sad…. Can you write Jin fluff? Maybe what happens after the birthday dinner drabble where Jin tells reader how he feels?

eeeeeeek! i love this idea 🥹 for context, anon is referring to this drabble!

It was quiet in your apartment that morning. That is, neither of you was speaking; which made the tiny, ambient noises seem so much louder by comparison. Things you never would’ve noticed under any other circumstance. Little symphonies.

Rustling - the fabric of his sweatpants gripped in his fist while his knee bounced of its own volition. Whirring - the cogs in his brain grinding over whatever thought was making him so anxious. Crunching - the toast you chewed slowly and thoughtfully while you watched him with one eyebrow quirked.

You finished your toast; he said nothing. You kept your gaze trained on him as you swept crumbs to form a mountain, then folded it up between the confines of your napkin; still, he said nothing. This was the first silence you’d ever encountered that didn’t feel easy, you realized. You often sat together while you paid attention to other things, merely basking in each other’s company, but this wasn’t that.

There was some unidentifiable stress underscoring that morning’s breakfast. For once, he was vibrating on a frequency you couldn’t pick up.

Every move you made was done with an abundance of caution, impossibly slow like the syrup dripping from his unattended fork. One wrong move, and you feared you’d startle him. Instead of minding the bit of pancake dangling - untouched - from the utensil stalled near his mouth, he was staring down at the granite of your kitchen island.

If not for his eyes bouncing subtly back and forth - like he was trying to disarm a bomb, and couldn’t decide which wire to cut - you would’ve thought he’d gone catatonic. Slipped into his screensaver mode, checked out in that adorable, certifiably Seokjin way. Even like this, you couldn’t help but admire how handsome he was.

Perhaps it was wrong - certainly not something a friend-slash-roommate would do - but you often got lost in looking at him. Your eyes would linger a little too long on his proportions, get tired before they could run from one edge of his wide shoulders to the other. You were easily distracted by the veins and taut muscles of his forearms when he did something simple, like hand you a hand-crafted lunch box as you headed out for work.

Put simply, Seokjin was beautiful. Like a living, breathing work of art, walking around your apartment in cartoonishly large, pastel hoodies, and snoring through your movie nights. Your most-prized fixture, one you hoped to keep in every home you ended up in.

You lifted your glass off the counter carefully and raised it to your lips, all without peeling your eyes off of him. There was an odd warmth cascading over you that you didn’t want to acknowledge, so you did the only thing you could think of: you tried to douse it with pear juice.

He chose to speak - shout, more like - at the exact moment you tipped your head back to take a giant swig. Somehow, you must have heard him wrong - there was no way he said what you thought he said.

But if your ears didn’t deceive you and he really just yelled “I love you,” then the response he received to his blurted declaration was a mist of pear juice, spraying over his unsuspecting face.

You sputtered and coughed as your hand flew up to catch the sticky liquid dribbling down your chin.

“Come again?” You choked, because you couldn’t have been correct. That was not the kind of thing your friend-slash-roommate would ever say, no matter how badly you wanted him to.

His eyes were screwed shut for a moment as he wiped his cheekbone free of your mess. When they cracked open again, his scrunched-up nose relaxed, too.

“So, what just happened was that I told you that I loved you, and then you spit on me,” he blinked slowly, like he was struggling to process this turn of events in the same way you were.

“I’m so sorry!” You groaned as you hid your face behind your hands. Your cheeks were undoubtedly beet red; and acknowledging how badly you must have been blushing would absolutely make it all worse.

His unexpected, raucous laughter prompted you to peak through your fingers at him. Beaming, his whole face crinkled to accommodate the bemused grin spreading wildly, “If I knew I was going to be sitting in the splash zone, I would’ve worn a poncho.”

Again, you groaned, sinking so low on your stool that you all but crumpled onto the countertop. Your twinged-pink ear burned against your upper arm as you regarded him sideways, “Would it help at all to know that I love you, too?”

“Hmmm,” he mused as he tapped his chin, “Maybe. Say it one more time, just to be sure.”

You sat up straighter in your seat. Elbow against granite, you propped your chin up on the heel of your hand. It was purposeful when you repeated yourself; a dreamy sigh with an undeniable weight to it, “I love you, too.”

[wellingtonwellsdaily]

Wakey Wakey!

Good morning, my lovely Wellingtons! Wakey wakey, rise and shine! It’s your cheerful Uncle Jack here, ready to fill your morning with all the Joy and sunshine you’ll need to start your day off right. Have you taken your Joy today? I do hope so, because it’s a beautiful day out there, and we wouldn’t want you to miss a moment of it.

As the sun peeks over the rooftops, casting a warm, golden glow across our fair town, I can’t help but feel a sense of excitement for all the wonderful possibilities that lie ahead. Have you noticed how the morning air is always just a little bit fresher? There’s something so invigorating about taking a deep breath of that crisp, clean air. It’s like a little boost of energy from nature itself, just for you!

Now, I know some of you might be tempted to hit that snooze button and curl back under the covers, but trust me, my dear friends, today is far too wonderful to waste even a minute of it in bed. So, up and at ’em! Stretch those arms, give yourself a nice big yawn, and greet the day with a smile. After all, the world is full of delightful surprises just waiting to be discovered.

Speaking of surprises, how about starting your morning with something a little different for breakfast? Why not whip up a batch of fluffy pancakes with a drizzle of syrup and a sprinkle of fresh berries? Or perhaps some buttery toast with a side of scrambled eggs and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice? Whatever you choose, make sure it’s something that brings a smile to your face – after all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day!

And don’t forget to take a moment for yourself before the hustle and bustle begins. A few minutes of quiet reflection, a bit of light reading, or even a quick stroll around the garden can do wonders for your mood. It’s all about setting a positive tone for the day ahead, so why not make a little time for you?

As you step out into the world today, remember to keep that Joyful spirit alive and well. Smile at your neighbors, lend a helping hand, and take a moment to appreciate the beauty all around you – whether it’s the flowers blooming in the park or the sound of children playing in the distance. These little moments of Joy are what make life truly special.

Well, I'm afraid we've come to the end of our time, my dear friends. I hope your day is filled with happiness, laughter, and all the wonderful things that make life in Wellington Wells so splendid. Remember, each new day is a gift, and it’s up to you to make the most of it.

Until next time, keep smiling, keep spreading Joy, and always remember: happiness is a choice. Choose Joy!

[brandywyne]

UrbanSpooks; Comprehensive Summary & Critique

I've been thinking about the series a bit since I first watched it. I decided to write up a comprehensive summary of each episode full of (most) images and information pertaining to each person within the series.

Warning, it is a horror series that artistically uses graphic content and paintings.

I wanted to go over it and give some opinions on what I think the series is doing well in, could use improvement on, some (hypothetical) ways that I think could improve the series, and perhaps a rambling or two.

Having said that, come hang out, get a little Cognac, ginger syrup, and sparkling fruit juice, and chill out. Just remember to drink responsibly!

Warning: This is a series that deals in...well...most everything you could imagine. For this reason, I will put an obligatory, Proceed with Caution for users who come into contact with my post. I will be discussing the paintings, the murders, etc so be warned.

I have a conclusion and critique at the bottom in case that's all you might be interested in, too!

Preface:

So, to start off with. Analog horror is a genre of "found footage" horror that often takes its shape from old VHS recordings, old recordings of government training videos, or old shows/locations that "existed" in the past but have been long since forgotten. It's akin to the modern age of Slenderverse/ARGs, in a way. ARG, or Alternate Reality Game, is a type of interactive interface creators use to engage their audience. It will utilize concepts of mixed media to its followers and give them pieces of a story spread out across websites, links, QR codes, IRL locations, and more. It's a way to keep the community interested and drip-feed content over time to keep fans interested. It's a useful way to keep an audience engaged and discuss your work, even if you're in a position where big pieces of media are unable to be released due to WIP or delays.

Having said that, it brings us back to "Analog Horror". What makes something "Analog" Vs. "ARG"? Analog by itself doesn't incorporate ARG concepts. Analog is often just the series or general footage created by the administrator of the series and doesn't utilize other websites, clues, mysteries (that the audience can solve outside videos), etc. UrbanSpook is a series that follows the "Analog" route as shown by the creator in the description of the series.

Episode One - FACES

(Original) (Archive)

The first episode of the series opens with the explanation that as of six months ago, police discovered three paintings stored away in an abandoned storage "area".

Each of the three paintings was titled after recent murders in the area. As we go through each batch of victims, I labeled them each by their own "Batch" to keep track of all reveals as they happen throughout the series to keep a concise order.

With these, we can begin building a timeline of events, victims, etc.

In Batch One, we learn of the first three victims of the killer.

Throughout FACES, we are presented with a series of victims, some identified and others unknown. A killer is established from the start, introducing us to "Mona" through her first self-portrait/reveal of the series.

From here, we can start developing a simple timeline to follow. I am going to use the details of the first reported murder as the starting point of the timeline. As of this moment, we do not have a year/month listed so improvisation will be made.

Since the first victim of the series is introduced to be "Carla Grey", I am going to refer to the starting point as the "Dawn of the Grey Era" or "D.G.E" for short.

I do want to mention the video's description again. "I found these in the basement of my apartment complex". As a member of the audience, we do not know when the killer operated or when the man in the series who found the tapes began converting them.

The fact that the tapes are on VHS and need to be converted to digital implies that the killer operated in the past (or that the story takes place in an alternate reality, but I doubt it).

VHS was introduced by JVC in 1976. The format saw a decline in the mid-2000s due to the rise of DVDs and digital media, and the last known manufacturer of VCRs ceased production in 2016.

This means the Killers were active (at a rough estimate) between 1976 (earliest) to 2016 (latest).

Another fact to consider is that DNA evidence was discovered in 1984 by British geneticist Alec Jeffreys. He developed a technique called DNA fingerprinting, which became a groundbreaking method for identifying individuals based on their genetic makeup.

In the past, brutal killings were easier to get away with due to the lack of this information at the time. Due to the lack of information we have on the killer throughout the series, I do wonder if the series is set between 1976 and 1984 when it would've been less of a hassle to properly handle the victim's remains, thus allowing for the ten victims in two separate batches of timeframes to pursue their victims and take their lives. (Episode two utilized DNA testing. This means it takes place post-1984.)

Due to being random tapes, they could also be out of order so timings of murders are hard to pinpoint.

Episode Two: THE LIGHTHOUSE

(Original)

In The Lighthouse, it is discovered that a police officer for an unknown county named "Bill Collins" and his family went missing. The date they went missing is unknown as well.

At some unspecified point, Bill Collins finds the "Self Portrait" of the killer Mona within his home, but can not recall its origins.

The police will go on to investigate his case, leading them to his home and finding his 2-month-old infant deceased and hanging in the attic.

His car will be found partially submerged in [an] ocean, another unnamed location.

A few miles from the submersion, an old, unused lighthouse that has been abandoned for "several" years is investigated.

When inspected, the door of the lighthouse reveals a red abstract painting of a face that loosely resembles Bill Collins.

Upon entering the Lighthouse, the corpse of "Daniel Williams" is discovered. A sequence of underground tunnels are found as well.

This leads us to Batch Three (left) and further elaboration of past victims (right). I will extend on each character's C.O.D. (Cause of Death), locations, times of disappearance, etc as they're released to keep each episode consistent minus a few minor details here and there. This is simply to keep the narrative going and reveal pieces as the artist intended.

The photos scattered around the barrel are said to be the "Collin's family moments before death" and include another picture of the Killer. There isn't much to say about it for now.

Updated timeline & minor corrections included.

Episode Three: IN THE WALLS

:( (Original)

The most distressing episode, I'm afraid.

I included the summary within the image to make it easier to follow. This episode works to develop victim(s) seven instead of introducing new victims. We're also introduced to our first (semi) named location, "Tiger Lake". It is also worth noting that the area code for the phone number is situated in Louisiana, giving us a rough location for the murders.

A few events occur within this episode to expand the timeline. I'm doing months at a 31-day increase, thus the change from 3 months/21 days into 4 months. This is also where I'm going to say that the timeline is likely NOT accurate. I'm following as best I can, but without explicit dates/time frames/key events the best I can create is a rough idea of how long the Killer has been active.

Also, remember that the narrator isn't always being truthful. There is a chance these tapes are out of order or perhaps killing times overlap with each other. Since the narration box states "open" phrases such as "several months", "Several days", "a few days", etc with no dates, it's hard to track when events are taking place. I treat each tape as a new "start" instead of a new continuation.

Episode Four: THE CLUE

(Original) (Archive)

Batch Four only contains one victim, [Investigator Sean Kane] and we obtain further elaboration on Batch Two's Tom [Harris].

A detail of note is the third arm found within Tom's waxy tomb.

Here, connections can start to be made.

I do want to mention as well that the "Perpetrator" may not be a painter himself, or that the only painting of his might just be "Man in the Pipes".

Since Killer 2 seems to dislike direct attention, there is a chance he was the one who painted Man in the Pipes and Victim3J (Jimmy/Jackie/James) since those three photos/paintings are untitled/sent in without titles. (Note: These could also just be pictures of the victims before death, but they also look like paintings so it's hard to say with certainty.)

Sean Kane goes missing one week after the discovery of Harris. It is unknown exactly when Harris' body was discovered, so at this point, the timeline is not accurate. It's hard to piece details together/move names around because we aren't really given much stability.

Episode Five: WITNESS

(Original) (Archive)

Batch five is introduced. We learn the murders take place on the West Coast and Stryker's remains are yet to be found.

Tina is the first victim to survive the encounters.

Episode Six: PIGS

(Original)

Batch six is introduced, the Ford family. It is implied that the killers laid low here for some time.

A painting of Tina is revealed.

The Perpetrator's identity is slowly being built.

In the muddied footage, we can observe the Perp engaging in Morse code where he tells us "I AM BILL COLLINS".

Bill collins was said to have had DNA found in the meat barrel with the rest of his family in the lighthouse. He was portrayed with the long white skinny face "moments before death". However, I don't believe that was actually Bill Collins.

If you look to the image above, we can clearly see the long face as one of the meat masks the Perp owns. However, he is not wearing it in the scene he announces his identity in. He appears to be wearing a face that strongly resembles Jack Stryker (who remains unfound).

The long face looks closer to the painting of "Scream Maggie Scream" and might actually be a ruse to have others believe Bill Collins himself is dead.

Due to Bill Collin's past connections as an officer, he'd be well-equipped in combat, forceful entry, homes of fellow officers, and inside information that could benefit Mona.

Bill Collins is also the only character revealed thus far who has the same eyes as the Perp, the shape of the faces fitting atop each other perfectly.

For whatever reason, I believe Bill Collins framed his own murder with the photo of "Maggie", skinned her face to hang upon the barn wall, left his previous life/family behind, and began working with Mona.

He also has a painting strongly resembling himself painted on the door of the Lighthouse. In it, he looks abstract, as though he had his own flesh removed in the unnamed painting.

Episode Seven: FAMILY

(Original) (Archive)

Episode Eight: MEAT

(Original)

A few interesting details are revealed in this episode. Unknown barking from dogs can be heard, though neither victim owned a canine.

And with that, that covers all the major points I wanted to cover within the series in my post.

Opinions & Critique:

I don't want to cover details everyone else has already stated, (Cory, dramatic murders, ethics, etc, others have covered this topic and I have no unique perspective to add to those discussions. I'd like to focus on the narrative itself and suggestions for improvement)

That took a lot longer than I thought, lol. Now I can actually talk about it!

UrbanSPOOK is a horror series that follows two killers and their shenanigans of mischief and murder. It's not bad for what it is, but I do feel like there is ample room for growth and development from a creative standpoint.

I'd say my biggest complaint with the series on a narrative level is that it offers a lot...but also not much.

When writing a story, one of the most important parts is pacing. Drip feed your audience information at a steady pace so that they can recall the information afterward and be able to discuss it. When you reveal too much information too quickly, it tends to go in one ear and out the other.

As of now, there are 33 victims in the series within eight episodes. To Recap: Batch One: Carla Grey, Jackie Gramm, James Miller

Batch Two: Tom Harris, Lisa White, Jimmy, Cory/Margaret, Daniel Williams, Jennifer White, Maggie

Batch Three: Angel Collins, Collin's wife, Collin's daughter #2, Bill Collins

Batch Four: Sean Kane

Batch Five: Tina Rosenberg, Flora Rosenberg, Jack Stryker

Batch Six: Mae Ford, Ian Ford, Fiona Ford

Batch Seven: George White, Jigsaw Baby, Zeke, Isabelle Jackson, Bruce Jackson, Janice, Fred Baker, Paul, >PIPES<, Polly Pocket,

Revealing so much information can be challenging to remember, even with multiple watches. One thing I'd like to suggest is possibly slowing down a bit on releasing new victims and focusing on some of the characters we haven't touched on.

Touch on each character bit by bit and take it slow and steady. Make the Painters the main course that we can be excited by. Have them be the dessert we try to rush through dinner to get to quicker. There is so much content to work with just from what's been established thus far.

Humanize the victims more. We obtain so much information about all the terror the Painters are reigning, but how is the town responding? Maybe consider a little bit of world-building within the story. Flesh out the town(s) the story takes place in (Houma, Louisiana).

What are they saying in the news? Who is covering it? Are they making it a political issue or something else?

What precautions are people beginning to take?

How have the Painters affected people on a wider scale?

Isabelle was a teacher, how are her students reacting to her demise? the parents? Faculty?

The police are losing many of their own, how are they reassuring the public during these difficult times?

Consider showing us some news feed, maybe a weatherman discussing the onslaught of murders. Maybe some news clippings or children hosting a memorial at their school for their lost classmates (Zeke, Cory, Margaret, etc). Maybe write some obituaries or funerals?

Who was Carla Grey? Who was she to the community? Who mourns her loss?

Maybe focus on designing some missing posters for the people still unfound? Include a picture, height, weight, skin color, clothes they last wore, etc to fit the theme of police reports.

Perhaps consider adding a date (even if just Month/day if you don't want to reveal the year just yet) for those of us wanting to build a timeline of the Killer's activities?

How is the town's economy handling all of this? Are people moving away? Are people staying out late at night like they used to since the Painters became active? Do kids treat the Painters like a silly urban legend they use to scare each other with? Are there kids trying to dress like them on Halloween and upsetting victims?

What are the parents of victims like Cory/Margaret doing? Are they standing up themselves and trying to get a movement going in their small town? How are they coping with the grief?

2. incorporate more direct language. When police tapes discuss events going on, they tend to use very direct language.

Refrain from phrases like "Several days passed", "A few days passed since the last murder", etc.

When asking the public for information about victims, they'll usually try to be as direct as possible and give any information they feel is safe to give. This ties back into what I suggested VIA missing person's reports and general descriptions of the victims.

3. Another narrative detail to consider is what exactly are the Painters doing? Are they progressing the story by killing a certain person? Why are they targeting the people they are? For example:

Was Isabelle Jackson killed because the Painters were targeting Zeke and his family only for Isabelle to catch wind? Did she teach Zeke and learn that he saw something he wasn't supposed to see?

What are the Painter's motives for each victim? Are they targeting police officers to thin the herd? Does Bill Collins want revenge against them for some reason?

Use the murders to progress the story.

Cause = effect.

One of the quickest ways to annoy an audience is to lead them on and give the impression of development while nothing, in particular, is changing. Since the first murder of Carla Grey to Wet Skin George, what has changed? What have the Painters caused long-term in the lives they've ruined? Who can we (as the audience) root for?

Try to have things happen for a reason. I know it can be easy to go for the next hella cool brutal kill in the story, but it hits so much more when it happens for a reason. Are people killed in personal ways that maybe affected Mona/Collins in the past?

For example, did Mona know Jackie Gramm sometime in the past? Maybe Jackie was a skilled swimmer who spoke down to Mona for her body (Jackie is painted quite beautifully. Probably the prettiest painting of them all.) Maybe Mona painted it like this because she was envious of her looks and skill in sports? She could've drowned her to make her "ugly" via the bloating of the water once she was killed. She could take pride in stripping that beauty and athleticism from her. Jealously taken to its final straw. It would especially be interesting since Mona seems to really love showing herself in her paintings and fearlessly showing her face. This is just one way she could be humanized in a way that wouldn't make us forgive her, but be more sympathetic to her and add a layer of depth. Make her and Collins complex, have us understand her, not agree with her.

5. Don't be afraid of giving your characters flaws. How have Mona & Mr. Collins managed to go as far as they have? Do one of them have medical knowledge?

Do they have low stamina? Are they weakened/emaciated from lack of steady food/clean water?

6. What is their endgame goal? All killers have a motive in one way or another. Does Mona hold anger towards those who didn't support her artistically? Does she aim to kill and paint everyone who told her she'd never get anywhere with her art? Does she aim to kill as many as she can and gain infamy that way as a means of coping? Is this her way to "get back" at those she deems did her wrong? (P.S. This isn't information you have to reveal to the audience btw! This is info that's good to have just to keep your character on track)

7. Don't be afraid to pull in details and inspiration from real killers/ stories/research. It can help add depth to your story and add twists for the watchers to catch onto and unveil.

Conclusion:

Overall, I'd say UrbanSPOOK has a lot of potential. It's far from perfect, but everyone has to start somewhere for their story. It's clear to see that Slug is pouring a lot of heart into the story and really trying to make something good. There is an attempt at development, it just seems to me like Slug needs a good nudge in the right direction.

The Painters are an interesting concept. There are so many ways that Slug could take the series and develop both the victims and their abusers. Even if the story progressed in a way similar to the Mystery Flesh Pit and we got glimpses into the Painter's depravities through newspapers, newscasts, etc it would add so much. It's what makes the Isabelle Jackson call and the animated porch scene so lovely to the series. It's distressing, but it gives us a very real reaction to the characters interacting in their environment. I would LOVE for UrbanSpook to continue in that direction. If we could just get some character development, I'm sure many more people would enjoy the series. Instead of having things happen for the sake of happening, maybe sit with a cup of coffee for a bit and clear your mind. If you were in the Painter's position, what would be your motivation for doing what you're about to do and what would you hope to achieve from it? The series is still so young and filled to the brim with potential. Even if we took the first eight episodes and used them as a season one, that could be used to set the foundation for the narrative itself and build upon it! Leaked phone calls from police/distressed citizens, revolts in the city, anger, sorrow, resentment, there is sooo much that could be explored in the series.

I'd like to finish my little commentary on a good note and say what I think Slug is doing good on. The art for the series is beautiful. It's that perfect level of macabre and surreal. It's like the paintings pull you into the character's minds and show their deteriorating mental state. I love the inclusion of Mona's self-portraits and the twists with Bill Collins.

I loved the animation in episode eight, the mixed media of a real image and the characters interacting was really good! The phone call with Isabelle Jackson had phenomenal acting. The distance of the operator, the desperation of Isabelle. The fact she likely gave the wrong address on purpose because she was worried about Zeke and maybe caught wind of the Painters taking interest in him is emotionally enticing and speaks volumes for her character. The Painters are such a fun and unique set of villains that I'm sure are so fun to explore and develop while also showing off your artistic ability.

I look forward to seeing the next installment of the series. And I'd honestly love to know, what else would other people wanna see in UrbanSPOOK?

[the-consortium]

Hugs put together a platter of cups filled with different juices. Just enough that he could get a taste of each juice and brought them to the world eater.

"Here, try some of these. You might find that you like a few of them." Setting down the platter, she stepped away, giving him space. Even if what she really wanted to do was give him a warm embrace to try and soothe the ache of the nails. But she reasoned they would slowly lose their functionality as the minutes ticked by anyhow.

Turning to Saqqara, she wasn't sure how to proceed, so she simply continued with trying to be the best host possible. Perhaps they would return for another visit if they enjoyed themselves.

"So how are you enjoying the refreshments." His direct gaze had made her feel a bit giddy, and in turn, she'd felt a bit silly for that.

While Arrian lines up the various small cups in front of him, rearranges them several times and organises them according to colour or transparency, then smells each of them and re-sorts them once more, Saqqara suppresses a smile.

It fills him with great satisfaction that the World Eater can give the scientific-analytical part of his thinking dominance over the combative-irrational part. It is the small victories that are decisive in the end!

That's why he now leaves his friend to thoroughly analyse the various fruit juices (Arrian has started taking notes) and concentrates entirely on Hugs.

If she were human, the full attention of a Word Bearer would probably leave her completely silenced and intimidated - after all, Lorgar's sons are filled to the brim with charisma and a radiating fervour that normal humans find hard to bear.

But Saqqara simply seems lit from within as he smiles. The darkness of the gods can be glimpsed behind his golden eyes, but his eagerness to serve them makes up for this and gives him an almost feverish magnetism.

"I've rarely thought about nutrition before. Astartes can draw energy from practically anything. Flavour is not a criterion. But deep down in your memory, of course, you still have remnants of moments from your childhood, no matter how forgotten they may be. And from there I remember that my … my … a parent? An elder? Anyway, I used to get something there on festive days that was a kind of nutmeg with a syrup."

His voice softens and he frowns, trying to remember. Mumbles. "I'd like to eat that again. Together with your fruit juice."

[kaedeakeshisworld]

Misunderstanding

cw: Y/n being wife material, a shopping session to end the day, Leo and Y/n are the it couple for some reason insert emoji here, a little bit of a heated argument, reader-chan leaves Leo unannounced, Haruki is such a wonderful man ( still defending his boss though)

wc: 2819

gist: Y/n is going to confront Leo about the conversation she overheard when he was in his office. Is he going to tell her the truth or is he going to brush it off because it isn’t about her?

c/s: here you have it the second chapter of this story( the next chapter is already written, I just need to finetune it!)

I no longer run a taglist! If you would like to be updated on my works only, follow @kaedeakeshisworks and turn on post notifications.

Leo is still working, he hasn’t quit his office yet. You’re getting a bit bored here. Perhaps you should go home and sort your life out because the week is starting. Huh! You shouldn’t be thinking about that. 

Instead, you check the time on the clock. It's almost one pm. You’re getting hungry so you decide to check the cupboards, see if there is something that can temporarily soothe your hunger. Well some corn crackers, there’s chocolate chip cookies too. I find this odd! He is so fit. Why does he have such items in his flat? That’s none of my business. I don’t live here. Why should I care? Meh, you really want something solid now like… italian flavours in a light meal. Let me think! Pasta? Hell no, postprandial somnolence is going to hit me so hard. I won’t do a single thing throughout the day. Also, my body and my brain do not understand the concept of naps. Instead, I do nap roulette and go to bed with no wake up alarm. Who knows when I will wake up? In three hours or five? It remains a mystery to me. Telling myself I will sleep for forty minutes has only resulted in me waking up in the early morning. Find the problem? It’s me, obviously. Maybe a salad? That is not enough for me. Well, I have to cook for this liar too. Hey, I have to calm myself down jumping to conclusions so fast? I haven’t even confronted him yet. 

A jar of sun dried tomatoes, fresh ciabatta bread from the bakery, burrata in the fridge.

A pesto verde jar. A loaded toast would be great! I’ll finely chop some onions and squeeze lime juice on them for a bit of crunch. I’ll make some cucumber matchsticks for a side dish. Water is also needed.

But first, a salad made with lettuce, peach, avocado and some roasted sweet potato. A simple dressing sauce with olive oil, salt, maple syrup and balsamic vinegar with it is a delight.

One for you and the other for him. You plate everything, put it on a tray and head to his office. In front of that door, you wait a little to check if he's no longer on a phone call. Doesn't seem like it's the case. You knock on the door and hear his voice.

"Honey, come in."

He’s so focused on his work. As soon as you put this on his desk, you hurry to leave that room. You know better than to stay there. 

"Hi handsome, I got you some lunch. I hope you don’t mind me barging in your work space…" 

"Not at all, sweetie. Don’t stay there, come closer."

You go towards him

"Where may I put this?" 

He points towards the table facing the sofa

"I’m going to have a break. Would you honour me with your company?"

Do I or don’t I? I shouldn’t be here, I gotta go before my stomach grumbles. Also, I don't want to be with him now. What should I do?

"Y/n answer me, will you?"

"Uh…" Your stomach betrays you by its growling noises.

"I’ll take that as a yes I’ll be back with your food since you brought mine. Please have a seat."

He comes back shortly. Serves you your food, you thank him. He kisses your head and sits facing you on the opposite side of the table.

"Thank you for this wonderful meal. It’s really good. I love the sweet and salty combination  especially when it comes to salad."

Congratulating me now! Wow, you are bold. I wonder what his response to my question will be?

"Ah it’s not much, I just whipped up something quite fast!" 

“No seriously. Whenever I am fully absorbed into work I tend to forget to do the most basic things such as eating.”

“It can happen sometimes.”

“So…”

“Yes, darling”

I meticulously prepare my lie. Trying my best to sound confident with my words, right?! 

“I was wandering through the hallway” you scratch your head “and I overheard you say ‘how is my son going’ on the phone?”

“And?”

Be fucking for real in this moment. Just confirm or deny what I'm asking? Is it that hard?

“Can’t you read the room? Why would I ask you this?”

“Out of curiosity?”

“Don’t you think you have a little bit of explaining to do?”

“Love," he leans back on his seat and sighs before carrying on "if there’s something I need to tell you I will do it in due time. However, I do not recall talking loudly on the phone. So, I take it you were… secretly listening to my private conversation. It’s just a speculation, don’t get offended. If you do and question me then I hit the bull’s eye”

“How dare you, Leo? I did not do that?”

“You’re sure about that. Let me see… Ah you heard the lady’s name, right?”

You avert your eyes. They observe the ficus bonsai plant. You look at it for a good minute. Darn it! I thought I was cautious enough. Was he aware of my movements behind that door? Did I make too much noise? What am I getting stressed about?

Your silence corroborates his suspicion. 

“You shouldn’t worry about her. You’re the one I am with and I am obsessed with you if this can reassure anything. She’s a relative of mine so there is no use in hating her or ‘my son’.You’re so cute when you’re angry. I would like to see that side of yours more often. I know how to put it to work.”

You quickly change the topic of this conversation

“Let me take this to the kitchen.”

“No way! Let me do the work. I'll take this, put it in the dishwasher and I’ll call it a day concerning work. We’re going out. I’m going to give you the attention you need. The only thing left for you to do is to go get dressed.”

You go directly to his closet and pick one of his silk button up shirts. You chose a maroon one.  Get black high knee boots and let your hair down. 

“You look stunning!!”

“Thank you. You don’t look so bad either.”

“You got jokes, huh. C’mon let’s go!”

A skincare shop; your safe haven, numerous smells flood your nostrils and you can try new products. 

Oh, body oil and a whole new set for shower and bath routine. I have to check this out.

Skincare shops that let you try their sample products are a must. Of course, sanitising hands before touching my face is necessary. The smell of the store floods your nostrils. 

The extensive sort of products never cease to amaze you. A papaya one draws your attention.

The worker informs you that it is a new arrival and it progressively makes success. You open it. Honestly, the smell is divine. It makes your skin shine and they also have body yoghurt  for it.You need to get at least two you put in your basket.

“May I please get the whole set for this fragrance twice.”

“Coming ma’am. Is there anything else you would like to have?”

“Not for the moment. If need be I’ll ask.”

“I get it.”

Next comes the argan body oil. Some body butters for a change you get an aloe vera one, honey and the last one is cocoa butter. You pay all this with one of Leonard’s cards. 

You got a ton of compliments. Each time those came from men, Leo’s embrace tightened around your waist. You interpreted it as ‘I’m reminding you that you are only mine and I am yours. Don’t forget that’

But when women showered him with praise specifically because he looks like that. You were fuming inside. Bitches, don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you. Girl, you better get your hands off of my man before I start swinging. But he politely declined them, leaving them horrified with his comments

“I already have a wonderful lady by my side as you can see or maybe you don’t since you keep insisting like that. I can’t do women like you: you may ask why? The answer is simple” he leans closer in their ears to disclose the secret

“You simply cannot keep up with my high libido! When you are able to endure a sex marathon, let me know. I’ll gladly call you back. That is if I am on interested in someone else.” 

 He intently ogles your figure after he's done with his monologue. And he leaves them there, by the way these ladies are often well off and they’re just ten years older than him but he tried it twice. He thought it was better for him not to do it ever again.

"Why is everyone gone?"

"Because I am the one renting the store for two hours. You can get anything you need."

There is one employee mainly attending to your needs, picking up the clothes you tell him to and you also listen to what he has to suggest. 

Your eyes spotted the perfect dress. 

It's a black spaghetti strap dress with a vertiginous slit that is probably on your hip bone and goes a tad bit up. You have to try this on. It is the dress! 

When you enter the dress room, Leo goes after you and sits on the main sofa while you go change.

The first item you tried on was a midnight blue baby doll dress, there wasn’t much shine to it. It enhances your cleavage and makes your legs look superb with the peep toe suede black shoes. Fairly discreet but effective, nice!

You draw the curtain and ask Leo.

“What do you think about this one?”

 It takes him a good minute to utter his opinion upon this outfit.

“I think it looks pretty on you but we both know you’re less likely to call it your fave fit.”

“You’re right! I’ll try some more on.”

You draw the curtain back and try on a scandalous pair of jean short shorts. Honestly by the look of it, you’re pretty sure this will leave your buttcheeks without any supervision whatsoever but it doesn’t hurt to try something new? You pair this one with a crochet crop top that leaves nothing to the imagination concerning your pierced nipples. It’s small, you got some underboob hanging but damn it looks good. This fit completed by sandals or mules would be perfect. You’ll get some later. 

You draw the curtain again for your eyes to land on him. You do a little slow spin for him to check out what you’re wearing. When you’re done you don’t miss his smirk as well as his change of tone.

“What do we have here?”

You play dumb, he knows exactly what this is about so just say it.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“So you wanna play like that…”

“Play what? I don’t get what you’re saying.” You continue “I think this is a great outfit for summer so I’m getting this one.” 

His eyes for some reason are still glued on your nips. 

“You never informed me you had pierced nipples?”

“You never asked about it so why would I?”

"Behave!"

“Oh!” you giggle “You’re really going to do that here?”

“Do what?”

“Great, keep playing dumb. I like that.”

Next item is a golden tulle peplum dress, adorned with a black belt that highlights your cinched waist. Majestic embroidery on the hem of it. You put your hands on your hips and strike the Josuke Hijikata pose.

"That's a business woman type o’ fit. We’re getting that one!"

"And… my opinion?"

He eyed you up and down. He motioned his left hand for you to do a 180. You oblige. He bites his lower lip. I can't wait to be next to her in that dress. Good Lord, have mercy on me! I don't think I deserve her sometimes.

"I know you like it."

"A little bit."

"You can always grow to like it. We don’t have to get it now. Maybe later when a few important dates come up."

"Yeah, let’s do that!”

This black spaghetti strap risqué-ish dress. Woah. This is trouble. No panties already because of the slit. Let me just see his reaction.

“Uhm… what do you think?”

“Sit on my lap.”

You do. His hand lands on your hip bone and he strokes it, painfully slowly.

“What are you doing, Leo?”

“Nothing honey. I am appreciating the gift before my eyes. Won't you let me?”

“I'm your gift.”

“No underwear too? My goodness, you're a menace.”

“You wanted to see lacy panties?”

No answer for this one. You get up and leave to try the other item. He calls the employee.

“Please, I would like to have the catalogue for this specific dress.”

“I'll bring a copy to you right away. Anything else?”

“I want this dress in cobalt blue and black.”

“Noted and added to your item list, sir.”

This is the last one I'm trying. A strapless trumpet dark olive green dress. I feel like a princess. It's so long, I’d have to pair this with stripper height type heels because the only other option is to get it tailored. Yeah, the last one might be it. 

"Here I am."

A little twirl to showcase this lovely dress. 

"You look absolutely stunning!"

"I’m getting this one tailored."

"Great idea."

Shopping is done for this you don’t know the cost because Leo insisted that you shouldn’t know. That’s only if I don’t figure it out myself.

In the car

I’m going to stop this semblance of tangible peace. I have to. I won’t back down until I know who she is to Leo.

“So, won’t you tell me who she is?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Aura? Who else could it be?”

"No, I’m not. It simply doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, that's between her and me.”

Why is he trying to keep the matter private? I… I thought there were no secrets between us but apparently I am undoubtedly wrong. Where did I sign up for this type of suspicious behaviour? He does not budge one bit when I want to know this person’s identity. What is he trying to hide?

“Want to keep this going?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes you do. You. fucking. do. Leo!”

“Why are you making a scene all of sudden, Y/n?”

"It is my legitimate right to."

"This is something out of your control, get over it!"

You know what. Good for you I’m out this shit

Leo leaves the car without looking at you. You can sense he’s over it. Your persistence is something he might not like as of now. 

I ain’t changing for nobody. He better tell me who she is before I find it myself.

“Haruki please, take me home.”

“Yes, ma'am. I just have to inform sir Burns that I am doing it.” 

He reaches for his phone and looks for Leo’s number in his contacts list. As he is about to press the call button, you stop him from doing it.

Haruki has never experienced someone grabbing his arm in such a way. He looks at your hand and then his eyes make contact with yours. Well, this is definitely something out of his reach yet the least he can do is listen to what you have to tell him.

“Please, don’t! He’ll come looking for me and I don’t want him to. I would like to be alone.”

“Understood.”

You provide him with your address. It’s a short silent car ride of twenty minutes. You’re on your phone checking a few emails you have purposely ignored up until now. You redact them and program them all to be sent by this evening at eight o’ clock. The car finally stops moving. Haruki quits the driver’s seat to open the door for you. But first, he gets your shopping bags.

“Thank you ever so much Haruki.”

“There’s no problem. My pleasure.” 

He also gives you his card to let you know you can call him.

“I don’t know what happened between you and the boss but if there’s anything I can do to help you. Please, do not hesitate calling me!”

“That is very sweet of you. Drive back safely, Haruki.”

“I will.” 

And just like that he leaves you at your door. You send him a message right away to let him know your number that way he can save it. But you didn’t expect this peculiar message from him.

Ma’am, it is none of my business to interfere between you and the boss but I have to let you know that he doesn’t cheat on women. He is not of that kind. Have a wonderful evening! 

Haruki

Chapter 2 of After all, it's not bad idea to get a Sugar Daddy

Let me know what you think about it! Any kind of feedback is welcome!!(ps don't be rude)

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2023 @ kaedeakeshisworld

Translations/ modifications/replicas/property of my work are strictly prohibited.

[myinternetaddictworld]

I adored Painkillers and Teddy Bears; thank you for writing it!! Perhaps a follow up where Peter relieves his partner’s cramps with more creative, hands-on means… ;) thanks!!

Hi!! thank you so much for reading!! Sorry this has taken so long, school has been kicking my behind 😭 hope you enjoy<3

CW: mentions of period/blood!, fluff, and peter being a great boyfriend lol

boyfriend peter! x afab reader

—————————————————————————

You awoke to the slight smell of blueberries coming from your kitchen. You groaned as you rolled over to check the time.

“11:29” the clock read.

“Shit,” you mumble, sitting up. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and make your way to the bathroom. Your current apartment was being remodeled and Peter was more than happy to let you stay at his in the meantime. He actually suggested it.

You made your way to the toilet for your morning pee when you realized your stomach hurt a bit. You pulled your panties down to reveal your monthly visitor. A week early to be exact. You roll your eyes and begin looking for something to use. Peter had supplied the bathroom with anything he thought you might use while staying with him, including your favorite brand of tampons.

You yawn, cleaning yourself and washing your hands. You complete the rest of your morning routine and make your way downstairs.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Peter said looking up at you. You smiled at the nickname he gave you.

“Good morning, baby.” you smile. You walk over, placing your arms around his waist.

“Want some pancakes?” he says turning off the stove top.

You giggle at the thought of how domestic Peter’s been since you’ve been staying with him. You nod, watching him plate pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs for you.

“Stop watching me and go take a seat,” he laughs.

“Let me serve you,” he finishes, in a half joking voice.

You laugh and do as he says. He places the plate on the table alongside a bottle of maple syrup and a cup of orange juice.

“Bone apple titty, baby.” he says leaning over and placing a kiss on your lips.

“Thank you, Pete.” you say.

You take a bite, instantly melting. May taught Peter well. He loved cooking for you but rarely got the chance so he was ecstatic to have you with him for longer than a night.

“Mmm, Peter.” you moan.

“It’s good?” he questions, sitting across the table from you.

“Better than good, babe. Oh my god.” you mumble, chewing.

“Glad you like it,” he laughs, taking a bite himself.

The two of you continue to enjoy your breakfast and talk about all the events that unfolded the night before. You and Peter had bar hopped the night before. Luckily you weren’t super hungover but your period didn’t help.

Soon the two or you had finished your breakfast and made your way over to the couch to cuddle.

As the two of you scroll through your feeds you feel a slight cramp coming on. You wince, knowing it’s only about to get worse.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Peter asked slightly concerned

“My stomach hurts a little. To be honest, my period started this morning,” you whined.

Peter’s hands began to smooth circles over your stomach to help alleviate some of the pain.

“Let me know if they get worse,” he said pulling you closer. You nodded.

You both decide to put on a show you two had been watching. Before you knew it, the shooting sharp pain forms in your lower abdomen again.

“Baby,” you whisper tapping his arm slightly

“Hm?” he hums, slightly nodding off.

“They’re starting again,” you said.

“C’mere.” He says softly pulling to sit up.

“Let’s sit on the floor real quick,” he says shifting off the couch. You have no idea what he’s suggesting but you follow his lead joining him on the rug.

“Let’s do some stretching, baby,” he says.

You laugh at his sudden urge to stretch.

“What—I read that yoga can help with cramps.” he says laughing.

“I’m serious, baby. I did my research.” he says proudly.

Your smile looking at the man in front you.

“Okay,” you say.

“Show me whatcha got,” you smile.

Peter explains a few poses he saved to his phone.

“For this one, you can use a pillow to support your back for more comfort.” he says showing you the bridge pose.

He talks you through the first four poses, doing them alongside you.

“Not gonna lie Pete, my uterus actually does feel a little better,” you say laughing, sitting in a butterfly pose.

“See! I told you so,” he laughed.

“I’m happy they’re helping tough? Seriously.” he said reaching for your thigh.

A slight shade a blush tints your cheeks. You quickly place a kiss on his check.

“You’re the best yoga instructor ever,” you giggle into his ear.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” he says with a wide smile.

[nickgerlich]

New Creations

If there is one thing that we can say with unchanging veracity it is that everything changes, that nothing remains the same. This applies to every aspect of life and culture, but it is also very true for corporations. Show me a company that has not changed throughout its history, and I’ll show you a company that probably no longer exists.

Resistance is futile.

A perfect example is the Coca-Cola Company, the same one I mentioned in yesterday’s blog as being an obesity index. That hasn’t kept it from flourishing through the years, not to mention languishing, then reinventing itself to keep astride the consumer trends of the day.

The company started in 1886, and has long been heralded as being about as American as apple pie, hot dogs, and baseball. Coca-Cola has been able to maintain its status as top soft drink maker throughout this time, although it blinked in 1985 when, confronted by the Pepsi Challenge and data suggesting that consumers really did prefer a sweeter-tasting concoction, the company replaced its original formulation with New Coke.

It was a huge mistake, and consumers let their distaste be known. Coca-Cola then brought back “classic” Coca-Cola later that summer, but also used the opportunity to replace cane sugar with high fructose corn syrup. New Coke, later rebranded Coke II, died an unceremonious death by about 1990.

Skip forward to the present, and we find a company that has managed to recover from a downward revenue spiral last decade, primarily because it figured out it must diversify its offerings, and repositioning itself as a beverage company, not just sodas. This includes waters, juices, coffees, seltzers, and even collabs with alcoholic beverage makers like Jack Daniels. The flagship product is available in 200 nations.

While sales had sagged because of a trend toward healthier beverages and less sodas, things have started to turn around a bit, especially among Gen-Z, which now consumes more soft drinks than its older Millennial counterparts. This finding is enhanced by the fact that both Millennials and Gen-Z drink less alcohol than older cohorts, so it has become an opportunity for companies like Coca-Cola to find new ways to attract these younger adults.

And they are doing just that with its Creations platform, an ongoing line of experimental flavors aimed squarely at younger people. The latest iteration is Wozzaah, an African-inspired berry-infused soft drink that is only available in selected African nations. Whether it makes it stateside is undetermined, and perhaps not even important for a global company like Coca-Cola seeking to satisfy regional tastes.

Thus far, the Creations series has brought interesting variants such as Starlight, Byte, Marshmello, Dreamworld, Soul Blast, Move, Ultimate, Y3000, Happy Tears, and K-Wave to the US and other parts of the globe. They typically come in 8-ounce cans in the US, in both sugar and zero sugar versions.

Perhaps the best part of the company’s venture into uncharted territories is that it is learning in real time. The flavors are thus seen as experiments out in the field, smaller batches than the mainstream products it produces. This willingness to try new things is testimony to the company’s resilience and ability to bounce back.

But even more important in my estimation is the longer term evolution of a company that, until January 1982, had never introduced a line extension. That was when Diet Coke was launched with great fanfare, and Bill Cosby at the helm of what was then an unprecedented $50 million ad budget. Its instant success—and to be fare, cannibalization of their older Tab diet cola brand—opened the flood gates of line extended Coca-Cola flavor variants.

I challenge you to visit the soft drink aisle next time you go shopping, and specifically peruse the Coca-Cola section. Count how many varietals you find that are line extensions. In some markets and larger supermarkets, the number approaches two dozen, including the Creations flavors being sold at that time. It can all be confusing, once you factor with and without sugar, and with and without caffeine. You have to pay attention when making your selection.

Obesity index or not, Coca-Cola is a company that has passed the tests of time. It has evolved. There’s no guarantee that it might never fail completely, because everyone is vulnerable like that, but at least for 138 years, it has proven itself up for the task.

As for its historic challenger—Pepsi Cola—they are now facing their worst threat ever, and not from Coca-Cola. No, they now find themselves locked into a duel with Dr. Pepper for second-place in the carbonated soft drink category, each now with an 8.3% share of market. Coca-Cola Classic is far out in front with 19.2%.

Maybe Pepsi needs to steal a page from Coke’s play book and figure out how to make some new “Creations” of its own.

Dr “Coke And A Smile” Gerlich

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