#the text animation is so refreshing

[godtier]

if you told me in 2021 that I'd be emotionally invested in the story of a man buying a grocery store lobster with the intention to eat it only to then decide on a whim to keep it as a pet because he felt bad about how sad and weak it looked in the tank, which then turned into a 3-ish year long series of updates about his new enclosures and molting progress and his vibrant personality (for a lobster), with a health scare involving a dropped claw, ending on this very day with his sudden death during a molt, I would say

yes, that sounds exactly like something I'd become invested in and I'm now devastated thank you goodbye

[bayofwolves]

Remember when Heart of the Land was announced and all we knew about it was that there would be three new characters -- Sora, Jean-Luc and Ngozi -- and we thought they were replacing the Four as protagonists? Honestly, if they went that route, it might have been better than whatever arc three was.

[insertdisc5]

🎮 HEY I WANNA MAKE A GAME! 🎮

Yeah I getcha. I was once like you. Pure and naive. Great news. I AM STILL PURE AND NAIVE, GAME DEV IS FUN! But where to start?

To start, here are a couple of entry level softwares you can use! source: I just made a game called In Stars and Time and people are asking me how to start making vidy gaems. Now, without further ado:

SOFTWARES AND ENGINES FOR PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO CODE!!!

Ren'py (and also a link to it if you click here do it): THE visual novel software. Comic artists, look no further ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It has great documentation! It has a bunch of plugins and UI stuff and assets for you to buy! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! (You'll just need to read the doc a bunch) You can also port your game to a BUNCH of consoles! ✨Cons: None really <3 Some games to look at: Doki Doki Literature Club, Bad End Theater, Butterfly Soup

Twine: Great for text-based games! GREAT FOR WRITERS WHO DONT WANNA DRAW!!!!!!!!! (but you can draw if you want) ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It's versatile! It has great documentation! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! (You'll just need to read the doc a bunch) ✨Cons: You can add pictures, but it's a pain. Some games to look at: The Uncle Who Works For Nintendo, Queers In love At The End of The World, Escape Velocity

Bitsy: Little topdown games! ✨Pros: It's free! It's simple! It's (somewhat) intuitive! It has great documentation! It can be used even if you have LITERALLY no programming experience! You can make everything in it, from text to sprites to code! Those games sure are small! ✨Cons: Those games sure are small. This is to make THE simplest game. Barely any animation for your sprites, can barely fit a line of text in there. But honestly, the restrictions are refreshing! Some games to look at: honestly I haven't played that many bitsy games because i am a fake gamer. The picture above is from Under A Star Called Sun though and that looks so pretty

RPGMaker: To make RPGs! LIKE ME!!!!! NOTE: I recommend getting the latest version if you can, but all have their pros and cons. You can get a better idea by looking at this post. ✨Pros: Literally everything you need to make an RPG. Has a tutorial inside the software itself that will teach you the basics. Pretty simple to understand, even if you have no coding experience! Also I made a post helping you out with RPGMaker right here! ✨Cons: Some stuff can be hard to figure out. Also, the latest version is expensive. Get it on sale! Some games to look at: Yume Nikki, Hylics, In Stars and Time (hehe. I made it)

engine.lol: collage worlds! it is relatively new so I don't know much about it, but it seems fascinating. picture is from Garden! NOTE: There's a bunch of smaller engines to find out there. Just yesterday I found out there's an Idle Game Maker made by the Cookie Clicker creator. Isn't life wonderful?

✨more advice under the cut. this is Long ok✨

ENGINES I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT AND THEY SEEM HARD BUT ALSO GIVE IT A TRY I GUESS!!!! :

Unity and Unreal: I don't know anything about those! That looks hard to learn! But indie devs use them! It seems expensive! Follow your dreams though! Don't ask me how!

GameMaker: Wuh I just don't know anything about it either! I just know it's now free if your game is non-commercial (aka, you're not selling it), and Undertale was made on it! It seems good! You probably need some coding experience though!!!

Godot: Man I know even less about this one. Heard good things though!

BUNCHA RANDOM ADVICE!!!!

-Make something small first! Try making simple: a character is in a room, and exits the room. The character can look around, decide to take an item with them, can leave, and maybe the door is locked and you have to find the key. Figuring out how to code something like that, whether it is as a fully text-based game or as an RPGMaker map, should be a good start to figure out how your software of choice works!

-After that, if you have an idea, try first to make the simplest version of that idea. For my timeloop RPG, my simplest version was two rooms: first room you can walk in, second room with the King, where a cutscene automatically plays and the battle starts, you immediately die, and loop back to the first room, with the text from this point on reflecting this change. I think I also added a loop counter. This helped me figure out the most important thing: Can This Game Be Made? After that, the rest is just fun stuff. So if you want to make a dating sim, try and figure out how to add choices, and how to have affection points go up and down depending on your choices! If you want to make a platformer, figure out how to make your character move and jump and how to create a simple level! If you just want to make a kinetic visual novel with no choices, figure out how to add text, and how to add portraits! You'll be surprised at how powerful you'll feel after having figured even those simple things out.

-If you have a programming problem or just get confused, never underestimate the power of asking Google! You most likely won't be the only person asking this question, and you will learn some useful tips! If you are powerful enough, you can even… Ask people??? On forums??? Not me though.

-Yeah I know you probably want to make Your Big Idea RIGHT NOW but please. Make a smaller prototype first. You need to get that experience. Trust me.

-If you are not a womanthing of many skills like me, you might realize you need help. Maybe you need an artist, or a programmer. So! Game jams on itch.io are a great way to get to work and meet other game devs that have different strengths! Or ask around! Maybe your artist friend secretly always wanted to draw for a game. Ask! Collaborate! Have fun!!!

I hope that was useful! If it was. Maybe. You'd like to buy me a coffee. Or maybe you could check out my comics and games. Or just my new critically acclaimed game In Stars and Time. If you want. Ok bye

[whimsical-sonic]

oh my godddd i love sonics body language in prime so MUCH

[musingsofheaven]

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

summary: She’s your mother’s best friend. Apparently she's always around, and everywhere. She shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not this drunk, not in the silk nightgown her ex-husband use to fuck her with.

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

warnings: 17.7k words. mature themes. graphic cunnilingus (f/f). spit-heavy oral sex. oral fixation. clothed face grinding/humping. age gap. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. d/s undertones. overstimulation. cheating mentioned (not between the main characters). read responsibly.

notes: this was supposed to be one big 31k word fic but i got overwhelmed and shy so i’m posting it in two parts… :( here’s part one!! i know…. i know this is still long but… 🥺 i’ve been staring at this fic for like forever with my face in my hands because I am rethinking what I am doing. thank you so much for reading… i’m so grateful and shy and sparkly about it… part two is coming soon i pinky swear!!! thank you for being here ily forever ok ok ok < 3

You weren’t looking for it. Swear to god. You weren’t doom scrolling for drama or stalking her name in search bars or anything pathetic like that. You were just… on your phone like a normal human being. That’s it. You are laying half-splayed across your bed like a damn baby, one leg cocked over a pillow you should’ve replaced a long time ago. The screen brightness is so bright that it can burn your eyes. Reruns are flickering on the background television, but it’s on mute. Bra strap slipping down your shoulder. Brain activity hovers somewhere between static and sludge.

It was a nothing night. You hadn’t eaten since 4 p.m. Your tongue felt like it had fuzz on it. You were sure you could still taste the food your mom poured earlier. And maybe that’s why you didn’t move; you just lay there like a lazy animal in the low light, refreshing the same three apps in a loop, thumbs twitching over notifications that weren’t even for you. No texts. No calls.

Until you saw it.

It’s a big white font with a black background. It’s so sleek and serious. That little blue checkmark is like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, meaning it’s credible.

TASHI DUNCAN AND ART DONALDSON, HUSBAND OF 14 YEARS, OFFICIALLY DIVORCED, SOURCE CONFIRMS.

You froze.

It’s not dramatically frozen. Not gasp and clutch your necklace frozen. Just slow and still. The kind of still where your eyes read it once, then twice, then again, but your brain didn’t catch up until the fourth loop. It’s more like a shock.

Because yeah. Okay. People had been speculating. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the posts from other people. The shade. The way her ring stopped showing up in press shots. The way her tone changes, and there’s an edge in her voice when she says his name in interviews. How she looked at the court sometimes was like it was the only thing she still had left. You noticed.

But still. Divorce.

The word just sat there. Heavy. Echoing. Like it was trying to rearrange your memory. You stared at the headline until the letters blurred. Until they stopped looking like real words and started feeling static. Tashi Duncan. Divorced. You blinked once. Twice. Let it settle in your chest like it had the right to live there.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. It’s not a surprise because, deep down, you weren’t. Not really. You’d heard things. Seen things. Her name is trending for the wrong reasons. Her interviews were getting shorter and meaner, and she was clipped at the edges like she was bleeding patience in private. You’d noticed the ring vanish from her finger. Noticed how she smiled with her mouth but never her eyes anymore. You saw everything when it came to her.

You always had because you’d always been there.

Ever since you were little, you have been around whenever your mom was quiet in the background of wine nights, club fundraisers, and tennis galas that smelled like perfume and ambition. You’d trail after her like a shadow with a juice box while she laughed at something Tashi said, all effortless posture and that sharp, dry smile that made adults lean in. And then there was Lily… tiny, pink, squirmy Lily, who Tashi brought around for the first time when you were seven. Your brain clicked instantly into older-sister mode even though no one asked. You didn’t care. Lily was a baby, and she was hers, and you watched her like she might float away. You were good at that. At watching. You always watched Tashi.

She was your mom’s friend, sure. But she was also… Tashi. The Tashi. Women with posture like a weapon and a voice that could make grown men straighten up. She’d ruffle your hair like a joke, glance over your swing at one backyard match, and go, “Better, but your follow-through’s lazy,” and walk off before you could even be embarrassed. She wasn’t like the other women. She wasn’t soft. She didn’t coo. She didn’t coddle. She saw you, said things that made your stomach flip, then looked away like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t cling to them for weeks.

So, yeah. When the headline said “confirmed,” your gut didn’t twist from shock- it twisted from something worse. Something like inevitability. Fourteen years. A kid. A house full of trophies and a history stretched longer than your adult life. But you knew. You fucking knew it. No PR phrase could patch over the truth. Not “mutual decision.” Not a “joint statement.” Not even “good co-parenting.” It wasn’t mutual. You could read between the lines.

You sat there in bed, barely breathing, phone screen lighting up your face like a goddamn omen. One leg is thrown over a pillow, and your other foot is half-hanging off the edge of the mattress, cold and cramping. You hadn’t moved in maybe an hour, but your brain still felt like it hadn’t caught up with your body. Like you were still suspended between sleep and that blinking headline on your screen.

The article was still open. It was a clickbait article with all caps, clean font, and no-nonsense layout- the design that makes bad news feel worse. It had been waiting in draft form for someone to hit publish. You hadn’t even realized how tight you were holding your phone until your thumb cramped.

And that’s when it rang.

You didn’t move. Just stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. One name. No contact photo. No cute nicknames or emoji. Just her- Tashi Duncan. Plain and centered and suddenly taking up the entire world.

Which was weird. Because she didn’t call you. Not really.

You’d gotten calls from her before, yes, but they were always in the morning for one reason: your mother. Or Lily. Or both. Sometimes it was “Is she home?” Sometimes, it was, “Hey, are you free for a few hours?” Tashi was always running around, juggling matches, coaching, or flying out last minute for the press. You got used to hearing from her at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, voice brisk and polite and too awake. Sometimes, she’d ask if you could swing by and watch Lily. Sometimes, she just wanted to double-check that your mom hadn’t forgotten brunch plans. You were the in-between. The helper. The kid who never said no.

But this was different.

It was 12:41 a.m. on a Thursday.

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

You didn’t touch the screen. Just sat there blinking, your heart thudding way too loud for how still everything was. Reruns are still murmuring in the background. The taste of sleep still stuck to the back of your throat. And that damn article still glowing beneath her name like it was taunting you.

Because you knew her. Not well, but long. Long enough, you think. You were seven when Lily was born and have been around ever since. Your mom and Tashi met at Stanford when everything felt sharp, fast, and impossible. They bonded over late-night cram sessions, early morning practices, and the shared mess of being too bright, too ambitious, and alone in rooms full of men. But then your mom got pregnant. Dropped out. Moved back. Never quite circled back to the dreams she once had. Tashi didn’t say much about it. Just stuck around. Sent baby clothes. Stayed in touch. Their friendship got quieter, but it never broke.

Which meant Tashi was always around. And so were you.

Your mom would bring you along, and Tashi would ruffle your hair, ask about school, or pass you a cupcake when you thought no one was watching. When she had Lily, you were already old enough to babysit. Old enough to know where the emergency numbers were, how to heat milk, and how not to let a toddler fall off the couch. Tashi trusted you. Your mom did, too. You’d spent entire weekends in her guest room, with Lily snoring in a crib next to you and a baby monitor buzzing like static on the dresser.

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

Close enough that this late-night call, this out-of-nowhere ring against the backdrop of a fresh divorce headline, felt like a door creaking open. You didn’t know what the fuck it was about- but it felt big. Heavy.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then, breath shallow, fingers stiff, you hit accept.

And you didn’t know what she would say when you picked up.

But your chest was already tight. And you already knew it wasn’t going to be about Lily.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about your mom.

You don’t say anything at first. Just press the phone to your ear and wait, heartbeat tripping into something nervous and twitchy, like it knows more than your brain’s willing to admit. There’s a pause- not dead air, not silence, just that heavy sort of in-between sound you only hear when someone dials before fully deciding if they should. That held my breath. That weight. That question mark. You think about saying something. You almost do. Her name’s right there, soft in your throat like a dare, but you don’t push it out yet. You just… wait. Wait like the pause might stretch long enough to cancel itself. If you stay still enough, maybe she’ll hang up, and you won’t have to hear whatever this is.

And then, “Hey.”

Low. Casual. It’s way too casual, as if you didn’t just catch her in the middle of unraveling like this was normal. Like this was fine. You blink up at your ceiling and squint at the shadows there, your thumb rubbing the curve of your phone without realizing it, your other hand fisted in the sheets like that might ground you somehow. Your throat is dry, and your pulse feels like a misplaced metronome.

“…Hey.”

Another pause. Tighter now. Shorter. But heavy, like it’s hanging off the edge of something that could tip either way.

“She around?”

She doesn’t say who. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly who she’s asking about. There’s only one she Tashi has ever called to check in on. The same woman who once tried to mail her homemade ginger drink when she had strep throat. The same woman who’d leave Tashi voicemails that were basically wine-fueled TED talks. The same woman currently passed out in the bedroom down the hall, dead asleep with a headache and half a bottle of chardonnay in her system and absolutely no idea that her old friend just dropped a divorce headline like a live grenade across your phone screen. She’s the one who still uses scented lotion like it’s 2003, who has a favorite wine glass and a vendetta against oat milk, who keeps old voicemails from Tashi saved on her phone and doesn’t even realize you know that.

You shift onto your side, pillow warm beneath your cheek, voice soft but steady. “She’s knocked out.”

There’s a sound on the other end. Barely there. Just breath, maybe. Or the quiet exhale of someone leaning on something, the kitchen sink, a doorframe she hasn’t moved from since she hung up on the last reporter call. Something solid. Something that holds her up when her knees won’t. You can almost picture her in the half-dark, staring down at her own feet like they might give her an answer, like she’s still waiting for someone to come home and tell her this wasn’t real.

“She had a headache,” you murmur. “Long day.”

Tashi hums. Not in agreement, not in dismissal-just a noise that lives in the middle. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “Mine too.”

You glance at your phone, still propped on the blanket beside you. The article’s still open. The headline is bold. Obnoxious. Weirdly clinical for something so personal. You want to ask her about it. You really do. Want to crack a joke, maybe. Make it normal. Make her laugh. Or perhaps say nothing and let her know you read it. You’re not pretending this is just a check-in when you see her. But you don’t. She called to ask about your mom because she didn’t bring it up.

Except… maybe she didn’t.

“She asleep-asleep?” she asks, voice low, smooth, but with an edge now. “Or could I still come by for a second?”

You blink at the ceiling. Your tongue presses flat to the roof of your mouth. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. But it doesn’t settle, either. It’s still too even, too precise. Like she’s rehearsing each word, measuring how much she’s letting you hear. There’s something behind something raw, something cracked- but she’s holding it close like she’s afraid of spilling more than she means to if she lets one more word slip.

You sit up a little, back against the headboard now, the pillow falling to your lap. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she says too fast. Too tight. Then quieter, more real-“Not really. I just… I was thinking I might ask her to drink.”

A beat. Two. Three. You let the silence hang just long enough to wrap around you like static. Your fingertips twitch against the sheet.

“You wanna get wine-drunk with my mom?” you ask, half-laughing, but not like it’s funny, just like it’s surreal. This version of your life you hadn’t fully considered until now is making the floor tilt under your feet.

She breathes out. Short. Half amusement, half surprise. “Maybe.”

You settle deeper into the pillows, the weight of this whole conversation finally sinking in. “She’s really out, Tash.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle. Something clinks. You picture her standing in the kitchen, barefoot, in some old hoodie that doesn’t belong to her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning. I just…”

She trails off. You can hear her breathing. That’s all.

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

It’s quiet. Honest. It lands in your chest like a rock. Not dramatic, not needy-just simple. It’s sad, in that sharp, quiet way, that you only hear from people who’ve been holding it together too long. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“…You could drink with me,” you offer. Easy. Light. Like it’s nothing. Like your heart didn’t skip when you said it.

A pause.

“What?”

You smile a little. “If it’s just about not being alone. I’m awake.”

Another long silence. But this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels loaded. Like she’s thinking. Like she’s standing in the middle of her kitchen staring at the wall, trying to figure out what you said that means. Trying to decide if this is pathetic or fucked or maybe just the most human thing she’s done all week. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares her most.

“Are you sure?” she asks eventually, her voice thinner now, like she’s asking for something bigger than you think.

You glance at the clock. 12:59 a.m. “Yeah.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Deep. Real. The kind of breath people only take when they’re finally exhaling something they didn’t know they were holding in.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

You don’t say anything at first. Let the silence stretch between you, quiet and strange, like the kind that only happens when someone doesn’t hang up or want to. Your room’s still dark, lit only by the lazy flicker of some rerun still muttering to no one. The kind of show that’s supposed to make silence feel less heavy. But it doesn’t help much now. The phone’s still warm against your cheek. She hasn’t said anything since “ten minutes” and hasn’t asked if you’re still there, but she knows. You both know. And that’s the strangest part: the silence, but how easy it is to stay in it.

There’s sound on her end- soft things, background things, the kind of things you only notice when you’re trying not to breathe too loud. Movement. A door creaked open, the low drag of something across the wood. A drawer sliding shut. The faint clink of something glass hitting the glass, or maybe keys dropped into a bowl. You can’t tell. It’s domestic and messy and real. It feels too personal, somehow, hearing all that while lying in bed like this. Like you’re eavesdropping on a life you’re not supposed to be part of. Like you stumbled into a crack in the wall and didn’t look away fast enough, if you say anything now, you’ll break whatever strange thread is holding this together.

You clear your throat. Barely. “Do you want me to hang up?”

There’s a beat as if she’s considering it not seriously but enough to pretend she has a choice. And then her voice comes, low and even, laced with something unreadable: “That’s up to you.”

You exhale softly and carefully as if your breath might push too hard against the moment and knock it over. She didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no, either. You fidget with the hem of your tank top, your thumb sliding under the fabric, the phone still pressed close. “It just feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s past midnight. You’re driving over. We’re still on the phone. It’s like…” You trail off, staring at the ceiling like it might finish your thought. “Never mind.”

She makes a slight sound, quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. Just something breathed through her nose, soft and tired. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

You blink. Try not to read into it. Try not to let your mind spin-off in too many directions. But it’s Tashi. And she called you. And it’s not nothing.

Then she sighs, quieter this time. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t change,” she says, like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Still in that nightgown.”

You swallow slowly like the word is stuck somewhere in your throat. “What kind of nightgown are we talking about?”

There’s another pause, the kind that stretches like fabric pulled too tight. The kind that sounds like she’s not looking at anything thinking. Then, quieter, “Silk. Green. The one Art gave me.”

And just like that, your brain pulls it forward. The memory. You were younger- iway younger. Staying over for some reason, you barely remember now. Your mom was out of town. Their house felt too clean. Too still. You remember her sitting by the window, wine glass in hand, the city lights bouncing off that same green silk silk. You remember thinking she didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Didn’t look like someone who had to tell people what to do. She looked like a painting. Like someone expensive and complicated.

Your voice is softer now. “You’re still wearing it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. It’s soft. I like it.”

Another pause. Then sharper: “God, I should probably throw on something else.”

You hesitate, heart skipping. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I’m not showing up to your porch in lingerie.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. “It’s not lingerie.”

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is soft. Almost fond. “You’re sweet.”

You shift under the blanket. Your heart’s doing something it shouldn’t be doing. “I’m not.”

She hums again. The kind that doesn’t argue but also doesn’t agree.

Then the sound of her front door, the way it clicks shut behind her, the breath she lets out, her footsteps on the porch, the soft beep of her car unlocking, her keys jingling, muted like she’s trying not to wake the world.

And still, neither of you hangs up.

You put the phone down on your nightstand, a soft clack muffled in the quiet room, the screen’s glow painting your ceiling like an old movie. Your fingers drift to the mess on your floor- clothes half-tossed, notebooks stacked like they might topple any second. Without thinking, you start picking things up, folding a shirt that’s been wrinkled for days, nudging a pile of papers into some order. The rustle sounds loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

From the other end, her voice cuts in, smooth but teasing: “Hey, what’s that noise? You cleaning?”

You freeze, fingers halfway through folding a T-shirt. You laugh softly, trying to sound casual like it’s nothing. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

You sigh, shoving the shirt aside. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m tidying a little.”

Her laugh is soft, knowing. “A little?”

You shake your head, voice light but defensive. “I’m not cleaning. I don’t need to clean.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, voice thick with a smile you can’t see. “Because what, you think I’m coming over? No reason to make your room look nice?”

You hesitate, shirt still bunched in your hands, the fabric soft and warm from your palms. Her voice lingers in the air, half-teasing, half-knowing, like she’s watching you even through the quiet hum of your speaker. You don’t answer right away. The silence breathes.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say, finally, sharper than you meant it. Defensive. A little too fast. “Why would I be cleaning?”

The clock on your nightstand reads 1:12 a.m. It’s the time when everything feels too honest, the walls go soft, and your skin feels a little too aware of itself.

Tashi hums. You can hear the clink of her glass-ice against crystal, that rich little sound that tells you she’s poured herself more. Settling in. Comfortable. Like this is normal. She does this when her best friend’s daughter can’t sleep and texts her at midnight, asking if she still wants that drink.

“Mm. No reason,” she says. “Just sounded like you were getting ready for something.”

You roll your eyes. She can’t see you, but it still feels like a tell. You toss the shirt aside and land crooked on the half-folded bed like a half-lie.

“I’m not,” you say again. “It’s just… the floor was a mess.”

Which is true. But that mess didn’t bother you earlier. It didn’t bother you at dinner or when your mom said goodnight and disappeared upstairs at half past ten with that familiar yawn and a reminder to lock up. Twenty minutes ago, it didn’t bother you when you were still lying in your sleep shirt, scrolling through your camera roll with that low buzz in your stomach.

But then Tashi said yes.

You told yourself that she was just being polite wasn't a big deal. It wasn’t weird, but now, as you shift a tangled hoodie off your chair and tuck it into the laundry basket, you can feel how aware you are of the space. Of the way, the lamp glows with the vague scent of your lotion still clinging to your wrists.

It’s not for her. You’re not fixing your room because your mom’s friend, who’s been in your life since you were eleven and always smelled like expensive perfume and wine-dark lipstick, said she’d come by for a nightcap.

You’re just… tidying.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, with that soft, crooked smile you can hear more than see. “So this isn’t you trying to make things look nice before I come over.”

You lie back against your pillows, your heart thudding stupidly and slowly. The fan clicks softly overhead. You can feel your skin, the bare curve of your thighs under the hem of your shorts, and the heat in your cheeks that isn’t from the blanket.

“I didn’t ask you to come over,” you mutter.

“No,” she says sweetly. “You just asked if I wanted to drink with you. Since your mom’s already asleep.”

And it sounded harmless at the time. But now it’s 1:15 in the morning, and your room smells like clean sheets, and the idea of Tashi Duncan in your doorway feels less like a hypothetical and more like a pulse beneath your skin.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say again, more firm this time. If you say it with enough conviction, it’ll be true. “I’m not… prepping or whatever. It’s not that serious.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear her sip. Another ice clink. The sound of her lips parting just slightly before she lets the drink settle on her tongue. She doesn’t answer, but you can feel her disbelief stretching through the silence. Warm. Heavy. Like her eyes would be if she were standing just inside the doorway.

You sit up straighter, your legs folding beneath you and your blanket slipping to your hips. “I’m not trying to make it look nice before you come over,” you add, your voice lower now. More careful. It won’t feel like a lie if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the room is too quiet. Still, you feel that twitch in your chest, right beneath your collarbone-guilt or anticipation, you can’t tell. Your phone is hot against your ear. You imagine how she’s sitting: one leg tucked under the other, glass in hand, that look she gets when she’s humoring you when she knows more than she lets on.

You run a hand through your hair, catching slightly on a tangle near the back. Your fingers pause there for a second, hooked in the knot like they’re stuck on something else entirely. You untangle it without thinking, nails grazing your scalp, the motion slow and absentminded, like if you’re gentle enough, it won’t pull. Perhaps tonight, nothing has to be drawn. “Do you… still have the key?” you ask, as casually as you can manage. “The one my mom gave you for emergencies.” You toss it out like it’s just a detail. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already picturing her standing on your porch, hand hovering near the lock.

A pause stretches out on the line. Not long, not suspicious- just long enough to make you wonder if the question landed too soft. If maybe the air between you swallowed it. If she’s pretending not to hear it. But then-

“I do,” she says. Her voice is steady and straightforward, as if this isn’t a question with history inside it. “Your mom never asked for it back,” she says.

You nod automatically, even though she can’t see you. You glance toward the door without meaning to. “Right,” you say, but it sounds far away in your mouth. Your gaze lingers in the hallway like you’re already expecting movement. Like the air’s already shifted around her ghost.

There’s another pause- thicker this time, not uncomfortable but full. You can hear the engine hum gently behind her, maybe the soft tick of her turn signal. And then her voice again, softened like worn cotton: “Do you want me to use it?”

The question is careful. Not shy, not uncertain, but balanced-weighted with something she’s trying not to push too hard. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding, chest loosening around the ribs in a way that makes you dizzy. It’s not relief. Not really. But it’s not dread either. Just something fluttery and uncertain. Something suspended between maybe and yes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes skimming your room without seeing it. The mess is still there, still obnoxious. Piles of clothes clean, some not. A pair of jeans draped over your chair like a corpse. You hadn’t even touched your vanity. Your mirror is still smudged with fingerprints, moisturizer thumbprints, and maybe a little dust. You pull the blanket tighter around your waist like that’ll cover more than just your legs. Like that’ll somehow shield you from being seen too much. You feel suddenly thirteen again, like she caught you playing dress-up in her heels, and she didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, the word landing soft and full. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your voice slips out smaller than you thought it would. Not shy. Not timid. But raw in that way things are when you don’t bother to hide them. Like you’re done pretending it’s just a friendly drop-in. Like you’re letting her hear the truth hanging around the edges. That kind of openness that only leaks out after midnight, when the house is quiet, and your skin feels like it doesn’t quite belong to you.

“But,” you add, your voice flickering a little brighter, trying to steady itself. “Just- can you let me know when you’re already at the door? Like, say it. On the phone.”

You don’t know why you say that. Or you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You want a warning. You want time. You want to hear her voice in your ear when she’s standing on the other side. Not a knock. Not a surprise. Just her voice, letting you know I’m here. Get me.

There’s a pause again. A beat of silence thick enough to feel in your throat. And then you hear it. No words yet, just the shape of a smile curling behind the line.

“You want me to announce myself?”

You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through a grin you try to smother. “Yes, Tashi. Just don’t sneak in. I’ll come down.”

And she laughs.

God- it’s so quiet. But it hits you like a wave. That breathy, honest kind of laugh she never gives to cameras. The kind that sneaks out sideways when she’s caught a little off guard. You hear it, and your stomach flips. It’s like warmth under your ribs, like someone lit a candle in your chest, burning slowly.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and there’s something close to fondness in it. Something that makes your throat feel tight. “I’ll announce myself.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. The line hums between you. Not silent. Not full of words. Just alive. And you sit there, curled into the quiet, heart knocking once against your ribs as it knows like it heard something in her voice that your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

You didn’t hear anything.

Not the low rumble of her car easing up the curb, not the gravel crunching under tires, not even the click of the gate- if she’d even bothered to close it behind her. Nothing. No cue. No build-up. No warning. Just the television murmuring some rerun in the background of your room, the volume turned too low to follow the plot but too high to feel like silence. That soft, useless kind of noise you’d left on without thinking, the kind that fills a space but doesn’t keep you company.

And her. Still on the phone. Still breathing on the other end. She’s always had that quiet, steady presence, even when not saying anything. You’d almost forgotten she was still there, still driving, still on her way-until she wasn’t.

You’re in bed. On your side, one arm curled under your pillow, the other holding the phone too close to your face. Your tank top’s wrinkled from how you’d been rolling around, pressing your knees together and not doing anything else. Just waiting. Without saying that’s what you were doing.

And then, like she’d dropped the match right into the middle of it, “I’m here.”

Two words. Soft, maybe even gentle. But they slice clean through the room like they’d been waiting for the silence to land in.

You freeze.

Because of something about how she says it low and a little too close to the mic, her voice never really sounds unless she’s in a smaller space.

And then your whole body’s moving.

You’re already halfway up before your brain gives permission. You don’t stop to think. You don’t ask if she meant it literally. You know she did. Your body knows it before your mouth can shape a reaction. You’re out of bed in a blur, your sockless feet thudding down the hallway, the phone still clutched in your hand like it might explain something if someone saw you like this. It could justify how you’re dressed, how fast your heart’s beating, or that you’re not even trying to play it cool.

And you don’t hear the key at first.

You’re already on the stairs, halfway down, adrenaline rushing so loud in your ears you could’ve sworn you were alone in the moment you had time. You still had a beat before she’d be right there before you.

But then it happens.

That slow, practiced turn of the lock. The deadbolt gives in like it’s always been hers to open. Then, the door shifted against its frame with the softest kind of surrender. The way only people you trust too much come through.

And then her voice again, this time not from your phone.

Not filtered through distance or speaker static or the safety of conversation. Real. In your house. From the hall.

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

Like she’s always had a key. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t already standing in the middle of the stairs, barefoot, heartbeat in your mouth, wearing the kind of tank top you never meant for her to see you in like this.

She doesn’t even look up at first. Just kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of one boot, her coat still half-buttoned, hair a little windblown, like maybe she’d been driving with the window cracked. One hand was still wrapped around her phone. She’s not wearing makeup. Or perhaps she wiped it off in the car. Her lips look clean and soft. Tired, maybe.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stand there on the stairs, still halfway between levels, your shoulder pressed to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You haven’t hung up. Neither has she. Her voice still hums through the line clutched in your hand, an echo or a memory that hasn’t caught up yet.

She looks at you.

And for a second second, there’s something raw in her face. Some flicker she doesn’t cover fast enough. Not softness, exactly. Not relief. Just something that sees you.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s quieter in person than it ever was on the phone.

You’re not sure if you answer or even breathe.

She walks toward the stairs, slowly, like she’s giving you a second to move, to meet her halfway, to stop her if this was all a mistake. But you don’t. You stay exactly where you are. And so does she when she gets to the bottom step. Looking up at you.

Neither of you is high enough to have the advantage. Not really. You’re still in your tank top. She’s still in her coat. The heat hasn’t even settled into her clothes yet. She looks out of place here, standing in your hallway, close enough that you can smell her perfume. The same one you always recognize but never name.

Her fingers twitch like maybe she wants to say something to them. Maybe reach out.

But she doesn’t.

And then soft, measured, like she’s testing the weight of it:

“Were you going to come down?”

You swallow, but your throat’s too dry to make a sound of it. Just a blink. A breath. A half-step forward that doesn’t register until you feel the wood under your foot instead of the carpet. Like your body moving on instinct and the rest of you lagging.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to. She’s already in the middle of the hallway, with the door softly shut behind her. Her hand is still half-curled around her phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to the version of this where she’s not breaking a line.

You say, “Yeah.” And it’s the smallest thing. Practically a whisper. But she hears it because, of course, she does. She always hears you when you don’t mean to be heard.

Her mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile. More like she’s relieved you spoke at all.

“You were still on the line,” she says, holding up the phone like proof. “Didn’t wanna scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

A lie. Or something close. You’re still trying to catch up to your heartbeat, still figuring out what part of you bolted for the stairs without a plan. But you don’t walk it back. You don’t explain. You just make it down the last two steps and stop short in front of her, close enough that the heat trapped inside her coat is starting to bleed into the air between you.

She looks at you for a second longer. Not just a glance- she looks. Like she’s cataloging the tank top, the way your hair’s a mess from your pillow, the grip you haven’t loosened on your phone. Her eyes fall to it, then back up, slower this time. Like she’s making a decision she already made ten minutes ago but wants to make it again right here.

You ask quietly, “So you used the key to come in?”

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You stare at her, and something in your chest shifts- just slightly, just enough to feel. You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. The silence does it for you, humming heavily between your bodies like something just shy of a yes.

Your phone’s still in your hand. Still warm from the call. You glance down at it, the screen lighting up uselessly beneath your fingers, still clinging to the line. Still holding her voice like it hasn’t already moved past the speakers and into your hallway.

You press the red circle. End it like it matters. Like she’s not standing right here.

The screen goes black, and the phone’s weight suddenly feels stupid in your hand. You’d been holding it out of habit, not purpose. Without thinking, you set it on the edge of the stair rail and hear it make the softest clack against the wood. Her eyes follow the sound, then flick back to you.

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

You move first, not looking to see if she’s right behind you, but knowing. You can feel her presence tugging at your back like static, like tension. The kind that builds slowly gets into your blood and makes your fingers clumsy when you open the fridge just to do something.

Light spills out in a dull glow, too cold against your flushed skin. You lean your hip into the counter and stare blankly at the shelves like you’re looking for something you already know you won’t find. Maybe pretending you don’t see what you’re looking for feels safer than naming it out loud.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

Not really. Not tonight.

You pretend not to notice. Open a cabinet too loudly. Let the glass knock against the counter like you’re thinking about something else- like you’re still playing it cool, even though nothing about your heartbeat is. You feel her eyes on you, heavier than the quiet, steady in a way that makes your neck warm.

Then she speaks softly like she’s easing the question out of herself.

“What do you and your mom drink… when you go out together?”

You blink.

It’s not what you expected. Not quite. You look over your shoulder, and she’s still there crossed, mouth unsure like the words came out before she could check if they were dumb. Like, she’s not sure if that counted as prying.

You take a beat, glass still in hand, then let the edge of your mouth twitch up. “Depends. Wine, if she’s trying to be classy. Margaritas if she’s trying to get me to gossip. Tequila if we’re both trying to forget shit.”

That makes her smile a little. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to soften her mouth. Enough to make you wonder what she really wants to know.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is any other night. She’s not dressed like that, and the air isn’t thick with whatever she hasn’t said yet.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is just any other night. She’s not standing there in silk silk and a coat like she didn’t drive here in the dark just to see you.

Your eyes flick toward her carefully. She’s still by the doorway. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just looking at you like she does when she’s about to say something that’ll stay in your head for weeks. Months, maybe.

You clear your throat just a little. Then, casual, too casual, you ask, “So… what do you want to drink with me?”

Not what do you usually drink. Not what do you want. Just that small, specific weight at the end of it with me.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers brush the table’s edge like she’s thinking it over. This is more serious than you meant it to sound.

Then she finally says, “What do we have?”

And when she says, “Not you, not your mom, not this house,” your stomach tightens just enough to feel it.

You shrug, glancing toward the cabinets, then back at her. “I don’t really drink at home,” you admit, voice low. “So… just pick whatever you want. Whatever looks good.”

You try to sound breezy, unaffected. But it comes out quieter than you meant, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever this is. You’re not sure what’ll happen if she picks something too firm or soft or walks all the way in instead of standing there like she hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here.

Tashi doesn’t say anything. Just steps into the room like she owns the silence between you, her coat slipping more off one shoulder as she moves toward the cabinet. Her hand grazes your arm when she passes, light, deliberate, and completely unnecessary. Your skin sparks like it’s been waiting for that exact kind of contact, like it’s been rehearsing it in dreams you don’t admit to having.

She opens the door and browses like it’s a bookstore, like she’s looking for something familiar. “You used to have that peach liqueur,” she says after a moment, half to herself. “Your mom swore it tasted better over ice, but I always liked it neat.”

You blink. “She still has it.” Like it’s some little secret you’re sharing, like a fact that settles something between you.

Her mouth quirks up, that half-smile she’s been saving for moments like this when she’s unsure if she’s amused or just trying to look calm. “Good. Then that’s what I want.”

You reach for the bottle, that peach schnapps your mom and Tashi always drink when they’re here together, the one that tastes like syrup and sunburn and afternoons that stretch too long. You hold it like it’s a clue you’re handing her, like maybe it’ll say something you both haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“But I don’t really drink that at home,” you say, your voice folding around the words like you’re telling her some new fact she didn’t know about you. “Too sweet. Too fake. Like it’s trying too hard to be fun or something, I don’t do that. That’s not me.”

You set two glasses down for her, one for yourself. How your hand brushes the counter feels like you’re waiting for the room to catch up, waiting for her to catch the weight of what you just said.

“I’m more the hard stuff kind of person,” you add, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Tequila, gin, things that hit you where it hurts, and don’t apologize for it.”

You watch her, eyes steady, daring her to say something or maybe just daring her to meet you where the sweet meets the sharp, and nothing’s quite what it seems.

She shifts like she’s weighing whether to step closer or retreat into the doorway she claimed moments ago. The silence hums between you- thick but fragile like a secret waiting to spill.

“You always do this,” you say finally, voice casual but low. “You show up out of nowhere, asking for a drink with my mom. I don’t know if I should be grateful she’s already asleep or annoyed she’s missing all the fun.”

She swallows, and you catch that flicker - that small crack in her calm. Because yeah, you both know the history here. The lines that were never crossed but always hovered just beneath the surface. The way she’s always been careful not to stay too long, not to look too hard, not to linger when your eyes caught hers across a too-quiet room.

“So,” you say, your voice just a little rougher now, a little lower, “what’s really going on tonight?”

She’s still standing there like she hasn’t decided whether to come all the way in. If she does, something shifts. Something tips.

Like her being here becomes something else that becomes real. Becomes a choice.

Her coat’s slipping further down her shoulder now, satin catching the soft yellow light of the kitchen like it’s staged, like the universe is lighting her from some impossible angle just for you. But she doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t notice, or maybe does and leaves it anyway. The curve of her collarbone is bare. Clean. Unbothered. She didn’t drive here with a headache, heartache, and no idea what she’d say once she got to your door.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just look at her and let her decide how far she wants to take it.

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

You don’t say it is cruel. You don’t say it curious, either. You just say it straight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending she came here for the peach schnapps and not something bleeding under her skin. Something that brought her here in the dark, wearing perfume and silence and that expression she always puts on when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s hurting.

Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just something caught in between, like she’s been holding her breath since she parked the car and doesn’t know how to let it out.

Her gaze drops to your hand, one still holding the bottle, and she steps closer.

The sound of her heels on the tile is soft but final, like a clock ticking over to the next hour. Her fingers wrap slowly around the neck of it, brushing yours, warm, present, and a little too firm to pretend it didn’t happen.

She takes it from you like you offered it, like you didn’t mean to, but maybe you did.

She pours carefully. Steady. Like the quiet between you hasn’t thickened into something close to guilt.

Or want.

Or both, messy and knotted up, sitting in your throat like something sweet you’re trying not to choke on.

Two glasses. There’s no rush. There are no excuses. She doesn’t look at you while she does it; she just watches the syrupy liquid rise in both. That seems safer, as if it gives her time.

Once they’re full, she slides one across to you without speaking. Then she picks hers up, turning it once between her fingers like she’s still deciding what to say or if she should say anything at all. The glass catches the light. Her nail clinks against it, absentminded.

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

She exhales. “I didn’t think I’d say anything.”

Her voice is lower now. Not soft, exactly, but undone in a way you’ve never really heard before. Like she’s halfway through the thought and hasn’t decided if she trusts it enough to finish it.

You glance up. “You didn’t have to come here to talk.”

“I didn’t,” she says, a little too quick. A little too automatic.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

You don’t even have to say it. It just sits there between you, evident as the drinks and the hour and the way her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

And when you finally reach for your glass, her eyes follow your hand like she wants to stop you. Maybe you’ve already heard too much. Perhaps this is already more intimate than it should be.

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

Then, after a beat that lasts longer than it should: “You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

She stiffens-not all the way, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. You feel it in how she adjusts her weight and her thumb stills on the glass.

She stares down into her drink. “Not in front of just anyone.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not hushed, but stripped.

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

Her eyes flick up at that fast, sharp, like a reflex she didn’t mean to show.

And for a second, she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you in the way she does when her mouth wants to be clever, but her chest is too tight for it.

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

Her voice isn’t cold. It’s careful like she’s trying to hold something back that has already slipped out.

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

It’s not a joke. Not a tease. It’s a warning. A reminder. A fucking line in the sand that she’s already ankle-deep in.

And she knows it.

You just blink at her. Not mocking. Not flinching. Just standing there, looking back at her like you already knew she’d say it, and you don’t care.

And that makes it worse.

Because god, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not with your lip caught between your teeth. Not with your neck bare in that tank top. It’s not like she’s the one who made you this bold.

Tashi breathes in slowly and steadily like she’s trying to cool something off inside her ribs.

Fucking hell, she thinks, you could be my daughter.

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

She watched you grow up. Ate birthday cake in this kitchen. Drove you to volleyball practice once when your mom was sick. You had braces the first time she ever heard you cry in this house. You used to beg to stay up late just to listen to her and your mother talk shit over wine.

And now you’re standing across from her, grown, calm, a little offering her a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the rules never applied.

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

She knew what she was doing. Somewhere, under all the grief and mess, she knew.

You tilt your head a little, watching her unravel one inch at a time, and then say soft, amused:

“So, why did you call me instead of her?”

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

Not in guilt, exactly. More like avoidance. She already knows what you’re asking and is not ready to answer it out loud. Or maybe she’s just tired of lying to herself about it.

She presses her palm against the counter, fingers splayed like bracing herself against something heavier than gravity. You watch her shoulders settle- not relaxed, not tense, but somewhere in between, like she’s practiced this exact posture in a mirror. A long pause. Then:

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

You hum, dry. A quiet scoff under your breath, not cruel-just real.

“Still not an answer.”

That gets you a glance. Quick. Sharp at the edges. Like she’s weighing whether to snap or shrug.

And you let the silence stretch, just for a second. You know her well enough by now. She’s not the type to spill unless it starts to burn. And something about tonight smells like smoke.

She exhales, barely. A breath that folds her in on herself, slow and reluctant, like it costs her something to keep talking. Her hand lifts to her temple, thumb dragging across her forehead like she’s trying to rub something out, a headache, a memory, the echo of your voice.

And then, quieter, almost like it’s for herself:

“I didn’t want to have that kind of conversation tonight.”

Your brow arches just slightly. You don’t lean in, but your gaze sharpens and narrows.

“What kind of conversation?”

You know the answer already. You just want her to say it. You want to see if she’ll be honest when it’s just the two of you, the lights are dim, and the house feels like a different version of itself.

She doesn’t look at you. Not right away. Just reaches for the bottle in silence, fingers curling around her neck like she’s done this before. This is muscle memory, not a choice. Her movements are smooth and practiced but not casual. You catch the subtle tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap. The quick, tight inhale she pulls through her nose before she tips the bottle.

“The kind where I have to pretend I’m okay.”

The words hit the counter like a dropped spoon-soft but loud enough in a room this quiet.

It lands between you like heat. A private admission dressed as a throwaway line. You don’t flinch, but it sinks into you anyway.

She pours your glass first, then her own, steady now. Doesn’t meet your eyes until both are filled. When she finally does, there’s no apology in it. Just a kind of fatigue. And underneath it, something sharp. Something still alive.

You let your hand close around the glass, fingers tracing the rim without lifting it. The peach smell hits your nose- syrupy and familiar. It smells like summer nights you weren’t invited to. Like how your mom would giggle after three sips, and Tashi would just smile without explaining why.

But this isn’t then. And she isn’t smiling.

“And I’m the easier option?”

You say it like you’re teasing, but your voice is low, unreadable.

Tashi’s mouth presses into a line. Not a flinch, exactly, but close. You can see it in how her jaw shifts; it is like she swallowed something bitter.

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours, steady now. No smile. Just heat.

“You’re just… not her.”

There’s a beat of silence that doesn’t rush to fill itself. She looks down into her glass for a moment, like it might tell her something.

And then she says it. Half under her breath, almost careless but not quite:

“And that’s not nothing.”

You don’t smile. You don’t joke. You let the weight of it hang.

The thing is, she’s known your mother for decades. Long enough that most people forget to filter around each other. Long enough that she saw your mother fall in love, felt the weight of those early, fragile promises, and witnessed the slow unraveling that came later. She’s been there through the celebrations and the silences, through moments in grander homes and quieter nights.

She knows the exact shape of your mother’s laugh, her wrist bends when she pours a drink, and her silence when she fears being seen.

And yet, somehow, you’re the one she called tonight.

Not your mom.

You lean against the counter again, slow and deliberate, letting the space between you shrink-not with steps, but with a shared understanding that neither of you is pretending anymore.

“Is it about the divorce?” You asks again.

The question slices through the quiet like a blade-clean, unavoidable. No fluff. No circumnavigation. Just the raw truth hovering between you.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tap lightly on the side of the glass. Once. Twice.

Her mouth twitches like she’s about to deflect, joke, or change the subject. The words catch in her throat.

Then, quietly- just above a whisper, but firm, certain, “Everything is, lately.”

She doesn’t look away when she says it. Hold your gaze instead, steady and real.

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

Don’t try to redirect or hide behind worn excuses.

She just stands there in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, across from the one person she probably shouldn’t be drinking with, eyes too clear, glass full of something sweeter than she probably wants.

When she takes a sip, you follow.

You don’t even think about it, really. Your hand moves. Like your body’s already whatever she does, you do. Like some part of you’s still following her lead, even now, even here, when she shouldn’t be leading anything at all.

The drink is sweeter than you expected. Syrupy. It coats your throat, lingers on your tongue, and tastes like something people drink on porches in towns where nothing ever happens. It’s not like this kitchen, not like this night. It’s the kind of sweetness that tries to pass itself off as innocent, like fruit punch at a church picnic, but there’s nothing pure about it. It stays too long. Sticks to the back of your teeth. Refuses to let go.

You swallow and watch her over the rim of your glass.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch or twitch or shift. She just sets hers down like that’s the end of it. Like she’s done now. Like that one line- everything is, lately- is supposed to be enough. Like it should land and stick and explain away the years. That’s an answer and not a deflection dressed up like closure.

You let a beat pass. Just one. A silent exhale between the two of you, a space she could fill if she wanted, but she doesn’t. So you set your glass down, too. A soft clink, perfectly timed. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like punctuation. Like you’re drawing a line in the sand with glass and liquor.

“So.” You tilt your head a little. Let the pause hang between syllables. Let it linger just long enough to press, not prod. “Why’d you really split?”

It comes out calm. Easy. Like you’re asking about the weather. Or about how long she plans to stay. But your eyes don’t leave her face. Not once. You want to see the first crack, the first tell, the first little shift that says you’ve touched a nerve.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts her weight like her shoes don’t fit right. She might just turn and walk out, take the bottle with her, leave you to drink in her absence, and sit in the echo of the things she didn’t say.

You give her a second. Maybe two. Long enough to take them out if she wants it. Long enough to walk away. She doesn’t.

Then, casual as anything: “I mean… ‘mutual’?” You lift your brows and sip your sarcasm. “Sure. That’s believable.”

She glances at you once, quickly like a flick of light off the glass. Like she’s just checking if you’re serious or if this is some kind of joke. But nothing in her expression moves.

So you smile. Not nice. Just sharp enough to scratch.

“What was it?” you ask like you’re playing a party game. “Too many nights apart? Too many cameras in your face? Was it one of those situations where you both wanted ‘different things’ but didn’t actually say what they were?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

“Maybe he got tired of you telling him what to do.” You lean on the counter, chin propped on your knuckles. “Or maybe you got tired of pretending like he ever listened.”

She exhales slowly. Measured. But her fingers flex against the edge of the counter as she braces herself for a gust of wind that hasn’t yet come. She knows what’s coming next and is already doing the math to determine whether it’s worth staying for.

And you-it only fuels you. That stillness she hides behind. That constant calculation. If she stays perfectly quiet, none of this will count. Like silence is a shield.

You tilt your head the other way. Smile smaller now. Meaner, maybe.

“Could’ve been the retirement,” you say, offhand, eyes on your glass as it might explain her. “He brought it up, right? Not you.”

You don’t have to look up to know it lands. The quiet gives it away - not stiff, just still, like she’s trying not to react.

“He was the one who said it out loud first. Said he was done. Wanted out. Wanted to stop playing before it got uglier.”

You pause and swirl what’s left in your glass.

“Didn’t even fight you on it, I bet. Just… said it. Like it was nothing.”

You lift your eyes to her, slow. “But I don’t think you liked that.”

Still no answer, but something shifts - a faint breath through her nose, a muscle tightening in her cheek.

“Not because you wanted him to keep playing,” you add, voice light now, almost amused. “Let’s be real. He was barely holding it together. He could’ve thrown his back out tying his shoes.”

You smirk into your sip.

“No, I think you hated it because you weren’t saying it.”

Now she looks at you. Finally, it’s that look - not angry, not defensive, just… exposed. Like you pulled a thread she didn’t think you’d find.

“You were supposed to end it,” you say. “When you were ready. When you were done. Not him.”

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

“You spent half your life turning him into something bigger than he was,” you continue. “Managing him, building him. Cleaning up his losses, stacking his wins. And he just… took that and handed it back to you. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

“Bet that pissed you off more than anything else.”

You don’t smile now. You look at her. Quiet. Direct.

“Not because he quit,” you say. “But because he got to be the one who let you go first.”

Still nothing. Not really. But you can feel her silence now. It’s active. Charged. Like the pause before thunder. Like she’s daring you to say more because she won’t.

“God,” you say, dragging it out, light and cruel and just a little amused, “I can only imagine the arguments.”

You lift your glass again and swirl the liquid, looking for something to do or touch that isn’t her.

“But I mean… you were better than him.”

You shrug casually. “That’s not even opinion. Everyone said it. You were supposed to be the one who went the distance.”

She looks away, toward the stove, like it might rescue her. Like she wants to ask you to stop but won’t.

You keep going.

“But then your knee blew out, and he got a golden ticket, and you pivoted like the pro you are. Coach. Wife. Brand manager. Career midwife. You pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.”

A pause. You lower your glass.

So you lean in a little. Eyes on her mouth.

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

Her head turns slowly like she’s already exhausted by you, but she can’t not look. Can’t hear what you’re really asking.

“Was it someone you knew already? Fucked someone he knows?” you ask, half-curious, half-slicing. “Or just a stranger?”

Still nothing.

You click your tongue, teeth catching your bottom lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Yes, to the cheating. Clocked it.

You don’t flinch when she sets the glass down like that. Not quite a slam, but sharp enough to echo against the counter, against your ribs. Loud enough to mean something, even if it’s not clear what. A line in the sand. A flare is going up. A warning, maybe, though you don’t need it.

You just watch her. Her head was tilted slightly, her hip was against the counter, and her posture was loose, as if you were not reading every flick of her eyes. Like you’re not cataloging every breath. You wait because you think she’ll give you something, but because silence, lately, is the only thing that feels like power.

And when she doesn’t speak and move, doesn’t deny, doesn’t defend, laugh again. This time quieter. Smaller. Less venom, more disbelief. Not even for her benefit. If you don’t laugh, you’ll fall into that old habit of softening things for her. And you’re too fucking tired for that.

Then: “You know,” you say, almost thoughtful, voice a little breezy, a little too casual for the weight of the room, “for someone who can talk circles around a loss, you got real quiet when I said the word cheating.”

That’s the thing that does it.

Her head snaps toward you so fast it cuts the air sharply, and suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to hold still. She also appears to have forgotten that you aren’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not even harsh. But it lands hard. Loaded. Raw. The filter finally slipped, and her authentic voice came out underneath. The one she’s been biting back since she walked in the door.

You blink, slow. Then, you’re slight, smug, and mean because you’re not trying to be fair. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“There it is.”

“No,” she says, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she’s gearing up for a serve. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you caught something. Like you know something.”

“Didn’t I?”

She scoffs, breath sharp and bitter. “You threw a grenade and waited to see if I flinched. Congratulations. You’re exhausting.”

You laugh through your nose. Short. Sharp. Then step back like the moment doesn’t weigh a damn thing-leaning into the counter like it’s all just a joke now, like you’re watching it unfold from somewhere else.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” she spits, a little more venom now like she’s only just realizing you’re not going to back off.

“But you gave me one anyway.”

“No,” she says again, her voice rising steadier. “You decided what it was. You always do that. Fill in the blanks. Make it fit whatever story you want to believe.”

You lift your brows, unimpressed. Your glass sweats in your hand, still half full. Still ignored. “It wouldn’t have hit so hard if it weren’t true.”

Her hands brace the counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor. She’s leaning forward now, with weight in her arms and tight across the shoulders, like she wants to run, hit something, or both. Like she’s burning from the inside out and trying not to show it.

“You think I came here to be accused?” she snaps, eyes cutting toward you like a blade.

And you, you almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she still thinks that works. She can raise her voice, pull rank, and pretend she doesn’t know precisely what she walked into. Like she didn’t sit in her car for ten minutes outside before ringing the bell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all mock-innocent, your glass still in your hand, fingers loose around it like you’re trying hard not to throw it. “Is that not what this is?”

She flinches barely, but you catch it. A twitch. A stutter in her breath. And it’s enough. You step in a little closer. Not touching. Just pushing the space like it’s a boundary she forgot she gave you. Like you’re letting her remember who you are now.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think?” you ask, low, steady, almost nice. Like you’re not ripping into her. Like you’re not waiting for her to bleed.

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t. The silence between you stretches, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

You tilt your head and let your eyes sweep her slow neck to shoulder, mouth to jaw. She’s too close for this to be nothing. Not casual. Not innocent. Not even remotely smart.

“So what, then?” you ask, your voice soft now, too soft like you’re already bored with this game. “You called looking for my mom. She was asleep, and I offered. Now we’re here. Drinking. Like, that’s not weird. You didn’t just get divorced and think this would feel the same.”

Still nothing. But her mouth’s a little tighter now. Her throat works around a swallow, and she won’t let you hear. You can practically see the war she’s fighting behind her eyes.

“Is that the vibe you were going for?” you press, smiling like it’s a dare. “Little kitchen reunion with your friend’s daughter?”

Her eyes flick just once. Like she didn’t think you’d go there. Like she thought you would stay polite. Like she still thought you were someone she could manage.

But you don’t let up.

“You know how old I am, right?” you ask, raising your brows. “Or were you counting on the fact that I still look sweet enough to get carded?”

She still hasn’t answered, which only makes it worse, more pathetic, and more damning.

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little now because you’ll scream if you don’t laugh. “Did you come here to drink with someone who could literally be your daughter, or were you just hoping I wouldn’t call it what it is?”

You let the question hang. Nasty and pointed and a little too honest. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw sets like she’s chewing something down-grief, guilt, or a comeback she can’t land.

“So what now, Aunt Tashi?” you add, voice dripping with mock the way you used to say it when you were a kid, back when your mom told you to call her that like it meant something. Like she was just some benevolent presence in your life instead of a woman who’d later show up drunk at your door at midnight. “You come crying to me now that it’s all falling apart?”

That gets her. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. As the words hit somewhere soft, she forgot she was still sore.

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

“Yeah, sure. You just happened to end up here, with me, of all people. Just a little nostalgic drive, right? Nothing to do with guilt or needing someone to say it out loud.”

You pause, glass hovering near your mouth. Her eyes are on it. You know she’s watching your hands now.

“And maybe you came because you wanted someone to make you feel like shit for it.”

You sip, slow. Unbothered. Let her sit in it. Let it thicken the air between you.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But the silence tells you everything. It hangs there like a guilty verdict, waiting to be read aloud.

So you give it voice.

“Bet he still defends you. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

She blinks slowly. Her jaw twitches. But she doesn’t speak, and that only feeds you.

“Man’s out here playing loyal husband, and you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Her head tilts, barely like she’s trying not to react like she’s calculating the exact amount of rage she can swallow without choking on it. But you’re not done. Not when she still thinks she can wear that calm- like armor.

“You had a man who worshipped the ground you walked on.” You lean in just enough to make it hurt, voice soft like cruelty in a whisper. “You pissed on it instead.”

That’s when she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But her hand clenches on the counter, and her breath stutters out of her nose in a way that makes your chest go hot like you hit something deeper than anger. Maybe, for just a second thought, she could still keep her dignity intact.

Too fucking late for that.

Her knuckles go white on the counter. She stares at it like it might offer her a way out. For example, if she doesn’t look at you, she won’t have to admit how much that landed.

But then-

“I swear to God,” she says, voice quiet, ragged at the edges, “if you say one more fucking thing like that-”

You raise your brows slowly. “You’ll what?”

That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, eyes sharp enough to gut.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by some- some little girl who doesn’t know shit about what it means to be lonely.”

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

“You think I came here to be judged?” she says, low now lower than before but harder, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin. “By you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Her eyes flick up, meet yours, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks. Not away. Not through you. At you.

“You think you know something because you’re angry? Because you got a few bitter lines and a front-row seat to a marriage you didn’t understand?” She laughs, bitter and breathless. “You’ve been dying to use it on me, right? All this time, waiting for the chance.”

You flinch, barely. Her smile twitches. She saw it. She steps in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the shift in the air like pressure drops before a storm.

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

You hold her stare, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You should say something. You should push back. You don’t. “Been waiting for this moment since the first time your eyes landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to.”

Her voice is a curl of smoke now, hot and venom- sweet, too close to your mouth.

“Don’t act like I didn’t notice. Don’t pretend you didn’t look at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong like you weren’t the one coming downstairs in shorts that barely passed your ass and trying not to stare at my legs.”

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

“You think I missed how your voice always dropped when you said my name? The way you’d linger in the doorway when I said goodnight?” She scoffs, mouth curling around every word like it tastes filthy. “You’ve been soaking in it for years. Desperate. Quiet. Acting like you didn’t want me to catch you.”

She steps in close- closer than she ever has. Her coat brushes your chest. The silk underneath whispers when she moves.

And her mouth is right there.

“Pathetic little thing. You don’t want to judge me,” she breathes. “You want to be the reason I never stop being a fucking mess.”

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

“And now that I am,” she says, dark eyes burning into yours, “you don’t know what to do with it, do you? You thought I’d come here crying. You thought I’d fall apart.”

Her fingers graze your wrist. Barely. But it scorches.

“Poor thing,” she purrs. “You wanted to play grown-up? Show me your teeth? Then come on.”

The coat parts just slightly as she moves, the silk underneath catching the light like something obscene. You know that fabric. You see that nightgown. You’ve imagined it, dreamed it, ruined yourself over it, even back when you had no idea what to do with the ache.

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

It’s not polite. It’s not romantic. It’s not anything you could explain without choking on your filth. You drop to your knees as they owe her something like they’ve been aching to hit the floor since the second she walked in with that coat slung over her shoulders and her mouth already parted as she knew.

That goddamn nightgown. Looks too good and too soft, the kind of silk that should be worn in candlelight, not under kitchen fluorescents, while someone half her age rubs their face against it like a dog in heat.

Her voice is poison- sweet when she says, “You recognize it?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

She hums. “He bought it for me,” she adds, soft and vicious. “And said this makes him want another Lily.”

Then she leans in, faces leveling before you, breath hot and foul with something ugly.

“Guess that’s why you couldn’t stop staring.”

When she stands properly again like a god… you nose along the hem like you’ve lost your mind. You have. You must have. Because it smells like her- her skin, her perfume, her pussy, barely shielded by layers that feel like paper when your mouth’s this hot, this hungry. You mouth at her like it’ll save you. Like getting her wet through her nightgown might buy you absolution.

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

“Tashi,” you groan, already pressing open-mouthed kisses where the silk clings damp to her. “You smell so- fuck- so good, oh my god-”

She should push you off. Say your name like a warning. Say stop.

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

Fingers in your hair, scalp- tight grip, and her hips fucking jerk forward like she doesn’t care if you bite. Like she wants the teeth. Wants the desperation. Wants the tongue that’s dragging slow and heavy up the curve of her through that ruined silk, like it’s not even in your way.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s not even saying it to you. She’s saying it like a confession. Like an apology.

But you don’t care. You’re gone. You’re lapping at her like you can taste the years of bad decisions soaked into her skin. Like if you’re disgusting enough if you worship her hard enough through the layers, she’ll let you do worse.

You grind your nose up where the fabric clings darkest. Your tongue presses. Her thighs shake.

“Bet no one’s ever been this fucking desperate for it, huh?” you mutter, voice wrecked and breathless. “Bet Art never got on his knees. Not like this. Not for this. Didn’t know what the fuck he had.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but it’s not angry.

It’s desperate.

You know that tone. You’ve heard it behind doors years ago, room over, pressed up against drywall, breath caught in your throat. At the same time, her voice broke, and you didn’t know why you were wet just hearing her beg him in another room when you slept over her place before.

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

You grab her ass and drag her forward against your mouth as if it belongs to you like she should’ve been letting you do this the whole damn time. Her knees nearly buckle. Her hand tightens in your hair like she wants to tear your scalp open.

“Tashi,” you whisper, breath hot enough to melt silk. “You’re shaking.”

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

You lick a stripe straight up the center of her cunt through her nightgown and panties- obscene, slow, heavy with spit. She lets out a noise that’s half a sob, half a growl. Like this is killing her. Like she wants it to.

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

On your knees, face soaked with her, mouth pressed against the place no one else gets to see her break. She’s older. She’s been loved. She’s been ruined. But not like this.

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

She doesn’t even try to stop you now. Her fingers are knotted so tight in your hair they’re shaking, and the coat slips off her shoulders like even fabric can’t stand between you anymore. It hits the floor with a whisper.

But the silk stays.

Because that’s the thing, you don’t move it. You don’t even try. You just drag your tongue up the soaked center of her cunt, slow, like the silk’s not a barrier but a sacrament. It sticks to her wet, sheer, clinging to every curve, every ridge, every swollen beat of her pussy like it wants to be ruined.

And god, do you ruin it.

You nose up into the seam, breathing hot against it, and the heat makes it cling tighter. Her taste is leaking through, already sweet, sour, and sharp, like sweat, skin, and something even deeper. You lick again. Broad. Firm. Right up the center, letting your tongue flatten against the thin slip of fabric and press.

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

You don’t stop. You double down. You wrap both arms around her thighs, fingertips digging into the soft give of her ass, holding her steady as your tongue works her over. The silk is a second skin now, and you’re devouring it. Lapping at it. Mouthing at the swollen, slick outline of her pussy like it’s a puzzle you’ve been dying to solve for years.

And it’s not just the silk.

She’s still got panties underneath- thin, soaked through, clinging to her just as tight. You can feel them under your tongue when you press harder. A soft layer of lace or cotton, maybe both, bunched under the silk like a final line of defense that gave up hours ago. They’re drenched- darker than the nightgown now, twisted into the shape of her cunt like she came into them days ago and never stopped leaking. You lick right through all of it. You feel the texture shift under your mouth- wet silk dragging across soaked cotton, your tongue pushing the fabric harder into her clit with every pass, and she’s shaking. You want her to cum through it. You want to taste her as she breaks apart in layers.

She moans- harsh, guttural, trying to swallow it down and failing. She buckles. Grabs the countertop. Her knees wobble, and her hips roll, seeking, grinding against your mouth like she can’t help it. Like the friction’s not enough and too much all at once.

And fuck, she’s wet.

The silk’s drenched now dark, clinging, and practically transparent with how soaked she is. You can see everything. The way her folds push up against the fabric, plump and flushed. The outline of her clit, straining, begging. The soft dip where her hole flexes, twitching under the heat of your tongue. You lick it all. Slowly. Obscenely. Over and over, soaking your face with her.

She shudders violently. Her thighs clamped around your head, not enough to stop you- just sufficient to make it filthy. She’s rocking now, breathing hard, trying not to say your name, but it keeps slipping out anyway-half-formed, like a prayer.

And still, you don’t pull the silk aside.

You want her like this- wrapped, soaked, too far gone to care. You want her cunt to pulse against fabric you’ve defiled with your mouth, want her to feel you even through layers. The pressure. The heat. The drag of your tongue as you circle her clit through the silk again and again until her whole body jerks.

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

You hum into her, filthy and satisfied, and the vibration makes her whimper.

“Tashi,” you pant, spit-slick and raw. “You taste so fucking good- this pussy- god, you’re soaked. You’re fucking dripping.” Your mouth is already glossy with her, chin sticky, upper lip burning where her slick is drying fast in the kitchen air, and still, you keep licking like you’re trying to get drunk on her, like it isn’t enough to just taste- like you want her leaking down your throat until she lives inside you.

You nose hard into the mess of it, grind your tongue right up into the soaked seam, and that breaks her. Her whole body lurches, stutters, hips pushing forward like she’s chasing the pressure, thighs clenching around your head so tight it makes your ears ring. You moan into her in response, tongue dragging firm and slow right up the seam again, and her whimper curls into the air like a scream that’s been swallowed too many times. You swear you feel her clit twitch just from the heat of your breath.

She arches. Moans like her whole body’s unraveling. And you don’t even flinch- you push into it, greedy, worshipful, kissing her cunt as you mean it like it’s her mouth and you’ve been starved for it. You’re not just licking- you’re making out with her through silk and lace, lips pressing soft and hard in turns, tongue slipping across the soaked fabric like you’re begging to crawl inside. Your jaw aches, your mouth is raw, but you don’t care- you’d live like this forever if it meant she’d keep gasping your name like that.

Because that’s what this feels like. Like making out with her pussy through silk and soaked lace, mouth dragging slow, reverent licks over the heat of her, tongue pressing up against the wet fabric while your fingers come up and start rubbing her clit in tight, focused circles- firm and hungry and filthy. You groan against her, the vibration of it rolling through her clit, your fingertips catching the swell of it through the fabric, grinding it down. At the same time, your lips suck against the shape like you’re kissing it open. Every touch is soaked. Every stroke drenches your hand more.

“T-Tashi,” you murmur again, hot breath fogging the sheer fabric, mouth sliding against her like you’re trying to devour her through it. “Let me kiss you. Let me fucking kiss this pussy until you cry.” Your voice breaks on it, all husk and reverence like you can’t believe you get to worship her like this like she’s holy and ruined and still letting you kneel between her legs like a girl who’s never wanted anything else.

She whimpers. And you do. You lick and suck and rub and press, tongue dragging slow and deep along the line of her slit, nose nudging the base, lips locking around the outline of her clit while your fingers work it from the outside. You grind your face into her like you’re kissing her hard, sloppy, hot- and every time your mouth seals against the fabric, she gasps like she’s feeling your mouth inside her. Her thighs twitch around your head, and her hands scramble for the edge of the counter like she doesn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

You moan into it. Let her feel the sound. Let her feel the vibration all the way through the soaked silk and her pulsing cunt and the nerves firing off like sparks. It’s not just heat anymore- it’s friction and desperation and the way she’s grinding into your face like she’s trying to fuse with you. Like the silk isn’t a barrier, anymore- it’s the thing holding her together.

She’s trembling. Her hips roll forward like she’s trying to kiss you back, grinding herself into your face and your hand, as she needs it deeper, more complicated, wetter. You’re rutting your tongue up through the fabric, sliding it just right while your fingers rub fast, relentless, slippery circles into her clit until she’s soaking both of you. Her panties are still on under the silk, pressed in and tight, and everything- everything- is slick.

You suck hard through the fabric- groaning against it-then slow it down, flick your tongue over her like you’re tracing the seam of her lips. Tongue to silk to lace to skin. One thin layer away from the flesh and still somehow inside her. You can feel her clenching, feel the tremble beneath your lips, the way her clit twitches under the fabric as your fingers tease and tongue works in time.

She gasps, jerks- ruts forward on instinct- and you meet her, kisses her clit like it’s her mouth, open-mouthed and wet and filthy, dragging your fingers faster now in time with your tongue, like the rhythm of a kiss that’s turned violent. She cries out. Her knees buckle. Her body’s trying to fold, but your grip won’t let her- you. You’re holding her up, feeding off her, moaning into the silk as she pulses against your face.

“W-wait,” she pants, voice sharp and useless. One of her hands fists in your hair, the other scrambling behind her for the counter’s edge. “What if your mom- fuck, what if she comes down and sees me like this-?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep licking her through everything. The thin, clinging silk of her nightgown, the soaked panties underneath. You press your tongue hard against the heat of her, mouthing at her like you could suck her off through the fabric if you just tried hard enough. And maybe you can. The way she’s twitching, gasping, and whining now is like she’s trying to stay quiet and failing, like her body’s giving you away whether she wants it to or not.

Her hips stutter forward, grinding into your mouth on reflex. Your fingers don’t stop either- rubbing messy little circles right over where you know she’s aching, where the fabric’s glued to her cunt and getting wetter by the second. You’re soaked in it. Your chin, your lips, your fucking soul-drenched with her.

And she’s trying to fight it. She is. She’s still mumbling about your mom, looking toward the stairs like she will pull back. You’ve got her trapped. You’ve got your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, your face buried where no one can save her, and she’s so close now it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if your mom’s upstairs. Doesn’t matter if god’s watching. Doesn’t matter that she’s still fully dressed because you’ve got her coming apart anyway.

You moan into her like you’re fucking starved- like you’ve been waiting years for this like you’d crawl through the glass just to taste her through those panties again. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore. You’re sloppy with it now, tongue everywhere, mouth wide and messy, soaking the silk with spit until the fabric’s clinging to your lips like a second skin. She’s drenched. You’re drenched. It’s fucking sick how wet she is through all this, how your chin’s slick and your jaw aches, and you still won’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re-” she chokes, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the countertop like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. “You’re not even under.” She can’t finish it. She doesn’t have the breath. She just whines instead, sobs almost, her thighs trembling where they’re locked around your shoulders.

You palm her ass with both hands now, greedy and possessive, dragging her hips forward until she’s got no choice but to grind on your face. And she does. God, she fucking does. She ruts against you like it’s wrong, and it is her best friend’s daughter on her knees with a mouthful of silk and pussy and history-and. Still, she pushes harder, grinds filthier, rocks into your face like she’s trying to fuck you through the fabric.

Her voice cracks. “We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t- what if she-”

And you don’t. Even. blink.

You groan into her, deep and filthy, like you want her to feel your refusal all the way up her spine. Your fingers speed up faster, tighter, cruel little circles over the soaked lace of her panties, the pressure too good to think through. Her whole body jolts like she’s been shocked, and you suck at her through the silk-like you can punish her for thinking about anything else but this.

She’s gonna cum. She knows she is. And she starts shaking her head like that’ll stop it, like she can logic her way out of what you’re doing to her body she can’t. Not when you’re moaning like that, not when your fingers are grinding her down, and your tongue is pushing and pushing and fucking pulsing over her clit through the wet fabric like it belongs to you.

And the worst part? The most disgusting, humiliating part?

She’s gonna cum dressed like this. Half-covered in silk, panties soaked, nipples hard and visible through that ridiculous nightgown her ex-husband bought her. She’s gonna cum standing in your mom’s kitchen, trembling like a slut on the mouth of the girl she shouldn’t even be touching.

And she does.

She cums.

It slams through her like a train- fast, brutal, no mercy. Her whole body locks and then shudders violently. Her knees nearly give out, thighs quivering where they’re clamped tight around your head like a vice. A raw, broken sound tears from her chest-half a gasp, half a sob- and it punches straight into your mouth. You keep licking. Keep sucking. Keep grinding your tongue into her clit like you’re starving for it.

Because she’s soaking.

Everything between her legs is obscene now, filthy and soaked, a mess of spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and seeping through layers like it’s got nowhere else to go. The silk of her nightgown is utterly ruined, clinging to her skin like melted sugar, translucent and dark where your mouth’s been. Her panties-thin and utterly useless, now- are plastered to her cunt like a second skin, sodden with your spit and her slick. The crotch is slick and squelching every time your tongue presses in, and the fabric clings so tight you can see the outline of everything- her folds, her clit, the twitch of her pulsing hole.

She shakes, twitching like her body doesn’t know what to do. Her thighs squeeze around your head once-twice-then go loose, trembling violently. And she’s still coming. You can feel it. Taste it. The way her pussy keeps pulsing under your tongue, spasming helplessly, her whole cunt clenching through the fabric like it’s not sure what it wants-more pressure or to run.

“Fuh-fuck-” she chokes, hips jerking, one heel skidding on the floor.

Your mouth is soaked. Your chin is soaked. The whole bottom half of her nightgown is soaked, clinging wetly to her inner thighs and sticking in a twisted mess between her legs like you poured warm syrup down her body. Her panties are ruined- warped and stretched, glued to her from slick and spit, and come leaking through the seams.

You don’t stop. You keep licking like you’re chasing the final tremors of it, tongue wide and slow, lips dragging over the soaked swell of her cunt like you’ve gone mad for the taste.

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

Tashi jolts. Her entire body stiffens. Her hands clutch your head like she’s going to shove you off, but she doesn’t. She’s still panting. Still dripping.

“Are you downstairs?”

You don’t move. Neither does she. You can hear her heartbeat can feel it pounding through her thighs against your cheeks. Her nightgown twitches with every hard breath she tries to swallow.

You breathe once, hard through your nose, and whisper against her, voice shredded raw:

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her grip on your scalp is trembling. Not releasing. Not pulling.

“I thought I heard something,” your mom continues. “Are you okay?”

You sit back on your heels, a little face still slick, your mouth glistening, her mess smeared all over your lips.

“Yeah! Just getting water!” you call back, voice wrecked but pitched high- innocent. Harmless.

Like you weren’t on your knees seconds ago with your tongue buried against the soaked seam of Tashi Duncan’s panties. Like your mouth isn’t still slick with spit and her come. Like her pussy isn’t still twitching behind the fabric that’s clung to her for years and will never feel clean again.

You don’t move. You don’t even look up. You just keep your head bowed like she’s an altar, and you’re already in prayer, forehead brushing the inside of her thigh, mouth parted where her scent lives thick in the humid air between her legs. And she’s still shaking-legs loose, knees buckling, breath stuttering sharp and shallow where her chest heaves under silk that’s clung to her in places you ruined.

“Jesus,” she hisses, more breath than voice. It doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just stunned. Shattered.

You look up. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted. Her hair’s sticking to her temple in wet pieces like she’s been through a storm she pretended not to see coming. One hand is still tangled in your hair, and her grip is slack, like she forgot to let go.

You should get up.

You should stop.

You should wipe your mouth and pretend you were actually getting water.

But instead of pulling back, instead of catching your breath or wiping your mouth, you slide your hand under her nightgown.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow. Sure. Possessive. Like you have every right.

The silk lifts just slightly, but you don’t look yet- you don’t need to. Your head stays down. Your cheek is still pressed warm and reverent to the inside of her thigh as your hand climbs higher. You worship, like prayer, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you’ve ever been alive.

And when your fingers find her panties again… underneath this time, your breath stutters.

They’re soaked.

Not just damp. Not just a wet patch. They’re ruined. Drenched all the way through with spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and clinging to her like a second skin. You can feel everything now. Everything. The heat of her. The mess. The way she twitches when your palm first cups her fully, right between her legs, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of contact even though she should’ve known you were never going to be gentle again.

You press your hand flat against her. Just hold her there. Let her feel the weight of it- your palm against her pulsing cunt, the pressure steady and low.

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

Slow at first. Just the heel of your palm rocking forward, dragging the wet fabric over her. It slides easily, slick enough to drown in, your fingers catching gently at the edges of her folds through the cotton. You feel her start to throb again. You feel it in your wrist and your fingertips, like her whole body is centered here now- right here, under your hand, under your control.

Then, you lower your fingers.

Trace the length of her down the whole curve of her slit, slow and unhurried. You can feel everything: every soft swell, every twitching ridge, every shiver that jolts through her thighs. You press in a little. Feel the way the fabric pulls tight over her folds, soaked and warm, clinging to the shape of her like it wants you to know what’s underneath.

And you do. God, you do.

Your fingers rub lower, then back up. Find the curve of her again. Let the tips dip gently along her lips, not quite slipping inside, just dragging enough to make her shudder. Then, higher- pressing into the swollen little bud at the top, the one pulsing like it’s begging to be touched.

You circle her clit through the panties- slow, dirty, deliberate.

She gasps.

It’s soft, but it punches straight through you. Her thighs twitch. Her hips roll just a little. Just enough to push herself harder against your hand.

And that’s when you look.

You lift the hem of the nightgown finally, slowly, reverently, and the sight that greets you is fucking obscene.

Her panties are plastered to her- dark with wetness, slick with spit and come and sweat, and everything you did to her. The center is stained so deep it looks painted on, the cotton sheer with how soaked it is, clinging to her lips like a fucking confession. You can see the shape of her through it- the puffed, flushed folds, the tremble of her clit twitching under the pressure of your hand. Her slick glistens where it’s bled through, still leaking, still hot.

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

Palm pressed flat against her soaked panties. Your fingers slide low, dragging along the outline of her cunt, tracing the shape of her lips through the drenched material. Every inch of her is slick- wet from your mouth, from her come, from everything she spilled all over your tongue and into your hands. The fabric is sticky against your skin. Clings like it’s begging you not to leave. And you don’t.

You rub her slow, tentative, just to feel it again. The heat. The mess. The way she twitches when you catch her right fingertips grazing the swollen bump of her clit through layers too ruined to count as clothing anymore.

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

Still leaking through her fucking underwear like you haven’t already taken her apart in the middle of your mother’s kitchen.

You swallow hard, staring down.

You haven’t even moved the nightgown out of the way. Haven’t peeled anything back. You’re just holding her there- cupping her with one hand and staring like it’s something sacred. The silk is bunched up around your wrist, warm from her body heat, and her panties are so soaked they’re practically see-through. You can see everything. The puffed flush of her lips. The quiver at the tip of her clit. The wet spot is blooming darker where she’s still leaking, still ruined.

You drag your thumb over it again with a slow, reverent stroke.

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

It comes out so soft that you almost don’t hear it yourself, as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken at all, just thought, maybe. Dreamed. Whispered in some dark corner of your mind where names and boundaries blur.

But it hangs there. It lingers. Sweet and sticky and awful.

And her body goes still.

Not just still- tense. Like a wire pulled too tight, straining just before it snaps. Her fingers flex where they’re braced on the counter behind her, her jaw going slack. She doesn’t look down at you. Doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead like she’s been frozen in time, like the word struck some nerve she forgot she even had.

You go breathless, weightless. The panic doesn’t hit right. First comes the awareness, the shame, thick and sick in your throat, your stomach flipping over like a dying thing. And still, somehow, you don’t take your hand away. You don’t move an inch.

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

Her chest rises slowly and shallow. Her lips part. And when she speaks, it sounds like it hurts. “What… did you just call me?”

You blink, stunned by your mouth. “I-I didn’t-”

She looks down at last, and fuck-her eyes are wild. Glossy, wide, full of something you can’t read. Not anger. Not quite. Not disgust. It’s closer to grief. Or lust. Or both tangled up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You said mommy,” she says, almost to herself. Not angry- just wrecked. Like she can’t believe it. Like she’s trying to scrub it out of her own ears with disbelief.

You want to backpedal. You want to undo it. But the moment’s too full. The air is too thick. There’s something between you now that wasn’t there before, and it won’t go away just because you pretend it didn’t happen.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice cracks at the edge- thin, glassy, like she’s not sure whether to break down or burn you alive for it.

There’s something brittle in it, something dangerous like she’s splintering from the inside out like your voice alone did that. Like the word you moaned cracked open a vault, she swore she’d never touch again. Now everything’s leaking out all at once: want guilt, that rotted sweetness you always thought she only used on other people. It’s in her now, and it’s in you. You see it flash behind her eyes like lightning. Then she moves.

And then her hand’s in your hair.

Not a caress. Not even close. Her fingers knot so deep it feels like she’s trying to pull memories out of your skull. If she grips hard enough, she can rip the name out of your mouth and strangle it in her fist before it gets a second chance to ruin her. Your scalp screams, and your spine locks, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to. You just gasp-and it’s wet, embarrassing like the pain is wired straight to the slick heat that’s already running down your thigh.

She yanks you up in one sharp, breathless motion. Fingers twisted deep at the roots like she wants to scalp you for what you said and punish herself for liking it.

It’s so fast it steals the air from your lungs and knocks the sense from your head. You stagger forward, bent at the waist, half-bent and breathless with the humiliating burn, your mouth slack and your eyes wide. She hasn’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping. Already aching. Already- fuck- already needing. And maybe she sees that. Perhaps that’s why she grins, just a little, without joy.

Your gasp barely makes it out. She’s already walking. Dragging you by the hair like she’s reclaiming some twisted territory like she doesn’t trust her mouth to speak, and this is the only language she has left.

Every step is an accusation. Every tug is a curse. She walks like she owns the house, and you’re a stain, so she will scrub out upstairs. Her grip tightens when you hesitate, and the pain shoots hot and liquid down your spine. You swear you feel her breath behind you. Close. Measured. Like she’s counting the seconds it’ll take to get you into bed and ruin you properly.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[sweeneydino]

Already on episode 8.

They really said trauma in flavor text.

Warning for Spoilers below

Can't wait for all the screenshots soon 😤

Interesting how their blood is mutagen or atleast can mutate those that ingest it. I guess Mikey now has a son.... pigeon pete-

Love how leatherhead immediately adopted him.

Ough the self deprecating from each turtle and their different perspectives on what happened is perfect. Leo being nothing without his brothers, Raph wanting to be stronger to protect them, Donnie believing hes just the tech guy and Mikey feeling out of place. I can already see the potential for first.

And this bishop... she's a bishop alright, or well, similar to 03 bishop in wanting to eliminate all mutants, a "human threat" while also ending up endangering humans in their attempts. Same motives for different reasons. Mutants(or really a mutant) destroyed what she loved, something for her sister who I'm not sure is dead or she just really loves her.

One thing I must thank my turtle posters for is so far no 2012apriltello/caseytello/capriltello or whatever love story equivalent with the leopril. It's so refreshing and actually is very cute. Leo still has a crush it's just not blasted into your eyes, and I couldn't be more happy.

They included alot of possibly forgotten characters(I say possibly because some haven't watch the older versions, and thats okay), there is Angel who reminds me alot of Kendra, Hun appears again as a possible bro to Raph, ofc pigeon pete Michelangelo's son(I will not explain) and you already heard of bishop. There's probably more but I'm only half way in and I took a break to get some food.

If you can, you should watch it, it's very fun and silly, also, possible angst. The music is great, and the art and animation are fan-fucking-tastic like, holy shit, but that's to be expected (if you plan to watch it, read tags plz)

Overall I give 10/10, would give hun a chicken

Oh, and there's Rod, I guess.

Edit: Omfg is Splinter the Rat King?

Edit 2: Yes... yes he is.

I should've mentioned it before, but I love how we are getting to see the turtles interacting with their cousins and other... family members(scumbug ajshshjs). I also live how rockstrady and bebop are THOSE cousins. Always getting into trouble, making stuff worse but you can't help but love em

[wonderlandcrown]

𝐼𝑛 𝐴 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑂𝑓 𝑀𝑦 𝑂𝑤𝑛

𝑉𝑖𝑙 𝑋 𝑌𝑢𝑢(𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟)

a/n : second fic on here woohoo. take a look into your future with the worldwide famous actor, model and influencer : Vil Schoenheit!! Future au so Vil is 22 here, reader is younger but is over 18. Reader referred to as "Yuu, you, they/them prns" yuu's name was saved as "my saviour" ever since they broke into Styx to rescue Vil. Talking abt getting kids haha who said that

genre : fluff and romance(established relationship)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚♛♡♕˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Cats and rabbits Would reside in fancy little houses And be dressed in shoes and hats and trousers In a world of my own

It's two o'clock, the director has just called for a break. Vil was filming a new movie all the way over at the Queendom of Roses, it's supposed to be a live action version of one of the classics animation films made in the queendom. Though Vil usually disliked live actions(he thought them uncreative cash grabs), he'll admit the writing for this wasn't as bad as he imagined.

Vil was playing as the villain's younger brother this time, the tritagonist. A refreshing break from all his villain roles, the White King was graceful, otherworldly, and a hidden taste for violence, you had teased that Vil was basically playing himself.

Vil stood by the catering section, taking a gulp of water along with his vitamin supplements. He scrolled through his phone checking for messages, there were some from Rook, they haven't lost contact even after graduation, in fact they text each other more often now that they don't see each other as often.

Rook had sent some pictures of his recent excavation site, along with candid shots of the team he was currently working with. Most of the team members had surprised, or- scared, expressions while Rook still had that same familiar smile. Vil sent him a reminder to not freak out his new acquaintances too much.

There was also Epel, he had only recently finished his 4th year internship and is now taking a break in his hometown, helping his family. Epel had grown so much ever since Vil took him under his wing during NRC, it makes Vil a little sentimental, only a little.

Epel had sent Vil the monthly supplies of apple juice and apples(Epel was here to visit Deuce anyways)to the hotel he was currently staying at, Vil received the pictures of boxes at the hotel doorstep.

Vil then decided to chat with Yuu,

my queen💜 : dear, epel just sent the apples and apple juice to our doorstep, did you receive them?

my saviour🤭 : (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ʸᴱˢ

my saviour🤭 : I brought them inside alrd

my queen💜 : make yourself something to eat with the apples, a fruit salad would do nicely as an afternoon snack.

my queen💜 : assuming you had finished your lunch

my saviour🤭 : uhhhhhh

Vil sighs as he sees the last message, really, you're not incapable of not taking care of yourself when he's not around, so why does it seem like so.

my queen💜 : love. answer me

seen 2:13 p.m

Seen? How could you leave your jaw dropping, gorgeous, caring, considerate fiancé on seen?! You better have a good reason for leaving THE Vil Schoenheit on seen or he'll-

Vil's internal monologue of rage was cut short by a sudden *ping*, you had sent a photo of... A cat wearing a pink bow. Definitely not Grim.

my queen💜 : yuu. explain. now.

my saviour🤭 : I found it outside the hotel ╥﹏╥

my queen💜 : 1, emoticons don't work on me. 2, why did you bring it into our hotel room

my saviour🤭 : I alrd gave Dinah a bath thoo ://

my saviour🤭 : she's clean I swear🙏🙏

Vil can practically feel his blood pressure rising.

my queen💜 : so you decided to postpone your lunch to take care of a mangy stray cat?

my saviour🤭 : yeahh😘(plz don't be mad plzplzplzplzplzzpzl)

my queen💜 : fine just.. remember to eat, and don't let it go in our shared bedroom

my saviour🤭 : you're gonna lose your head when you learn where me and Dinah are rn

Vil then decided that putting down his phone for the time being would be a wondrous decision, for the sake of his sanity and blood pressure.

All the flowers Would have very extra-special powers They would sit and talk to me for hours When I'm lonely in a world of my own

Vil wasn't very fond of the idea of making small talk with any of the cast members during production, in his opinion, it would've affected his filming. It's the actor's job to bring the character to life for the audience, anything less than that should be classified as a sub par children's play.

Though Vil did make an exception for his lovely Yuu that seemed to love causing him migraines(and Rook, but the latter would still drop by unannounced even if Vil told him no)

That didn't make the actor any less surprised when you showed up with a bouquet of purple hyacinths.

"You're so lucky you managed to show up during our break time. If it was during filming I would've kicked you out."

"First of all, no you wouldn't. Second of all, I memorized your schedule, so this was planned. "

Vil huffed, he's not surprised you memorized his schedule, you've been doing that ever since you two got engaged.

"Nevermind, I'm more interested in the reason for your visit, and the purple hyacinths too... You do know what the flower symbolizes, no?"

Purple hyacinths. Forgiveness

You shuffled your feet and held the bouquet a little bit tighter, suddenly anxious. "Uh, yeah, you seemed really angry yesterday.. You've left me on seen.."

Great seven, Yuu, your worried face is honestly adorable. Vil almost forgave you for the bringing in the stray cat when you made that expression, but he steeled his nerves and pretended to not be affected.

"Hmph, what did you expect? You brought back a stray cat without my permission into OUR hotel room." Vil emphasizes the word our as he crosses his arms, how could you not ask for his opinion beforehand?

"Y-yeah, I'm sorry, but it was raining and-," You suddenly cut yourself off, realizing Vil was raising an eyebrow, this isn't the time for that, my dear. "No, no, that's an excuse.. I'm sorry, I got these flowers for you."

You push the bouquet of hyacinths towards Vil, they were wrapped in a light yellow silk cloth and tied together by a black ribbon. A sight for sore eyes, Vil admits. He takes the flowers from your hands and starts looking closely at the bouquet, trying to find fault among the flowers(he likes being petty okay?), but he finds none whatsoever.

"You're forgiven, and you can keep Dinah, just don't let her on the bed."

The joy on your face could almost match the one on the day Vil proposed to you, his heart melts at the sight, and this time he doesn't hide his affectionate smile. Yuu may be magicless but Vil swears that their smile has some special power.

There'd be new birds Lots of nice and friendly how-de-do birds Everyone would have a dozen blue birds

A month had passed since Vil had started filming, he was given a break by the director. His character doesn't show up until the climax scene from this point on, and a child actor was called in to play the kid version of the White King during the backstory sequence.

This was enough for Vil to make up for lost time with Yuu.

You were standing outside the filming studio, holding Dinah in your arms, and Vil could see the silhouette of Grim inside the limousine, no doubt feasting on caviar and the fancy tuna you loved to buy for the little glutton. Vil was holding a vase of the hyacinths you'd given to him a while ago, he still managed to take care of the flowers while filming.

"We're gonna go to the park." You announce once Vil was inside the limo, Grim looks up from his very, very messy plate, "Myah? Why not a restaurant? The queendom's food is kinda bland, but the Great Grim makes it a point to eat the local cuisine of any place he goes to!"

Vil sighs, adjusting the vase of hyacinths on his lap, "You have enough on your plate already.. And I meant that literally."

"It's peaceful and makes a nice picnic spot, I had already visited there once and I thought you'd like it, take a break from the usual bustling crowd you have to deal with, y'know?" A beautiful smile graces your face as you say that, and Vil suddenly feels rejuvenated, as if he didn't spend an entire month filming.

"You're as thoughtful as ever, dear."

After a while, the limo stopped at a red light, you turned your head towards the window and saw up on a tree, a family of blue swallows.

You were silent for a while, craning your neck to stare at the swallows, it made Vil curious too. Though he had to squint to take a good look at them as he was sitting parallel to you.

Vil could make out at least two smaller swallows, one of the older ones was sitting still while another was focused on the children.

"There's still an unhatched egg." You whisper, you were still focused on that small family of birds. Vil couldn't understand why, he thought of asking Grim but the latter wasn't making eye contact with him for some reason. (usually Grim would be bugging Vil to buy him stuff)

For some reason, Vil feels like he was left out of a very important conversation.

Within that world of my own I could listen to a babbling brook And hear a song that I could understand I keep wishing it could be that way Because my world would be a wonderland

The chauffeur had dropped you all off at the park, Vil had entrusted him to take care of his prized hyacinths for the time being, you told Grim to "take care of your little sister Dinah", to which he responded with grumbles and protests against the term "little sister". That left you alone with your fiancé, Vil Schoenheit.

As you sit on the picnic mat taking plates and sandwiches out of the basket, Vil approached you with a question. "You were acting weird in the car." "..Huh?"

Your confused face seemed so genuine that Vil was already second guessing what he saw, "You heard me, is there something you want to tell me? Is it about birds?"

A blush creeps onto your face, which Vil mistakes for embarrassment. "I don't mind if you want to adopt some birds, my dear, but you have to keep in mind that you already own a cat and a gluttonous direbeast, I don't want to see you heartbroken if either one decides that your new pet is going to make their next meal-,"

"It's not about birds!" You suddenly blurt aloud, you were lucky that the park isn't a popular tourist spot, because that definitely would've turned some heads.

Vil blinks in surprise, "Sorry..? Wait- no, Yuu, what do you mean this isn't about birds?"

You were blushing like a tomato now, "The- the birds... This isn't about birds Vil.." You cover your face with your hands, keeping whatever else you had to say muffled.

"Yuu, I can't hear anything if you do that." Vil furrowed his brows, whatever you had to say was clearly important, it made Vil worried.

"..."

"Yuu?" Don't do this to your fiancé, please. Vil has absolutely no idea what's going on, what do you want to tell him??? He takes your hand away and cradles it using his own, the soft gesture making you raise your head.

"Yuu. Please." Vil Schoenheit has picked up the skill of reading people over the years as an actor, model and influencer, but still he failed to read his beloveds current feelings.

"..How do you feel about children?"

Vil feels like he was thrown into an alternate universe.

"That's what you were thinking about?" Vil chooses his words carefully, or as carefully as a person can be when one's beloved thought that he would be adverse to the idea of kids.

"My love, if you wanted to have a talk about that you could've done it anytime, and no need to be so shy." Vil says steadily while using his free hand to tilt your head up, you were reminding him of how you were during your school days.

"But you were busy with filming.. And I had barely begun the wedding preparations! didn't seem right to discuss the idea of children when we are barely adults.."

Your eyes darted around, and for a while Vil was silent, the river near the spot you had chosen made its presence known.

"Well.. You're not wrong, this isn't really the most suitable time for us to have children.. But there was no need for your shyness, my love, I'm not going to leave you just because of something like that."

Vil sat down beside you on the picnic mat, your hand still in his, he tilted his head to take a look at you.

"...Thanks, Vil." Your reply was barely audible, but Vil heard it just fine.

"You're always welcome, dear."

Vil Schoenheit is an actor, model and influencer, but he is also a son, a friend, and a partner, and truth be told he values the last three roles more than the others, especially the role of Yuu's partner.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

a/n : got a little angsty at the end whoops. tell me in the comments or reblogs if you wanna be tagged in chapter 3

[brenwritesss]

𝐓𝐫𝐮 𝐅𝐫𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

⋆˚࿔Paige Bueckers x reader ❀˖°

Summary: You see Paige after the livestream happened and the two of you get closer.

(Semi-sexual content ahead.)

It had been a couple weeks since you had gone to Paige’s place and the livestream happened. Since then, it had been awkward between you and Paige, considering you didn’t really know each other and now you were trending on social media. Paige had texted you multiple times, apologizing and you had to reassure her that it was okay. At first, you didn’t see it as a big deal since no one really saw your face. However, you didn’t really understand just how popular she was until you started seeing edits starting with an intro of the video of you and Paige on her bed. 

Paige and you really haven’t hung out since then, her being busy with basketball and traveling while you were trying to finish all your studies.

Currently, you were in your room trying to finish an assignment for one of your classes when a text notification popped up on your phone beside you. It was from Paige.

Yo can I come over?

Immediately texting back, you replied with a “sure” along with your dorm number. This is the first time she would ever be over at your dorm and you couldn’t help but feel nervous.

You took the time to clean up your room a little, putting away your homework and picking up any dishes or cups that were in your room.

A knock disrupted you. Walking over to the door, you let out a breath and opened it. “Hey,” Paige said, looking at you with her hands in her back pocket. She was wearing a UConn jacket and sweatpants.

“Hey,” you replied. “Come in.” You moved out of the way so that she could come in. Paige walked in and you shut the door.

“I know I keep apologizing but I’m so sorry for the whole livestream situation.”

You let out a small laugh and led Paige into your room. “Don’t even worry about it. It’s all good. It’s not like they know who I am. If anything, I’m sorry that it’s trending and you have to deal with this sort of stuff.”

Paige felt relieved in your response, as if weight was lifted off her shoulders. She sat down on your bed, grabbing one of your stuffed animals near your pillow and fiddled with it. “It’s actually really refreshing to hear you say that.”

“Really?” You sat down beside her.

Paige looked at you, her clear-framed glasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of her nose. Her hair was in a low bun and she had on a beanie. All you wanted to do was lean over and kiss her, but you had to restrain yourself. “Yeah,” she said, “a lot of people don’t really think about how this kind of stuff affects us.”

You rubbed your hands on your thighs. “Well people should. I mean I get y’all are supposed to be like celebrities but you’re still human.”

Paige smiled at you, her eyes squinting in response. You thought the “eye-smile” she did was the cutest thing ever. It made you want to melt on the spot. Damn, you were starting to fall for her. “Thank you for saying that.”

It seemed like a long moment of just staring into each other’s eyes. When you and Paige had hung out in her room, moments like this had happened but this was different. Like the two of you were actually seeing each other for the first time. The sexual tension between the two of you had changed into something more emotional. And it intrigued you, making you want more. It made her want more too. However, it was a little overwhelming as this hasn’t happened to you in a while.

Paige’s eyes didn’t leave yours as she very slowly started to lean in, her face inching closer towards yours. A sudden bolt of fear shot through you and you turned your head away, making Paige look at you confused. You began saying, “so, how’s basketball been go-”

“Y/n.” Paige’s voice cut you off. Hearing your name coming from her mouth sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t look at her. “Yeah?”

“Look at me,” she spoke softly, her fingers coming up to your chin as she gently turned your head allowing you to both make eye contact again. She let go of your chin, leaving behind cold marks that made you long to feel her touch. “I feel things for you.”

“What kind of things?” you asked.

She slowly laced her fingers with yours, smiling. “I think you’re incredibly beautiful and I like the way we talk to each other. And when the live happened, I felt so bad, you have no idea. All I wanted to do was apologize to you. I realized that I want to get to know you more and that I like you.”

“You like me?”

“If it isn’t obvious already.”

“I feel the same way. You have this energy that draws me to you.” You held onto her hand and you could feel her leaning closer to you.

There was a small moment of silence before she spoke, “can I,” she started, “can I try something and you won’t freak out?”

“Depends.”

Paige chuckled. “Just trust me.”

You didn’t say anything as you waited for Paige to do something. She took your silence as permission to lean forward, lifting one of her hands up to your cheek. As she pulled your face toward hers, you felt fear but also excitement, as you had wanted to kiss her for a while but never had the courage to.

Paige closed the distance between the two of you as it started off slow, the both of you moving in sync. Something ignited in Paige that made her pick up the pace, her hand dropping from your face to your waist and pulling you closer to her body. The sudden movement resulted in a small groan from you which made Paige’s heart beat faster and her mind start racing. 

As the pace quickened, you grabbed her face, pulling yourself up from your seated position and straddled her lap. “Fuck,” Paige spoke against your lips, her hands running up and down your waist, sending shivers throughout your body as if her touch was electric.

“Paige,” you whispered softly into her and moved your mouth from hers to her neck, eliciting a small moan from her lips.

“Say,” she tried speaking in between moans. “Say my name again, princess.”

She could feel you smiling against her neck as you muttered, “Paige.”

“Holy fuck,” she breathes out. “Hearing you say my name is so hot.”

“Yeah?” You pull yourself away from her neck, taking a moment to admire the small marks you made along her neck.

Paige’s hands found themselves under your shirt, caressing the skin underneath. You melted into her touch. “I think this needs to be off,” she said, tugging at the fabric.

You pulled off her beanie that she was still wearing, throwing it to the side of your bed and then unzipping her jacket. She watched your every move, biting her lip as she admired you. “Only if this comes off.”

“Deal.” She let you take off her jacket which resulted in her pulling your shirt off, leaving her in a t-shirt and you in your bra. You both pulled each other closer at the same time, lips finding the other’s as you moaned into her mouth.

This time, she pulled away from you and found your neck. She sucked and softly bit down on your skin, leaving patches of red along your neck as she moved down towards your chest.

She flipped you onto your back, kissing up and down your chest and stomach, creating the softest sounds from you. “Paige, please.”

She looked up at you. “Please what, baby?”

You huffed, trying to find your voice. “I need you.”

“Where do you want me? Show me.” You grabbed her hands, guiding them down to your shorts, putting her fingers on the zipper. She unbuttoned and unzipped your shorts and pulled them off your body, taking in the sight before her. You suddenly felt self-conscious in her gaze but the way she let her hands slide up and down your thighs made you realize that you had nothing to worry about. 

Paige slid her fingers up your inner thighs and found themselves at your clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me already, aren’t you?”

You shuddered at her touch, rolling your eyes back. “Paige, don’t make me wait.”

Paige smirked, moving her thumb in a slow circle, making you throw your head back. “Tell me how much you want me,” she said, her voice so deep it made the tension between you two thicker.

“I want-”

Paige’s phone went off, a call coming through. You sighed, frustration replacing that needy feeling you were embracing. Paige noticeably angry, took her fingers away from you and picked up her phone. “Fucking hell.”

You missed her touch and all you could think about was her fingers back on you, and the way she held your body. The way her hands fit your body. Paige answered the phone, “What do you need? I’m busy right now.”

“What do you mean we have practice right now?”

“Fuck, okay. Shit, why is he pissed?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there just give me a minute.”

She ended the phone and looked at you, an unreadable expression on her face. “Y/n, I’m so sorry. Coach is pissed for some reason and we had a practice that I forgot about so I have to go.”

You nodded, clearly frustrated while putting your shirt back on. “It’s fine. You’re all good.”

She moved toward you, kissing your forehead before grabbing her jacket. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

You looked up at her. “Yeah, you better.”

She chuckled, grabbing your chin gently and kissing you. “You’re doing something to me, Y/n.”

[littlegeecko]

I really like your interpretation of Telamon and 1x1x1x1! It's a very refreshing take,,,

But I am wondering, does 1x1x1x1 have any other influences in their life outside of their creator — positive or negative 🤔

I'm glad you like my Telamon and 1x1 take!! i was a little worried it would be too dark for the masses haha... if it's not too much to ask, can you elaborate why it's "refreshing"?

Technically they do; Dusekkar and the other admins

Long ass text with art below lol

Granted, all of these significant people had only fleeting interactions with 1x1 since they weren't allowed to talk to anybody from Below the Clouds (Basically anyone that didn't reside on the Heights) and if they had to, it was only for business Telamon couldn't personally attend to, or to kill them in a swordfight as usual

Dusekkar was a bit of an exception:

Being some sort of private doctor for 1x1 during the early stages of their training, making sure the wounds closed completely and every organ was back in it's proper place; after that, he was just a cold shoulder. Sometimes he'd watch their sparring from a distance, deep in whatever thought 1x1 doesn't particularly care about.

Dusekkar was especifically told by Telamon to NOT influence "the little bird" like he did Telamon, since that was part of the reason he made 1x1 to begin with. If he dared go against Telamon's word...Well, Dusekkar knows firsthand what he's capable of doing to anyone that opposed him.

Then, the admins: Really, any of them

At the beginning the admins Telamon was working with were...well, shocked, and concerned at the way Telamon was treating his...student? specially when they went up on the Heights to talk with him directly, often catching them mid-sparring often ending with 1x1 bleeding out, then standing up from the cold floor and looking for a towel to clean the blood off the tiles- They often stared at 1x1 in a strange way they didn't like, and they would let 'em know.

Mr Builderman was the first to realize how much this "student" looked, and acted like Telamon, and soon enough the pity ceased among the group, 1x1 becoming just another face they'd see around the Heights. 1x1 didn't like them much, or ever really, but eventually grew accustomed to seeing their faces around... specially hers, for some reason. 1x1 would often exit the room the admins were in after giving a short bow, their presence unnecessary.

they disliked all of these people btw lol they saw them as inferior for multiple reasons, truly learning from the best!

However, the only good influence 1x1 had, and Telamon allowed was...

Nature.

Telamon always said Nature was a fascinating thing, giving the mortals life, food, shade, and at the end of their days, a bed to rest to become one with it. It was all about cycles and balance, and he always made an emphasis on how important it was to preserve it, and help preserve it, even if this sounded insane coming from the God of Chaos. 1x1 never understood why he did that 'till much later on

Plants, animals, the air they breath, the stars in the sky, the chilly breeze in the mornings, the unforgiving heat... it was all so calculated, wired to function an specific way and yet...it was a beautifully crafted and controlled Chaos that simply amazed Telamon, and later 1x1, possibly, they were never able to truly feel many positive feelings with the same leisure, but the thought it's what mattered. 1x1 grew to have a some sort of respect for nature as a whole.

Robloxians- mortals however, were the exception. I believe Telamon has made his point clear about them enough, haha.

[felassan]

Foreword to the Dragon Age: The Veilguard art book.

Text version:

“FOREWORD Dragon Age: The Veilguard was a special project, and so it requires a special art book. More concept art was made for Veilguard than the rest of the Dragon Age series combined (and very likely the Mass Effect trilogy as well). This is one of the surprising advantages of being in some state of development for nearly a decade. To organize this huge collection – and to bring you along on the twists and turns of our journey – we have divided the book into three major eras: post-Inquisition, Joplin, and Veilguard. The post-Inquisition stage includes the earliest work we did from before Inquisition was even out the door until the official sequel was given the code name “Joplin”. This was meant to be the direct sequel, and much of what was planned out during the Joplin years remained relevant to the end. After Joplin was halted to shift the focus to Mass Effect: Andromeda, the project changed course and was given the code name “Morrison”. This live-service version of the game eventually pivoted back to being a single-player experience. Each of these stages had different design requirements, but because we didn’t start from scratch, we had the advantage of building on previous work. Our goal was to create a Dragon Age game that was respectful to the world the fans of the series knew and also a refreshing and exciting addition. We also knew that we were going to realize parts of Thedas that had only been hinted at in previous games. It’s one thing to imagine the Tevinter Imperium; it’s another thing to walk down the streets yourself. Whatever we designed, we tried to stay true to the established lore while also attempting to exceed expectations. Each region was given its own design language and recognizable motifs to try and make sure that every location, character, prop, etc., fit into its placed and helped to create a rich and enticing world for players to immerse themselves in. One artist can make a painting, but it takes a huge team to build a cathedral, something no single person could achieve on their own. While a colossal amount of creativety goes into video games, they are a lot more like cathedrals than paintings. They require years of cooperation between many disciplines, from animation to writing to audio to many, many more. In many ways, we see the final game as the completed work of art: the finished cathedral. Art books like this one are the perfect opportunity to showcase what you don’t see in the finished product: the inspiration, the blueprints, the unused drafts. We barked up a lot of wrong trees. We explored some wild directions – some ending in dead ends, others ending in precious treasure. We also created a lot of material that we liked but didn’t have the capacity to build (in this game, anyway). We decided to cram as much art as we reasonably could into these pages. Maybe one day we’ll be able to make the eighty-pound edition, but until then, we sincerely hope you enjoy this glimpse at the art behind the art. Matt Rhodes Art Director”

[yamujiburo]

Some of this might sound intentionally hostile in text and I apologize.

I'm saying this as an abuse survivor mind you - don't throw "abusive ships" under the bus so easily - at least, so long as they're not actually glamorizing the abuse. I lived that irl and I personally find someone overcoming it, slowly having enough of that bullshit and getting out over time, and the other person having to wipe their own butt for once after they've made the damn mess, very refreshing. Maybe that's not a ship in the traditional sense. It's no happily ever after bc it shouldn't be, but I find stories like mine shyed away from so often because even the portrayal gets considered a "canon ship". ... that's just how media works now, I guess? I very rarely See a fictional relationship not called a ship in literally any context now so that's the definition I'm running on.

I wish more people were willing to portray the hardships of finding acceptance outside of "whoever you can find will accept you" very much, and finding the better things after. I wish people weren't terrified out of portrayimg situations like mine.

Jessie.. is not a good person in canon. You expect me to believe she moved into to hanamusa seamlessly, without falling on her ass? I never see you talk about Jessie's abusive tendencies in canon. You never talk about the inherent meanness she needed to get over to get there. She's quite aml lot like my ex in canon, actually.

What do you mean you're going to just remove from the character that she is abusive to those around her. Jessie hits people. She takes her own junk out on others all the time. Do you even like the character then, are you actually invested in her growing, or are you just making an OC at this point?

Idk. Do you, boo. But you are posting about a character who, whether you like it or not, is canonically abusive. I just don't buy that dating Ash's mom alone fixed her. That isn't... How that works. It would be excellent if it did. Part of my love of hanamusa is that it signals Jessie's change - but she could have changed for anyone before now.

What makes Delia different? How is she specifically a turning point for Jessie? Because Jessie's flaws go well beyond just bossing people around.

I would love if my abuser had the same outcome as your Jessie. I adore your portayals of hanamusa, where she's still flawed but still strives to do better. That's all I ever wanted from my ex.

What the fuck got her there tho.

Anyways I've been watching a lot of Bojack Horseman lately -

I agree with you! I don't think abusive relationships (or any tough subject matter in general) should be shied away from in media. It can be powerful when executed well and written by folks who are equipped to tell those kinds of stories. I do think it's sad when people treat it as off limits. But the ask I got was definitely more about which ships I have where I actually like the relationship between the characters. I think the semantics of the word "ship" are kind of vague or rather, over time, got so specific to only mean "absolutely love together and want them as endgame" (for most people anyways). So that's usually what I take the word to mean when people ask me about it.

I can 100% appreciate how an abusive relationship is written and handled, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna ship an abuser with their victim (that falls into the glorifying you're talking about). Love Bojack Horseman! Big fan! I think the way they handled Bojack and Sarah Lynn was beautifully and tragically well written. But does that mean I ship Bojack and Sarah Lynn? Absolutely fucking not.

I've talked about Jessie's character plenty on this blog and the way she's handled in earlier seasons specifically. This is kind of a summary: If we look at it on surface level, yes we can say she was abusive. But I think it's important to acknowledge and take into account the medium, time period and culture. Slapstick and cartoon violence was HUGE in anime and animation in the 90s (and prior to that too). Characters were always cartoonishly slapping each other around with giant mallets, folding fans, etc. Looney Tunes style. These slapstick bits were always distinct from real abuse and hurt (for Pokémon, Jessiebelle comes to mind). Mean slapstick wasn't a character trait exclusive to Jessie either. We saw it in Misty, James, Meowth, characters of the day and pretty much any character who got mad. It was a visual shortcut to show anger.

This type of slapstick has since (thankfully) died out and it hasn't really been a part of the Pokémon franchise since the early 2000s. However, Jessie was a notably special case. One of my favorite fun facts about the Pokémon anime is that there was a point in the series where Megumi Hayashibara (Jessie/Musashi's seiyuu) told the writers that moving forward, she no longer wanted Jessie to be violent or to be shown hitting James or Meowth (source: her memoir "The Characters Taught Me Everything"). She thought it directly went against the vision Takeshi Shudo had for Jessie, James and Meowth, when he created them, which was that they are good natured villains. If you watch from DP and on, Jessie never lays a hand on either of them. I think it was a such a good move on Pokémon's part to change her character like that and I'm forever grateful that Hayashibara said something! Whenever I write Jessie now, I always keep that in mind. She's mean, shouty and stupid but would never genuinely hurt those she cares about.

From then, her character becomes much more bearable. She's still bossy, mean and vain (typical cartoon villainess attributes) but I'd hesitate to say abusive. She'll still yell at James and Meowth, they all yell at each other, but in more of a sibling way (imo) rather than a "i'm actively trying to hurt your feelings way". The show makes a point especially in later seasons to show that Jessie, James and Meowth are not beyond being redeemed. From conception the whole POINT of the Team Rocket trio was that they are redeemable but their persistence and obsession keeps getting in the way of them seeing that there's a better life for them out there.

I won't deny that Jessie was unsavory in earlier seasons, but when I write her, I choose to write the version that Takeshi Shudo and Megumi Hayashibara had envisioned from the get go. She's still incredibly flawed and makes plenty missteps but wants to be better as you stated! My favorite part about Jessie is that she's a piece of shit LOL and I enjoy writing the changes she goes through to be better (but then still showing her default so some of her evil tendencies). In this AU, Delia doesn't fix Jessie. Jessie fixes Jessie because she is with someone makes her want to be a better person. She's already in the middle of turning over a new leaf before even meeting Delia, after leaving Team Rocket. Writing Jessie as legitimately abusive I think could work, but that's not my story to tell and if someone who were more equipped to tell that story did, I'd be very interested to take a listen!

I hope this doesn't come off as trying to deny or invalidate your experience. If you see that in Jessie, I hear you! This is just how I've interpreted her character over the years, having watched every episode of Pokémon and reading Japanese interviews from the cast and crew. She's such a compelling character and I love how messy she is

[the-psychic-in-me]

Shin Asakura x F!Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Spicy level: 🌶️🌶️🌶️

Just wanted to let you know that I'm an anime watcher, but I'm planning to read the manga as well. I don't mind spoilers, but please excuse me for any inaccuracies. Consider this an AU. You can also find me on ao3 @QueenRos3

This is a continuation of my previous piece. After meeting for the first time, you ended up with Shin's hoodie and with a reason to see him again.

The next day you see a notification pop up and to your delight it's a text from Shin.

He may have been more confident than usual due to some particular thoughts of yours during your first meeting, however, you were blissfully unaware. Just happy that he texted you first.

hi! are you free on friday?

I am after 7pm. Wanna meet for drinks? c:

It didn't take long for you to decide on a place and all that was left was to count the days until you'd meet.

You were able to pass the time with scenarios in your head about what you'd like him to do to you. These ranged from holding hands to more unorthodox activities. Shin, on the other hand, was haunted by your thoughts. It was refreshing to text for a few days as he could just wait for your reply instead of already knowing what you're going to say. But he already knew too much. Way too much for him to be able to pretend like nothing happened.

How is he supposed to take the hoodie back and look at it the same way knowing what you were planning to do wearing it!?

He can only take so much before his brain shuts down.

Although he tried his best to suppress it, he was so excited that he ended up being half an hour early. With nothing to do in front of the bar, before he knew it, Shin found himself smoking. It was weird, it tasted more bitter than last time. It was hard to even remember the last time. Since leaving his old life behind, Shin didn't smoke much anymore. Partly because smoking isn't permitted around the shop, but also because he didn't feel the need for it anymore. However, he was in need to kill some time...

"Hi, Shin! I hope you didn't wait long!" You finally made an entrance.

It took you a few hours to prepare, however you made it look effortless. You tried not to overdo it, but look cute enough to hopefully make Shin's heart skip a bit.

"No, I just got here a few minutes ago. Don't worry!" A white lie never killed anyone.

His comforting smile had the opposite of a calming effect. Shin almost immediately sensed your thoughts since your emotions were pretty intense. But was all... gibberish. At least to Shin. You were having so many thoughts at such a rapid pace that it was hard for him to keep up.

Eventually he was brought back to earth by your voice.

"Here. Thanks again for your help the other day!"

You were holding a paper bag with his hoodie inside. Neatly folded and emanating a lavender aroma due to the scented fabric softener. On top of it you've placed a box of chocolates.

Shin took the bag and was surprised to see the extra item. A part of him was really touched by this. It's not like he's received many gifts before...

"It wasn't a big deal! You didn't have to get me anything!"

"I just wanted to thank you properly. But if you're that bothered by it... You can get me a drink," you wink at him.

I really hope he likes them, you thought to yourself.

"Right, right... I bet you need this after such a long week." He was speaking more for himself. This might have been the longest week of his life and he's been through hitman training.

Suuuuch a long week, you thought to yourself. I really hope the extra fabric softener did the job.

Shin opened the door for you after putting out the cigarette, trying not to choke on the last puff.

You found yourselves a more secluded table and flipped through the menu.

"Sooo what are we thinking? I'm a whiskey kind of gal, but I'd be down for a couple of beers too. Depends how long your week was." You try your best to be understanding, although you'd rather get tipsy fast.

I can't bare to look into his eyes... He's been nothing but sweet and I've been fantasizing about what he'd sound like moaning my name...

"Whiskey it is then." He grips the sides of the menu a little too tight. Only when his fingertips turn white Shine becomes aware of the reflex and lets go.

You order and suddenly the silence becomes dense. Neither of you knows how to start this. Normally, it would've been easy for you, but the alcohol has yet to drown your guilt.

"So, anything eventful this week? I have nothing to talk about unfortunately. The store is usually pretty quiet." He figets with the lighter in his hands.

It's usually quiet and uninteresting, apart from the various hitmen that try to kill his boss. But it's not like Shin could tell you. Moreover, it's not like you were completely honest either.

You make some small talk about what you do for a living, which prompts Shin to think about what it would be to have a normal life. That's the goal for him, after all, since experiencing the bliss of home cooked meals and lazy Saturdays at the amusement park.

The drinks follow soon after, allowing you to finally calm down your nerves. You finish the glass relatively fast and quickly order a second.

"I didn't know we were in a hurry..." Shin glances over at your empty glass.

"There's no hurry, I just needed this." You try to mask your blush by pulling the strands of hair behind your ears so they cover your face more.

I'm in a hurry to get you into my bed though...

He coughs, trying to compose himself. And in an attempt at sympathy, your hand reaches his shoulder, rubbing small circles.

"Are you okay?" You were leaning over the table, your face awfully close to his.

I wish it was me leaving him this breathless...

"I'm good, don't worry about me." His cheek was almost bloodied from how hard he was biting it from the inside.

"Just don't die on me, okay?" You sat back down on your chair, not entirely convinced.

You're only allowed a little death, in French. Hopefully tonight...

He's already way too over this, he can't just be at your mercy the whole night, it would drive him insane.

Shin reaches out to the paper bag and takes out the chocolate so you two can eat it together.

"The hoodie smells really good, what did you wash it with?" He changed the subject, hoping to catch you off-guard.

You hesitantly reach for a piece of chocolate, but bite down once you hear Shin's question, trying to buy some time.

"Lavender fabric softener, I hope it's to your liking."

"Are you sure? Mine doesn't smell quite like this, what's the brand? Maybe I could get my boss to order some."

Memories fash before your eyes while munching on the chocolate. You alternate between the chocolate and the whiskey, consuming both at an incredibly slow pace this time.

After some late night texting with Shin you've decided to put his hoodie to good use before laundry day. You've removed any layer that could stand between you and Shin' scent. Enveloped by it, you sat in your bed in complete darkness, apart from the fain light emanated by your phone.

You wished you could call him and have him guide you through it all. Although Shin seemed shy, you had a feeling that there was more to him than met the eyes. Once he took off his hoodie for you, the muscles were too obvious to miss. His hands, his back and oh you could only imagine his legs. That body paired with his cute face, oh and those eyes... You wished he was on top of you, your legs on his shoulders, while staring directly into your eyes. You wished he'd take you without breaking eye contact, so that you can read his every expression. You wanted to know how he would like you to move, how he would react when you clenched around him or how his hands would feel on your body. You wished he'd grab your waist and slam you into him over and over until both of you could find release. You wondered what sounds he makes when he reaches the depths of pleasure, what he would taste like if he exploded into your mouth, what he would look like after hours of you riding him. Instead, you could only stare at his last text to you.

good night, y/n. sweet dreams!

They were sweet, indeed. With a bitter aftertaste, since you didn't know if the feelings were reciptocated. You've only met once, is there something wrong with you? But... You haven't felt this way before.

Shin immediately regretting bringing up the hoodie. His plan absolutely backfired. He just wanted to tease you and give you a taste of your own medicine. He managed to keep his face straight by curling the fuck out of his toes and fingers. The fingernails were digging into his own skin, leaving deep marks.

In the mix of emotions washing over Shin there was something distinct, making him question everything. He was indeed flustered, a bit embarrassed and turned on, but besides all of that he felt a sense of pride. Especially knowing this wasn't a usual occurrence for you. He liked knowing he had the same grip on your brain as you had on his.

There are tens of minds he reads on the daily. Maybe more, depending on what life throws at him. However, he's never had the pleasure of reading such thoughts about him before. Wait, pleasure? He couldn't deny it anymore. He wanted to make your fantasies come true. The last flashback pushed him over the edge.

In this game of telephone he had the advantage, but to no avail. Reading your mind only made it harder for him. Literally and figuratively. You've managed to pull him into your scenario and switch places. His gaze was glued to your lips, craving your voice.

"Umm...I'm not sure. I'll have to check once I get home." You finally decide to answer.

A couple of glasses later you both could blame the blush on the alcohol. It was getting harder to control yourselves. You've ended up sitting next to each other, instead of face to face. After every joke somehow your hand found itself on his thigh, his hand lingered on yours when lighting up your cigarette during smoke breaks and finally, your hand was hooked onto his arm as he walked you home.

"Hey so... Do you wanna come up? I'll forget to tell you the softener brand by tomorrow." You were only half telling the truth.

"Uhhh sure." He completely forgot that he even asked about it, but he wasn't going to waste this chance.

[cinewhore]

The Hunt - morning

Pairing: Frankie Morales & fem!reader Rating: G for General  warnings: mentions of dead animals. word count: 732 Summary: Frankie takes a job as a park ranger after Colombia. He soon realizes that danger lurks in every corner - human or not. A/N: it's been a HOT minute so I'm not sure what I'm doing exactly but it's been so refreshing jumping back into writing. This has been sitting in my drive for the longest so I figured it's time for it to see the light of day. Pulled some inspiration from The Descent. I am not a wilderness expert!!! Didn't consider myself a Frankie girly but he's got potential. Credits to the gif creator and @saradika for the fic divider. Hope y'all enjoy :)

The Appalachian trail is considered one of the most popular hiking trails in the world. With its lush greenery and inspiring views, it’s no wonder why an estimated three million outdoor aficionados visit each year.  

The soothing whistle of the wind. 

The restorative bubbling springs. 

The charming and varied wildlife. 

To the wandering eye, it was beautiful. To those who knew, it was horrifying. 

It had taken Frankie some bribing to get him to commit to the job. The original ploy was that Will would join him and the two would have idyllic views, serene silence and all the free food they could ask for. It seemed too good to be true, all of these perks plus free lodging and a monthly stipend. 

He guessed it couldn’t hurt to spend the summer in the mountains and as long as Will was with him, it’d allow the time to pass. Out of all his brothers, he and Will were the most alike. Stoic with a keen sense of dry humor, bound together through unimaginable circumstances. 

Perfect. 

Except Will now had a girlfriend who was a bit too touchy for Frankie’s taste. Her family came from the richer side of the tracks and spent their summers on the seas. She masterfully held in her distaste at the announcement that Will wanted to take up the park security position and that out of all the people that could join him, it would be Frankie. He knew she didn’t care for any of them, Benny and Santiago included. She refused to stick around for Benny’s fights and when Will introduced them, she didn’t dare shake his hand. 

So it didn’t shock Frankie that in the morning he and Will were due to head out, he received a text from the blonde headed man saying he’d have to venture on without him. 

Anna wants me to meet the parents. I owe you one. 

Bastard. 

Frankie could always just not go. He wasn’t the main point of contact for the head of park security, who happened to be a friend of Will’s, so he figured there were no real consequences. However, staying meant having to deal with Charity from the bar and he didn’t have the energy. She was a great girl, he was sure, but one drunken night that should’ve never happened turned into a half assed “relationship”.

Taking one last look around his shoddy home, Frankie closes the front door swiftly, double checking the lock before throwing his bags into the hood of his truck.

The first month was boring as shit. Frankie would run the same routine everyday, hoping that someone would throw a wrench in his plans but for once, all park goers were on their best behavior. He found ways to keep himself occupied: Reading and quizzing himself on the employee manual, completing several one thousand piece puzzles, organizing the mess the last person left behind. 

It was mundane and drove him mad. He enjoyed the quiet but too often he’d find himself sweaty and short of breath due to the constant night terrors. Sometimes he thinks he sees Redfly in the shadows of his room but he knows how crazy it sounds. To help bury the past, Frankie becomes a regular at the dive bar. It was shitty but had a local charm and cheap booze. What more could you ask for? 

Another month would go by before people started warming up to the ex-soldier. The judgy stares and barely hushed whispers turned into inviting smiles and loud conversation. The duo of army veterans welcomed him with open arms, recounting stories of the good ole’ days in-between bottles of beer. Frankie refrained from sharing too much of his time in the service, proving to be an excellent listener to Al and Reggie. 

On a warm night like any other, Frankie was throwing back his last bottle when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye. 

A lot can be assumed upon looking at Irene Awahi, given her stern face and austere personality. Underneath the uniform and brief interactions, people would look at Irene as a pillar within the community. She was fair, intelligent and did her duties well. For the elderly who had lived in the area their whole life, they knew her as the inquisitive young girl who followed on the heels of her father. Her light dimmed a lot after he had passed and town gossip would have you believe that she never got over it. Irene would just tell you to mind your fucking business. 

Frankie was drawn to her immediately. He was always partial to a woman who could carry her own, was steadfast and took no shit. 

Irene rejected him the first three times she even got a hint that he was coming onto her. Neither of them are sure what happened the fourth time except that Irene awoke at his, panties ripped and phone dead. 

The awkward tango continued between them, complete with stolen glances and buried emotions. Frankie had met his match. 

Irene woke up before him, making them both coffee before getting dressed to head into work. Frankie quietly regards her as she puts on her clothing, appreciating the care that went into her appearance. Irene had always insisted on staying over at Frankie’s, they were less likely to get caught and made to feel like scandalous teenagers than two consenting adults. 

Little conversation was had as they both prepared to face the day. Others might have felt the need to fill the void with useless chatter but Frankie enjoyed their shared peace. Except this morning was complete and utter torture. 

Things were different last night. Irene had called and invited him over. She was unlike herself, clingy and temperamental. Frankie had tried to get to the bottom of her attitude but she began to cry and begged for his touch, so he gave in. Long after she was asleep, Frankie remained awake, mind wandering. 

He knew that this was likely a temporary arrangement, one he was happy to agree to but his hands got sweaty every time she was near and he found himself caring about the things he said and did in front of her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get her to open up to him. Frankie could see through her clear as day, even though Irene refused to look in the mirror.

Frankie clears his throat. “Long day today?”

Irene shrugs, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. “Probably. What’s the date again?” 

Frankie taps his phone, screen lighting up with a picture of him and his brothers. “It’s the 9th.” 

Irene’s fingers stop for a brief second before continuing. She’s swift in the rest of her movements, grabbing her keys and phone before standing beside the door. “Let yourself out, yeah?” 

“Irene-” 

She shakes her head, eyes boring into Frankie’s. “Not today, Frank. We’ll talk soon, I promise.” 

Irene doesn’t wait for a response and sets off. Frankie exits a few moments after, careful as he locks up. 

“So much for an uneventful day.” He mutters to himself, driving off back to his own station.

Frankie thought he was seeing shit at first. Sure, it was early in the morning and he was in an area crawling with hikers but this was different. This didn’t look like a typical hiker. 

You stand in the middle of the road, chest heaving from your run. It had been a difficult journey and the first glimpse of a road had you clawing your way through the bushland. You had zero clue of where you were, what day or time it was. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that you had survived and would live to tell the tale. That is, if anyone believed you. 

The roar of a truck approaching startles you but you make no movement to get out of the road. After making it through a literal nightmare, getting taken out by a truck actually made you grin. 

The vehicle slowed down and a few feet from where you stood, it came to a stop.

A man exits. 

“Hey,” Frankie yells out. “Are you ok?” 

You stop in your tracks, keeping your distance. The man’s hand was grasping something tightly and the last thing you needed was to get shot because a sudden movement caught him off guard.

Raising your hands slowly by your head, you inch a few more steps forward, just enough so that you are in a better line of sight. 

His eyes flew around your figure furiously, assessing every inch of your body. You were bruised, clothes clinging onto you haphazardly that had been cut by bushes and tree branches. Frankie could tell that you were in a state of shock, given your slight whimper when he called out to you. 

You hadn’t heard a human’s voice that wasn’t wrapped up in a scream or choked grunt in a while.  

Frankie looks to his right and then his left, ensuring that you were alone. He had seen many things and battered women being used as bait wasn’t a usual trick but one he had experienced before. 

“You by yourself?” 

You nod. He lessens his hold on what you could now make out as a gun, tucking it in the back of his pants. 

“You lyin’ to me?” He probes. You shake your head, remaining as calm as you could. He seems to believe you because he eventually comes to stand closer to you. As his dark brown eyes rake over your face, they widen in slight recognition. He stalks backwards a few steps before motioning to his truck. You don’t move. 

“Listen, I’m not some random fucking creep. I work for the park and can take you someplace safe, I promise. I’m here to help.” 

If he was a creep, he was a pretty good looking one. Plus if he wanted to hurt you, he would’ve done so by now. It has been difficult to differentiate between realities lately, the one you had always known versus the one you were forced to believe in during your time out in the woods. Frankie seemed genuine in his concern and whether you liked it or not, he was the only option at getting help.

The cold leather of the couch irritates the skin of your thighs. It had been a while since you sat in an actual chair. Being out there for as long as you had, everything seemed weird and out of place. The man who had found you, Frankie, looked worse for wear. Reflecting upon him under the fluorescent lights, he reminded you of one of those hardened cowboys from the westerns. The grays seeped into his beard and hair, stuffed under a tattered baseball cap. He had a consistent tick in his jaw, mouth always fixed in a permanent pout. 

Frankie had asked the basic questions while he drove back to his station, only stopping to make a quick phone call. Given the remoteness of the area, calling for an ambulance could have you waiting for a while and you assured him that you weren’t gravely hurt so there was no need. It wasn’t as bad as it looked and you looked like shit. 

After arriving, he pulled out a first aid kit, working his way efficiently through the different materials inside. You were impressed by his knowledge but figured he had to know first aid, he wouldn’t have made a good ranger if he didn’t. 

 Frankie remembers then that he hasn’t offered you anything to eat or drink, rushing into the tiny kitchenette. He returns with a glass of water and a few granola bars. He leaves them on the coffee table in front of you before returning to leaning against the wall across from you. 

His radio crackles to life at the same time that his cell phone rings and he excuses himself, squeezing into the office space, leaving the door ajar. 

After what feels like hours, the side door to the cabin opens and a woman enters the room. You watch Frankie visibly relax, shifting out of his stance to greet her. She was gorgeous, even in a work uniform. Her hair reminded you of ink, given how fine and straight it was. You wondered what her secret was for keeping it so neat, especially in the southern humidity. 

She exchanges fast and hushed words with Frankie, throwing occasional glances in your direction. You pretended not to be invested in their conversation, examining the cabin instead. It was bare, tidy and quaint. There were a few paperback books on the other side of the couch, one of them a park guidebook. He kept much of his personal effects packed away in his suitcase, ready for departure at the drop of a pin. 

The whispers cease and you turn to face the duo, meeting their hard stares. 

“My name is Irene Ahawi, I’m one of the lead rangers in this park. Francisco tells me he found you out by the Montague trail, is that correct?” 

Francisco? You nod your head, swallowing thickly. Irene nods along with you, pink tongue peaking out from behind her lips. 

“You’re a ways from where you’re supposed to be.” 

If you weren’t paying attention, you would’ve missed the hint of accusation in her tone. 

“We got a call from the sheriff from a few towns over a few weeks ago, he mentioned something about a pair of missing hikers who went off trail, likely to end up around these parts.” 

Frankie’s eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked. You could feel his calculated stare penetrating your being, curious as to what he was thinking. 

“My sister and I take a hiking trip every summer. She starts medical school in the fall, so we figured this would be our last hoorah. We were only supposed to be gone for a week but things got weird halfway through our trip so we turned back. We tried our best to retrace our steps but realized that we weren’t on the same path as before.” 

“Where’s your sister now?” 

You open your mouth and nothing but a strangled cough comes out. You instantly close it, reaching for the bottle of water instead. 

Frankie doesn’t say anything about the dried blood underneath your fingernails and neither do you. 

“Well?” Irene queries again. 

You don’t meet her eye line as you answer. “I don’t know.” 

Irene huffs, cutting her eye at Frankie before looking back at you. “I’ve called the authorities, we’ll meet them-” 

A shrill ring cuts through the air and you yelp, covering your mouth with your hands upon realizing it’s just Irene’s phone ringing. She answers with haste. 

“Go for Ahawi.” 

You and Frankie both remain silent while Irene listens to the panicked voice on the line, gears working overtime as she tries to comprehend what’s being said. “I’m on my way.” 

“What the hell is going on?” 

Irene doesn’t look at Frankie as she dials another number, yanking the front door open. “We’ve got a situation. They need my help.” 

Frankie grits his teeth. “And what about this one?”

“Just take her down to the station. I’m sure the guys there will do the rest.” 

Frankie follows Irene out like a lost puppy, a striking contrast to his demeanor with you. They make it to Irene’s jeep before he stops her. 

“Hey,” his voice softens, shoulders sagging. He places a gentle hand on her forearm.“Be careful out there. I can’t explain it but something’s not right.” 

Irene gazes out into the vast thicket, mind briefly clouded. The need to give into Frankie’s touch caused her insides to twitch but she knew better. This was official business and the lives of others depended on her being fully intact. Irene couldn’t let another man get in the way of her career. 

She gives the yearning man a tight smile before shaking his hand off her arm. “I can take care of myself. Keep your ringer on in case of emergencies.” 

With that, Irene hastily jumps into her vehicle and takes off. Frankie watches her go, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. Reverting back to his regular sour mood, he returns to the house where you remained in your seat, head snapping away from the door to prove you weren’t eavesdropping. 

“Your girlfriend’s mean.” you comment quietly, attempting to break the icy silence. 

“Get in the damn truck.” 

The tires of Irene’s Jeep grinds the soil and gravel as she screeches to a halt, pulling alongside two police cars parked shy off the main road. The red and blue hues bounced playfully off her rich brown skin, emphasizing her exhaustion. Yellow tape creates a perimeter around the scene, more bodies in uniforms scattered around it.

One of the newer recruits to the force closes in on her, an eager skip in his step. His first taste of real action, she thought. 

“Hi, Ranger Ahawi. Thanks for coming down on such short notice.” 

Irene smirks. She remembers the first few months of working at the park. Bright-eyed, bushy tailed and a can-do attitude that would have solved world hunger and then some. That got beat out her real quick. “How you doin’, Warner?” 

Warner looks back at the scene, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Uh, well, I’ve had better days. Happy I haven’t had breakfast yet.” 

Irene raises an eyebrow.

“I can’t explain, could you just-” he gestures for her to follow him. Irene wasn’t able to describe the feeling that overcame her the moment she took a step forward but it felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water all over her. The hairs along her neck stood frozen, goosebumps pimpling their way down her arms. As they inched closer, Irene could make out Kai. He stood further out from the rest, grand figure leaning against a tree. Head bent and covered by his hat, the cigarette butt illuminates his face in a soft glow. 

Irene turns her head before Kai could catch her staring, focusing back on the situation at hand. Warner lifts up the yellow tape and Irene dips under, hand swiftly covering her nose. The stench of rotten flesh and death pummels all her senses, bile threatening to rise from her throat. 

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you.” Warner utters. “I've never seen anything like it.” 

He could say that again. Sprawled out in front of them was something lifted straight out of a horror movie. At least half a dozen of white tail deer had been slaughtered mercilessly, carcasses strewn about haphazardly, a handful of bones missing. Irene takes her time as she surveys the scene, careful to sweep her eye over every detail. 

Warner studies her profile. “What do you think could’ve done this? I ruled out larger predators like bears or coyotes, they’re neat eaters compared to this. Definitely not done by humans.” 

He could say that again. 

“When was this called in and by who?” Irene questions. 

Warner tips his head back in the direction of Kai. Fuck. 

“He did, about an hour ago.” 

Irene clears her throat, patting Warner on the back. “Thanks for your work. Make sure to keep the area clean and clear of tourists. I don’t want this getting leaked to the press if we can help it.” 

“On it.” Warner nods. Irene exhales audibly before marching up to the emotionless man. 

He doesn’t move when she finally approaches him, stare fixed on the ground, cigarette perched in a calloused hand. 

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” 

Silence befalls them, the smoke from the stick billowing in the air.

 Finally, he speaks. “The kid is nice. Reminds me of you.” 

Irene posts up against the tree adjacent to Kai. “You shouldn’t be out here.” Irene points to Kai’s ankle. “How you even got this far with that on is beyond me.” 

Kai glances down at the thick black monitor strapped around his left ankle. “Today is her birthday.” 

“I-I’m sorry.” Irene stutters. The weight of the vast forest presses down on her, anxiety manifesting itself as a tight chest. “I meant to call.” 

A chuckle mixed with a cough emerges from Kai as he takes one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out underneath his foot. “Sure you did.”

He slowly creeps towards her until their chests were nearly touching, Irene shrinking under his intense leer. Eyes she once found solace in were now pools of bitterness and anger. Kai traces a lone finger down Irene’s cheek, delicately lifting her chin. He pokes at her neck. 

“Cute hickie.” 

The warm touch now turns cold as Kai snatches his hand away, sulking past Irene. She waits until he’s out of earshot before she lets out a ragged breath, tears spilling down her face. 

a/n: we must set the scene! I don't use tag lists anymore :,(

[l0veu-somuch]

nct dream pretending they forgot about your birthday ... 💝🍰

mark's flight wasn't supposed to come in until the morning after your special day and you weren't about to be a bitchy partner who whined and demanded him to meet your wants without consideration for him as well, so you had stayed silent about it and simply got yourself a cupcake with a lit candle that you blew out on your own. yet that hooded figure sitting in the lobby of your building looks awfully familiar... and the way he was holding a handful of balloons and his typical catty smile as he threw his arms around you and whispered "happy birthday" to your ear was undeniably the love of your life.

renjun had texted you that morning like it was any other day, letting you know he'd be over to pick you up in an hour or so since you had made plans for you to go shopping. you even did your hair and dressed up a bit differently just so it would be even the slightest bit obvious that today was not like any other day yet he'd barely spared a glance at any of it. only when you were ambling back to your place that he pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind him and your front door swinging open with a cacophony of bright cheers from inside that you realise he'd gathered all of your family and friends for your surprise celebration.

it felt too much like any other night when you and jeno would tuck in on the sofa for a horror movie marathon and stuff your face with popcorn he accidentally bought 3 boxes of. you were beginning to doze off having had a long work day and jeno’s warm body wrapped around yours, so you were slightly gruntled when he excused himself to the bathroom and jolting you awake once again. you thought nothing of it, perhaps ruminating over what you had had a feeling you were forgetting about, when you heard singsongy whispering from behind you. you turned to see jeno with a cake that seemingly emerged from nowhere, decorated with candles and lovely loopy lettering on the top that spelled his love for you. you blew the candles out just as the clock struck midnight and you shared a sweet kiss to welcome your new age.

haechan watched as you ran around with his siblings on the grassy park, catching a cacophony from the cute puppies that were on a walk with their owners. the blaring summer sun beat you out and you trudged over to where you'd set your blanket down, gulping down refreshments from the water bottles he'd packed as he dabbed on the sweat droplets on your forehead. you closed your eyes for a moment, buzzing under the gentle touches from your boyfriend when a shrill kidlike scream shaked you from your doze. you pushed yourself up on your elbows to see his youngest sibling manage to balance the huge white frosting cake on his wobbly arms, while his other siblings trailed behind him with balloons and party poppers. "happy birthday, sunshine," he whispered to you, gently kissing your forehead, sweet smile stretching his and your lips.

you were only wrapping your shift up at the animal shelter, evidence of your failed attempt to scraggle a day off so you could properly celebrate your birthday for the first time in a while after becoming a full fledged independent adult human. in all honesty you'd fully given up on even treating yourself to a nice meal and all you wanted now was to crawl into bed and maybe give a video call to your parents before dozing off. just as you'd pulled the key from the lock and secured the notch to safely guard the animals inside for the night you heard a rather familiar cough from behind you. jaemin looked somewhat silly with the balloon wrapped around his wrist against the quiet nighttime empty road backdrop, but it all didn't matter when you spotted the takeout bags and cake box on his other arm, as well as the way he pulled you into his free side to press the birthday kiss you wanted so badly to your full cheeks and grinning lips.

you woke up without chenle next to you on the bed, which made you slightly pissy like a scraggly cat because you'd been counting on some birthday kisses from the love of your life since the second your eyes opened. you stayed swaddled up in your blankets for a while, replying to messages sent from your family and friends before you walked out of your room, only to be greeted by a trail of roses leading to a grand bouquet atop your dining table and a breakfast spread with a whole cake, and chenle and daegal leaning against the counter as soft piano instrumental played in the room.

it was just your luck that your final exams ran up until your birthday with a sit in landing even right on your special day. jisung had played the ultimate green flag boyfriend role by guiding and accompanying you all while you were studying, refilling your water bottle and helping you untangle your laptop charging cord when your fingers started to tremble from gripping the pen too tightly. by the time the hour rolled and you handed in your answer sheet your mind was blank and you desperately needed to be tucked into your blankets preferably with jisung by your side. as you slugged out of the room you were met with jisung holding a small buttercream cake with a few lit candles, and a gentle smile stretching his lips. his hands held onto the cake as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and his eyes blinked at you like he was looking at the most beautiful thing in the universe.

[transastronautistic]

I can't handle how cute this is. i want a slime pet too

Link to the Tweets. And here's a link to the study. ID in alt text and below the readmore.

Image 1:

tweet by e. @MelytraMithra reading "oh my goddddd

researchers built a smartwatch heart beat monitor that uses a slime mold for its operation. the slime mold has to be fed and cared for, so the users in the trial… developed an emotional attachment to it [two sobbing emojis]"

The Tweet includes a screenshot from the paper, described in next image.

Image 2:

The tweet's screenshot, which reads:

Developing a connection.

All participants expressed various feelings of connection with our device. P1, P2, P4, and P5 all described it as a little friend and/or pet. P2 expressed, “it’s always good to be accompanied by some living creature, I really like different, animals or plants. (. . .) carrying this little friend also made me feel happy and peaceful”. P4 noted that she would be reminded by the slime mold’s presence by its smell, even stating that it felt endearing, “my cat’s kind of have a smell, dogs have a smell, the physarum, I recognize the smell and it smells kind of, organic, it’s kind of yeasty but not like decaying, it smells alive”. In recalling an experience where she had to take a long drive, P4 explained, “oh, I gotta bring my little pet mold friend, during the drive, I was also thinking about how I used to be really into Tamagotchis (. . .) with the physarum, (. . .) it has this smell to it which your Tamagotchis don’t have, it has a sense of physicality, (. . .) they’re definitely different”. P1 stated that their personal care routine ended up linked to the device’s care routine “I think every time I fed myself is when I would remember to at least check it, I think that was actually quite linked”. While she was sick, P5’s partner helped take care of her as well as helped to take care of her device. P5 recounts, “I was taking care of the slime and feeding it oats and stuff, my partner was also feeding me oatmeal because I was sick and so she was like you’re my little slime and I was like yeah, I am (. . .) then she started calling me her slime because I mean me and the slime, like, we were eating the same stuff, (. . .) we were both being fed and watered”. P2 & P4 also stated that the visual appearance of their device affected their mood. P2 explained that growth made them feel refreshed. P4 associated the bright yellow of the physarum with happy feelings, noting this affective quality several times in her diary entries and in her interview.

Image 3: A reply tweet from the original tweeter reading "well nourished. in my lane. lively. growing." There's a photoset from the study described as "a slime mold oscillating between living and dormant stages." There are four images of the slime mold, which is a yellow color. The first shows it "dried / dormant / not growing." Second shows it "water added / resuscitated / growing." Third shows the slime "well nourished / lively / growing." The fourth shows it once again "dried / dormant / not growing."

[nicksbestie]

Kittens (part two) - M. Sturniolo

READ PART ONE FIRST!! YOU CAN READ IT HERE!

Summary : One specific person becomes a regular at the animal shelter you work at, always visiting the cats <3

Warnings : mentions of anxiety but nothing graphic!

Word Count : 1146

Pairing : Matt Sturniolo/Reader

A/N : part two!! this won't become a series but i felt it deserved a little more!! it's written in a later time, a epilogue scene, if you will!

The cats being in a different room that day had been one of the best things to ever happen to you.

You hadn’t known it at the time, but that conversation with Matt, starting by leading him to a separate room, had blossomed into a relationship. Matt had started coming back every day, coming up with stupid reasons to talk to you, claiming he needed help finding a cat that had run away, only for the cat to walk right out from under the tower when Matt walked back in, but you let him do it every time. You felt like you couldn’t resist the opportunity to spend time with him, and if you weren’t busy, why should you?

He spent hours there every day, which made you wonder what he did for work, because how could he afford to not be at his job? After a couple of days where he came in one after another, you finally asked. It felt like a fair question because he clearly knew where you worked, so it was an eye for an eye, or something like that. He told you he did content creation with his brothers, and you looked him up later that evening, eyes nearly popping out of your head when you noticed just how famous they were. You weren’t someone who lived in the dark, but you didn’t keep up with every new thing going on, so there were a ton of famous people you didn’t know about. 

You weren’t going to lie, you stalked him that night. One thing hit you like a truck when you noticed it, though. Matt had told you that he came into the shelter when his anxiety was getting bad, and he had been coming in every Wednesday and Friday per week, and as you scrolled through their shared YouTube, you noticed that’s when videos were posted. You wondered how much he enjoyed his job, or if he did it because it made good money, or if the posting just really got to him because he worried about what people would think. Later you would ask, and you would learn that the latter was the reason, and that he really did love his job, it just got to him sometimes, knowing that so many people would pick apart everything he had done or said in a video. 

After about two weeks of him coming back to the shelter every single day, talking to you whenever he could, he finally asked for your number. He waited until you were off of the clock, making sure that he could never be accused of being unprofessional by anyone. He waited until the shelter closed, like normal, and you thought he had left, but he waited until you both stepped outside, and the door was locked, and then he asked. You let him have it with no complaints, and he texted you for the first time as soon as he got home, asking if you had also made it home safe. You responded much quicker than you would like to admit, letting him know you were home and safe. 

He would text you before he would come into the shelter, letting you know that he was on the way, and you two became incredibly close. Hanging out outside of work, spending time while he was at the shelter, if you were in the same vicinity, you were practically attached at the hip. You met his brothers, and they were so different from him that it was refreshing. You loved how they all got along so well, and even their banter in videos wasn’t coming from a true point of anger, but all lighthearted. You watched every video as they got posted, and sometimes all four of you hung out together before or after filming. You loved being in their company, and you had found a wonderful friend in Matt, but you had no idea that it would eventually become more than that. 

You’d hung out so much on your own, you knew you two worked together, you both knew that the other was attractive, you both knew that you liked the other. But you had no idea that it would eventually end up working out. Nick and Chris knew as well, being able to see it in the way that you interacted with each other. They kept it to themselves, allowing you two to navigate the developments of your relationship with each other by yourselves, but both of them were hoping that you would just get your head out of your ass already and get together. Matt was the first one to say anything. 

You knew he found love gestures sweet, you’d seen that in a video, and you’d seen it in the way that he interacted with people he loved platonically, being a gift giver, but when he showed up at your door with flowers, you were still in shock. He’d stayed the night that evening, soaking in the fact that the person he felt so strongly for had the same feelings for him. It had only snowballed in the best possible way from there. You did everything together, you went everywhere together, and sometimes that could cause codependency problems, but you were lucky to not have to deal with that. You were used to him leaving for a couple of hours to film, but he always came back as quickly as possible. 

It was refreshing for Matt to fall in love with someone who didn’t love him for the numbers, for the following, for the money, for the fame. This was someone who saw him off guard, who actually loved him for the person he was off of the camera, for all of the good in him and all of the bad. He wasn’t sure that he would ever find someone like this due to his popularity across the Internet, but he never took you for granted, not for a single moment. And those were the words that spilled out from between his lips, when he was knelt in front of you, ring box in hand, just three amazing years later, and the same ones that he would repeat at the altar six months after that. 

You didn’t work at the animal shelter anymore, but you and Matt were regular visitors and volunteers. Some of the people that you used to work with were still there, and shortly after you were wed, you picked out a kitten together, from the same Cat Cottages that Matt used to sit in for hours every week. Glancing over at the man you’d fallen in love with, sitting on the couch with the now one year old black cat in his lap, you knew that had been the best job you would ever work, and it brought you something much more rewarding than the money.

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