#Egg Storage Box

[trekkeressentials]

Master Campfire Cuisine: Must-Have Stove and Cookware for Tasty Outdoor Meals

Camping is an adventure that connects us with nature, offering a break from the hustle and bustle of daily life. One of the greatest joys of camping is preparing and enjoying meals in the great outdoors. Whether you’re cooking over an open fire or using a portable stove, having the right cookware and equipment can transform your outdoor dining experience from bland to gourmet. In this guide, we’ll explore the must-have stoves and cookware for creating delicious campfire cuisine, ensuring you master the art of outdoor cooking.

The Importance of Good Cooking Gear

Before diving into specific products, let’s discuss why having quality cooking gear is essential for successful outdoor meals:

Convenience: Good cookware simplifies meal preparation and cooking processes, allowing you to focus more on enjoying your surroundings and less on logistics.

Efficiency: Quality cooking gear helps you save time and energy, making it easier to whip up tasty meals, even in challenging conditions.

Flavor: With the right tools, you can experiment with different cooking techniques and ingredients, elevating the flavor of your meals.

Durability: Outdoor cooking gear must withstand the rigors of camping, including exposure to elements, rough handling, and temperature fluctuations.

Must-Have Stoves for Outdoor Cooking

A reliable stove is the foundation of your camp kitchen. Here are some essential types of stoves you should consider for your outdoor cooking adventures:

1. Portable Propane Stoves

Portable propane stoves are a favorite among campers for their convenience and efficiency. These stoves typically feature adjustable burners, allowing for precise temperature control.

Pros: Easy to set up, quick to ignite, and great for boiling water and frying foods. They are also lightweight and portable.

Cons: You’ll need to carry propane canisters, which can take up space and add weight.

Top Pick: The Coleman Portable Propane Stove is a well-regarded option. With its durable construction, adjustable burners, and compatibility with standard propane canisters, it's perfect for various cooking tasks.

2. Campfire Grills

For those who prefer traditional campfire cooking, a campfire grill is an essential addition to your gear. These grills allow you to cook directly over the fire, providing that authentic smoky flavor.

Pros: Inexpensive and easy to use, campfire grills are perfect for grilling meats and veggies while enjoying the ambiance of a campfire.

Cons: Cooking can be less controlled, and it may take longer to achieve desired cooking results.

Top Pick: The Texsport Heavy Duty Camp Grill is a sturdy option that easily fits over most campfires, offering ample cooking space for multiple items.

3. Wood-Burning Stoves

Wood-burning stoves are an excellent eco-friendly alternative, using natural resources for fuel. These stoves are compact and perfect for solo campers or small groups.

Pros: They require no fuel canisters, making them lightweight and sustainable. Cooking over wood can also enhance the flavor of your meals.

Cons: Gathering wood and maintaining the fire can be a hassle, and cooking time may vary based on wood type and moisture levels.

Top Pick: The BioLite CampStove 2 not only serves as a stove but also features a USB charging capability, allowing you to power devices while cooking.

Essential Cookware for Campfire Cooking

With your stove selected, the next step is to gather essential cookware that will make outdoor cooking a breeze:

1. Cast Iron Skillets

Cast iron skillets are a camping essential, prized for their heat retention and versatility. They can be used for frying, baking, and even cooking over an open flame.

Pros: Durable and long-lasting, cast iron skillets improve with use, developing a natural non-stick surface. They can withstand high temperatures and are perfect for campfire cooking.

Cons: They can be heavy, and proper maintenance is required to prevent rust.

Top Pick: The Lodge Cast Iron Skillet is a classic choice among campers for its durability and multi-functionality.

2. Camping Pots and Pans

A good set of camping pots and pans is vital for boiling water, making soups, and preparing various meals. Lightweight and compact cookware is essential for easy transport.

Pros: Most camping pots and pans are designed to be stackable and lightweight, making them perfect for backpacking.

Cons: Cheaper options may not provide even heat distribution.

Top Pick: The GSI Outdoors Pinnacle Camper Cookset offers a complete set of pots, pans, and utensils, all packed in a convenient carrying case.

3. Dutch Ovens

Dutch ovens are a favorite for slow-cooking meals over a campfire. These heavy-duty pots can also be used for baking bread or desserts.

Pros: Excellent heat retention, versatility for a range of dishes, and can be used over open flames or in coals.

Cons: They can be heavy and require some experience to use effectively.

Top Pick: The Camp Chef Classic Dutch Oven comes pre-seasoned, ready for use right out of the box, making it a fantastic choice for camp cooking.

4. Cooking Utensils

Don’t overlook the importance of good cooking utensils. Having the right tools can make a significant difference in meal preparation and cooking.

Pros: Proper utensils enhance your cooking efficiency and ensure you have the right tools for each task.

Cons: Bringing too many utensils can add unnecessary weight.

Top Pick: A compact cooking utensil set like the GSI Outdoors Pack Kitchen Utensil Set includes essential items like spatulas, ladles, and serving spoons, all designed for easy packing.

5. Grill Baskets and Skewers

For grilling vegetables or meat, grill baskets and skewers are invaluable. They prevent food from falling through the grill while allowing for even cooking.

Pros: Easy to use and clean, and they help with portion control for skewers.

Cons: Not all food items can be skewered, limiting versatility.

Top Pick: The Cuisinart Non-Stick Grill Basket is perfect for holding vegetables, while Stainless Steel Skewers offer durability for kebabs.

Cooking Techniques for Campfire Cuisine

Now that you have your stove and cookware ready, it’s time to master some cooking techniques that will elevate your outdoor meals:

1. Grilling

Grilling is a popular method for cooking meats and vegetables over an open flame. This technique enhances flavors and gives a delicious char to your food.

Tip: Preheat your grill before placing food on it to achieve those beautiful grill marks.

2. Boiling

Boiling is a straightforward technique perfect for making soups, stews, and pasta. It’s essential for quick meal prep, especially when you need to hydrate freeze-dried meals.

Tip: Add herbs and spices to the water before boiling to infuse flavors into your food.

3. Baking

With a Dutch oven or cast iron skillet, you can bake bread, pizzas, or desserts over the fire. This technique is ideal for creating hearty meals or sweet treats.

Tip: Use hot coals to bake evenly; place coals on top of the Dutch oven for even heat distribution.

4. One-Pot Meals

One-pot meals simplify cooking and cleanup, making them perfect for camping. Combine proteins, vegetables, and grains into a single pot for a filling dish.

Tip: Prep ingredients ahead of time for quick assembly at the campsite.

Meal Ideas for Campfire Cooking

Here are some delicious meal ideas to inspire your campfire cuisine:

1. Campfire Chili

A hearty campfire chili is perfect for cold nights. Simply brown your meat in a pot, add canned tomatoes, beans, and spices, and let it simmer over the fire.

2. Grilled Veggie Skewers

Marinate your favorite vegetables, skewer them, and grill them over an open flame for a colorful and nutritious side dish.

3. Dutch Oven Pizza

With your Dutch oven, you can create a mouthwatering pizza by layering dough, sauce, cheese, and toppings. Bake until golden and bubbly for a satisfying meal.

4. S’mores

No camping trip is complete without s’mores! Roast marshmallows over the fire and sandwich them between graham crackers and chocolate for a classic dessert.

Tips for Cleaning and Maintaining Your Cooking Gear

Maintaining your cooking gear is crucial for ensuring longevity and safety. Here are some tips to keep your stoves and cookware in top condition:

Clean After Use: Rinse pots and pans immediately after use to prevent food from sticking. Use biodegradable soap and sponge to clean, ensuring minimal environmental impact.

Dry Thoroughly: To prevent rust, especially on cast iron, dry your cookware completely before packing it away.

Store Properly: Use protective cases or bags for your gear to prevent scratches and damage during transport.

Inspect Regularly: Check for wear and tear on your stoves and cookware before each trip. Replace any damaged items to ensure safe cooking.

Conclusion

Mastering campfire cuisine is about more than just having the right recipes; it’s about equipping yourself with the essential stoves and cookware that will enhance your outdoor cooking experience. From portable propane stoves and cast iron skillets to Dutch ovens and cooking utensils, the right gear allows you to create delicious meals that nourish your body and soul while you connect. Visit - Trekker Essentials

Read Also:Campfire Cuisine Hacks – With the Perfect Camping Stove & Cookware

[ninghaipanfengmouldplastic]

Plastic Egg Storage Box

The Perfect Space Saving Solution: A drawer is a great way to store eggs in the fridge and it minimises the space occupied by the original Styrofoam and cardboard boxes.

Keep Your Eggs Safe And Fresh: Conical groove design, each egg is placed individually, preventing eggs from being hit or broken. By the way, standing eggs upright keeps them fresh for longer.

Convenient And Durable: Made of high quality PP plastic material, durable and easy to clean. The translucent design makes it easy to see about how many eggs are inside.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hello my girl! Because Easter is coming up I wanted to request something. Maybe Carlos daughter who doesn't believe in the Easter Bunny because she is scared of him. And her father telling her that it is not the Easter bunny but some other animal. Thank youuu!

Easter Otter🦦

It was early April, and in the Sainz household, that meant one very important thing: Easter was coming.

And Easter, in this house, meant a carefully planned scavenger hunt, homemade chocolate nests, bunny-shaped pancakes, and lots and lots of glitter. It also meant one very adorable little girl bouncing off the walls with excitement.

Four-year-old Yn had been talking about Easter for weeks. Every morning she asked her parents, "Is it today?" and every morning, Carlos would scoop her up and say with a chuckle, "Not yet, princesa, but it’s coming."

Rebecca had already filled a giant pastel pink storage box with everything they needed: decorations, little egg-shaped boxes, colored markers, and tiny baskets for the egg hunt. She even had a stash of small presents wrapped in shiny paper.

But amidst all the excitement, there lingered a familiar problem.

"I don't want the bunny to come," Yn said one afternoon, her big brown eyes wide and worried as she sat on the floor surrounded by stickers and colored paper.

Carlos looked up from where he was untangling some fairy lights. "What bunny, mi vida?"

"The big bunny," she whispered, leaning closer to her dad. "The one from the mall."

Rebecca gave Carlos a knowing look. Here we go again.

Carlos set down the lights and scooped his daughter into his lap. "Ah, I see. The one that surprised you that time, remember?"

Yn nodded solemnly. "He was huge, Papa. Like a giant. And he just stood there. Looking at me."

"It was a costume, baby," Rebecca said gently, kneeling beside them. "Just a person dressed up for fun."

"But it wasn't fun!" Yn insisted, her bottom lip quivering.

Carlos exchanged a glance with Rebecca. They'd tried to explain this a dozen times, but the memory was just too strong for Yn. She'd screamed at the top of her lungs in the middle of the mall when she'd turned around and saw the six-foot Easter Bunny looming behind her. Ever since, she'd been wary of anything rabbit-related.

And with Easter just days away, the stress was beginning to rise.

That evening, after Yn had gone to bed cuddled up with her favorite plush fox and a picture book, Carlos turned to Rebecca with a determined expression.

"We need a new plan."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "You mean no bunny?"

"No bunny," he confirmed. "We're retiring the Easter Bunny. He had a good run, but his services are no longer required."

Rebecca smiled. "Alright then. What do you have in mind?"

Carlos grinned. "Something better. Something cuter. Something less... terrifying."

The next day, he began working on his idea. While Rebecca took Yn to the park, he stayed home, digging through craft supplies, printing out illustrations, and even making a quick run to the toy store.

When Yn came home, she was immediately curious. "Papa, what are you doing?"

Carlos turned around, holding something behind his back. "I have a surprise. But you have to promise not to scream."

Yn's eyes widened. "Is it a lizard?"

"Nope. Better. Close your eyes."

She squeezed her eyes shut, giggling.

"Okay... open!"

Carlos revealed a plush otter, about the size of a loaf of bread, with big shiny eyes, tiny paws, and a pastel blue bowtie around its neck. On its belly, it carried a little Easter basket.

"This," Carlos said proudly, "is the Easter Otter."

Yn blinked at it. Then she reached out slowly and took it from his hands. "Otter?"

"Yes," Carlos said. "From now on, the Easter Otter is in charge of Easter. He hides the eggs. He brings the presents. He leaves you little notes."

"But... what happened to the bunny?" she asked hesitantly.

"He went on vacation."

Rebecca leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and smiling. "Yeah, the bunny needed a break after so many years of hopping around. So the otter offered to take over. He swims instead of hops. Much more relaxing."

Yn hugged the plush otter close. "He’s so cute."

"You like him?"

"I love him," she said, beaming. "Can he sleep in my bed tonight?"

Carlos grinned and pulled his daughter into a hug. "Of course."

The Easter Otter became an overnight sensation in the Sainz household.

By the next morning, the living room had been transformed. There were pastel sea-themed decorations, paper otters hanging from the ceiling, and a trail of blue sparkly paw prints leading from the kitchen to Yn’s room.

She followed them excitedly, finding tiny chocolate eggs tucked under pillows and behind books.

There was even a note written in curly, playful handwriting:

Dear Yn, thank you for letting me visit this year. I hope you like the gifts I hid. Have fun hunting! Love, The Easter Otter.

Yn clutched the note to her chest. "He wrote to me!"

Rebecca watched with tears in her eyes as Yn scurried off to hunt for eggs, the plush otter bouncing in her arms.

"This was a genius idea," she whispered to Carlos.

"I’d do anything for her," he replied, slipping an arm around his wife.

Later that afternoon, Yn grandparents came over, along with a couple of Yn’s aunts. They were expecting a typical Easter setup, but instead, they found the house covered in otters and ocean waves.

"Where is the bunny?" Reyes asked, looking around in confusion.

"He's on holiday," Rebecca said casually.

"Meet the Easter Otter," Carlos added, holding up the plush toy proudly.

"Otter?" Ana, Yn aunt, repeated. "Like the animal that swims?"

"Exactly!" Yn said, running into the room and holding the otter high. "He’s my favorite. He brings eggs and he swims!"

There was a beat of silence. Then Reyes gave a small shrug. "Well... as long as she’s happy."

"She’s more than happy," Rebecca said. "She’s enchanted."

After the egg hunt, the family sat down for a meal. Yn was busy explaining to everyone the otter’s backstory.

"He lives in a lagoon," she said seriously, spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth. "With ducks. And turtles. And he makes jellybean soup."

"That sounds... interesting," Carlos Sr replied with a chuckle.

"He also has a best friend who’s a crab," she added. "But the crab is shy, so he doesn’t come out much."

Carlos leaned over to whisper in Rebecca’s ear. "I think we just created an entire Easter universe."

"You did this to yourself," she whispered back, laughing.

That evening, as the sun began to set and the family lingered in the backyard, Yn climbed onto Carlos's lap, clutching the otter.

"Thank you for making Easter not scary," she said sleepily.

Carlos kissed her head. "You're welcome, mi corazón. The Easter Otter will always be here for you."

"Even when I'm a grown-up?"

"Especially then. He'll just need a bigger basket."

Rebecca looked over at them from her chair, smiling.

"You're a good dad," she said softly.

Carlos looked down at the little girl in his arms, already half-asleep, her curls tangled and face sticky from chocolate.

"She's the best thing we've ever done."

"Agreed."

And as the stars came out and the fairy lights twinkled around them, the Easter Otter lay safely tucked in Yn's arms, guarding her dreams and reminding everyone that sometimes, a little creativity and a lot of love could turn even the scariest things into something magical.

Even a giant bunny.

Especially a swimming otter.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

Happy Easter, everyone!

-🤍🦢

[kedreeva]

[image of aFacebook post from Delaware Museum of Nature and science which reads

[begin post text]

This week, our federal grant through the Institute for Museum and Library Services to help preserve part of our bird egg collection was canceled as part of a larger action impacting museums and libraries across the country.

The grant was to rehouse more than 10,500 clutches of songbird eggs. These fragile specimens are over 100 years old, and need archival storage to protect them from long-term damage. We had already purchased the boxes, which are now in production, and were awaiting reimbursement as promised by the terms of the grant.

We remain committed to preserving these important collections and exploring ways to move this work forward. To help us bridge this gap – as well as future conservation challenges – please consider donating to our Collections & Research fund to help protect and preserve these precious specimens for today’s scientists and future generations: https://delmns.org/.../preserving-the-past-protecting.../

We're grateful for your support. [End post text]

There is an image of preserved, hollow songbird eggs in boxes at the bottom of the post]

Link from the post, if anyone wants to help. I couldn't make Tumblr not convert it on the text above.

[citrlet]

because i was asked for what mods i use, i decided i'll just make a whole post!

most of everything here is pretty cottagecore/naturey~

under the cut because my game is heavily modded this list is long!!

visual

medieval buildings

way back pelican town

seasonal cute characters base / expanded / east scarp

all cuter animal replacements

vibrant pastoral 1.6 (temporary fix)

overgrown flowery ui

medieval craftables

dynamic night time

cottagecore fences

lamps

gwens paths

animated gemstones

foliage redone foliage only

rosedryads fairies

elle's town animals

sve facelift

more grass

medieval dnt

flowergrass and snowfields

expansion fish redesign

clothing / hairs

more accessories and stuff

cozy scarves

hoods and hoodies

vanilla pants and skirts

the coquette collection

seasonal hats

ani's colour collection

improved and new hairstyles

kyuyas hairstyles pack

furniture

idalda furniture recolor

h&w outdoor furniture

h&w fairy garden furniture

west elm furniture

nano's retro style furniture

asters big furniture pack

gameplay / mechanics

cjb cheats menu (just to walk a little faster)

cjb show item sell price

greenhouse gatherers

craftable mushroom boxes

advanced casks

lumisteria serene meadow

growable forage and crop bushes

cornucopia more flowers / more crops

atelier wildflour crops and forage pack

wear more rings

tree transplant

passable crops

no fence decay redux

multi yield crops

crop fairy

challenging community center bundles

better chests

automate

spawn supply crates on beach

expanded storage

bigger backpack

blue eggs and golden mayo

better ranching

npc map locations

data layers

expansions

stardew valley expanded

east scarp / lurking in the dark / never ending adventure / always raining in the valley

lumisteria visit mount vapius

misc

jen's cozy cellar

cozy farmhouse kitchen

asters walls and floors megapack

wrens expanded greenhouse

cuter coops and better barns

nicer sewer

also recommended

hudson valley buildings

elle's seasonal buildings

seasonal fences

ridgeside village

immerisve farm map 2

[pokemonshelterstories]

my happiny has been giving me trouble lately. she's discovered where i store my golf balls, and even when i ball her to move them somewhere else, it's like she can sniff them out to play with. that wouldn't be such a problem if she would give them back, but she gets upset when i try to take them and won't accept round stones as a trade. it seems she knows that i want the golf balls more than the stones, so she thinks they're more valuable. help :(

this may seem like kind of a short and unhelpful answer, but...put your golf balls up higher? a happiny can't really climb. if you have a high shelf, she won't be able to get into them. if you don't have somewhere high up, get a pokemon-proof storage box that she can't open.

she probably likes them because they're round and white, similar to an egg in her eyes. you can always get her her own golf ball to carry around and keep the rest put away where she can't get to.

[scoutofmymind]

With Me — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, angst, pining, unrequited love, guilt, mentions of death, five years in the future in this one, a lowkey cliffhanger ending again, I’m an asshole

Wc: 7,681

Notes: five years later and at times continents apart, you’ve finally come to realize that some currents are impossible to resist — no matter how far you’ve travelled to escape them.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

This is a sequel to Without Me

Five years carve themselves differently into different things.

Into the barn's weathered planks, they've etched deeper grooves, splitting paint and warping wood.

Into the fields beyond, they've cycled twenty harvests that blur together like a kaleidoscope.

Into your hands, they've written their own history — small calluses from surgical instruments instead of hay bales, faint chemical burns from disinfectants replacing the mud stains of your youth.

You time your visits home with the care of someone defusing a bomb.

Three days when the Mangiones are in Milan.

A weekend while Luigi attends a business conference in Chicago.

Christmas morning but never Christmas Eve, Easter dinner but never the egg hunt that follows.

Your mother stopped asking why around year three, just confirms your arrival with "They'll be gone by then" or "He's in New York until Tuesday," a subtle acknowledgment of the careful romp you've arranged around his absence.

The farmhouse you once called home’s kitchen smells the same — cinnamon and coffee grounds, the lingering ghost of last night's dinner, all undercut by the sweet decay of fruit ripening too fast in the bowl by the window. Still, your mother isn’t used to the two pairs of hands not around anymore to raid the kitchen after a day in the sun.

She moves around you, pulling down plates that haven't changed since childhood, her hands marked by new spots but following the same patterns they always have.

Time is both frozen and racing here.

You think back to all the times the elders told you to appreciate your youth whilst you have it — you’re not dead, nor have you gotten old, but life feels a little heavier than it ever did.

"Your old room's all made up," she slides eggs onto a plate, the yolks perfect half-moons of sunrise yellow. "Though I swear those sheets are going to disintegrate soon. You should take some of your things this visit, we're not a storage unit." There's no bite to her words, just the same gentle nudging she's been attempting for years — trying to make you confront the boxes of memories you've left to gather dust in her attic.

You nod, knowing you'll leave without opening a single one.

It’s true that wounds scab over if you're careful enough, developing a protection that holds as long as you don't pick at the edges.

And you’ve become an expert at not picking.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase of practical things — clothes, books, the silver pendant your grandmother left you — and abandoned the artifacts that might have hurt too much to carry; the shoebox of river stones collected each summer, photographs chronicling two lives so intertwined they seemed impossible to separate, evidence of a friendship that had grown into something you couldn't name without destroying it.

Your life now spans three continents, filled with colleagues who know nothing of sunrise swims or teenage promises whispered under star-scattered skies. You've crafted yourself into someone defined by action rather than attachment — the veterinarian who stays just long enough to heal before moving on, whose apartment holds furniture selected for function rather than memory.

You tell yourself it's freedom.

Most days, you almost believe it.

But the guilt comes in waves — during transatlantic flights when there's nothing to do but think, or in the moments before sleep. You replay that last night by the water, his hands cradling your face, the desperation in his voice as he offered you everything while you offered only a goodbye.

Sometimes you draft text messages you never send, explanations that sound hollow even in your own mind.

I needed to find myself.

I was scared of disappearing into us.

I didn't know how to love you without losing me.

What you never say, even to yourself, is that you miss him with an ache that hasn't dulled with distance or time — a phantom limb pain for something vital you chose to amputate.

"Did you hear about Marco?" your father asks, settling at the table with a grunt, his knees creaking like the porch steps. "Cancer's spread. Doctors gave him six months, but Sofia says he's fading faster."

You nod, focusing intently on buttering toast that doesn't need such concentration. You've heard, of course — gleaned from conversations with your mother that never directly mention Luigi, though his absence in these updates sits like a ghost at the table.

You wonder who's running the company now, if the pressure has etched new lines around his eyes, if he still laughs with his whole body the way he did before you left.

"That poor boy been handling everything," your mother adds, as if reading your thoughts. "The business, the medical decisions. Sofia's not coping well." She pauses, watching you with eyes that see too much. "Lu asks about you, you know. When he calls to check if your father needs help with the south field."

The knife stills against bread gone suddenly tasteless in your mouth. "He shouldn't," you manage, the words scraping your throat raw.

"And yet he does," your father’s weathered hand covers yours briefly before returning to his coffee mug. "Some things don't change just because we wish they would."

Today's miscalculation feels like fate's sick joke.

Your father's birthday celebration was supposed to be safe — Sofia had mentioned to your mother her plans of taking Marco to specialists in Boston, a last-ditch consultation for treatments that weren't working. You'd verified twice, casual questions that weren't casual at all: "Will it just be us?" "And a less subtle “The Mangiones around?" Your mother's responses had been reassuring — at least that’s how you’d felt in the moment.

“Just family this time," and "Sofia's with Marco at that hospital."

What she failed to mention was that Luigi had flown back alone.

You realize this as headlights sweep across the kitchen window, illuminating family photographs, a contrast to where you've been carefully cropped out of your mother's social media posts — another protection measure in your elaborate system of avoidance.

The car engine cuts, and the silence that follows feels longer than the five years you've spent running.

Your mother gives you a look that hovers between apology and guilt. "He brings us wine every year now,” she looks toward the hallway leading to the door. "Some Italian red your father loves. I didn't have the heart to tell him not to come."

Your hands grip the edge of the countertop, knuckles white against butcher block worn smooth by generations of anxious grips just like yours. There's nowhere to run now — no flight to catch, no work emergency to fabricate.

Just the sound of footsteps on the porch steps, the familiar rhythm of someone who knows exactly which boards creak and how to distribute his weight to minimize the sound.

And then the knock comes — three gentle taps, the same signal from childhood that meant come out and play, I've found something amazing — and your separate life collapses like a house of cards.

For a breath-stealing moment, your body forgets how to move. Muscles locked in the ancient instinct of prey caught in open terrain, and your mother glances between you and the door again, a silent question in her raised eyebrows.

When you remain frozen, she sighs and moves toward the entrance, her footsteps deliberate as if giving you time to flee. But where would you go? The bathroom window is too small, the back door leads to a yard with no cover, and dignity — what little remains — prevents you from hiding under the kitchen table like a child.

The door opens, and your mother's voice carries that special warmth she's always reserved for Luigi — the tone that once made you wonder if she secretly wished he was her child instead. "There he is! Right on time as always."

Right on time?

Suddenly, you realize you’ve been set up.

And so has Luigi.

Their shadows stretch across the entryway floor, elongated by the porch light behind them. You can see the wine bottle passing between their silhouettes, hear the soft murmur of his response though the words themselves are lost beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears.

"She's in the kitchen," your mother tells him, louder now, unmistakably meant for you to hear — a final warning before the inevitable.

And then he's there, standing in the doorway between worlds — yours and his — a presence so familiar yet altered that your mind struggles to reconcile memory with reality.

He's filled out, his shoulders carrying a tension they never did before, hair longer than you've ever seen it, but cut in a way that seems so New York City. The playfulness that once animated his features has been replaced by something more contained, more deliberate.

He wears the responsibility like one of his tailored Brunello Cucinelli dinner suits, both perfectly fitted and slightly constraining.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

What could possibly follow five years of silence?

What greeting spans a canyon of that width?

"Hey, stranger," his voice is deeper than you remember, the casual words belied by the way he keeps his distance, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt at just the sound of his voice. The phrase — your phrase, the one you always used when he returned from summer trips to Italy — feels like a key unlocking a door you've kept bolted shut, afraid of what lives behind it.

"Luigi,” you manage, your own voice sounding foreign in your ears. Not quite steady, not quite yours.

His eyes move over you, cataloging changes with the precision of someone checking a beloved book for damage after lending it out too long, and you feel suddenly conscious of everything — the faint scar along your forearm from a leopard cub with more fear than sense, the way you hold yourself now, a little straighter, a little more guarded than the girl he knew.

"You look-“ he starts, then stops, recalibrates. "It's been a while."

The understatement of it breaks something in the air between you, and you find yourself exhaling a laugh that's not quite humor but not quite pain, either. "Five years, three months, two weeks." The precision of your count betrays your nonchalance, and you see the recognition flash across his face — you've been keeping track.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, staring at the date for a moment before finding your gaze again.

"And four days," he adds quietly, confirming what you both already know; neither of you have forgotten a single moment of the separation you've enforced.

Your father saves you from whatever might come next, bustling in from the living room with forced cheer that doesn't match the knowing look he exchanges with your mother. "There's the wine man!” Your father’s smile is infectious, but even so, you can tell Luigi’s is forced. “Sofia still in Boston?"

Luigi's attention shifts, that professional mask sliding back into place. A boy forced to be a man far too soon. "Yes, she's — the doctors there are trying something new." He doesn't elaborate, but the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth says everything you need to know. "She said to wish you happy birthday, though. She's sorry she couldn't be here."

"How is he?" Your father asks, the question gentle but direct, a farmer's practicality cutting through polite fiction.

"Not good." Luigi's answer is equally unvarnished. "Maybe weeks now, not months like we thought originally."

Your chest tightens, unexpected sympathy washing through you. Marco, with his booming laugh and endless supply of stories of his childhood in post war Palermo, who taught you both to drive in his vintage Alfa Romeo despite Sofia's horror, who called you piccola leonessa — little lioness — for standing up to him when no one else would.

You hadn't allowed yourself to imagine him diminished, hadn't wanted to picture Luigi facing that loss alone.

"I should check on dinner," your mother announces to no one in particular, a transparent excuse to leave that your father immediately supports.

"I'll help," he adds, though he's never voluntarily assisted with meal preparation in forty years of marriage; it was never for lack of trying.

Cooking just had never been his strong suit.

Their retreat leaves a vacuum of sound, filled only by the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, counting seconds that stretch like taffy. Luigi shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets in a gesture so achingly familiar it makes your throat close. "I can go," he offers, misreading your silence as discomfort. "I didn't know you'd be here. Your Ma just said-“

"No," you interrupt, surprising yourself with the speed of your response. "No, it's your tradition too. The wine." You gesture vaguely toward the bottle now sitting on the counter, trying to ignore how domestic this feels, how easily you could slip back into old patterns if you allowed yourself. "How's the company?"

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Demanding. Expanding. The same." He leans against the doorframe, maintaining the careful distance between you. "I heard you were in Kenya. Then Malaysia. They keep me updated, though I think your Ma edits the dangerous parts."

Of course she does. Of course he asks.

While you've been deliberately avoiding any information about him, he's been collecting fragments of your life like precious artifacts.

"Just finished a rehabilitation project for elephants affected by poaching," you say, falling back on the professional details that feel safer than personal truths like I’m lonely there and I work so much I’ve had no time to make human friends, only the mammal kind. “Starting a new position next month with a conservation group in Borneo."

"Always moving," he observes, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You found what you were looking for?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with meaning that stretches far beyond your career trajectory.

Have you found yourself, separate from him?

Have you discovered who you are without the counterbalance he always provided?

Has the freedom been worth the cost?

"I found... parts," you admit, the closest to honesty you can manage with him standing there, looking both like a stranger and exactly like the boy who knew every single secret you ever had. "What about you? Did you-“ You can't quite bring yourself to ask if he's happy, if he's built a life that satisfies him, if there's someone else who knows him the way you once did.

"I found parts too," he echoes, understanding your unfinished question as he always did. "Some fit better than others."

The clock in the hall chimes seven, and Luigi straightens, seeming to remember himself. "I should let you have your family dinner. I just came to drop off the wine.”

And just like that, he's gone, moving toward his car with the fluid grace that always made him seem like he belonged to some other world — one with fewer sharp edges and hard landings than yours.

Your mother waits in the kitchen doorway once she hears the front door close, "He never stopped checking on us, you know," she says as you pass her, avoiding eye contact. "After every storm, during your father's surgery last year. Even helped reroof the chicken coop in January — thirty-degree weather and he's up there hammering like he was born to do it."

The guilt twists sharper in your chest. "Mom, please-“

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, honey." Her hand catches yours, squeezing gently. "Just thought you should know what kind of man he's become while you were finding yourself.” There’s another silence, her voice quieter when she finally says, “He needs you more than ever.”

Sleep eludes you that night, your childhood bedroom both comfort and cage.

Through the window, you can just make out the distant lights of the Mangione estate — fewer than there used to be, concentrated now in what you know is the west wing where Marco's medical equipment has transformed a sunroom into a temporary hospital suite.

You wonder if Luigi is awake, too.

Morning arrives in layers of gold and rose, dawn mist clinging to the fields like reluctant ghosts.

You dress quietly, slipping from the house while your parents still sleep, drawn by some magnetic pull toward the water that featured in so many of your dreams during those nights in Kenya, in Malaysia, in sterile, lonesome apartments across the world.

The path feels both foreign and achingly familiar beneath your feet — wider in some places, narrower in others, the subtle changes of five years' growth and erosion. Dew-heavy grass soaks your sneakers as you follow the trail through wildflowers nodding drowsily in the early breeze.

The reservoir appears suddenly as you crest the final rise — a mirror of silver-blue stretched beneath the awakening sky, foggy mist rising from its surface in delicate tendrils.

The sight stops you mid-stride, a physical ache blooming beneath your ribs.

How many mornings did you watch this same phenomenon with Luigi beside you, his voice quiet in the dawn as he explained the science behind it, your shoulder pressed against his as the rising sun painted you both in gold?

You make your way down to the shore, to the flat rock that has served as your sitting place since childhood.

It's still there, unchanged except for new patches of lichen decorating its edges like natural embroidery.

You settle on its cool surface, drawing your knees to your chest, allowing yourself to really be present in this place that shaped so much of who you are as the water laps gently against the stone shore, its rhythm unchanging despite seasons and years.

Dragonflies skim the surface near the reeds, their iridescent wings catching light in blue-green flashes.

A heron stands motionless in the shallows, its reflection perfect in the still water — patient, watchful, belonging in a way you once did.

You lose track of time, lulled by the gentle sounds of morning gradually asserting itself over night's quiet, and as the sun climbs higher, warming the rock beneath you, and you close your eyes, face tilted toward its heat.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, the constant hum of anxiety that's become your companion fades to background noise; here, you are neither the accomplished veterinarian with international credentials, nor the farm girl desperate to escape her roots.

You are simply yourself, existing in a moment that asks nothing of you but presence.

But the deliberate scuff of shoe against stone breaks the spell.

You don't need to turn to know who stands there; your body recognizes his presence before your mind can catch up, an awareness embedded too deeply to be erased by time or distance.

You open your eyes but don't turn, watching his reflection appear in the water beside yours — distorted slightly by the gentle ripples, but unmistakably Luigi. He stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of jeans that look expensive but well-worn, his posture hesitant in a way that the boy you knew never was.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the slight uptick at the end makes it almost a question.

Now you do turn, shielding your eyes against the strengthening sunlight that silhouettes him against the sky with your hand. "Liar," you reply, the word lacking any heat. "You hoped I'd be here just as much as I hoped you wouldn't be."

The honesty startles a laugh from him — just a breath of sound, but genuine. "Still calling me on my bullshit." He shifts his weight, uncertainty written in the tight line of his shoulders. "Mind if I join you?"

Simple words that carry the weight of all the space you've deliberately placed between you for five years.

You could say yes, maintain the careful distance that's become your habit.

Or you could make room on the rock that's always been big enough for two.

"Since when do you ask permission?" You shift slightly to the left, the invitation clear even as you wrap the words in the familiar barbs of your old banter.

Luigi hesitates for a moment longer before crossing the remaining distance, settling beside you with a careful space between your bodies that never used to exist. His presence brings with it the same scent from last night — expensive cologne layered over familiar soap — and something else you can't quite name.

Hospital antiseptic, maybe, or just the peculiar scent of prolonged worry.

"You're up early," you observe, keeping your gaze on the water. Speaking is easier when you're not looking at him directly, when you can pretend this is just another morning from before you left.

"Haven't really been sleeping much," he admits, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his fingers — a nervous habit you'd forgotten until this moment. "Papa gets confused at night, thinks he's back in Palermo, starts speaking only Italian." There's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound much older than his twenty-five years. "The nurses call when they can't calm him down."

The simple honesty of it catches you off guard — no pretense, no careful social masks, just the raw truth of what he's facing. "I'm sorry about Marco," you say, and mean it. "He was always so kind to me."

Luigi's smile is crooked, tinged with sadness. "He asks about you, you know. On his good days. Wants to know if the leonessa is still roaring at the world."

The nickname — born after you'd stood up to him during a heated debate about local agriculture when you were sixteen — brings an unexpected lump to your throat. "And what do you tell him?"

"That you're saving exotic animals across the world. Living the adventure we used to talk about." His voice drops slightly. "He's proud of you."

The words shouldn't hurt — they're generous, kind, even — but they land like bullet holes against your chest. How can he be proud when you left without looking back, when you've spent five years deliberately avoiding every connection to this place?

"I'm not sure I deserve that," you admit, the pitiful confession slipping out before you can catch it.

Luigi is quiet for a long moment, his gaze following the path of a kingfisher as it dives into the water and emerges with a small fish clutched in its beak. "Maybe not," he says finally, the honesty both startling and refreshing after last night's careful dance of politeness. "But pride isn't always about deserving. Sometimes it's just about loving someone enough to celebrate their happiness, even when it comes at your expense."

The words hang between you, too honest to ignore, but too painful to acknowledge directly.

You stare at the water, watching ripples spread from the kingfisher's dive, circles expanding outward just like the consequences of choices made five years ago.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," you say finally, the words inadequate but necessary. "I just needed-“

"Space. Freedom. A life that wasn't defined by this place." Luigi finishes for you, no bitterness in his tone, just tired acceptance. "I know. I always knew that about you. You always told me as much." He turns the stone over in his hand one more time before skipping it across the water's surface — one, two, three, four bounces before it disappears beneath the surface. "What I never understood was why it had to be all or nothing. Why there wasn't room for both of us."

You watch another stone skip across the water, five bounces this time.

"I was afraid," you admit finally, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water against shore. "Afraid that if I let you come with me, I'd never know if I could stand on my own. Afraid that one day you'd resent giving up everything here for me. Afraid that-“ You stop, the final fear too raw to voice.

Afraid that you'd realize I wasn't enough, that you'd leave anyway, and I wouldn't survive it.

Luigi's shoulder brushes against yours as he shifts, "Fear is a shitty compass," he says quietly. "Keeps you running from things."

"Says the man who never left home.”

"I didn't stay because I was afraid to leave." His voice takes on an edge you've never heard before. "I stayed because someone had to. Because Mama fell apart when the diagnosis came, because the business employs forty-three families who depend on it, and because Papa asked me to." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "Not all of us have the luxury of just walking away."

The words land like a slap, all the more painful for their truth. You have walked away — not just from him but from every responsibility, every connection that might have anchored you when your dreams proved more complicated than expected.

"That's not fair to you, Lu.”

"No, it's not." His smile is sad but not unkind. "Life rarely is."

Another silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable but heavy with all the words still unspoken, and the sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist from the water's surface.

A little family of ducks paddle along the far shore, ducklings following their mother in perfect formation.

"He's dying," Luigi says suddenly, the words stark in the morning quiet. "Maybe weeks. Probably days. The cancer's in his brain now, that's why he gets confused." His voice remains steady, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the tight line of his jaw. "I wasn't ready to be the man of the family yet. Not like this."

Without thinking, you reach for his hand — the first time you've initiated contact in five years. His skin is warmer than you remember, his fingers thinner, but they close around yours with the same instinctive certainty they always did, like two pieces designed to fit together.

"No one ever is.”

Luigi looks down at your joined hands, "Why did you come back now? After all this time?"

The question is deceptively simple but layered with meaning. The easy answer — your father's birthday, a planned visit — feels like a deflection too cowardly to offer. The truth is more complicated, harder to shape into words when you've spent so long avoiding examining it too closely.

"I think maybe I needed to see if this place still fit," you say finally, your eyes on the water rather than his face. "If I still fit here.” Your thumb grazes his knuckle, “I come usually for only a couple days, this time I just-“ you shrug, “Had a feeling I’d need to stay longer, I guess.”

"And do you?" His voice is carefully neutral, but his thumb traces small circles against your skin — an unconscious gesture of comfort or connection that he might not even realize he's doing, returning the same gesture as you. “Fit?”

You look around at the reservoir, at the fields beyond, at the distant silhouette of the barn where you both learned to climb, to kiss (maybe once or twice), to dream. Then at the man beside you, familiar and strange all at once, carrying burdens you can only begin to imagine.

"I don't know yet," you answer honestly. "But it feels possible. In a way it didn't before."

Luigi nods, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more as his gaze drifts back to the water, to the gentle ripples that distort your reflections into wavering approximations of yourselves. "Our spot is still here," he smiles. "Some things don't change, even when the people do."

It’s not quite reconciliation, not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

You sit in shared silence as the morning deepens around you, two people finding their way back to familiar ground, uncertain what will grow there but willing, at least, to see.

The reservoir glitters in the strengthening light — impossibly clear, every stone and fallen branch visible beneath the surface just as you remember. In summer heat, this crystalline clarity was always your sanctuary, the secret paradise only the two of you knew about, hidden from tourists and transients.

Luigi releases your hand and stands suddenly, his movement decisive in a way that catches you off guard.

For a moment, you think he's leaving, that this reconnection has reached its limit; Instead, he stares out at the water, something shifting in his expression — the weight of responsibility and grief giving way to something lighter, finally more familiar.

"You know what your problem always was?" he asks, turning to look down at you, a spark igniting in eyes that had seemed so tired just moments before.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," you reply, wary of this sudden change but unable to resist the pull of old patterns.

"You think too much." He kicks off his shoes with practiced ease, then reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Always did."

Your pulse quickens as his fingers work downward, exposing the lean planes of a chest both familiar and new — slightly broader than you remember, more defined, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His smile gleams — the first genuine one you've seen since your return, a glimpse of the boy who once convinced you to skip school to drive to the coast in his father's borrowed convertible. He drops his shirt onto the rock beside you, hands moving to his belt buckle, "I'm going swimming."

"Luigi, it's barely seventy degrees — the water's freezing," you protest, even as something long dormant stirs inside you, a recognition of this ritual played out hundreds of times through childhood and adolescence and beyond.

He laughs, stepping out of his jeans to reveal black boxer briefs that cling to powerful thighs. "Since when did that ever stop us?" His eyes hold a challenge as he backs toward the water's edge. "Or have you really forgotten how to play this time?"

The words — so similar to ones from long ago, from the last summer before everything changed — hit their mark. You've built a life of careful control, of prompted responses, of calculated risks assessed through the lens of professional detachment.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

Before you can answer, he turns and dives — a clean arc that barely disturbs the surface before his body disappears beneath it. The water welcomes him like an old friend, his form visible through the blue as he glides beneath the surface with the same effortless grace he's always had.

He resurfaces with a triumphant gasp, dark curls slicked back, water streaming down his face. "Holy shit, it's colder than I remembered!" His laugh echoes across the reservoir, bouncing back from the rocks on the far shore. "Always worth it."

He floats onto his back, face turned toward the sky, the morning sun gilding the water droplets on his skin. "Come in," he calls, not looking at you, somehow knowing the direct challenge would make you retreat. "Unless Kenya made you soft."

The taunt is gentle, playful in a way that tugs at memories you've kept carefully boxed away. How many summer mornings did you spend like this? Racing to the reservoir at dawn, competing to see who could stay underwater longest, floating on your backs while discussing constellations and college applications and all the places you'd someday go?

"Malaysia," you correct, standing despite yourself. "Most recently, anyway."

"Malaysia, Kenya, Timbuktu — doesn't really matter." He flips over, treading water as he watches you, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "Water's the same everywhere. Either you're brave enough to jump in, or you're not."

The double meaning isn't lost on you.

This isn't just about swimming — never was, with the two of you. Water was always your shared language, this place your confessional, your playground, your private world away from expectation and obligation.

"I didn't bring a suit," you stall, though your fingers have already reached for the hem of your sweater.

Luigi's smile widens, a touch of the old mischief lighting his eyes. "When has that ever stopped you? Besides-“ his gaze sweeps over you, “it's seriously nothing I haven't seen before."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you find yourself pulling the sweater over your head anyway, some long-dormant part of you responding to this familiar challenge. The practical cotton bra you're wearing is a far cry from the colorful bikinis of your teens, but Luigi's appreciative glance makes you feel seventeen again, fearless and seen in a way no one else has ever managed.

You step out of your shorts, hesitating for just a moment before diving in — a clean, practiced dive that contradicts the years since you last swam here. The cold is a shock, stealing your breath as you plunge beneath the surface, but your body remembers this, muscles responding automatically to the embrace of water that tastes like childhood and possibility and home.

You surface with a gasp, pushing wet hair from your face to find Luigi closer than expected, his smile softer now. "See? Some things you don't forget."

Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, to the slight stubble along his jaw that wasn't there five years ago. This close, you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension he carries in his shoulders even now. But his smile — that's the same, the crooked lift at the left corner that always made your heart stutter in your chest.

"Some things," you agree, treading water, conscious of the narrowing space between you.

Luigi dips lower, only his eyes and nose above the surface like a crocodile watching its prey, and he suddenly disappears, a swirl of bubbles the only evidence of his descent. You have just enough time to take a breath before hands grasp your ankles, pulling you under in a move he's been perfecting since you were twelve.

You kick free easily — you've always been the stronger swimmer — and chase him through the clear water, both of you visible to each other in the underwater clarity that makes the reservoir so magical.

For a few precious moments, you're not adults weighted by choices and consequences, not strangers rebuilt from the fragments of who you once were to each other. You're just two bodies moving through blue, chasing and evading in a dance as old as your friendship.

When you both surface, you're laughing — really laughing, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.

"There she is," Luigi says softly, treading water just an arm's length away. "I was beginning to think she was gone for good."

"Who?" you ask, though something in you already knows.

"The girl I’ve always known. Didn’t forget how to play.” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the open air around you. "The one who wasn't afraid to jump."

The words should feel like an accusation, but instead they land like recognition — like being seen for the first time in years by the only person who ever really could. You float in silence for a moment, letting the water hold you, conscious of how your bodies have drawn closer without either of you seeming to move.

"I didn't forget," you admit finally. "I just packed it away. Like everything else I left behind."

Luigi's hand finds yours beneath the surface, fingers intertwining with the same perfect fit they always had. "Not everything fits in boxes," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as water laps gently around your shoulders. "Some things just wait."

The distance between you shrinks further, your bodies drifting together as naturally as the current pulling toward the reservoir's center. His free hand rises to brush wet strands of hair from your face, the touch so familiar that your eyes close briefly against the surge of feeling it evokes.

"I've missed you," he whispers, the words barely audible above the gentle splash of water against shore. "Not just having you here, but seeing you. The real you.”

When you open your eyes, he's close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises, count each individual eyelash jeweled with water droplets. His body radiates heat despite the cool water, a beacon calling you home after years adrift.

"I've missed me too," you confess, the truth of it surprising even you. "I've missed us."

His smile then is everything — recognition and forgiveness and possibility all tangled together in the crooked lift of his lips. His hand slides to cup your cheek, water cool against your skin where it drips from his fingers.

There's no hesitation when your bodies finally meet, drawn together by currents stronger than time or distance or walls. His arms encircle your waist, your legs tangling together as you both tread water, keeping each other afloat as you always did.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the small space between your mouths.

"Well,” his nose nudges yours, “welcome home.”

You’re not sure if he means your spot, the farm, or the circle of his arms.

Perhaps they're all the same thing — all the pieces of belonging you've been searching for across continents and careers. Here in the blue that witnessed your first secrets, your first promises, the puzzle of who you are slots back together — not erasing the person you've become in the years away, but completing her, filling the spaces you could never quite reach no matter how far you traveled.

When his lips finally meet yours, it feels inevitable — like gravity, like sunrise, like coming home to a place you never should have left.

The kiss tastes of water and morning sunshine and five years of longing distilled into a single point of contact. His body against yours is both familiar and new — the same shoulders your hands have memorized, but leaner now; the same chest, but bearing new scars and stories your fingers itch to learn.

You float together in the clear blue that's always been your sanctuary, your bodies finding their remembered rhythm, closer than you've been to anyone in the five years since you left. The water cradles you both, witness to this reunion as it's been witness to all the moments that shaped your shared history — every laugh, every race, every whispered dream, every touch that built the foundation of something you tried to leave behind but never truly could.

In the water, with Luigi's arms around you and the sun warming your upturned faces, you finally understand what you've been running from all these years — not him, not this place.

But the terrifying perfection of belonging somewhere so completely that losing it would unmake you.

The fear that loving like this — totally, without reservation — meant there would be nothing left if it ended.

"Stop thinking so much," Luigi murmurs against your lips, reading you as easily as he always has. "Just be here. With me.”

For once, you listen.

Tomorrow will bring complications — his dying father, your job in Borneo, five years of separate lives that can't simply be erased. But here, now, in the water that's always been your truest home, you surrender to the current pulling you back to where you've always belonged.

[lifeseriesbasepolls]

It’s been a year and some months since we did this poll, and since then there’s been another full Life Series and a couple of specials. Please reblog, send an ask or comment on this post with your suggestions for what the worst Life Series base was!

Rules for suggestions:

1.) It has to actually be a base. Not a stolen village house, not a cave, not the skynet, and not a dirt hovel they put up in 5 minutes. It needs, at minimum, four walls made from something other than dirt (unless that’s the point like Pearl’s mound), a door, a few chests for storage, a crafting table, and a bed.

This pretty much rules out anything from the specials except for the pondcast area. It also means that, unlike last time, the Bad Boys Mansion will not be permitted. Their bread house would be if you wanted to nominate it, but I don’t want to just do stolen structures.

2.) You can’t nominate the December 2023 winner, which was Grian’s Egg.

3.) Individual’s bases within larger areas count as their own base. For example, the Southlanders houses are each their own base despite being within the same protective walls. Same for the Mounders.

4.) Please vote for what you think is ACTUALLY THE WORST BASE and not just the one your favorite creator made. I may be a Pearl stan, but by God do I know The Box is uglier than her Secret Life tower.

5.) Any judgements made about how ugly a base is do not reflect on the general building ability of the Life Series member in question. The Life Series is a high pressure survival environment with limited resources where players thoughts are somewhere other than making a pretty build.

[copperbadge]

[ID: A soft boiled egg with the top removed, sitting in an egg cup. The cup is plain and white, but crucially instead of having a normal base it stands on two small ceramic human feet.]

I've staged the bins for going to storage, hopefully this coming week, and was delighted to find my favorite egg cup while packing the kitchen box. I'd forgotten I owned it. I made a soft boiled egg to celebrate.

I mostly took yesterday off; I had a headache in the morning but also I had a hangout planned with friends, so I metered my energy for that (very rewarding). Got home in the afternoon, but mostly I rested and went to bed early. Self-care counts in NaClYoHo!

Truth, justice, reasonably priced love, basic self care, and a boiled egg.

[bella-goths-wife]

“Meet the family”

Ghostbusters x reader

Warnings: illusions to suicide, reader is dead, strange mother daughter relationship, implied dysfunctional family

Egon has a very carefully planned out Monday, he has a rigid routine that few people he allows to disrupt.

First he wakes up and has his usual hearty breakfast of eggs and some kind of meat, unless he’s had Chinese takeout the night before, in which case he’ll eat the leftovers. Next he quizzes himself with some brain challenging puzzles to keep his brain functioning and active.

After that he’ll arrive at the ghostbusters headquarters at exacting 8:15AM, go on a few jobs, usually around three which will take him to 9PM. At that time he will head down to his lab, do a few experiments before fruitlessly trying to communicate with your spiritual being.

Yes, Egon Spengler rarely let anyone disrupt his perfectly planned out Monday morning routine.

But this strange woman waiting outside ghostbusters headquarters certainly managed to disrupt it, especially when she claimed to be your mother.

———————————————————————-

Egon wasn’t sure what to make of your mother as he offered her a seat at the desk.

She didn’t look like you, from the rare photo he found of you or your ghostly apparition. While your mother was a stubby little woman with a pinched sour expression and a penchant for scowling, your face was like a fox’s with how your smile perked up on your lips and your eyes held a unique light to them.

“Landlord said her boyfriend picked up her stuff” your mother said with a grim look as she pulled out one of her cigarettes, not the elegant kind that most ladies these days used, but the musky smelling ones that usually accompanied established gentlemen in the drawing rooms of their expensive homes “said you took all of it home”

“Yes ma’am” Egon says with a cautious nod as he tried to analyse how this conversation would go “I didn’t realise her family wanted it”

“So you assumed” your mother said quickly with a slight scoff “you couldn’t have called first?”

Egon is taken aback by the woman’s words as his eyes narrowed, wondering what this woman’s intentions were.

“With all due respect ma’am” Egon started as your mother smoked her cigarette “her things had been in storage for well over a month, I assumed she didn’t have any family”

The woman stilled slightly before puffing out smoke with an almost empty expression. This wasn’t a woman who looked like she was wracked with grief, nor did she look like she was happy with the circumstances. The woman just looked vague, with no discernible emotion behind her well put together look and her unmoving mountain of makeup purposely put on to hide the effects that aging had on her body.

“She had something of mine within her belongings, a small locket that was my mothers” your mother spoke stiffly with a tense look as she smoked “I’d hoped she’d give it to her children one day, though I don’t suppose that’s happening anymore”

The brief opening of a vulnerable side was shown like a fast moving slideshow, and Egon knew he’d have to work fast to get anything more out of her.

“Was she your only child?” Egon asked calmly, an analysing look in his eyes as he tried to spot weakness

“Her father had a few more somewhere along the line, but she was the only one in wedlock” the woman sniffed in an almost disgusted manner “rightly so that she was the best one out of the bunch”

“I see” Egon says with a taken aback expression, he’s about to speak again but he’s quickly cut off

“Can you bring her stuff out here” the woman asks almost impatiently “I want to find my locket”

Egon nods with a sigh, this woman wouldn’t get him anywhere in finding out more about you. All she was after was her own little material items.

———————————————————————-

The woman shuffled through the boxes that Egon had brought out, hands working almost softly as she grazed them over your various items.

Egon had expected her to treat your items roughly in an attempt to salvage her lost locket, but the way your mother went through your things was almost ritualistic.

She skimmed her fingers over the letters of each of your various awards, reading each one slowly and carefully as if recreating the memory within her mind.

“What was she like?” Egon asked to cut through the tense silence, breaking your mother out her trance as she let go of your awards “when she was younger”

Your mother lets herself think for a moment, almost having to use a considerable amount of effort into making sure she phrased it right

“She was a fidgety child, never stayed in one place for too long” the woman speaks in a hushed tone “her teachers said it was due to her being unchallenged for her intellectual level, that everyday living bored her”

Egon nods thoughtfully as the woman speaks, looking through the various boxes for her locket. Taking in as much information as possible

“She excelled in everything she did, with some pushing from her father and I” the woman explains with a melancholy look “she had the same problem as me really”

“What’s that?” Egon asks curiously as he helped the woman search

“She was born knowing too much” the woman says with a heavy sigh “ignorance can help people escape the dreary aspects of life, she wasn’t able to do that so she’d cause trouble instead”

In that moment, realisation dawned upon Egon. All your mischievous actions and your games weren’t out of malice but out of boredom, at least before them trapping you it was.

You were intellectually stuck in life and in death with no real challenges to cure your eternal boredom, that’s why the ghostbusters attention had been such a respite for you.

And they had punished you for it the moment you had made a mistake.

“I heard from the landlord that she died quickly” your mother spoke quietly as she held onto a prize ribbon for a highschool chess tournament “she was always in such a rush to reach the next goal”

There was a considerable silence that hung heavy in the air as Egon tried to digest her words, to understand them.

The silence ended as the woman’s fake nails tapped against the metal of the newly retrieved locket that laid in her hands, the fine metal work and the small encrusted jewel showing Its extraordinary value.

The woman clutched the locket close to her heart before placing it around her neck, putting it in the same position as you wore it in so many of your photos.

“I brought something” the woman said almost hesitantly as her hand disappeared into her purse before pulling out a small, old stuffed bunny toy “I found it in her old room, I wanted to give it to her but I’m not sure where her remains are”

Egon inspected the bunny toy in his hands and looked at the pure white fur as if it was another piece of the puzzle slotting itself together

“She’s had since she was a baby, it was the only thing that calmed her down from crying” the woman said with a far away look in her eyes “please make sure it’s put with her grave”

“I will” Egon says with a sympathetic look and a quick nod

The woman gets up to take her leave, leaving behind the rest of your belongings. She turns to look at Egon one more time as her mouth opens hesitantly

“My daughter was brilliant in every way” she admits quietly “I think that’s what drove her too it in the end”

And with that the woman left Egon alone with thousands of thoughts swimming in his head.

———————————————————————

You had trashed his lab again that evening, out of anger.

You had seen your mother enter the building but the cowardly part of you that was still human refused to go into the room where she talked with Egon.

Instead all of your resentment was taken out on egons lab equipment, at least the stuff he hadn’t moved out of it to avoid your wrath.

Egon only sighed when he saw your mess, knowing you were in the room only by the temperature drop alone.

Usually he would fit a scolding into his tight fit schedule, but not tonight.

You observed him and his distracted state before watching as he placed something on the slab in the middle of his lab.

Your eyes zero in on the bunny and a flurry of emotions spin around your head like a tornado and you swore that if you’d had a heart still it would be beating out of your chest.

Egon observed motionlessly as your translucent figure became visible and slowly clutched the bunny toy, similar to how your mother had with the locket.

Egon spun around and walked out the room, deciding to give you some well earned privacy. He decided it was time he looked through the rest of your things

Time to figure out exactly who the little ghost the ghostbusters had caught was.

[cozmowrites]

Wistoragic: Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Five - 1306 words

You didn’t sleep much. Even after lying down, your mind wouldn’t stop running over the look Bakugou gave you across the fire, over the way he didn’t look away this time. It sat in your chest, heavy and unresolved.

So when dawn broke and the morning scouting shift was called, you rose before the others and quietly signed up to go. It wasn’t about running, not really. You just needed space. Space to think, to breathe, to feel useful. Uraraka greeted you with a warm smile and a wave when she saw you at the gear-up station, and Ashido grinned as she pulled her hair back. Tokoyami nodded in greeting, his face as stoic as ever. None of them asked why you were there so early.

You were thankful for that.

The air outside was crisp, carrying the chill of morning through the ruined buildings that jutted out of the earth like broken teeth. The streets were silent but for the occasional rustle of wind or debris under your boots. The group moved as one, alert but loose, used to the rhythm of moving together. You kept near Ashido and Uraraka as Tokoyami scouted ahead.

It wasn’t long before you spotted the building. It was a medium-sized grocery store, half the walls still standing, the sign barely legible from fire damage. Windows were smashed, glass crunched under your feet as you stepped inside. The smell of rot was faint but present, a reminder that danger might still be hiding beneath every corner.

Inside, the team fanned out. The produce section was a mess of withered stalks and dried-out fruit husks, but Uraraka found a small stash of preserved canned goods behind a collapsed shelf. Peaches, beans, corn. The kind of stuff that could stretch a week or two if rationed right.

"Score," she whispered, holding up a can like a trophy.

Ashido had better luck at the back. She pried open an old storage freezer that, miraculously, still had sealed vacuum-packed meats inside. Probably useless now, but some of the dry goods nearby were still salvageable. Things like jerky, crackers, and vacuum-packed grains.

You wandered deeper, toward the employee area, careful to step over fallen beams and scattered debris. A locker room had been ransacked already, but there were a few first-aid kits that had been missed in the chaos. One was water-damaged, but the other two were intact. You slipped them into your pack, feeling like, for once, you’d done something useful.

As you moved back through the aisles, helping gather the supplies you’d already swept, you noticed something buried beneath a half-collapsed metal display rack near the front of the store. Uraraka was the one who spotted the corner of the plastic case first. She knelt and tugged it free with a soft grunt, revealing a weathered emergency survival bin, one of those over-prepared types of kits people joked about online before everything fell apart.

Ashido cracked it open and laughed under her breath.

“What is this? Space food?”

Inside were a half-dozen foil packets labeled “Astronaut Ice Cream,” “Scrambled Eggs with Cheese,” and one unfortunate-sounding item called “Rehydratable Tuna Loaf.” The vacuum-sealed meals looked old but preserved, clearly packed by someone paranoid enough to prep for years in advance.

“Holy crap, this stuff’s real,” Ashido said, holding one of the shiny pouches up to the light. “I always thought this was novelty junk. For kids or museum gift shops.”

“Nope,” Tokoyami muttered from behind, as he inspected another nearby crate. “It’s NASA-certified. Might taste like chalk, though.”

Some of the packets were still airtight, and while expiration dates had long since faded, the nature of their preservation gave hope that they were still edible—if not pleasant. There were even freeze-dried desserts, like chocolate pudding and a pack of something labeled “Neapolitan Brick.” You gave it a light shake and it sounded more like gravel than ice cream.

Next to the astronaut meals was a box of MREs—Military Ration Packs—some labeled in Japanese, others in English and foreign languages, with peel-open sides and heating pouches. “Beef Stew,” “Chicken and Rice,” and “Vegetarian Pasta.” Ashido raised a brow at one marked “Maple Sausage Patty,” clearly horrified.

“There’s always that one guy who thought the world was ending tomorrow,” she said, stuffing the packets into her bag. “Turns out he wasn’t wrong.”

“Paranoia might’ve kept him alive,” Uraraka added, more quietly.

“Or got him eaten in his bunker,” Tokoyami murmured, glancing around the crumbling space. “Either way, we’ll eat like strange, chalk-fed kings tonight.”

You all dispersed again after letting the others in the group know about the boxes of this stuff. Then you heard Ashido call out from one of the hallways. 

"Guys—! Hey, something's back here."

The tone in her voice wasn’t excitement.

You ran toward it first.

She was crouched next to a slumped figure against the wall. Tokoyami stood nearby, tense and silent. Uraraka knelt beside her, wide-eyed.

Your heart dropped.

A girl you had recognized as one of the drama girls from those musical shows they'd play really late at night.

Her green hair was tangled, matted with blood, skin pale and clammy. Her wide eyes blinked slowly up at Uraraka. She was barely conscious, lips moving but no sound coming out. One of her legs was nearly gone. The flesh torn open, muscles exposed, the telltale bite of a zombie clear in the mangled mess of her calf. The blood trail stretched back to a broken window. She must’ve crawled in and collapsed here.

“Shit,” Ashido whispered, looking away.

“No,” Uraraka said softly, shaking her head. “No no no. Tsu, it’s me. It’s Ochako, you’re okay, we’re here.”

Tsuyu blinked again. Her eyes fluttered like she recognized the name. Her hand weakly moved, brushing Uraraka’s wrist.

You stepped closer. Tokoyami looked like a statue, unmoving.

"She's infected," he said, voice low.

You could already see the gray crawling up her neck. It was spreading too fast. She had minutes left.

“She’s still... she’s still in there,” Uraraka pleaded, looking up. “There has to be something we can do.”

But there wasn’t.

Her breathing was shallow. Wet. One of the first signs. She reached up with her trembling fingers, grasping at Uraraka’s collar weakly, trying to say something. Her mouth moved, but no sound came.

“She’s trying to say something,” you said quietly.

Uraraka leaned in. Tsuyu’s lips brushed her ear.

A moment passed. Then her hand fell away.

She didn’t move again.

No one said anything. Ashido wiped her nose roughly with the back of her glove, looking away. Tokoyami finally stepped forward and knelt beside her body. He closed her eyes gently, then rose without a word.

“She was... alone,” Uraraka whispered. “She crawled here. Alone.”

You felt your throat tighten. The weight of it all crashed over you. You hadn't watched someone die yet to this. You hadn't known her personally, but the way the three around you acted... she was a classmate. A friend.

"Should we take her back?" Ashido asked after a long silence.

Tokoyami shook his head. “The infection was too far along. We can’t risk it. We could get other's infected.”

Uraraka stood slowly, nodding once. “Then we bury her.”

It took time. You managed to explain the situation to the other scouters, to which they seemed apologetic. You found a quiet spot in the overgrown side lot behind the building. You didn’t talk. You just dug, for them. When it was done, you stood back and stared down at the grave until Uraraka finally murmured a soft goodbye.

You were silent the entire walk back.

Ashido talked occasionally, trying to keep the mood from sinking entirely, but even her usual cheer was dulled, like she knew laughter wouldn’t stick right now. Uraraka walked beside you without pressing, her hands clutched tightly around the straps of her pack. Tokoyami kept rear guard, gaze flicking back every so often, but even he didn’t say a word.

The weight of Tsuyu’s final moments clung to your shoulders like fog. You didn’t know her, but she’d still looked at you like she wanted to be remembered.

=====

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[ninghaipanfengmouldplastic]

Plastic Egg Storage Box

The Perfect Space Saving Solution: A drawer is a great way to store eggs in the fridge and it minimises the space occupied by the original Styrofoam and cardboard boxes.

Keep Your Eggs Safe And Fresh: Conical groove design, each egg is placed individually, preventing eggs from being hit or broken. By the way, standing eggs upright keeps them fresh for longer.

Convenient And Durable: Made of high quality PP plastic material, durable and easy to clean. The translucent design makes it easy to see about how many eggs are inside.

[pressure-machine]

📸rogerkisby: The Killers photographed for the New Yorker earlier this year. Plus some easter eggs. This was a special one for me. The last time I photographed The Killers was 20 years ago. It was 2004 during SXSW at an early version of Fader Fort I think. It was before the release of Hot Fuss so they were brand new and no-one really knew them yet. I too was just starting out. I loved shooting music, shot on film but it was way before I photographed professionally. So needless to say this shoot was full circle for me. I’ve been waiting to post this because I’ve been searching everywhere for that roll of film. I finally found the prints yesterday in a box in storage. Not my best work but I love them so much. Also I miss getting prints with white borders. I’ll link the story in my bio. One neat thing is the published image was shot on film. Full circle.

[concretejunglefm]

Some Girl!Bad Omens thots inspired by @deathblacksmoke

Summary: Folio loves to help Jolly test out new toys at her sex toy stop.

Pairing: girl!Jolly x girl!Folio

CW: smut which includes edging, praising and dirty talk, penetration with the use of sex toys (love egg and strap), CFNF.

Name used: Good girl, sweet girl, pretty girl, pup.

Smut under the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“Thanks.” Jolly said, flashing a smile to the delivery driver as the package was settled down on the counter. She squiggled her signature on the delivery note, offering the clipboard back before turning her attention back onto the box once the driver had left.

“What do we have here then?” She spoke softly under her breath, excitement coursing through her, wriggling her fingers as she retrieved her trusted pocket knife from behind the counter, to slice open the tape on the box.

Opening it, she marveled at the various boxes of sex toys. Some were duplicates, some were singular and an offer to be tested out by any member of staff. Fortunately for her she had the perfect test subject on her small team.

Folio, while the youngest and certainly high in spirit and attitude, was always willing to test out the new products.

Gathering the box off the counter, she looked over to her only other sales associate on the floor. “I’m going to be out the back for a while to sort these. Are you okay with keeping an eye on things for me?”

After receiving the okay she wanted, Jolly eagerly slipped into the back, going past the storage room to a second one that only she had a key to.

Unlocking the door, she opened it and came face to face with Folio who was stripped naked, spread out and bound with a set of new leather cuffs from a bondage kit which had come in earlier this week.

“I knew ordering this kit would've worked out better than using those flimsy handcuffs all the time. You can't get yourself out of these as easily can you?” Jolly remarked, closing and locking the door after herself. Her voice held a hit of condescension, which caused Folio to whine around the gag in her mouth.

“I know baby, I know. I left you here longer than I promised. But I come bearing gifts.” Jolly eagerly held up the box, displaying the selection of boxed toys which caused Folio's eyes to light up with glee.

“Firstly we need to see how ready you are for these. Then I can clean them up and we can start testing them properly.” Jolly made no attempt to hide her smirk. Testing out the new toys which came into her shop on Folio had become a favorite pastime for them both.

It had started out innocent enough, a playful remark here, a taunt there, before it descended into Folio testing out the new bondage equipment too and begging for Jolly to test out the toys on her like this.

Crouching down before her, Jolly’s eyes studied every inch, drinking in the sight of her beloved girl spread out so perfectly for her own enjoyment.

“You're always so pretty like this.” She murmured and reached up for the gag, pulling it free from Folio’s mouth before her hand cradled the back of Folio’s head and pulled her forward enough to bring their mouths together in a slow, sensual kiss.

They may have been only meters apart, but Jolly had missed her during the short time they had been. It had never been just about sex, that was the fun part, she’d always found herself drawn to Folio; the cheeky gleam in her eye whenever she grinned, her dirty laugh which made Jolly want to join in too, and the way she lit up any room she entered.

Jolly was known for appearing almost standoffish and uptight, whether due to her more reserved nature when away from friends, or how serious she could be a majority of the time, but Folio had a way of bringing out even the playfulness in her.

“I got worried you were going to leave me like this all day.” Folio said, breathlessly when their kiss broke, gazing back at Jolly with full lustful eyes. She was like a lovesick puppy around Jolly, had been from the very beginning and all efforts she made ever since first walking into her shop to ask about the part time position, had been dedicated to wanting to make a smile break out across her beautiful face, the one which often appeared stone cold, but even the twinge of a smile was enough of a victory for Folio.

“Leave you, pretty girl? I would never.” Jolly purred, her fingers gently stroking down along Folio’s exposed chest and stomach, reaching between her spread thighs before stroking slowly over her slick folds.

She hadn't needed to feel to know how wet she was, she could see her cunt practically dripping the moment she entered the room, she could even smell the sex coming from her, but she couldn't resist and as her finger slipped through the loop on the love egg still snuggled tightly within her cunt, she gave a gentle tug.

“Oop.” She mocked in response to Folio’s moan, watching how her thighs shook with the sudden movement.

“Please Jol’s. I need…”

“What do you need, baby?” Jolly’s voice continued in a low purr, her free hand stroking slowly up along Folio’s tummy, the need to touch her heavy on her mind. It wasn’t just physical, or sexual, it was a need for connection in some way.

“You.” Folio stuttered out the words, whining as she attempted to squirm in place, her hips bucking against the toy while clenching around it, almost hesitant to let it slip free, despite how much she needed to feel more from her lover.

“Lucky for you then the perfect toy just came in.” Jolly proudly boasted, slipping the love egg completely free and holding it up to show Folio as it continued vibrating on its highest intensity. “Do you have any reviews for this one first?”

“It was… it’s…” There’s barely a coherent thought in Folio’s head, her senses spiked with her arousal and need for Jolly. Under any other circumstances she may have been able to slip out a quick witted one liner, but not even something as easy as that is crossing her mind at the moment.

“We’ll come back to it.” Jolly assured her before standing once more and crossing over to the box to retrieve the toy she had in mind.

After a few minutes of cleaning up both the love egg and the new toy, Jolly slipped a harness up her legs and pulled it into place over her hips, taking a moment to admire her new appendage.

It was a 6’ purple dildo, with a decent sized girth to it, which made her wonder if Folio would be able to take it, a thought which spiked a tingle of arousal between her thighs at the idea of watching her lover stretch around it.

With a glob of lube on the toy, she returned towards a waiting Folio, stroking slowly along the shaft of it as she revealed her first gift. “Do you like it?” Jolly purred, watching how Folio’s face lit up, her mouth eagerly opening as she offered out her tongue as a hint she wanted to feel it there.

“Not yet, pup. There’ll be plenty of time for that after.” The thought of having Folio taste herself from the toy once she was done thoroughly fucking and making her cum over it, always excited her.

Lowering to her knees between Folio’s splayed legs, Jolly slipped a hand beneath her ass, lifting her slightly as she guided the toy forward. “If I put the tip of it right here…” She edged herself closer, teasing the tip of the toy against her folds and watched how easy they parted, sliding it right down against her soaked entrance. “How does that feel?” 

All Folio could do in response was moan, which resulted in a smirk spreading across Jolly’s face as she watched the pleasure crossing Folio’s own. “Mm… does that sound mean it’s good?”

Folio whined in response, whimpering and softly begging under her breath. It was a sight Jolly often relished in, loving how far she could string her lover up before making her fall apart and repeating the process, basking in the beauty of it all.

“Good girl.” She purred. “Do you want me to put it in?” She watched as Folio nodded, barely able to get a word out and Jolly leaned in closer. “Can you say please?”

She didn't miss the way Folio came over all flustered, even in this state and she held herself still, the tip of the toy still pressed right to her dripping cunt while she waited.

“P-P-Pl-…please.” Folio managed through ragged breaths, her voice a soft plea which brought a grin to Jolly’s face.

“That’s it. Good girl, such a very good girl for me. Just relax for me, okay? I’m gonna slide it in…” Jolly guided her hips forward, watching how the toy slid into her with such ease, her eyes never leaving Folio’s cunt. “Nice and slow.” She murmured softly.

“Mm, there we go.” The moment their hips were pressed together, Jolly held herself there, her hands roaming up along Folio’s exposed body, caressing, scratching and groping her in all of the right places to gain a reaction.

She didn't dare to move, not yet, merely allowing her lover to embrace the feeling of the toy deep within her while she lay a fluttering of kisses along her collarbone, trailing them up towards her neck. “How does that feel? Can you tell me if it feels good?” She cooed against the soft skin beneath her lips, nipping lightly at it, wanting nothing more than to mark her up as her own.

“So… good.” She heard her breath out with a slight struggle, easily becoming overstimulated and the attempt Folio made to buck her hips against her told Jolly all she needed to know.

“Does my pretty baby need to cum already? I haven't even got to fuck her yet.” She purposely sounded disappointed, a mock pout forming as she pulled back just enough to look at Folio while she continued softly pleading and begging.

Jolly always took a twisted pleasure in overstimulating her like this.

“I’m going to go nice and slow, okay?”

That resulted in a whine from Folio, which gained her a warning glare. She always knew how to push, perhaps that's why Jolly took such pleasure in pulling her apart in such a slow and tortuous manner. “Nice and slow.” She repeats while dragging her hips back, thrusting slowly forward and moving her hands down to hold on at her hips. 

“Just like this, baby. Mm, you’re doing so good for me.” She softly praised, marveling over the sight of her as she slowly increased her thrusts, her eyes drifting down between them to watch where they connected, listening to the sounds of soft moans and whines which left Folio, her only thoughts in that moment surrounding the pleasure she was experiencing. 

“I’m going to start touching your clit now, okay?” Jolly listened to the way Folio’s sound became louder, her head attempting to nod in agreement while her fingers slid down between them, circling her clit slowly. “Just like this…” She whispered and moved in closer, her mouth ghosting kisses along Folio’s jawline before meeting her lips with a heated kiss.

Any sounds her lover attempted to make while her fingers pressed to her clit were quickly swallowed by her own mouth, enjoying the way she fought to maintain kissing her between the extra stimulation Jolly was providing. She knew there was no way Folio would last much longer and that was the beauty of it, being able to feel how her lover was falling apart at the seams at that very moment.

Breaking away, Jolly’s thrusts became quicker, driving deeply into Folio’s cunt with the purpose of pushing her over into her budding orgasm, her fingers toying faster on her clit.

“Look at me, baby. That's it. Good girl…you’re such a good girl for me.” Her praises came with a soft coo in her voice, admiring the sight of Folio as she came further undone beneath her. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. So fucking pretty when you’re taking my cock.”

Dropping her eyes back down between them she let out a moan of her own as she watched the toy continuously thrusting deeply into her, the wetness which was now dripping along it and from her cunt, feeling her own aching between her thighs.

“I need you to cum for me my greedy girl, can you do that? Can you cum around my cock?”

Folio nodded in response to Jolly’s request, her moans and whines growing more desperate and high pitched as her climax came inching closer, squeezing around the toy as she took it, completely blissful at the pleasure washing over her and as it hit, she began to shudder beneath Jolly, her thighs shaking, making her thankful they were being held up by the new set of cuffs she had been restrained with.

It was an overwhelming sensation which brought tears to her eyes, especially as Jolly didn't stop, continuing to fuck her through her orgasm, rubbing her sensitive clit right to the point she felt another wave wash over her, causing for her to squirt around the toy and over a clothed Jolly. 

“Please please please please” She pleaded with a loud squeal, begging for Jolly to stop or continue, she wasn't sure. All she knew was her body wouldn't stop trembling, even after she felt the toy slid from her aching cunt.

“That’s my girl.” Jolly softly purred, slipping her arms beneath Folio to hold her as she trembled, meeting any spot of skin that she could reach, leaving soft kisses as she worked her way up towards her mouth, planting one final tender kiss to her lips.

“Now, how highly would you rate that toy?” Jolly mused, admiring the satisfied and glazed over look in her lover's eyes. Even without words she knew that it would become a favorite addition to their collection.