#Ball Insulation

[persimmonteas]

in 2024, don't reject yourself first!!! have a healthy ego! reach out to your friends or people you think are cool to hang out!!! apply for that job!! ask for that raise!!! see somebody cute?? ask them out!!! start that hobby, join that club, who fucking cares if you suck at first!!! the worst thing you can do is reject your wants. you're teaching yourself that you don't matter when it's your life and it deeply matters.

[teethbomb]

hardly any alva fanart this is so sucks

[yatiso]

this apartments heat when i turned it on smelt like a flat iron burning i cant tell if thats the ok burning smell or the bad one so i shall simply freeze

[w000ble]

Just told my ice cube tray to "sleep well, my pretties....."

[carnalcrows]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

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[tiny-forests]

moss mfriday #3: Glacier Mice

[image credit]

That's right - it's glacier mice. One of my favorite things maybe on the entire planet. Let's talk about these freaky fuzzy little rats!!

Glacier mice are balls of moss that live in large herds like this in a few select glaciers. They are moss all the way through, with a center consisting of dead moss matter, implying that they begin as small growths of moss and simply accumulate over time, like snowballs. However, their outside surface is alive and well on all sides. Glacier mice have been observed, through tagging and tracking, to roll across the glacier like a majestic herd of wildebeest, exposing all of their sides to the sunlight. They trundle along at a pace of about 2.5 cm per day. That's 30 feet in a year! They're really schmovin'! Certainly further than most mosses can claim to travel.

What's really exciting, though, is that they all move in the same direction, and we're not sure why or how. Scientists experimented to try and attribute their coordinated behavior to wind, sunlight, and the direction that their grazing ground slopes, but to no avail. They speed up, slow down, and change direction in unison, based on some mysterious moss code that we haven't cracked yet.

Cross-section of a glacier mouse. Note the dead moss matter inside, and the short gametophytes on the outside, adapted to harsh winds and sunlight. [image credit]

We have figured out how they roll, though - while the moss ball sits on the ice, it insulates the ice directly underneath it, protecting it from melting. This forms a little pillar of ice that the moss eventually rolls off of. The insulating power of glacier mice also gives it the wonderful ability to host all kinds of microorganisms that otherwise wouldn't survive the glacier's harsh conditions, and their ability to move makes it possible for microorganisms to spread from one habitable spot to another. They're like a bunch of little tardigrade passenger ships, braving the dangerous glacier to go where no water bear has gone before!!

Glacier mice have been found to consist of several moss species, most of which must reproduce asexually in order to survive in the dry climate. They've been observed to live for at least six years, but are projected to live much, much longer. I love them. So much. I hope they know that I love them!! I LOVE THEM!!!!

[source][source][source]

[hypokeimena]

i live in a basement right now and the upstairs folks have a baby who is, i would guess, perhaps 18 to 24 months now. the sound insulation in my place is actually fantastic - when the baby cries i CAN hear it but i have to really try, you know - except when stuff, obviously, directly impacts the floor right above my head.

which is, i think, where baby's playpen is set up. because she is the world's smartest baby maybe, and her favorite thing to do is drop a wooden ball - perhaps bowling ball sized? (guessing) - directly on the ground and listen to it 1. bounce until it stops or 2. roll away. it's her time for dropping things. it's baby drop time. she will do this until she stops and i can do nothing to prevent the baby drop time from occurring.

she does this daily between 6-8pm for something like 20 minutes as well as intermittently throughout the day as she pleases. this is something i comment on to my friends when it happens. you know - it's baby drop time! which means sometimes,

[teaboot]

question i suspect you may know the answer to. I'm in Quebec right now, it's well below freezing and I'm having to stay in an uninsulated attic without a sleeping bag or warm enough blankets. I can't sleep because of the cold. Any tips on not freezing to death? I can't feel my face anymore.

-sleep on top of something. Cardboard, Styrofoam, balled-up paper, a mattress, a blanket, dry towels, whatever. If you're stuck with just the floor or ground then it will suck the heat out of you.

-keep the top of your head covered. You lose an insane amount of hear through your head.

-Wrar all of the clothes that you have. All of them. Only remove layers if you start sweating.

-drink warm or lukewarm water.

-mittens are warmer than gloves. If you have neither, put socks on your hands.

-change your socks before going to bed. Do NOT wear socks you've worn all day, even if they still feel dry.

-Cover yourself in blankets, clothes, towels, WHATEVER, but DO NOT COVER YOUR MOUTH AND NOSE. Condensation will get stuck under there with you and make you damp and cold.

-Stick your hands under your armpits or between your legs near your groin. These are the warmest parts of your body.

-if you wake up freezing, pace in circles to warm up. Don't exercise to the point of sweating, just to warm up a bit.

-air is the best insulator. The more air something has in it, the better it is at trapping your body heat. I was serious about crumpling up newspaper

-Stay as far from the windows as you can, and as close to the centre of the house as possible. Ideally away from any stone fixtures.

-If there is a fireplace, light it ONLY IF YOU ARE CERTAIN THE CHIMNEY IS CLEAR. Carbon dioxide poisoning is a risk. If it is clear, use paper and small slivers of wood to get it started, then larger burnables. Fire needs to grow before it can eat bigger foods. If you have no matches, but the electricity is on try a stove burner, or a hot light bulb.

-If you break a light bulb and turn the lamp on, you will get a flame for a few seconds, but only if you have no other options because this is dangerous.

-if you are with people or a pet, this is a great opportunity to cuddle.

-STAY DRY.

-EAT. Making and msintaining body heat burns energy.

-If you suddenly feel like you're boiling, KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON. Paradoxical undressing is a symptom of hypothermia. You ARE NOT HOT, your body is lying

-Suddenly not shivering when you've done nothing differently is an early hypothermia warning sign. CALL SOMEONE.

Leaving this open cause this is all I have off the top of my head. Good luck out there

[nasa]

25 Years of Exploring the Universe with NASA's Chandra Xray Observatory

Illustration of the Chandra telescope in orbit around Earth. Credit: NASA/CXC & J. Vaughan

On July 23, 1999, the space shuttle Columbia launched into orbit carrying NASA’s Chandra X-ray Observatory. August 26 marked 25 years since Chandra released its first images.

These were the first of more than 25,000 observations Chandra has taken. This year, as NASA celebrates the 25th anniversary of this telescope and the incredible data it has provided, we’re taking a peek at some of its most memorable moments.

About the Spacecraft

The Chandra telescope system uses four specialized mirrors to observe X-ray emissions across the universe. X-rays that strike a “regular” mirror head on will be absorbed, so Chandra’s mirrors are shaped like barrels and precisely constructed. The rest of the spacecraft system provides the support structure and environment necessary for the telescope and the science instruments to work as an observatory. To provide motion to the observatory, Chandra has two different sets of thrusters. To control the temperatures of critical components, Chandra's thermal control system consists of a cooling radiator, insulators, heaters, and thermostats. Chandra's electrical power comes from its solar arrays.

Learn more about the spacecraft's components that were developed and tested at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama. Fun fact: If the state of Colorado were as smooth as the surface of the Chandra X-ray Observatory mirrors, Pike's Peak would be less than an inch tall.

Engineers in the X-ray Calibration Facility at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, integrating the Chandra X-ray Observatory’s High-Resolution Camera with the mirror assembly, in this photo taken March 16, 1997. Credit: NASA

Launch

When space shuttle Columbia launched on July 23, 1999, Chandra was the heaviest and largest payload ever launched by the shuttle. Under the command of Col. Eileen Collins, Columbia lifted off the launch pad at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Chandra was deployed on the mission’s first day.

Reflected in the waters, space shuttle Columbia rockets into the night sky from Launch Pad 39-B on mission STS-93 from Kennedy Space Center. Credit: NASA

First Light Images

Just 34 days after launch, extraordinary first images from our Chandra X-ray Observatory were released. The image of supernova remnant Cassiopeia A traces the aftermath of a gigantic stellar explosion in such captivating detail that scientists can see evidence of what is likely the neutron star.

“We see the collision of the debris from the exploded star with the matter around it, we see shock waves rushing into interstellar space at millions of miles per hour,” said Harvey Tananbaum, founding Director of the Chandra X-ray Center at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.

Cassiopeia A is the remnant of a star that exploded about 300 years ago. The X-ray image shows an expanding shell of hot gas produced by the explosion colored in bright orange and yellows. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

A New Look at the Universe

NASA released 25 never-before-seen views to celebrate the telescopes 25th anniversary. This collection contains different types of objects in space and includes a new look at Cassiopeia A. Here the supernova remnant is seen with a quarter-century worth of Chandra observations (blue) plus recent views from NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope (grey and gold).

This image features deep data of the Cassiopeia A supernova, an expanding ball of matter and energy ejected from an exploding star in blues, greys and golds. The Cassiopeia A supernova remnant has been observed for over 2 million seconds since the start of Chandra’s mission in 1999 and has also recently been viewed by the James Webb Space Telescope. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

Can You Hear Me Now?

In 2020, experts at the Chandra X-ray Center/Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) and SYSTEM Sounds began the first ongoing, sustained effort at NASA to “sonify” (turn into sound) astronomical data. Data from NASA observatories such as Chandra, the Hubble Space Telescope, and the James Webb Space Telescope, has been translated into frequencies that can be heard by the human ear.

SAO Research shows that sonifications help many types of learners – especially those who are low-vision or blind -- engage with and enjoy astronomical data more.

Click to watch the “Listen to the Universe” documentary on NASA+ that explores our sonification work: Listen to the Universe | NASA+

An image of the striking croissant-shaped planetary nebula called the Cat’s Eye, with data from the Chandra X-ray Observatory and Hubble Space Telescope.  NASA’s Data sonification from Chandra, Hubble and/or Webb telecopes allows us to hear data of cosmic objects. Credit: NASA/CXO/SAO

Celebrate With Us!

Dedicated teams of engineers, designers, test technicians, and analysts at Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, are celebrating with partners at the Chandra X-ray Center and elsewhere outside and across the agency for the 25th anniversary of the Chandra X-ray Observatory. Their hard work keeps the spacecraft flying, enabling Chandra’s ongoing studies of black holes, supernovae, dark matter, and more.

Chandra will continue its mission to deepen our understanding of the origin and evolution of the cosmos, helping all of us explore the Universe.

The Chandra Xray Observatory, the longest cargo ever carried to space aboard the space shuttle, is shown in Columbia’s payload bay. This photo of the payload bay with its doors open was taken just before Chandra was tilted upward for release and deployed on July 23, 1999. Credit: NASA

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny Pt.9

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.10]

"Fan-sea meeting you here. You must be Phantom!"

Danny slowly turned around, grin blinding. "I shore am. Who's asking?"

Danny knew exactly who was asking. Bludhaven's vigilante, Nightwing. If the giant dark blue bird emblazoned on the front of his suit didn't give it away, the friendly demeanor and the puns would have. Plus, now that Danny's figured out who Tim was, the rest were pretty simple dots to be connected.

"Hi. I'm Nightwing. Thanks for saving Batman."

"I am Phantom. You are welcome. Please lecture him on the necessity of keeping the waters clean."

"Uh, I think he knows," Nightwing grinned. “So, why are you cleaning Gotham’s bay? I heard the Atlantic is nice this time of year.”

“Exactly. This?” Danny flapped a gloved hand around them, specifically at the moldy docks and the paint scraped board. “This is not nice. If it were nice, I wouldn’t need to be cleaning it. Look at that paint! It’s flaking off into the water! Does Gotham not have proper boat maintainance? That’s dangerous for the waters and seafarers!”

“Woah, you know a lot about boats,” Nightwing commented, crossing his arms and leaning back. What the hero didn’t know was that he knew more about boats than Danny did, as Danny’s hyper fixation was more focused on space ships and Dick had education à la maison de Bruce Wayne which usually meant an absurd amount of information for someone who doesn’t actually use boats as a regular mode of transportation.

“Rust! Rust is very much a thing!” Danny ranted, using his ice to scoop up water and using it like a makeshift filter. “It weakens bonds! It’s a tetanus hazard! And oh, don’t even get me started on how you people mutated the ocean life!”

“Mutated ocean life? I’m pretty sure we hadn’t. It’s just a little weird, right?”

Without another word, Danny dove into the weird ecosystem that was the Gotham bay. He came back holding a wriggling green thing the size of a worm.

“Do you know what this is?” Danny demanded. The thing flopped around on his gloved hands.

“A sea monkey?”

“They’re brine shrimp. Brine. Shrimp. Do you know what regular brine shrimp look like???” Danny shoved the thing at Nightwing, who took a step back.

“Not like that?” He replied, a quizzical look on his face.

“No, not like that! What in the ancients is this?!” Danny waved the weird sea brine that had started glowing faintly, like Danny’s natural ectoplasm glow. “Far be it from me of all people to judge evolution but this was all man made!” Danny gently tossed the brine shrimp back into the bay. “Brine shrimp is staple food for the ocean! You’ve got weird brine shrimp? You’ve got weird fish! Why is it impossible for this place to, for even one day, refrain from dumping hazardous chemicals or dead bodies in the water?”

“Ooookay, how about we take a breather?” Nightwing quickly glanced around, trying to find something to change the subject, feeling oddly guilty at the earnest expression on the kid’s face. “Uh, I was actually wondering if you’d swing by the waters near Blüd?”

Danny crossed his arms. “I clean the waters as a past time because you humans don’t know how to keep it clean. I am not a personal, on call, seakeeper.”

“Batman will pay you for your time,” Dick offered. Danny straightened. Amity didn’t actually cost that much to live well, but Gotham was a whole other ball park. The rent might be dirt cheap for a city, but the special pricey little add ons such as gas masks and space level insulation on top of the sky high insurance policies were draining what’s left of his half dead soul. As they say, Danny was a city dweller first and Phantom second.

“How much, when, and I won’t fish up the bodies unless he pays me extra.”

“Four thousand base pay, extra one hundred per identity, fifty for bodies with no shades, and on the weekends.”

Danny straightened as his mother’s steel spine, Jazz’s whip sharp wit, and his own craftiness made their appearance as he bargained. “Five thousand. Rate agreed, but I can only do every other weekends and I’ll have to call out some days.”

“Okay.” Nightwing rocked back on his heels with an affable smile. It’s Bruce’s money and it’s going towards his probable future baby brother, after all, even if said baby brother is a dead immortal Atlantis founder. Or something.

Danny groaned. “You are supposed to bargain back. But I’ll take it.”

“Great! Who do we got tonight?” Nightwing looked down at the plastic/burlap wrapped person Danny dragged onto the shores a bit ago.

“The lake kept the body cold, so it should be preserved adequately if you want to examine him,” Danny tilted his head to the side, the flames of his hair tilting with him. “He said his name is Gorganzo Bean.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s a nickname he got for eating a whole can of beans straight.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Any more details?”

“Sure.”

When Danny reached to take the money from Nightwing, he found that the hero had tightened his grip on it.

Danny pointedly dropped his gaze from Nightwing’s face to the money.

“Wait. I- I heard from a source that you could possibly smell souls.”

Danny yanked the cash out of Nightwing’s hand and shoved it into his shoulder. If that didn’t confirm Nightwing’s identity, he doesn’t know what would other than the guy telling Danny who he was. “You’ve been speaking with Danny. Yes, I can.”

“Can you tell what’s wrong with my brother?” Nightwing blurted out.

Danny stared at him, his legs flickering in and out to his tail form. “…Other than dressing in probably leather or Kevlar and going out to beat criminals with his bare hands?”

Nightwing opened and closed his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “Other than that. Why is he- um, stinky? Soul-wise,” Nightwing added, clearly humoring the tinny little voice at the base of his temples that was an annoyed Red Hood saying that he showered. “He showers often. And is definitely not stinky body odor wise.”

“I am not a doctor. Well, not now anyways,” Danny said, thinking about his future PhD. “But he’s got a… soul infection. His natural immunity- all souls have a natural immunity against regular outside influences- is working hard to repel the equivalence of chronic bronchitis.”

“There’s… no way to help him?”

“I never said that,” Danny tilted his head. “Bring your brother to meet Danny. He could probably handle it.”

“The civilian?”

“His parents hunted my kind, once. He helped protect me and my people. If anyone knows how to cure it, it would be him.”

Phantom could not afford to deal with this right now, because Danny had a presentation tomorrow that he needed to finish.

“Oh. Thank you, Phantom.” Nightwing said, looking relieved and pensive. Danny decided right then and there that was Future Danny’s problem.

Danny nodded distractedly, blinking out.

He blinked back in. Nightwing jerked back. “Do you happen to have any examples of corrupt politicians in Gotham?”

Nightwing blinked before laughing. “It’d probably be easier to name the ones that aren’t.”

“Good to know. Thank you!”

——

A couple of days later, Tim and two older guys ambushed him in the quad.

“Hi! I’m Dick! This is my brother Jason! We’re Tim’s older brothers!”

Danny looked down at his hand- trapped in an overexcited handshake- and back up at Dick.

Whatever expression he was making, it must have been ha-fucking-larious because Tim and Jason burst out into laughter. Danny cursed his past self.

“Yeah?” Danny blinked. Wait. His smile grew and he made a face like he just realized something. “Oh. So you’re Nightwing?”

The laughter cut off.

“Haha, what?”

“Phantom told me you’d be coming but I, uh, thought you’d be in gear. Not… straight up telling me who you are?”

“You’re in regular contact with Phantom?” Tim demanded.

“Yeah, dude. After you- wait, you’re Red Robin!” Danny whispered.

“Oh shit, B’s gonna be pissed,” Jason drawled, looking mildly amused and hiding an extremely cautious, possibly lethal (if it weren’t for the fact that Danny’s pretty much impossible to kill with regular weapons) reaction.

“You’re one to talk. I’d smell your soul no matter what your disguise was.”

“…About that.”

——

You might be wondering: wouldn’t Dick know not to show up in civvies?

Yes. Except for the fact that Tim stalked Danny for weeks after he met Phantom and Danny hadn’t hung out with (himself) at all. They think Danny doesn’t know Phantom well enough to even talk to him much, despite being from the same town because: they’re all big city kids and have never experienced small town solidarity and, more importantly, gossip grapevines + they have no idea these two are the same people.

A deleted scene:

“When did you have time to talk to Phantom?” Tim demanded. Jason nudged Tim. That had hinted too much at what Tim was doing on his off hours and stalking was usually frowned upon.

“When I wasn’t talking to you, duh.”

[c-u-c-koo-4-40k]

Favorite 'unpopular/low effort' gifts to receive at the holidays!

And while we're all in the season of giving why not give to help a family struggling in Gaza?

This is @aburakhiaibrahim and his campaign is verified Here!

It's also proceeding very slowly, his family relies on these donations to help them afford food and insulation for their meager shelter while the winter chills Gaza.

If you have a moment please Share! Shares help by letting more people see the need of this campaign!

And if you happen to have a few dollars extra running around consider matching my donation!

The amount I've given is around 10 USD, but even if you can't give that much every little bit still helps.

Direct link to the Gofundme Here

Tag list to help this post move out. Not trying to pressure anyone here to donate. Just a share if/when you've got the time would be appreciated.

Tag List 3 - DM for removal

@canwriteitbetterthanueverfeltit @snoopyisbisexual @the-random-internaut @ca314159bara @clarissasbakery

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@chlotual @thatneoncrisis @jinnazah @northgazaupdates2 @cloudcountry @zeravmain

[p0orbaby]

Remember Cuddles in the Kitchen

summary: you go to your first game as the owner of The Arsenal

warnings: the teeniest start of some angst but that’s it

a/n: i wrote this in an hour, don’t judge, or do

word count: 1.3k

-

You arrive at the stadium in the kind of vehicle that hardly counts as a car anymore—a blacked-out Range Rover with plush leather seats, which are supposed to help with lumbar support or jet lag or something. It glides through the crowd outside the stadium as if it were water parting, leaving you in a surreal, weightless state as you stare out the tinted windows. People line up along the barriers, some of them with jerseys, scarves, others in crisply tailored suits, all of them fixated on the car as if it’s carrying royalty. In a way, you suppose, it is—at least, that’s what the club PR team likes to tell you.

The driver, whose name you can never remember despite his impeccable service, opens your door with precision timing, as if there were some imaginary stopwatch counting down the seconds it should take for you to step out. You have a fleeting memory of insisting to the board that you didn’t need this kind of attention, but that was waved away—of course you did, they’d insisted, it was all part of the club’s image. So here you are, stepping out into the sharp autumn air, the sound of fans and stadium chatter rising and folding around you.

People see you instantly, recognise you. A ripple of whispers, the odd “there she is!” or “our owner, that’s her!” float up from the throng. A camera flashes. It’s a bizarre mix of adoration and fascination, directed at someone who hasn’t even kicked a ball. They think they know you, these people, with their wide eyes and hopeful looks. They don’t, of course, but there’s no room for reality here, not in a world built on perception and spectacle.

You make your way through the stadium corridors, led by an assistant with a headset who murmurs into it like a stockbroker, keeping you insulated from the crush of ordinary fans. She’s brisk, polite, making small talk as you walk past murals of past players, glossy and smiling and set in that specific historical lighting that makes them look both heroic and outdated.

Eventually, you reach the suite. Inside, it’s the pinnacle of curated, near-stale luxury. Charcoal-grey walls, marble-topped counters, a buffet laden with food that looks more sculptural than edible—truffle-scented hors d’oeuvres and exotic fruits. You can’t remember the last time you ate at one of these spreads; it always feels wrong, somehow, to snack on pâté while everyone else is crammed into the stands, scarfing down chips and Bovril.

You glance at the screen on the far wall, where Leah’s name appears in the lineup. Your heart tugs, some deeply buried urge to be out there with her, watching from the stands, shouting with the fans instead of gliding through this marble-and-silver version of a stadium experience. You scan the field, your eyes finding her immediately. She’s focused, her whole body coiled with that easy confidence you’ve always envied, jogging alongside her teammates, every move smooth and efficient.

The fans in the lower section spot you from their seats, and a fresh wave of whispers and nods starts. A couple of people even clap when you’re shown on the stadium’s big screen for a brief second, a polite nod to their reclusive, mysterious owner. You smile, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment, and settle back in your chair.

The match is a whirlwind, a blur of chants and shouts and, every now and then, Leah’s fierce concentration catching you off guard. She’s different out there, almost unrecognisable from the woman who drinks tea in your kitchen wearing mismatched socks. She’s something more primal, almost statuesque, moving with a determination that feels slightly otherworldly.

When it’s over, you wait in the suite, alone, watching as the champagne is removed, the food whisked away, and the staff disappear with their final, obligatory nods. The door opens, and Leah steps in, looking somewhat shy in her own space. Her hair is still damp from the post-game shower, and her cheeks are flushed from the effort, a hint of colour that feels more honest than the varnished elegance of the suite. She’s got that look—that bright-eyed, smug expression of someone who knows they played well but is too modest to admit it.

She stops, taking in the setup with a flicker of something you can’t quite place. A slight furrow of her brow, a narrowing of her eyes, as if she’s both impressed and vaguely amused by it all. She crosses her arms, eyeing you with a smirk.

“Bit much, don’t you think?” she says, her tone light but with an edge of something darker.

“Not my choice,” you reply, gesturing at the array of imported cheeses and miniature quiches. “Apparently, truffle-infused food is non-negotiable”

She snorts, but her arms stay crossed, her body language closed off. She looks around, her gaze lingering on the sterile decor, the impersonal luxury, and something in her expression tightens, like she’s uncomfortable here. “Feels like a mausoleum in here. Where’s the celebration? The noise?”

You shrug, glancing away, feeling an odd prick of defensiveness. “Apparently, being a good host involves keeping everything as quiet as possible”

She doesn’t smile, just watches you with that steady look. There’s a tension between you that wasn’t there before, something unspoken but heavy, and it catches you off guard.

“Is this what it’s like for you now?” she asks, her voice soft but pointed. “All this… pageantry?”

You hesitate, then nod. “This is what they want. The ‘owner’ experience”

She studies you for a moment, her gaze uncomfortably sharp. “And what do you want?”

The question sits between you, raw and unanswered. You don’t have a quick response, and that unsettles you. Because truthfully, you’re not sure. The distance between her world and yours, between the pitch and this hermetically-sealed suite, feels enormous, almost insurmountable.

Leah sighs, uncrossing her arms and taking a step closer. “I just… I don’t know. I thought it would be different. I thought… I’d come off the pitch, see you there, and it would feel like… like home, you know?”

There’s a pause, a heavy silence as her words settle over you. And it hits you, then—this isn’t just about the suite, the champagne, the hushed voices. It’s about the way this world has started to reshape you, molding you into something polished and distant, something that doesn’t quite fit with the person she fell in love with.

Without thinking, you reach for her hand, pulling her close. “Leah, I don’t care about any of this. I’d be out there in the stands with everyone else if I could”

She looks at you, her expression softening a little, but there’s still a hint of wariness, like she’s not entirely convinced. “Then why are you here?”

“Because that’s what they expect,” you say quietly, the words feeling oddly vulnerable. “It’s all theatre. None of it matters. The only thing that matters to me is… well, it’s you”

The tension in her shoulders eases, and she lets out a breath, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Sometimes it feels like I don’t even know this version of you. Like I’m just… watching from the outside”

Her honesty cuts through you, but there’s a strange relief in it too, as if naming the problem has made it more real, more manageable. “Then tell me what you need,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me how to make this work”

She looks at you, her expression softening, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “How about we start with a drink that doesn’t taste like money?”

You laugh, a genuine, unrestrained sound that feels like a release. “That, I can arrange”

You signal to the server, and within minutes, a couple of beers appear—actual beers, not the artisanal, locally-sourced nonsense. You crack open the bottles, handing one to Leah, and she raises it in a mock toast, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“To the queen of the royal box,” she teases, and you roll your eyes, clinking your bottle against hers.

“Long may she reign”

[ostdrossel]

A couple of years ago, someone gifted me a nest material pack from WBU that contained a ball of alpaca wool. Every so often I put some out, and so I did the other day, but no takers. Today, finally an Oriole took advantage of it for her nest. They find stuff outside but of course it is exciting to see them do things and leave some things out for them. However, be careful - not everything is good. Things like dryer lint (no insulation and chemicals), treated pet hair (chemicals), yarn, ribbon, human hair (don't rip easily and can suffocate birds) are not recommended. Grass clippings, pine needles, alpaca fluff, moss and twigs are ok to leave for them. (Yes, they will use what they find anyways but if we put things out for them, we should not add anything that may be harmful.) I will of course add more alpaca fluff to the tree tomorrow.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

had sex with my daddy fwb last night and he inspires a LOT of my content soooo

warning: breeding, daddy kink, premature ejaculation (sorta??? but not really idfk)

anatomical terms: pussy/cunt

Joel was a good fuck. An exceptional fuck, even. You never left his bed feeling underwhelmed. On an average night, your vocal cords would be shredded and raw from screaming for him. Your pussy would feel similarly worn out, but it’d be nourished by the thick load of cum pumped inside it. Your knees would buckle when you stand, having lost all muscle memory to walk in the few hours you spent as his sex doll.

But tonight, something was different.

Not worse, not by any means.

But different.

Perhaps it was your fault. You’d overwhelmed him. There’s no way he could be expected to last long in a slingshot cunt like yours. But he usually does, what happened tonight? Maybe he was just going through a dry spell, and you happened to stop by with just the right place for him to empty his achingly blue balls. Well, it couldn’t have been THAT long of a dry spell, right? When’s the last time you were over here?

You could feel him coming soon after you did, again. He tried to hold out, to his credit. He’d been slamming away to your incessant cries of “fuck! right there, right there, oh god, daddy, please right there! fuck me right there!”, and then he’d stop. Then he’d start back up, and so would you, with the “fuck! yes, yes, oh my god, so close, so close, right there, please!”

And then he’d stop.

To be fair, you were kinda rubbing it in his face with “so close”. As if he needed you to remind him.

Poor Joel. He really tried to hold on. But you were just too needy, weren’t you? You couldn’t let the old man rest. He was so embarrassed to admit it, but you’d forced his hand.

“…’m gonna cum.”

You took the news surprisingly well.

“Cum inside me! Please, Daddy, fill me up! Fill me with your cum, I want it! I want it, I want it, cum inside me!”

And in a few thrusts, he did, gritting his teeth as he sprayed his hot load all inside your spasming cunt. His whole body shivered against you, the comedown from such an intense rush. He sighed, wiped his brow, and pulled out, then rolled onto his back so you could cuddle up to his chest.

“Comfy?” He asked.

“Mhm,” you nodded, “Feels like a lot.” Curiosity got the best of you, and you slipped your hand between your legs to swipe at your hole. Two fingers splotched with white, you popped them into your mouth to taste him. Milky, a little salty, sorta tangy. Not bad.

Joel chuckled at your antics and ruffled your hair. “Yeah, I’m prolly not gonna cum again, tonight.”

“So are we done?” You asked.

“Nah, nah. We’ll just rest up for a few minutes and we’ll go again, okay?”

“Okay!”

A few minutes passed in Joel’s arms as he chit-chatted to you about this one job where he had to redo the insulation in some old lady’s house. You weren’t really listening, until out of the blue, he said,

“Suck it.”

And in no time at all, his spit-shined cock was hard once more, digging his seed even deeper into you.

[dollfacefantasy]

Teddy Bear 🧸

pairing: chris redfield x fem!reader

summary: you cuddle with your boyfriend to stay warm during the night, but being so close to you gets him worked up even in his sleep

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, somnophilia, daddy kink, cockwarming

word count: 2.1k

a/n: i’m cold and tired and this is the result 😔 comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight @nexysworld @explorevenus

You’re fast asleep in the cold darkness of your bedroom. The light of the street lamp outside leaks in through your window, streaming over your bed. You have the plush gray comforter draped over your body and your pale pink throw blanket tangled around your legs.

Though, the main source keeping you warm tonight is your space heater of a boyfriend lying next to you. Chris always ran hot in his sleep. His bicep was currently radiating heat through your head from its position beneath your cheek. He was on his back right now, mostly uncovered since you had the blankets.

You’re sleeping peacefully, soft breaths coming out in little puffs from between your lips. You stir when you feel the mattress shift as your boyfriend rolls over. Suddenly, you’re engulfed by his muscular form. His chest presses against your back, and his arm that’s not acting as your pillow wraps around your waist and snakes under your shirt.

You mumble some sleep-addled nonsense as he pulls you even closer and nuzzles his face in your hair. Your sleepy eyes crack open. With some slow blinks, you’re awake just enough to walk the line between consciousness and sleep. His relaxing warmth kept you trapped in that hazy state, unable to wake up fully.

He holds you like you’re his own little teddy bear. You squirm slightly, trying to adjust yourself as best you can, but it was difficult when his body kept you locked in that comfy position. A sleepy whine leaves your mouth as Chris nestles you deeper against his body. He grumbles softly at the noise but doesn’t wake.

Your presence was seeping into his unconscious mind. The faint sound of your whimpering combined with the pressure of your half-assed wriggling began to infiltrate his innocent dreams and transform them into something more explicit. Suddenly, you were all he could smell, all he could feel, and he wanted more. A craving for you began blooming the pit of his belly as the soft flesh of your ass brushed against his length.

By this point, you had basically acclimated to the snug position and begun falling asleep again. You were out of it enough to the point that you didn’t feel his cock start to grow stiff against your ass.

You had gone still, but it was his turn to move now. His hips gently rut against you in his sleep. He leans against your smaller form to get some more pressure on his dick. He mumbles something against your ear, his hot breath fanning over the side of your head.

“Baby, baby, baby…” he murmurs into your hair.

He continues rolling himself against you, getting harder with each small motion. He breathes deeper as his arousal continues to blossom, inhaling your scent as much as he can. It just makes his dreams more realistic. Makes him feel like he’s really got you folded in half beneath him while balls deep in your pussy.

His rocking movements aren’t enough to rouse you. What does wake you is when he starts messing with your blankets. He was still sleeping, only pushing them away out of a subconscious desire to have more of you. Haphazardly, he shoves the coverings down your legs and leaves your hips exposed to the cold air. He groans deeply once more of you is available to him. He could feel the warmth of your ass against the outline of his cock.

All you had worn to bed was a skimpy pair of panties and one of his shirts. It didn’t give you much insulation or coverage, so the cold air surrounding you was enough to draw you out of sleep and back into that dreamy middle ground.

“Chris…” you whine and squirm. You pointlessly tug on the covers to try and get them back, but they’re all tangled up between your legs.

While your noises come from a place of discomfort, they don’t register that way in your boyfriend’s unconscious mind. Almost as if you’re triggering some sort of prey drive, the delicate whimpering and fidgeting only boosts the primal urge within him.

“Good girl… daddy’s got you,” he mumbles. 

Even in your dreamy state, that phrase ignites your desire for him. And to make matters worse, or maybe better in your case, his hand snakes under the faded gray fabric of your shirt and finds its place on one of your tits. At first he gently kneads it, but after only a few squeezes, his hot palm settles on your breast. It was almost like he did it for comfort, just something soft to hold while he pleasured himself with the mere feeling of your curves.

You shift your thighs together, searching for some friction. The increased movement has Chris shifting further on top of you and pushing you into the mattress.

His face rests in the crook of your neck, and you can sense he’s starting to wake up, the sensations growing too intense for him to stay completely unaware. His breaths become more shallow and less rhythmic. His grip on your tit tightens. You really couldn’t move him off now, his larger frame boxing you in.

“Chris,” you whimper again.

“Hm?” you hear his sleepy hum. His hips don’t stop moving.

“You’re crushing me,” you whine.

“‘M sorry, baby bear,” he mutters. 

Despite his apology, he makes no move to get off you. It’s ok though. It doesn’t bother you as much as it would have because he called you that. One of your favorite things to hear. Those two words, baby bear. Always just made you feel so docile and content.

“Feel so fucking good,” he grumbles.

He keeps humping your ass. A small wet patch had formed on the front of his boxers from the precum leaking out of the swollen head of his cock. His fingers weakly massage your breast and lightly pinch and pull at your nipple.

“I wanna feel you too,” you say as slick begins collecting between your thighs.

He moans quietly and kisses your neck a bit. “Have I been neglecting my sweet girl? My baby needs some relief too, doesn’t she?” he tiredly coos.

“Mhm,” you whimper.

“Don’t worry, honey. Daddy’s gonna make it better,” he grunts.

He’s reluctant to stop the constant stream of pleasure he gets from rutting against you, but he forces himself to pull away just so he can shove his boxers down. He pumps his cock a few times before tugging your underwear aside and slotting himself between your folds.

He doesn’t push inside of you yet. He just rocks back and forth, enjoying how your arousal coats his shaft. It feels like he’s holding you tighter as he does this, but that could be due to the condition you’re in, drowsy with lust.

Both of you have your eyes closed, softly panting and moaning as you just feel the other. The tip of his cock slides over your clit multiple times, and each time his tummy flutters at the little whine you release.

“You’re so wet, baby. Did I wake you up or do you dream about me too?” he asks. He wasn’t too sleepy to tease. That was for sure.

“You woke me up,” you whine. You, on the other hand, were too tired to come up with any kind of witty response.

“Oh, ‘m sorry, baby. Not my fault though. Can’t help popping a boner cause you’re so fucking perfect. My dick knows it even when I’m passed out,” he says.

“Put inside, ‘m tired,” you whimper, not in the mood to tease while you were so sleepy.

“I know you are, baby bear. You’re being such a good girl for me. Letting daddy use you even when you’re so tired,” he mutters and plants some kisses on your face.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally angles himself to enter your warm hole. His hips move forward. He’s buried inside you before you can even comprehend the tip stretching you out.  Your fingers clutch your pillow as you whine. Your legs squirm around a bit, but Chris makes sure you’re positioned how he wants.

“Good baby. I know you love that tight fit,” he whispers, “Are you feeling good? Getting what you need too?”

You nod mindlessly, simply happy to be full.

“Daddy…” you whimper. But this time it’s not a whimper of impatience or command. He hears the shift in cadence. Your little noise comes from a place of pure love. The need for him to hold you close and keep you safe.

“I’m here, baby,” he responds. 

He starts rocking his hips, dragging his cock between your slippery walls. He lets out a deep groan and takes in a shaky inhale. Wet noises sound from your lower bodies connecting. His hand not on your breast slides down your body to find your clit and swipe at it through your slick.

“You’re so fucking wet. You love me using you like a toy. Humping you like you’re a little doll,” he murmurs.

“Mhm,” you whine. Your hips jerk as the rough pad of his middle finger swirls on your sensitive bundle of nerves, “Like when daddy’s needy.”

That makes him laugh a little. 

“Yeah? Needy just like you, hm?” he teases.

You nod with a sweet smile on your face. He continues thrusting, motions becoming languid as he continues on. You’re both breathy and whimpering at different points, clinging to each other. You weren’t cold at all anymore despite the lack of blankets. Everything felt soft and warm now, comfortable and hazy.

It just felt so nice. You were pretty sure you would’ve fallen asleep again if not for Chris’s finger playing with your clit. The sparks of euphoria become more frequent and make you twitch and writhe in his grasp. You felt your peak approaching and he did too. He pushes down a little harder, in turn, causing your cunt to flutter around his cock as it slides in and out.

“Know you’re gonna sleep good after this, precious,” he murmurs as he tries to stroke even deeper, “You’re always knocked out after I fuck you good.”

“You’re gonna pass out too, probably gonna crush me again,” you whine.

“Of course, I will. Gotta keep my baby bear close. Make sure you stay warm,” he says.

His breathing gets ragged, and now he’s definitely holding you tighter. You know he’s definitely reaching the finish line as his finger spasm on your clit. The sharp movement nearly makes you cum, but you hang on for a little longer.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Get you nice and full so you can rest like you deserve,” he whispers.

His hips slap against your ass harder as he barrels towards his release. He’s grunting into your neck, holding you tight as your body bounces from the constant movements. He’s panting and you’re whining when, finally, his limbs lock around you and a long moan comes from his throat.

He starts spilling his cum inside you, making good on his word. He’s stuffing you full. His hips keep thrusting, ensuring it gets deep, completely flooding you. You shudder at the feeling and melt in front of him. As he starts to come down, he works his fingers faster, getting you to your own high. Just as he’s settling down, you reach the high. You jerk and twitch, eyes rolling back and hips bucking forward. He whines from the overstimulation of you contracting around his spent cock, but he pleasures you through it till you’re definitely finished.

The two of you lie there, both unwilling to disconnect from each other. You’re sinking into the mattress, already slipping back into the sweet depths of sleep. His hand falls from your breast and rises from your cunt to meet in the middle and hold you close by your waist. Lazy kisses land on your neck.

“Sorry I woke you up, sweetheart,” he whispers.

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” you say.

“Guess not,” he chuckles and pecks you a few more times.

He stays inside you, keeping you wrapped around his now soft cock. It was comforting, soothing in a weird way. Gave you that sense of security you were always craving. You don’t want him to pull out. As if he can read your mind, he whispers in your ear.

“Get some sleep, baby. I’m staying right here. Gonna keep you full while you sleep, make sure this pretty pussy knows who she belongs to.”

You nod and nestle yourself into your pillows to drift off.

“I’ll keep you warm. You won’t even need to hoard all of the blankets now,” he teases before shutting his eyes and starting to drift off himself.

[trippingontheescalator]

Here is my completely unasked for opinions on Snape ships:

Jeverus - Love it, but only after James is made to crawl on his belly and eat dust. If he isn't sufficiently beaten down or if Severus forgives him too early then I can't. James needs the ego knocked out of him first, he needs to be broken down and rebuilt and THEN I love it.

Snirius - Also love it. Completely different energy from jeverus, in that I need James to be a contrite simp who realizes the error of his ways, Sirius on the other hand is a bastard and so is Severus, and them trading blows and insults between kisses is just 😘

Snily - Honestly like it, but only when Lily has genuine flaws that she has to work through in the text as well. I'm not interested in perfect Lily and simp Severus who must flagellate himself to he worthy of her love. But when they're written as two people with a lot of history and complicated, flawed beings? Beautiful.

Snupin - Dislike. I can write snupin in short spurts but every time I tried to write a long snupin fic Remus slowly morphs into a passive aggressive, gaslighting, "Oh my friends weren't so bad, you're exagerrating, I need to downplay your pain because my school days were the last time I really enjoyed my life and if I take my rose-tinted glasses off I will have to examine my own actions and guilt and be forced to take responsibility and acknowledge that not every bad thing I've done can be blamed on the wolf, nor can I insulate my feelings by blaming other people's prejudice against lycanthropy as a reason for why they might not like me instead of acknowledging that maybe I'm not actually that nice of a guy." SORRY.

Snucius - Unironically love Lucius having sugar baby Severus to spoil.

Snucissa - What's better than one hot, rich blond? TWO hot, rich blondes. Death Eaters, you say? Morally dubious at the best of times, you say? Yes, perfect, I crave gothic, crumbling aristocracy, the beautiful decadence that masks our sins, and yet still loving throuple snucissa.

Snarity - It all depends on the Charity. She's basically an OC since we don't know anything about her in canon, except that she had the balls to tell Death Eaters they suck in a major newspaper when the Death Eater activity was extremely high and that she and Severus were friends. I can get behind this with a well-written and interesting Charity 👍

Snarry/Snamione - Not a fan at all. Even if there's no romantic relationship until Harry and Hermione are like 40, I can't see Severus ever acknowledging them as anything but those annoying kids who made his life hell. Every time he sees them the Kill Bill sirens start playing in his head. Harry could be 60 years old and Severus 80 years, and Severus would be like, "Shut the fuck up, you snuck out of the castle and went to Hogsmeade when we all thought a serial killer was out to get you, I have a heart condition because of you, get out of my nursing home before I throw my dentures at you."

Snon - Only in A Very Potter Musical.

Snumbledore- Only in Potter Puppet Pals.