Finally, the aged up Lilycoln story I mentioned so long ago is here. Years ago, I told myself I would write at least one ship story for every sister. Lily is the last one. I wrote this in December 2018 and was going to publish it in January, but decided to do it now. It's been long enough and I know a lot of people have been waiting for it.

For anyone interested, I am now on . I've been doing a lot of commission work lately (almost everything I've done this year has been a commission) and figured I'd try this out. I have a bunch of different tiers that all offer cool stuff, like a Discord server, discounted commissions, exclusive content, and all kinds of other things. I can be found at : / / w w w . (remove the spaces)

Everyone has one of those days that changes their life forever. Lincoln Loud's was October 25, 2030...the day they kicked his ass out of Royal Woods Community College.

It wasn't his fault, though. Professor Jordan, his math instructor, had it out for him from the very first day and did everything in his power to fuck Lincoln over. Mr. Loud, I've yet to receive your assignment. Uh, dude, I emailed it to you three days ago. Granted, sometimes Lincoln did forget to turn in his work, and he maaaay have been late a few times (or absent entirely), but that wasn't his fault either. He worked the afternoon shift at Pissy's Pizza and most days didn't get home until ten or eleven, so he was tired and either forgot to set his alarm or slept through it. The work he did was passable, Cs and Ds; hey, he had other things to do, he couldn't sit down and spend hours on homework. He had a job and his art, the latter of which took up most of his time. He was highly regarded in the Ace Savvy fandom as LincOSuave and made money on the side by doing commissions. The politics of the fandom kept him busy more than actually drawing, especially since he took over HeroGuy96's Discord server. He knew his priorities were a little fucked, but now and then, school had to come third or fourth.

On the day it happened, he dragged himself out of bed at half past seven, a tall, rail thin boy with sparse hair on his chin - Lana teased him and said it looked like a ball sack. She would know, little thot. The previous night, he dropped into bed without getting undressed, and was too tired to change now, so he stayed in the same jeans and white T-shirt he'd been wearing for three days. The fabric around his neck and armpits was yellow with sweat, the chest was splotched with dough dust, pizza sauce, and grease, and his jeans were so stiff they could stand up on their own. He was running late, so he didn't have time for a shower. Again.

Oh well.

He dropped into the chair in front of his desk and popped open his laptop. He checked Discord, replied to a message from SirVale (your commission's almost done, asshole, jeez), and commented on someone's drawing of his Ace x Queen of Hearts love child OC - he said it was good even though the artist fucked her eyes up. Come on, buddy, it's not that hard to draw two ovals. Fucking loser. Next, he went to the Ace Savvy Booru and browsed the reviews of his latest drawing: Ace and One-Eye Jack beating the shit out of Katara16's OC Blayze. That's what you get for calling me lame, bitch. Most of them were positive, but a few called him mean names, and a fist of anger closed around his chest. It was probably one guy samefagging.

Clicking over to 4chan, he checked the threads and stumbled into the middle of a conversation about his headcannon, one guy arguing that it was superior and another saying it was "pure autism." He ships Ace and Queen when we all know Queen wants to be BLACKED by One-Eye Jack. Gritting his teeth, Lincoln leaned over the keyboard and shot off an anonymous message telling the guy to fuck off.

Taking a deep breath, he sat back and raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. His art was supposed to be an escape, a place where he could go to forget about life for a while, now it was the opposite - the thought of logging on often filled him with dread, and there were times he didn't think he could handle another shit post against his work. He soldiered on, though, because when he was in the zone, working on a piece he was really passionate about, he felt free. He wasn't a community college kid with failing grades, a sucky job, no girlfriend, and minimal social skills. He was Ace Savvy and One-Eyed Jack, he was the Duke of Diamonds and the Ace of Spades, his life wasn't dull and going nowhere, it was packed with action, excitement, and adventure.

Now the fandom...the fucking fandom...was taking that away from him.

I oughta leave.

That thought had occurred to him before, but deep down, he didn't think he could, because for all the flak he got, there were people who liked him, who enjoyed his work and left positive comments on his stuff. He had 905 followers on Pixiv and his last major piece (Ace Savvy looking over Card City at sundown from the top of the Pontiac Building) got 1,500 likes and 870 comments. Sometimes, when he was down because he fucked up an order at work or flunked a test, he'd go back and reread them, basking in the praise like a frozen man before a roaring fire. It made him feel like less of a screw up; it made him feel good.

Sighing, he checked his email, and found three unread messages, the first from DeviantArt, the second from (someone favorited his collection of repurposed greentexts), and the final was from the dean of RWCC requesting an "urgent meeting" with him at 8;15. Staring at the missive, Lincoln's heart dropped into his stomach.

In that moment, he knew.

He was in trouble.

Fuck.

A voice in the back of his head told him to skip and front like he didn't get the message - can't hurt me if ya can't find me - but that would only delay the inevitable.

Closing the laptop, he grabbed his shoes from the floor and pulled them on over his crusty socks. He was just tying the laces when a tiny rap came at the door. "Yeah?" he called absently. The knob turned, and Lily poked her head in. A slight blonde girl of eleven with a horselick and slight overbite that combined to lend her the appearance of a rabbit, Lily was, like her older brother, an artist, and much better than Lincoln was at her age. She was exceptionally bright...but stupid at the same time because she wanted to be just like him. No, really, she legit said I wanna be just like you when I grow up, and she did it in a breathy, starstruck tone like he was Elvis or somebody. She loved watching him work (sitting on the edge of his bed and watching with the rapt intensity of a devoted pupil), and followed him around the house like a loyal puppy dog. If I'm gonna be a good artist, she'd declare, I have to learn from the master.

He didn't know whether that was more cute, funny, or sad.

A sunny smile crept across Lily's face. "Hi," she piped, "just making sure you're up."

Somewhere along the line, Lily took it upon herself to be Lincoln's personal assistant, alarm clock, and second mother. When he came home from school, she'd materialize from the ether and ask him if he was hungry or wanted something to drink; if it was cold out, she'd remind him to wear his jacket (because I was totally going to forget that with fifty feet of snow on the ground); and if he got sick...God help him. The last time, she all but forced him to stay in bed and tended to him like a nurse, bringing him soup he didn't want, PM pills instead of daytime pills (why are you sleeping so much, Linc? Wait, I think I gave you the wrong stuff, hahaha, sorry), and shoving every pillow in the house under his head until he was folded in half like one of these things

It got really old, really fast, but despite it all, he kind of liked it. No one else in his life seemed to care. Lucy was...Lucy; Lola cared only about herself and how she looked; Lana was too busy with her boyfriend and mud bogging to concern herself with anything; and Lisa spent every waking second chained to her lab, researching, developing, and idk resurrecting the dead or something. Mom and Dad worked, Clyde was in college across the country, Ronnie Anne was married in the city, and all of his older sisters were either in far flung schools or, in Leni and Lori's case, living lives of their own. Lori had a husband and daughter named Lora and worked as a paralegal in California, and Leni just had a baby with her boyfriend in Chicago named Lydia - he didn't see them very often, and while that was to be expected...it kind of hurt. Once upon a time, his family was very close knit, and now the chain was broken. He didn't have many friends (and vaguely disliked the few he did have), but there was always Lily.

Kinda really lame that your only friend is your little sister, Linc.

Yeah, Linc, I know, but beggars can't be choosers. It's her or that twitchy Sheldon kid in class who won't shut up about Naruto.

...point taken. Carry on.

"Yeah, I'm up," he said, trying to keep the disquiet from his voice and largely succeeding. I'm up and getting ready to catch heat from the dean. Yay me.

"Do you want a Pop Tart?" Lily asked. "I'm making Pop Tarts."

Lincoln's stomach turned. "No thank you."

Lily's brow furrowed cutely. "Are you sure? Breakfast is pretty important. You can't be a great artist on an empty stomach. Well, I mean, you can, but having something to eat helps - it gives you energy and keeps your mind off how empty your stomach is so you can focus on creating masterpieces."

Despite his growing unease, a laugh escaped Lincoln's lips. She had a way of prattling that he couldn't help find endeering even as it wove a tapestry of pain across his forehead. Masterpieces. LMAO. Maybe he was paranoid, but sometimes he wondered if she wasn't subtly mocking him with biting sarcasm, a 4chan shitposter made flesh and disguised as a cute little girl to conceal its festering malignance. Then he looked into her big, adoring eyes and, nope, she's not making fun of me, she's just dumb and thinks I'm not a loser. "I'm really not hungry," he said.

She regarded him thoughtfully, then hummed. "Okay. I'll make you one anyway so if you change your mind, it's there."

"No, really, I -"

She shut the door.

Alrighty then.

He got up, grabbed his backpack, and slung it over his shoulder. He started into the hall but stopped at his dresser - I need deodorant. He spotted a stick of Old Spice lying next to a notebook and picked it up.

Dead.

Shit, that's right, he meant to go to the store yesterday but decided to draw instead. Luckily, he had a can of Axe in the top drawer, so he pulled that out and sprayed his pits so he didn't smell too bad. The hall stood empty, the sound of voices and the television drifting up the stairs. One good thing about most of his sisters being grown and out of the house was long bathroom lines being a distant memory. He went in, took a leak, and checked himself in the mirror: Worried, bloodshot eyes, stubble, pasty skin, a fresh crop of zits on his right temple. God, I even look like a loser.

Without brushing his teeth or washing his hands, he snapped the light off and went downstairs.

In the dining room, Lola, Lana, Lucy, and Lisa sat at the table, Lola daintily eating cereal, Lana shoveling oatmeal into her mouth, Lucy sipping coffee, and Lisa absently taking bites from a piece of toast as she pored over a shelf of papers. Lana wore a red and black plaid shirt, her crimped, shoulder length brushing the shoulders, and Lola was clad in a white T-shirt with a glittery pink design across the chest. Lucy's dress was, unsparingly, black, as were her combat boots. In other words, they were all in the same thing they wore everyday, which made Lincoln feel like less of a dirtball for not changing.

None of them spoke to him as he passed, nor, for that matter, each other. In the kitchen, Lily stood before the toaster with her hands clasped behind her back; she hummed an airy melody and rocked back and forth on her heels like a Jew worshipping the Wailing Wall. She wore jeans and a red sweater - her back was to him so he couldn't see, but he imagined it was the one with a fluffy white cat face on the chest. She loved cats, and her art reflected that: She drew them almost exclusively. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and nope, there was a flower on the front. She liked those too. "Hi," she brightened, "your Pop Tart's almost ready."

He caught a whiff of cooking sugar and his stomach turned. "Still not hungry," he said and crossed to the fridge. He opened the door, scanned the shelf, and grabbed a can of Sam's Cola.

"That's okay," Lily chirruped, "I'll wrap it up to go."

Ever hear the saying persistence pays off? Lily fucking lived by it. Her defining character trait, Lincoln had noticed, was pigheaded stubbornness. She would not take no for an answer, and once she set her mind to something, you'd need a SCUD missile tipped with an A-Bomb to stop her. He was the same way to an extent, but at least he knew how to admit defeat: Lily was the kind of girl who'd get her ass beat, then keep getting back up and trying to fight on until she was either unconscious or dead. "Alright," he said. It was all he could do; she'd make him take that damn Pop Tart even if she had to shove it down the back of his pants on his way out the door.

"It's cherry," she said with a hint of pride, "your favorite."

And so it was. She knew all of his favorite things, likes, dislikes, pet peeves, and opinions. On the days she watched him draw, she often brought a notebook along and took notes. He teased her once about her having a list of all the things he liked. I do, she said-matter-of-factly.

Ooooookay. Creepy...flattering, but creepy.

Popping the lid, he took a long, thirsty drink and sighed. "Thanks." He glanced at the clock on the microwave: 7:32. If he wanted to make this meeting (let's be honest, he didn't), he had to leave in five minutes.

As if on cue, his Pop Tart leapt out of the toaster with a metallic sound. "Done," Lily sang. She leaned forward, plucked it out with her thumb and forefinger, and hissed in pain. "Ow, ow, ow, hot, hot." She dropped it onto the counter, picked up a roll of paper towels, and ripped one off. She laid it neatly out, running her hand across the surface to flatten it just so, then reverently placed the Pop Tart on like a Christian handing the Holy Grail. She folded the ends of the towel over the front, took it in her hands, and carried it over to Lincoln, walking slow and careful so as not to drop it. It reached its destination safe and sound, and she presented it to him with a beaming smile. "Here you go."

"Thank you," he said and took it; heat soaked through the paper towel and stung his fingertips.

"You're welcome," she said. She looked over her shoulder at the clock, then back to him. "You better get going or you'll be late."

A quiver panged through his stomach.

Yeah.

Wouldn't want that.

"Alright, yeah, I gotta go," he said. "Thanks for the Pop Tart."

"You're welcome," she repeated, "enjoy." Her smile fell a little. "But not while you drive. That's kind of dangerous."

That's it! I'll smash into the support column of an overpass - don't have to go to the meeting if I'm in the hospital.

"I won't," he said.

They faced each other for a moment, Lily staring up at him with open adulation, and Lincoln chafed. One thing he never took well was flattery. A few times he joined a Discord server and everyone rushed him like schoolgirls to The Beatles, heaping him with effusive praise and treating him as though his feet didn't touch the ground. It made him so uncomfortable that he finally stopped. When she looked at him the way she was now, Lily made him feel the same way. He flicked his eyes to his feet to escape her unwavering gaze. "Alright," he said, "uh...have a good day."

"You too."

He scurried out and fought the urge to steal a glance over his shoulder. Outside, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Rain hissed in the street and the trees up and down Franklin smoldered in faded hues. A cool breeze plastered strands of hair against his sweaty forehead; he took a deep breath and let it out in an unsteady rush, anxiety clawing at the lining of his stomach.

Might as well get this over with, he thought.

Steeling himself, he went down the steps and hurried across the lawn, his head ducked against the rain. His car, a dented and rust speckled 1996 Toyota Tercel, sat at the curb under the overhanging boughs of an oak tree, wet leaves stuck to the roof like fallen embers. He slipped behind the wheel and pulled the door closed behind him, the hinges crying rustily out in pain. For a moment, he just sat there, then drew a burdened breath and started the engine.

Wish me luck, guys.

Something tells me.

I'm gonna need it.


Lily Loud knew very little when you got right down to it (but she was always willing to learn!), she did, however, know this: Rain or not, she was walking to school.

Royal Woods Elementary was half a mile away, and buses didn't service neighborhoods that close. Bright idea, huh? Sure, that's not such a great distance in perfect weather, or even a light drizzle, but in a steady rain like this? Yeah, kind of far. Even today wasn't that bad; the worst was the dead of winter, when the sidewalks are covered in ice and every step you take threatens to knock you on your keister. You had to walk reaaaally slow, and even then there was no guarantee you wouldn't go down. From December to March, the streets are littered with the carcasses of kids who tried and failed to make the pilgrimage to school, and as you passed their frozen bodies, you were reminded just how easily it could be you. One wrong move and KABLOOIE, your parents are digging your corpse out of a snow drift and sending up warbling laments. My baaaaaby!

At her dresser, she pulled out a pair of warm, comfy socks (pink and fuzzy for maximum toe warmth) and went to her bed, where she sat with a bounce. She retrieved her galoshes from beside the nightstand: They were black with pink, green, and purple hearts. They were kind of ugly but they kept her feet dry, and that's what mattered.

She pulled them on over her shoes and stood up, then went over to the closet, where she selected a puffy pink jacket with a hood. It was supposed to repel rain or something - the label said water resistant which is entirely different than waterproof, by the way. Say you have a watch. If it's the former, you can get water on it and it'll be okay, but if you totally submerge it, you better have a backup handy. Waterproof means you can strap it on and go swimming; when you get out, it'll still work.

That was irrelevant to anything happening right now, but what could she say, she liked irrelevant things. She liked cats too and art and long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners in Paris (even though she'd never had a candlelit dinner...or been to Paris). Her favorite thing, though, was art. She loved drawing. Primarily cats and other animals. Not horses though. She didn't have anything against horses, she just always messed up on their heads.

Actually, art wasn't really her favorite thing at all. Her favorite thing was Lincoln.

Yes, she realized that being eleven and saying [insert family member] was your best friend/hero/anything else positively verged on dork territory, but it was true, Lincoln was her hero. For one, he was a really good artist - he could draw anything. g. A horse head? No problem. A person? Yup. A landscape so real it looked like you could reach in and touch the grass? Double yup.

For two, he was the best big brother ever. Patient, kind, wise. He always had time for her (unlike their sisters, who never had time) and when she had a problem, he listened and then helped her solve it. She felt safe and at ease with him, like she could confide anything in him and count on him no matter what, and that was really nice because, truth be told, she didn't think she could rely on anyone else in her life. Mom and Dad worked all the time, and her sisters were airheads. Lincoln wasn't, Lincoln was awesome.

No one else seemed to think that, though. Lola, Lana, Lucy, and Lisa all ignored him just like they ignored her, which baffled her to no end. Like...don't you guys realize how amazing her is? He's everything an older brother should, why don't you appreciate him more? He's strong, steadfast, gentle, handsome, knows almost everything there is to know, and he goes out of his way to do things for you even though you're too self-absorbed to ever do anything for him. Her sisters had no problem asking him for help, then turning around and basically telling him to get lost when he needed help. Lily didn't get mad a lot, but that made her furious, which is why she did everything she could to be the perfect little sister. She was, in essence, doing the job of five women, so she had to go above and beyond the call of duty.

She didn't mind that, though, Lincoln deserved it, and she loved helping and spending time with him, like when he drew; she'd sit on his bed and divide her attention between his art and his face, her chest flooding with warm, tingling love. I promise to be the best sister in the world, she would think. She definitely tried, but didn't quite know if she succeeded or not. She had a habit of gushing when she talked to him that she thought annoyed him, but that was because he made her feel so good and comfortable all those words just kind of...slipped out. She could also kind of be, like, a mother hen or something, but she loved him, and when you love someone, you worry about them and stuff. All those times she told him to not forget his coat or hat? That's because she didn't want him to be cold. Practically shoving a Pop Tart down his throat? She didn't want him to be hungry.

Plus, okay, maybe it was kind of for her too. She didn't know why (other than she was strange), but feeding him was immensely satisfying. Not so much handing him a Pop Tart, but, like, cooking for him. Once, she made him spaghetti (because that's one of the few things she knew she could make without failing), and Lana rolled her eyes. You're like a housewife. That both hurt her feelings and made her feel oddly good at the same time.

I know, I'm a weirdo.

She shrugged into her jacket, put her backpack on over it, and went downstairs. The living room was dark and the TV off, which told her that the others had already left. Lola had her own car (she cried and cried and cried until Dad bought her one for her birthday), and Lana and Lucy rode with their boyfriends. Lisa graduated early, so she stayed home and did whatever (Lily thought of it as Frankenstein stuff). She knew better than to ask Lola for a ride because *disgusted sigh* No, I'm gonna be late. She'd ride with Lincoln, but he left so early that she'd get to school almost a full hour before class started. The building was open, but she didn't like hanging out at school when she didn't have to. She kind of had a bully situation.

Not a bad one, just...some girls picked on her, and she wanted to avoid any unnecessary incidents. She got it enough during class, lunch, and recess, why add an extra forty-five minutes to the fray?

Lincoln would totally give her a ride if she asked, though, and that was another reason he was her favorite sibling.

At the door, she flipped the hood over her head and went out onto the porch, closing it behind her. The rain had picked up since she last checked, rivers slucing through the gutters and water pooling in the front yard. Ugh. Don't get her wrong, she liked rainy days, but only if she was warm and dry inside, curled up with her tablet or a good book. One thing she really liked about Lucy was her taste in literature - horror was cool. Not the grizzly, blood all over the place horror, but the stuff with atmosphere. Seeing someone's guts isn't scary, but hearing a shuffling footstep on the stairs when it's midnight...and dark...and you're alone…

Shiver.

Mom didn't like her reading those kinds of books because they gave her nightmares, but what mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her *wink*

Shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets, Lily bowed her head defensively and went out into the rain, the rubbery soles of her boots squelching in the mud as she crossed to the sidewalk. She turned right and started toward school. Another fun filled day awaits, she thought sarcastically. At least Lincoln didn't have to work today; maybe when she got home they could hang out and draw together.

A smile touched her lips and her stomach fluttered with happiness. Other kids might say she was a geek or something, but she couldn't think of a better way to spend a rainy afternoon.


Lincoln Loud stepped hesitantly into the dean's office at 8:35 - he knew because his eyes instantly went to the grandfather clock in the corner. The room was a massive space with forest green carpeting and wood paneled walls dotted with framed photos, certificates, and degrees. A potted plant stood by the window, and ashen morning light streamed through its supple fronds. Leather upholstered wingback chairs, end tables, and tall bookshelves occupied one half while a large oaken desk commanded the other. Dean Howard sat behind it, a broad-shouldered man with thinning red hair and a thick mustache: He wore a light blue blazer over a white shirt accented by a red tie and a sour expression that seemed to be permanently tattoed onto his narrow face. His brow darkened, and Lincoln's heartbeat sped up.

"Sit," the dean said and motioned to a chair in front of the desk. Lincoln tossed a longing glance over his shoulder, his legs tensing for a see-ya sprint, then entered, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care, as though it were made of nitroglycerin. He crossed to the chair and stiffly sat. Being a well-respected artist in a fandom, and having single-handedly created a subfandom of which he was the center, Lincoln went through life with a sense of being Big and Important - not here, but somewhere, at least. Right now, with Dean Howard scowling at him over the tips of his steepled fingers, Lincoln felt the opposite: Small, insignificant, like a bug. He was familiar with feeling inferior, but he could always stop, take a deep breath, and say I matter in the fandom. He tried that now...and it didn't work. The knitted brow and narrowed eyes of the man before him burned away his illusions the way the first light of morning burned away the mist upon the ground. He was a twenty-one year old loser with a minimum wage, part-time job, no girlfriend, and, he realized, no aspirations. Once, he wanted to be a comic book artist, but since joining the Ace Savvy fandom, he was content with his lot. He didn't make money (except through commissions), but the positive reviews of his work were good enough for him.

He always suspected that he was a loser, but seeing himself refected in the boring gaze of the Dean, he saw for the first time just what a hopeless wreck he really was. He put his art above everything - his social life, his job, even his school work - and now, he reckoned, he was going to pay the price.

Drawing a deep breath, Dean Howard sat up straighter, towering over Lincoln like a giant. "Mr. Loud," he said distastefully, "I called this meeting because your grades have been steadily slipping. Your GPA is now at a level that necessitates intervention."

Lincoln swallowed. "Intervention?" he asked.

"Yes. All students are to maintain a 2.0 GPA to remain enrolled here. Yours is currently at 1.8."

Lincoln winced. He knew it was bad, but not like that. "I-I don't see how it's that low. I do my work and -"

The Dean held up a forestalling hand. "Professor Jordan has had nothing but problems with you handing in your assignments."

That was a lie! Sure, every once in a while he forgot, but not enough to sink his GPA to a 1.8. "I turn in my stuff," Lincoln said defensively.

Dean Howard lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? The last paper you were supposed to write was due on…" here he consulted a form on his desk. "The 20th. You emailed it to him on the 21st."

Lincoln started to argue that he did send it on the 20th, but then it hit him. He did send it late. But only because he lost himself in a project, and even then, he clicked SEND exactly at midnight. Proffessor Jordan was just being anal; it was literally one minute late, that shouldn't even count.

He said as much, and Dean Howard's features hardened. "Mr. Loud, this is an adult program. You were responsible for sending that email on the appointed date and did not. Professor Jordan is not obliged to offer a grace period, nor should you expect him to. You are a grown man, not a child, yet you've done nothing but act like one the whole time you've been here."

Anger ignited in Lincoln's chest and hot color spread across his cheeks. He forced himself to take a calming breath lest he do something he'd regret. He could still salvage thi -

"I'm sorry, but you're no longer a student at RWCC."

Those words cut through Lincoln like a burst of gunfire; his chest squeezed and a violent shockwave rippled out from the center of his stomach. Dean Howard's mouth turned up in a sharp, gratified smile. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Lincoln didn't remember the walk to his car; one moment he was sitting in the dean's office, the next he was behind the wheel, dazed and leaking tears down his sallow cheeks.

He fucked up.

He fucked up bad.

His parents were going to be so mad at him.

That thought pushed him over the edge, and hanging his head, Lincoln Loud wept.