#had to tweak the wording to get precisely one of each

[translatingpostsintorussian]

sabertoothwalrus Я собиралась пошутить про то, что я говорю "Надо возвращаться в цирк" как люди говорили, что чтобы сбалансировать гуморы, надо ехать на море. Но тогда я осознала, что цирк балансирует юморы

sabertoothwalrus

как я балансирую юморы

silly-detector Я собиралась пошутить про то, что я говорю "Надо возвращаться в цирк" как люди говорили, что чтобы сбалансировать гуморы, надо ехать на море. Но тогда я осознала, что цирк балансирует юморы

как я балансирую юморы

в этом посте содержатся:

1 клоун!

1 шут!

1 мим!

sabertoothwalrus каждого по одному……. Баланс Юморов

I was gonna make a joke about how I say “I need to go the circus again” the way people used to say they need to go to the sea to balance their humors. But I realized the circus balances humors too

[sebsxphia]

Hiii babyy!! I love your content amd i really really wanted to ask you a lil freaky story if you'd like to (english is not my first language sorry:() but i was just asking if you could write a smutty where y/n and Bob have some shower sex??!?

Pls i really love your stories, i hope you notice me

Byeee 🤙

-🦋

sweet and slow sunday morning.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader.

￫ summary: you and bob share a steamy shower together.

￫ word count: 986.

￫ warnings: sex, shower sex, nipple pinching, praise, creampie and fluff.

￫ authors notes: i hope you both enjoy, my dear anons! we love smutty shower sex with bob 🤭 my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

The warm droplets of water from the shower head above, dripped down the curve of your neck, down your spine and merged with the ones dripping down from Bob’s toned torso. The constant flow of warm water soothed both of your angled bodies in the shower.

You were pushed against the cool tiling, which came as a sweet relief to the heat of your body. Your hands braced against the tiles and as your breasts were pushing against it too, your nipples pebbled with each thrust from behind.

Bob held your hips with both of his firm hands as he angled his thrusts, deep in from behind you. One of his hands left your hip and snaked up your damp, soft belly. His nimble fingertips pinched against your hardened and sensitive nipple. As he rolled it between his fingers, you let out a whine.

“Bobby!” You squeaked and then gasped for air, as his swollen tip bumped against the sweet spot inside of you.

“I know, I know, sweet thing…” Bob groaned from behind you, equally getting lost in the pleasure you shared.

Your clit was throbbing hot between your thighs. It hadn’t been long since Bob had gotten into the shower with you, ran his hands over your body as he gently washed you and angled you against the tiles, but he had a devoted touch that caused you to melt against him.

As he continued to tweak your nipples, it only added to your heightened sensitivity. It was enough to push you closer towards your high, but you desperately needed him to touch your clit.

“Bobby! Please… I— I need y’ t— to…”

“Words, darlin’. Words.” Bob gasped between his continuous thrusts. Even though this was a sweet and slow Sunday morning, Bob still demanded his dominance be recognised by you.

“Please, t— touch me! ‘m so close!” You squeaked out.

Your back arched further and his pelvis was met with the swell of your ass. You were desperately pushing against his thick cock, trying to obtain further pleasure.

Bob choked out a groan at your desperate movement and his hand on your hip squeezed you tighter, his hand on your breast palming mercilessly at the soft flesh.

His hand came down and gripped the other side of your hip to gain himself full leverage. He picked up his pace momentarily, delivering harsh and heavy thrusts. You let out a moan in pleasure and a cry of desperation.

“My beautiful, darlin’. Takin’ me so well. I’m here now, I’m here.” His voice was hot in your ear, hotter than the heat of the water, as it continually flowed over you both. Bob had arched over your back and was peppering kisses along the curve of your neck, along your shoulders and down your back.

His hand left your hip and moved between your thighs. As his fingertips came to apply a sweet pleasure to your throbbing clit, you let out a cry of relief, followed by a moan. Bob could feel how your body melted into his touch. You were still pushing against him as deep as you could get, yet somehow, you were relaxed against him. He savoured how softly and deeply you would fall when you were with him.

His cock twitched inside, as you squeezed him with every pin-point thrust. Steam was billowing out from the top of the shower screen door. The warm water was heating the temperature inside of this small, cubic space, and you and Bob were heating up with it.

He continued to run precise circles over your clit, as he matched his thrusts with the same rhythm. The hot and heavy steam made you gasp out breathy moans, with Bob groaning low in your ear and hushing words of sweet praise.

“You’re doin’ so well for me, my pretty baby. Keep goin’, I’ve got you… I’ve got you… Y’ close aren’t you? I can feel you, sweetheart.”

You nodded meekly against the cold tile, water pooling against your cheek. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your damp lips, a harsh comparison to the pin-point movement he was currently providing you. He bit down tenderly on your bottom lip and grunted out, “Come. Come for me, darlin’.”

That’s all you need to hear.

As he swiped over your clit and the tip of his bulging cock hit deep inside of you, you fell apart on him. You gasped out incoherent whines and fumbled over words of how good it felt. Your whole body began to tremble as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through you, but slowly it began to melt against Bob’s. His hips stuttered against your ass, but he maintained accuracy with his thrusts, as you felt his warm spend leak into you.

“Feel s’ good for me, darlin’. Fuck!” He cursed against your cheek, as he planted sloppy kisses there, down along your jaw and back up to your cheek.

Even though you were melting against him, your legs were now fully trembling. You were unable to keep yourself up through your post-orgasm high and the all-consuming heat from the shower. The front of your body gave in and you slumped against the tiles, but not before Bob caught you with his muscular forearm.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you. ‘m here. I’m not letting you fall.” His reassuring voice was calm in your ear, as he guided you to stand upright. He would never let you go.

Further kisses and praises were shared, as you both beamed at each other with a lovesick haze. You adored how his damp hair fell out of its normal perfect placement. You adored how the droplets of water ran over his nose. You adored how he let you rest up against him, as he removed the shower head and gently washed away his sticky spend that was leaking out of you.

He would never let you go.

taglist: @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @flames-thebitch @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @randomfandomfirl97 @kmc1989 @swiftsgirlfriend

[szasfuckingwife]

CHALLENGER

GOJO SATORU X FEM!READER X GETO SUGURU

SYNOPSIS: YOU ARE KNOWN FOR YOUR BIGGEST TALENT. AND WHEN SAID TALENT IS HITTING A BALL WITH A RACKET, HOW CAN YOU STOP THE EYES OF TOKYO’S STRONGEST COMPETITORS?

WARNINGS: Nothing but some good ol’ smut

A/N: Nothing, jus go watch challengers that shit was amazing

Gojo Satoru who can’t stop gushing to his best friend Suguru about the girl he saw at the Shibuya Open. It was evident that you hitting that tennis ball with such vigour replayed in his head over and over again.

Except, his friend didn’t get the hype. I mean, he saw your sponsorships and saw that you were good. But never understood the hype. Until, he saw you play in person.

Both of the boys were starstruck on how much stamina you had, how passionate you were, and how short your shorts were. Geto and Gojo had the pleasure of fixating their gaze on you whilst everyone craned their neck to watch each opponent. And even though they missed how the other challenger played, they didn’t care.

They were looking at you.

Whilst you’re more focused on your ability to play, you notice that Gojo is a decent player. It’s clear he loves tennis. He’s fit, strong, good looking and knows how to make you smile, which is not a must but a plus for you. If it’s opening doors or getting you chocolates, Satoru is the man.

However, Geto is much more deeper than that. There’s something missing, something that you seem yo be missing too, that is inside him. When he loses a set, it’s explosive and dramatic. Like you.

From a wide perspective, Satoru would be the obvious match. After feeling insecure in how you played, not only did Satoru take you out for dinner, but his lips pressed against yours so softly.

He guided you to his bedroom and stripped you down slowly whilst not looking away from your eyes. Knuckles turn white as you grip the headboard, realising Satoru’s tongue may have more things to offer than just sweet words.

That night was passionate and, just as if you were on the court, you both took your time and concentrated on the pleasure that came with such an activity. Satoru’s veiny hands explored your body with such precision, you felt like prey under his touch. But you wouldn’t physically allow Gojo to overpower you, you were the better player by no doubt.

His cerulean eyes widened as you made your way on top of him and began to ride him. The whimpers of your friend only motivated you to continue, milking every last drop.

The days after you and Satoru’s intimate night was awkward. Geto knew you fucked, it was clear as day. The lingering stares, the less frequent hang outs, Satoru’s cheeks blushing whenever you walked in the room.

It was obvious Satoru had some feelings towards you, and Suguru wanted that too.

Never-mind being friends since they were in diapers, Gojo was taking the one thing Geto had— or did he?

One night, the pair had an argument. Sure it was about ‘Satoru stealing Suguru’s lucky socks and not giving it back. But you knew better. Outside their hotel room, you heard everything.

“Face it, Suguru, this is more than just a silly sock. It’s because you’re jealous~!” Suguru’s eye tweaked as he heard Satoru’s tease him. “You’re mad that she picked me and not you! Admit it.”

The dark haired man stayed silent for a while before speaking, “Whatever she did with you, she was thinking of me. She wants me.”

A smirk adorned your face as you heard your two boys talk about you in such a passionate way. They were both pining for you. And maybe Suguru was right when he said you were thinking about him when you were fucking Gojo, could you not have your cake and eat it too?

You decide it’s time to knock on the door and end this, stupid but weirdly flattering, argument.

Both of the boys stop in their track as they hear three knocks come from the door, instantly racing to clean the room. When they deemed the room clean, it was now a matter of who’d open the door for you. Face value, it was a simple task but q task that both of them took with great seriousness.

Just as quick as they cleaned the room, they both raced to the door, Geto being a smidge faster.

“Hey..!” They both said in unison as you stood, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face.

“Hi.” You responded. You walked in without getting invited, something the boys were accustomed to the more they knew you.

They watched as you sat on a seat, “You want a drink?”, Gojo spoke up, “Beer?”

You shrug and almost instantaneously, Geto was in front of you with a can of beer in hand.

“Why are you guys acting so weird…?” A chuckle leaves your mouth as you open the can. They both look at each other before Satoru responds.

“So, Suguru is mad because I may have, accidentally, used his lucky socks for my set last night-”

“Lucky socks my ass! You’re just mad because you know that Y/N is into me.” Suguru smirks earning another chuckle from you. Satoru’s eyes flick between you and Suguru with a slight frown.

He shakes his head, “It’s not even like that!”

You turn your head to him and raise a brow, “What’s it like then, Satoru?”

He remains silent for a while. Probably weighing his choices, does he leave the situation alone and appear weak in front of the girl he likes or does he fight back against Suguru? “He’s jealous we fucked.”

Suguru booming laugh echoes throughout the room. He was taking it seriously, however the pathetic way in which Satoru spoke humoured him. “Listen to this guy, Y/N…I mean seriously. I wouldn’t be jealous of another man for sleeping with a woman. A woman isn’t just her body.”

Ironically, you were just your body. For tennis, that was all you relied on. Your agile glides against your half of the tennis court, your mobility, your cadence. Without your amazing body, you wouldn’t be able to do what you love.

“Suguru.” You interrupted the bickering.

He looked at you.

“Do you wanna fuck me?”

The question caused both of them to choke on their own breaths. You’ve always been known for having no filter, but the natural way you spoke of having sex was a shock for the two boys.

“Y/N, stop messing aro-” “I’ll let you.” You expose your magazine front cover smile, playfully giggling at their reaction.

“You’d let me?” Suguru began to grin before he was struck on the back of his head by Satoru’s hand.

You giggle again, “I’d let both of you. C’mon…pleasure me…”

Both boys watch as your hand travels up Suguru’s thigh, achingly close to his crotch. His breath hitches as he takes in the feeling of you kissing his neck.

But suddenly, like a lost puppy, Satoru kisses your neck in hopes you wouldn’t forget him. And you don’t. You turn your head with a smile and a gasp, letting him continue to kiss your neck.

And then, another pair of lips are on your neck. You hold their heads as both of them now hungrily kiss your neck.

“Can we…touch you..?” Satoru says in between kisses. You eagerly nod before you feel hands on your thigh. Geto’s hand cupped your breast whilst his friend’s fingers rubbed against the outside of your panties.

You tried to his your smile with a bite of your lip but you can’t help it. Your boys were being so good to you, and treating you so well. To reward them, your hands were back on both of their, now hard, crotches. They gasped and moaned as you rubbed the outline of their cocks so nicely.

“Take off your shorts…” You whisper and they immediately did what you said. As they sat with their cocks out, they watched you kneel before them, smiling so innocently at them. You were a tease.

Slowly, you began to stroke both of their cocks simultaneously. Seeing as he never felt your touch before, Suguru threw his head back in ecstasy. The white haired boy, however, spat down at his cock, encouraging you to go faster.

“You like that, Satoru? Hm?” You smirk up at him. He nods absentmindedly, too caught up in the feeling to properly communicate. Another giggle leaves your lips as you turn to face Suguru, “How about you, pretty boy?”

Suguru hums in response, “Mmhmm…Yeah…it’s good…”

The boys moans rose in frequency and pitch, the pleasure of feeling their friend’s hand wrapped around them felt too good. But you knew better than to let them cum this early, you removed your hands. Both of them responded in a sour face, a whine even left Satoru’s mouth.

“Satoru, you stand there, Suguru, you can get on the bed…” You say whilst stripping yourself down. “After this, you better win that fucking challenger..”

[silvermeww]

for your Kalosian Woods AU, I have two questions! (1) what’s the direction you’re gonna take Amourshipping/Ash and Serena’s dynamic in? Their friendship along with the romantic subtext felt like it had a lot of potential in XYZ-proper but never really got utilized. And (2) how’re you gonna tackle Showcases? I’ve been meaning to work on a Showcase restructure but I’d love to hear your ideas :D

Hey there!!!!! For the first question, I 100% acknowledge the force of Serena’s crush on Ash in the XY series— even if I did tweak it so that she would fall after meeting him for the first time, watching him train for the Gym and having seen him fall off Prism Tower inspiring her to see him through tinted lens (and how it evolved from the admiration she had for him when they were kids so long ago). While XY anime itself had the weird notion of making everyone down for Ash (a terrifying scene after coming out of the professional haters of BW and literally every series before it) (ngl though I am a believer of the polycule + Bonnie idea lol, it exists in my heart), I can’t deny that side of Amourshipping even if I’m not a shipper myself or even much of a good writer for romantic relationships imo. In my AU I want to show how that love for him grows and eddies throughout the series: from their first meeting to taking up her own dream of showcases to seeing Ash lose himself in his endless hunt for strength— how she puts him on a pedestal because he was the first Trainer she knew, the strongest one she knew, and back then how she didn’t know better, relying on him instead of taking the risks herself and working with other people for a change. You’re absolutely right in the potential their relationship have in XYZ especially; with Serena coming to the tail end of her first Showcase season, ending up in the same place as before but with a totally changed perspective, and Ash fixating more than ever on being the best of the best, distancing himself from everyone else… and of course, all of that feelings and realisations coming to a head in Snowbelle, the Crisis, and the aftermaths. And also having both of them face each other at the end of it all and realising how much changed. I’m not really sure if I’m wording any of this right or if what I’ve said even makes sense heh, especially since I’m not too far ahead in this AU, but their friendship and that romantic subtext is definitely going to play a part in this series, and even if the plot details changes like the weather I’m going to do my best in keeping it as true to its potential as it should be (because a girl can be in love and also grow as a person, in spite and despite and even with it— you’ve just got to find the right angle).

(Also I’m going to have fun with that crush, so it might meet some light-hearted banter and miscommunications and all of that stuff. I mean, hey, these are kids on a journey lol. There are going to be awkward moments for everyone at some point, but they’ll grow past it as with everything else. Also fun memories. :P)

For the second question, wow, I’ve been giving it so much thought lol. I’m nowhere near the Showcases right now (although it is closer than what canon gave us in my AU) and yet it’s all I can do to plan for how it works. I have spitballed a few ideas with friends but for me (so far) I honestly want more of it to be outdoors. Showcases as a whole has this pesky problem of being a one-to-one copy of Contests but ‘declawed’ by having no battles, and it really gets me because if we’re discarding battles then we have to actually redefine Showcases as a whole— because the battle portion is the ultimate showing of precision and control with your Pok��mon and their moves, which is what Contests are all about. Especially with AG and DP, we see examples of atypical Appeal rounds with Harley going for a more terrifying show of power, while Kenny (as :/ as a character as he was) goes for showings of strength— even though they are not ‘beautiful’ they still get to pass, because it really is about how your bond can perfectly translate to moves that can command the audience and grab their attention, naturally highlighting the Pokémon. With Showcases though, to me, they are more about creativity— about how a Performer can work with their Pokémon to get past certain obstacles which are based off a certain characteristic the Kalos Queen should have (the Theme round or whatever it was called lol) and then the Freestyle showing off what they uniquely bring to the table, their own brand, what they want to be remembered by (in which I thought that they could bring props to that originally but eh, that’s what my AU is for!). Sheesh, I went through such a big rant and I still feel fired up heh, but ig this is to say that since Showcases are about creativity, the outdoors location would be a great way to show how they deal with everything. On a sunny day, would they use Grass or Fire Types? Would they call out a Rain Dance and form a rainbow? Of course they wouldn’t actually have an open venue if it’s raining or snowing, but in different terrains can you see the characters stand out, I feel like. Also giving all sorts of Pokémon room like Flying or Ground. I have a bunch more ideas of course, about it being connected to PokéVision (still mad about how that concept got dumped) and having small events where people can get to know the up and coming Performers, getting hints for the Theme section so we don’t get the most unbalanced group of people and have a real competition (that always bothered me ngl), as well as other tweaks to that whole system. Showcases can be good in their own light, it’s just the rep of it being baby ‘only girls’ Contest (still thinking about the girls bit ngl) along with the stupid popularity bit of it (not that the concept is bad in and of itself, just that it should have a place and not be the be all end all of passing to the next stage) (it’s only good for the Freestyle, can I say that?) that makes it flop. Also because it came in so late and left so early. And the rivals kind of sucked because they weren’t given any time to grow. And the way Serena wasn’t challenged enough through them. So basically, I’ve got A Lot of thoughts about it and it’s going to be a headache to go through because it desperately needs a redesign to be viable in any way. But that’s the fun bit about an AU, isn’t it heh. Tell me about your ideas, I’d love to hear about them and thank you so so much for the ask!!! :D <33

[jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka]

Okay I had this thought yesterday and couldn’t get it out of my head

Janny nonsense below the cut

It had happened. After months of pining Jake and Danny had finally confessed to each other and sealed their love with a beautifully passionate night.

Jake had snuck out of Danny’s room early in the morning, hopefully before the others even woke up, but he didn’t like the feeling of sneaking around. So even after just recently overcoming their fears of rejection- what should have been smooth waters now- they were already faced with another hurdle. What were they going to tell Josh and Sam?

“I could just tell Sam and you could tell Josh?” Danny suggested, tickling his fingers under the cut up hem of Jake’s shirt. Danny had been the one tiptoeing through the hallway to slip into Jake’s room undetected this time. Though his intentions for the visit were more along the lines of less talking- more fucking- Jake insisted they figure this out first.

Dannys fingers brushing against the ticklish skin of his lower stomach were not making it easy for Jake to think, but then it came to him just as quickly as the giggle he couldn’t hold in. “Okay hear me out,” Jake instructed as he grabbed Danny’s hand, “what if we don’t tell them?”

“I thought the whole point of this conversation was because you didn’t want to sneak around?” Danny replied, more or less unconcerned with what the outcome was. Of course he cared what Jake wanted, but personally whatever Jake decided he was okay with.

“Yes precisely, but what if we don’t sneak around either?”

Now Jake had Danny’s attention piqued. So he sat up from where he was previously leaning against Jake’s shoulder in bed. “Alright, I’m listening”.

“We just go about our relationship” he swallowed at those words, relationship sounding really good in this context, “and we see how long it takes them to catch on”.

Danny paused to think it over for a moment, though he was already game from the beginning. “Want to bet on who you think will say something first?”

The corners of Jake’s mouth turned up into a big Cheshire Cat grin as he wrapped his arms around Danny’s shoulders and rolled over on top of him. This is why he loved Danny.

-

The next day they were back on the road. Jake boarded the bus last, looking around to see Josh sitting at the small table drinking a cup of coffee and Sam sitting on one of the couches across from Danny as they carried on a light conversation.

Jake dropped his stuff off in the back near his bunk then moved to join the others. There were a few options for him to sit. At the table with Josh, on either end of the couch Sam or Danny were sitting on, but he sat down right next to Danny. Like so close their thighs were touching.

Sam was rambling on, hardly stopping when Jake sat down, though his eyes did flick downwards when Danny settled in next to Jake like it was nothing.

Midway through his conversation Danny decided to take it one step further and leaned back, bringing his arm around the back of the couch where Jake was, and letting his hand rest on his opposite shoulder. Sam’s eyes flicked again and one of his brows twitched, but he didn’t ask what was going on since Danny was still acting so casual.

Jake on the other hand was pretty quiet, though he didn’t look uncomfortable, so Sam just let it go.

-

The next time was during sound check on the b-stage. Jake was sitting on his stool tweaking the tune on his acoustic while Sam and Josh were going over a few notes on their Unchained Melody duo.

Suddenly Danny came up from behind Jake and wrapped his fingers around his own, helping twist the peg until they successfully got the pitch just right.

“Thanks” Jake whispered to him with a bashful smile.

“No problem” Danny replied, sharing in the same smile. Then he looked up past Jake’s shoulder to see Josh turned around watching them curiously.

“What?” Danny questioned light heartedly.

“Oh nothing,” Josh replied, turning back around to grab his mic off the piano, “we going to do this or what?”

-

Then there was dinner. Sound check ran a little late, so they had food delivered to the venue.

“I should have ordered some fries too. I'm more hungry than I thought I was” Jake said after finishing his sandwich and not feeling satisfied.

“Here, have some of mine” Danny turned towards Jake, because of course they were sitting together again, and offered him one of his. Jake could have easily taken the fry, but instead he just opened his mouth and let Danny feed it to him with a chuckle.

“I want ketchup on the next one” Jake requested, letting Danny turn around to dip another fry in his pile of ketchup and feed him again.

“Oops” Danny saw a little red smear on the corner of Jake’s mouth and used his thumb to quickly wipe it off.

Out of the corner of his eye Jake saw Josh and Sam watching them, then they shared a look and shrugged before continuing to eat on their own.

Fuck, this was going to be harder than he thought it was.

-

After a few days of the same antics Jake was starting to get a little worried that neither Josh or Sam had said anything to either of them. He thought they were being blatantly obvious, though apparently not. It was starting to piss him off a little bit now.

“Ok, I think we should just take it up a notch. Like a lot of notches actually” Jake suggested.

“What did you have in mind?” Danny didn’t care either way, he was enjoying being able to flirt with Jake out in the open even if Jake had taken it on like a challenge. That’s what he adored about Jake anyway.

“I don’t know, I’ll come up with something”.

-

Back on the bus again it was the same scenario, only Sam was sitting at the table with a keyboard and Josh was sitting across from Danny on his phone.

“Hey Danny” Jake spoke up, getting everyone’s attention as he walked over and sat right in his lap, wrapping his arms around his neck to hold himself in place. “Want to go get some lunch alone?”

Danny’s eyes shifted from Josh to Sam who had both watched the scene be set in front of them, but then quietly went back to what they were doing like this was just normal Jake behavior.

Jake’s cheeks flushed, either from embarrassment for boldly sitting in Danny’s lap like this, or from frustration that his plan still didn’t work.

“Oh, umm sure, as long as the others are okay with not going?”

“I’m fine” Sam sounded off, not even looking up from his keys.

“Yeah, you guys go ahead” Josh said next, also not looking up from his phone. In fact he leaned back and crossed his legs to get more comfortable.

“On second thought, we could just stay here” Jake huffed, scooting closer to Danny in his lap so that they were practically face to face.

“Whatever you want Jake” Danny let his hands come to rest on his hips. He knew this was supposed to be a set up, but he couldn’t help but still have a little physical reaction in his jeans. He leaned in and whispered into Jake’s ear, “keep wiggling and we really will have to get out of here”.

Jake’s face flushed again as he twitched and felt the chub bump against his thigh.

It hadn’t been his intention to actually get Danny riled up, but he had to admit now that he was in this position he was feeling a little pressure building as well. They only had a couple of hours before they had to get moving again, but he wondered if they could actually find anywhere to go for a quickie.

“You guys gonna just start making out on the couch now or what?” Josh sighed, finally setting his phone down to look at them.

“What?” Jake turned to him in shock.

“Let’s get this straight, we know you guys are together. Don’t we Sam”.

Sam looked up now too, “yep, few weeks now”.

“Why didn’t you guys say anything?” Jake grunted, letting Danny go and moving to just sit next to him.

“We noticed you two acting funny. Sam asked me if I knew what was going on. I told him I had a suspicion but to keep quiet about it and see how long you guys would keep it up”.

“Wait, so you guys knew all along and chose not to say anything?” Danny questioned now, looking to Sam who just shrugged and nod his head. There’s no way they knew about the bet, but he couldn’t help but find it a little but funny how their reaction to keep quiet was the exact opposite reaction they were shooting for. Either way, the goal was accomplished, they knew and they weren’t mad about it.

“Well, if you know then does that mean we can make out on the couch now” Danny grinned and reached over to pull Jake back into his lap.

“Eww! Please no!” Sam groaned but Danny didn’t pay him any attention this time as he wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and planted a kiss right on his lips.

[ooo-goon-fiction]

Kyubi’s Time Rewind

Part A

Chapter 1: Meeting The Lawyer

The office of Oriole Fox, Attorney at Law, smelled faintly of lavender and old books, a cozy contrast to the sharp, modern lines of her desk and the sleek laptop perched on it. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the edges of her auburn hair, which was swept into a loose bun that somehow looked both effortless and professional. She was, as my buddy Ty had warned me with a grin, “kinda cute looking.” Not that I was here to notice. I was Lew Harris, thirty-four, freshly engaged, and sitting in her office to hammer out a prenup that would keep my fiancée, Roxanne, and me on solid ground.

Oriole leaned forward, her green eyes bright with a warmth that put me at ease despite the sterile topic. “Alright, Lew,” she said, her voice smooth but not overly formal, like we were old friends catching up. “Let’s make this as painless as possible. A prenup’s just a roadmap for the what-ifs, not a prediction of doom. Think of it like… car insurance. You don’t plan to crash, but you’re glad it’s there.”

I chuckled, shifting in the leather chair. “Fair enough. Rox and I just want to be smart about this. No drama.”

“Good mindset,” she said, tapping a pen against a neat stack of papers. “I’ve seen too many couples come in here braced for a fight. You two sound like you’re on the same page.” She slid a document across the desk, her nails painted a soft coral that matched her blazer. “This is a draft based on the info you sent over. Let’s walk through it.”

I nodded, glancing at the pages. Legal jargon stared back at me, dense and intimidating, but Oriole’s presence made it feel manageable. She had this way of radiating competence without being condescending, like she genuinely wanted me to understand every word.

“So,” she began, pointing to the first section, “this covers assets you and Roxanne each bring into the marriage. You mentioned your construction business and the rental properties, right? We’ve listed those as your separate property, meaning they’d stay yours in the unlikely event of a split. Same for Roxanne’s graphic design company and her savings.”

“Sounds right,” I said, leaning forward. “I worked hard to build Harris Builds, but Rox has got her own thing going. We don’t want to mess with each other’s dreams.”

Oriole smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made you feel like you’d said something wise. “That’s the spirit. Mutual respect is the foundation of a good prenup. Now, let’s talk about income and debts.” She flipped to the next page, her fingers moving with precision. “Any income you earn during the marriage—say, from your business or Roxanne’s freelance gigs—would typically be considered marital property under state law. But we can tweak that. For example, we could agree that your business profits stay separate, or we could split future earnings in a way that feels fair.”

I rubbed my chin, picturing Roxanne’s face when we’d discussed this over pizza last week. “We were thinking 50-50 on future earnings, but my business stays mine, and her company stays hers. Debts, too—we each handle our own.”

“Smart,” Oriole said, jotting a note. “I’ll add a clause to keep premarital and individual debts separate. No one wants to inherit their spouse’s old student loans.” She glanced up, her eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. “Unless you’re feeling extra generous?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I said, grinning. “Roxanne’s got a few grand in loans, but she’s chipping away at them. I’ve got a truck payment, but that’s it.”

“Got it.” She typed something into her laptop, her fingers flying over the keys. “We’ll make sure neither of you gets stuck with the other’s baggage. Now, let’s talk spousal support. This is where things can get tricky, but it doesn’t have to be.”

I shifted, the chair creaking under me. “We don’t want alimony. If things go south, we both walk away clean.”

Oriole tilted her head, studying me for a moment. “That’s a bold choice, and I respect it. But let me play devil’s advocate. If one of you, say, takes time off work to raise kids or support the other’s career, a clean break could leave them in a tough spot. I’m not saying you need alimony, but we could include a limited support clause—like, a year of payments to help with the transition. Or we can stick with the clean break. Your call.”

I hesitated, picturing Roxanne’s fierce independence. She’d hate the idea of handouts, but Oriole had a point. Life wasn’t predictable. “Maybe something short-term,” I said slowly. “Like, six months of support if we’ve been married over five years. Would that work?”

“Absolutely,” Oriole said, her tone encouraging. “We can tailor it to fit your vibe. I’ll draft a clause for six months of transitional support after a five-year threshold, capped at a reasonable amount based on your incomes. Fair?”

“Fair,” I agreed, relaxing a bit. She had a knack for making the awkward stuff feel… normal.

We spent the next half-hour diving into details—retirement accounts, inheritances, the works. Oriole was patient, answering my dumb questions without a hint of judgment. She’d toss in little asides, like, “I had a client once who tried to include their pet parrot’s trust fund in the prenup—true story,” which kept the mood light.

As we wrapped up, she leaned back, clasping her hands. “Alright, Lew, I’ll revise this draft and send it to you and Roxanne by tomorrow. Take your time reviewing it, talk it over, and let me know if anything feels off. My goal is to make sure you both feel protected and heard.”

“Thanks, Oriole,” I said, standing and shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her smile genuine.

“Anytime,” she said, walking me to the door. “And congrats on the engagement. You and Roxanne sound like a great team.”

I stepped into the elevator, the prenup draft tucked under my arm, feeling lighter than I’d expected. Oriole Fox wasn’t just good at her job—she was the kind of person who made you believe things would work out, no matter what the fine print said.

Chapter Two: The Rewind

The air shimmered, a faint ripple like heat rising off asphalt, and then *snap*—a sound sharp enough to make my ears ring. A figure stood in the corner of my vision, pink hair cascading like a neon waterfall, eyes glinting with mischief. She called herself Kyubi Kitsune, a self-proclaimed “meddler in mortal affairs.” Before I could ask what the hell she was doing in my apartment, she winked, snapped her fingers again, and the world blurred backward.

When reality settled, I was back in Oriole Fox’s office, but everything felt… off. The lavender scent was gone, replaced by something heavier, like jasmine laced with spice. The sunlight didn’t just catch Oriole’s auburn hair—it set it ablaze, framing a face that wasn’t “kinda cute” anymore. She was *gorgeous*, the kind of stunning that made your brain short-circuit. Her green eyes gleamed with an intensity that felt like they could see straight through me, and her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts inviting and unsettling. Her coral blazer hugged her frame a little too perfectly, and when she leaned forward, it wasn’t just friendly—it was calculated.

“Lew Harris,” she purred, her voice silkier than before, with an edge that made my palms sweat. “Let’s get this prenup sorted for you and… Roxanne, was it? Such a lovely couple.” Her pen tapped the desk, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

I shifted in the chair, my throat dry. “Uh, yeah. Roxanne. We just… want to keep things fair, you know?” My voice cracked, and I cringed internally. I wasn’t this guy—nervous, fumbling—but something about Oriole’s presence made me feel like a kid trying to explain himself to a teacher. I’d built Harris Builds from the ground up, damn it, but here I was, second-guessing every word.

Oriole’s smile widened, and I could’ve sworn her teeth looked sharper. “Fairness is my specialty, Lew. Let’s make sure Roxanne’s taken care of.” She slid a document across the desk, her movements fluid, almost hypnotic. “This is the draft based on your emails. Shall we dive in?”

I nodded, my eyes skimming the pages. The legal jargon was denser than I remembered, a labyrinth of clauses and sub-clauses that made my head spin. “Sure, uh, where do we start?”

“Let’s begin with assets,” she said, her tone smooth but with a hint of something… predatory, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Your construction business, Harris Builds, and those rental properties—they’re your pride and joy, yes? We’ve listed them as separate property, but Roxanne’s design company is smaller, more… vulnerable. To balance things, we’ve included a clause that gives her a 20% stake in your business’s profits during the marriage. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

I blinked, my stomach twisting. “Twenty percent? I… I don’t remember talking about that.” Roxanne and I had agreed to keep our businesses separate. Hadn’t we? My memory felt fuzzy, like Kyubi’s snap had scrambled more than just time.

Oriole tilted her head, her gaze locking onto mine. “Oh, Lew, it was in your notes. You want Roxanne to feel secure, don’t you? A business like yours could overshadow her little venture. This evens the playing field.” Her words were honeyed, but there was a pressure behind them, like she was guiding me to a destination I hadn’t chosen.

“Maybe,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck. “But 20% seems… a lot. Can we make it, like, 5%?”

Her laugh was soft, almost musical, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Five percent? Come now, Lew. Roxanne’s taking a leap marrying you. A woman needs assurances.” She leaned closer, her perfume clouding my thoughts. “Let’s keep it at 20% for now. You can always revisit it later.”

I swallowed, nodding despite the unease gnawing at me. “Okay. Sure.” Why was I agreeing? I couldn’t shake the feeling I was signing away more than I meant to.

“Excellent,” Oriole said, flipping to the next section with a flourish. “Now, income and debts. Your income from Harris Builds is substantial, while Roxanne’s freelance work is… less predictable. We’ve proposed that 60% of your earnings during the marriage go into a joint account, which Roxanne would manage. It’s a modern approach—empowers her, keeps things equitable.”

“Sixty percent?” I croaked, my hands gripping the armrests. “That’s… I mean, we talked about 50-50, didn’t we?”

Oriole’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile stayed fixed. “Did we? My notes say 60-40, favoring Roxanne, to account for her career sacrifices. You’re a generous man, Lew. You want her to thrive.” Her voice was soothing, but it felt like a leash tightening around my neck.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words fizzled out. The room felt smaller, Oriole’s presence overwhelming. “I guess… if it’s for Roxanne,” I said weakly.

“Perfect,” she said, her pen scratching across the page. “And debts—we’ll keep yours separate, but Roxanne’s student loans, about $15,000, will be paid from marital funds. A small gesture to start your life together debt-free.”

My jaw dropped. “Wait, I’m paying her loans? I’ve got my own truck payments—”

“Which stay yours,” Oriole cut in, her tone firm but still velvet-smooth. “Roxanne’s loans are modest, Lew. You wouldn’t want her burdened, would you?” Her eyes bored into mine, and I felt my resolve crumble.

“No, I… guess not,” I muttered, slumping back. What was happening? I’d walked in wanting a fair deal, but every clause seemed to tilt toward Roxanne, and Oriole was steering me like I was too clueless to notice.

We moved to spousal support, and it got worse. “Given your income disparity,” Oriole said, “we’ve included a generous alimony clause. If the marriage ends, Roxanne would receive $5,000 a month for up to ten years, adjusted for inflation. It’s a safety net, Lew. You’d want her protected.”

“Ten years?” I choked out. “We said no alimony. A clean break.”

Oriole arched an eyebrow, her smile turning almost pitying. “A clean break? Oh, Lew, that’s harsh for someone like Roxanne. She’s building her career, relying on your stability. This is standard for couples with your dynamic.” She leaned back, crossing her arms, her blazer accentuating her confidence. “Trust me, it’s in your best interest to show goodwill.”

My head throbbed. I wanted to push back, to demand we stick to what Roxanne and I had discussed, but Oriole’s words wrapped around me like fog, clouding my thoughts. “I… need to talk to Roxanne first,” I managed.

“Of course,” Oriole said, her voice dripping with understanding. “I’ll send you the draft tonight. Review it with Roxanne, but I’m confident she’ll appreciate your generosity.” She stood, her heels clicking as she walked me to the door. Her hand brushed my arm, and I flinched at the warmth of it. “You’re doing the right thing, Lew.”

As the elevator doors closed, I clutched the draft, my heart pounding. The prenup felt like a trap, slanted to strip me bare, and Oriole’s gorgeous face lingered in my mind, her predatory smile haunting me. Somewhere, I swore I heard Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, faint and mocking, as if she’d known exactly what her meddling would do.

Chapter Three: The Second Rewind

The world flickered like a bad TV signal, colors bleeding into each other, and then *snap*—that sharp, ear-splitting sound again. Kyubi Kitsune materialized in a swirl of pink hair and smug amusement, lounging on the edge of my coffee table like she owned the place. Her eyes, glinting like polished amethysts, locked onto mine. “Not quite right, was it, Lew?” she teased, her voice a sing-song taunt. “Let’s try again. Third time’s the charm, maybe?” Before I could protest, she snapped her fingers, and reality unraveled once more.

When the haze cleared, I was back in Oriole Fox’s office, but it was different—glossier, sharper, like a scene from a high-budget movie. The air carried a hint of expensive perfume, and the office itself screamed money: polished mahogany desk, abstract art on the walls, and a view of the city skyline that made my modest construction business feel like a lemonade stand. Then there was Oriole herself. She wasn’t just gorgeous—she was a vision, like she’d stepped off a runway. Her auburn hair cascaded in perfect waves, her emerald eyes sparkled with a predatory gleam, and her tailored black dress clung to her like it was custom-made by a designer I couldn’t pronounce. She looked less like a lawyer and more like a supermodel playing one for a photoshoot.

“Lew Harris,” she said, her voice a sultry purr that sent a shiver down my spine. “So good to meet you. Let’s get that prenup sorted for you and Roxanne.” She gestured to the chair across from her, her smile dazzling but with an edge that made my stomach knot.

I sat, my hands clammy. “Uh, yeah, thanks,” I mumbled, already feeling like I was drowning. I’d built Harris Builds with my own two hands, but here, in this office with this woman, I felt like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong room. Roxanne and I had talked about keeping things fair, but the details were fuzzy, and Oriole’s presence wasn’t helping. She was too perfect, too commanding, and I was way out of my depth.

She slid a thick document across the desk, her manicured nails glinting under the light. “This is the draft based on your input,” she said, though I barely remembered sending her anything. “It’s designed to protect both you and Roxanne, with a slight lean toward her interests, given your… financial disparity.” Her lips twitched, like she knew something I didn’t.

I stared at the pages, the text a blur of legal gibberish. “Right, uh, protect both of us. That’s good.” My voice sounded weak, and I hated it. “Can you… walk me through it?”

“Of course,” Oriole said, leaning forward just enough to make my pulse jump. “Let’s start with assets. Your construction business and rental properties are listed as separate property, but to ensure Roxanne’s security, we’ve included a clause granting her a 30% stake in Harris Builds’ profits during the marriage, plus a 10% equity share if you divorce. It’s a standard precaution for spouses with smaller ventures, like her design company.”

“Thirty percent?” I said, my voice cracking. “And equity? I… I thought we were keeping our businesses separate.” Hadn’t we? Roxanne’s face flashed in my mind, her smile when we’d agreed to a fair split, but the memory felt slippery, like it was dissolving under Oriole’s gaze.

Oriole tilted her head, her smile softening but her eyes sharp. “Oh, Lew, you mentioned wanting Roxanne to feel secure. Your business is your castle, but she’s entering this marriage with less. This balances things. You don’t want her to feel vulnerable, do you?” Her words were smooth, wrapping around me like a velvet noose.

“I… guess not,” I said, rubbing my temple. “But 30% seems steep. Can we do, like, 10%?”

Her laugh was low, almost indulgent, like I’d said something adorably naive. “Ten percent? That’s hardly a gesture. Let’s keep it at 30% for now. We can tweak it later if Roxanne agrees.” She didn’t wait for my response, flipping to the next section with a flick of her wrist. “Now, income. Your earnings from Harris Builds are substantial, so we’ve allocated 70% to a joint account managed by Roxanne. It empowers her, gives her a stake in your shared future.”

“Seventy percent?” I choked, my hands gripping the chair. “That’s… I mean, we talked about 50-50, right?” My head spun. I couldn’t remember the details, but 70% felt wrong, like I was handing over my life’s work.

Oriole’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile stayed pristine. “Fifty-fifty is so… pedestrian, Lew. Roxanne’s taking a risk marrying you. She’s pausing her career to build a life together. This ensures she’s not left adrift.” She leaned back, crossing her legs, her dress shifting just enough to distract me. “You trust her, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course,” I stammered, but doubt gnawed at me. Did I? Everything was moving too fast, and Oriole’s confidence made me question my own memory. “Okay, 70%. If it’s fair.”

“It’s more than fair,” she said, her tone almost too sweet. “And debts—Roxanne’s $15,000 in student loans will be paid from marital funds, while your truck payments remain separate. A small price for a clean slate, don’t you think?”

I nodded numbly, barely processing. “Sure, yeah.” My truck payments were mine, but Roxanne’s loans were ours? It didn’t add up, but Oriole’s voice was a tide pulling me under.

Then came the kicker. “Spousal support,” she said, her pen tapping the page. “Given your income, we’ve included a robust alimony clause. If the marriage ends, Roxanne receives $7,000 a month for fifteen years, plus a lump sum of $50,000 to ease her transition. It’s generous, but you’re a generous man, Lew.”

“Fifteen years?” I croaked, my heart pounding. “And fifty grand? We said no alimony. A clean break.” I was sure of it—or was I? My reservations screamed at me, but Oriole’s gaze pinned me like a butterfly to a board.

“Clean breaks are cold, Lew,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “Roxanne deserves security. This is standard for your situation. You don’t want to seem stingy, do you?” She leaned closer, her perfume clouding my thoughts. “Besides, I’ve added a few extra clauses to streamline things.”

“Extra clauses?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She waved a hand, dismissive but elegant. “Minor details. A provision for my firm to oversee any disputes, with a modest retainer—say, $10,000 upfront—to ensure I can represent your interests. And a confidentiality clause to protect Roxanne’s privacy, with a penalty fee if breached. Standard practice.”

I blinked, my mind blank. “A retainer? For you?”

“For fairness,” she corrected, her smile razor-sharp. “You’re a busy man, Lew. You don’t want to wade through legal minutiae. I’ll handle everything.” Her eyes held mine, and I felt like prey, too dazed to run.

“Okay,” I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “Whatever’s fair.” I didn’t see it—the way the contract wasn’t just slanted toward Roxanne but padded Oriole’s pockets too. The retainer, the penalty fees, the vague “oversight” clauses—they were traps, and I was too clueless to spot them.

Oriole stood, her movements graceful as she handed me the draft. “Wonderful. I’ll finalize this and send it to you and Roxanne tomorrow. Review it, but I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.” Her hand grazed mine as she passed me the papers, and I flinched, her touch electric and unnerving.

As I stumbled into the elevator, the prenup heavy in my hands, I felt like I’d been outmaneuvered in a game I didn’t know I was playing. Oriole’s flawless face lingered in my mind, her smile a promise and a threat. Somewhere, Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter echoed, faint but gleeful, as if she’d orchestrated the perfect con—and I’d fallen for it without a fight.

Chapter Four: The Third Rewind

The room pulsed, reality fracturing like a cracked mirror, and then *snap*—that piercing sound sliced through the haze. Kyubi Kitsune materialized, her pink hair glowing like a neon sign, her grin practically feral. She perched on my kitchen counter, swinging her legs, her eyes glinting with chaotic delight. “Oh, Lew, you’re too easy,” she taunted, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Let’s crank it up a notch, shall we? One more spin for the fun of it.” Before I could even curse her name, she snapped her fingers, and the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of light.

When the blur settled, I was back in Oriole Fox’s office, but it was a whole new beast. The space was a shrine to opulence: marble floors, a crystal chandelier casting prismatic flecks across the walls, and a desk that probably cost more than my truck. The air was thick with a heady perfume, floral but aggressive, like it was staking a claim. And then there was Oriole herself. Drop-dead didn’t even begin to cover it. She was a vision of calculated perfection—blonde hair styled in flawless waves, contoured cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and makeup so precise it looked airbrushed. Her tailored designer suit, a deep sapphire that screamed money, strained slightly against an impossibly enhanced chest, the kind of fake perfection that demanded attention. Her blue eyes, cold and predatory, locked onto me like a hawk spotting a field mouse.

“Lew Harris,” she said, her voice a low, velvety growl that made my skin prickle. “Welcome. Let’s craft that prenup for you and Roxanne, shall we?” Her lips curled into a smile, but it was condescending, the kind you’d give a child who’d wandered into a boardroom. She gestured to the chair across from her, her movements sleek, like a panther sizing up its prey.

I sat, my hands shaking as I clutched the armrests. “Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammered, my voice barely audible. I was Lew Harris, owner of Harris Builds, but in this room, I was nobody. Oriole’s presence was overwhelming, her beauty weaponized, and I was clueless—painfully, embarrassingly clueless. Roxanne and I had talked about a fair prenup, but the details were a fog, and Oriole’s icy stare made my brain feel like it was short-circuiting.

She slid a thick, leather-bound document across the desk, her long, lacquered nails gleaming like talons. “This is the draft,” she said, her tone dripping with mock patience. “Tailored to protect Roxanne, given your… situation.” Her eyes flicked over me, sizing me up and finding me wanting. “You want to do right by her, don’t you, Lew?”

“Y-Yeah, absolutely,” I said, nodding like an eager puppy. Her smile widened, but it wasn’t kind—it was the look of someone who knew they’d already won.

“Let’s start with assets,” she said, leaning forward just enough to make my pulse race. Her suit jacket gaped slightly, and I averted my eyes, my face burning. “Your little construction business and those rental properties are yours, of course, but Roxanne’s design company is fragile. So, we’ve given her a 40% stake in Harris Builds’ profits during the marriage, plus a 15% equity share if you split. It’s only fair, considering your… disparity.”

“Forty percent?” I mumbled, my voice weak. A tiny voice in my head screamed that this was wrong—Roxanne and I had agreed to keep our businesses separate—but Oriole’s gaze crushed it. “That’s… a lot, isn’t it?”

Her laugh was sharp, like shattered glass. “A lot? Oh, Lew, it’s a pittance compared to what you’re building. Roxanne’s sacrificing her career for you. You wouldn’t want her to feel trapped, would you?” Her eyes bored into mine, and I shrank back, my reservations evaporating under her condescension.

“No, no, you’re right,” I said quickly, nodding. “Forty percent’s fine. Great, even.” I didn’t believe it, but disagreeing felt impossible, like defying gravity.

“Smart boy,” she purred, flipping to the next section with a flourish. “Income. Your earnings are substantial, so we’ve allocated 80% to a joint account, managed solely by Roxanne. It’s modern, empowering. You don’t mind, do you?” Her smile was a challenge, daring me to object.

“Eighty?” I squeaked, my heart pounding. “I… we said 50-50, I think?” But the memory was a ghost, slipping through my fingers. Oriole’s presence was a tidal wave, and I was drowning.

She sighed, like I was testing her patience. “Fifty-fifty is for equals, Lew. Roxanne’s taking a risk on you. Eighty percent ensures she’s secure. You want her happy, don’t you?” Her voice was syrupy, but her eyes were ice, and I felt a chill down my spine.

“Yeah, happy, sure,” I said, nodding furiously. “Eighty’s good. Perfect.” My enthusiasm was fake, but I couldn’t stop myself. She scared me—her beauty, her confidence, the way she seemed to see right through my incompetence.

“Wonderful,” she said, her pen scratching across the page. “Debts—Roxanne’s $20,000 in student loans will be paid from marital funds, naturally. Your truck payments stay yours. Generous, don’t you think?” Her smile was patronizing, like she was tossing me a bone.

“Totally generous,” I agreed, my voice hollow. Twenty grand? Hadn’t it been fifteen? I couldn’t remember, and Oriole’s condescending smirk made me feel too stupid to ask.

“Now, spousal support,” she said, her tone almost gleeful. “If the marriage ends, Roxanne gets $10,000 a month for twenty years, plus a $100,000 lump sum. It’s a safety net, Lew. You’re a provider, aren’t you?” Her eyes glinted, and I swore she was enjoying this.

“Twenty years?” I whispered, my stomach lurching. “That’s… forever.” But the objection died under her stare, and I forced a smile. “I mean, yeah, that’s fine. Gotta provide, right?”

“Exactly,” she said, her voice a velvet blade. “And just a few extra clauses to tidy things up.” She waved a hand, casual but deliberate. “My firm will oversee any disputes, with a $15,000 retainer upfront and a 5% cut of any settlement. Plus, a confidentiality clause with a $50,000 penalty if you breach it—protects Roxanne, of course. And a small administrative fee for my… personal oversight. Standard stuff.”

I blinked, my mind blank. “A retainer? And a cut?” The words felt wrong, but I couldn’t grasp why. Oriole was playing me, slipping in clauses that lined her own pockets, but I was too dazed to see it. “Uh, standard’s good, right?”

“Very good,” she said, her smile practically feral. “You’re making all the right choices, Lew.” The way she said my name made my skin crawl, but I nodded like it was a compliment.

She stood, her heels clicking like a metronome as she handed me the draft. “I’ll send the final version to you and Roxanne tomorrow. You’ve done well, Lew. Roxanne will be thrilled.” Her hand brushed mine, her touch cold and electric, and I flinched, nearly dropping the papers.

“Thanks, Oriole,” I said, my voice shaky but enthusiastic, like I was thanking a lion for not eating me. “This is… great.”

“Anytime,” she said, her condescending smile following me as I stumbled to the elevator. The doors closed, and I clutched the prenup, my heart racing. I’d agreed to everything—80% of my income, twenty years of alimony, fees for Oriole’s firm—all with a grin, too scared and clueless to push back. Oriole had carved up my future for Roxanne and herself, and I hadn’t even noticed. Somewhere, Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter rang out, sharp and triumphant, as if she’d just won her favorite game.

Chapter Five: The Final Rewind

The air crackled, a static hum that made my teeth ache, and then a whisper slithered into my ear: *“One last reset, Lew. Let’s make it a masterpiece.”* Kyubi Kitsune materialized in a burst of pink light, her hair a glowing cascade, her grin so wide it could swallow the sun. She lounged against my fridge, popping a cherry into her mouth from who-knows-where. “You’re too much fun to quit now,” she purred, her eyes glittering with malice. Before I could even blink, she snapped her fingers—*snap*—and reality shattered like a dropped glass.

When the world stitched itself back together, I was in Oriole Fox’s office, but it was a temple of excess. The walls were mirrored, reflecting a chandelier that dripped with crystals, and the air was choked with a cloying, synthetic perfume that screamed wealth and artifice. The desk was a slab of black granite, and behind it sat Oriole—less a woman, more a silicone wet dream sculpted by a plastic surgeon with a god complex. Her platinum blonde hair was teased into a perfect, voluminous cascade, her face a mask of flawless makeup: lips plumped to cartoonish proportions, cheekbones contoured to razor edges, and lashes so long they cast shadows. Her skintight, emerald-green designer dress barely contained her exaggerated curves, the kind of fake enhancements that defied gravity and reason. Her blue eyes were predatory slits, and her smile was a venomous promise of ruin.

“Lew Harris,” she cooed, her voice a syrupy drawl that dripped with mockery. “My, my, aren’t you the devoted fiancé? Let’s whip up that prenup for dear Roxanne.” She leaned forward, her cleavage practically a weapon, and her smile was a backhanded compliment—*you’re trying so hard, aren’t you, you sweet, simple man?* I didn’t catch the jab. I just nodded, my mouth dry, my brain already surrendering.

“Uh, yeah, Roxanne deserves the best,” I said, my voice eager but shaky. I was clueless, a lamb in a slaughterhouse, and Oriole knew it. She was going to rinse me dry, and I’d thank her for it.

She slid a gilded folder across the desk, her nails���long, bedazzled claws—glinting like knives. “This is the draft, darling,” she said, her tone patronizing, like she was explaining colors to a toddler. “Crafted to keep Roxanne secure, since you’re such a… generous provider.” Her lips twitched, another veiled dig—*look at you, thinking you’re a big shot with your little construction company*—but I just grinned, oblivious.

“Sounds perfect,” I said, not even glancing at the pages. “Let’s make sure Roxanne’s happy.” Oriole’s smile widened, a shark scenting blood.

“Let’s start with assets,” she said, her pen tapping the desk like a countdown to my doom. “Your construction business and rentals stay yours—technically—but Roxanne gets a 50% stake in all profits during the marriage, plus a 20% equity share if you divorce. And, post-marriage, she’ll have veto power over any major business decisions. Fair, don’t you think?”

I nodded, my head bobbing like a bobblehead. “Fifty percent’s good, but… maybe 60%? I mean, Roxanne’s giving up a lot to marry me.” I didn’t know where the idea came from, but it felt right, like I was being noble. Oriole’s eyes gleamed, and I missed the predatory glint.

“Sixty?” she purred, pretending to consider it. “Why, Lew, that’s so… thoughtful. But let’s make it 75%. It shows real commitment. And let’s add that her veto power extends to hiring decisions too. You wouldn’t want her feeling left out, would you?” Her smile was a blade, slicing through my naivety.

“Seventy-five! Yeah, that’s even better!” I said, practically bouncing in my seat. “And the hiring thing, sure, that’s fair.” I didn’t question it. Oriole was the expert, and I was just a guy trying to do right by Roxanne.

She flipped to the next section, her movements deliberate, like a spider spinning a web. “Income. Your earnings from Harris Builds are… adequate, so we’ve allocated 90% to a joint account, fully controlled by Roxanne. Post-marriage, she’ll also approve all your personal expenditures over $500. Keeps things tidy, doesn’t it?”

“Ninety?” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, yeah, that’s great. But maybe 100%? Like, all my income to her account? I trust her completely.” I beamed, thinking I was winning fiancé points. Oriole’s laugh was a low, throaty sound, dripping with condescension—*oh, you precious idiot*—but I took it as approval.

“Lew, you’re a treasure,” she said, her tone a velvet slap. “But 90% is plenty. Let’s add that she can redirect any bonuses or windfalls to her personal account, no questions asked. And the expenditure approval? Let’s lower it to $200. You’re so… trusting, it’s only right.” Her eyes flicked over me, amused—*you’re making this too easy*.

“Awesome, love that,” I said, nodding so hard my neck hurt. “Roxanne’s got a good head for money.” I didn’t notice how the clauses were chaining me, giving Roxanne total control over my finances, post-marriage and beyond.

“Debts,” Oriole continued, her pen scratching like a vulture’s claw. “Roxanne’s $25,000 in student loans—plus any future debts she incurs—will be paid from marital funds. Your debts, like that quaint truck payment, stay yours. You’re so… self-sufficient, aren’t you?” Another backhanded jab, but I just grinned, oblivious.

“That’s fair,” I said. “But what if we pay her loans upfront? Like, from my savings? Get it out of the way.” I thought I was being proactive, but Oriole’s smile was practically feral.

“Upfront? How… gallant,” she said, her voice mocking—*you’re practically begging to be fleeced*. “Let’s do it. We’ll liquidate your savings—say, $30,000—to cover her loans and a little extra for her… discretionary fund. And any future debts she takes on? You’ll co-sign, of course.”

“Discretionary fund! Co-signing! That’s genius!” I said, my enthusiasm blind. I didn’t see how I was handing Roxanne a blank check, with me as the guarantor.

“Now, spousal support,” Oriole said, her tone gleeful. “If the marriage ends, Roxanne gets $15,000 a month for life, plus a $200,000 lump sum. Post-marriage, she’ll also retain access to your business accounts for ‘consulting’ purposes. You’re such a… visionary, Lew.” The compliment was a sneer, but I soaked it up.

“Lifetime support? That’s solid,” I said, then added, “But maybe add a house? Like, she keeps our place if we split?” I thought I was being generous, but Oriole’s eyes lit up like she’d hit the jackpot.

“A house? Oh, Lew, you’re too good,” she cooed, her voice a mockery of praise. “Let’s say she keeps the primary residence *and* any vacation properties. And we’ll throw in a $50,000 annual ‘lifestyle maintenance’ fund, post-divorce. You wouldn’t want her slumming it, would you?” Her smile was a trap, and I walked right in.

“Vacation properties! Lifestyle fund! Yes!” I said, practically clapping. I didn’t own a vacation home, but I’d figure it out. Oriole was right—Roxanne deserved it all.

“And a few extra clauses,” she said, waving a hand like it was nothing. “My firm takes a $25,000 retainer, plus a 10% cut of any settlement or business profits during disputes. I’ll oversee all post-marriage audits, with a $5,000 monthly fee. A confidentiality clause—$100,000 penalty if you breathe a word. And a personal consulting contract for me, $10,000 a year, to ensure Roxanne’s interests are… protected.” Her eyes gleamed, raking in the profits she’d written into my ruin.

“That’s so smart,” I said, awestruck. “You’re amazing, Oriole. Let’s make that consulting fee $15,000 a year. You deserve it.” I thought I was being gracious, but her laugh was a razor—*you’re practically paying me to rob you*.

“Lew, you’re a dream,” she said, her tone thick with disdain—*a dream to fleece*. “Fifteen it is. You’re so… accommodating.” She stood, her dress clinging like a second skin, and handed me the gilded draft. “I’ll send the final to you and Roxanne tomorrow. You’ve outdone yourself, darling.”

“Thanks, Oriole!” I said, clutching the prenup like a trophy. “Roxanne’s gonna love this.” I didn’t doubt a word she’d said, didn’t see how she’d rigged the deal to hand Roxanne my life on a platter while skimming a fortune for herself. Her backhanded compliments—*you’re so generous, so trusting, so simple*—sailed over my head, and I grinned like an idiot.

As I staggered to the elevator, the weight of the prenup didn’t faze me. Oriole’s silicone perfection and predatory smile lingered, a goddess of greed who’d played me like a fiddle. Somewhere, Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter roared, a symphony of chaos, as I walked away, clueless, enthusiastic, and utterly screwed.

Part B

Chapter Six: Roxanne’s Reaction

I left Oriole’s glittering office in a daze, the gilded prenup folder tucked under my arm like a ticking time bomb I was too clueless to notice. The elevator ride down felt like a dream, Oriole’s predatory smile and silicone perfection burned into my mind. I was still buzzing with blind enthusiasm, convinced I’d nailed this whole fiancé thing, when I pulled up to Roxanne’s apartment. The contrast hit me like a cold shower—her cozy, sunlit place was worlds away from Oriole’s icy opulence. Roxanne opened the door, and my heart did that little flip it always did when I saw her.

She was a natural brunette, her hair falling in soft waves, and her size 10 frame filled out a simple sundress that made her look effortlessly beautiful. Her warm smile lit up her brown eyes, and when she hugged me, it was like coming home. Roxanne genuinely loved me—I could feel it in the way she squeezed my hand, the way she laughed at my dumb jokes. But today, I was too caught up in my own head to notice the flicker of concern in her gaze as I handed her the prenup.

“Here it is,” I said, grinning like I’d just won the lottery. “Oriole put it together. It’s perfect for you, babe. Really takes care of you.” My voice was all enthusiasm, still riding the high of Oriole’s manipulative spell.

Roxanne’s smile faltered as she took the folder, her fingers brushing the embossed leather with a mix of curiosity and unease. “Wow, this is… fancy,” she said, her tone light but cautious. She sat on her thrift-store couch, tucking her legs under her, and opened the prenup. I plopped down beside her, oblivious to the storm brewing in her expression as she started reading.

Her eyes widened almost immediately, her brows knitting together. “Lew,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with disbelief, “this says I get 75% of your business profits during the marriage. And 20% equity if we… you know, split up. Plus veto power over your business decisions?” She looked up at me, her warm eyes searching mine. “We agreed to keep our businesses separate, didn’t we?”

I nodded, but my certainty was shaky, eroded by Oriole’s velvet coercion. “Yeah, but Oriole said this was fairer. You’re taking a risk marrying me, Rox. I want you to feel secure.” I parroted Oriole’s words, not even questioning them, my grin unwavering.

Roxanne’s frown deepened as she flipped through the pages. “Ninety percent of your income to a joint account I control? And I approve every purchase over $200?” She shook her head, her voice rising slightly. “Lew, this isn’t fair to *you*. You worked so hard for Harris Builds. Why would you give me this much control?” She paused, her gaze softening with worry. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m fine!” I said, too quickly, my enthusiasm bordering on manic. “Oriole’s the best, Rox. She said this is standard, and I even suggested some stuff to make it better for you. Like, liquidating my savings to pay your loans upfront! And the house thing, so you’d keep it if we—” I stopped, catching the horror in her eyes, but I didn’t understand it. “It’s all good, right?”

Roxanne closed the folder, her hands trembling slightly. “Lew, this isn’t good. It’s… it’s insane. $15,000 a month for life if we divorce? A $200,000 lump sum? And what’s this about Oriole’s firm getting a $25,000 retainer and a cut of your profits?” She leaned closer, her voice gentle but firm. “This doesn’t sound like a prenup. It sounds like you’re giving away everything—your business, your money, your future. And Oriole’s skimming off the top? Honey, something’s wrong here.”

I blinked, her words bouncing off the wall of my cluelessness. “But Oriole said it’s for you. To protect you. I trust her, and I trust you.” My voice was earnest, but even I could hear the hollow ring in it. For the first time, a tiny crack of doubt crept in, but I pushed it down, clinging to Oriole’s promises.

Roxanne reached for my hand, her touch grounding me in a way Oriole’s cold perfection never could. “Lew, I love you. I don’t need 75% of your business or control over your spending to feel secure. I just need *us* to be fair to each other. This—” she tapped the folder, “—isn’t fair. It’s not even close.” She sighed, her eyes flickering with a mix of frustration and concern. “I’m worried about you. You’re acting like you’ve been… I don’t know, hypnotized or something.”

I laughed, but it came out nervous. “Hypnotized? Nah, I’m just trying to do right by you.” But her words stuck, like pebbles in my shoe. Hypnotized? Oriole’s face flashed in my mind—those predatory eyes, that condescending smile—and I felt a flicker of unease, quickly smothered by my blind trust.

Roxanne stood, tucking the prenup under her arm. “I need to think about this, Lew. I’m meeting the girls for brunch in an hour, and I want to clear my head. We’ll talk more when I get back, okay?” Her voice was soft, but there was steel in it, a determination that made me realize she wasn’t going to let this slide. She leaned down, kissing my forehead, her warmth a stark contrast to Oriole’s icy allure. “I love you, but we’re not signing this as is. Not even close.”

“Okay,” I said, my enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Brunch sounds good. We’ll figure it out.” But as she grabbed her purse and headed for the door, I felt a pang of confusion. Roxanne’s reaction didn’t match the glowing certainty Oriole had instilled in me. Was I missing something? The prenup was perfect, wasn’t it?

As Roxanne’s door clicked shut, I sat alone on her couch, the faint scent of her lavender shampoo lingering. Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I heard Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, sharp and mocking, as if she knew the chaos she’d sown was about to unravel. For the first time, I wondered if I’d been played—but the thought was fleeting, drowned out by the memory of Oriole’s silicone smile and my own clueless devotion.

Chapter Seven: The Tainted Rewind

The world shuddered, colors bleeding into a dizzying spiral, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap echoed like a gunshot. She materialized in the alley beside my truck, her pink hair glowing under the streetlight, her giggle a razor-edged taunt. “Saintly Roxanne was too pure, wasn’t she?” she said, her voice dripping with mischief. “Let’s spice her up, Lew. A pinch of greed should do it.” Her eyes sparkled with chaotic glee as she snapped her fingers again, and reality rewound, dumping me back outside Roxanne’s apartment with the gilded prenup folder in my hands.

The air felt different—sharper, tinged with a faint metallic edge, like the prelude to a storm. I climbed the steps to Roxanne’s place, my head still swimming with Oriole’s silicone-soaked manipulation. I was clueless, enthusiastic, convinced I’d crafted the perfect deal for my fiancée, unaware of the web Kyubi had spun. When Roxanne opened the door, I froze for a second, thrown by the change.

She was still Roxanne, but… remixed. Her hair was now a sleek blonde-to-brunette ombré, cascading in polished waves, and she was a size 8, her figure accentuated by a fitted white blouse and high-waisted jeans that screamed curated Instagram aesthetic. Her smile was warm, but there was a new glint in her brown eyes, a flicker of calculation that hadn’t been there before. She hugged me, her perfume a touch more expensive, and I felt the same heart-flip, but it came with a strange aftertaste, like sweet wine gone slightly sour.

“Hey, babe,” she said, her voice smooth but with a hint of something sharper. “You got the prenup?” Her eyes flicked to the folder, and I missed the way her fingers twitched, like she was already counting the benefits.

“Yup!” I said, grinning like an idiot, Oriole’s spell still clouding my brain. “Oriole nailed it. It’s all about taking care of you, Rox. You’re gonna love it.” I handed her the folder, my enthusiasm blind to the shift in her demeanor.

Roxanne led me inside, her apartment still cozy but with new touches—a designer throw blanket, a sleek coffee machine that looked out of place. She sat on the couch, crossing her legs in a way that made her jeans hug her thighs, and opened the prenup. I plopped down beside her, oblivious to the storm brewing as her eyes scanned the pages.

Her brows shot up, just like before, but this time the surprise was laced with something else—intrigue. “Lew,” she said, her voice soft but less alarmed, “this gives me 75% of your business profits. And 20% equity if we divorce? Plus veto power over your business decisions?” She looked at me, her warm eyes searching, but there was a subtle shift, a hint of greed flickering beneath the concern. Her thighs rubbed together slightly, a nervous tic—or something more calculated.

“Yeah, isn’t it great?” I said, nodding eagerly. “Oriole said it’s fair, since you’re taking a risk marrying me. I even suggested some stuff to make it better, like the 75% part. Gotta make sure you’re secure, right?”

Roxanne’s lips parted, and for a moment, I saw the old Roxanne—the one who’d have pushed back, worried about fairness. “That’s… a lot, Lew,” she said, her tone wavering, like she was caught between love and temptation. “We talked about keeping things equal. This feels… unbalanced.” But her fingers lingered on the folder, tracing the embossed leather, and her thighs shifted again, betraying a spark of gold-digging thrill.

“I’m fine with it!” I said, my voice bursting with clueless devotion. “You deserve it, Rox. Oriole’s the expert, and she said this is standard. Protects you, y’know?” I leaned closer, oblivious to the way her gaze flicked to the pages, her concern eroding under the weight of opportunity.

She flipped through the draft, her eyes widening at the financial clauses. “Ninety percent of your income to an account I control? And I approve every purchase over $200?” She shook her head, but it wasn’t with conviction—more like a performance of doubt. “Lew, this is… I mean, it’s generous, but it’s not fair to you.” Her voice was softer now, less insistent, and her thighs pressed together again, a subtle tell of the greed Kyubi had woven into her.

“You’re worth it,” I said, grinning, Oriole’s words still puppeteering my thoughts. “I even suggested liquidating my savings to pay your loans upfront. And the house—you’d keep it, plus a lifestyle fund if we split. It’s all for you.”

Roxanne’s breath hitched, and I missed the way her eyes gleamed, not with love but with a hunger she was trying to suppress. “Your savings? The house?” she murmured, her fingers tightening on the folder. “And… $15,000 a month for life if we divorce? A $200,000 lump sum?” She looked at me, her concern now a thin veneer. “Lew, this is too much. You’re giving away everything. And what’s this about Oriole’s firm getting a $25,000 retainer and a cut of your profits?”

I waved it off, still under Oriole’s spell. “That’s just standard stuff. Oriole’s amazing—she knows what’s best. I even upped her consulting fee to $15,000 a year. Gotta keep her on our side, right?” I chuckled, blind to the way Roxanne’s lips twitched, not in worry but in calculation.

She leaned back, her ombré hair catching the light, and for a moment, I thought she’d push back like the old Roxanne would have. But Kyubi’s meddling had tainted her, and the greed won out. “Lew,” she said, her voice smoother now, almost sultry, “I don’t know… this doesn’t feel right. You’re giving up so much.” But her thighs rubbed together again, and her eyes lingered on the clauses promising her control, wealth, a future padded with my money. The protest lacked conviction, a token gesture to ease her conscience.

“Hey, I trust you,” I said, my enthusiasm unwavering. “You’re my fiancée. This is what love looks like, right?” I didn’t see the trap, didn’t notice how Oriole had rigged the prenup to fleece me while Roxanne’s newfound greed made her complicit.

Roxanne closed the folder, her smile tight but tinged with something new—anticipation. “Okay, babe,” she said, her tone warmer but less genuine. “I’ll look it over again. I’m meeting the girls for margaritas tonight, and I’ll think about it. I’ll… probably sign it after that.” Her words were casual, but the way she clutched the folder betrayed her eagerness, the gold-digging spark Kyubi had ignited now a steady flame.

“Sweet!” I said, oblivious to the shift in her. “Margaritas sound fun. We’re good, right?” I leaned in for a kiss, and she obliged, but her lips were cooler, her warmth dimmed by the allure of the prenup’s promises.

As she grabbed her purse and headed for the door, her hips swaying with a new confidence, I sat on her couch, grinning like a fool. The prenup was perfect, Roxanne was happy, and Oriole was a genius—what could go wrong? I didn’t hear Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, sharp and triumphant, echoing in the void. I didn’t see how her final reset had turned Roxanne’s love into something transactional, or how Oriole’s claws had sunk deeper into my future. I was too clueless, too trusting, and the trap was closing fast.

Chapter Eight: The Gilded Trap

The world twisted, a kaleidoscope of fractured light, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap cut through the haze like a whip. She materialized in the shadows of Roxanne’s apartment stairwell, her pink hair a neon blaze, her grin a crescent of pure malice. “Still too goody-goody, that Roxanne,” she said, her voice a mocking sing-song. “Let’s strip away the last of her halo, Lew. Make her *shine* for herself.” She giggled, her eyes glinting with chaotic glee, and snapped her fingers again. Reality unraveled, and I was spat out right back at Roxanne’s apartment door, the gilded prenup folder heavy in my hands.

The air was sharper now, laced with a synthetic edge, like cheap perfume and ambition. My head was still foggy from Oriole’s silicone-drenched manipulation, her predatory smile and backhanded compliments looping in my mind. I was clueless, brimming with blind enthusiasm, convinced I’d handed Roxanne the deal of a lifetime. I knocked, and when Roxanne opened the door, the shift hit me like a slap I was too dumb to feel.

Roxanne was no longer the warm, natural beauty I’d fallen for. She was a size 6 now, her frame sculpted and polished, clad in a tight, metallic gold dress that hugged every curve like it was painted on. Her hair was a sleek, platinum blonde, straight as a blade, framing a face that was still hers but colder, sharper, with a glossy sheen of makeup that screamed high maintenance. Her smile was there, but it wasn’t warm—it was an act, a practiced curve of lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey, Lew,” she said, her voice smooth but hollow, like she was reading from a script. She leaned in for a kiss, but it was perfunctory, a brush of lips that left me colder than before.

“Got the prenup!” I said, my grin wide and oblivious, Oriole’s spell still puppeteering my thoughts. “Oriole killed it, Rox. It’s all for you. You’re gonna love it.” I handed her the folder, missing the way her eyes lit up—not with love, but with a calculating hunger.

“Come in,” she said, her tone inviting but lacking the old sincerity. Her apartment had changed too—less cozy, more like a showroom, with mirrored furniture and a neon sign that read “Boss Babe” in cursive. She sauntered to the couch, her heels clicking, and sat with a practiced pose, legs crossed to show off her toned calves. She opened the prenup, her manicured nails glinting as she scanned the pages.

Her brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, but it wasn’t the concern I’d seen in earlier versions of her. “Wow, Lew,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. “Seventy-five percent of your business profits? Twenty percent equity if we split? And I get veto power over your business decisions?” She glanced at me, her blonde hair catching the light, but her eyes were sharp, appraising, like she was sizing up a deal, not a fiancé.

“Yeah, isn’t it awesome?” I said, nodding like a bobblehead, my enthusiasm blind to the chill in her demeanor. “Oriole said it’s fair, since you’re taking a risk on me. I even pushed for the 75% to make sure you’re set.”

Roxanne’s lips twitched, a smirk she didn’t bother to hide. “That’s… generous,” she said, her tone lacking the conviction of the old Roxanne, who’d have fought for fairness. Her fingers traced the folder’s edge, and I missed the subtle way her posture shifted, her body leaning into the promise of wealth. “Ninety percent of your income to an account I control? And I approve every purchase over $200?” She let out a soft laugh, not warm but calculating. “This is… a lot, babe.”

“You deserve it!” I said, my voice bursting with clueless devotion. “I suggested liquidating my savings to pay your loans upfront, too. And the house—you’d keep it, plus a lifestyle fund if we split. Oriole’s a genius, right?” I didn’t see the trap, didn’t notice how the prenup handed Roxanne my life while Oriole skimmed her cut.

Roxanne’s eyes flicked to the financial clauses, and the surprise melted into something else—greed, unmasked and unashamed. “$15,000 a month for life if we divorce? A $200,000 lump sum?” she murmured, her voice almost reverent. She caught herself, tossing her hair and adding, “I mean, Lew, this seems… unfair to you. Are you sure about this?” But the question was hollow, a perfunctory nod to decency. Her eyes were already gleaming, her fingers tightening on the folder like it was a winning lottery ticket.

“Totally sure!” I said, grinning, Oriole’s words still echoing in my skull. “You’re my fiancée, Rox. This is what love’s about. And Oriole’s firm gets a $25,000 retainer, plus a cut of my profits—standard stuff. I even upped her consulting fee to $15,000 a year. Keeps everything smooth, y’know?”

Roxanne’s smirk widened, and I missed the way she didn’t even blink at Oriole’s self-serving clauses. “Standard, huh?” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. “You’re so… thoughtful, Lew.” The compliment was a shadow of Oriole’s backhanded jabs, but I soaked it up, oblivious to the sarcasm. “This is… a lot to take in,” she continued, her voice smooth but unconvincing. “I don’t know if we should change anything. It’s… generous.” Her hesitation was an act, and a weak one—she wasn’t fighting for me, not really.

“Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” I said, my enthusiasm unshaken. “You’re worth it, Rox. All of it.” I didn’t see how her affection had turned performative, didn’t notice the way her smile was more about the prenup than me.

She closed the folder with a decisive snap, her blonde hair swinging as she stood. “Okay, babe,” she said, her voice all business now. “I’m meeting the girls for skinny margs at the club tonight. I’ll read it over again, but… I’ll definitely sign it after that.” The certainty in her tone wasn’t love—it was the confidence of someone who’d just landed a windfall. She leaned down, pecking my cheek with lips that felt like a stranger’s. “You’re the best, Lew.”

“Sweet!” I said, grinning as she grabbed her clutch—a designer bag I didn’t recognize—and sauntered to the door, her hips swaying with a new, calculated strut. “Have fun at the club!” I called, oblivious to the shift in her, to the way Kyubi’s meddling had stripped away Roxanne’s warmth and replaced it with a glittering, gold-digging edge.

As the door clicked shut, I sat on her mirrored couch, surrounded by her “Boss Babe” decor, still beaming like a fool. The prenup was perfect, Roxanne was thrilled, and Oriole was a mastermind—what could go wrong? I didn’t hear Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, a cackling crescendo that echoed in the void. I didn’t see how Roxanne’s love had been warped into a performance, or how Oriole’s claws had carved up my future for both their gains. I was too clueless, too trusting, and the trap was sealed.

Chapter Nine: The Golden Facade

The world lurched, a nauseating swirl of light and shadow, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap cracked like a thunderbolt. She materialized in the dim glow of Roxanne’s apartment hallway, her pink hair a radioactive cascade, her grin a slash of pure anarchy. “Roxanne’s still got a shred of doubt, doesn’t she?” she said, her voice a venomous purr. “Too much heart for my liking. Let’s make her a proper gold-digger, babes.” She winked, her eyes glinting with sadistic glee, and snapped her fingers again. Reality collapsed, and I was flung back to the doorstep of Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder clutched in my hands.

The air was thick with a saccharine haze, like hairspray and ambition had fused into a toxic cloud. My head was still swimming with Oriole’s silicone-soaked manipulation, her predatory smile and backhanded jabs fueling my clueless enthusiasm. I was Lew Harris, blindly devoted, convinced I’d crafted a prenup that was a love letter to my fiancée. I knocked, and when Roxanne opened the door, the transformation hit me like a punch I was too dumb to dodge.

Roxanne was a size 4 now, her frame whittled to a brittle, mannequin-like perfection, clad in a skintight, rose-gold minidress that left nothing to the imagination. Her bleach-blonde hair was pin-straight, falling past her shoulders like a synthetic curtain, and her skin was a deep, artificial tan, the kind that screamed spray booth and status. Her face was a canvas of overdone glamour—plumped lips glossy with pink shine, cheekbones dusted with highlighter, and fake lashes so heavy they looked like they might collapse under their own weight. Her brown eyes, once warm, were now cold and calculating, barely softened by the fake smile she plastered on. “Lew, baby,” she cooed, her voice a high-pitched caricature of affection, but it was off, like an actress flubbing her lines. She leaned in for a hug, her bony arms barely squeezing, and the effort to play girlfriend was so strained it was almost comical.

“Hey, Rox!” I said, my grin wide and oblivious, Oriole’s spell still clouding my brain. “Got the prenup! Oriole crushed it. It’s all for you, babe.” I handed her the folder, missing the way her eyes lit up—not with love, but with raw, unfiltered greed.

“Come in, sweetie,” she said, her tone syrupy but hollow, like she was reciting a script she hadn’t rehearsed. Her apartment was a shrine to excess: mirrored walls, a velvet chaise lounge, and a bar cart stocked with crystal decanters. She teetered to the couch in sky-high stilettos, her hips swaying with exaggerated swagger, and flopped down, crossing her legs to flash a thigh tattoo of a diamond. The girlfriend act was paper-thin—her smile flickered, her eyes darted to the folder, and she didn’t even try to hide her impatience. Being nice was too much effort, and she wasn’t good at it.

She opened the prenup, her fake nails clicking, and scanned the pages with a speed that screamed she’d done this before—sized up a deal, not a relationship. Her lips curled into a smirk, no trace of the surprise or concern I’d seen in earlier versions of her. “Seventy-five percent of your business profits,” she read aloud, her voice almost giddy. “Twenty percent equity if we split. Veto power over your business decisions. Oh, and ninety percent of your income to my account? With me approving every purchase over $200?” She didn’t look at me, her eyes glued to the clauses, her fake tan glowing under the neon lights of her “Boss Babe” decor.

“Isn’t it perfect?” I said, nodding like a trained seal, my enthusiasm blind to her obvious gold-digging. “Oriole said it’s fair, and I pushed for the 75% to make sure you’re set. Even added liquidating my savings to pay your loans upfront. You’re worth it, Rox.”

She let out a laugh, sharp and unconvincing, her attempt at affection crumbling under the weight of her greed. “Oh, Lew, you’re… something else,” she said, her tone dripping with fake sweetness, but her eyes were predatory, like she was already spending my money. “This is… wow. Just perfect.” The word *perfect* was for her, not us, and she didn’t even pretend to care about fairness. Her thighs shifted, not with hesitation but with anticipation, her fingers clutching the folder like a lifeline.

“You sure you don’t want to change anything?” I asked, my voice earnest, but it was a reflex, not doubt. Oriole’s spell had me locked in, and Roxanne’s gold-digging vibe didn’t register. “I mean, it’s a lot, but it’s for you.”

Roxanne’s smile tightened, her patience visibly fraying. “Change it? No way, baby,” she said, her voice too bright, her girlfriend act slipping as she waved a hand. “It’s *exactly* what I—what we—need.” She caught herself, tossing her bleach-blonde hair, but the slip was obvious: this was about her, not me. “I mean, you’re so generous, Lew. Why mess with perfection?” Her eyes flicked to the clauses about alimony—$15,000 a month for life, a $200,000 lump sum—and she didn’t even blink at Oriole’s self-serving additions: the $25,000 retainer, the 10% cut of my profits, the $15,000 annual consulting fee. “Oriole’s a genius,” she added, her tone almost reverent, like she admired the lawyer’s hustle.

“Totally!” I said, grinning, clueless to how I was being fleeced by both women. “I knew you’d love it. Oriole’s the best.”

Roxanne didn’t bother responding, already reaching for a pen from her designer clutch. “Let’s just sign this now,” she said, her voice brisk, her fake niceness evaporating. “No need to drag it out, right, sweetie?” She scrawled her signature across the prenup with a flourish, her nails glinting, and shoved the folder back at me. “There. Done. You’re such a catch, Lew.” The compliment was hollow, her smile a grimace of effort, and I didn’t catch the sarcasm—or the fact that she was with me for my bank account, not my heart.

“Awesome!” I said, my enthusiasm unshaken. “We’re all set then.”

She stood, smoothing her minidress, her fake tan catching the light. “Yup, all set,” she said, already checking her phone, her girlfriend act fully discarded. “I’m heading out to meet a guy at the club do don’t wait up, babe—I won’t be back till tomorrow.” She froze, realizing her slip, and forced a laugh. “I mean, definitely the girls. You know, meeting my gal pals.” The lie was blatant, her eyes darting to the side, but I was too clueless to notice she was meeting a guy, not her friends.

“Have fun!” I said, waving as she grabbed her clutch and sashayed to the door, her stilettos clicking like a countdown. She didn’t look back, her bleach-blonde hair swinging as she vanished into the night, already texting someone with a smirk that wasn’t for me.

I sat alone in her glitzy apartment, surrounded by mirrored walls and empty promises, still grinning like a fool. The prenup was signed, Roxanne was thrilled, and I was the best fiancé ever—right? I didn’t hear Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, a cackling symphony of chaos, ringing in the void. I didn’t see how Roxanne’s gold-digging had turned her into a stranger, or how Oriole’s claws had locked me into a deal that bled me dry for both their gains. I was too clueless, too trusting, and the trap was sprung.

Chapter Ten: The Ultimate Facade

The air shimmered, a violent ripple of light and sound, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap detonated like a firecracker. She appeared in the flickering glow of a streetlamp outside Roxanne’s apartment, her pink hair a blazing halo, her grin a jagged slice of chaos. “Now *that’s* perfection,” she said, her voice a gleeful taunt, “but why settle for perfection when it’s just so *fun* to push it further, babes?” Her eyes glittered with malicious delight as she snapped her fingers again, and reality shattered, hurling me back to the doorstep of Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder a lead weight in my hands.

The air was suffocating, thick with the chemical tang of hairspray and ambition, like a high-end salon had exploded. My head was still clouded by Oriole’s silicone-drenched manipulation, her predatory smile and backhanded jabs fueling my clueless enthusiasm. I was Lew Harris, blindly devoted, convinced I’d crafted a prenup that was a monument to my love—or whatever I thought love was. I knocked, and when Roxanne opened the door, the transformation was a gut-punch I was too dumb to feel.

Roxanne was a size zero now, her frame so skeletal it seemed to defy biology, her body a fragile scaffold for a pair of fake boobs so disproportionately large they strained her skintight, silver Versace dress to the breaking point. Her fake tan was a deep, unnatural bronze, like she’d been dipped in liquid copper, and her face was a masterpiece of artifice: plumped lips slathered in gloss, cheekbones contoured to razor points, and fake lashes so dense they looked like black curtains. Her bleach-blonde hair was teased into a high, glossy ponytail, and her blue contacts—fake, like everything else—gave her a doll-like stare, cold and vacant. She was immaculate, a walking billboard for money, but it was clear it wasn’t *her* money footing the bill. Designer logos screamed from her dress, her Louboutin heels, her Chanel clutch—my money, I didn’t realize, was already bleeding into her lifestyle.

“Uh… hey,” she said, her voice a bored drawl, her eyes barely flicking to me as she leaned against the doorframe. She didn’t even try to smile, her expression one of lazy indifference, like I was a delivery guy she hadn’t tipped. “You’re… Luke, right?” My name was wrong, and she didn’t care, her nonchalance a neon sign that she was using me, her supposed fiancé, as a walking ATM. There was no warmth, no pretense of love—she couldn’t be bothered to expend the energy.

“It’s Lew,” I said, grinning like a clueless puppy, Oriole’s spell still blinding me to her dismissal. “Got the prenup, Rox! Oriole nailed it. It’s all for you, babe.” I held out the folder, missing the way her eyes lit up—not with affection, but with the predatory glint of someone who’d just spotted a jackpot.

“Whatever,” she said, waving me inside with a flick of her wrist, her fake nails glinting like knives. Her apartment was a gaudy shrine to excess: gold-plated furniture, a leopard-print rug, and a massive mirror framed in Swarovski crystals. She flopped onto a velvet couch, her dress riding up to reveal a thigh tattoo of a rose, and tossed the prenup folder onto the coffee table like it was junk mail. “That thing’s got, like, a million pages,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Too boring. Just tell me what it says, Lee.” Her tone was dismissive, her effort to play girlfriend nonexistent—she didn’t even bother getting my correct name.

“Sure thing!” I said, my enthusiasm undimmed, sitting beside her and opening the folder. “It’s awesome, Rox. You get 75% of my business profits during the marriage, 20% equity if we split, and veto power over all my business decisions. Plus, 90% of my income goes to an account you control, and you approve any purchase over $200. Oh, and I’m liquidating my savings to pay your loans upfront—$25,000, plus a discretionary fund for you.” I beamed, reciting Oriole’s clauses like a proud kid showing off a report card, oblivious to how I was handing her my life.

Roxanne yawned, inspecting her nails, but her lips curled into a smirk. “That’s… cute,” she said, her voice dripping with apathy, but her eyes gleamed with unmasked greed. “Keep going. What else?”

“Uh, alimony!” I said, flipping pages. “If we divorce, you get $15,000 a month for life, plus a $200,000 lump sum. You keep the house, any vacation properties, and a $50,000 annual lifestyle fund. And Oriole’s firm gets a $25,000 retainer, a 10% cut of my profits, and a $15,000 yearly consulting fee to protect you.” I grinned, blind to how Oriole was fleecing me while Roxanne reaped the rewards. “It’s perfect, right?”

“Perfect,” she echoed, her tone flat but her smirk widening, like she was already mentally shopping for a new Birkin bag. She didn’t question a single clause, didn’t blink at the lopsided terms or Oriole’s self-serving additions. There was no surprise, no concern for fairness—only the cold certainty that this deal was a goldmine, and I was too dumb to see it. “You’re, like, so generous, Liam,” she said, her attempt at a compliment lazy and insincere, her eyes already drifting to her phone.

“You’re worth it!” I said, my enthusiasm a brick wall against her indifference. “Wanna read it over? Make sure it’s all good?”

“Nah,” she said, grabbing a pen from her clutch and scrawling her signature across the prenup without even glancing at it. “It’s fine. Done.” She tossed the pen down, her signature a sloppy flourish, and shoved the folder back at me. “Don’t get any second thoughts, okay? This is, like, set in stone now.” Her tone was sharp, a warning to keep my wallet open, and I didn’t catch the threat—or the fact that she was already planning her exit strategy.

“Awesome!” I said, clutching the signed prenup like a trophy. “We’re all set, babe.”

“Great,” she said, standing and smoothing her dress, her fake boobs nearly spilling out. “I’m off to meet some guys at the club. You know, party vibes.” She didn’t even bother with a cover story, her nonchalance brutal as she grabbed her Chanel clutch and checked her reflection in the mirror. “I won’t be back till tomorrow, so… don’t call.” Her dismissal was blatant, her gold-digging motive screaming—she was with me for the money, and she didn’t care if I knew it.

“Have fun!” I said, waving as she sashayed to the door, her Louboutins clicking like a metronome of betrayal. She didn’t glance back, already texting as she vanished into the night, her fake tan glowing under the hallway lights.

I sat alone in her gaudy apartment, surrounded by gold-plated excess, still grinning like a fool. The prenup was signed, Roxanne was happy, and I was the best fiancé ever—right? I didn’t hear Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter, a howling crescendo of chaos, ringing in the void. I didn’t see how Roxanne’s love had been replaced by a mercenary hunger, or how Oriole’s claws had locked me into a deal that bled me dry for both their gains.

As Roxanne’s Uber pulled away, her phone lit up with a text to Oriole: *“Signed it. Start the divorce papers. I’ll marry him next month, cash out quick.”* She smirked, adjusting her fake lashes, already planning her next conquest. Back in the apartment, I was oblivious, my clueless trust a perfect canvas for Kyubi’s cruel masterpiece. The trap was sealed, and I was too far gone to see it.

Part C

Chapter Eleven: Charlotte’s Return

An hour after Roxanne’s glittering departure, the apartment door clicked open, and in walked Charlotte, our daughter, with her boyfriend, Seth, trailing behind. The gaudy decor—gold-plated furniture, Swarovski-encrusted mirrors, and that obnoxious “Boss Babe” neon sign—seemed to pulse under the harsh lighting, a stark reflection of Roxanne’s latest transformation. I was still sitting on the velvet couch, the signed prenup folder on the coffee table, my clueless grin fixed in place, Oriole’s spell and Roxanne’s dismissal not even denting my blind enthusiasm. Kyubi’s laughter lingered in the air, a faint echo I couldn’t hear, her chaotic reset still shaping this warped reality.

Charlotte, nineteen and top of her class at college, was a breath of normalcy in the tacky chaos. She had her mother’s brunette hair—before Roxanne’s bleach-blonde overhaul—tied back in a practical ponytail, and her warm brown eyes sparkled with ambition. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a sweater, her backpack slung over one shoulder, a stark contrast to the apartment’s ostentatious vibe. Seth, her boyfriend, was as polite and charming as ever, his dark hair neatly combed, his button-down shirt crisp. He carried a quiet confidence, his smile genuine as he nodded at me. “Hey, Mr. Harris,” he said, his voice easy. “Good to see you.”

“Hey, Dad,” Charlotte said, her tone bright but tinged with a flicker of confusion as she glanced around the apartment. The leopard-print rug, the gold bar cart, the dollar-sign throw pillows—it all felt *wrong* to her, like a set from a reality show she hadn’t auditioned for. Seth’s brow furrowed too, his eyes lingering on the mirrored coffee table, but neither could pin down why the decor clashed with their memories. Kyubi’s reset had scrambled their sense of normal, leaving them with an unease they couldn’t articulate. They didn’t question it, though, shrugging it off as they stepped into the kitchen.

“Wow, Mom’s really… redecorated,” Charlotte said, setting her backpack on the counter, her voice diplomatic but uncertain. She exchanged a quick look with Seth, who raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. The kitchen, at least, was less garish—white cabinets, a marble island—but even here, Roxanne’s touch was evident in the crystal-studded wine glasses and a vase of ostentatious peonies.

“Yeah, Rox’s got a vision,” I said, chuckling, my enthusiasm blind to the apartment’s tackiness or Roxanne’s gold-digging transformation. “She’s out at the club with the girls. Signed the prenup, though! It’s all set for the wedding.” I gestured to the folder, grinning like I’d won a prize, oblivious to the trap I’d walked into.

Charlotte’s smile faltered, but she didn’t press. “That’s Appalachian, Dad. Glad you’re excited about it.” She grabbed a water from the fridge, her curiosity piqued but tempered by the easy rhythm of coming home. “How’s it going with the prenup stuff?”

“Perfect!” I said, my voice bursting with clueless pride. “Oriole put together a killer deal. Roxanne’s totally taken care of—business profits, alimony, the works. Even threw in some fees for Oriole’s firm to keep things smooth.” I didn’t notice Charlotte’s slight frown or Seth’s subtle glance at her, both picking up on the odd weight of my words but not sure why they felt off.

“Sounds… thorough,” Charlotte said, her tone careful as she sipped her water. She leaned against the island, her sharp mind already turning over my words, but Kyubi’s reset dulled her usual skepticism, leaving her with just a vague unease. “You’re happy with it, though?”

“Thrilled!” I said, nodding like a bobblehead. “Rox loves it. Signed it right away. She’s out celebrating with skinny margs tonight.” I didn’t mention Roxanne’s slip about meeting “guys” or her cold dismissal—Oriole’s spell had me too far gone to question her motives.

Seth, ever the diplomat, smiled politely. “That’s great, Mr. Harris. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” But his eyes flicked to Charlotte, a silent question passing between them. The apartment, my gushing, the prenup—it didn’t add up, but Kyubi’s meddling kept them from digging deeper.

Charlotte shifted gears, her face brightening as she launched into her day. “Anyway, classes were wild today,” she said, hopping onto a barstool. “My bio professor went off on this tangent about epigenetics, and I’m, like, 90% sure I’m switching to pre-med next semester. But law’s still on the table—gotta keep my options open.” Her passion for her future—lawyer or doctor, she hadn’t decided—lit up the room, a stark contrast to Roxanne’s shallow glitz.

“That’s my girl,” I said, beaming, my pride genuine even through my clueless haze. “You’re gonna kill it, whatever you pick.”

Seth chuckled, checking his watch. “She’s already running circles around her study group. I can barely keep up.” He grinned at Charlotte, his affection clear, and she nudged him playfully.

“Stop it,” she said, laughing. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Engineering Major.” Their easy banter was a warm spot in the gaudy apartment, a reminder of something real amidst Kyubi’s chaos.

Seth glanced at his phone, sighing. “I gotta head out—meeting my roommate for a project. But I’ll swing by tomorrow, Char.” He turned to me, his charm on full display. “Good seeing you, Mr. Harris. Congrats on the prenup.”

“Thanks, Seth,” I said, clapping his shoulder as he grabbed his jacket. Charlotte walked him to the door, their quiet murmurs and quick kiss a snapshot of young love that made my heart swell, even if I was too blind to see how it contrasted with Roxanne’s mercenary hustle.

After Seth left, Charlotte flopped back onto the barstool, grabbing an apple from the counter. “So, Dad, what’s next? You and Mom finally making it official? Or are you and Mom just vibing?” Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered on the prenup folder, a faint crease in her brow.

“Just vibing!” I said, my grin unshaken. “Rox’s got the wedding covered. I’m just happy she’s happy.” Charlotte nodded, biting into her apple, but her sharp mind was ticking, even if Kyubi’s meddling dulled her instincts. “Cool,” she said, her voice neutral. “I’m gonna crash and study. Love you, Dad.” She hugged me, her warmth a fleeting anchor, then headed to her room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I sat there, staring at the prenup folder, my clueless grin fixed. The apartment’s glitz closed in, Roxanne’s dollar-sign pillows and crystal wine glasses mocking me in a way I couldn’t grasp. Somewhere, Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter howled, a triumphant cackle, as her cruel game tightened its grip. Charlotte’s brightness, Seth’s charm—they were sparks in the dark, but I was too far gone to see the trap, too clueless to save myself from the gilded cage Roxanne and Oriole had built.

Chapter Twelve: The Airheaded Adjustment

The world flickered, a disorienting blur of light and sound, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap sliced through the haze like a razor. She materialized in the glow of Roxanne’s apartment hallway, her pink hair a neon flare, her grin a twisted knot of glee. “Eew, too wholesome,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. “Charlotte’s too bright, too grounded. Let’s dumb her down just a smidge, babes—make her fit this tacky little world.” She snapped her fingers again, and reality rewound, spitting me back to Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder still clutched in my hands.

The air was heavy with synthetic sweetness, a mix of Roxanne’s overpriced perfume and the chemical tang of her lifestyle. I was still riding the high of Oriole’s manipulative spell, her silicone perfection and backhanded jabs fueling my clueless enthusiasm. I was Lew Harris, blindly devoted, convinced the prenup was a love letter to Roxanne, oblivious to her gold-digging hustle. I sat on the velvet couch, the signed folder on the mirrored coffee table, surrounded by gold-plated furniture and a leopard-print rug that screamed Roxanne’s excess. My grin was fixed, unshaken by her cold dismissal or her blatant slip about meeting “guys” at the club.

The door swung open, and Charlotte bounced in, followed by Seth, her jock boyfriend. The apartment’s glitzy decor—Swarovski-encrusted mirrors, a “Boss Babe” neon sign, dollar-sign throw pillows—felt normal to them, a seamless fit for Roxanne’s world, no flicker of confusion in their eyes. Charlotte, nineteen and a solid B student, had her blonde hair—lighter than Roxanne’s bleach-blonde but still dyed—in a messy bun, her athleisure outfit hugging her frame. She was pretty, with a bubbly energy, but her sharpness was dulled, her ambition softened into something fluffier. She wanted to do marketing, drawn to flashy campaigns and social media trends, but she struggled with the details, her airheadedness showing in the way she forgot deadlines or misread assignments. She wasn’t idiotic—just a little scattered, her thoughts drifting like confetti.

Seth, broad-shouldered and sporting a backwards baseball cap, flashed a grin. “Yo, bro,” he said, slapping my shoulder instead of the usual “Mr. Harris.” His jock charm was all easy confidence, his polo shirt and sneakers screaming frat-house vibes. He carried a gym bag, his biceps flexing as he dropped it by the door. “What’s good?”

“Hey, Dad!” Charlotte chirped, tossing her backpack onto the chaise lounge and flopping beside me on the couch. Her smile was wide but a touch vacant, her brown eyes bright but not probing. “How’s it hangin’? Where’s Mom?” She glanced around, unfazed by the gaudy decor, her fingers already scrolling through her phone, probably checking her latest Instagram post.

“Rox is out at the club with some friends,” I said, my grin unwavering, Oriole’s spell keeping me blind to Roxanne’s betrayal. “Signed the prenup, though! It’s all set for the wedding. Total home run.” I gestured to the folder, my enthusiasm bursting, oblivious to the financial guillotine I’d locked myself into.

“Sweet!” Charlotte said, nodding, but her attention was half on her phone, a TikTok video playing softly. “That’s, like, super cool, Dad. You and Mom are, like, goals.” Her words were enthusiastic but shallow, her airheadedness softening her usual curiosity. She didn’t ask about the prenup’s details, didn’t pick up on my manic devotion—marketing was her thing, not contracts, and the fine print bored her.

Seth leaned against the kitchen island, grabbing a protein bar from his bag. “Nice one, bro,” he said, his tone all jock approval. “Lockin’ it down with the prenup. You’re killin’ it.” His charm was effortless, but there was no depth to his words, just the easy camaraderie of a guy who called everyone “bro.” He didn’t notice the folder’s gilded weight or my clueless grin, and the apartment’s tackiness was just background noise to him.

“Thanks, man,” I said, clapping his shoulder, my pride fueled by their casual praise. “It’s all for Rox. Oriole put together a killer deal—business profits, alimony, the works. Even tossed in some fees for her firm to keep it smooth.”

“Sounds legit,” Seth said, munching his protein bar, his eyes drifting to Charlotte, who was now giggling at her phone. “Char, you see that reel I sent you? The one with the dunk contest?”

“Oh my gosh, yes!” Charlotte squealed, her airheadedness in full swing as she swiped to find it. “It’s, like, so fire. You’re totally gonna crush it at tryouts, babe.” She leaned into him, her affection playful but a bit performative, like she was mimicking the influencers she followed.

They wandered into the kitchen, Charlotte grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge, the crystal-studded glassware clinking as she poured. “So, Dad,” she said, hopping onto a barstool, “today was, like, *wild*. My marketing prof was all about viral campaigns, and I’m totally pitching a collab with this energy drink brand for my project. But, ugh, I keep forgetting the budgeting part.” She pouted, her struggle with details clear, but her enthusiasm was infectious, even if it lacked focus.

“You’ll nail it,” I said, beaming, my pride genuine despite my clueless haze. “Marketing’s your thing, Char. You’ve got the vibe.”

“Totally,” Seth said, winking at her. “You’re gonna be, like, the next big influencer, babe.” He checked his phone, frowning. “Yo, I gotta bounce—practice with the team. But I’ll hit you up later, Char.” He turned to me, grinning. “Catch ya, bro.”

“Later, man,” I said, fist-bumping him as he grabbed his bag. Charlotte walked him to the door, their quick kiss and murmured goodbyes a snapshot of college romance, shallow but sweet. Seth’s sneakers squeaked as he left, leaving me and Charlotte in the kitchen.

She flopped back onto the barstool, scrolling her phone again. “So, Dad, you and Mom are, like, all set for the wedding?” she asked, her tone light but distracted, her airheadedness keeping her from probing deeper. The prenup folder sat untouched, its gilded menace invisible to her.

“Yup!” I said, my grin fixed. “Rox’s got it all planned. I’m just stoked she’s happy.”

“Cool beans,” Charlotte said, giggling at her own phrase, her eyes back on her phone. “I’m gonna, like, study… or maybe watch some tutorials. Love ya, Dad.” She hopped up, pecking my cheek before drifting to her room, her backpack dragging behind her.

I sat alone in the glitzy kitchen, the prenup folder gleaming like a trophy. The apartment’s excess—gold mirrors, crystal vases—closed in, a gilded cage I didn’t see. Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter echoed faintly, a cruel symphony, as her latest reset locked Charlotte into a shallower version of herself, perfectly suited to Roxanne’s tacky world. I was too clueless, too trusting, grinning into the void as the trap tightened around me.

Chapter Thirteen: The Ditz and the Jock

The air pulsed, a disorienting warp of light and shadow, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap ripped through the silence like a gunshot. She materialized in the garish glow of Roxanne’s apartment hallway, her pink hair a neon inferno, her eyes rolling with exaggerated disgust. “Ugh, Charlotte studying? Wanting to be *something*? So annoying,” she scoffed, her voice a venomous whine. “Let’s make her a proper airhead, babes—Chantelle now, a ditzy little disaster to match this tacky vibe.” She snapped her fingers again, and reality collapsed, dumping me back into Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder still heavy in my hands.

The air was thick with the cloying stench of Roxanne’s perfume, a chemical cocktail of vanity and greed. I sat on the velvet couch, surrounded by gold-plated furniture, a leopard-print rug, and a “Boss Babe” neon sign, my grin fixed as I clutched the signed prenup like a trophy.

The door burst open, and Chantelle—my daughter, no longer Charlotte—strutted in, followed by Seth, her jock boyfriend. The apartment’s gaudy decor—Swarovski-encrusted mirrors, dollar-sign throw pillows, a gold bar cart—felt like home to them, no hint of unease in their eyes. Chantelle, nineteen and a D student, was a walking echo of Roxanne’s fake-as-hell aesthetic, but dialed up with a ditzy naivety that made her mother’s calculated greed look like rocket science. Her own size-zero frame was squeezed into a hot-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, the word “Princess” bedazzled across her chest, her fake boobs—smaller than Roxanne’s but still absurdly prominent—jiggling with every step. Her bleach-blonde hair was teased into a high ponytail, her fake tan a shade too orange, and her face was a clownish mask of makeup: glittery eyeshadow, glossy lips, and fake lashes that fluttered like trapped moths. She was bubbly, clueless, a naive bimbo who thought her D in history was “super awesome” because she “tried really hard.”

Seth, hulking in a muscle tee and cargo shorts, barely acknowledged me, grunting a low “Sup” instead of words, like speaking was too much effort. His jock charm was gone, replaced by a cold, misogynistic edge—he was with Chantelle because she was an easy lay, nothing more. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw set in a permanent scowl, and he didn’t bother hiding the smirk that crept onto his face as he leaned against the wall, secretly texting one of his side chicks. His thumbs flew over his phone, his eyes lighting up with a sleazy glee that vanished when he glanced at Chantelle or me, reverting to grunts and indifference.

“Omigosh, Daddy!” Chantelle squealed, tottering over in platform heels and flopping onto the couch beside me, her perfume a dizzying cloud of cotton candy. “Today was, like, *so* crazy! I totally flunked my English quiz, but whatevs, the teacher’s a hater. And then I got this new lip gloss, see? It’s sooo super cute, right Seth?” She puckered her glossy lips, oblivious to the prenup folder or my manic grin. Her ditzy chatter was relentless, a stream of airheaded nonsense about failed classes, mall hauls, and her latest obsession with “becoming an influencer, maybe.” She was my daughter, but Kyubi’s reset had molded her into Roxanne’s clueless shadow, her naivety a stark contrast to her mother’s manipulative hustle.

Seth grunted, not looking up from his phone, his smirk widening as he typed another text, probably to some girl he’d meet later. “Cool,” he muttered, his voice flat, his eyes flicking to Chantelle with a mix of boredom and entitlement. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, he just stood there, a slab of muscle with no warmth for her or me.

“Hey, Seth, Chantelle,” I said, my grin unshaken, Oriole’s spell keeping me blind to their dysfunction. “Rox is out at the club, but she signed the prenup! It’s all set for the wedding. Total slam dunk.” I gestured to the folder, my enthusiasm bursting, oblivious to the financial abyss I’d leapt into.

“Uh-huh,” Chantelle said, barely listening as she scrolled through her phone, giggling at a selfie she’d just posted. “That’s, like, super cool, Daddy. Did you see my new nails? They’re, like, *so* extra.” She waved her bedazzled claws, her ditzy naivety swallowing any curiosity about the prenup. School was a struggle, contracts were boring, and her world revolved around glitter and likes—she didn’t care about my deal with Roxanne or Oriole’s claws.

Seth didn’t even grunt this time, his fingers flying over his phone, his sleazy smirk now a full grin as he texted his side chick something that made him chuckle under his breath. “Gotta go,” he said abruptly, shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing his gym bag. “Team stuff.” His excuse was lazy, his eyes sliding over Chantelle like she was furniture. He didn’t bother with a goodbye for me, just jerked his head at her. “Later, babe.”

“Okay, byeee!” Chantelle chirped, blowing him a kiss, her cluelessness blind to his indifference. She didn’t notice his lack of warmth, didn’t care that he was clearly texting other girls—she was too ditzy, too naive, caught in her bubble of sparkles and selfies. Seth slouched out, his sneakers thudding, leaving a trail of cologne and apathy.

Chantelle turned back to me, twirling her ponytail. “Sooo, Daddy, I was thinking, like, maybe I should get a new purse? There’s this *totes* cute Gucci one, and it’s only, like, a couple grand. Can you spot me?” Her smile was wide, her eyes vacant, her request a thoughtless echo of Roxanne’s gold-digging, though Chantelle’s was pure cluelessness, not calculation.

“Sure thing, hon,” I said, my grin fixed, my pride for her undimmed despite her airheadedness. “We’ll figure it out. You’re killing it with the… fashion stuff.”

“Yay!” she squealed, clapping her hands, then immediately went back to her phone, giggling at a makeup tutorial. “Love you, Daddy. I’m gonna, like, chill in my room and watch vlogs.” She tottered off, her heels clicking, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

The apartment’s glitz closed in—gold mirrors, crystal vases, Roxanne’s dollar-sign legacy mocking me in a way I couldn’t grasp. Chantelle’s bubbly naivety and Seth’s cold misogyny were perfect cogs in Kyubi’s cruel machine, a world tailored to Roxanne’s tacky excess. I sat there, grinning into the void, the prenup folder gleaming like a trap I’d never see. Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter howled faintly, a triumphant cackle, as her latest reset turned my daughter into a ditzy caricature and her boyfriend into a callous user, locking me deeper into the gilded cage.

Chapter Fourteen: The Cliché Catastrophe

The world convulsed, a nauseating swirl of garish light, and then *snap*—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap shattered the silence like a glass dropped on marble. She materialized in the tacky glow of Roxanne’s apartment hallway, her pink hair a radioactive blaze, her eyes narrowing as she checked her glittering nails with a sneer. “Not quite right,” she muttered, her voice a venomous hiss. “Chantelle’s still got a shred of… *something*. Let’s make her the ultimate bimbo, babes—dumb as a rock, no future, just a cliche airhead to complete this trashy little circus.” She snapped her fingers again, and reality imploded, flinging me back to Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder a dead weight in my hands.

The air was a suffocating fog of Roxanne’s cheap perfume and hairspray, a chemical shrine to her gold-digging excess. I lounged on the velvet couch, surrounded by gold-plated furniture, a leopard-print rug, and a “Boss Babe” neon sign, my grin as fixed as a mannequin’s, the signed prenup folder gleaming on the mirrored coffee table like a trophy I didn’t understand.

The door flew open, and Chantelle—my daughter, no longer anything resembling Charlotte—tottered in, followed by Seth, her dealer boyfriend. The apartment’s gaudy decor—Swarovski-encrusted mirrors, dollar-sign throw pillows, a gold bar cart—was their natural habitat, no flicker of doubt in their eyes. Chantelle, nineteen and a total bimbo, was a walking caricature of Roxanne’s fake aesthetic, cranked to eleven with a cliche airheadedness that made her mother’s calculated hustle look like quantum physics. Her size-zero frame was stuffed into a glittery pink tube top and a micro-mini skirt, her fake boobs—cartoonishly large for her twig-like body—threatening to topple her over. Her fake tan was a blinding tangerine, her bleach-blonde hair teased into a poofy mess, and her face was a garish mask: blue eyeshadow, glossy pink lips, and fake lashes so heavy they drooped. She was boy-crazy, dumb as a rock, and proud of her consistent F’s at community college, giggling that she “might work at McDonald’s or, like, something” with no plans beyond her next manicure.

Seth, lean and menacing in a ripped tank top and low-slung jeans, slouched behind her, his dealer vibe oozing like motor oil. His dark hair was greased back, a silver chain glinting at his neck, and his eyes were cold, predatory slits. He was toxically misogynistic, with Chantelle only because she was easy and too dumb to question him, and he didn’t bother hiding it. He grunted—a low, guttural sound that replaced words, too much effort for someone like him—unless he was sneaking texts to one of his side chicks, when a sleazy smirk would curl his lips, his fingers dancing over his phone with a twisted glee. “Yo,” he muttered, barely glancing at me, his attention already back on his phone, texting some girl with a grin that made my skin crawl.

“Omigawd, Daddyyy!” Chantelle squealed, teetering over in six-inch platform heels and collapsing onto the couch beside me, her perfume a choking cloud of bubblegum and regret. “Today was, like, *totes* amaze! I flunked my math test, but who cares, right? Numbers are, like, *so* not my thing. And I got these new press-on nails—aren’t they *fab*?” She wiggled her neon-pink claws, giggling, her cliche bimbo energy in overdrive. She was boy-crazy, her world a swirl of cute guys, sparkly things, and zero ambition, too dumb to even spell “prenup,” let alone care about it. Her chatter was relentless: “This guy at the mall was, like, *so* hot, and I’m totally getting my lips done again, and, oh, Sethy’s taking me to a party later, right, babe?”

Seth grunted, not looking up, his smirk widening as he texted another girl, his thumb flying with a sick enthusiasm. “Sure,” he muttered, his voice flat, his eyes sliding over Chantelle like she was a disposable toy. He didn’t acknowledge me beyond the initial grunt, his misogyny a palpable weight—Chantelle was just arm candy, and I was just the clueless dad bankrolling her existence. I didn’t see it, too silly for Roxanne and Oriole, my grin fixed like a broken neon sign.

“Hey, Chantelle, Seth,” I said, my enthusiasm undimmed, Oriole’s spell blinding me to their toxic dynamic. “Rox is out at the club, but she signed the prenup! It’s all set for the wedding. Total game-changer.” I pointed to the folder, my voice bursting with pride, oblivious to the financial slaughter I’d signed up for.

“Uh-huh,” Chantelle said, popping her gum, her eyes glued to her phone as she scrolled through selfies. “That’s, like, super cool, Daddy. Did you see my new highlight? It’s, like, *so* glowy.” She tilted her head, showing off her makeup, her ditzy naivety swallowing any interest in my words. The prenup was irrelevant to her—too many words, too boring, and she was too busy dreaming of “hot guys” and “cute outfits” to care about my ruin.

Seth didn’t even grunt this time, his sleazy smirk now a full grin as he fired off another text, probably setting up a hookup for later. “Gotta split,” he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing a vape from his bag, the chemical cherry scent mixing with Chantelle’s perfume. “Business.” His excuse was curt, his eyes raking over Chantelle with a possessive sneer before he turned to the door, not bothering with a goodbye for either of us.

“Byeee, Sethy!” Chantelle squealed, blowing him a kiss, her cluelessness blind to his toxicity. She didn’t notice his cold indifference, didn’t care that he was texting other girls or dealing who-knows-what—she was too dumb, too boy-crazy, caught in her glittery bubble of failed tests and cheap thrills. Seth slunk out, his chain jingling, leaving a trail of vape smoke and disdain.

Chantelle turned to me, twirling a strand of her poofy hair. “Sooo, Daddy, can you, like, Venmo me some cash? There’s this *totes* adorbs bikini I need for the pool party, and it’s only, like, $300. Pretty please?” Her smile was vacant, her eyes wide with naive expectation, her request a thoughtless leeching off my bank account, just like Roxanne’s gold-digging, though Chantelle’s was pure stupidity, not strategy.

“No problem, Princess,” I said, my grin unshaken, my silly devotion to Roxanne and Oriole blinding me to Chantelle’s airheaded drain. “I’ll send it over. You’re rocking the… sparkly thing.”

“Yayyy!” she squealed, clapping her hands, then immediately went back to her phone, giggling at a guy’s DM she’d just gotten. “Love you, Daddy. I’m gonna, like, do my makeup and stuff.” She tottered off to her room, her heels clacking, leaving a trail of glitter and ignorance.

The apartment’s glitz closed in—gold mirrors, crystal vases, Roxanne’s dollar-sign empire mocking me in a way I couldn’t see. Chantelle’s brainless bimbo energy and Seth’s toxic misogyny were mere brushstrokes in Kyubi’s cruel portrait, a world engineered for Roxanne’s gold-digging triumph. I sat there, grinning into the abyss, the prenup folder a gleaming monument to my ruin. Kyubi Kitsune’s laughter roared faintly, a sadistic symphony, as her latest reset turned my daughter into a cliche airhead and her boyfriend into a vile predator, sealing me in a gilded cage I was too silly to escape.

Chapter Fifteen: The Greedy Glitterbomb

The world warped, a sickening spiral of neon and static, and then snap—Kyubi Kitsune’s finger-snap tore through the haze like a switchblade. She materialized in the garish glow of Roxanne’s apartment hallway, her pink hair a radioactive inferno, her lips curling in a sneer. “Still too nice, that Chantelle,” she spat, her voice a venomous purr. “Dumb as a rock, sure, but that bubbly sweetness? Gag. Let’s make her a greedy little leech, babes—Chardonnay now, a dropout with Roxanne’s hustle but none of her brains.” She snapped her fingers again, and reality imploded, hurling me back to Roxanne’s apartment, the gilded prenup folder a cold anchor in my hands.

The air was a choking stew of Roxanne’s synthetic perfume, hairspray - a testament to her gold-digging empire, along with the faint whiff of weed. I sat on the velvet couch, surrounded by gold-plated furniture, a leopard-print rug, and a “Boss Babe” neon sign, my grin as vacant as a storefront dummy, the signed prenup folder gleaming on the mirrored coffee table like a cursed artifact.

The door slammed open, and Chardonnay—my daughter, no trace of Charlotte or Chantelle—strutted in, followed by Seth, her two-bit gangsta boyfriend. The apartment’s gaudy decor—Swarovski-encrusted mirrors, dollar-sign throw pillows, a gold bar cart—was their natural playground, no hint of unease in their eyes. Chardonnay, nineteen and a high school dropout, was a total airhead, clueless and dumb, a walking parody of Roxanne’s fake aesthetic with a greedy edge that matched her mother’s but lacked any cunning. Her size-zero frame was crammed into a neon-green crop top and ripped Daisy Dukes, her fake boobs—grotesquely oversized for her skeletal body—bouncing with every step. Her fake tan was a radioactive orange, her bleach-blonde hair fried into a crunchy mess, and her face was a clown show: purple eyeshadow, glossy lips, and fake lashes clumped with mascara. She was obsessed with fashion and “dick,” her world a brain-dead whirl of knockoff Gucci, club hookups, and mooching off anyone with a pulse—especially me. College was a distant joke; she’d “maybe” work at a strip club or “whatever,” her only plan to leech and party.

Seth, a scrawny Black gangbanger in a faded tank top and sagging jeans, slunk behind her, his tarnished gold chain swinging, his flat-brimmed cap cocked at a lazy angle. He was a dealer, toxically misogynistic, and passive-aggressive to a sadistic degree, treating Chardonnay like a used tissue with a smirk that dripped venom. He didn’t just dismiss her—he weaponized every glance, every word, lacing his street drawl with cutting jabs she was too dumb to catch, his cruelty a game she mistook for love. His “yo” and “bitch” were spat with a slow, taunting edge, unless he was texting one of his side chicks, when his fingers flew and his smirk turned downright diabolical, his eyes glinting with sleazy triumph. “Yo, old man,” he drawled, his voice a passive-aggressive sneer as he barely glanced at me, leaning against the wall and texting some girl with a grin that screamed betrayal. “You still here, huh?” The jab was sharp, his tone mocking my existence, but I was too silly to notice.

“Daddy, fork over the cash, like, now!” Chardonnay barked, teetering over in knockoff Pleaser heels and collapsing onto the couch, her vape cloud a choking haze of strawberry and despair. Her brainless airheadedness was absolute, her thoughts a flatline—she couldn’t count to ten without giggling, but her greed was a laser, as blunt and demanding as a mugger’s knife, matching Roxanne’s gold-digging but clumsier, like a toddler swinging a sledgehammer. “I need three grand, stat. Me and Sethy got plans—clubs, fits, hot guys, whatever. Gimme it, or I’m, like, done with you.” Her voice was a shrill whine, no respect, no trace of warmth—just raw, entitled hunger, her glossy lips sneering as she waved her bedazzled nails, her eyes so vacant they reflected the neon sign. She was boy-crazy, dumber than a broken lightbulb, and only cared about “her man” and the next bender, her demands a brainless echo of Roxanne’s hustle without a shred of strategy.

Seth chuckled, a low, venomous sound, his passive-aggressive cruelty seeping like oil. “Yeah, old man, step it up,” he drawled, his voice a slow, mocking taunt, his eyes flicking to Chardonnay with a sneer that could curdle milk. “Shawty’s waitin’, and I ain’t got patience for your slow-ass vibes.” He leaned closer to her, his smirk twisting as he muttered, “Fix your damn hair, bitch, you look like a thrift-store Barbie.” Chardonnay giggled, too clueless to hear the insult, preening her crispy locks like it was a love poem. Seth’s phone pinged, and his grin widened, his fingers flying as he texted a side chick, probably setting up a hookup while he whispered, “Hurry up, fam, or we got problems,” his tone a passive-aggressive threat, his eyes glinting with malice. He didn’t hide his contempt, snapping his fingers at Chardonnay like she was livestock. “Move it, ho, you draggin’ me down,” he hissed, and she laughed, her airheadedness blind to his sadism.

“Hey, Chardonnay, Seth,” I said, my grin a permanent fixture, “Rox is out at the club, but the wedding’s a lock. Total banger!” My voice was bursting with pride, oblivious to the financial annihilation I’d embraced, my silly devotion to Roxanne and Oriole a steel trap around my mind.

“Ugh, shut up ‘bout your stupid wedding,” Chardonnay snapped, rolling her eyes as she vaped, her greed bulldozing any interest in my words. “I need that three grand, Daddy, now. Me and Sethy ain’t playin’—we got hot guys to impress, and I need a new fit. Pay up, or I’m, like, over you.” Her tone was pure venom, her airheadedness a void where thoughts died—she couldn’t spell “cash” but knew how to demand it, her sneer as sharp as her mother’s but dumber, her eyes glinting with brainless entitlement as she jabbed a nail at me. “Don’t be a loser, Daddy.”

Seth snorted, his passive-aggressive chuckle a slow poison. “Better not fuck this up, old man,” he drawled, his voice a taunting jab, his eyes raking Chardonnay with a sneer. “Shawty’s high-maintenance, and I ain’t dealin’ with her whinin’ ‘cause you cheap.” His phone buzzed, and his smirk turned demonic, his fingers dancing as he texted a side chick, muttering, “You lucky I’m even here, fam, with your broke-ass energy.” The insult was a blade, his tone a slow burn of contempt, and he didn’t bother hiding the text—probably to a dealer or a stripper—his grin flashing as he yanked Chardonnay’s arm. “Get your shit together, bitch, you look like a dollar-store hoe,” he hissed, and she squealed, mistaking his cruelty for charm.

“No prob, kiddo,” I said, my grin unshaken, my brain-dead devotion to Roxanne and Oriole blinding me to their parasitic rot. “I’ll Venmo you three grand. You’re slaying the… glowy thing.” I fumbled with my phone, sending the money with a tap, too clueless to see how Chardonnay’s brainless greed and Seth’s toxic venom were draining me dry, just like Roxanne and Oriole’s contract scam.

“About time,” Chardonnay scoffed, checking her phone as the Venmo pinged, her sneer twisting into a smug, vacant grin. “You’re not, like, totally pathetic, Daddy.” She stood, blowing a half-assed faux air kiss, her gratitude as fake as her lashes. “Me and Sethy are bouncin’—gonna hit the club, find some real guys, get lit.” She didn’t hide her boy-crazy hunger, adjusting her bikini top as she texted someone—definitely not Seth—her airheadedness a black hole swallowing any shame.

“Bet, shawty,” Seth drawled, shoving his phone in his pocket and grabbing his backpack, stuffed with product or worse. “Move your ass, or I’m leavin’ you.” He didn’t look at me, didn’t thank me—just smacked Chardonnay’s thigh hard enough to bruise, his passive-aggressive smirk flashing as she giggled, clueless to his sadism. They swaggered to the door, Seth’s chain clanking, Chardonnay’s heels screeching, leaving a trail of vape smoke and malice.

“Have fun!” I called, waving, my grin a carved wound as they vanished into the night, Chardonnay’s air kisses and Seth’s gangsta drawl a toxic sludge in the air. I sat alone in the glitzy kitchen, the prenup folder a gleaming altar to my annihilation. The apartment’s excess—gold mirrors, crystal vases, Roxanne’s dollar-sign empire—swallowed me, a gilded cage I couldn’t see. Chardonnay’s brainless, greedy leeching and Seth’s passive-aggressive toxicity were the final nails in Kyubi’s sadistic coffin, a world engineered for Roxanne’s gold-digging conquest. I was too silly, too trusting, grinning as Kyubi Kitsune’s giggle floated past my ear, sealing me in a trap I’d never escape.

[unma]

Grisp

This one's gonna be long, so this is going under a read more.

One of the main issues with Dusttale that people keep harping on is that Sans is out of character. Which, well duh it's an alternate timelines precisely because this shit doesn't happen in canon, but also they are right. Sans would not do that, even if he was subjected to forever genocides and forced to remember each and every one. Dr. Megalo did this one rather well; it took two different external factors—Memory Head and Papyrus—to get him to act. Otherwise he certainly wouldn't have done jack shit, and the world would continue down its merry-go-round of destruction and rebirth.

Another reason I know this is because in his place I would do the same thing.

Give me a moment to explain. The more time has passed, the more and more I find myself relating to Sans. Depression does this little thing where everyday feels the same while you rot away doing nothing of importance. I do think Sans shares this in some ways: He's given up on anything of importance changing. They'll probably never see the surface, continue the same life that they've always had, with all its ups and downs. No point in trying to change anything when a single monster can't save the barrier, especially when it's him. Why else does he only step in when everyone else is dead? He can't afford not to care anymore. It's not because he wants to but because he deems that he has to.

He won't do any more than necessary, won't change anything if he doesn't have to, and is fine if things continue to be the exact same.

Besides, if the same day keeps looping over and over, at least that means he can nap as long as he wants.

So I thought, well, what if he were like me? What if he had good days and bad days? What if sometimes the depression was bearable and sometimes it kicked his ass? That would usually have no bearing on anything, given he isn't aware of the loop but what if he was aware of the loop and was simply doing nothing to change his actions? If anything changed, the human would grow even more curious, and besides that took effort.

No, he would simply do nothing, continue to retrace his steps, and be satisfied that nothing ever changes.

Except him. Because one day, one of the many times this same day has been repeated, he is more tired than usual. Exceedingly listless, exhausted, and seems to be paying less attention than usual. No one would nothing this; his jokester act is on point. No one. Except Papyrus.

Papyrus does what Papyrus does. He encourages his brother, tells him he can always come to Papyrus if he wants to talk, and that he can do anything he sets his mind to if he just tries. With Papyrus's help, at least.

And well, it's Papyrus. Who wouldn't listen to him?

So he does. It's small tweaks at first. He starts the evacuation early. Papyrus trusts him, and Undyne may take a little more coaxing but anyone would take Sans at his word when he suddenly starts looking serious and determined. In some runs, he alerts the guard of the human's every move, in some he warns Toriel, in some he siccs Undyne on the human the moment the enter the Snowdin Forest.

But somethings never change. Asgore won't absorb the souls, Toriel cannot bring herself not to care for the human and Papyrus refuses to not give the human a chance. No matter how much Sans pleads, Papyrus believes that even the worst person can change. Because he's the greatest.

Things continue to change. Slowly, but surely. Sans has his good times and his bad times. But, most importantly, Papyrus does not. He does not change. He is still the best. But he continues to die. And loathe be Sans to use force. But. He's tried everything. And with his brother's words of encouragement ringing within his head, he decides to force the matter.

They battle. Sans doesn't do much damage, or land many hits really, and Papyrus doesn't fight back whatsoever. It's less of a fight and more of an argument, as Sans nicks bits and pieces of Papyrus' hp slowly but surely, telling him to leave. Papyrus refuses. Who else will give the human the chance to change?

Sans doesn't win. He doesn't get attacked, but he gives up after a short while. He leaves. Papyrus dies. Nothing changes.

Each time he says something different. Nothing changes. Nothing.

He tries again.

And again.

And each time, the little flower trailing him proposes something different. Each time, he proposes a change in words, an insult, a lie, something. Sans doesn't listen to many of these… but he listens to some. Because even if everything else fails, if he can at least accomplish this one thing he will have finally done something.

The flower tells him to just kill Papyrus so the human doesn't get to.

He refuses.

But the suggestion stays in the back of his mind. He hates how absurd such a suggestion is. But it's there. He keeps remembering it. Something within him thinks that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. It wouldn't be as bad as letting the human do it. And he keeps telling himself that that's not true, but…

…It's a particularly bad again-day and he finds himself in another argument. He doesn't have the energy for this; he dragged himself off his bed to follow the step by step mental notes he's been putting together for himself. How many loops has it been? He doesn't know. Some he slept through, some he busted his ass, some he was somewhere between, but he always found himself back at the hall, with everyone dead.

And he doesn't think he can take much more. The urge to give up weighs upon him even more than it has before. He fears, that unlike the many other times he temporarily gave up in the loops, that if he gives up this time he truly won't get back up. The voice in the back of his head, the flower's ever taunting presence, whispers to him that suggestion once more.

"Kill him yourself. At least the human won't get to do it."

For but a moment, he considers it.

*Battle Won! Your LV has increased!

It's a blessing that magic works on intent. It's so easy not to kill people. But, in the same vein, it becomes easier for accidents to happen when you're feeling unstable.

He vanishes. Tries to pretend that nothing happened. Everything is fine. Undyne asks if something is wrong when Sans tells where the human is, but he refuses to say. He doesn't meet her again. He doesn't want to give her the chance to pry.

The human doesn't reset.

They know what he did. They let him stew in it, come to terms with it, and force everything to a standstill.

It feels sticky and awful, the LV that he gained. The number refuses to leave his vision, a constant reminder of what he's done. But surely the human will reset soon, right? They'll reset when they can't find Papyrus, right? …Right?

It doesn't take long, to the human anyway, for Sans to find them. He's mad, annoyed that the one time he counts on them being the same as usual, they decide to change. They haven't done anything since Papyrus' death. They're simply hiding out in Snowdin, waiting for him to finally come find them himself.

There is only one way to force the human to reset. You trap them in an eternal cycle of death. And yet, with a single kill, he found himself back at the start.

And yet, he had killed once more.

Perhaps that was the goal. Perhaps the human wanted him to commit the act once more. If that was the case, then it worked like a charm.

After all, he couldn't shake off the feeling of their blood coating his arms.

The scene was still fresh to him when he woke up the next same-day. The human, crumpled on the ground before him. Their blood, coating his hands, a little splatter on his face, and the distinct feeling that he was… too eager to kill them. Much too willing, much too quick, much to excited to do it. Revenge was something he was never the type for, and yet the feeling of taking it made him happy so, in a manner he found uncharacteristic of him. He shouldn't be so happy to have killed. He hadn't had to kill before.

This was how it felt like to gather LOVE?

He hated it.

Or so he thought, but as he tries to return to the usual routine, as he tries to find other solutions that work, he can't help but remember that feeling. He can't help but wonder…. He wouldn't dare think that was good. But what if it was necessary? What if he could deprive the human of that rush forever, deprive them of the only thing he could conceive of that kept them going?

He tries to forget. Flowey taunts him about it. He has to make the conscious decision to pretend he doesn't care.

It takes forever before he kills anyone. Ages, perhaps multiple infinities, but he does. He gets curious, wonders to himself how it feels for perhaps the millionth time, and this time he finds himself near a rather weak monster. It's a position he's been in many times at this point. Even if he can remember, his memory is fallible. He finds himself retreading his paths. And this time.

Well, magic works on intent, you see.

*Battle Won! Your LV has increased!

He says nothing. It didn't happen.

The flower is taunting him over something that never happened.

The battle in the judgement hall goes much the same. Is he doing a little more damage? You're imagining things. Nothing is different.

…Another infinity later, he kills another. His LV doesn't go up. So he kills yet another.

Papyrus can tell that something is wrong, but before he can pry it out of Sans he is dead. As usual.

The battle in the judgement hall goes much the same.

It's then he begins to wonder what would happen if he deprived the human of targets to kill. He already tried that non-violently, through evacuation, and fighting the human himself right at the start would be almost the same as committing suicide—it wasn't a question of if they'd win, but when—but perhaps if the human couldn't do enough damage to kill him in one hit, perhaps if they didn't have so much hp to fall back on, maybe he could win.

And maybe, just maybe, losing the feeling of watching that number go up would make them give up.

There was one run where he himself became an amalgamate. They couldn't be killed, after all. Not as far as he knew, anyway.

It's not an option he wants to take. But he's already gone over every option, multiple times. Anything he could do, he has. He's even begged

Asgore to absorb the souls, multiple times. He threatened him too, sometimes. Not that he had the power to take Asgore down on his own, but

he needed to try anything.

Well, one has to imagine that a being with the power to defeat Undyne—who was already naturally determined—and much more importantly destroy the entire world would be perfectly capable of killing one. He learnt that first hand.

…But what if they didn't have that power.

It doesn't happen right away. Things continue the way they always have. Sans tries to change something, nothing changes in the end. But with each and every loop, the theoretical plan to kill everyone begins to form. He keeps telling himself he wouldn't do it… but he's making the plans regardless. A What If?, though that's what he tells himself.

And then it happens. The Underground is emptied. Everyone is dead. And the human find a lone skeleton hanging out in a dusty, recently-abandoned Grillby's.

Anyway while I was thinking about it, I had the urge to listen to the song Kerosene by tart, and then found the lyrics quite neatly described Sans' point of view.

I'm not going to explain all of it, but like. I can see the animatic in my head.

Yeah, perfect for Sans' heel turn into killing everyone. I'm injecting this song into my fucking veins it's so perfect.

"I'm done with saving"

"A deal worth breaking

Is the type you break when you're going to war"

Anyway the song is great and you should listen to it anyway.

Also:

I have. special feelings about this one. But that's for a reblog to show I have class rn okay bye.

[gumballavocadoharry]

Phones:

Harry woke the next morning in his cluttered house, sunlight filtering through the windows of his toolshed lair like a spotlight on his latest invention. The space was a chaotic symphony of creativity: workbenches strewn with half-assembled gadgets, coils of wire dangling from the ceiling, and a wall of monitors displaying equations for his pet project—a portable energy converter that could harness ambient vibrations. His dark brown hair, tousled from sleep, fell across his forehead as he sat up, green eyes blinking away the remnants of dreams filled with Yn's smile.

He couldn't shake the warmth from last night. The way her apartment had felt like a sanctuary, the soft glow of city lights framing her as she stood in the doorway. Those butterflies in his stomach hadn't faded; they had multiplied, fluttering with a mix of excitement and resolve. Today was the day he'd deal with Mr. Walcurst. Not with confrontation, as he'd initially planned, but with precision—like one of his inventions, carefully calibrated to expose the truth.

After a quick breakfast of toast and coffee, Harry grabbed his backpack, slipping in a few prototype devices for good measure. He glanced at the photo on his desk—a candid shot of him and Yn from a college group outing, her eyes sparkling with the same quiet strength that had captivated him. With a deep breath, he headed out, the short walk to campus invigorating him under the crisp morning air.

The college grounds buzzed with the usual rhythm of lectures and hurried students, but Harry's mind was laser-focused as he made his way to the engineering building. He arrived early, intending to catch Mr. Walcurst before class.

The professor's office was down a narrow hallway, lined with faded posters of historical inventions. Harry paused outside the door, his heart pounding not with fear, but with a protective fervor he hadn't felt before. Yn's vulnerability from last night replayed in his thoughts—her admission of self-doubt, the way Walcurst's words had chipped at her confidence. He wouldn't let that stand.

Just as he raised his hand to knock, voices drifted from inside. The door was slightly ajar, and Harry's inventor instincts kicked in—he froze, listening.

"...and that Yn girl thinks she's some prodigy, but let's be real," Walcurst's voice sneered, laced with a chauvinistic edge that made Harry's blood boil. "Women in engineering? It's a novelty act. She's only here because of quotas. Mark my words, she'll wash out soon enough. Can't handle the real work."

Harry's gentle nature recoiled at the venom, but his genius mind snapped into action. He pulled out his phone, a modified device he'd rigged with enhanced audio recording capabilities—his latest tweak to a standard app, turning it into a discreet spy tool. With steady hands, he hit record, capturing every offensive word as Walcurst rambled on, oblivious.

"She's got no business in my class. If it were up to me, we'd stick to the men who actually get it. But administration's all about that diversity nonsense these days."

The tirade went on for another minute, each remark a dagger to Harry's sense of justice.

Mr. Walcurst's voice, loud and clear, making derogatory remarks about Yn and her abilities in his class.

"...can't even solve a simple equation, and she thinks she can be an engineer? Please, she's just a pretty face, not a serious student," Mr. Walcurst sneered.

When it finally paused, Harry stepped back, his free-spirited optimism warring with a rare surge of anger. But he channeled it constructively, as he always did. With a few swift taps, he attached the recording to an email and sent it directly to the head of the department. "Evidence of discriminatory behavior," he typed in the subject line, his fingers flying over the keys. It was done—subtle, strategic, and irrefutable.

As the day progressed, Harry attended his classes with a mix of anticipation and restraint. He sat through lectures on quantum mechanics, his mind drifting to Yn. Would she notice the shift? He hoped so, but he kept his expression neutral, his affectionate nature hidden behind a veneer of focus.

As the day went on, Harry couldn't help but notice that Mr. Walcurst was acting strange. He seemed nervous and on edge, glancing around the room as if he expected something to happen. Yn, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the tension, but Harry could sense her unease. She kept looking at Mr. Walcurst, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she suspected something was off.

By midday, during their shared advanced engineering seminar, Yn slid into the seat next to him, her presence a comforting warmth in the sterile lecture hall. She looked tired but radiant, her kind eyes scanning the room before settling on him. Harry felt that familiar pull, the butterflies returning full force.

"Something's off with Walcurst today," she whispered during a break, her voice laced with cautious maturity. "He barely looked at me in class. Kept glancing at his phone and fumbling his words. It's like he's... nervous. Do you think he's finally realized how out of line he's been?"

Harry fought to suppress the smirk tugging at his lips. His caring heart swelled at her perceptiveness, but he knew he had to tread carefully. "Maybe," he replied softly, his green eyes meeting hers with a gentle intensity. "People like that sometimes get what's coming to them."

Yn tilted her head, her intelligent gaze narrowing. "Harry, you're acting strange too. What's going on? You look like you're holding back a secret."

He hesitated, his free-spirited nature clashing with his understanding of her worries. But Yn deserved the truth. Leaning closer, he whispered, "I overheard him this morning. Making some pretty awful remarks about you—chauvinistic stuff. I recorded it on my phone and sent it to the head's office."

Her eyes widened, a mix of elation and concern flooding her features. "You did what? Harry, that's... that's amazing, but what if you get in trouble? What if they think you were eavesdropping?"

He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing hers in a warm, affectionate gesture. "I had to, Yn. You're too important. And don't worry—I was just in the right place at the right time. My inventions might be eccentric, but they're legal." He smiled, his optimism shining through. "Besides, it's the truth. That's all that matters."

Yn's compassionate nature softened, a genuine smile breaking through her caution. "You're incredible, you know that? I feel... elated, like a weight's lifting. But Harry, promise me you'll be careful. I don't want you caught in the crossfire."

He nodded, his thumb gently tracing her hand before pulling away, the subtle touch leaving them both with a lingering spark. "I promise. We're in this together. It was worth it to see him get what's coming to him."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of lectures and labs, but Harry couldn't shake the giddy excitement bubbling inside him. That evening, back at his toolshed lair, he tinkered with his energy converter, but his thoughts kept drifting to Yn. The way she had looked at him, her mix of gratitude and worry—it was a step closer to something more, something real.

The next morning, the college atmosphere was electric with whispers. Harry arrived early, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and headed straight for the engineering building. As he entered the classroom, he saw a group of students huddled near the door, murmuring excitedly. Yn was already there, her warm presence a beacon in the crowd.

"Have you heard?" one student said. "Walcurst's been fired. Something about inappropriate comments—got called in first thing this morning."

Harry's heart leaped, his gentle smile breaking free. He glanced at Yn, who met his eyes with a mix of relief and awe. The class buzzed with liberation, a collective sigh echoing through the room as the tension of Walcurst's reign lifted.

Then, a new figure entered: Ms. Toren, a poised woman in her early forties with sharp eyes and a confident stride. She set her notes on the desk, her voice clear and welcoming. "Good morning, everyone. I'm Ms. Toren, your new instructor. Let's make this a space where everyone's ideas thrive."

The class erupted in subtle applause, and Harry felt a profound sense of victory. Yn leaned over, her voice soft but filled with affection. "You did this, Harry. Thank you."

As the lecture began, Harry couldn't help but steal glances at Yn. Her cautious maturity had transformed into quiet empowerment, her eyes lighting up as Ms. Toren discussed innovative projects. For the first time, Harry saw Yn not just as a friend, but as a partner in every sense—someone who matched his kindness, his intellect, and his unyielding optimism.

After class, they walked out together, the autumn air crisp around them. "Want to grab coffee?" Harry asked, his voice laced with hope.

Yn nodded, her hand brushing his as they headed toward the campus café. "I'd love that. And Harry? Let's celebrate properly. Maybe at my apartment tonight? I owe you for... well, everything."

His butterflies returned, stronger than ever, as they strolled side by side. In that moment, amidst the hum of college life, Harry knew this was more than a fleeting spark. It was the beginning of something enduring, built on trust, ingenuity, and the gentle warmth they shared.

[mukieissukie]

Pt.21: Full schedules, empty hearts

The Le Sserafim practice room is a whirlwind of energy. Mirrors fog up from the heat of their movements as they run through the choreography for their MAMA collaboration stage. Hana, despite her usual radiant smile, feels the pressure mounting. Each day is a relentless cycle of rehearsals, vocal training, and costume fittings.

The collaboration concept is ambitious-a fusion of each group’s signature styles, requiring seamless synchronization and unique individual showcases. Hana pushes herself, determined to shine. Yet, amidst the sweat and strain, thoughts of Heeseung keep creeping in. The stolen moments they used to share-a quick coffee run, a quiet chat in the hallway-have dwindled to almost nothing.

Chaewon notices Hana’s distracted gaze and nudges her gently. "Thinking about someone?" she teases, a knowing smile on her face.

Hana blushes and tries to deflect. "Just… focused on getting this right. It’s a big stage."

But Chaewon sees through her. "He’ll be there, you know. Cheering you on. That’s got to count for something."

Across the building, in Enhypen’s practice room, the atmosphere is equally intense. Enhypen are perfecting their own MAMA performance, a dynamic showcase of their evolution as artists. Heeseung throws himself into the choreography, the sharp, precise movements a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

But like Hana, he finds his mind drifting. He misses their easy camaraderie, the comfort of her presence. MAMA preparations have turned their world upside down, leaving them both caught in a whirlwind of obligations.

During a water break, Jake notices Heeseung staring out the window, lost in thought. "Tough schedule, hyung?" he asks sympathetically.

Heeseung nods, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "It’s crazy. We’re all pushing ourselves to the limit. I haven’t even had time to breathe, let alone…" He trails off, not wanting to reveal too much.

Jake grins knowingly. "Missing Hana, aren’t you? Don’t worry, MAMA’s just around the corner. You’ll see her then."

One evening, as Le Sserafim is leaving a recording studio, Hana spots Heeseung across the hallway. Their eyes meet, and a silent conversation passes between them-a mix of encouragement, longing, and the bittersweet knowledge of their temporary separation.

Heeseung manages a quick wave and a hopeful smile before he’s pulled away by his manager. Hana returns the gesture, her heart aching with a mix of joy and wistfulness.

With their schedules so packed, Hana and Heeseung resort to late-night text messages, a lifeline connecting them across the chaos.

Hana: Just finished rehearsal. My legs are killing me, but it felt good. Thinking of you.

Heeseung: Same here. We’re still tweaking the intro, but it’s coming together. You’re going to be amazing, Hana. I can feel it.

Hana: Thanks, Heeseung. Your words always give me strength. I wish we could just grab a quick coffee and relax for a bit.

Heeseung: Me too. Soon, okay? Just a few more days. We’ll make it through this.

Their messages are simple, but they carry the weight of their unspoken feelings. They’re a reminder that even amidst the chaos, their connection remains strong.

As MAMA draws closer, Hana and Heeseung find solace in the knowledge that they’re working towards a shared dream. They support each other from afar, their love and friendship a beacon of hope in the midst of their busy lives.

On the night before MAMA, Hana sends Heeseung one last message:

Hana: Tomorrow’s the day. Let’s shine, Heeseung. Together, even if we’re apart.

Heeseung: Always, Hana. Always.

Tags: @jiyeons-closet, @mymayaship

I wasn't planning on uploading another part today, but when the notifications on the "activity" tab hits 59 in 4 hours for the first time, you just know I'm gonna upload another part to thank you all.

Plus, Many engagements were in my previous and first ever tumblr series "Hybe Academy". So if you haven't read it, I hope you check it out.

Love,

Mukie is sukie🩶

♡♡♡Thankyou for reading♡♡♡

[hi-im-kaybee]

post-sortie checkup

featuring my characters Kaybee and Guntherie. mild cw for violence, vague dom/sub and petplay themes.

KYB-313's optic processors had switched over to grayscale. That was its formal designation, but its handler Guntherie preferred to call it Kaybee. It was normal for synth pilots like this to jump from a manic, twitchy state down to an almost-sedated one, but the freeze chip Guntherie installed in it had been given a few tweaks outside of the norm.

It could no longer speak. Its mind was foggy and dull, and its reinforced musculature had been turned off, leaving the spindly thing to hold its own weight. Guntherie usually liked to switch this on as they disembarked from the launch deck and into the lower halls, because it was easier for Kaybee to find its footing after making it to the elevator. She relished seeing the fight in its eyes shut down.

It gripped her arm, and let all its weight slump over. It was panting deep and heavy. Spit hung from its mouth in little tendrils. The cockpit of its mech always gets unbearably hot, no matter how many heat retardant layers it packs on or how thick the coolant gel is. Guntherie held tightly to the leash keeping it from wandering too far, or endangering others. Thankfully the elevator was empty aside from the pair.

"You did alright today."

Guntherie's voice, sultry and deep and warm, reverberated in its ears. It tried to let out a soft moan, but the freeze chip kept it from doing anything other than sighing heavily. Its groin became increasingly warm as it began to crumple. Its eyes watered, half-lidded, staring at its feet.

"Hey. Look at me."

Its eyes widened as it struggled to reign its overheating mind to bring attention to its handler. She was wearing a face of dissatisfaction. Almost anger, or contempt.

"You did alright, but you need to keep yourself from collecting small arms fire. It doesn't hurt the craft much, but I have the top brass breathing down my neck about the unnecessary maintenance costs."

This wasn't the praise a good machine was expecting. It hung its head in shame and tightened its grip, before slowly nodding its head. The whiplash from Guntherie gripping its jaw and wrangling it towards her face, bringing them mere inches from another, jolted and shocked the pilot. It bore the face akin to a deer, stuck in the headlights.

"I'm this fucking close to getting reassigned. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else get their hands on you. Do you understand my goddamn words, KYB?"

She never used its assigned name unless she really, really meant it. It nodded its head as much as her grip allowed. The pit of warmth in its core began to grow, and the tears started flowing more effortlessly. All it could muster was a silent whimper. She sneered back in the same venomous tone, this time with an inflection of control, and the barest hint of comfort.

"I hope so. Good girl."

She released its jaw, and it quickly hugged her side. Had the reinforced musculature been turned on, it would have been enough pressure to cut her clean in half. Her hand found its way down its spine, fingers teasing each input port on the first ten vertebrae, before making her way up to the base of its neck. Its mind was on fire trying desperately to hold the information it had received - lest it lose the touch of its beloved handler.

Its eyes were dew-filled and puffy by the time they reached their floor. The steel-gray walls and floors were mixed together like watercolor under the harsh, cool lighting. They made their way to KYB-313's holding unit. It remembered the steps with precision - take the third corridor on the right, follow the left turn, take a left at the T and go down six more doors to the right. They walked at its pace, but it did its best to keep from bothering its handler with a sluggish crawl.

Good girl. It was like a dopamine hit from the best drug in the world. It trudged along, trembling with pleasure after every few steps. It silently swore to the steel up above, and the flesh down below, that it would do better next time. They reached the door and walked in. Kaybee's heart and groin were overheating as hard as its brain now. It could barely keep from squirming as she stripped it of its decksuit, and she definitely took notice.

It already understood to lie down on the coupling chair, the wires automatically snaking their way up and slotting into their proper places. Guntherie slid over it, saddle-style, her groin resting on its stomach. It began to breathe heavy again, and its needy eyes drank in its handler's graceful presence. She began to undo its chestplate, revealing the surprisingly delicate internals - springs, counterweights, circuit boards and wiring, seemingly haphazard but each little bit in its rightful place. Like a handmade watch.

"At least you're all sound inside." Her face couldn't help but betray a little bit of the uncaring mask she wore, as her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. Kaybee could see it, even in the dark and confining space of the room. Even with the greyscale optics activated. She still reached her hands in, feeling it from the inside, despite the clean bill of health. It was almost too much for the poor meat-machine, stuck on the chair, body paralyzed but still feeling to prevent any unwanted movement.

It mouthed a single word - please. It wanted to be ripped apart, piece by piece. It wanted to be tenderly loved and caressed and rode upon. It wanted to be given any sort of attention from the one it loved the most. Its handler. "My handler", it whispered. Guntherie brought her hand and laid it against its throat.

"I didn't give you permission to speak, Kaybee."

Its eyes narrowed, pupils widening from the pleasure, lips tensed into a lovely mix of pleasure and pleading. Her face widened into a smile that would make others' hearts drop in their chests. But Kaybee loved it, for it knew exactly what was happening next.

[archivalofsins]

Goes and plays Reverse 1999 due to a friend becomes obsessed with X after being like why the fuck are you here go away. The evolution

Why are you here?! I wasn't pulling for you!

Oooo Rube Goldberg machines go brrr-

Wait is this guy just Shidou and Mikoto fused???

Why is he just Mikoto?!

Spoilers for Reverse 1999, I guess.

X: You hate the wealth gap and how it incentivises giving those who have more and those that don't less. You hate it so much I can kill this guy for price gouging medicine, right? What do you mean I killed someone, Vertin? Lol, nooo that was a tragic accident unless you're claiming your friend was an accomplice to murder?

Damn it's Mikoto again! I can't keep fallen for this character type.

Jackalope was right,

"No unique features about him. So, I don't have much to comment on. He's kinda like mass-produced goods."

Friend sends me storyboard me-

CHEEKY TEENAGER

His years at the orphanage taught X one truth: If you want something, you must take the initiative. Whenever he invents something new, there's always some unfortunate individual who ends up his test subject. He knew his appearance, along with just the right amount of cockiness, was something nobody could resist.

No one's going to want to help or work with someone who can't communicate properly or doesn't look the part.

Q.04 Are you picky when it comes to fashion?

Mikoto: Of course I am. Nobody would want to ask for anything from an unfashionable designer, right?

20/07/08

Yuno: Hey, Mikoto-san. Don’t you get tired being so conscious of others all the time? I mean, you’re free to do what you want, though.

Mikoto: Eh…… Aha, what are you talking about? I’m not being conscious or anything. It’s normal to make sure to get along with everyone, right? I mean, when you put it like that, aren’t you the same, Yun-chan? You’re always smiling and getting on with everyone, too.

Yuno: I don’t smile unless I actually want to. But with you, when you’re talking with other people it’s more like you only smile deliberately. So I kept thinking, don’t your cheeks get tired? Ah, is this just what happens when you become a working adult? ……you see people like that sometimes.

Mikoto: Haha, you don’t mince your words, do you. …….that was never my intention, but now that you mention it, yeah, I guess I do. This might’ve been since I started my job too…… But like, if I was rude to everyone I met, all my efforts would come to nothing, right?

THE PERFECT CRIME

In order to protect what matters most to you, it's hard to avoid doing something questionable. With convoluted and bewildering methods, along with a plethora of clues, under the intricate workings of the Goldberg machine, these chilling cases often go unresolved.

The full statement alludes to all the murders this guy has committed, which is more than the one shown. The focus on "protecting what matters most to you" is a self-explanatory connection between these two. At least, I believe it is.

Friend sent me this as I was messaging them live reaction reading his story,

Pandora Wilson: Let's talk about something else. There was an accident at an orphanage a few years ago, and I heard you were present.

X: Oh? If you want to discuss topics that have nothing to do with the interview, you have to test this Bubble Gum Spraying Alarm Clock in exchange, okay?

Pandora Wilson: The deceased appeared to have been killed by a loose shingle from the roof. The angle, wind speed, and power it had was incredibly precise.

X: Oh, such is life. It's filled with coincidences and accidents.

X: Don't be sad. Now, let's try this Mini Priest Bouncer and pray for him, shall we?

Pandora Wilson: Please excuse me.

ENCHANTING ARCANE GENIUS

Enchanting items with precision is no small task, but it's simple enough for X. The unknown gift of his bloodline gives him the ability to 'see' the points on each item that require arcane treatment. With some minor tweaking, machines can create endless possibilities in his hands.

Does editing and repair work that takes a keen eye. Also despises being asked to do more work or work outside of his comfort zone.

Has cool horror outfit,

That has nothing to do with the other stuff. Well, it can if one considers Mikoto's relation to horror. But I just find all the horror references in reverse neat.

How I sleep and feel after the character committing murder for morally grey reasons is held accountable and isn't treated like the world's specialist boy who just needs a nice warm blankie and love and affection to heal-

"Reach out for a comfortable chair- Rejoice and throw your arms in the air! 'Cause it's a good life, so why y'all trippin'? The good life's slippin' away."

But the murders-

Me (sometimes admittedly): Whelp-

Especially with the guy X kills who is price gouging medicine all while knowing the world is ending in a few hours anyway due to the storm. Something he is seeking shelter from. Fuck that guy specifically. Dude literally was like how can I make sick people's life worse and myself richer before everything ends.

So, yeah fuck him.

Someone not me who displays anger in healthy ways probably. These characters don't need to be good but it's would be nice if they were just a little justified to soothe my own ego. I don't want to like characters in fiction who are completely irredeemable. Everyone has their reasons and struggles fiction is meant to teach us how to empathize with the experiences of others and put ourselves in their shoes.

No one deserves to die but mistakes happen and maybe this is just that.

X's character showcases the immense amount of detail and planning that needs to go into even the simplest action. Using the complicated machinations of Rube Goldberg machine as a visual illustration of that process and all the parts needed for it to occur. Comparing that machine to people (individuals) and the way the world functions as a whole.

Playing on the old question if someone makes a machine that is set to kill someone completely at random and someone else trips it not the person who created it is it still murder. Some variations of this have the person who made it set it off as well but at a completely random time with no awareness of who it will hit. In my opinion this is an attempt of calling into question intent.

So the answer changes based on if the individual knows the outcome of the event or not. If someone knows the machine is going to kill someone and triggers it they had the intent to kill. If someone accidentally triggers it and is unaware of the function of the machine that's an accident not murder.

This is the same question X's Anecdote in Reverse 1999 poses. By having the unwitting participant in X's Goldberg machine be Sonetto. This leads to Vertin not informing the foundation of X's crime because the trigger of it would be Sonetto,

Making her into an accomplice in the scenario despite her lack of knowledge of it. This is logic Milgram fans should be very familiar with. It's the same logic used to pole vault over the concept of any of the prisoners being murderers. It's the logic on full display when one says the prisoners were just involved in someone's death not directly responsible for it.

It's guilt by causality. Guilt from just being a part of the chain reaction. It's like Futa said at the start of the series-

"Everyone else was having fun weren't they? What about them? Why is it just me?!"

Just because they happened to be there or know the victim they are just as responsible for their victimization? Simply due to their involvement in the situation at all. They weren't better partners, their communication was lacking, they choose to deceive or omit-

They are murderers because they did what any normal person does in a week.

They are murderers because like Sonetto they were there. Like Sonetto they existed in,

"My life started in a wrong spot."

Not because they choose to kill anyone. Not because they set up the machine. No because they were the fulcrum. Because them stumbling across it led to it activating. They could have never known what online comment what online comment would be a person's last straw, how much bullying one person can take, or the significance of what they've been robbing people of.

Hell, maybe they don't remember doing it at all.

These are all ways that the prisoners' distance themselves from their actions and the audience distances them from said actions. Because if the machine is long enough everyone's fine with giving a shrug and saying,

"It’s not my fault-"

I didn't make it that way after all. That's just how the world is- It's just how God made it.

"God gave me everything, everything is as I wish." - "I’ve got EVERYTHING, everything is as I wish."

You see,

"It can’t be helped.”

Those are the rules after all.

"After you cry, repent, and kneel, it’s now your turn to say that hopeless “I’m sorry”. You’re sorry? I don’t care! Please, go ahead and die already." - "Don’t you think it’s wonderful to control them with my gentle sting."

The ways that the prisoners and the audience attempt to distance their selves from the actions they took- Does it still make sense when compared to Sonetto's situation?

Would she be a murderer by that same logic. Would X not be considered a murderer because everyone dies eventually anyhow?

Is it fair to call someone a killer for doing an every day thing like picking up penny off the ground just because someone else set up a machine to shot a gun off in a crowded area if someone picked that penny up?

A person cannot account for what they don't know. They can learn better for the future most definitely. Yet, this is why to me at least saying the prisoners were just involved in someone's death not directly responsible for it due to the choices they made is not murder. The intent matters. The desired outcome matters.

X is shown to understand this. Not only understand it but know how to make it so his machines won't harm anyone. In the same Anecdote he makes a marble shooter for a few kids that no matter where you aim it the marble goes back to the same spot. Taking into consideration that children if given such a thing would immediately use it to hurt other children.

The amount of effort and forethought that goes into these things for them to become persistent patterns of behavior is inconceivable. Can someone cause someone else's death accidentally? Yes, things like this can happen accidentally in many ways. Do any of the things in Milgram look like accidents?

Absolutely not. Is it fun to think about them being accidents or out of their direct control for angst reasons? Yeah, absolutely. However, most of them allude to repeating the same thing over and over. After a point a choice is a choice.

How many times can someone do the same thing before one considers it may be by design instead of error? But have I considered their troubles and experiences? Yes, but that's not my main concern when it comes to Milgram. Sometimes I am just too busy experiencing the catharsis of bad people getting what they deserve as good people fall prey to the question,

"What matters most doing the right thing or maintaining your moral purity?"

All because a lot of times in life those two things won't align. Just to find out neither it's all what the individual puts stake in themselves.

In order to protect what matters most to you, it's hard to avoid doing something questionable.

Sometimes I can recognize the victim and the perpetrator are the same person that neither title negates the other. Because it's nice to keep it simple but it isn't realistic.

What's a persons morals in the face of the chaos that is reality. What is order in the disordered? Can a society that functions off the exploitation of it's weakest individuals be considered orderly?

Is that sort of machine worth replicating or should it be dismantled from the inside out?

Is it fine to,

"AAAHHHHHHHHHH!! DESTROY EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!!"

Or

"Is this selfish? This isn’t too much is it?"

At the end of the day this big machine and the constructs built around it won't stop the inevitable. Be it today or several hundred years from now the machine is going to go off.

Outside of all that sometimes... I just like to go-

"Ooooo Rube Goldberg machine goes brr-"

Because it isn't about the outcome. It's not about being right or efficient to me. It's about the process and what I can learn through it. Everything that may impede me doing that regardless of how reasonable can just go in the fireplace,

Well I'm going to go cook and try to catch up on Tsumigram now.

[merv606]

Thinking about how Puritan baby Daniel takes it in the ass. Terry pounding that ass, hitting his spot, playing with Daniel's 'rosebud' and making that boy knotdrunk.

Daniel's mortified when Terry first starts playing his asshole, using the slick from his cunt to open him, thick fingers opening him up before sliding inside. Daniel protesting a little first, but never seriously.

'S-Sir! No, no, we can't - this is - it can't, that's my.. Sir?'

'Is it holy to say no to your Alpha, honey? Is that your place, hm? To give orders?'

Daniel gasps, horrified at the thought of being naughty. Of disobeying his Husband.

Besides, Terry finds his spot and makes the boy see stars. His omega loves getting fucked. Mouth, cunt, ass.

This one came in right after I got the first ask in regards to Terry taking his 🍑.

NSFW

That being said, the first time Terry fucks his omega’s ass is in that answer - after Sam is born and Terry can’t be in the omega how he wants.

Once Daniel is given the okay, his husband goes back to filling him the usual way.

I HC that if not pregnant, then Terry always like to comes deep inside his omega. If not, he (and Daniel) consider it a waste of his seed. Even if he’s fucking his mouth, he’s known to pull out right before he comes, getting his cock inside in just enough time.

So, for your scenario above let’s tweak it a bit.

After Daniel is quickly found to be with child again - mere weeks after Terry resumed fucking his womb full, well, Terry decides that, he will have Daniel in that way again.

He doesn’t pay it much mind when Terry starts playing with his rim - he does still eat him out there - and he has started putting his fingers inside there while his cock is in his pussy.

So Daniel assumes this will be one of those times, Terry is already pumping him cock in and out of Daniel’s slick omeag hole.

But when he pulls out of his cunt, cock wet with slick, and starts to press against his other hole ….

“Sir,” he stammers ….. his alpha had said it was okay to use that hole for now because he wasn’t able to use his other one …. His alpha never took him like that until then and then went right back to his cunt ….

“I thought …..”

“Shhh,” Terry says, putting his fingers in his mate’s mouth, while he plunges fingers back into him, gathering the wetness there, only to spread it around his rim.

Terry opens the bedside table - where he keeps the lube and mere seconds later, two fingers are messaging said lube into that furled pink muscle, and Daniel relaxes into the feeling - knowing what is coming.

Two fingers slip in and go right to his spot, and Daniel cries out, as much as he can around the fingers still in his mouth.

Tears stream down, and mix with the drool forming at the corners of his mouth as his husband fingers his spot with ruthless determination and precision.

He’s working his hips in tandem with the fingers, his husband pointing this out with glee.

“See baby - how much you want me in either of your pretty. Tight. Little. Greedy. Holes.”

Each word is punctuated with nudge of thick fingers to his spot, and Daniel can also feel his husband’s cock against his ass.

To make matters worse, they’re in front of a mirror that Terry has installed in front of their bed.

Back to chest, his legs dangling on the outside of Terry’s so that when Terry opens his legs he spreads Daniel’s wider with them.

Two fingers in his cunt now too, open and wet from his cock, his stomach already showing the child that grows inside again.

Sam wails down the hall and his nipples start to bead white, Terry groaning at the sight.

Her crying tampers off, so the nanny must be with her, but his little mate’s tits are leaking now, anticipating a hungry baby about to latch on.

Terry can help with that.

Turning him in his lap now, his cock slips between his crack, before Terry steadies it, putting it in his ass, taking a plump nipple in his mouth sucking harshly as each inch opens him up.

He bounces his pregnant mate on his cock a few times, watching his tits shake as he does so, lifting him up and down his cock.

“Now, touch your rosebud for me, just like I showed you …..” he whispers into his ear.

Up until Terry Daniel never touched himself - his alpha showing him how to pleasure himself while he was inside him

and it wasn’t until he was pregnant with Sam that he touched himself without Terry there - a proper omega always waits too their alpha initiates sex - something that Terry did often so Daniel was often well satisfied but once he hit that trimester ….. he was more horny than normal - and one afternoon, after his nap, before he knew what he was doing his hand was between his legs playing with himself as he rubbed as his full chest.

Whimpering and moaning he didn’t even realize when Terry had come in to check on him / sensing the little omega had woken …..

He had watched the little omega playing with himself - his hard little bud - the wet noises as he fingered himself desperately.

Back to present and he’s touching himself there just as desperate - just as his husband instructed - his thick cock in his ass hitting his prostate - “now put your fingers inside that pretty little cunt baby,” Terry tells him, managing to drag his mouth off his swollen tits long enough to tell him such, before latching back on.

His thrusts are getting sloppier and Daniel knows his husband is getting close, just as he is - his body overwhelmed with pleasure from the onslaught.

His husband pulls out, coming across his belly and leaking tits, before diving down, sucking the little bud into his moth and Daniel stiffens, soaking his husband as he comes.

Terry takes time to admire how throughly debauched his little mate is - both holes wet and fucked open.

Terry massages his mate’s tiny bump, before trailing down to his pussy.

“I haven’t filled you here yet,” Terry remarks, as he rolls Daniel onto his stomach, pulling his back by his hips so he’s at his husband’s loving mercy - always.

Daniel knows he’s going to be moving around gingerly tomorrow.

Such is the price he happily pays to be such a good omegan mate.

The first ask:

[eclipsejynx]

Betrayal. Pt. 2

! THIS IS CANNON, BUT STILL GOING UNDER DEVELOPMENT! THE EVENT IS CANNON, BUT HOW IT WENT COULD BE TWEAKED IN THE FUTURE !

Part One

Summary - In the Nalux Empire, The Cult of the Angels decide how they'll deal with the Devil's Crest, including the two "traitors", Ori and Onyx!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

 After the “episode” with Midnight, Ori and Onyx needed a mental health day. A break from fighting and chaos.

Yeah, as if those still exist.

Not long after, Lunar called a meeting for all of the members. Since it was around two in the morning, Onyx dragged Ori in despite both of them being half asleep. As they entered the pearly white war room, made for meetings between alliances, they could see they weren’t the only ones. Solar, Lunar’s younger brother, had noticeable eye bags under his eyes. However, he was often in the library after hours. Next to him was Eclipse, the creature from the forest. Since the uprising, Lunar’s been more lenient towards creatures from the unknown.

Solar loved the idea.

The other members were the same, yawning and rubbing their eyes. Lunar sighed when he heard people silently complain about the light, though he was just as tired. His movements were sluggish, but he started the meeting nonetheless. He began with the expected “thanks for coming on such short notice” speech, then moved to the real reason.

“We’ve noticed unusual patterns in the Devil’s Crest,” he started slowly, looking to make sure everyone’s been paying attention. At the mention of the Devil’s Crest, most people stopped their side conversations and chatter. “They seem more constant with their attacks. It’s not necessarily in a pattern, just…” He trailed off, looking for the words. “They’ve been attacking more frequently, more than we can handle. They’re going by too quickly.” An audible groan rang throughout the room, much to everyone’s displeasure. It was true. The Devil’s Crest was advancing closer to kingdoms, destroying anything in their path. It was like a fire, consuming everything in its hunger.

“New reports came in recently,” he spoke calmly, taking a few papers from the side. “The Oparius Kingdom officially gave themselves to the Devil’s Crest.” Gasps rang throughout the room, many showing expressions of shock and disappointment. The Devil’s Crest had another kingdom on their side, no matter how they gained it. Solar’s muscles tensed up, tapping his fingers against the long table. It had a large, detailed map showing the precise locations of each kingdom and forest, ravine and cave, tribes and locals. He hovered over the table, looking at Lunar with confusion and shock. He couldn’t believe what he just heard. “Oparius? But…” he trailed off, thinking about the past. At one point, the king consulted with Lunar about a marriage offer. The family was explicitly power-hungry and thought Lunar would be thrilled with the idea. Lunar politely declined, saying he was only seventeen. Yet, that left them furious, and there’s been minor conflict ever since. “Nevermind. It makes sense,” He muttered, hanging his head low.

Lunar sighed, mumbling swears under his breath. “We know Oparius is more advanced in technology, and their kingdom is a bit bigger.”

“That means the Devil’s Crest has more technology weapons at their disposal,” Onyx chipped in, his face stern. “It explains how they’ve been getting more land quicker. New weapons mean we can’t attack head-on. It’s too risky.” He stared at the giant map on the table. He grabbed a blood-red knife and stabbed it on the table, marking Oparius as Devil’s territory. Lunar scanned the table and grabbed another knife, a Devil’s mark. His gaze traced carefully, and swiftly, he stabbed the Perdita Forest. “Scouts mentioned a few Devil Crest’s members sneaking around in large numbers. They were too small to engage, so they returned. By now, they’ve probably destroyed most of the trees and killed off the inhabitants.” Lunar’s eyes narrowed, clearly irritated. Over half of the map looked crimson.

Just like the world would be if they didn’t hurry.

Sighing, Ori shut his eyes. “We can’t do much. What’s the point, anyway? Oparius gave the Devil’s Crest new weapons! We don’t know how to handle them. All we can do is observe for now.” Mutters of agreement sprouted throughout the war room, people prompting solutions between one another. Lunar looked around warily, not knowing what to do. Eclipse stood near Solar, gently holding his hand. She gave a reassuring look to Solar as he prompted an idea. 

“We could try to ally with other kingdoms.” Most of the conversation stopped as they stared at Solar, who was awkwardly shifting legs. Lunar glared. “No, no way. It’s too risky. You saw what happened to Oparius, and we both know it could happen again. If Oparius is a traitor, there’s no evidence saying it won’t happen again.” The tension in the room grew thick between the two, no one wanting to intervene. “You don’t even know if they did it by choice! For all we know, they could’ve been holding them hostage!” Solar countered, but all Lunar did was sigh, rubbing his forehead. “It doesn’t matter either way. If anything, it makes it worse! If the Devil’s Crest can threaten a kingdom that advanced, god knows what’ll happen to the others. What’ll happen to us! They could be surrendering right now!”

“You don’t know that,” Solar stammered, trying to convince Lunar. “It’s the best shot we’ve got.” Lunar sighed in frustration. He recomposed himself, staring at Solar. “Solar, we don’t know how the Devil’s Crest thinks. They could have spy kingdoms or try to destroy us from the inside. If we ask anyone to join us, there’s no saying they’ll betray us. We don’t know who to trust anymore.” Lunar gave a solemn look, pleading Solar to end the argument.

Solar’s breath grew frantic, worry setting in. Eclipse tried to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder, but he shoved it off. He turned around and marched out, clearly aggravated. Eclipse chased after him, leaving the idea in the wind. The room was eerily quiet. No one dared to move a muscle. Onyx and Lunar moved closer together, their quiet chatter barely audible. Most guessed they were discussing plans and motives. Ori just stood on the sidelines, wondering what anything was anymore. The memories of Midnight’s anger towards him flashed in his brain, the image of him staring with dead eyes, a mere silhouette. It was all haunting him, and he hated every second of it.

A few gained confidence and debated their options, using prior knowledge about the Devil’s Crest. However, Ori quickly realized that their knowledge was limited. 

But his knowledge wasn’t. He’s been in the Devil’s Crest longer than anyone here.

“I can help you,” Ori strolled towards Lunar and Onyx, hunched over the map. They both turned their attention towards him, Onyx showing a relaxed face. Ori couldn’t help but blush slightly. His soft skin was pulling him in a trance. “Help us?” Lunar sounded skeptical, his eyes narrowing. Ori and Onyx were new to the group, but Lunar trusted Onyx more. After all, he acted like a spy to him, sharing information Midnight leaked through their conversations. The thought of betraying him like that brought Ori out of his trance. “Right, help…” He took a deep, shallow breath. “I’ve been in the Devil’s Crest longer than any of you! I understand how they work, how they fight, basically everything.” Ori stressed, wanting him to believe they were on the same side. Lunar wasn’t as thrilled, but Onyx shared an understanding look.

“Thank you, Ori. We’re grateful–”

“Speak for yourself, Onyx.” Lunar glared at Onyx, then looked at Ori with a degrading look. “What information can you offer?” Ori swallowed, his brain going blank. “Uhm… I know about how they fight and their weapons.” He messed with his fingers, picking at the nails. He sounded so pathetic and out of place. Lunar gave a reluctant look towards Onyx, but the look in Onyx’s eyes showed he trusted Ori. Sighing, Lunar spoke to Ori.

“We’ll need all the help we can get.” He sounded annoyed but looked around the room. The whispers were growing louder, and the meeting wasn’t going in the direction he wanted it to. “Everyone, silence!” Lunar gave an order that echoed throughout the hall, and a silence fell over the people. “It seems I’ve… overlooked one of our greatest accomplices,” Lunar started, motioning toward Ori. He gave an awkward wave and looked back at Lunar, waiting for him to continue. “We may not be able to observe the Devil’s Crest, but we have prior knowledge. Ori’s lived there for over half his life, and he’s bound to have useful information we could learn from. Right, Ori?” Lunar seemed expectant of Ori, giving him a half-glare. Onyx gently reached out to Ori’s hand, their fingers brushing against each other. It gave Ori a sense of comfort, but it quickly vanished. He knew what extent they had to go to be here, and the guilt was eating him alive.

“Yes, I do,” Ori mumbled, pulling his hand away from Onyx’s grasp. He could see the disappointment in his eyes but didn’t dare mention a word. “I know more about their fighting than anyone here. I know how they think and react to things. They always try to find a way around problems, despite any bloodshed along the way.” Ori could see people wince in the background. Almost everyone here lost someone from the Devil’s Crest’s hands. Now it’s their turn.

The meeting lasted longer than anticipated, lasting until seven. Most stayed, but Lunar was lenient enough to let others leave if it was urgent. Yet, no one knew about Solar or Eclipse’s wearbouts. Still, they had to keep going. Ori, Lunar, and Onyx took the lead, leading the meeting to where it was required. They needed to start attacking instead of waiting for the Devil’s Crest to attack. “We could start by gathering more weapons,” Lunar suggested, looking at Ori for confirmation. “Definitely. Make sure they’re lighter. The faster, the better. Their weapons are more advanced because they’re easier to carry, saving space for other, more valuable tools.” Lunar nodded and wrote this down in a notebook.

“What about their technology? They have Oparius on their side, but what was their original technology?” Lunar questioned, looking at Ori. He looked at the map, pointing to a forest. “There. There’s a lot of material like Yurite. It’s light but strong. Giant mines are scattered around here.”

“We should head there soon and try to stop them from gathering materials,” proposed Lunar, not caring if he sounded selfish, but Onyx shook his head. “We have too few numbers compared to them. Even if we tried an ambush, they’d prepare. Now that me and Ori are considered traitors, which we are, they’ll be on edge. We have to think this through carefully.” Everyone in the room sighed. No one wanted to do any more waiting.

“I get it, okay? We’re all tired. Should we just wait this one out?” Onyx said, sounding disappointed with his own words. Murmurs rose throughout the room, contemplating Onyx’s suggestion. Of course, most went against it, but what other choice did they have? They had too little supplies to deal with, more conflicts arising throughout the Devil’s Crest that would affect them, and they still didn’t know what action to take.

Lunar looked around, feeling the weight on his shoulders. “We’ll take a break. Consider this your day off, or whatever. Someone find Eclipse and Solar while you’re at it. I’ll be reviewing plans and maps. I’ll be here if you need me.” Slowly, people drained out of the room, including Onyx, but Ori stayed.

Ori tried initiating a conversation and, at the very least, apologize for being untrustworthy. It was seen clearly in Lunar’s eyes. “I just want you to know I’m on your side. You can trust me. Just let me help.”

Sighing, Lunar looked at Ori with tired eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just…” He rubbed his eyes, mentally drained. “I don’t know who to trust anymore. With most of the kingdom’s giving up, it’s like they’re trying to pressure us into doing the same.” He glanced towards a photo on the wall, showing Solar and Lunar’s official royal portrait. “I don’t want him to get hurt, y’know? I just want him to be safe.” Ori could see a glistening in Lunar’s eyes, tears threatening to fall. Lunar cleared his throat and wiped his tears with his arm. “I apologize for my informality when we first met. I didn’t mean to be so hostile to you, Ori. I just didn’t know you well enough–”

“It’s fine, Lunar. Really, it’s not that big of a deal,” Ori assured, his voice slightly cracking. “Love does things to a person. It makes them overprotective and wary of others. I know how it feels.” Lunar gave a half-laugh, smiling slightly. “That makes both of us, doesn’t it?”

The silence grew awkward, neither knowing what to say.

“Still, it doesn’t excuse my actions,” Lunar said, still having his apologetic voice. “I’m truly sorry for everything. For doubting you, not showing trust, and being a total asshole. I swear, from now on, I’ll be more understanding.” Ori smiled, knowing he’d gained some trust.

“I know I don’t know how the Devil’s Crest was there, and I can’t say much about it. I don’t know who you are, how they raised you, or what shit you went through, but I’ll try my best to be better. To treat you better. You’ll always be treated respectfully here, despite where you came from.” Lunar gave a look of appreciation towards Ori, and Ori gratefully gave it back. Clearing his throat, Lunar composed himself and returned to his slightly cold demeanor. “Don’t think this means I like you or anything. Remember, you should know your place.”

Ori smiled despite the threat. “The feelings mutual, your highness.”

Before Lunar could reply, someone burst into the room, the doors slamming against the walls.

Onyx.

“The Devil’s Crest has Solar and Eclipse. They’re outside of the Silva Mortis Forest.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Welp, that was pretty bad- I know you don't know any of the characters, and you're probably not gonna read this, but ta-da(?) I'll post more about them on my worldbuilding blog (which I'll mention on a separate post).

[late-nite-scholar]

Aug 10th (Day 6): Prompt Used- In Bloom / Blood 

Day 6: Blood- Thaeril doesn’t make traditional food for non-Bosmer after being stung one too many times by the reaction to it and what it’s made from. But Ralof asks if she will, and she agrees to make something for him to try. Pre/Early relationship. Trying to think of interesting cuisine for Green Pact adherent Bosmer and different ideas for food.      

(Note: the recipe used here is based on Sorpotel (Goan Pork Offal Stew), the Indian version of a Portuguese recipe, which uses blood and various offal in the way I thought would be interesting and make sense here. I’ve obviously tweaked things a bit, but kept the basic ingredients and methods of the dish. I have no idea if this version would actually work, but we’re assuming it will.)

Prompts by @tes-summer-fest

Bosmer OC x Ralof

Warnings- Blood (but we're butchering/cooking, not fighting)

Wordcount- around 2.1K

(all of my characters have first-rate RBFs. Description in alt text)

***

Ralof sat up gingerly, watching as Thaeril came in with a large, wild goat slung across her shoulders. She was grinning, her angular face lit up like a child in a sweets store.

“Look at this! We will eat like royalty tonight!” She cried. “It led me on a good chase, too. It was a good hunt.”

“Well you won’t see me complain.”

“I’ll roast it up.” She laughed, a little sadly. “I won’t do anything too… weird with it, don’t worry.”

Something twinged in Ralof’s chest. There was hurt behind her words, he was certain of it. “I’ve honestly never eaten anything made the proper Bosmer way. Would you… would you want to cook some of it the way your people would? I’d be interested to try it.”

“Really? Ohhh… I’d want to do something different than stew, then. I think I have some bone flour I could make flatbreads and then I should have enough spices to make a curry and… and that should be good?”

“That doesn’t sound ‘weird’ at all.”

“Would it make a difference if I said that the base for the sauce is blood?”

“Not at all. I’m looking forward to it.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m sure a lot of people would be strange about it, but your culture is so important to you. The least I can do is try it, right?”

Thaeril’s smile alone was worth it, but Ralof had to admit he was intrigued by the idea. There had been plenty of time to talk when he’d been more badly injured and Thaeril had stayed by his side almost constantly. She’d explained the Green Pact to him and what it meant for her people. But she’d never really made much Bosmer food, preferring to try and make things she thought he’d find more palatable. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see the real thing for himself, try it for himself.

So he watched her hang the beast from its back feet and drain its blood into a large jar. Putting that to the side, she began skinning and dressing the carcass with breathtaking efficiency. In the short time they’d known each other, Ralof had very quickly noticed just how completely and staggeringly competent Thaeril was in seemingly everything she did. He didn’t just think that because she’d saved his life; it was obvious in even the smallest tasks. 

Now she was digging through her bag, pulling out a pouch and sorting through small jars of spices. Some went back into the pouch and others she put to the side. Once she had all the ones she wanted, she began adding various amounts of each one to a bowl. All of this was splashed with a little vinegar from yet another bottle and mixed into a paste. 

“That smells quite intriguing!” He pulled himself a little closer, moving carefully to not jog his wounds. 

“I didn’t go too wild. I don’t want to make your first Bosmer meal so spicy you can’t eat it.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll be good for me.”

“Well, this is going to ferment and do its thing while I get some meat and bits cut up.” She set it to the side and stood, taking out her knife again. She moved with unhurried grace, knowing precisely what she needed. First, a  good, solid chunk of meat from the shoulder went into the pot. After that, she inspected and threw in a little fat. He could see why, the meat itself was quite lean without it. After that she was into the beast’s belly. Into the pot went the heart, a kidney, a lung, the tongue, and a chunk of the liver. After adding a little more fat, she cut everything up into more manageable pieces. To this, she added enough blood cut with water to cover everything and fill the pot most of the way. It went onto the fire, first right over, and then pulled back once it had boiled. 

“That’s going to simmer for a while.” She sat back, satisfied. “Then I’ll have to do the next steps. For now, I’ll start taking apart the rest of this and start some preserving.”

She took the haunches and set them up over the fire to roast. Other parts she began to slice up for smoking and drying. Ralof watched for a few minutes before asking. “Is there something I can do to help?”

Thaeril froze. His question had thrown her for a loop. She hadn’t had anyone ask if they could help her with anything for a long time, and it took her a moment to think and reply. 

“Well, if you can cut up pieces for drying, that would free me up to do some other things. That would probably work best. Um, thank you, for offering.”

“Of course. I might as well be useful while I’m sitting here.”

So they worked together for a while in companionable quiet. Thaeril couldn’t help but smile at the big Nord, carefully and diligently working away. It’d been a long time since she’d shared a task like this, she was far more used to doing everything for herself. 

Eventually, she had to put this out of her mind and concentrate on their meal's next steps. Draining the broth into a bowl, she put the meat and offal back over the fire until it sizzled, filling the cave with a mouthwatering smell. It even slowed Ralof’s hands as he looked over. 

“Well that smells wonderful!” He grinned. “I think I’m going to like this recipe of yours.”

Thaeril found herself looking down, paying very close attention to the bottom of the cooking pot. At least that way she could say it was the heat from the fire making her face red and not Ralof’s words. But soon enough it was time to add the spice paste, and soon an even more divine aroma wafted around them. 

She let that cook for a little while before adding the blood broth back in. A little bit of bone flour mixed with water went in as well. Just enough that it would help thicken up the broth a bit. She certainly didn’t want to ruin the dish by having the sauce too thin. Not when she was sharing it with Ralof, and this was his introduction to Bosmer food. It had to be perfect. 

Once the curry was mixed and ready, she pulled it back a little from the heat of the fire and let it simmer again. It would give her time to finish up the preservation of the rest of the carcass, and hopefully it would be done by the time food was ready. 

Taking her drying rack outside, she made another small fire beneath it. Ralof had done a fine job of getting things ready on his end, and she had a lot of meat prepared to smoke. As she arranged the strips of meat to her liking, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d acted out of instinct when she’d saved Ralof. A lone man, outnumbered, the rest of his squad dead, and fighting impossible odds. But fighting magnificently. She’d jumped in, not willing to watch this warrior die so ignobly to a treacherous blade. That was before she’d known how sweet and kind he was in addition to his prowess. 

“Thank Y’ffre I was there at that moment,” she said softly to herself. 

*** 

By the time she needed to make the flatbread, she and Ralof had gotten the rest of the goat prepared. The fire beneath the drying rack chugged out smoke at a nice pace, and Thaeril knew it was going to be good jerky. The rest of the organs were drying in the air, each strip strung onto a long line to keep good airflow between them. 

Now she put some of her bone flour into her bowl. To this, she added a couple of eggs, a little salt and honey, and enough water to mix it all. Letting it sit for a moment, she moved a skillet right over the hottest part of the fire and threw a little of the goat fat in. As the pan heated up, she rolled chunks of the bread dough into thin discs. When the fat started to sizzle in the pan, she put in the first disc of dough. They cooked quickly, and it was barely a minute before she flipped it over and then out of the pan completely. She’d made enough dough for six flatbreads, and as soon as one came out, a little more fat and another one went in. In only a few short minutes, they were all finished. 

With that done, she checked the curry one last time. Taking a quick taste, she smiled. It had turned out perfect. So at least if Ralof didn’t like it, she’d have plenty of very delicious food to eat for the next couple of days. But she really hoped that wouldn’t be the case. 

She put the thought out of her mind and looked over. “Everything’s ready. Would you like to try it?”

“I’d love to!” 

A little nervously, Thaeril filled their bowls. They sat together, each now with some curry and a flatbread. Thaeril watched with trepidation as Ralof studied and sniffed his portion curiously. Then, he tore off a piece of the bread and took a bite. With a nod, he dipped it into his bowl like a scoop. Not a small taste either, but big chunks of meat and offal and a good amount of the sauce. For a split second, her heart leapt into her throat. But only for a split second. 

Ralof's eyes went wide as he tried this first taste. Once his mouth was empty again, he laughed. "Shor's bones, that's a fine meal! The meat is so tender… most people don't know how to cook organ meat properly and it's tough but this! Gods, and the spices! And this bread! I wasn't sure how these would even work, but I can't imagine better to go with the meal. Thaeril, this is amazing! Can you make more Bosmer food from now on?" 

Thaeril stared. "Do you mean that?" 

"Of course! This is as fine a meal as anyone could ask for." He frowned a little. "Someone like me doesn't usually say things like that, do they?" 

"Yeah. Usually we don't get past the ingredients. You don't know how many times I've been told how we eat like animals, that our food is fit only for dogs. That we're disgusting cannibals." 

He reached out and gently rubbed her arm. "We men and mer aren't very good at understanding other customs, are we? I'm sorry people have told you that. When you explained everything to me, it made so much sense. And it's important to you. Even if someone doesn't like something, why be cruel?" 

Tears welled in her eyes. "How are you so nice?"

He shrugged. "I’m just me. And plenty of folks don't like my people's customs. They think we're brutish, they don't like our gods. I'd never hurt you like that. And… and this is really good." 

"Thank you." She blinked back tears as she pulled him into a gentle, one-armed hug. "And if you want, I'll cook lots more Bosmer food for you to try until you're all healed up." 

"I hope you'll make some after that, too." Ralof's face went pink the moment the words left his lips. Both had avoided talking about later, when he was healed and they would presumably part ways. He stammered a little. "I mean, I might need an escort back to Windhelm. Even healed, I'm not going to be at my best right away." 

"I've been a bodyguard before, I might be convinced to do so again." She gave him a small smile. 

"I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, what other recipes have you got? I know we'll have this goat for a few days, but after that we'll have to think of something. Maybe by then I can help hunt?" 

So Thaeril began to explain other things they could try as Ralof listened attentively. He asked many thoughtful and respectful questions, truly curious and wanting to understand. She could feel the flush rise in her face. No one had ever taken such interest in her culture before. Not only that, but Ralof ate two helpings of the curry and bread as they talked. And for the second time that day, Thaeril thanked Y'ffre with all her heart that she'd been in the right place at the right time. 

[krittayasgame]

Fi-shine Racing Game Post-Mortem

Originally, I set out to create a game that was going to be fun and interesting, 3D racing with a different kind in it, the underwater theme. Fishes were racing against each other in a fascinating ocean filled with dangerous predators and pesky obstacles - this concept was stimulated by classical car racing games. First and foremost, it was the plan to dive into 3D game creation utilizing GDevelop, but at the same time, I had to tweak my approach to match the tool’s limitations resulting from the impossibility of easily editing collision markers on 3D models. Nevertheless, my reorientation enabled me to still get the job done by focusing on a top-down 2D view with 3D elements which made the game dynamic.

Design Notes

At the very beginning, I was all in for giving the game a deeply 3D look, thus achieving a high level of immersion, but GDevelop’s inability to allow for changing the collision of the 3D model made me rethink the aspect and stick to a 2D view. This way, the project became friendlier in terms of design, nevertheless, despite going into 3D touch for the fish, the 3D aspect still was there. The main purpose of the game is for the players to get through a hectic sea environment being chased by enemies and still be in the race to stay along.

A wide range of fish enemies and a setting that had the feeling of being underwater were a combination of factors that made sure that the game was all the more interesting. The design of the game was a charming touch.

What Worked Well:

Core Mechanics & Controls:

The play's basic controls and mechanics functioned as required. Players are allowed to speed up by pressing the W, A, and D keys with a mechanic of a cooldown in between. The enemies that appear randomly are there to increase the variety of the game and as players achieve some progress to make it harder also it adds to a fun and challenging experience.

Art and Theme:

While I be working in 2D, using 3D fish was a smart decision. The theme of the underwater world, that is, with such lively fish and other sea creatures as crabs and reefs, was for the game to have a rather special and cute atmosphere that was in full agreement with the game’s plaything nature.

Challenge:

One of the key issues that I was unable to solve was the malfunctioning of the 3D models' colliders in Develop. Due to this, the collision detection has become inaccurate so that players will be unable to avoid the bad fish. The collision system of the game still presents difficulties, while the effects on the user are both the original and some addition.

What Could Be Improved:

Collision System: If I had more time, I would focus on refining the collision detection system to make it more accurate and fair.

Game Levels: More levels and varied enemy behaviors could increase the game’s replay value and challenge.

Audio: The addition of more sound effects and music could help immerse the player further into the underwater theme, making the game feel more lively.

Playtesting and Feedback:

During testing the game, the feedback of the players to the game's appearance and underwater nature was more than favorable. At the very beginning of the game easily, at least, sea horses and octopi are about to be added and the play island will be additionally formal.

The game's health system and instructions from my side failed to make the player understand the gameplay.

Regardless of that, the group of players strongly recommended that more hurdles be introduced, as well as levels, to enable the game's realization as going beyond words appearing on the screen.

It was pretty clear that the problems related to the collision misled the game's natural complexity, and the precision of the instructions to the player turned the act of playing into an enjoyable pastime

My New Knowledge:

In the process of this project, I got the insight of a creative way of problem-solving to discover solutions to problems and also of the necessity of being flexible with the tool's restrictions. When GDevelop had no option for 3D model collision editing that matched my requirements, I still found a way to make the game alive by implementing 3D elements in 2D environment. Both game user experience (UX) and the feedback I got from the players were major. They have helped me to not only verify the changes in the game but also to better understand the user experience in game design.

Final Thoughts:

Fi-shine was a challenging and big project for me. It was my first time working with 3D assets and game mechanics in a 2D environment. The collision system turned out to be one of the most difficult parts of the game but the visual appeal and the game theme were convincing. The player's response definitely pointed out the flaws in the game and I am now aware of the ways in which I can improve the game and make the more efficient. In the next phase of my game, I would mainly concentrate on sorting out collision problems, then decide on the next levels and certainly, I would enhance the whole game experience using the user's feedback.

[paulasosafilm]

Week 7

Dolly workshop

This week I attended the dolly workshop led by David Byrne. We are planning to have a few shots with camera movements in Lola's Room that we will be using a dolly for, and although I am not in the camera department I thought this class would be a valuable learning experience for me. It was very useful being able to play around with the dolly and come up with shot ideas on the spot, as well as knowing what to expect on set when we are using the dolly.

Initial meeting with actors + photoshoot

After sharing a shortlist of the actors that applied for Lola's Room with the rest of the HoDs and considering everyone's thoughts, we have cast Fabiana do Carmo as Lola and Annie Ferguson as Jasmine! This week we had a first meeting with them to break the ice and get to know each other and start talking about the film with them. Since time is limited, we also used this occasion to do a photoshoot for photos to use in the set design.

Storyboarding

For the past couple of weeks, Max and I have been working together on story boards, and this week we finally completed them!

It has taken a lot longer than I thought it would, as we have tried to be quite precise with our planning to avoid having to improvise on set. We also had to plan around the space that we have in the room that we will be using as our set, which is quite small and so it comes with its limitations. Due to this, we had to rethink some of the shots that we had in mind and come up with creative solutions. Other aspects that made the storyboarding process tricky were that we will be using a mirror for a lot of the shots and have to make sure that eye lines will match, and that there is so much movement in the script that we need multiple different shots to cover the action in each scene.

We tried to be as creative as we could and find ways to move away from obvious shots, and instead try new things in order to make Lola's Room visually interesting, and also to challenge ourselves. We also kept in mind our references and the ideas we had developed throughout the stages of pre-production so as to make sure the visual language of the film is clear, cohesive, and works well with the story.

Final script meeting with Gaby

After the last bit of feedback was incorporated into the script, Gaby and I had one last script meeting to finalise it and make any final tweaks for our shooting script. The changes that were made at this stage were only in relation to the blocking, as I had a much clearer idea of the movement after developing the storyboards and floorpans, and I wanted some changes to be incorporated into the script. Another last minute addition was the words of the spell that the characters' cast which I came up with:

"Luz del ocaso, ilumina mis pasos,

peina mi pelo y pinta mis labios"

Which translates to something along the lines of:

"Light of twilight, illuminate my steps,

brush my hair and paint my lips".