#carrots? fucking hell.

[seawitchkaraoke]

I agree with this post so much, ugh I hate vegan food that pretends to be meat and not bc the food itself is bad but like. "Vegan sausage" gives me absolutely zero information about what the food actually is. I wish the focus was on what's actually in the food rather than what meat it supposedly tastes like. Bc I like beans. I don't like soy very much. If they just put soy in the product name instead of making me read the ingredients list of every single vegan product I'd probably buy more vegan sausages.

I'm also reminded of the time I at like a youth camp thing and bc all the food was vegan when we had hot dogs the sausages were vegan.... Meaning they were carrots. They gave us carrots and called them vegan sausages. And like. Carrots are fun and good and I like them but unlike actual sausages they don't have a lot of protein. And neither did any of the other food on the table. And we'd gone climbing that day and I'm already generally a person who needs a lot of protein. So I ate a lot of carrots and was still hungry in the end

Just. Tell me what the food actually is. I like veggies. I like beans and peas and all that. I'm never going to go vegan but I could eat less meat sure! But I don't like eating food if I have no idea at all what's in it so maybe if you're bringing vegan burgers just call them chickpea burgers or whatever the main ingredient is.

As an omnivore who likes vegan and vegetarian cooking I think the mistake a lot of people make when trying to convince meat eaters to go plant based is trying to convince them that something you’ve got will replace meat for them.

I like vegan nuggets and real chicken nuggets for different reasons. They taste different. They only taste identical to you because you haven’t eaten meat for five years.

When cooking for myself I only eat meat maybe like three times a week because vegetarian cooking is often cheaper and it tastes good.

Like just give people the actual recipes you use that aren’t pasta. Every time you ask what to eat on a meatless day people are like. Pasta. I don’t want pasta every day.

Point out the foods people already eat that are vegetarian. Like sweet potato fries, veggie chow mein, grilled mushrooms, mashed potatoes, black bean enchiladas, peanut butter sandwiches. Tell people what you microwave when you’re drunk at 3am. Show people that vegetables are so good they’ll want them in their diet.

Also some people are just never gonna go vegan. They’re just not. I’m certainly not, and I love vegan food. But since I’ve fallen in love with vegetarian cooking I eat meat much less and I’m much more careful about picking the meat I do eat. Doesn’t that align with a lot of your goals?

Impossible burger doesn’t taste like meat. But you know what tastes really good? A mushroom fajita taco. Falafel. Potato pancakes with applesauce. Smoky vegan collared greens. Hot potato salad with herbs. Palak paneer with rice. Tofu Pad Thai with extra peanuts. Some of my favorite foods of all time, and I’m a dirty rotten meat eater. Use THAT to get your foot in the door. And be more accepting of some half-assed victories. I’m on your side for the most part, believe it or not. But stop trying to claim certain things are just like meat. You and I both know you don’t plan most of your weeknight dinners around meat substitutes.

[shima-draws]

I finally got to the Sulong episode CARROT LOOKS SO GOOD LET’S GOOOOOOO

Also I love that the FIRST thing Nami says is “So beautiful 🥺” *points* LESBIAN

[pangyham]

been thinking about the liyue gang and how id draw their physical builds so here are some thoughts i had for xy cy and gm in particular

- xingqiu, unsurprisingly, would be quite lanky. i like to think he has broad-ish shoulders, like a thin athlete's build? hes a long boy to me haha, long face, neck, limbs, fingers etc, so naturally hes stands (comparatively) tall at 5'6" or 5'7"

i like to think hes most physically attractive one and has that handsome princely and boyish charm to him because it adds a lot to his fuckass duality LOL

- chongyun is a lot like xiao imo! short stature but with muscular arms. he seems nimble and flexible because of his normal attack animations (which bears a lot of similarities to xiao's actually! this + the fact that chongyun's normal attacks create gusts of wind further reinforces my hc that xiao trains him). sometimes i watch high energy choreography vids on youtube and some dancers look incredibly light on their feet, almost like their body is inherently bouncy? and i imagine chongyun to have that agility to him. chongyun has a delicate face and aura and i let that bleed into my hcs for his fighting style and physical capabilities hahaha. hes kind of like a cat who's deceptively strong. as for height.. just a few inches taller than xiao, so perceptibly short at 5'4"

- ga ming my new beloved. pretty much similar to chongyun but more muscular and stronger just because he wields his claymore with ease. theres a noticeable weight different between cy and his claymore the way he lugs it up after he swings (or even other claymore users like razor who, on his last hit, bounces from impact). meanwhile ga ming literally slams his to the ground LOL. i love his movements though hes very swift and expressive and radiant.. if cy has delicate movements then ga ming's is fierce and (charmingly!) assertive

ga ming is wonderfully charismatic though, i know hes not well known in liyue harbor yet, but he seems like the type to gain a reputation from his friendliness. how could no one adore him hahaha. 5'5" for height! just between xy and xq

[softest-butch]

i started reading the vampire armand. btw

[hauntingblue]

Inept 8 year old boy dragon tries to save floating island is such a concept

[bonestrouslingbones]

suddenly realizing that if i do end up actually following through on majoring/minoring in computer science / graphic design respectively i can never ever tell anyone what got me into it. "oh i made an arg by frankensteining a bunch of custom blog themes together on tumblr dot com for an undertale au roleplay event and realized the html was more fun than the roleplay" just shoot me dead like genuinely

[konstantya]

Starting to think I might have accidentally become a baking wizard?

[horce-divorce]

I don't know how to explain to you chucklefucks that for the most disenfranchised among us, NOTHING HAS FUCKING CHANGED since Trump left office. We know how bad it was, we were fucking here. And we are TELLING YOU, not speculating about the future, we are TELLING 👏YOU 👏NOW that nothing fucking got better for us and some of us ALREADY have nothing left to lose THANKS TO BIDEN AS WELL. NOT JUST TRUMP. WE HAVE BEEN DOING THIS SHIT ALL ALONG. Not JUST once Trump got to office!!! And NO IT HAS NOT BEEN FUCKING EASIER. WTF. Incoming tranmission from Planet Neoliberal Voter Privilege.

You stupid pricks don't even seem to realize that Trump leaving office DIDNT MEAN HIS APPOINTEES ALL WENT WITH HIM. THEYVE STILL BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME. Alive and WELL AT WORK helping to push some of the worst antiqueer legislation we've seen in DECADES while Biden, who barely has 2 brain cells left to rub together, decomposes before our very eyes.

If you think TRUMP was the thing that brought neo-nazi fascism to the mainstream, you are so comfortably privileged to have gotten to ignore it, to have never fucking heard it until then. And you are way too out of touch to be addressing the people you think you're talking to rn!

The "sign off on your glorious revolution" bit really gets me. Lmao. What a fundamental misunderstanding of the issue. What a hilarious way to misconstrue entire swaths of political ideology. You think Policial Jesus is going to come and save your ass, so we must think that too, huh?

Shits gonna hit the fan this year regardless of who "wins" the election, and it's not merely because of The Orange Man. It's also because of everyday lay people like this OP who have merely been privileged enough to ignore the suffering of your neighbors until now. Your privilege is running out, not because the revolution is coming, but because the hegemony that affords you that privilege cannot continue indefinitely. That machine runs on a profit-growth-extraction paradigm and we are running out of resources to extract from.

I don't know how to explain to these fucking people that you are the tone deaf motherfuckers we're talking to when we say you need to stop talking and learn. You have reblogged support of BLM and UBI and Palestine but at the end of the day you *don't fucking listen* to what we're saying in those posts. At the end of the day you are not hearing our cries of pain. And its pretty fucking ridiculous to turn around and point at people EVEN LESS PRIVILEGED THAN YOU and say "don't you realize that YOU'RE going to threaten MY safety and stability with your uncouth actions?" Well, bully for fucking you, because we already lost that! It's been gone! It never came back for some of us after Trump left!!!! You got to plug your ears and pretend the pandemic was over while millions of us became disabled and homeless for the first time as a result!!! While BIDEN admitted HE DOESNT THINK ABOUT IT ANYMORE!!!!! You got to go back to your life while protestors railing against our tax dollars being used for GENOCIDE are being injected with KETAMINE by the COPS!!!! If you thought TRUMP was that fucking scary! At least he outright said what he was doing!! Biden is continuing his work with ICE, continuing to increase surveillance and crack down on any kind of protestor, cop cities are expanding UNDER BIDEN, DEMOCRATS ARE ALSO VOTING FOR MASK BANS!!!!!!!

It is SOOOOO BLATSNTLY SELF CENTERED to think that you losing the privilege of a comfy life is the biggest threat to ""our democracy"" rn. YOU got to ignore how bad shit was until now. Some of us NEVER HAD THAT LUXURY. Our democracy fucking died decades ago and YOU got to keep playing Weekend at Bernies with it's corpse while the rest of us dug our own graves. And now you're scared because you stand to end up like us.

Lol. Lmao. Get fucked. This type of attitude is only furthering the class/social divides that already exist between voters and WILL. NOT. get anyone to vote harder for Biden. In fact, it just makes me wanna fist fight a Democrat even more than I already did.

First they came for the indigenous, and you didn't say anything bc you got yours. They came for the immigrants, and you didn't say anything bc you've always been a citizen. They came for the prisoners and their voting rights and you said if they didn't want to lose their rights they should follow the law, even while they made it illegal to mask, to protest, to be gay and trans in public- its so easy to just follow the rules! They came for the trans kids and you said, but we already have gay marriage, I thought it was safe to be queer now, and I dont have trans kids so I don't see how this affects me... they came for palestine and you said Oof. Well. That's the price of freedom for me, I guess!

And now they're coming for you and none of the other targets are left to feel worried for you, because we have already been living through your worst nightmare, UNDER BIDEN.

You look fucking stupid.

if you could EVER find a dem as outspoken and angry for the people as trump is for the white 1% then maybe we wouldnt be having this discussion.

[51nn0n]

I’m very curious about somethin

[technicallyaminecraftsimp]

Thought I’d try and be better and eat healthier like fruits and veggies but NO all I get is allergies FINE it’s FINE

[dbphantom]

It makes me so happy tfs still supports purpleeyeswtf despite him not posting anything for a while both of them were literally my childhood and none piece is my favorite abridged series

[suguann]

He has a feeling that the new girl running the front desk at the gym is going to be a problem—a distraction disguised in a gym uniform polo and khaki pants.

It starts with you smiling too brightly as he walks in one morning, all teeth and that little twinkle in your eye that feels like trouble when you scan his membership card.

“Good morning, Mr. Riley.” 

“It’s just Simon,” he tells you as he takes his card off the counter. 

The following day, it’s the same, except Johnny is there to make it worse.

He nudges Simon with his elbow. “She’s kinda pretty, huh?”

“Say it any louder, and she’ll hear you, mate,” he grumbles.

Simon’s not blind; of course, he knows you’re pretty, but he doesn’t have time to commit to anything outside of work—even if you smile at him like you’re happy to see him and how he’ll think about it later: on missions, at his desk, during morning runs. His head is nothing short of woven webs with thoughts of you stuck in the middle.

Honestly, it’s that you—

(You try to make small talk with him every morning, and Simon is starting to think it’s just for him because on the days he doesn’t come alone, you merely scan his card and go back to reading the open paperback book on the desk.)

It’s weird because it’s almost like you—

(He bumps into you at the supermarket and makes a dumb joke about carrots that makes you laugh. It makes him a little tongue-tied and awkward afterward because he realizes he hasn’t talked to a woman outside of only wanting a quick fuck in a really long time, but more importantly, he wants to hear it again. 

Instead, he tosses potatoes in his cart and walks away.)

He tells himself it means nothing, or not how Simon wants it to.

You’re just…he’s not even sure; acquaintances? Maybe more than that, but less than friends. Somewhere in that odd in-between phase where he only knows bits and pieces but not the whole picture.

Sometimes, he wishes—

(Simon doesn’t know what he’s doing the first time he invites you to meet the guys from work on a night out. He’s dated around a few times and had his fair share of hook-ups, but this isn’t like that. His palms are sweaty, more than usual, and no amount of wiping them on the thighs of his jeans keeps them dry.

Then you walk into the bar in a dress that’s probably too light for early spring in London—even though he stares appreciatively at the long expanse of your legs as you walk up to the table—and he wishes he wasn’t introducing you as his friend.)

But you—

(A new development happens after you slip him your phone number on one of the gym’s business cards—it’s weird that we don’t have each other’s numbers, so message me sometime or whatever—and he messages you ‘hey’ right before he leaves for a mission a few days later. 

It slowly shifts and changes over time.

You start sending him texts in the morning. Never an actual good morning text, but of the dogs you take on walks, the sunrise, the new flower box in your window. Somehow, it’s better.)

You really are—

(His house feels too hot, and he’s distracted from the movie by how close you are, how your leg drapes over his under the blanket, fingers fisting into his sweater at his stomach that clenches. An ache that grows, throbbing, spreading from his abdomen to his groin.

It feels monumental—something more than the gentle touch to the elbow to squeeze by each other in his entryway earlier or giving you his jacket that night at the bar—a tilt of the axis that makes the messy pieces fall neatly into place. 

He must be staring because you glance up at him, smiling, and the sound from the TV turns into white noise in the background.

“Can I…would you—fucking hell,” Simon runs a hand through his hair. “Can I kiss you?”

When your lips press against his, and his hands are pulling you onto his lap, where you settle hotly against his dick tenting in his jeans, he wonders why neither of you has done this before. Just kissing—him licking the seam of your mouth, and you panting his name.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you mumble, lips brushing his.

“Me too,” and he fists his hand into the hair at your nape and pulls you back to his mouth.)

“I knew you’d be trouble,” he tells you one day, glaring at the bloke further down the bar who tried making a swipe at your ass before Simon showed up, towering over his shoulder with your fruity cocktail in hand.

“Oh, yeah?” you giggle, leaning into his side.

“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth quirk, though he hides it when he presses a kiss against your temple. “A real pain in my ass, love.”

“But yours.”

This time, he does smile. “Yes, but mine.”

Masterlist

[bi-writes]

how would simon react if his mail order bride got really really sick?

mail-order bride

the phone is ringing.

he's on leave, so normally he would never even touch the thing. but there are only two ringtones he has to answer to, and this one isn't price.

he picks it up, putting it to his ear. he wipes the sweat off his brow, letting out a sigh as he steps back under the shade. the sun is out today, of course choosing to beat down on him the one day he finally decided to build you better planters for your little garden.

you've taken to it quite nicely. you love being out here, tending to the little roots and the tiny leaves that have started to sprout. he thinks you look so cute when you're out here, on your knees. you always tie a scarf around your hair and wear these sage green gloves, and he thinks you look so fucking adorable when you come back inside with dirt along your brow and a sweet little smile on your face. you always give him an update. the carrots are so stubborn, you huff, and he tries to hide his grin as you bring out your little gardening journal and scribble in it all frustrated. look, simon! the tomatoes! look! look!--and he practically keens when you grab his hand to bring him outside so he can see.

but it's gotten too small. you've outgrown the little boxes of dirt, and simon knows you're itching to do more. the planter is only half done, so he's a little peeved to be interrupted while he's just starting to get it together.

"wot is it, luv, i'm--"

"s-simon?" your voice is a soft whimper, and you're sniffling on the other line. simon stands up straighter, dropping his tools immediately as he wipes his hands on his jeans and starts to go inside.

"oi. wot happened?"

"s-simon, i-i don't feel so good, c-could you come get me?"

simon lets out a low breath, shaking his head.

"fuckin' hell, luv," he mutters, grabbing his keys and wallet by the door. "still at the library?" you had asked him to drop you off in town, wanting to visit a few of the shops along the main road. your eyes had bugged when you saw the quaint little library and pastry shop, and he agreed to come back later after your little excursion.

"y-yeah, i-i..." you cough a little. "i-i got...i got sick. in the bathroom, i-i--"

"'s olright," he quiets you. "'m comin'. gimme a few minutes."

simon finds you in the family restroom of the little library, seated on the floor and hugging the toilet. he curses under his breath when he finds you, tears blurring your vision as you cry. you didn't sound so bad on the phone, but maybe you were just holding it together until you got yourself some help.

"ohhhh, swee'eart," he sighs, pushing the hood of his jacket off as he kneels down to your level. he wipes the sweat off your forehead with a gloved hand, cupping you under your jaw. "you olright?"

"no," you sob, gasping a little between tears. "i feel terrible, s-simon, i--"

"olright," he coos. "'m 'ere now. let's get ya 'ome. get ya into bed, tha' sound good?"

you nod. you look sickly, eyes dull, a cold sweat breaking out all over you. he suspects it might be the flu, considering the body aches you seem to have and the headache you tell him about as he helps you into the car. he gives you some water, stroking your face gently, and when you tell him how cold you are, he shucks his jacket off and drapes it over you before taking you back home.

you're in and out of consciousness over the next few hours. simon had helped you into your pajamas before tucking you into bed. he watched you with a glare to make sure you took the medicine he gave you, and he made you drink at least four glasses of water before he let you drift off to sleep.

when you wake up later in the evening, the cat is purring on her little bed hanging on the windowsill. simon had installed it a few weeks ago, a little perch bed so she could look outside and watch the little bunnies that came by in the morning. it's dark out now, and when you look around, simon has turned your little diffuser on, and it smells like lemons.

"s-simon?" you croak. your throat hurts. you hear a shuffle in the kitchen, and then simon is coming into the room. he doesn't turn the main light on, merely coming close and flicking the low lamp on beside you.

"'ow are ya feelin'?" he asks softly. your eyes are watery again, and he sighs, putting the back of his hand to your forehead and grimacing. "not as warm, at least. what do ya need, hmm?"

"my throat," you whisper. "i-it hurts--"

"i'll bring ya a cuppa, baby," simon murmurs. you sniffle, leaning into his hand. "do ya want somethin' ta eat? anythin'? got some bread...some soup if y'r up for it."

your lip wobbles, and he shakes his head, kissing your forehead gently.

"i'll bring ya some bread. if ya can keep it down, we'll try the soup, yeah?"

you just nod and shrug, and he picks up the box of tissues on the dresser and takes one out. he comes back to you, holding your cheek gently with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. he dabs at the sweat gently before he lets you relax again.

"i'll be right back."

you close your eyes when he leaves. you vaguely hear him in the kitchen, the sound of cookware and the whine of the kettle on the stove. simon comes back into the bedroom a little while later, holding a small plate and a steaming mug of tea. he sets down the tea, telling you it's something lemon with honey, and he shows you the thin slice of bread he's toasted with a little butter.

he sits with you while you eat small bites, and he helps you drink the warm tea that immediately soothes your insides. you start to cry again, but not from feeling so terrible.

"wot's wrong?" simon huffs, and you just look up at him, clinging to his shirt, pulling him onto the bed.

"t-thank you," you whisper, and simon just shakes his head.

"wot for?"

"f-for taking care of me. f-for c-coming to get me...for..."

simon meets your eyes, holding them, and he narrows his eyes.

"don't thank me," he says firmly. "wot fuckin' kind o' man would i be if i didn't take care of my wife, eh? sorry fuckin' wanker, is wot i'd be."

"b-but--"

"and when y'r better," he interrupts you, standing as he takes your plate, "got everythin' set up for ya outside. can move the lettuce, like ya wanted."

you sink into the cushions, happy tears in your eyes, and simon leaves, busying himself with the dishes as he tries to fight off the warm, aching feeling in his chest.

fuck, it feels so good to take care of you. to see you smile. to see your wobbly lip and those tear-filled eyes and know that he can make it all better--it feels so fucking good.

when he comes to bed later that night, you're still asleep, but you move towards him, seeking his warmth. it's instinctual now, easy.

there's a place at his side that's made only for you. it's shaped just how you are, it cannot be mistaken to be for anyone else.

when he whispers that he loves you into the dark, you don't hear him. but you scoot just that much closer.

[hauntingblue]

Whole cake island I love you I think

[creaturebehavior]

remember a couple months ago when i was in the midst of a bad depressive episode and i ordered groceries to pick up from walmart with my EBT card and i ordered a 12 pack of hot pockets and they sent me an email saying they were out of the 12 pack and gonna substitute it and for some reason i assumed they would just substitute with one box of 5, because i had ordered one box of 12. And i didn’t see that they listed the substitution quantity as SIX BOXES in replacement which is fucking 30 hot pockets.

So i didn’t see the quantity listed. I assumed i was getting one box. idek why i didn’t even consider i may be getting even two boxes making 10 hot pockets to be a “closer replacement” to the one box of 12

So i just clicked approve this substitution. Got home from the grocery store. And i had 6 fucking boxes of pepperoni hot boxes in my trunk. And my depressed ass was like holy shit i barely made it out of bed to go to the store to pick these up, you got me absolutely fucked up and down if you think i’m going to turn around and drive back to walmart and walk inside and return 5 boxes of hot pockets

So i just emptied them all into a grocery bag and was so grateful i had room in my freezer for the bag, and was grateful that i had extra food stamps at the time because i had been so depressed i wasn’t eating, so financially i was in a position to where buying 6 boxes of hot pockets wouldn’t fuck me over

so i just have been eating pepperoni hot pockets for months

And look here it is. The email that Walmart sent me, asking if it’s okay if they replace my one box of 12 hot pockets with 6 boxes of 5 hot pockets. So moral of the story, always double check your substitution quantities.

Hot pockets used to come in packs of 2 instead of 5x and i have to assume that’s why an employee thought 6 boxes would make sense as a substitution.

[seattlesellie]

dads best friend!abby scenario cause why the hell not.

cw: sexual themes mdni, age gap, abby’s a cocky but charming asshole, power dynamics-ish? : ・ෆ・┈・┈・ᕱ⑅ᕱ・┈・┈・ෆ・ :

— "Oh and honey? Doctor Anderson's coming over for dinner" Everything felt oppressively hot and everything felt impossibly tight. The food seared your tongue, humid steam rising from the vegetables on your plate causing your throat to constrict and your eyes to sting with tears. Your right hand was clenched in a tight fist, left hand gripping your fork like it might grow legs and run away if you let go of your grasp. Your tights were itching relentlessly, tank top strap kept sliding off of your shoulder and built itself a home down your arm. Your lipgloss felt too sticky and your palms too clammy, you felt agitated, uncomfortable and way too goddamn nervous.

You felt consumed.

You didn’t know why.

Sure, Doctor Anderson was attractive, with palms twice bigger than yours. She wore a tight fitted muscle tee that had you squinting then turning your head around fast enough to crack your neck, noticing a goddamn six pack poking through maroon fabric. And yeah, she had an intoxicating scent of pine and wood and a hint of pepper that made your eyes nearly roll back inside of your skull, voice silky smooth, thighs firm and muscular, eyes icy blue, a smile that made you melt and all that stupid jazz,

but none of these things were a good enough explanation to why you were feeling this way — dazed, stupid, all bothered.

She sat down on the dinner table’s leather chair in a manspread as if she owned the place, and her thighs bulked up even more, veins of her arms becoming more prominent. She always knew what to say, and when you cracked a joke about orthopedic surgeons she cheekily told you to “watch it” — which made you thickly gulp and sheepishly smile down to the floor like your idol from age thirteen just told you they want to marry you and have you forever.

You needed an ice bath, but she also wouldn’t stop goddamn looking at you, even when you made it clear that eye contact with the surgeon, your father’s best friend, was a task that you apparently couldn’t manage to complete.

Her look made you nervous, and when she narrowed her eyes you nearly choked on a carrot, and when your father asked you “What’s wrong, kid?” you couldn’t even answer because what was wrong — was that you had to cross your legs together cause of some aching down there, and what was wrong is that his best friend made you feel like you were losing your mind at 9pm with a fork glued to your palm.

So you lied.

“M’just... tired, I guess” you murmured, then fake yawned, then internally cringed at yourself for performing the worlds fakest goddamn yawn.

“Already?” he voiced, shifting his gaze towards a visibly amused Abby. “Quite the night owl, that one... usually”

"What can I say, dad, loooong day" answered you, with a syrupy voice she wanted to stick her fingers inside and lick.

Abby chuckled, then smirked at you even though the response wasn’t directed at her. Then, she looked over to your father who was gnawing on some overcooked steak.

“She’s a kid, needs to get her sleep”

You scoffed, which made doctor Anderson poke the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “What...?” she murmured cockily, cracking a toothy grin. Your tights felt tight again, glued to your hot flesh, then you realized why they fucking call them tights because dammit they really are tight.

“I'm not a kid, can, y’know... drink, and stuff. Plus... M'busy, with... College"

You sounded like a damn idiot. All Abby did was chuckle and tilt her head back slightly, leaning further back in her chair.

“T'aw, I know, What'ryou studying again? Fashion science?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. That bitch.

"Sorry I don't wanna go to medical school and spend seven years of my life sticking my hands down a corpse"

So you didn’t go to your room after that, caught up in a whirlwind of proving a point. You stayed stubbornly with your feet glued to the floor and listened to Abby and your father ramble and yap on about work shenanigans. Usually, you’d semi doze off at this point, go on your phone and occasionally throw a snarky remark, but this was different. She was different than any of his other friends. Abby was actually funny, she didn’t brag too much, and if she did it faded quick cause she really was that good.

Abby threw a reference to a book you thought no one else had read except for you. You timidly lifted your gaze and remarked, “Oh, i read that book, actually”

Abby smiled and flattened her hands on the wooden table. “Smart cookie, huh? Did you like it?”

You batted your eyelashes like a kitten seeking more strokes at the praise, not noticing that body language of yours.

But she did.

You talked about the book for a solid ten minutes. Your father was the one, surprisingly, to go on his phone and faux-snort when he felt excluded from the conversation ran by two intellectuals and a giant elephant who goes by the name of "Tension", in the middle of the room.

Abby made you laugh and she made you think and she listened to your anecdotes. It made you buzz with electricity, and it made you yearn for her attention.

it also made her long for yours.

Your father interrupted by showing Abby a picture from work. When her eyes lowered to his phone, she shot you a lingering gaze and a smirk. You, feeling a rush of heat to your cheeks, shyly looked away.

It was tight everywhere all over again.

So they talked more about work, Abby’s patients, their coworkers, Doctor Martha’s chicken pot pie, Doctor Johnson’s bizarre antics, the glass door no one bothered on calling to be fixed, blah blah blah, an endless stream of chatter.

And you listened, you listened with rapt attention, every ounce of your focus aimed at the prospect of another one-on-one conversation with Abby. Each time the older woman casted you with a quick glance, you flushed even harder. You waited, and waited and waited but your father was a blabber mouth, and you were oh so impatient,

you began mindlessly kicking the wooden table's legs.

Your sock-covered feet shifted restlessly from side to side, then you tucked them beneath your chair and resumed kicking, the movements gaining force. You curled your toes and continued to play with the table's handles. Abby winced, but you didn’t pay her any mind. You kicked again, with more force now.

You sighed.

Abby cleared her throat, and her cheeks suddenly bore a faint crimson blush. You couldn't help but notice, hm, must be the red wine finally catching on to her form. Ignoring, you kicked again, and the doctors back straightened and she stiffened in response. Your father asked her a question, and Abby… stammered.

“Yeah, that guys… uh— yeah”

You rested your chin on your hands and lightly tapped your fingertips against your cheeks thrice.

Then you kicked again, harder, you were bored and restless, waiting, give me some attention, Abby —

And then, you felt a pair of shoes encase your feet, ankles creating a cage around yours. It was then and only then that you had the startling realization: you hadn't been kicking the table at all. Instead, you had been unknowingly engaged in a game of footsies beneath the table with a goddamn world class surgeon.

And oh god did you want to die.

And oh god did abby sport a shit eating grin on her face that only you seemed to catch.

You froze, not even able to release your feet from her iron like grip. Unmistakably, she didn’t seem to release her grip either. So she kept them there, caged and locked.

“Alright,” your father sighed and cleared his throat. “Got some cuban cigars in the yard, shall we?” he gestured towards Abby, who was still holding your feet in her tight grasp.

“Yeah, go ‘head, I’ll just clear the table” she murmured absentmindedly. So kind and polite, huh?

You father chuckled and tapped abby on her shoulder, as he rose from his sit and straightened his back. “Nah, let the kid handle it”

Abby shot you a glance. Your pupils were dilated and your chest heaved rapidly up and down.

“She's not a kid, remember?”

Abby let go of your feet and you rose from the chair with such haste, you nearly had whiplash. When you lifted your plate, staying mute, looking like a deer caught in headlights as your father paced towards the yard, Abby gazed at you, and her eyebrow arched up in utter amusement.

“You uh, play soccer, by any chance?” quipped her, crossing her arms on her firm hard muscly chest.

You gulped.

“Huh?”

Abby lifted her wine glass to her lips, taking a sip that left a glistening sheen on her bottom lip. A chuckle escaped her.

“Jus’, y’know… with all the kicking, and everything. I mean, take a girl out for a drink before you do all that, yeah?”

You stood in shock, you didn’t speak, didn’t mutter a word, merely humming in response. Abby grabbed the plates from your hand, and then she grabbed the salt.

She furrowed her eyebrows and huffed. “M'just ’joking, smart cookie. If you wanna play, let's play"

Then you heard your father’s voice down the hall.

“Sweetheart?” he paced closer as Abby walked towards the sink. He leaned over the wall,

“forgot to mention it to you but, Abby’s staying over for the weekend”