#blue checkmark and everything

[alaskan-wallflower]

guys who’s natalie shay and why did she like my instagram story

[musingsofheaven]

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

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

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

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

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

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

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

Until you saw it.

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

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

You froze.

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

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

But still. Divorce.

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

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

You always had because you’d always been there.

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s when it rang.

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

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

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

But this was different.

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

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

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

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

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

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

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

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

You let it ring once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, “Hey.”

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

“…Hey.”

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

“She around?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except… maybe she didn’t.

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

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

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

A pause.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

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

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

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

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

And still, neither of you hangs up.

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

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

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

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Tashi said yes.

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

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

You’re just… tidying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to announce myself?”

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

And she laughs.

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

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

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

You didn’t hear anything.

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

And then your whole body’s moving.

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

And you don’t hear the key at first.

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

But then it happens.

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

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

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

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

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

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

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

She looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she doesn’t.

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

“Were you going to come down?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t.”

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

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

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

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

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

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

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

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

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

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

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

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

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

Not really. Not tonight.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or want.

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

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

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

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

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

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

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

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

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

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

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

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

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

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

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

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

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

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

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

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

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

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

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

And she knows it.

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

And that makes it worse.

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

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

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

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

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

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

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

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

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

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

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

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

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

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

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

“Still not an answer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind of conversation?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I’m the easier option?”

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

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

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

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

“You’re just… not her.”

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

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

“And that’s not nothing.”

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

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

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

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

Not your mom.

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

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

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

When she takes a sip, you follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk into your sip.

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

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

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

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

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

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You keep going.

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

A pause. You lower your glass.

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

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s the thing that does it.

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

“Oh, fuck you.”

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

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

“There it is.”

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

“Didn’t I?”

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

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

“You could’ve said no.”

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

“But you gave me one anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t let up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

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

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

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

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

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

So you give it voice.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when she breaks.

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

Too fucking late for that.

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

But then-

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

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

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

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

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

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

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

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

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

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

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

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

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

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

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

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

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

And her mouth is right there.

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

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

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

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

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

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

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

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

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

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

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

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

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

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

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

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

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

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

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s desperate.

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

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

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

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

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

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

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

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

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

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

But the silk stays.

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

And god, do you ruin it.

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

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

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

And it’s not just the silk.

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

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

And fuck, she’s wet.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you don’t. Even. blink.

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

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

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

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

And she does.

She cums.

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

Because she’s soaking.

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

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

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

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

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

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

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

“Are you downstairs?”

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

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

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should get up.

You should stop.

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

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

Not fast. Not greedy.

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

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

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

They’re soaked.

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

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

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

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

Then, you lower your fingers.

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

And you do. God, you do.

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

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

She gasps.

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

And that’s when you look.

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

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

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

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

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

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

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

You swallow hard, staring down.

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

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

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

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

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

And her body goes still.

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

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

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

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

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

And then her hand’s in your hair.

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

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

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

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

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

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[phantomrose96]

"This here is the evil lab," I say while gesturing to the many rows of horrible beast-like machines all huffing and rumbling and emitting wayward jets of steam like they're shooting mold spores into the air. "And this is my assistant Annie." I'm pointing to a small mousy woman with round glasses who I clearly have a problematic power dynamic over. "What do you have, Annie?"

Annie rips off a long stretch of accordion graph paper from some kind of seismograph machine. Everything on it is frantic zigzags but she reads it perfectly. "It says, 'Anyone who can say "my fav may be a war criminal but he said trans rights teehee" is demonstrating the obscene privilege of considering transphobia to be a real, material, harm to be treated with gravity and importance but acts-of-war are such fictional matters, having never affected your life, that you're free to joke about them.'"

"Excellent." I bang a fist on the nearest table and you jump a little because you think it's a very horrible machine doing something. "Tweet that IMMEDIATELY. Let me know when the blue-checkmarks and the furries respond." I ruffle Annie's hair and she involuntarily moans a little.

[guiltyc0nscience]

⋆˙⟡ lacy, oh, lacy, matt sturniolo

ex!matt sturniolo x ex!fem reader

synopsis. in which your ex boyfriend matt gets a new girlfriend and you envy her.

warnings. angst, self comparison, ex!matt, jealousy.

word count. 700 words.

authors note. this is my fav song on guts :(

you were scrolling mindlessly through instagram, half-distracted by the show playing in the background, when it hits you like a punch in the gut.

matt’s name.

you almost swipe past it, the little blue checkmark drawing your attention before your brain has time to catch up. the first photo in the carousel is enough to make your chest tighten; matt’s unmistakable smile, wild and carefree, his arm slung casually around the waist of a girl who is undeniably beautiful.

she’s perfect in a way that feels cruel. her hair is shiny and soft, her skin glowing like she exists in some perpetually golden hour. she’s wearing a baby pink skirt and a white tank top, that made you second-guess every piece of clothing you ever owned. and matt—he’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that matters, his gaze full of that rare blend of comfort and adoration that used to be reserved for you.

your fingers hovered over the screen, but the curiosity wins. you click on her profile—never a good idea.

her name is lacy, a name as delicate and ethereal as she looks. her bio is full of cute emojis, and her feed is an endless stream of photos that make her seem both unreachable heartbreakingly real. there are candids of her laughing with friends, aesthetic shots of iced-lattes and sunsets, flawless photos of her, and of course, more pictures of her with matt.

each photo was a dagger.

you scroll further, unable to stop yourself. there’s a photo of her in a bikini that hugged her perfect body in all the right ways, standing on the beach, her arms wrapped around matt as he leans down to kiss her forehead. the stunning sunset in the background really setting the scene.

you hate her. you hate how easily she seems to slot into the life that used to be yours. you hate the way she seems so effortlessly happy, like she’s never had to sit in her room crying after seeing someone else post photos like this. most of all, you hate how much she reminds you of everything you’re not.

lacy was kind. you could tell by the way people commented under her posts, by the stories where she’s tagged with the captions like “the sweetest person alive” and “my literal angel.” she’s funny, too, with captions that actually made you laugh even though you resented her for it. and then there’s the way she looks at matt in every picture. it’s the kind of look you recognised because it used to be yours.

and matt—he’s happy. he looks like he’s found the thing he’s been searching for.

it feels like a slap in the face.

you tell yourself to stop. to close the app, put your phone down, and do literally anything else. but instead, you go back to his post, lingering on the comment section. the flood of heart emojis and “you two are perfect” messages like tiny arrows, each one reminding you that this is his life now.

he doesn’t think about you anymore.

the realisation hits harder than you expect. it’s not like you thought he was still pining for you, but seeing it laid out in front of you—proof that he’s moved on, that he’s happy—makes your stomach churn.

you close instagram and toss your phone onto your bed next to you, but the damage is done. lacy is burned into your mind now, an image you can’t shake. you think about her at random moments, comparing yourself to her in ways that feel pathetic but impossible to stop.

would matt have loved you more if you’d been more like her? if you’d laughed more or dressed better or been softer around the edges?

you hate how much you care.

it’s not just jealousy—it’s grief. for what you had with matt, for the person you were when you were with him. for the version of you that thought she was enough.

you try to tell yourself it’s just a passing feeling, that in a few days this ache will dull into something manageable. but tonight, it’s sharp and all-consuming, and it’s hard not to feel like lacy has taken more than matt from you.

she’s taken the version of yourself that felt loved.

and you can’t stop wondering if you’ll ever get her back.

[allpiesforourown]

Okay, I have some comments (agreement) on three of your posts, so I'll just put them in one ask, lol.

First of all, you are SO RIGHT about toxic yuri. Oh my God. I'm a bi woman and I'm usually more attracted to mlm works like danmei, and a lot of yuri just doesn't do it for me, so I'm just constantly wondering if I've got, like, internalized misogyny? What's the deal here? But then there's the occasional yuri like Madoka and I go absolutely fucking feral and make it my whole personality for months. Like, yes, give me all of the toxic yuri, all of the doomed yuri, all of the girls and women being obsessive and flawed. That's what I like about danmei, really, the obsession and the character flaws and the angsty yearning. But women are never allowed to go crazy or even be a little flawed like that, not even in fiction. Often, it's because creators and audiences alike judge female characters harsher (a reflection of real life, obviously) and so they have to make the female characters "perfect" or they won't be liked. But their being perfect is exactly what I dislike, because it's not realistic, and it's not interesting! So, yeah, absolutely, that's why toxic yuri is so much more appealing, especially compared to a lot of others.

Second of all, you're also so right about Yue Qingyuan. When I first started SVSSS, I thought, "Oh, so he kinda sucks," 'cause he clearly knew about Binghe's abuse but only gave mild advice to SQQ to maybe treat him a little less harshly. But then, he kinda does seem like a really good guy later, and especially with the realization of his tragic background, it's easy to forgive him. But so often the fandom reduces him to lovable idiot who's never done anything wrong and like. He was totally fine with Shen Jiu abusing a child. It's not like he was unaware of it, and while he's not malicious, he was willing to turn a blind eye to it. We obviously know the reason why later, but even so. I do love him, though, but I feel like sometimes the fandom whitewashes some of the characters too much. Like, Shen Jiu had a tragic backstory, but that only explains his actions, it doesn't excuse them. Of course you can love him anyway, but I think if you're whitewashing his character into something he's not, then you don't really love the character, or else you'd love him the way he actually is. And Shen Jiu's abuse of Binghe is very important to, like, everything, because the cycle of abuse is such a central theme. Shen Jiu and his own victim, Bingge, demonstrate how abuse can turn victims into abusers and continue the cycle. Shizun and Binghe (Bingmei) demonstrate how the cycle can be stopped.

Finally, that post you reblogged about social media, and your tags about how you open TikTok, block 50 people, and then leave is sooo true. The danmei fandom, especially artists, are, at least to my knowledge, a lot more active on Twitter than Tumblr, so I go on Twitter to check when I'm bored, and. I open it, I block 50 people while getting mad just the way they want me to, and then I close it. Then I open it again later! I guess I'm a glutton for punishment because seriously. I need to stop.

Anyway, thanks! Keep on fighting the good fight (shizunfucking)!

1. YEAH. Like so many yuri stories are just "they're cutely blushing before mustering up the courage to hold hands" and its just boring. Are they allowed to show any emotion other than uwu puppy love I'm a grown ass woman

2. Yue Qingyuan's cycle of abuse being ignored is so sad like yes he started out as a slave. But he is now the leader of one of the most powerful sects in the cultivation world, and he uses his authority to enable and protect abusers. Why erase such a big part of his story

3. TWITTER IS DEADDD its all blue checkmark engagement baiting with racism and even within the danmei community the people on Twitter will jump anyone who has an opinion they don't like it's so evil there

[wakyu-waku]

I love your writing! Can I have an Astro x Reader, please? Reader is usually very outgoing and energetic, but around Astro they’re very calm and quiet. Astro asks about this one day, and Reader is like “oh you don’t like loud noises.”

Slides you two dollars and a stick of gum

Of course! I love the idea very very much, and you anon have the honor to be my first Dandy’s World x Reader story! And apologies for the delay, I’ve had a mini break to charge my power to start writing everybody’s requests!

Astro x Reader - Slumber Party

You and Astro were exact opposites in every way, with Astro being the calm yet timid introvert he was- and you the energetic flower. Always happy to have fun and help other toons, as Astro observed from afar about you.

You and Astro were exact opposites in every way, that it came as a surprise to him and every toon that you’d caught feelings for him- and made it very clear by confessing to him.

You and Astro had already been close friends before such feelings blossomed, however Astro always noticed when it was just the two of you alone- you suddenly were all calm and quiet. You were still your kind self, however such a shift made Astro wonder- even after your confession to him.

And your confession to him gave him more questions than answers.

It was just the two of you looking at the starry sky, when you whispered your love to Astro with the same happy grin.

You expected Astro to be asleep already by the time you whispered your love to him, but suddenly his eyes sprung open and a blue blush was cast over his cheeks.

It’d been a few weeks then when you two started dating, and now you were planning a slumber party for all the toons!

“Brightney, I’m really grateful you were so eager to help organize everything for the slumber party!” You energetically say as Brightney crossed off some checkmarks on her list, not knowing Astro was watching from afar as usual.

“Of course [Your Name]! I’m always happy to help you and Astro!” Brightney giggled.

“Everything’s ready for this awesome slumber party! See you tonight!”

As Brightney waved goodbye, you would notice Astro putting some lavender on the vases. You’d go over and help him out.

“Lavendars?” You ask with a warm smile, your voice now a mere whisper.

“Mhm..” Astro nods, smiling back at seeing your face. “They help with sleep and anxiety..”

“I remember the smell.. Did you put some of it on your blanket?” You ask, making Astro a bit shocked you’d notice such a small detail on such a quiet Toon like himself.

“Mhm.. I have..!” Astro nods, a blue blush dusting his cheeks.

Soon enough, the sun had set and it was time for the slumber party! Toons started flooding in, and you did most of the greeting as Astro watched.

“I HATE SLUMBER PARTIES!!” Shrimpo shouted as he stomped in.

“But you came by anyways! Hehehe!” You giggled as Shrimpo grimaced.

“You know [Your Name], this slumber party is so gorgeous! Really sparkling decorations!” Glisten praised until he froze up at the sight of a familiar fish bowl.

“Glisten’s right, [Your Name]! This really is Fin-Tastic!” Finn laughed as Glisten scowled, and you couldn’t help but laugh along as well.

Astro watched on with a smile on his face at all the toons you talked to during the slumber party. Although he didn’t participate in the activities himself, he felt a fuzzy feeling watching you and everyone else have fun.

But if you’re so happy all energetic and outgoing, why weren’t you that way around him? Was he making you unhappy all this time?

He always had these questions in him, but at this particular night they started to claw at him so tightly like the second pair of arms around his body.

When it was finally time for all the toons to go to sleep in their own sleeping bags or spots on the couch, you and Astro stayed awake.

Astro couldn’t believe the look of love in your eyes as you at him.

“[Your Name]..” Astro shakily sighed out, worry weighing his back. “You’re always so outgoing and excited with the other toons.. However with me, you’re so quiet.. Why is that?”

You only gave a reassuring smile and opened up your arms.

“You don’t like loud noises Astro, so I’m quiet so you’re comfortable. Because I love you very very much..”

Sleeping in your arms felt like the softest cloud in the world for Astro, and his worries all flew away to the wind. Your love for him was the most comforting blanket, and that night every toon had a good dream.

[hcgossips]

Professional Obligation

Viscuso is an exhibitionist promiscuous with no self-pride and was intentionally, exposed to public execration for attention and a blue checkmark on IG, expecting to become a celeb, while used as a cannon fodder and a diversion . “Of what?” is the question I have. Apparently, she accepted the PR stunt expecting to just f**k everything and mock it, while Cavill was expecting to have an old PR plot. But, she initially posted pictures in places that were identified as Cavill’s place and using Kal. So, she was assisted by his team and had his consent.

That was the beginning of the damage control immoral strategies. And, my guess was that the bl*w j*b photo was the reason that screwed with everything. But, was that all or that photo was part of a plan Cavill didn’t know of, starting with being mocked by a TV show that made fun of their first pap walk? This circus was strategically planned and Cavill was the duck chosen to be mocked and intentionally humiliated.

Cavill was always kind of reclusive, discrete and extremely worried with his image. His real private life is a secret. His “girlfriends’” exposed in PRs with him, were all stunts and the plots carefully established not to harm his image, despite having precedents. The plots were professional events to create a fake narrative, with criteria. That’s not what’s happening with Viscuso. This PR stunt with her was a mess. Something about it was not right from the beginning.

Viscuso arrives for the first pap walk late, in a hurry as if running to catch a bus, without makeup, on a COVID mask she purposely, takes off to show her face to the camera. The pair of glasses apparently, hid a surgical procedure around the eyes. She had an intention Cavill didn’t know of. She is wrongly identified by a tabloid on purpose  and many articles start popping, bringing the Madonna style question “Who is Natalie Viscuso?”, as if she was someone and a question really never answered. It was obvious that she had decided to use this PR as a platform to promote herself and Cavill, as the escorting duck she would sacrifice.

But, you can’t expect to become a princess when you purposely, turn the prince into a frog. And, Viscuso, expected to make a fuss to show off, but, actually had nothing to offer, but her bl*w j*b practice. At this point, this PR was already a mess and Cavill, the duck, totally screwed. Yes! At a certain point, there seemed to be a change on the management of this plot. On Viscuso’s side, she was, initially, apparently and unprofessionally assisted by unscrupulous people – friends -, what jeopardized Cavill’s image. But, after so many trouble they created, Cavill’s team apparently, managed to get a certain control of the situation, what didn’t please Viscuso, at first.

That’s when she initially, became his Godsent for accepting to be managed by his team. But, what they could do was offer assistance. Because, she didn’t want to give up on the script she was following, and Cavill had to perform it as a muppet and her escort. The more I see, the more I l think this circus is a diversion, a plot that was transformed in a fuss because an unoccupied wh*re was bored and wanted to have fun cooking a duck. The question is if this plot was only because a promiscuous was bored or it was also to serve as a diversion, minimizing the effect of the bl*w j*b photo and blending someone in.

I still think @exposing_henrycavill might be related to how things happened. Especially, because the page was immediately taken down from IG as soon as it appeared, when other “haters” continued posting their conspiracy theories without being taken down. Something about Cavill’s PR stunt with Viscuso hides something he’s ashamed of, something which is now, apparently, in control. But, the PR stunt ended up gaining so much of attention and Viscuso was in it for the spotlights, that they decided to continue with it and enhance the plot to a whole different level, apparently, expecting to protect his image, but, leaving Cavill without a choice.

He wasn’t pleased to have to lie about the fake paternity when a reporter made the question during a public event. His annoyance was evident! What I don’t understand is why stage a fake plot with so many intentional contradictory details? If staging is necessary, why not really do it with more precise details to really be convincing? It was turned into a circus. Cavill clearly makes sure to show he has nothing to do with the plot, despite having to post few fake stuff (such as the photo of father’s day in a baby room). He maintains a certain indifference and distance from the supposed baby as saying it’s a fallacy or it’s not his.

In an article, apparently, presenting an interview with Cavill (which could have been answered online through his team), they included the info the baby was a girl contradicting some articles and fake fan pages that initially, published it was a boy. Meanwhile, a lot of Photoshop and AI photos have been used to support the lie, also trying to discredit the bl*w job photo. In an interview promoting one of his last movies, he declared his IG was fictional, as if saying the latest posts were fake and job related in favor of a fake image. He seems to be doing the minimum, struggling with his own team or fighting against a professional obligation, avoiding to commit to this fallacy more than the necessary.

Why? Does VIscuso really believe people believe she’s Cavill’s girlfriend/lover/wife and mum of his baby? Is she actually a mum? She’s a professional obligation. That’s what Viscuso seems to be, a professional obligation, who recently, doesn’t seem to be very pleased with the way things are going for her. She doesn’t seem very content. At least, that’s what she has shown during the last public event they were both at. Haven’t this woman realized she has no chance to be respected nor recognized? What had she offered so far, to make herself relevant? A bl*w j*b photo that promotes her as a sl*t. That’s how far she will go and how relevant she will be.

I was never fond of the blackmail conspiracy. But, after five years, this plot is starting to give the impression that Cavill is being pressured to make the bad publicity on her go away. If she had no interest in showing off, she would be the first, if she had self-pride, to end this PR. She wouldn’t want to appear. If she was really his “partner” and liked him just a bit, she wouldn’t make him go through all of that exposure. So, this PR was planned so VIscuso could have some fun and spotlight, while screwing a duck, who was caught by surprise and couldn’t get rid of the plot for shame. And, later, Viscuso was used as diversion, while he saved his image by trying to clean hers. He is stuck.

[venactricisfics]

Bucking Tradition: A Yellowstone Fanfic

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter List

Adult Content 18+

I was pulled awake at the crack of dawn by my phone buzzing so hard it fell off the nightstand. 

18 missed calls. 

15 missed texts.

The phone buzzed again, Laramie’s name on the screen and I answered it, “What is going on? I just woke up to my phone blowing up.”

“Girl, have you seen the news or checked your feed? You are everywhere,” she chimed. “That kid was the grandson of a big oil tycoon.” 

I sat up fast, my heart already starting to race. “What?”

“You saved a kid from getting gored by a bull on live TV,” Laramie continued, breathless with excitement. “Someone caught the whole thing on video. It’s already got, like, three million views. You’re on the front page of everything—Rodeo Digest, TMZ, hell, even Good Morning America is talking about you.”

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, staring at nothing for a second as it all sank in. “I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

“No, babe. You did what a badass would do,” she laughed. “You rode in like some pink-saddled superhero and scooped up the kid like it was nothing. And the way you handled that horse? People are calling you ‘The Cowgirl Guardian Angel.’”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Oh God.”

“Oh yes,” Laramie said smugly. “Your follower count just exploded. Everyone wants to talk to you—there are reporters camped out at the front desk of your hotel. You might wanna skip the free continental breakfast.”

I stood and peeked out the window. Sure enough, a few cameras were already set up in the parking lot.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Ryan’s gonna flip.”

“Ryan is gonna fall even harder in love with you,” she corrected. “You saved a kid, and you did it while looking hot as hell in that sparkly-ass saddle.”

Despite myself, a little grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Well… Bloom was in top form.”

“Don’t get modest on me now,” she said. “You’re a hero.”

I glanced at my phone again. Notifications were still flooding in. Mentions. Shares. A DM from a blue checkmark I wasn’t even sure was real.

My quiet little rodeo trip just turned into a media circus.

“I gotta call Ryan,” I said, already swiping to his name.

“Tell him to watch the clip,” she added. “And send me a pic if he starts crying. I live for that shit.”

I rolled my eyes and ended the call, heart pounding as I hit Ryan’s name.

This was gonna be one hell of a morning.

“Morning, baby,” I heard Ryan’s familiar drawl, low and a little sleepy. “Sleep good?”

I sank back against the headboard, the sound of his voice warming me more than the thin hotel comforter ever could. “After talking to you last night?” I let my lips curve into a smile. “Yeah. I did.”

“How’s camp?” I asked, twirling a bit of my hair as I listened to the faint rustle of wind and distant mooing on his end.

“Same as it was when you left. The cattle send their love,” he said, amusement curling through his tone.

In the background, Teeter shouted, “Y’all are fuckin’ ridiculous.”

I laughed. “I’m surprised she doesn’t have Colby tied up in her tent by now.”

“I haven’t seen him yet this morning, so that’s still a possibility.”

I hesitated, biting my bottom lip as I glanced at the phone still vibrating with fresh notifications. “Hey… have you seen the news?”

He was quiet for a beat. “Baby, we’re in a cattle pasture in the middle of Texas. No TV. Barely a signal. What’s going on?”

I sat forward, nerves fluttering in my chest like wild birds. “I kind of… did something yesterday during the qualifiers.”

“Oh?” I could hear the curiosity in his voice now, pulling him into the moment. “You win something?”

“No,” I said slowly. “Not the competition. A kid got into the arena right before a bull was set to be let loose. No one saw him. Except me.”

I paused. Ryan didn’t say anything, just waited.

“I rode Bloom straight in there, scooped the boy up before that chute opened,” I continued, voice steady despite the thudding of my heart. “It was fast, but someone caught it on video. It's all over social media. News outlets picked it up, too.”

Another pause.

Then Ryan exhaled, long and low. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just… a little overwhelmed. There are reporters downstairs.”

“Shit, baby,” he murmured, “You saved a kid. Of course, the world’s talkin’. But I’m damn proud of you. I hope you know that.”

That was all it took for the tightness in my chest to crack open a little. “You’re not mad I didn’t call right after?”

“Nah,” he said, soft now. “You were probably still running on adrenaline. Besides… I would’ve hopped in the truck and driven to Houston without even putting on shoes.”

I smiled at the ceiling, my heart a little steadier now. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. But now I’m missin’ a hero.”

“Oh, shut up,” I laughed, swiping at the tear that tried to sneak down my cheek.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You ride like hell and save babies now? What the hell can’t you do?”

“Apparently keep a low profile,” I muttered.

“Good,” Ryan said, low and certain. “The world could use a little more of you in it.”

And just like that, all the chaos outside that hotel room door didn’t feel so loud anymore.

By the time I made it down to the hotel lobby, my face was on every TV screen.

Footage of me racing Bloom across the arena, scooping that boy up like it was just another day at the ranch, played on a loop. Someone had caught it all on their phone — the angle shaky, the audio a mess — but there I was. Hat low, boots firm in the stirrups, jaw set like I’d planned the whole damn thing.

“Ms. Dutton,” a woman with a too-white smile and a clipboard intercepted me before I could escape. “The Houston Rodeo Committee would love a quick interview. Just a few words for the local press—”

I gave her a polite shake of the head. “Not interested in being anyone’s hero. Just did what needed doin’.”

She blinked, clearly not used to no.

Too bad.

Outside, there were already cameras. Reporters. Hell, I caught sight of a camera crew from a national morning show. One of them had a windbreaker with LIVE printed across the back like they were reporting on a war zone, not a horse show.

Travis pulled the truck around, leaned out the window. “You savin’ the world again or you wanna grab lunch?”

“Depends,” I muttered, tugging my ball cap low and climbing in, “you takin’ me somewhere with back doors and no press?”

“You know it.”

As we peeled away from the chaos, I checked my phone. Laramie had sent ten more texts. The latest was a screenshot of my name trending.

#RodeoRescue #CowgirlSavesChild #AlexDuttonHero

“Well, shit,” I whispered.

My phone rang again. This time, it wasn’t a reporter or a friend or someone looking to “amplify my story.”

It was my father.

DAD lit up the screen like a warning.

I let it ring twice before answering. “Morning.”

“What the hell did you do?” his voice came in hard and cold — not angry exactly, but sharp enough to make me sit up straighter in my seat.

“I saved a kid,” I said plainly, leaning my head against the truck window. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” he snapped. “I’ve had three lawyers, two PR people, and your brother call me before sunrise. Your face is everywhere. Dutton is everywhere. I thought you were in Houston to ride, not stir up a damn media circus.”

I swallowed, jaw tightening. “I didn’t exactly plan it, Dad. The arena gate was open, and a six-year-old wandered in front of a chute. I did what you’d do.”

There was a pause on the other end. Just breathing. Then, softer—

“You alright?”

That caught me off guard. “Yeah. I’m fine. Kid’s fine.”

Another long silence. “You need to lay low. Let it blow over. Keep your name off the camera, you hear me?”

“And if someone else had grabbed him?” I pushed. “If I hadn’t—”

“I know what you did,” he cut me off. “And I’m proud of you. But that name — our name — it attracts attention. Not all of it good. You stay sharp.”

Click.

Just like that. No goodbye. No “I love you.” Just a call to remind me that no matter what I did, I was still a Dutton — and the world had a hell of a lot to say about that.

“Sometimes I wonder if anything I do will ever be enough for him,” I muttered, eyes on the road ahead—not really expecting an answer.

Travis didn’t speak right away. The hum of the tires and the distant rattle of trailers filled the silence.

“Your dad’s always been a worrier,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual. “Man like that—he loves hard, but it don’t always come out sweet. Just wants you to be safe.”

I exhaled through my nose, slow and steady. “I know. I wasn’t thinking about myself or what he’d say or how it would look. I just saw that kid and knew I had to get him out of there.”

Travis nodded. “You did the right thing. Cameras or not. That little boy goes home tonight ‘cause of you. That’s what matters.”

I let his words sit for a moment, warm and steady in my chest. It wasn’t approval, exactly—but it was something close. Something real.

The second I stepped out of the truck, cameras were already aimed in my direction.

“Ma’am! Over here!” “Miss, can we get a comment about yesterday’s rescue?” “Is it true you didn’t know who the boy was?”

The flash of bulbs and swarm of microphones made me pause mid-step. Travis let out a low whistle behind me.

“Guess word travels fast.”

“I thought I’d have a little more time before the circus showed up,” I muttered, adjusting my hat lower over my eyes.

One of the reporters surged forward. “Were you aware the child was the grandson of Cole Bennett, CEO of Bennett Oil?”

“No,” I said flatly, “and I didn’t care.”

That got them. A quiet ripple moved through the crowd before the shouting started again.

“Do you consider yourself a hero?” “Has Mr. Bennett reached out to you?” “Are you planning to make a statement?”

“I’m planning to ride,” I said. “If y’all wanna watch that, feel free.”

I turned and headed for the warm-up ring like the cameras weren’t still flashing behind me. Travis chuckled and followed.

“Remind me to never piss you off.”

Later that afternoon, after my event wrapped and Bloom was tucked into his stall, a man in a perfectly tailored suit stepped into the quiet aisle of the stables like he belonged there. The dust didn’t even cling to his polished boots.

“Miss Dutton?” he asked, polite but precise. “My name is Garrett. I work with the Bennett family. Mr. Bennett sent me to speak with you.”

I blinked, my fingers still curled around Bloom’s lead rope. “He sent someone here?”

“He wanted to thank you in person, but... security concerns.” Garrett offered a small, tight smile. “The family is—understandably—very shaken. That little boy, Dylan, he’s their only grandson.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” I said, voice still laced with fatigue. “Wouldn’t have mattered if I had.”

Garrett nodded. “That’s exactly why they’d like to speak with you privately. Mr. Bennett was hoping you might be available for dinner tomorrow night. Discreet. Off-site.”

I eyed him. “This a thank you, or a buyout?”

That smile flickered into something sharper. “It’s an invitation.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll thank you again on his behalf and walk away.” He paused, eyes glancing over my boots, the dust on my jeans. “But if you’re curious—if you’re the kind of woman who likes to know what kind of ripple she’s just caused—you’ll come.”

I didn't answer right away. Just scratched Bloom’s neck while the gears turned in my head.

Finally, I said, “I’ll think about it.”

Garrett gave a crisp nod. He turned and left without another word, disappearing between the trailers like he’d never been there at all.

I sat down on the bench near the stables, my mind running a mile a minute. The conversation with Garrett Bennett had left me uneasy. It wasn’t just about the dinner; it was the way he’d said it, like there was something more at play here. I needed advice, and there was only one person who could give me the honest truth.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Jamie’s number. It rang twice before he picked up.

“Alex? What’s going on?” Jamie’s voice was calm, but I could hear the faint edge of concern.

“I’m not sure yet,” I answered, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “I just got a call from one of the Bennetts—Garrett. He wants me to come to a private dinner tonight, says it’s a thank-you for what happened with their grandson.”

“Private dinner? That sounds like more than just a thank you,” Jamie replied, his voice low. “The Bennetts are big players. Why the secrecy?”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my temples. “It doesn’t feel right. They’ve been all over the media since the kid’s been in the hospital, but the way Garrett spoke... like it was more about the family than just the kid. I don’t want to be part of some business move, but I also don’t want to turn them down if they’re genuinely grateful.”

Jamie paused for a moment before speaking. “Alex, you know as well as I do that people like the Bennetts don’t do things out of the kindness of their hearts. There’s always an angle. And you don’t get this kind of attention without a price.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I muttered, frustration creeping in. “I just helped. But I can’t ignore the fact that they’ve got a lot of resources at their disposal. What if they’re trying to leverage me for something?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” Jamie replied. “They want something from you. The question is—what?”

I sighed, feeling the weight of his words settle in my gut. “So, what do you think I should do?”

“You need to be careful. Go if you want, but don’t go alone. Take someone with you who can keep their eyes open. They’ll be watching you the entire time.”

I leaned back against the wall, my mind turning. “You’re right. I’m not walking into this blind. I’ll take someone with me. But I’m not sure who.”

“You’ve got Ryan. He’s always got your back. Or you could bring me if you want someone who knows how these people work.”

I smiled a little at the offer, despite myself. “I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, I think I’ll talk to Ryan first. He’s my priority. And he’ll be the one I need with me most if this turns into something bigger.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Jamie said. “Just be careful, Alex. Whatever their motives are, they’re not as innocent as they seem.”

“I know,” I said, glancing at the time. “I’ll make sure I’m prepared. Thanks, Jamie.”

“Anytime, Alex. Just make sure you don’t get caught up in their game.”

As I hung up the phone, I took a deep breath. I had a lot to think about. I wasn’t about to walk into this dinner unprepared. I needed Ryan with me. But the real question was whether he could handle the heat of this situation—or if this would end up becoming a bigger mess than I was ready for.

🐴

I paced my hotel room as my phone rang. It was earlier than I normally called, he may even still be in the field. 

“Hey, baby,” he answered, “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, just a little overwhelmed by everything,” I answered, “And I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh, did you?” I could hear the smirk in his voice, “I’m still with the guys, so we can’t have that kind of talk.”

I smiled despite myself, letting the warmth of his voice seep into the cracks the day had made in me.

“I wasn’t calling for that kind of talk,” I said, even though we both knew I wouldn’t have minded it. “I just… needed something to anchor me for a second. Everything’s happening so fast.”

“You’ve been all over my feed, baby,” Ryan said, voice softening. “They’re calling you a damn hero.”

“I didn’t do it for that,” I murmured, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I just saw a kid in danger and moved. But now I’ve got media circling the grounds, people I don’t know reaching out, and—” I paused, chewing my lip. “One of the oil family guys wants to meet with me. Private dinner.”

That got his attention. “Dinner? Alone?”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “I called Jamie too—just to get some perspective. He said the same thing I’m thinking. That there’s more to this than just gratitude.”

“I don’t like it,” Ryan said, voice dropping just enough to let the cowboy edge slip through. “If they really just wanted to say thanks, they’d send flowers and a fat donation to a charity in your name—not wine and steak behind closed doors.”

I let out a breath. “I was thinking about asking someone to come with me. Jamie offered. But honestly… I want it to be you.”

He didn’t respond right away. I could hear the faint shuffle of boots on dirt, maybe the low murmur of the guys around him. Then, quieter, like he’d stepped away:

“You want me to come to you?”

“I do,” I said, voice softer now. “Not just because I don’t trust them—but because I trust you. I need someone in my corner who knows me, and who won’t let anyone try and spin this into something it’s not.”

“I’m on my way,” he said without missing a beat. “Soon as I can get someone to cover me here, I’m heading that way.”

I smiled again, tighter this time, but real. “Thank you.”

“You don’t gotta thank me for that, sweetheart,” he said, that drawl smoothing out the last of the chaos in my chest. “You saved a kid’s life. Now let me come take care of mine.”

I smiled despite myself, letting the warmth of his voice seep into the cracks the day had made in me.

“I love you,” I told him. 

“I figured you might,” he responded, “I love you too, baby.”

“Y’all are so fucking sappy,” I heard Teeter shout.

“Tell Teeter I miss her,” I said.

“Oh, she knows,” Ryan chuckled, “Let me talk to Rip, I’ll call you when I’m on the road.” 

“OK, cowboy. I’m counting the minutes,” I replied, “Be careful.” 

Ryan's voice dropped a little lower, a little rougher, “Always am. Especially when I got somethin’ worth coming home to.”

The call ended, but I held onto the phone a second longer, like it might stretch the warmth of his voice a little longer through my fingers. My heart still beat a little too fast, but it wasn’t just from nerves anymore. It was him. His steady calm, his easy confidence, the way he never made me feel like I was handling too much on my own—even when I was.

I set the phone down and glanced at the clock. If he talked to Rip and hit the road soon, he could be here by tonight. That thought alone settled the spinning in my chest.

I crossed the room to the window and looked out at the stadium below, already buzzing with morning prep. Somewhere down there, the media circus was gearing up again. And tonight… I had dinner with a billionaire’s son.

But the only thing I was counting down to was the sound of his boots in the hall.

🐎

The knock on the hotel door came just after sunset.

I didn’t need to ask who it was.

My heart knew before my feet did, and I crossed the room in three quick strides, wrenching the door open like I hadn’t been waiting all day, counting down every hour, watching the GPS on his phone like a lunatic.

There he was. Sunburnt. Dust-covered. Leaning against the doorframe like he hadn’t just driven five hundred miles. Like he hadn’t just left behind everything to show up for me.

"Hey, baby," he said, and just like that, my lungs forgot how to work.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. I reached for him, and he caught me around the waist, lifting me off the floor like I weighed nothing at all. His mouth met mine halfway, and the rest of the world just—stopped.

No cameras. No headlines. No expectations. Just me and him, and the way his hands slid into my hair like they belonged there. The way I melted into his chest like I was made for it.

“You really drove all day just to see me?” I whispered against his lips.

He grinned, eyes warm and impossibly tired. “You say the word, and I’d drive every damn day.”

I kissed him again, slower this time. Softer.

“Good,” I said, pulling back just enough to tug him into the room and kick the door shut behind him. “Because I don’t plan on letting you leave anytime soon.”

His bag hit the floor with a dull thud, and I backed him toward the bed like I’d been thinking about this moment since the second I opened my eyes that morning—because I had.

Ryan didn’t need a cue. His hands slid under the hem of my shirt, fingers splayed wide across my skin like he was grounding himself in me. My breath hitched when he peeled the fabric over my head, tossing it somewhere behind us. His gaze darkened, settling on me like he was starving.

“God, I missed you,” he said, voice low, rough. “You got no idea what that did to me—watchin’ that video of you on Bloom, savin’ that kid like it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” I breathed, my hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “It was everything. I was shaking so bad I couldn’t even call you afterward.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my shorts, dragging them down slow, like he was unwrapping something precious. “You don’t ever have to explain why you did what you did, darlin’. That’s just you. Brave. Reckless. Stubborn as hell.”

“You forgot irresistible,” I murmured, pulling his belt loose with a practiced flick.

“I never forget that.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t slow or soft—it was hungry. Like time owed us something, and we were collecting every second we’d missed. He tumbled me onto the mattress and followed, his weight solid, his body heat soaking into mine. Every touch was familiar and electric, like our bodies knew this rhythm by heart.

He was solid above me, heavy in the best way, his body heat soaking into my skin like sunlight after a storm. Every touch sparked with memory—familiar, electric, a rhythm only we knew how to play.

His hands glided down the curve of my hips, fingers brushing the sensitive dip of my waist before sliding up to cup my face. His thumbs stroked over my cheekbones, soft and reverent, right before he kissed me again—deeper this time. His tongue danced with mine, slow and teasing, coaxing a shiver down my spine and a sigh from my lips.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he pulled back just enough to search my face.

“It’s just… been a long day,” I admitted, my voice trembling as much as the rest of me.

His eyes softened, thumb brushing along my jaw. “Tell me what you need.”

I didn’t hesitate. “You. Just you.”

That was all it took.

His mouth met mine again, hotter, needier, as his hands roamed with purpose—trailing down, mapping the curves he already knew like they’d changed since the last time he touched me. When his fingers brushed the inside of my thighs, I gasped, my whole body tightening in anticipation. His touch was deliberate, calculated, like he was trying to memorize me all over again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his voice rough with need.

I arched into him, hips rising, heart racing, fingers clutching his shoulders as his lips trailed fire along my neck. He lingered at the hollow of my throat before grazing his teeth across my collarbone, pulling a moan from me I couldn’t hold back.

“Ryan—” I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair.

He didn’t stop. His mouth dipped lower, tongue flicking against the swell of my breast before his lips closed around a nipple, teasing until my back bowed off the bed and a broken cry escaped me. 

“Please—” I whispered, barely able to form the word.

He lifted his head, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Please, what, baby?”

I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t need to. I just pulled him closer, my legs wrapping around his waist as he settled between them. His body pressed tight to mine, thick and hard against my thigh, and it sent another wave of need crashing through me.

“Tell me,” he said again, voice hoarse. “I need to hear it.”

“I need you inside me,” I breathed, the words shaky but sure.

A low groan tore from his throat as he crushed his mouth to mine, kissing me like he wanted to climb inside my soul. His hands found my hips, lifting me just enough to guide himself to my entrance.

“Please, Ryan—”

My body arching, pleading, aching as he pushed inside. Inch by slow, aching inch. My breath caught as he filled me completely, the stretch perfect, the pressure overwhelming in all the right ways.

Holy fuck.

He stilled, forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged. ���You okay?” he whispered, his voice trembling with restraint.

I nodded, barely able to speak. “Y-yeah. You feel…” I couldn’t finish. There weren’t words for it. For this.

He kissed my temple, lips warm and grounding. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

I whimpered, nails digging into his back, hips shifting instinctively. “Move. Please, Ryan.”

And he did.

Slow, deep thrusts that stole the air from my lungs and set my nerves on fire. His rhythm was steady, like he was making love to the beat of my heart. Every stroke sent pleasure spiraling through me, and every time he pulled back, I ached for more.

I held onto him like he was the only thing tethering me to the earth.

His eyes never left mine, watching every flicker of emotion cross my face like it meant something. Like I meant something. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, voice reverent. “Watching you come undone for me—that’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

I could feel the build beginning, the heat coiling low in my belly, tightening with every thrust. “Ryan,” I gasped, voice shaking. “I—I can’t—I’m going to—”

He held me tighter, one hand braced by my head, the other gripping my hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded. “I love you,” he breathed, words catching on a moan.

“I love you,” I whispered back, just as everything inside me shattered, the orgasm crashing over me like a tide. It dragged me under, stole my breath, left me wrecked and clinging to him like salvation.

He followed a moment later with a deep, guttural groan, hips snapping once, twice before he spilled inside me, burying his face in my neck as he trembled with the force of it.

We stayed like that—wrapped around each other, breathless and spent, hearts pounding in sync. He rolled to the side, pulling me with him so I was curled against his chest, his arms tight around me like he never planned to let go.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all day,” he whispered, lips brushing my hair. “Every mile I drove, all I could think about was being inside you again.”

I smiled, eyelids heavy. “You’re such a romantic.”

He chuckled, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath my cheek. “Only for you, baby. Only for you.”

Outside, the city began to light up, shadows falling long and soft against the walls. But in that room, it was quiet. Warm. Safe. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

“I did something, it’s probably dumb,” I muttered, grabbing my phone and scrolling through the images. My stomach knotted as I hesitated, the weight of what I was about to show him settling in. “I was going to send it to you before everything happened.”

Ryan shifted beside me, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes flickered to my phone with a mix of curiosity and something deeper. “What were you gonna send me?” he asked, his voice rough but soft, like gravel smoothed by the ocean.

I swallowed hard, my thumb hovering over the image. “Just… this,” I said, finally tapping the screen and turning it toward him.

The photo filled the display—me lying backwards across Bloom’s back, my body stretched out like a lazy cat in the sun. My hair fanned out behind me, and the only things I wore were a smirk and my cowboy boots. The lighting was soft, golden, and the angle was just enough to leave everything to the imagination, but not enough to hide the teasing confidence in my expression.

Ryan’s face changed instantly. His gaze darkened, flicking over the image like he was trying to memorize every detail. His jaw ticked, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the way his breath caught for just a beat before he dragged it in slow through his nose.

“Jesus,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. His eyes stayed locked on the screen like it might burn him. “You were gonna send me this?”

I nodded, suddenly shy despite everything we’d just done. My cheeks heated, and I couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yeah. I wanted to… surprise you.”

He looked up at me then, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath hitch. That familiar mix of reverence and hunger blazed behind his eyes, and for a moment, it felt like the room had grown smaller, the air thicker. “Baby, you can’t drop something like that on me and expect me to just sit here.”

Before I could respond, he set the phone down carefully, like it was fragile—like I was fragile—and then pulled me into his lap without warning. My gasp was swallowed by his mouth as his hands gripped my thighs, the heat between us reigniting like we hadn’t just shattered together minutes ago.

“That smirk,” he growled, his lips brushing against mine as he spoke. “Those boots… You know what that does to me?”

“Thought I had an idea,” I whispered, my breath catching as his fingers found their way under the hem of the blanket wrapped around me. The fabric slipped off my shoulders, pooling around my waist, and his touch was electric against my skin.

“You were gonna send that to me,” he repeated, more to himself this time. His hand splayed across my lower back, pulling me tight against him. “I would’ve driven even faster. Might’ve left tire marks in the goddamn sky.”

I laughed, breathless, tilting my head until our foreheads touched. His skin was warm against mine, and the scent of him—sunshine and sweat and something so uniquely Ryan—wrapped around me like a promise. “Guess I owe you a few more pictures then.”

He grinned, wicked and warm, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners made my chest ache. “Yeah, but next time… I’ll be the one holding the camera.”

And just like that, the air between us sparked again—charged with something electric and reckless and sweet. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, tracing the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, like he was mapping every inch of me. My breath came faster, my heart thudding in my chest as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below my ear.

“You’re killin’ me, you know that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. “Wearin’ those boots, smilin’ like that… You’re damn near irresistible.”

I arched into him, my hands tangling in his hair as I pulled his mouth back to mine. The kiss was fierce, hungry, like we were both trying to make up for lost time. His tongue slid against mine, and I could feel the tension in his body, the way he held himself back just enough to keep it from being too much.

But I didn’t want him to hold back. I wanted all of him.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that made my stomach tighten. His hands slid down to my hips, gripping them hard as he shifted us both until I was lying back against the pillows, his body hovering over mine. His eyes burned into me, dark and wild, and I could see the struggle in them—the part of him that wanted to take his time and the part that wanted to devour me whole.

My fingers dug into his shoulders, and I gasped as his lips trailed down my neck, nipping at the soft skin there.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, his voice muffled against my chest as his mouth found the curve of my breast. His tongue flicked over my nipple, and I arched into him with a sharp cry, my body trembling with anticipation.

“Ryan,” I gasped, my fingers tightening in his hair. “I need—”

“I know what you need,” he interrupted, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down my spine. He moved lower, his lips trailing down my stomach, and I could feel the heat of his breath against my skin as he settled between my legs. “And I’m gonna give it to you.”

His tongue flicked against me, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as he licked and teased, driving me higher and higher until I thought I might explode. My fingers twisted in the sheets, and I could hear myself begging, pleading for more, but he didn’t stop. Not until I was shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping me grounded.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as he moved back up my body, his lips brushing against mine. “Let me hear you.”

I didn’t have a choice. The moment his hand slipped between us, his fingers pressing against me, I shattered. My body convulsed, and I cried his name, the sound echoing through the room as he kissed me through it, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every whimper.

…When I finally came down, I was trembling beneath him, my breath ragged and my heart pounding like it wanted to leap out of my chest. He was still there—lips ghosting over my jaw, thumb stroking soothing circles into my hip, grounding me as the aftershocks pulsed through me.

“You’re unreal,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and thick with everything I couldn’t say yet.

Ryan lifted his head, eyes locked on mine, still blown wide with lust but laced with something softer—something that curled around my ribs and squeezed. “Nah, that’s you, baby.”

I reached up, cupping his face in both hands, letting my thumbs trace along the stubble on his cheeks. “You drive me crazy, Ryan.”

A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good. That’s the goal.”

I laughed—really laughed—and it felt good. Light. Like something I hadn’t known I was missing until that moment. He kissed the sound right off my lips, and this time, it wasn’t rushed or ravenous. It was slow, tender, filled with reverence. The kind of kiss that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

When we finally parted, he brushed a lock of hair from my face and murmured, “I missed this. Missed you.”

I swallowed hard. “Stay with me?”

His smile faded into something more serious, something raw and open. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, it wasn’t just heat between us anymore. It was everything else we’d been holding back. All the words left unspoken. All the feelings that hadn’t had the space to breathe. Now they did.

Ryan kissed me once more, slow and certain, before pulling the blankets up around us and tucking me into his side. I curled into him, head resting over his heartbeat, and for the first time in what felt like forever… I exhaled.

🐴

I scrambled to grab the nearest shirt from the floor, tugging it over my head just as my phone started buzzing on the nightstand.

Ryan leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed over his bare chest, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What’s the rush, baby?”

“That’s Lloyd,” I huffed, wrestling with the inside-out sleeves. “And he’s gonna wanna video chat. Again. After I walk him through how to do it… for the hundredth damn time.”

Ryan laughed, warm and amused. “Ah, right. Better make sure the girls are tucked away, huh?”

“Exactly,” I said, finally getting the shirt on straight. “Figured I should at least have my tits covered while I talk to him. Manners and all.”

He raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “You and your boys.”

“Damn right,” I said, tapping to answer the call. “They’re back in Montana without me to love on ‘em. Somebody’s gotta keep Lloyd honest.”

Every Tuesday since I left for Texas, Lloyd had called without fail. It was our standing check-in—he’d catch me up on everything happening at the ranch, fill me in on the latest gossip, and let me talk to my boys: Denim, Goose, and Maverick. I’d listen to the sound of their soft snorts, the way they huffed into the mic like they missed me, too. It wasn’t the same as being there, but it helped.

Ryan watched me with a soft, fond look in his eyes as I sat cross-legged on the bed, already smiling before the call even connected.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured.

I glanced back at him with a smirk. “You just figuring that out?”

The screen lit up with Lloyd’s weathered face, his cowboy hat tilted just enough to make it clear he hadn’t bothered to fix it for the call.

“There she is,” he grinned. “Took ya long enough to answer.”

“I was gettin’ decent,” I teased, adjusting the camera so he didn’t get an eyeful of Ryan lounging shirtless behind me. “Had to put a shirt on before I scarred you for life.”

Lloyd squinted. “Hell, girl, you think I ain’t seen a pair of tits before?”

Ryan snorted from the bed, clearly enjoying himself. I shot him a warning look.

“Yeah, well, these are premium content,” I shot back. “You don’t get access without a subscription.”

That made Lloyd bark out a laugh. “Fair enough. You ready to see your boys?”

My face lit up. “You know I am.”

He turned the camera around, and there they were—Denim tossing his head in the late morning sun, Goose nosing at the gate like he was waiting for me to come through it, and Maverick lying in the dirt like the world owed him a nap.

“There’s my babies,” I cooed, leaning in closer to the screen. “Hi, sweet things. Mama misses you so much.”

Ryan shifted behind me, one arm draping over my shoulder as he looked at the screen. “Which one’s Goose again?”

“That one,” I pointed, “being dramatic at the gate. He’s probably mad I’m not there with his carrots.”

Lloyd flipped the camera back to his face. “They’ve been good. Missin’ you, though. Goose tried to get in the truck yesterday when I left. Damn near climbed in the front seat.”

My heart twisted. “Aw, Goose, you little menace.”

“You comin’ home soon?” Lloyd asked gently, like he already knew the answer.

I hesitated. “Not yet. Still got some things to figure out.”

“Mm-hm. Well, you take your time. Ranch’ll be here. And your boys’ll be waitin’.”

“How are the cattle taking to that feed? Bulking up?” I asked.

“I’d say so. Shit’s expensive but you know what your doing,” he responded. “Gotta head out before Carter forgets which wheelbarrow is for feed and which is for manure.”

“Green is for feed, black is for manure,” I murmured, touched by how steady he always was. “Tell Carter to stop overfeeding Denim or he’s gonna look like a damn sofa by the time I get back.”

“I’ll pass it along,” he smirked. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doin’—or whoever.”

My cheeks flushed as Ryan chuckled behind me.

“Bye, Lloyd,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Bye, darlin’.”

The screen went dark, and I set the phone on the nightstand, sighing as I leaned back against Ryan’s chest.

“They looked good,” he said softly. “Happy.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, voice thick. “But they miss me. I can feel it.”

“I miss you and you’re right here,” he whispered against my neck. “Ain’t no surprise they do too.”

[sanders1665]

We're not people anymore—we're pixels, posturing avatars in a never-ending gladiator match of validation. Each tap, each swipe, another offering to the algorithm gods. Welcome to the feed, baby. Step right up. Strip yourself down to marketable traits and watch the likes flood in like dirty money through a cracked Vegas slot.

The feeds are everything. The feeds are nothing. They're just human vending machines now—stick a coin in, out pops someone’s trauma, their tits, their kid’s birthday, their dog’s death, their hot take on NATO, their #GRWM grief routine. It’s all content. All of it. And goddamn it if we’re not feeding each other into the beast with smiling faces and monetized hashtags.

Political leaders don't debate—they stream. War criminals with ring lights and branded hoodies. Soldiers of the dumb leading armies of dopamine addicts. Left, right, center? Nah. It’s all just teams now. Just jerseys. And behind the jerseys? Content creators. Megaphones with egos. Opinions wrapped in sponsored segments.

And TikTok? That’s the town square where Shakespeare got replaced by someone lip-syncing about their break-up while bouncing in yoga pants. Instagram is just soft-core capitalism—filter your face, filter your life, but don’t you dare filter your reach. Got a modeling gig? Great. But make sure you clock in at CVS this weekend because fame don’t cover rent unless it’s viral.

Facebook? Like a community notice board run by madmen and bots. Join a group? Sure. Want to bond over asbestos? Enlighten your soul with naked yoga and essential oils that cure cancer? It's all there. Fifty million dopamine churches, each one with its own gospel, its own snake oil priest.

And X—oh, X. A cesspool dressed up in silicon armor, run by a man-boy who thinks he's Tony Stark but acts like a bored Reddit mod with a God complex. Every take is a flame war. Every thread a minefield. And we keep scrolling through the carnage, thumbs twitching like lab rats on speed.

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. There’s a plane crash. A school shooting. A fucking cat wearing sunglasses and playing piano. A celebrity redemption arc. A breakdown. A comeback. A murder. A make-up tutorial. A ghost sighting. An alien. A child dancing at a funeral while someone vlogs their grief.

We’re in a constant state of voyeurism and exhibitionism, both at once. The orgy of self-exposure, the bloodsport of public opinion. You want private content? Pay up. You want the truth? Scroll past it. You want peace of mind? You’re in the wrong century.

This isn’t a society anymore. It’s a contest. A rat race on LSD where the finish line keeps moving and the prize is a poisoned trophy.

So here’s my message, not that they’ll hear it—too busy counting followers, likes, clout. To the influencers and the brand consultants, to the blue checkmark prophets and the dopamine pimps:

Fuck off.

Give me back sanity. Give me back privacy. Give me back a world where your value wasn’t measured in engagement metrics and trending hashtags.

We’re drowning in noise. And somewhere deep down, someone still remembers silence.

But not today.

Because the feed’s still scrolling.

[ryan-sometimes]

Capitalism makes life so soulless to me. Every fridge, car, and phone looks the same. The “competition” that we thought would breed innovation has instead bred uniformity and planned obsolescence. Blue checkmarks on Twitter had a similar effect and now every popular tweet is filled with bullshit replies from the same 5 accounts who’ve been paying to stay at the top. The replies are unrelated to the tweet and are devoid of true humor and wit. Soulless.

Every day living under capitalism is colorless. No variety in anything I see in real life or online. Every big hit on the radio sounds the same. Every appliance and electronic looks the same. Every TV, every fridge, every phone and tablet is indistinguishable. The sameness of everything is torture.

[resi4skz]

Title: Starstruck (pt2)

Pairings: idol!Chan x fem!Reader

Warnings: smut, bike s*x

‼️MDNI‼️

Part 1 , Part 3

"Right in here, please," I say as I put a checkmark on the list of things to put away before closing the bakery. "I need everything to go smoothly as possible on Monday."

"Why are you so snappy?"

I turn, giving Luna a confused look. "I'm not snappy."

"Uh huh," she rolls her eyes as she took off her apron. "Let's go before you start hyperventilating about seeing their fanmeet in about," she glances at her wrist watch, "3 hours."

"I don't know what to wear."

"Alright. Let's go."

"Where we going?"

---------------------------------------------------------

We arrived at the venue an hour earlier and we showed the tickets to the vendor. "Ah, right this way please." He leads us to a different enterance and I glance at the back, seeing others standing in line with merch.

"But-"

"Ma'am, these are VIIP tickets. It gives you access to backstage."

"Okay. He's definitely going in the good books," Luna says smiling.

"Jeez, how much do you think he spent of these tickets?"

"Honestly? Probably a lot, but who knows?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Maybe he got them knowing you were coming."

Fuck. How do you expect to me to act after knowing this information?

We walk around the staff and stand just right to the main stage. The butterflies in my stomach right now is nothing compared to what it would've been watching them from the front. This was their 4th fanmeet and I couldn't have been more happier for them. They have achieved so much in the past 6 years.

"Okay, wow. This is awesome," Luna says, her eyes shining with excitement.

"Are you sure I'm wearing the right clothes?"

"Yes, now stop fussing over it!"

She made me wear a black corset with black skirt, boots and a leather jacket. My hair was down in loose curls. Okay, maybe she does have some taste.

"Hey, you made it."

I turn around and I'm again blown away by he man in front of me. He was wearing a blue coat and pants with white shirt underneath, topped with black boots. And his hair was styled in a wavy look. And damn, he looked good. "I hope no one gave you trouble coming inside?"

"Uh, no. Everything went smoothly," I replied. I felt a poke on my arm. "Ah, right. This is my best friend, Luna."

"Oh, hi Luna. Nice to meet you."

"Yeah," she waves nervously at him. I roll my eyes. Why did I even bring her with me?

Then more guys appear behind him. Oh my god. It's them. Leeknow, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, and I.N. The whole gang is here. Holy cannolli. This isn't real life.

"Alright, we gotta go. It's time for us to go on the stage," Chan states. For a second, I felt his eyes trail over me, my attire but he turned around and walked away with the group. I blinked, asking myself what happened.

But he turned around and walked straight to me. He takes my hand and says, "I'll see you later?"

I nod.

He smiles, his dimples on display. He leans in, placing a chaste kiss on my cheek. "See you later, babygirl," he says, winking at me before sprinting back.

"Did he just....kiss you on the cheek? Wait. Am I dreaming?" Luna pinches her arm and hisses in pain. "Definitely not dreaming. Holy shit."

Holy shit was right.

Because their fanmeet was a success. They played small games, did dance challenges, did a lot of performances and by the end of it all, they were still happy and energetic. I don't think I've ever seen them be this happy before.

And their performances? Just wow. And with Chan in a sleeveless top? Those arms made me weak in the knees. "Stop drooling."

I sigh, feeling those butterflies again. "Luna, I'm not drooling."

"Is it me or is he only looking at you?"

"Who?" I asked as I follow the direction she pointed at. He's smiling, but his eyes show something else, something desperate as he looks at me. He disappears in the back rooms, probably to change and freshen up.

"Okay. You have my permission," Luna nods.

"Permission?" I blinked at her.

"To get thoroughly fucked by h-oompf."

I cover her mouth with my hand. "Are you insane?!"

She pries my hand off. "Do you not want to? You do know who he is, even as the biker tiktok dude."

"I knew I shouldn't have told you that."

"Hey, I would've found out either way. But the question still remains."

"Which is?"

"Do you like him? Enough to take you, sweep you off your feet?"

"I mean yeah, but-"

"Oh. Here he comes."

He walks over, wearing all black. Very similar clothing to mine. "Ready?"

"Uh, are we leaving?"

"Yes. You and me. I wanna take you for a ride."

I look at Luna then back at him. I feel her hand on my back, giving me a little push. He grabs my hand, intertwining it with his own as we walk away, sprint more like, away from the book. "Wait. What about the res-" He stops, turns around and cups my face, he takes advantage of my surprised expression and swoops in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he smiles down at me before grabbing my hand again and walking outside.

What just happened?

---------------------------------------------------------

*CHAN'S POV*

The roar of the engine filled the night air as I zoomed down the empty road, the darkness engulfing me like a comforting shroud. The pair of gloves hands around my waist felt more comfortable than riding my bike alone. Her hands were small but god, did they feel good against me.

My headlights cut through the blackness ahead, illuminating the twisting road as it disappeared into the distance. The cool night air whipped against my helmet, the only sound besides the thundering of the engine. I was going to the place I had found a few weeks ago, where I could be this tiktok personality I made for myself.

I felt her arms tightened around me. Maybe she wasn't used to bike rides? Flashes of streetlights and neon signs painted the surroundings in streaks of light, blurring past in a colorful whirlwind. The occasional silhouette of a building or tree flashed by, casting eerie shadows in my path.

As I leaned into the curves, the sensation of speed combined with the solitude of the empty road created a thrilling sense of freedom. But with her behind me, it was more than freedom. I had been waiting for this day. I wanted to see her again because when I dropped her off at her place the other day, all I wanted to do was rip off that dress she wore.

It was then I knew that I was fucked. 100% fully fucked.

The city lights glimmered in the distance, a distant beacon guiding us on our journey through the night. In that moment, it was just me, my bike, Y/N and the open road stretching out before us—an endless expanse of possibility and adventure.

As I take a turn, I felt her hands wandering. Any lower, it would be dangerous territory. I grab her hand and squeeze. A warning. But as I speed off into the highway, her hands slide down low. Lower. Until they've reached their destination.

The little minx.

Through my tight jeans, she uses her hands to grab my clothed dick and gives it a rub. Fuck. My hand tightens as I try to maintain my hormones at bay level till we were at the destination.

5 minutes.

She gives it another rub and I almost crash. This is going to be harder than I thought.

4 minutes.

I swerve into the left lane, as the traffic was faster and I wanted nothing more to reach the location faster than I had originally planned.

3 minutes.

I groan as her hands slide up and down a bit quicker. I grip her hand, stopping it.

2 minutes.

Reaching around my back, I find her ass cheek and gives it squeeze. Hard. I feel her jerk towards my back.

1 minute.

Taking a left turn, I see the familiar abandoned cliff as her hand reaches down again. I curse as I increase the speed of my bike. I need to get there faster.

30 seconds.

Slowing down the bike, I, very gently, park the bike.

15 seconds.

Turning off the ignition, I wait till she's off the bike. Then I climb off, unbuckle the clasp of my helmet before taking it off as she also takes her helmet off.

5 seconds.

I stare at her till she's composed herself. Then I'm on her.

*Y/N POV*

I don't get time to breathe as he's on me within seconds, our helmets long forgotten on the ground. Lips and teeth clashing as his hands slide around my back, giving it a slight push towards him. I felt his hardness on my lower tummy. "Wait," I lightly push him away. "I need to breathe."

His delicious mouth travels down to my jaw and neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. "Mmm, Channie," I moan as he sucks and bites a spot on my neck.

"You little minx," he breathes against my mouth. His hands travels to my hair and grabs a bunch before yanking on it lightly making my head tilt up a bit. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"I may know on some leve-, ah," I let out a yelp when he yanks on my hair.

"Brat." He growls, attacking my neck with wet kisses and biting the delicate skin. "I had to tell the boys I was going for my nightly rides," he gives a long sniff before coming up. "But they don't know I was going with you."

Fuck.

I'm then hoisted up on the bike as he settles himself between my legs and kisses me again. His kisses are desperate and dominating. I reach for his jeans when his hands grab my arm. "Nuh uh, baby." He makes me stand and spins me around. "I need to be inside you."

"But, ah!" I moan as his palm makes contact with my right ass cheek as he bends me over.

He wastes no time and removes my black panties from under my skirt. "Damn. You're perfect." I hear something ripping which I think was a condom wrapper.

And then, in one swift motion, he snaps his hips into me. My eyes roll back in my head as I groan at his girth, feeling the stretch. "Fuck," I groan. I've imagined this moment in my delusional mind but this was beyond my dreams. "How are you this big?"

"Fuck, you're so tight," he moans as he pulls out completely before snapping his hips against me. "This cunt was made for me, fuck you feel so good."

"Chan."

He gradually picks up speed as his hand travel around my waist towards my throbbing clit. The only sound you could hear was our heavy breathing, into the darkness surrounding us. I felt the tight knot in my lower belly ready to burst. "Chan, please."

"Fuck, yes!" He grunts, now slamming into me. "You're close, aren't you? You gonna cum? You gonna cum for me?"

I nod my head. "Yes!"

His fingers rubs my clit and I see stars in front of my eyes as my climax hits me the hardest, my legs shaking but he doesn't stop. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, you're gonna make me cum. I'm gonna cum." His hips ram into me a few more times before he stills, spilling his seed into the rubber.

We stay like that for a few minutes, catching our breaths. He finally pulls out and I groan at the odd feeling. I try to move but my legs refused to budge. "Uhm."

I hear him zipping up his jeans. "You okay?"

"I can't move."

"What?"

"My legs."

He softly chuckles as he walks over and grabs both my arms, lifting me up. I shriek. "Put me down!"

"Hold still!"

He turns me around and puts me on the bike with my legs hanging over. Placing his hands on the lower part of my legs, he gently starts massging them. "Good?"

"Hmm," I savour the feeling coming back to my legs. "You should've started with this first."

"Oh, really?"

The nerve of this guy, showing me his dimples. "I'm a sucker for massages."

"Noted," he says as he comes up, face to face. "Say, what are you doing next weekend?"

"Why, you wanna take me a on a date?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Well, considering how this date went, I might agree to it."

"Brat," he pecks my lips before he picks up the helmets and hands me mine. "You're more than welcome to feel me up again once we're on the road."

My cheeks heat, my blush making its permanent stay on my entire face. "Wha....I wasn't feeling you up!"

"Uh huh," he says wearing his helmet and grins turning his head towards me. "And I didn't give you the best sex of your life just now."

I narrow my eyes at him as I hop off to let him sit first. As he turns on the ignition, I climb on behind him. He grabs my hands and places them around his waist. And the we were off, into the same darkness that surrounded us mere minutes ago.

Who knew I would be startstruck by the guy I watched on my laptop and phone was interested in me? And the biker dude? Oh man. If only the world knew what we just did.....

A/N: wtf did I just write 💀

[sasukeless]

lmaoo speaking of dudebros did you see that tweet from the other day with goku and vegeta and naruto and sasuke that said "which duo is more gay" and it had dudebros genuinely debating it. like blue checkmarks and everything. the arguments were kind of shallow but it was funny as fuck

my personal favorites

[pollymorgan]

Coach Negan Part 2

Warnings: Negan beeing Negan, hot table sex

Okay, I did it again! Have fun with the second part! 🤭

When I wake up, I briefly think I had a pretty intense dream. But when I see the phone lying next to me on the pillow, I realize that unfortunately, it was real.

Oh man, I've started some pretty weird actions lately. Somehow, my life seems to have gone a little off track. But phone sex with my daughter's hated gym teacher pretty much tops it all.

At least I didn't oversleep, not even once this week! Who knows, maybe I'll still be "Mother of the Year."

Feeling a bit off-kilter, I shuffle to the bathroom to freshen up.

With the toothbrush in hand, I let my thoughts wander. Okay, the whole phone call was a bit sexy. Well, actually, pretty hot. My cheeks start to flush as I think about Negan's voice and how dominant he was.

Damn, the whole thing was more erotic than anything I've experienced in the last 5 years. At least! Although that's not saying much....

Suddenly Negan's last words come to mind.

"Okay, I'll expect you tomorrow at 3:30 pm for a parent-teacher meeting at the school, and without panties.. Good night!"

Fuck! My ex-husband is picking up the kids today. At least, that's the last I heard. From experience, I can say that can change at any time. Anyway, I absolutely must not run into Negan at this time, preferably never again. But that will probably be a bit difficult...

The morning goes by thankfully without any major catastrophes. A few arguments, two forgotten homework assignments, and spilled milk later, I've dropped off my three kids at kindergarten and school on time.

Feeling somewhat relieved, I return home. There's chaos in every room, but it's quiet in the house. After calmly drinking a coffee, I decide it's really time to start filling my social media channel with content again. After all, it's become my job, albeit somewhat involuntarily. I'll make a post about a nutritious, quick meal for stressed out mothers. At least I don't have to go shopping again. I have all the necessary ingredients in the fridge, and it's not too time-consuming.

Just as I'm preparing everything, my phone vibrates. Assuming it's a message from my ex, canceling the meeting with his kids for some flimsy reason, I open the message annoyed.

"Be on time today, otherwise it's detention! 😉 Negan."

Oh God, I had hoped this whole thing would just fizzle out. Feeling a bit nervous, I set the phone aside and try to focus on what I actually had planned. But that's not so easy! I keep staring at my phone, afraid of receiving the next text or out of desire? I can't even define it myself.

Screw it! I was married for 19 years and I've based my whole life on this man. Taken care of the kids and the household and always put myself last. Only to be left. So, what's wrong with having a bit of fun?

I quickly grab my phone and reply.

"Just detention? 😯 I expected a more creative punishment! 🙈"

I hesitate for a moment, but then I send the text. My heart pounds wildly in my chest as I see the two checkmarks next to the message. It only takes a few seconds before I receive a reply.

"You naughty girl, don't challenge me ...".

I can't help but grin.

Quickly I type, "As they say, 'Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go on the teacher's desk' or something like that ...😉"

"I can't wait ... Room 319, in the big gymnasium," I receive as a reply.

I look at the clock. It's just after 12 pm. I quickly finish my Instagram post to have enough time to get ready.

After a thorough shower, I stand somewhat desperate in front of my closet. I absolutely must not show up too sexy at Peggy's school. But my obligatory gray jeans and a plain t-shirt that has been my wardrobe staple lately won't do either.

I'm as excited as before a first date, and in a very strange way, that's what it is.

In the depths of my closet, I find a royal blue knee-length pencil skirt and a matching white blouse with large dots in the same color, with the price tag still attached. I put it on and critically examine myself in the mirror. I've always been slim, but the impending divorce has cost me at least another five kilos.

I loosely tie up my hair and apply light makeup. Then I put on my favorite scent, a mix of vanilla and cherry that I've worn far too rarely lately, afraid the bottle might run out.

Now there's no time for doubts. Determined, I go to the car, start the engine, take a quick look in the rearview mirror to remove mascara smudges under my eyes, and head towards the school.

There are only a few students left on the grounds. Most have already finished, just like my daughter. Thankfully! He actually managed to pick her up. Miracles do happen after all!

I have the terrible feeling that everyone is watching me and knows exactly what I'm up to, although that's obviously nonsense.

Feeling a bit nervous and with a pretty strong flutter in my stomach, I go to the big gymnasium. Disoriented, I roam the narrow corridors and then stop in front of room 319. Okay, so I'm really going to go through with this.

The door isn't closed, just ajar. I take a deep breath and then push it open further. Negan is sitting at the desk, focused, with some papers in hand, and suddenly startles. As he catches sight of me, he begins to grin, his perfect teeth shining through.

Oh man, has he always looked so damn good? He's wearing a khaki jacket over his jeans shirt and glasses with a dark rim. Determinedly, he stands up and walks directly towards me, while I remain rooted to the spot, staring at him.

He stops right in front of me and leans against the door frame with one arm. I have to look up at him because he easily towers over me. The woody, masculine scent of his cologne envelops me and literally clouds my senses.

"Never heard of knocking?" he smiles at me and then lightly licks his lower lip with his tongue.

Finally, I find my words again. "Well, I seem to be a really naughty girl, but at least I'm on time...".

Dramatically, he looks at his golden wristwatch. "Right on time..." he states curtly and gestures for me to come in, before immediately locking the door. At the sound of the lock, my heart gives another heavy thump.

So, I'm really here now.

I quickly glance around the room, feeling his eyes on me the whole time.

"Sit down!" he commands and goes back to his desk. Just as I'm about to take a seat on one of the two chairs in front of it, he protests.

"No, here..." He taps the table clearly and sits on his chair, never taking his eyes off me. After a brief hesitation, I sit down, as ordered, directly opposite him on the table, crossing my legs. As confidently as possible, I look down at him. When our eyes meet, small electric shocks run through my entire body, seemingly converging in my lower abdomen. His gaze continues to roam over my body, to my legs and back up. We remain silent for a moment, but then he breaks the silence with the sentence, "And did you remember not to wear any panties?".

My cheeks blush even more intensely, I have to swallow hard before I can respond. "Yes."

"Okay, then show me..."

Slightly confused, I try to think. This man hasn't even touched me, let alone kissed me yet, and I'm supposed to present my most intimate parts on a desk to him?

"Come on, don't be shy..." he adds demandingly, noticing my hesitation.

As if on command, I jump off the table in one go, pulling up my tight skirt until it barely covers my butt. I then brace myself on the desk with both hands, ready to jump up and slightly spread my legs in front of him. Negan leans further forward and stares unabashedly at me. He grasps my knees to open my legs a little more.

It's the first time I feel his warm hands on my bare skin.

"And shaved just for me, that wasn't necessary..." he states, satisfied and self-assured.

His hands slowly continue to my thighs, then he lightly rests on them and positions himself directly between my legs. His face is only a few centimeters away from mine, and I feel his breath just as heavy as mine. I examine every pore and every small scar thoroughly until my gaze falls on his lips. Without thinking further, my arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to me.

Finally, our lips meet. The kiss is immediately wild and without any restraint. Full of desire, our lips press against each other, and our tongues immediately explore each other.

All I can think about is how good all of this - how good he - feels.

Negan firmly grips my butt with both hands and dominantly pushes my pelvis closer to him. The fabric of his jeans presses against my bare skin. I feel how hard and big he already is. I can clearly feel him, right at the spot that yearns for him the most. I softly moan into the kiss.

"Damn, that's the sound I wanted to hear! I haven't been able to think of anything else since last night..." he exclaims excitedly.

Then he swiftly takes off his jacket and starts to slowly unbutton my blouse. My black lace bra is revealed. Before he kisses me again, he looks down at me.

"Fuck, look at you...you're so incredibly beautiful," he says softly.

My hands move confidently to his pants, feeling for his belt.

"Not so fast...first, I want to taste you...every damn inch of your perfect body!"

He grins at me, and I immediately do nothing but eagerly wait to see what he has in store next.

Negan slowly takes off my unbuttoned blouse and skillfully unclasps my bra. He immediately grasps my breasts firmly with his large, warm hands and plants delicate kisses on my sternum. His beard scratches against my delicate skin, giving me goosebumps. His mouth moves to my right breast, and I let my head fall back. I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of his tongue on my sensitive nipple. His hand firmly grips my left shoulder and pushes me down. Now I'm completely lying on the desk, while his kisses travel deeper and deeper.

Without hesitation, he grabs my knees and presses my legs firmly against my body. Then I feel his warm breath on my wet vulva. Automatically, I press my pelvis further towards him, and he starts kissing along my inner thighs, while I eagerly await feeling his lips on my pulsating clitoris finally.

My whole body is tense as he continues to tease me, his mouth gently returning to my thigh.

Impatiently, I slide back and forth on the desk.

He releases his firm grip from my knees and gives me a light slap on the butt.

"Damn, it's sexy how turned on you are... I could continue like this all day..." he remarks with a grin, unbuttoning his jeans shirt as his dark chest hair is revealed. I prop myself up on my forearms, looking at him expectantly.

"Okay, okay... Who can resist such a look and such a sweet pussy..." he says, leaning back between my legs to finally touch me where I need it the most.

Skillfully, his tongue wanders to my most sensitive spots, applying just the right pressure and perfect tempo.

I moan in relief and lean back again. He softly sucks on my swollen clit, and my legs start to tremble. I grab his hair and hold onto it tightly because I feel like I need that support. The orgasm hits me unexpectedly. I never thought I could reach the peak so quickly.

Negan grabs my wrists and swiftly pulls my upper body back up. Breathing heavily and utterly exhausted, I look at him, and he smiles contentedly, his lips moistened with my wetness.

"Wow, okay..." he says.

"Wow, okay..." I reply and pull him closer to kiss him.

"Now I want to fuck that perfect pussy..." he whispers in a deep voice into my ear, opening his pants with one hand. Then he briefly separates from me to open the drawer of his desk and retrieve a condom.

I watch him, and suddenly I seem to be able to think clearly again. At least, I can imagine how many times he has done this before. How many lonely, abandoned mothers he has already screwed on this desk, that he even keeps condoms in his drawer.

Without saying anything, he seems to notice my gaze very precisely and knows how to interpret it.

He grabs my chin between his index finger and thumb and turns my head decisively towards him.

"Hey, don't even think about it, okay? ...I only placed it there today, in the slight hope that you would seriously consider my nice offer..."

He lets me go to put on the condom without breaking eye contact.

My eyes wander between his dark ones, and I get lost in them.

I nod hesitantly and flinch slightly as I feel his tip pressing against my entrance.

Negan runs his thumb over my mouth. My lips feel dry and sensitive.

"Don't close your eyes now, look at me as I enter you..." he says unequivocally.

I already feel him slowly pushing deeper and deeper into me. When he is all the way in, he places his burning hot forehead against mine. His mouth is slightly open, and his breath is heavy. I enclose his lower lip with my lips. It is an incredibly intense feeling to be so full. I feel my lower abdomen contract repeatedly as he slowly starts moving inside me. It doesn't take long for his thrusts to become faster and harder. I realize he is close to coming.

"Sit on the chair, I want to be on top of you!" I say, trying to gain some control and at least once have the upper hand.

"Okay, whatever you want... really anything!" he says, breathing heavily, and sits back on the chair behind him.

He looks incredibly sexy. With those piercing eyes, his slightly swollen lips from the intense kisses, the unbuttoned shirt revealing his slim hairy chest, and his large hard penis that I immediately want inside me again.

I jump off the table and climb onto his lap. With my right hand, I grasp his pulsating cock and let him glide into me. Negan holds onto my hips, and I place my hands on his shoulders to support myself. Slowly, I begin to move, and he penetrates deeper into me.

"Damn, you're finding spots in me that I didn't even know..." I smile and then bite my lower lip in concentration. I mean it literally. I have never felt anything like this before. My movements become faster, and I feel the tension running through Negan's body.

"Let's come together..." I whisper softly to him.

"Okay, baby..." he says decisively, and his hand moves purposefully between my legs. Quickly and with quite a bit of pressure, he circles my hypersensitive clit with his thumb.

I feel like I can hardly breathe from excitement. My lower abdomen almost cramps painfully.

I manage to groan "Now..." just before another intense orgasm floods my body. But not only me, I also feel how Negan is coming intensely. Exhausted, I collapse on his lap. His arms embrace me and press me firmly against his bare chest. For a moment, all you can hear is our exhausted breathing, then he whispers softly while still deeply inside me.

"That was insane. When can we do this again?"

I grin at him contentedly. "I have the whole weekend free from the kids... so I'd be happy to do it again tomorrow..."

Then I kiss a bead of sweat off his forehead.

He pouts, "Why wait until tomorrow? ...How about tonight and then the whole night... Believe me, I want to explore a few other spots in you..."

[thirdworldgf]

I didnt know u could buy the blue checkmark thingy on Instagram now like twitter lol everything is becoming so gay

[hcgossips]

PR Stunt or A Real Relationship?

Is it possible Cavill and Viscuso had met somewhere in time, started dating, after sometime, decided to have a baby and form a dog family without getting married and came up with the brilliant idea of going on a PR to promote their unusual relationship and her fake profile without his manager participation and with the help of her friends? Yes! Everything is possible in Hollywood.

But there are so many holes in that “love story” that this is unlikely. Being real or not, it was clearly introduced as a PR. And, this PR stunt insults my intelligence. They made sure to have whatever that is,  public for over four years, for a buzz, while this woman was unprofessionally, unethically and insistently promoted. Their public appeances and posts had the intention to tease, mock and gaslight his followers. They even used a dying dog trying to humanize her image, to promote this circus, for Christ sake!

A real thing doesn’t need unethical nor immoral plots to be proven. It simply exists for itself. But, unfortunately, Viscuso is not the sympathetic type, she doesn’t have a pleasant face and it seemed a certain celeb got pissed, because he exposed his “whatever” to public execration, was discredited for his public plots, couldn’t be able to prove the plots he staged were real and, instead of having a mature response to the negative publicity he generated, he decided for a childish reaction.

His management in this plot was 100% narcissistic, unethical and immoral and he followed the lead. “You are the reflection of the people you surround yourself with”, he once said. Well, apparently, he has been choosing the wrong people to be surrounded with and has been terribly advised professionally. Privately, he could be even having orgy parties with his “whatever”. That would be no one’s business. But, he made this plot with Viscuso everyobody’s business when decided to promote it publicly.

He screamed: “Hey! Look at us and give us your attention”. Now, he (?) is pissed,  because he’s got what he wanted and asked for? What a contradiction. I don’t see Viscuso very pleased with this, either. She was even fond of bullying and gaslighting his followers in the beginning. But I don’t see her very thrilled with the bad publicity she’s having, despite contributing 100% to it, expecting she would make public opinion shut the f**k up. Lousy PR!

The blue checkmark and the supposed famous followers she’s recently got on her, now, fake IG, hasn’t been enough. She wasn’t praised by public media as she expected and somebody got terribly offended and maliciously responded to that (her dad?). She also gained puffy eyes and eye bags, disguised with a lot of make up and filters. She hasn’t been pleased. She only disguises it better than Cavill.

This malicious, unethical and immoral damage control was overwhelming and a giant red flag, giving an impression the person behind it was very offended by the results of this deal, that she/he is somehow influent and has access ($) to the paid media. But, that person, whoever that is, seems unprofessionally unethical, very, VERY close to and maybe, emotionally involved with Viscuso. The person is even much more stubborn than Cavill and acted as if it was a matter of honour to prove her fake profile was real. Viscuso gained nothing with all that exposure.

That’s why I thought it could be her dad (or some lover or husband). With that emotional commitment, more likely, her dad. This person did all the efforts possible to insist in pushing this fake narrative, giving a f**k to Cavill’s integrity, while she was exposed to public execration. Was it someone pissed with both, for staging this without professional supervision? This person was blind of rage and couldn’t accept failure and criticism over her/his lousy job. And, Cavill’s team seems to be trying to ease the beast, expecting it would be pleased with staged appearances, pics with dogs and her blue checkmark IG with a list of famous followers.

Well, that doesn’t delete the bl*w j*b, now viral, photo nor Viscuso’s promiscuous past, does it? That doesn’t end all the gossip on social media exposing Viscuso, does it? That doesn’t put an end to the new perception people have of Cavill, jeopardizing his professional image, does it? Viscuso’s promiscuous reputation was established and became stronger than the fake profile they tried to create for her, thanks to her own attitude by making sure she would be execrated. She chose to reinforce the bad publicity, just like Cavill did. But, both gained nothing. Despite the fake IG, what else did she gain, playing the shade of an escorting celeb and a fake exec. producer? Nothing much. What did he gain, rather than being seen as a hypocrite and losing the admiration and respect of his fans? Nothing.

I’m really curious to know who’s the unethical narc behind this PR management and their interest in promoting a promiscuous unknown up to the point they have to destroy someone else's rep. Was it really a husband, her father behind this or Dany Garcia, pissed for being left behind of the plot when they both decided to promote it without management?  It is an awkward PR damage control, unethical and immoral, even for Cavill’s team. It doesn’t fit Cavill’s persona.  But,... What do we know?

[ganondoodle]

some ramblings about the overworld and reusing of the map in totk

i was one of the people that didnt mind revisiting the same map bc i loved the world and would gladly rexplore it all again, i was confident theyd change it up so it felt fresh again .. but it really wasnt, but even if it wasnt i was fine with it bc i was sure theyd HAD to use the build up from botw, with the shiekah and yiga alone theres so much you could do, and a captivating story or characters are more important than any map change to me-

and then, most changes on the surface were artificially stuck onto the world, like some small boulders the size of a large boulder stuck onto a wall, weirdly fusing with it (but thats not relevant and doesnt have a reason either) which really doesnt change anything much, some caves and holes in the ground but nothing really substantial at all, the most changed was death mountain and the gerudo city (while the regions themselves didnt really change either .. no in any interesting way at least to the extend i saw in my what 200+ hours)

im no game dev expert but do know a little and changing up a model and breaking stuff off really isnt THAT much to do so i really dont understand why they dotted the world with useless rocks and little caves that are all extremely similar instead, but then change stuff that is WEIRD to change and would have been easier to leave as it was- like the shrine of life being scraped of the walls, or smoothing over the places were shiekah towers were in botw like they never existed in the first place, and then sometimes adding something for no reason (like apparetly theres a new useless tiny ruin on the akkala fortress??? why?? how?? and i heard someone say they changed how the big hole in one of the peaks of the big mountains looked, like the icy blue texture was removed?? i dont know if i went there in my playthrough but i dont doubt it lol) and instead of the holes of the big shiekah tech pillars being left its just .. filled up with dirt, just like the bit of the calamity ganon arena being jsut rock now and the pit being fileld with just dirt as well-

and theres MORE changes that are arguably MORE time consuming to do but are both unnecessary to do and also WEIRD, erase everything shiekah and say it all vanished into thin air while theres clearly guardian parts in the new, shittier, towers and one decayed left at the hateno institue, the ancient furnace isnt just GONE its filled with rocks that had no way to get there naturally

but then the rest of the world is pretty much the same, with very little changes and if its plopped onto it without actualyl meaning anything, even inconvenience you too, like the path to hateno being blocked by a fortress of monsters so you cant get there via horse, and even if you clear them out, with or without the quest, they just come back with the bloodmoon, i thoguht if i do it with the quest theyd be gone for good and clear the path again, but NO you participating in the fight means nothing but another checkmark bc they will redo it over and over and it will be blocked again anyway (but then the "pirates" which are also a monster fortress .... dont come back ... waht) or the blockage of the bridge at the twin mountains too, you cant actually change anything, the one in the gerudo valley is also just another weird blockage, do you want to force me to build stuff? no thanks ill just walk then and be annoyed about it bc thats way easier

(sidenote, satori being reduced to someone pointing at caves that doesnt even tell you if you did them already or not is so disrespectful, i loved satori bc it wasnt some player helper but a strange and beautiful being, it jsut lived there and you had to be careful to even catch a glimps of it, the atmosphere around it being creepy and otherworldly you dont know what its really capable of, like you are staring at a godly being you cannot talk to but it accepts you when you are there and leaves as soon as you let go of it.... and nows its just a cave pointer...)

so, especially if you played botw, it all very much feels like a retread but with little sprinkles and weird changes (or outright annoying ones like the shrine of life being licked of the walls) here and there and othertimes just plain annoying inconveniences, and then the main points of your quest are .... in the same spot as in botw as well, its at rito village, death mountain, gerudo town, zoras village ... its repetition is entirely unnecessary, you had interesting locations all over the map, put a temple into or under akkala fortress my god that things i BUILD for that, anything in akkala really, put another one high into the mountains, in or UNDER hateno?? the krog forest or the deku tree being one?? kakariko??? no ?? it jsut had to affect each species exactly where they are .. again, and even the temples are there so its not even a thing made there affects the town nearest but still far away enough to be different or the terrain literally leveled the ground and they are gonna have to look to settle elsewhere (the closest is gerudo town but like ... is it), its not just repetetive but also makes the regions feel WAY more disconnected and self contained, none of them care about each other or do anything but defend against the thing that conveniently affects them directly at the same place again and the activities are largely the same too, find shrine find krog

ok then we got the sky, .. which is largely empty with just some repeating minibosses or some get crystal to there thing, its empty and barren of life, not a single NPC ever goes up into the sky aside from two dungeons companions, despite them already using the sonau tech ballooons and what not and having literal bird people there AND being literally obsessed with anything sonau, rarely theres a construct there, a robot with little to tell and not really doing anything, the ruins dont tell a story either, its just .. there

then theres the underground and omg its just as big as the overworld map! and then the .. terrain and look of it is almost always the same (only in the gerudo region is it a little more sandy) with the same kind of sonau thingies being the same everywhere that dont even LOOK ancient, it bothers me so much, are you telling me this building has been here for well over 10 THOUSAND YEARS?? and then the lightroots ... are in the same spot as the shrines .. so its not even a discovery really bc you know where shrine or root is now .. and then every more important place is literally beneath surface important places (even under taburasa .. the town you newly built in botw) which again .. isnt really a discovery then, and then the map itself is just the surface map but inverted, which to some may be a neat thing but, to me ... so its the surface AGAIN but more boring bc it doesnt have any regional differences too and then they have the gall to put the old amiibo stuff there (the labyrinths??? you go throguh all that and its just the renamed same armor from botws DLC??? how dare you), or some crystal things for your battery that are just another currency that has to be exchanged twice to specific people to be most useful- and the big weird magician statues ?? man idk if i should help this one, the giant mech like statue is giving me the creeps, and how the hell is it talking through the statues of thE GODDESS??? HUH´? and then it turns out its just a guys that sells you largely useless stuff for yet another currency you can only use at few specific spots

even the enemies are the same aside from mini- and gigamas, it even repeats the enemies from the surface

the best part of the underground/surface are the yiga, and even they are made kinda boring, in the underground its little outposts that give you some crystal currency and blueprints for autobuild i bet you arent ever gonna use, the most valuable thing is their little diaries and on the bigger spots koga (he is surperior to every single other character, sorry gan) but even kogas questline is like .. removed from everything else, its its own contained thing ocne again ... the arenas that are kinda fun to do but ultimately

you have a barely changed map from botw, a largely empty sky with some rather boring shrines or minibosses that get used over and over and no story to tell really, and then the entire map of the surface again with important points and shrine points being repeated as well

and then you get option over option to skip any traversal of all that too, with ultrahand and the towers and the ceiling jump and fast travel its a repetetive map twice and one largely empty with out skipping from point a to point b

i know how difficult game dev is, but in all those years with a giant team and money this is it? and not even the story has anything to go for? how do you take the addictive exploration of botw and turn it boring

anyway, yet another ramble taking me the entire evenign to write, again, this is not meant as blind hatred but an expression of my feelings and thoughts about it and for this one why it felt so weird and boring to explore ... the thing i like so much about botw ..