#same day granny flats

[designerecotinyhomes]

Choose a tried and tested design for quick delivery. Make it yours with colour, appliance and fixture selections.

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#tiny house #australian tiny houses #tiny homes #tiny homes australia #tiny house for sale #tiny homes for sale #tiny houses #tiny house plans #tiny house builders #tiny home #granny flat #kit homes #same day granny flats #granny flats designs

[smallpotatoknitwear]

The Valentine's Day Gradient Heartigan!

Wow, that's a bit of a mouthful, huh!? As I continue my quest to make sweaters for all of my favorite holidays, I'm so excited to have finished my Valentine's Day cardigan--partly because Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday, and partly cos this sweater came out so frickin' cute!!! Click on the keep reading link below for all the details on how I made it!

Items used:

Red Heart Super Saver in Burgundy (red). I used just under three skeins for all of the squares and joining the sweater.

Caron Colorama Halo in Cranberry Frost. I used less than a full O'Go donut for all of the hearts, so I think you should be able to use a single cake for them if you want to make your own version of this sweater, and I used part of a second donut for the ribbing--so even if you don't get all of your hearts out of one cake, if you have a second to do the ribbing as well you'll be all set!

Even though the Colorama Halo is listed as a bulky yarn, it's really a worsted thickness, so I used a US size I/5.5MM hook for the entire project, including the ribbed border.

I used the pattern for the Little Heart Square by Raffamusa Designs for the squares, and added an extra row of double crochet around the outside (with 2DC, ch2, 2DC in each corner). I used a total of 60 squares for the sweater.

This sweater is, at its core, just a basic granny square cardigan, meaning that I built it by measuring another sweater that I like the fit of (this one, if you're wondering), making a single square, measuring it, and figuring out how many squares I needed for each section of the sweater to get measurements as close as possible to the model sweater. That may sound a little confusing or even daunting, but it's really not as hard as it sounds! Let's break it down a little further, piece by piece.

To start, here are some measurements:

Each heart square is 5x5 inches, and I blocked each one to make sure my measurements would be consistent and that my squares would have nice, even sides.

On my model sweater, the sleeves are 18 inches around and 15 inches long. So, with 5x5 in. squares, I made 4x3 square tubes, so that my sleeves measured a total of 20x15 inches.

On my model sweater, my front panels were 10x20 inches, so I made two 2x4 panels.

On my model sweater, my back panel was 26x20 inches, so I made a 5x4 panel.

I used a total of 60 squares for all of these panels.

To get the gradient, I made all of my hearts in order through a skein of Caron Colorama Halo yarn (technically I was using one of the O'Go donuts they were originally released in, not one of the cakes that yarn is available in now, but there was a good amount leftover, so I think you'd be able to make a sweater approximately the same size with a cake of the yarn, even thought the yardage is different). Once I had added the red border around each square and blocked it, I laid them out on a table starting with the top left corner of the back panel and working in a spiral from that corner, across the back, across the top of the right sleeve, over both front panels, and across the top of the left sleeve before moving down. Then, I used stitch markers and safety pins to attach the corners of the squares together in each panel so that I wouldn't mess up the gradient as I moved them to attach everything.

Once all of my panels were finished using flat slip stitch seams, I seamed the fronts to the back at the shoulders and sides, made the sleeves into tubes, and attached them to the armholes in the "vest" made from the fronts and backs. Then, I used a second skein of the Colorama Halo to add ribbing to the front and bottom, using a 6-stitch SC FLO rib worked directly into the edge of the garment and beginning in the front right corner of the sweater. I was able to make the front and bottom ribbing all one piece by just turning a corner in the last row of the front ribbing (the left bottom corner) and working along the bottom. For the sleeves, I started with the same color red I used to finish the squares and seam them together, and worked a row of double crochet (I decided I wanted the sleeves just a hair longer, for a slightly more dramatic poof), then worked two rows of *SC1, DEC1* before breaking the red yarn and attaching the pink. I did a 12-stitch SC FLO rib around the ends of the sleeves to create the cuffs.

[greypetrel]

Pan dei Morti

Aka Deads' Bread. (Image source) (recipe I translated - My family moved to Milan but we're originally from Parma, I don't have a family recipe)

They're little soft biscuits that are typical of Milan and the area of Lombardy north of the city (Brianza). You ONLY find them in bakeries there and around All Saints' Day (Ognissanti), when the tradition in Catholic Italy wants that you should go and visit your dead ones in the cemetery, change the flowers, pay your respects. (It's mostly a thing that grannies do, nowadays, but it's a bank holiday and what's not to enjoy about a day home with a seasonal treat) The name comes not because the cakes are meant to be offered to the deads, but because All Saints' Day is from this tradition also called "Giorno dei Morti", Day of the Deads (not to be confounded with Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, they're different celebrations and shouldn't be mixed up!), and it's litterally "the bread you eat around that day".

They're delicious and tasty, and @brother-genitivi expressed interest for the recipe... (and listen, exchanging recipes with people all over the world is something really great about the internet)

Recipe under the cut! Note: I am European and don't do imperial measurements. Forgive me if I keep the metric, I don't trust my conversions since when I found out that British and American cups are different.

INGREDIENTS:

All purpose flour, 250g

Almond cookies (Amaretti), 100g

Caster sugar, 300g

Almonds, 120g (or the same quantity of almond flour)

Raisins, 120g

Dessert wine (sweet wine), 100ml. You can substitute it with apple juice or grape juice, same quantity.

Unflavoured, plain biscuits, 100g

Ladyfingers, 300g

Cocoa powder, 50g

Dried figs, 120g

6 egg whites

Cinnamon, 1 teaspoon

Nutmeg, a pinch (optional)

Baking powder, 10g

I have unfortunately no idea on how to substitute the egg whites in baking if you want to make it vegan, and I've never tried anything to have an educated guess over tutorials online, if anyone have an intel I'll edit the recipe with pleasure! (And I'd be glad to know myself) All the spices can be skipped if you don't like them, and if you like me don't like figs, use your favourite dried fruit, it goes without saying.

PROCEDURE:

Wash and soak your raisins, either in water or in the wine/juice of the recipe.

Grind together the biscuits, ladyfingers and almond cookies until you obtain a fine grind. Move it in a bowl.

Grind the almonds to a fine flour, then add it to the biscuits in the bowl. Do the same with the dried figs.

Add to the bowl the flour, cocoa, cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg (optional).

Drain the raisins if you soaked them in water, and add them to the bowl. If you soaked them in the wine/juice, add that too.

Add the egg whites, and start mixing everything together by hand or with a wooden spoon until you obtain a compact batter. Move it to a flat surface, floured, and keep working it with your hand until the batter is firm and solid. Form a sausage of it and cut it in thick slices.

The slices should then be modelled and flattened so they're fairly thick (1cm of depth, the recipe says, but you do you) and shaped like longue tongues. They're not really small!

Put them on a baking tray, minding not to place them too close together: they'll rise a little in the baking.

Cook them in a pre-heated oven at 180°C/350°F for around 25 minutes (use a toothpick to check if they're cooked inside). When they're ready, powder them with powdered sugar and let them cool.

The recipe wants you to leave them alone for at least two days, so they'll get soft, but listen. No judgement here, eat them whenever you'd like, life is bitter as it is without restraining yourself not to eat cake for two days.

#recipes #cakes #pan dei morti #cooking #baking #italian recipes #cooking petrel #halloween

[delopsia]

Rum & Coke | Max Brinly X Reader

Summary: You aren't sure what you're more torn up about. The fact that you hooked up with the only son your stepfather has, or the fact that the only guy to ever fuck you so good that you couldn't walk the next day, is your stepbrother. And you can't get him out of your head. Word Count: 12,300 Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: STEPBROTHER! Max (don't bite me), swearing, unprotected sex, alcohol, slight mentions of food.

In hindsight, when your mom and her boyfriend first barged into your bedroom and announced that they were getting married, you should have asked how many people they were inviting. Because you had assumed it would be a tiny little venue, with just a handful of your closest friends and family attending. You hadn't expected to wind up in what felt like a fucking castle, jam-packed with more people than you'd ever seen. You've never even met half of these people, and you certainly don't know the sweet old lady that's handing you a cup of brown liquid from the bar.

Ah.

Rum and coke.

"You looked like you could use a drink," her voice is paper thin, wavering like a leaf in a harsh breeze. Yet she flies across the bar, mixing drinks with a speed that does not match the rest of her frail body.

The coke is flat, and there's more rum than you'd like, but the alcohol burns sweetly at the back of your throat all the same. You'll take this over weaving aimlessly through the drunken crowd, which, you're sure, is the doing of this singular rogue Grandma. The cup is small, it's far too easy to down the first glass, and to your amusement, Grandma has a second glass already made for you.

She certainly is not the bartender whom your mother hired, but who are you to complain?

The alcohol hits your system when you've gotten halfway through your second glass. Dizziness ebbs at your consciousness, the ballroom spinning in the subtlest of ways. The DJ is playing some unnamed pop song that you've heard a million times, yet you can barely hear it over all the voices.

"Granny!"

In the blink of an eye, the crowd parts like the red sea, all for a well-dressed man, seemingly the only other person in this building that is close to your age.

"Granny, you can't just take over the bar!"

"Oh hush," Granny slides a drink identical to yours across the bar, one that he barely catches, "I know what I'm doing."

The bartender behind him looks indifferent. You suppose it doesn't matter all that much to him, as long as he gets paid for his time; who cares who is actually tending the bar? He certainly doesn't seem to mind, settling calmly into an open bar seat, a stark contrast to the flustered man next to you.

"I'm really sorry," his voice is high and pitchy; you get the feeling that Granny gives him a run for his money pretty often.

"She makes a mean rum and coke, is all I can say," at some point and time, she's refilled your drink. With straight rum, no coke, apparently.

You can't lie, he's cute, but you're not sure if that's your genuine impression or if it's the rum clouding your thoughts. Flushed cheeks, messy hair, and pale blue eyes that peer up at you from over the rim of his glass. Hmm, maybe this wedding isn't so awful after all.

There's a gap in your memory. One moment you're sitting at the bar, feigning obliviousness as his eyes rake up and down your frame; the next, your back is hitting the wall. There's a plush thigh slotting between your legs, and there's a pair of lips on yours, sloppily entertaining with yours. His tongue tastes like cola, hot in your mouth, messily tangling with you. The dimly lit room spins around you, and you can't quite tell if it's from the rum or the feeling of his lips trailing down the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Fuck," you find yourself gasping, fingertips digging into the rough material of his blazer. Your hips have a mind of their own, grinding down against his thigh, chasing a pleasure that just isn't enough. More, you want more; you need more.

You don't even know this guy's name, and yet here you are, putty in his hands, willing to take anything and everything he'll give you. You really should be in the lobby, formally meeting your new step-family; you need to make a good impression on your new step-brother, considering he's going to be moving in this week.

All of that is thrown out the window when his hand dips down, toying with the edge of your shorts. Family can wait. You're giving him all the right signs, yet blue eyes still flick up to yours, swollen lips parting to ask a question that you already know the answer to.

"Please."

His lips are on yours again, fingers delving past your waistband. They waste no time, tracing sensitive skin until they find your twitching entrance, circling in a way that has you gasping against his lips. There's hardly any resistance when he pushes two fingers into you; it's almost embarrassing how easily you take them. They're thick, curling up to massage a spongey spot that has your legs trembling underneath you. You can barely muffle the whine that leaves your lips, and yet it still manages to echo throughout the bathroom.

"Right there?" He cooes, fingers working in and out of you, spread just enough to make you feel the stretch.

You can't keep yourself quiet, hiding your face in his collarbone as you cling to him, spasming around the fingers fucking your weeping entrance. You're squirming, both closer to and away from him, as he repeatedly abuses that spot. You can't miss the slick sounds that bounce off the bare walls, a sound that could be unmistakable to any stranger that chooses to walk in here.

You're fluttering around his fingers, core tightening with a tingling, frenzied heat. You recognize this feeling, but you've never had a man bring you this close, this fast.

"Yeah?" His fingers twitch within you, picking up their rhythm; now, you realize that you'd said that out loud. Your legs tremble below you, struggling to keep you up, fuck, not yet, not yet.

"Wait," you cry, and the fingers come to a screeching halt just moments before he's brought you to the edge. It's hard to miss the panic that burns behind his eyes. "Fuck me, please."

The corner of his lip twitches up, speechless; all he can do is nod, fingers slipping out of you and leaving you to clench around nothing. You can't help the whine that leaves you, but you're not empty for long. The moment your shorts hits the floor, the unnamed man is lifting you up, strong hands cupping your ass as your legs intertwine needily around his waist. You don't know when he fished himself out of his slacks, but he's hard and leaking between your legs.

He has less patience than you do, cock rubbing against your entrance before you greedily take him in. God, he's thicker than he looked. Not the largest you've taken, but you're sure that isn't going to matter if he can use his dick as well as he used his fingers. The slightest of aches bloom as he sinks into you, hole fluttering as it tries to take it all.

He groans into your shoulder, low and heavy, and it's such a pretty noise that you'd love to hear again and again.  His eyes are trained between your legs, fixated on his cock disappearing between your quaking thighs.

"Fuck, honey," he murmurs into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine; he finally bottoms out, "there you go, that's it."

You don't think you have room to breathe anymore, chest heaving; even so, you find your fingers tangling into his hair, dragging him back down to your lips. He chuckles into it, thumb rubbing shapes into the swell of your ass as his lips meet yours. His hips rock up into you as your teeth clack together, a poorly coordinated kiss smothering the whimper that boils out of you.

It's only when you're getting squirmy, nipping at the tongue that meets yours, that he draws his hips back, snapping them back up with a considerable force that has you yelping.

"Why did you stop?" You grumble, forcing your eyes open to meet his. "Don't tell me you've got a dick like that and don't know how to use —ah!"

He's done it again, hips grinding tauntingly against yours after he's drove back in, "I know how to use it, sweetheart."

And then he's moving, setting an unrelenting pace that punches each and every breath out of you, nipping at your collarbone as he stares down to where your bodies meet. Absolutely mesmerized by how your little hole takes him, clenching down around him when the fat head of his cock drags against the very spot his fingers once abused.

Outside the door, you feel like you can hear your name being called; it sounds like your mom. Your cheeks tint red, barely muffling a cry when the man between your legs pushes you further up the wall, properly drilling into your weeping hole. All of a sudden, you're so, so aware of the sickly wet noise coming from between your legs, it's so, so loud.

His thrusts are brutal; makes you feel every inch as he practically bounces you on his cock, using gravity to his advantage, hips pushing you up and drawing back, gravity dragging you back down until the hilt of his cock is flush against you. "Does that feel good, hm?"

Your throat feels raw; your tongue dry from how long your mouth has been hanging open; God, you don't even remember when you stopped concealing your cries until now. Words refuse to form; all you can do is nod, and the bastard laughs, head ducking down to nip at your exposed collarbone. Hot breath fans out against your skin, heavy and quick, and the quickening of his pace wordlessly tells you that he's close.

Fingertips dig into the base of his neck, leaving angry red marks in their wake as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens. He's murmuring something against your neck, something soft and sweet that contacts so starkly to the dick relentlessly bullying its way up into you.

The door opens.

"Y/N?" It's your mother's voice that echoes across the bathroom. Of course, it is.

The stranger stops, peering up at you with wide blue eyes. Your fingers are reflexively burying into his hair, drawing him back into your neck as you stare at the stall door, silently thanking the heavens above that this is one of the nicer bathrooms. The kind with stall doors that reach all the way to the floor, concealing whoever may be inside.

To your dismay, heels click across the hardwood floor. A stall door creaks open, and slams closed. God, she's in the stall behind you, and here you are on the other side of that wall, stuffed full with a stranger's cock. To make matters worse, he starts moving again, slow, shallow thrusts, cock head dragging against a spot that has you seeing stars.

"What are you doing?" You mouth, to which he shrugs, tongue laving across your collarbone. In and out, short, grinding thrusts into your abused entrance. What's worse is that you can almost feel it more now than you could before, forced to focus on every fucking inch of him as you wait for your mother to hurry up.

He's coming back up, nose bumping against yours as he pumps into you, pink-cheeked and messy-haired. He looks as wrecked as you feel, lips meeting yours for a breathy kiss, panting into your mouth with the quietest of whines.

"I'm gonna cum," he murmurs, voice concealed by the flush of the toilet.

The alcohol still clouds your decision-making, not a thought behind your eyes as you nod your head, tightening your legs around him because the idea of him cumming in you sounds nice. You're getting squirmy again, hips wiggling down against him with every shallow thrust. Has he always had these freckles?

Your hand is moving on its own, leaving his neck in favor of cupping his cheek, thumb swiping over the soft skin of his cheekbone. He smiles at that, kisses your wrist so sweetly that your drunken heart flutters. You wish you could have taken this one home first, keep him around for the night and fuck him again in the morning, if he'll have you.

The door squeaks closed again, your mother begins to call your name once more, and he's picking up the pace. Big hands clenching your hips, fucking you nice and deep in such a way that familiar heat blossoms between your legs, stretched walls tingling with every thrust. That squelching noise comes back, and he's grunting now, pressing his nose against yours.

"Gon' cum," you hiccup, trembling, "I'm gonna cum."

He's nodding, "yeah?" Voice pitcher than it was, rougher.

The edges of your vision turn white, and with a cry, you cum on his cock, body quaking with the force of it. You can't catch your breath, clenching around the dick that still plows into you. He pauses, begins to pull out, but your ankles have locked around his waist. With a strangled noise, the cute stranger cums in you, molten hot cum coating your swollen insides.

The moments after are mostly quiet, panting into each others mouths as your legs begin to droop, finally, finally letting him pull his softening cock from you.

"Shit, I'm..." he's beginning to let you down, but your legs are made of jelly. All you can do is stumble, clinging to him for stability.

"I don't mind it," you mumble, finding your footing. You don't mind the way he holds you by the waist, drawing you near until he can wrap his arms around you.

It takes some coordination to get your shorts back on. You're playing it off as the alcohol making it hard to move, but quite frankly, you don't think you'll be able to walk in the morning. As the two of you stumble out of the bathroom, his hand resting on the small of your back, you start to feel it. Cum leaking out of you. It's a strange sensation that you're not sure how you feel about.

"Well, Granny is still working the bar," he mutters, mostly to himself, but he grins when you laugh. Granny is indeed still working at the bar, shaking a silver container as she chats with an unnamed man, and you're pretty sure that's the bartender dancing with your cousin.

All of a sudden, it's like a swarm of people know you. Unfamiliar faces approaching you, saying your name, uttering something about your mother being worried sick. Your post-orgasm haze has you wanting to stay with the sweet stranger, who'd so lovingly just fucked you with an inch of your life, but you lose him in the crowd.

"Wait!" You're shouting, but the woman who's grabbed your hand is unrelenting, practically dragging you across the ballroom.

Your mother is hysterical, squeezing you so hard that you feel it leaking out of you again. You barely force a smile, making up some excuse about going out for some fresh air after you'd choked on your food. It's a miracle that it works, and to your dismay, it seems to be the only miracle of the night.

You can't find that man.

Even as all the guests line up to wave your mom and her new husband goodbye, you tucked into the backseat, you can't find him. You're desperately searching for him, but he just isn't...there.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Your mom asks, peering up at you through the rearview mirror. For a split second, he appears at the forefront of your mind, peering up at you from behind a glass of rum and coke.

"Just a stomach ache," you supply, leaning your head against the window.

They drop you off at home, armed with money for pizza and the house keys. Earlier, you'd looked forward to having the house to yourself while they spent the night at a luxury hotel. The last hurrah before your new stepdad and step-brother move in tomorrow morning. You're not exactly thrilled about the idea of a new sibling, someone you'd never met, suddenly living under the same roof as you.

Yet, as you crawl into the impossibly cold bed, you find yourself wishing that he'd already moved in. Or that you'd given the stranger your address and told him to come to find you again, that you'd asked a friend to spend the night. Anything to distract you from the emptiness that's settled deep inside of your core.

You awake to the sound of footsteps. Blinding white sunlight peeks in through the blinds, burning your retinas the moment you pry your eyes open.

"Fuck," you groan, squeezing your eyes shut. Everything hurts. Your back, your legs, your hips, hell, even your lips are a little bit sore. Sitting up is your first mistake, a throbbing ache blossoming between your legs.

You've had your fair share of hookups, some decent, most of them forgettable. Even so, none of those have ever had you wobbling around your bedroom quite like the stranger from last night. Plenty have threatened, plenty have tried to deliver, but nobody has ever fucked you this thoroughly. Getting to the shower itself is a damn chore.

"I know how to use it, sweetheart," you mock, in a shrill voice, peeling your underwear off. The sight that meets you is, well...

"Gross." They go into the trash can; there's little hope of saving them.

The shower is a blessing to your aching back, hot water kissing the sore, bruised skin of your hips. It's the only thing that the water and artificially scented soap cannot wash away, the only remnant you have of last night.

If only you had his number to go with it.

Fresh out of the shower, you dare to venture down to the kitchen. You're still adjusting to how big this new house is, only having moved in just over a week ago. Your new step-brother's bedroom is just down the hall, already filled with boxes and a fully put-together bed.

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead," your stepdad teases as he rounds the corner, head barely visible behind the boxes he carries. "There are sandwiches waiting in the kitchen if you'd like one."

"Thank you," your voice is wrecked, but he's nice enough not to inquire about it.

Indeed, there are sandwiches in the kitchen, including a few of your favorites. If there's one good thing about this whole surprise stepdad thing, it's that the man has remembered the singular time you told him about your favorite kind of sandwich, and good God, has he delivered. Perhaps it's because you're starving, but it tastes better than any sandwich you've ever had.

Something glass shatters.

Your eyes flick up to the entryway, pausing mid-bite into your sandwich.

Oh.

Oh.

"What the fuck?" Said in unison, two voices perfectly intertwined.

It's him.

The man from last night. His cheeks are just as freckled as you remember them, eyes just as blue as they were when they peered up at you whilst he nibbled on your collarbone. God, he looks good in that red t-shirt.

"Oh, Y/N!" Your mom shuffles into the kitchen in a robe you've never seen before; the stranger—your stepbrother, averts his eyes, "I was meaning to formally introduce you to Max, here," she frowns, then, eyes widen, "how did you get that bruise on your collarbone?"

She's touching your collarbone, the same one he, Max, had been biting just the night before. You hadn't realized there was a mark there too.

"Ow!" You squirm away from her touch, feigning a pain that you don't actually feel. "I fell last night, just don't — don't touch it!"

Behind her, Max's ears turn bright red, idly rubbing at his neck. Your new stepfather walks into the room, and his head turns, revealing a set of thin scratches that crawl up the back of his neck.

Holy shit.

Your mom is distracted by her new husband, Max all but bolts up the stairs, and you're left alone in the kitchen to process just what the fuck happened.

"I hooked up with my stepbrother," you utter, biting into your sandwich because, as shocked as you are, your stomach is still grumbling.

You aren't sure what you're more torn up about. The fact that you hooked up with the only son your stepfather has, or the fact that the only guy to ever fuck you so good that you couldn't walk the next day, is your stepbrother.

It's the same horrifying revelation that Max seems to be having too. When he walks through the kitchen again, he stops and just...puts his hand on top of your head. Squeezes a bit, and you're livid that it sends a shudder through your body. "Just making sure you're...real," he supplies, then awkwardly stumbles outside once more.

No matter what you do, he won't leave your head. It should have just been a hookup, something fun and forgettable, no strings attached, but it's so hard to forget him when he lives under the same roof as you. Your parents take you out for a celebratory "first family dinner," and when Max sweetly pulls the chair out for you at the restaurant, your heart just about jumps out of your chest.

The kitchen messes up your food, scams you out of fries and adds a bizarre side dish to your order, and doubles the amount of fries for Max. Your mom cooes when he swaps his extra plate of fries for the unasked-for, green concoction that you were given. All she sees is her new stepson looking out for her baby; all you can see is how absolutely cruel the universe is for handing you such a perfect man and making him your stepbrother.

There's a brief moment where you get to step outside, startled by the sudden, chilly air. You certainly hadn't dressed for this weather, but it was getting so suffocating in that restaurant. Had the waiter not been taking forever to come get the card, you'd have been long gone by now. Alas, here you are, shivering in the late-Autumn breeze, staring up at the full moon above you.

"Hey," you're startled by Max's sudden appearance, but your jolt of surprise is concealed by your shivering.

Not the first time you've been trembling before him, unfortunately.

"Hey," you chirp, voice high and airy, "what're you doing out here?"

"Same thing you are, I suppose," he comes to a stop next to you, so close that your shoulders brush.

It's quiet for a moment, just you, Max, and the wind. Someone's honking their horn in the distance, earns a soft chuckle from him. "Of all the people that we could have..." he begins, but he doesn't need to finish his statement.

"Yeah," you finish, laughing dryly, "of all fucking people."

He clears his throat. "Does it actually hurt?"

"Are you talking about the mark you left on my collar bone, or is my waddling just that obvious?" As much as you'd like to dance around it, your parents could walk out at any second, and you'd rather get this conversation over with.

Max sputters, "you...huh?" Blinks twice. "Both?"

"Collarbone doesn't hurt at all," idly, your fingers climb up to rub at the offending bruise as if you could simply wipe it off, "however, I have not been able to walk since last night."

Next to you, he's quiet, much to your dismay. It was easier to ignore the cold when he was talking, but now the air is growing tense, and you're shivering.

"Cold?"

"No."

"C'mere."

Max has his arm held out, fingers beckoning you to step closer to him. Against better judgment, you do, letting him draw you into his impossibly warm chest, strong arms wrapping around you. Nothing needs to be said; the pitter-patter of his heart against your ear is more than enough. It's everything your lonely heart craved last night, the circles being drawn into the base of your spine, the nose buried into your scalp. It's so strangely perfect, all moral conflicts inside.

"You know," he murmurs, voice heavy, "all morning, I talked my dad's ear off about the pretty little thing I'd run into at the bar."

His words make your cheeks heat up. "And yet, the pretty little thing turned out to be your new stepsibling," the words feel like weights on your tongue; it hurts just to acknowledge that new fact out loud, "this feels like some cruel prank being played on us."

There's a kiss being pressed into your temple, then Max freezes. "Shit, I keep wanting to — I'm sorry."

"I'm not much better," you sigh, peering up at him from underneath your lashes. Your noses bump, lips just mere centimeters apart. It's not fair.

Swearing under his breath, Max looks over his shoulder for a long moment. You look too, expecting to see your parents exiting the building, but you don't see them at all.

"Just one more time," he's saying, and then his lips are on yours.

They're just as soft as you remember them being, molding oh so perfectly against yours. He draws back, evidently having intended it just to be a peck, but your fingers are winding into his hair, and you're hauling him back down. It's messy, spit trailing between your lips as eager tongues meet, tangling until they ache. He tastes like coke.

The restaurant door chimes and you're just barely able to tear apart, pawing at your mouths to wipe away the evidence of your crimes.

"There you two are!" You hear your mom say, voice approaching.

You're not sure how to explain this position, but evidently, Max has a plan. Scooping you up off the ground bridal style, spinning you around in a way that forces you to cling to him, squealing.

"Max!" You cry, burying your face in his neck. "Bastard!"

There's laughter, and it seems to be working, is all you know. Max is running with you now, yelling something about it being "really fucking cold out here," carrying you all the way to the car.

"You know, you can put me down," you giggle, kicking your legs back and forth as he approaches the car.

"To be fair, it is my fault that you've been walking funny all day," a devilish smile graces his face as he says it. Even so, under the dim light of the street lamp, you can see that the tips of his ears have turned pink.

You go to bed that night feeling just as strange as you did the previous night. Your lips still tingle from how he kissed you, how he'd cradled your shivering frame as if you were the most precious thing on Earth. If you focus hard enough, you think you can still hear him downstairs, caught up in talking to your parents. Poor thing, you almost feel guilty for fleeing the conversation as soon as you got the chance.

Almost.

All attention is fixated on your phone, thoughts, and feelings numbed by the video playing on the screen. It's so much easier to run from the conflict raging on inside of your head. Your head screams that he's your stepbrother, but your heart reminds you that you're not blood-related.

How were you supposed to know the pretty boy at the bar was your stepbrother? It's your parent's damn fault for not introducing you at least once.

In your palm, your phone vibrates with a text message. The message preview tells you that it's your ex, Jacob. 'Hey,' is all it reads. Typical. In all fairness, you're rather surprised that he's texting you already. You'd assumed his fling with Emma would last a lot longer than three weeks, but then again, he's never been great at keeping a partner.

Knock_ Knock_

"It's open," you yawn, tilting your head to see who has chosen to disturb your presence.

The doorknob turns, and in steps Max, cradling two mugs of an unnamed steaming liquid. "I didn't know that a debate over hot chocolate or tea could get so heated."

"I'm surprised that you were able to hear which side I was on," Jacob long forgotten; you're sitting up, carefully taking the mug he holds out for you. "What made them finally decide?"

"I gave up and started making both," he chuckles. Clever.

Your ringtone blares, startling both of you, as Jacob's photo appears on your CallerID. You reach for the phone, not to answer, but to send him to voice mail. Not exactly in the mood to hear Jacob breathe into the phone while he struggles to find the words to swoon you back into his bed.

"No way," Max's face contorts into something unreadable, "is that Jacob Custos that's calling you?"

Blink. "You know him?"

Shrugging, Max sips his tea, "you could say that."

You have to pat the corner of the bed to get him to sit down, and he just barely takes up that spot as he recalls his high school days. Come to find out, you had gone to the same school, but Max was a grade above you and just miraculously didn't ever see you. It's so absolutely mind-boggling that you spent four years under the same roof and never realized.

"We used to piss each other off in the locker room," he reminisces, looking down into his now empty cup, "is he still a shit driver?"

"Forever and always," you sing-song. Last you heard, he was working in construction, and you'd really like to meet the guy that decided Jacob was responsible enough to man a multi-thousand-pound piece of machinery.

"Hey, you two," your heart just about lurches out of your chest when your mom pokes her head through the open door, "we're headed to bed. Try not to stay up too late, okay?"

You can barely get out a nod before she's disappearing, the door shutting behind her. You wish she hadn't shut it because now you've been given the blessing of privacy, and Max's eyes are meeting yours for the first time since you got home.

For a moment, you're still.

It's a guessing game of who moves first. Max's hands are on your waist; you've got your fingers twisted into his hair, and he's kissing you like a starved man, lips interlocked, sloppy as you struggle to find a rhythm. With one arm, he cradles you against him, secured tightly around your waist; with the other, he braces himself as he gently lowers you down against the mattress, never once breaking the kiss. It's nicer than the heated one you'd shared in the bathroom; without the rum clouding your mind, you're free to think clearly, really take in everything Max has to give you. On its own, your hand finds its way to his cheek, stroking the skin there, and you already know that it's about to become a bad habit that you're not sure you'll be able to break.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he murmurs against your lips, his voice huskier than it was just a minute ago. Contrary to his words, he doesn't pull away, just kisses you, like he was born to do it.

It's not as heated as you thought it was going to be. Expectations anticipated hips grinding against yours, lips on your neck as a girthy cock stretches out your sore, thoroughly fucked hole. What you're getting, though, is making your heart flutter. Sweet, short pecks interlaced between deep, long caresses that have you panting for breath. It's dizzying, the contrast between the Max you met last night and the Max on top of you right now.

Curious, you find yourself nipping at his bottom lip, wondering if he will give you what you're asking for. He does, lips parting oh so slightly, a hot tongue meeting you halfway. Slowly intertwining, doing nothing but explore each other. Little slides of tongues against each other between shallow kisses that have you squirming from the overwhelming sensation.

He shifts, clambering out from between your legs in favor of laying on his side, next to you. It's a welcome change; your back is still a touch sore. He must assume as much, based on the way he sheepishly grins as he pecks the tip of your nose.

"Not planning to have me limping in the morning?" You wonder aloud, curling into him when lightly muscled arm curls around you, pulling you into him.

"Nah," he's bashful in his tone, "I know you're sore, don't wanna make it worse."

It shouldn't be as comforting as it is. As much as you enjoy the idea of him fucking you into the big, comfy bed, he's right. You're still sore, and a repeat of last night is bound to make it worse, no matter how gently he dicks you down.

Max's hand crawls up your shoulder, coming to a rest against your cheek. His hand is so large that it practically encompasses half of your face, thumb stroking the thin skin under your eye. Such a simple act shouldn't have your heart fluttering in your chest, but it does.

You don't intend to fall asleep, but it's almost impossible to resist when sleep starts ebbing at your consciousness. Max is wrapped around you like a blanket, his heartbeat a lullaby that sings a perfect tune. He's stroking your head, eyes barely open as he does so, and you're so, so comfortable that you're powerless to do anything more than close your eyes.

He's not there when you wake up.

You can't blame him, it would be worse if he was still there and your parents caught him in your bed, but it still stings when you open your eyes to find a cold, empty bed. The ache that settles in your bones is nagging, a consistent reminder of what could have been had fate not been so cruel.

It's even more unfortunate when you walk into the kitchen and your mom corners you, inquiring about something a little bird had told her. "Wendy said she saw you and Max sneaking around at the wedding. Is this true?" And you don't know how you manage to convince her that it definitely was not you.

The paleness in Max's face tells you that he's gotten the same question.

All of a sudden, you cannot be alone in the same room together without a parent swooping in for some "family bonding." Your first thought is that it's only going to last a few days, but it lasts weeks, and it's so absolutely soul-crushing to be right next to the person who plagues your every thought, your every dream, and not be able to do the things you want to.

Every time you have to introduce Max as your stepbrother, every time you utter your relation and watch as the ladies make heart eyes the moment they realize that they have no competition, it feels as if someone is raking burning hot coals down your spine. It's not fair, truly. You kiss the man a total of what, three times? And now he's all you can think of anymore.

You crave his touch like an addict craves a drug; it's humiliating. How your heart leaps up your throat when he accidentally brushes his fingers against your shoulder when he's reaching for something, how giddy you get when he opens the door for you.

There's a day when you're not paying attention; your mind consumed with unraveling why Emma up and left Jacob for the umpteenth time when your nose cracks against something hard. It sends you stumbling, socked feet sliding on the hardwood floor.

Hands grasp your waist, your senses abruptly overwhelmed by a familiar body wash and the warmth washing over your body. You're looking up, nearly jolting when you lock eyes with him. It feels like a crime to be so close to him, yet you can't get yourself to move.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Max mutters, despite the glaringly obvious fact that you ran into him.

Even so, he doesn't let you go, fingertips digging into your skin in such a way that for a moment, you're back in that bathroom, drunk on rum and coke like a bunch of lightweights. Then, as if burned, you let each other go, scurrying out of the kitchen like a pair of roaches.

You carry the sensation of his hands on your waist for the rest of the week.

A week before she leaves for her honeymoon, your mom decides to invite over Jacob and Laura, insisting that it would be perfect to go on a "thruple date!" You audibly gag the moment she announces her plan; Max begs them not to embarrass the both of you like this.

It's futile. You find yourself in a stuffy carnival, sipping on an unnamed alcoholic beverage with Jacob's arm slung around your shoulders, doing all you can to not look at Laura and Max. She's only holding his hand, kissed him on the cheek when she first arrived, but you feel sick at the sight.

"This feels like a cruel joke," Jacob grumbles whilst you wait for his food at a snack stand. Bastard is always hungry, but he always buys you something, so you can't be too mad about it. "Why can we never get the people we want?"

"Beats me," you grumble. Jacob is the only soul who knows about your dilemma with Max; it's only fair, considering how much detail you know about his and Emma's sex life. He's the last person to judge, all things considered.

"I have an idea."

Blink. "Huh?"

He's handing you a bubbly drink that you don't recall hearing him order, one of your favorites. "We make them jealous."

It's a perfect plan. Instagram pictures with cleverly captured taglines, Snapchat stories of questionable meanings. While everyone else enjoys the carnival rides and games, you scheme like a pair of thieves. Each time Max looks your way, Jacob slings an arm around you. For every kiss Laura plants on Max's cheek, you plant two on Jacob. Empty kisses, a press of the lips to skin that do little to stir your mind.

Somehow, you end up at one of those dart games. Jacob is on a bender trying to win this stuffed bear for Emma. Briefly, you attempt to win a fuzzy wolf plush, but the darts fit awkwardly in your hands. Quite frankly, you've never touched a dart a day in your life, and it seems you don't harbor a hidden talent for the game.

Jacob's using all your tickets on this game, over and over. It's almost embarrassing to watch him; his persistence is his own downfall. The guy at the booth is just plain laughing at him at this point. The plushes can be won if you get three darts to land, which is the worst part. Jacob has not hit the board more than once, and the employee isn't even erasing his final tries.

At least the tickets aren't going to waste, you suppose.

"Darts?" Max's sudden appearance scares you so bad that you jolt.

"It's really unfortunate to watch," you supply dryly, "shame. The wolf up there is pretty cute."

Jacob runs out of tickets, finally, finally backs off, and lets the poor employee go back to playing on his phone. What you don't expect is for Max to hum next to you and walk up to the booth, handing over a pale yellow ticket.

He lands every dart.

"When the hell did you know how to do that?" Jacob squeaks, voice high and pitchy. Max simply shrugs and points to something that you don't quite see.

People are starting to look. Now that you've noticed their presence, it feels like the whole world is looking and knows that you're associated with the bulky himbo. Perhaps this is what drove Emma so far away from Jacob. As much as you love him, your feet are carrying you away, seeking shelter in some place secluded, where prying eyes can't associate you with the fool.

Against better judgment, you head for the car, without alerting anyone of where you're headed. Because in the car, you can at least convince yourself that nobody is staring at you. Nobody can look straight through you and make your stomach churn. You don't have to see Max and Laura, as long as you aren't wandering the carnival grounds.

The car park is still just as full as it was when you first arrived. You can't tell how long its been, but the sun was up when you arrived, and now the moon hangs high in the sky. Shadows loom, and the lights in the parking lot have gone out.

Hell, you forgot where your parents parked.

It's not like the black SUV was exactly the type of vehicle to stand out, either.

You're wandering the lot, seeking that gaudy "Just Married!" bumper sticker in all of its hot pink and neon yellow glory. No dice, you don't see the damn thing anywhere. The parking lot has turned into a maze, your head spinning as you try to find a car that seemingly no longer exists. You really shouldn't have left your phone with Jacob.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you yelp.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, it's just me!"

Your somersaulting heart shudders as it relaxes. "Max?"

"What're you...?" He's cradling a plush wolf in his arm, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze your shoulder.

"I was looking for the car," you huff, practically deflating under his grasp. His hand doesn't stay for longer than a few fleeting moments, leaving a cold spot on your skin.

"I know where it is," he mutters, then, "just don't...take off in the dark alone again, okay?"

Reminding yourself that you aren't his to worry about is a chore on its own. Even more so, you struggle to get your next words out. "Shouldn't you be worrying about Laura and not your stepsibling?" You don't intend for your words to carry as much venom as they do, but Max flinches all the same.

"I..." but it's all that leaves his lips.

He takes you to the car, it's parked in a completely different lot, and a car has pulled in behind it, blocking the sticker completely. You must have walked right past it. To your surprise, he clambers into the back seat with you, doesn't give a reason, just...does.

"I got you this." You don't recall closing your eyes, but you find them fluttering open as something soft brushes against your arm. The wolf plush.

It's softer than it looked, the perfect size to fit into your arms and hug against your chest. For reasons unknown, tears sting at your eyes, boiling hot and threatening to spill over when you attempt to blink them away.

"Thank you," you croak.

"Hey, don't cry," it's almost irritating how quickly he catches on to the changes in your emotions; even worse, his concern only makes it worse. One by one, tears run down your cheeks, and you can't even comprehend why it's happening.

Max is there, though; he always is. Scooting across the seat, shushing you as big hands cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. "Please don't cry, honey," the roughening of his tone, the pet name, the sensation of his hands on your face, it all makes it worse, "if you start crying, then I'm gonna start crying, and it's all going to be one big cry fest in here."

Through your tears, you laugh, burying your head into his shoulder when his arms wrap around you, "I don't even know why I'm crying is the worst part."

He's quiet, stroking his hand up and down your back, tracing out your spine. It's not like words can remedy the situation; truthfully, you don't think anything can fix whatever the hell this is.

"I wish things could be different," he mutters, voice breaking, "I really want to—"

"—Please don't finish that sentence," quite frankly, you don't think you can bear the thought of living in a world where things were different. A world where you could do everything you want to do with him. "I can barely keep it together as it is, idiot."

His nose presses against your temple, and lips ghost your skin. Your gut twists, anticipating the unfamiliar press of lips that will end electricity shooting through your veins, sparks flashing behind your eyes.

It never comes.

Soon, everyone is returning to the car in one big wave, and you find yourself crammed into the corner. Laura sits between you and Max, Jacob offers to drive you back in his car, and you initially reject his offer, but then Laura starts talking about all the things they did at the carnival, and you just can't take it.

"Actually, I think I'll go with Jacob; I'll see you guys in a bit," you say, and your voice sounds so unfamiliar that you almost wonder if you've swapped bodies with someone.

Your mom is saying something, but you don't register a word as you slip out the door and walk to Jacob's idling sedan. Hugging the plush wolf to your chest a futile attempt to soothe the ache in your chest that grows with every step.

"I had a feeling you would change your mind," Jacob teases when you settle into his passenger seat. He's smiling, but you don't need to look to know that he's equally as hurting as you are.

There's about an hour where he just drives. Aimlessly taking turns, venturing down backroads that you've never seen, making comments about the houses you see. You pass a couple arguing in their driveway, and that's what starts it.

"Do you think she cheated?" Jacob wonders aloud, slowing the car as you pass them.

"Nah," you still don't recognize your own voice, "he definitely fucked her sister."

Empty accusations fueled by your wishes of what could have broken your hearts instead. A forgotten date, breaking a family heirloom out of anger, pawning off the wedding ring for drug money. Fantasies of situations that you have a chance of fixing, something that remains in your control. A situation where words alone can fix things.

You wind up sitting at a traffic light behind a black SUV and a red sedan. Such a strange coincidence it is that you would wind up behind the same model of vehicle that your estranged lovers frequent. Your voices are raising, you're yelling, and you don't know why. Screaming obscenities, fuck you for making me fall in love with you. Fuck you for making me feel this way and then walking away.

Fuck you for giving me the person I've always wished for. Fuck you for taking them away. I hate your stupid grin, I can't stand the way you make me feel like the most special person in the world; how dare you get me hooked on you and then walk away.

You don't intend to be so loud, people are looking as they drive past, but you can't stop. Venomous words drip from your tongues; you're yelling at everything, at the dashboard, at each other, until your voices are cracking and your throats are raw.

"That was therapeutic," Jacob says, after a long while, voice barely a whisper. The roads are getting familiar again; you're almost home. "We should open a business."

It's amusing to think about. "We should."

Max and Laura are standing in the driveway when you pull up. You can't see Max's face, but Laura is in the midst of closing her eyes, leaning up to meet his lips and—

Jacob leans on the car horn.

You hate how satisfying it is to watch them nearly jump out of their skin. It's so satisfying for your aching heart to get its way and be an ass just this once.

Jacob doesn't let off the horn, holding it down even as he sticks his head out of the car. "I'm sorry!" It's such a blatantly fake tone, so obvious that he's fucking with them. "I don't know why it's doing this!" Then he's peeling out of the street, wheels squealing as he tears off into the night.

You wind up in Jacobs's apartment, sprawled out on his new comfy new couch as you tip back another drink. You've lost count of how many you've had, but the room is violently spinning, and there's a text appearing on your phone, but you're too drunk even to type your password correctly. That stuffed wolf remains tucked in your arms all the same.

You get home late sometime the next day, nursing a hell of a hangover as you slip through the front door. Your parents aren't home, off shopping for whatever they need for their honeymoon. You hope it won't be too long because your mom has a bottle of wine that she promised you, and even the ache raging on inside of your head cannot keep you sober.

"Where the hell were you?" Hearing Max talk feels like the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. "Do you know how hard I've been trying to get ahold of you? You scared me!" 

Vaguely, you're aware of him being on your left. "Shh, you're too fucking loud," you grumble, clamping a hand over his mouth, "just shut up and look pretty, would you?" 

The alcohol must be lingering in your system because you're not even registering what you did until you've gotten all the way down the hall. Max stands quietly on the other end, not moving, jaw slack. You almost dare to think that you see his eyes begin to water. 

They leave bright and early the next morning. Your mom dotes on you the whole morning, double, triple checking that, yes, you are sure you will be alright. That, yes, the money she left you is enough. That you know how to use the new-fangled security system and have at least three copies of the neighbor's phone number. 

Max stands next to you on the front porch, waving in perfect synchrony with you as the car backs out of the driveway. With a honk of the horn and a wave, they disappear down the road, off on their adventure. As soon as they've gone, you're turning and walking back inside. 

"Does it pain you that much to even stand next to me?" Max whines, right on your heels like an overly attached puppy. 

"Yes." Your sudden change of tune is a drastic one, but you can't help it. It's hard to get that image of him and Laura out of your head. 

Can driveways burn?

"Is it something I did?" 

Pause. Your feet come to a stop, and Max crashes into you, chest right against your back as he struggles to regain his balance. His hot breath tickles your neck, minty from his toothpaste; you have to fight the urge to close your eyes at the sensation. 

"I wish it was."

Max doesn't try to stop you from walking away. You don't expect him to, but it's strange for him to give up so easily without at least putting up a little bit of a fight. 

There's a fresh text from Jacob on your phone inviting you over to a newly opened bar for drinks tonight. He's invited some friends that he wants you to meet, thinks you may like this Nick guy that just moved into town. The garb you put on is a distant echo of the one you'd worn to the wedding. Similarly colored shirt, the exact same shorts that hug you in all the right places.

Maybe they could be your lucky shorts, you think, as you double-check yourself in the mirror. Perhaps they'll attract your dream guy, and this time he won't have any relation to you. 

Laura is sitting on the couch when you wander downstairs. 

"You going out with Jacob?" She asks, and it's the first time she's really spoken to you. You're almost surprised. 

"Something like that," you say, tugging on your shoes, "going drinking with some friends, maybe go home with some dude I don't know the name of, the usual."

She laughs like you two are best friends, just gossiping. "Well, good luck."

You look up to see Max standing in the entryway, leaning against the frame as he stares you down. Jaw slack, with that funny glint in his eye again. You blink, and it's gone. Strange, you almost thought he looked sad for a second. 

The first sign that this night is going to go horribly is how long it takes Jacob to pick you up. "I'll be there in five minutes," turns into an hour, and Laura ends up accompanying you in the driveway, chatting with you about your favorite drinks whilst Max sits on the porch steps like a damn gargoyle, staring off into the distance.

"Is he...alright?" She asks you, tilting her head over her shoulder.

Your fingers twist the hem of your shorts. "Mid-life crisis, perhaps?" 

He only moves to wave you goodbye when Jacob finally pulls up. There's a new dent in his car, and you don't know a damn person in his car, but you get in anyway because you'll take anything over Max and Laura.

The Nick guy is just as cute as Jacob had promised, but it's not hard to tell that the sweet girl sitting next to you, Abigail, has the biggest crush on him. You're not about to take that from her, as lonely as your heart is. 

"Rum and coke, please," you say when the bartender tilts his head to you. 

The drink he hands you isn't as strong as the one that Max's Granny made for you. It's made properly, with less rum than there is coke, but it burns the back of your throat all the time. You fiddle with the rim of the now half-empty glass, recalling a hazy image of blue eyes peering over at you, sparkling with naive curiosity. 

You tip the glass back and wave the bartender down once more. 

It must be the shorts. Or maybe it's the rum.

Whatever it is, deja vu nips at the edges of your thoughts as your back hits the bar wall, as some unnamed man presses you up against it, kissing you breathless. You're trying to keep up, moving lazily, but he's moving faster than you can process, aggressively licking into your mouth, claiming each and every inch. It's such a familiar sensation, yet it feels so...

wrong.

He's doing all the things Max did. 

His thigh is easing between your legs; he holds you all the same, still tastes like rum and sugary sweet coke. If you try hard enough, you can almost picture those dimly lit bathroom walls, can still feel the rough material of his blazer under your fingertips as lips trail kisses down your neck. You wonder if this man is named Max, too. 

When your eyes flutter open, it's not the bathroom you see, though. It's not the man you want to see. It's not Max. Even as he sucks on the sensitive skin at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, nibbles on the bone with his teeth, it's not him. It's not Max, and the very realization makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

"I'm sorry," you say, pushing his head away from your neck, and you're relieved that he complies, "it's nothing you did, but I can't do this." 

He looks confused, cocks his head to the side, but he nods, stepping away to let you leave. Jacob's beyond drunk, passed out on the bar as Emma stares him down from the other side. You know why she's here; you know that she's probably going to get nervous and fly the coop in a few weeks. She always does. 

You've lost count of how many times you've seen her show up at a hole in the wall like this one, drag her nails across the smooth wood of the bar, a sheepish grin on her red lips as she traces them up Jacob's shoulder. Whispers something in his ear that has his head shooting up, eyes wide, and a giddy expression sprawling across his face. 

It's cold outside. 

The kind of cold that sends a chill down your spine, dries out your throat with each foggy breath. It's the perfect kind of night for snowfall, and you regret not bringing a coat. The town grows quieter the further you walk; the only thing you can hear is the sound of your own boots hitting the pavement. 

You walk, and you walk, and you walk. Eventually, the town disappears behind you, too. 

"So much for getting laid," you say to nobody in particular, "wonder if Laura is sucking Max's dick right about now."

Selfishly, you hope she chokes and bites him.

There's a coldness on your cheeks as your home comes into view. You only notice it because of how the wind blows, stinging your numb skin with thousands of tiny, invisible needles. Sniffling, you wipe at the half-frozen tears. At least it's dark out, you suppose; nobody can see you reinvent the walk of shame. 

"What the hell?" Something is moving on the doorstep.

Hypothetically speaking, you should pull out your phone and call the police. Tell Max to get his dad's gun because, hey, something is curled up in front of the door. Maybe it's the house ghost you have yet to meet or the werewolf of Butter Street coming to pay a visit.

No, that's not it, that's...

"Max?" 

He's sitting in the same spot you left him in, and as you draw closer, you realize that he didn't hear you. He's looking down in his lap, jaw cradled in an open palm as he just...stares. His hair hangs low, blocking your view of his face, but there's a shaking in his shoulders that you recognize. Breathing heavy, body shivering as it's wracked with a loud, heart-wrenching sob.

"Max?" You try again, just feet away. 

His head shoots up, tear-filled eyes wide as they land on your trembling frame. "What...?" Gulp. "How did you get here?"

"Walked." Jamming a thumb in the direction you just came from. Your legs are going to be sore in the morning, and you're not looking forward to it. 

Max is standing up, and in two big strides, he's right in front of you. His arms open, but they freeze, coming to fall idly at his sides. It's awkward because you both know what he was about to do, and now he's looming before you, not looking you in the eye. Moving on your own accord, you close the gap and wrap your arms around him, tucking your head against his warm chest. 

"You could have called me, and I would have come and got you," he murmurs into your scalp, winding long arms around your waist, loosely at first, then properly squeezing you into him. "You're so cold."

"Why're you crying?" Dodging the question, your hand finds its way to his cheek, brushing away what tears you can.

Max hiccups, leaning into your palm, another tear running down his cheek. "I tried," heavy breath, sniffle, "I tried to make myself like Laura, I tried to..." his own sobs cut him off, but you know the ending of that sentence.

I tried to forget you, but I couldn't get you out of my head.

Drawing him in until he's buried his head into your shoulder feels like the most natural thing in the world. Your eyes sting as hot tears land on your exposed, bitten skin, hands roaming up and down his back. There's nothing you can do, nothing you can say to make this situation any better. 

"To think all of this has been caused by a piece of paper," you say, laughing at how stupid this all is, "we're not even genetically related!"

Max leans back, smiles, "it's so stupid," and then he's kissing you. 

Just a soft peck of the lips that lasts a few seconds too long, then another, lips molding against each other like they were made to do just this. 

"Inside?" He asks against your lips, pecking them once more. All you can do is hum.

World long forgotten, you tumble into the house like a couple of idiots, tripping over each other, your own feet. Both of you try to lock the door, but neither of you remembers to take your shoes off as you fly through the house. Past the kitchen, up the winding stairs to the second floor, hand in hand. You don't even know where you're going until he takes a hard right.

"I don't think I've ever even foot in your room until now," you say, practically falling onto the bed with him. It's plain, mostly. Pale blue walls adorned with a few framed retro posters, a desktop computer tucked into the corner. Not much decorating, but it looks nicer than Jacob's room, at least.

"I wasn't sure how long I was going to stay here, so I haven't done all that much with this room," his arm snakes around your waist, "still not sure, actually."

"Really?" You hate how estranged the two of you have been; it's hard to talk about life when your parents are down your throats twenty-four seven.

He hums, "I applied to Landis University for next fall," warm fingertips massage the exposed skin of your tummy, "don't know what the hell my major would be, though."

"Divorce lawyer," you suggest, to which he rolls his eyes. 

"I'll figure it out," blinking slowly, like a big old cat, "all I know is I want to have a big, fancy house and enough money to spoil someone silly with."

Acting on impulse, you roll over to face him, craning your neck to kiss his nose. It scrunches under your touch. "Is that so?"

Another hum, low and content, hand trailing up your body. You can't help the involuntary shiver it elicits from you. "This is new," and you know what he's talking about, the singular mark you bear from the man at the bar. 

"I tried to pretend he was you, y'know," it should be embarrassing, telling him this, but it's not, "it worked for all of ten seconds." 

He's leaning down, hair brushing your chin as he presses the softest of kisses to the offending mark. "I tried too," another kiss, "she was nice, but she's just not...you." 

He's coming back up, then, to kiss you properly. Lips interlocked, in a slow pace that leaves you endless time to memorize each and every inch of each other. There's no need to rush, not when he's drawing you into his arms, holding you close as he tilts his head. 

"Rum and coke?" Against your lips, between kisses. 

Running your hands through his tangled hair. "Rum and coke." 

The way he rolls you over is slow. It's not until he's parting your knees, settling between them, that you realize. Head spinning because you refuse to break the kiss for something as useless as breathing, heart fluttering because he's parting his lips, meeting your tongue halfway. Little kitten licks between your ventures, back and forth like a tug of war. 

"You're gonna kill me," he's panting like a dog, and things haven't even gotten heated yet. 

Laughter dies into a whine when lips meet your neck, catching his breath in between kisses and playful nips at your skin. You know he's going to leave marks, he's already making his way to your bitten collar bone, and you can't bring yourself to tell him no when you want them too. 

"Can't believe this," he fusses, tongue laving across the area, "I let a sheet of paper come between us, and now someone else is leaving marks on you." 

It's your turn to roll your eyes. Can't truly blame him; you'd be upset too. 

When a red bruise is beginning to blossom on your skin, he sits up, pulling his shirt up and over his shoulders. 

"God, what the fuck." Is all you can say because why hadn't you ever noticed his prettily sculpted chest before? Lightly muscled and freckled, just like the rest of him. 

Ears turning red, Max toys with the hem of your own shirt until you get the hint and tug yours off too. Wordless, he comes back down to you, pecking your lips once, then kissing down your breastbone, leaving tiny red marks in his wake. Fingers hook under your waistband; bright blues flicker up, asking a question, kissing your tummy. 

Lifting your hips for him, you're almost shocked by how quickly he takes them off you, underwear and all. 

"I've been thinking about doing this for months," he says, sucking on a plush thigh. You don't know what to say to that, especially not when you become painfully aware of the hot breath fanning out against you, tickling. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, soothes over it with his tongue. 

It drags up, up, up, and then his tongue is on you, languid kitten licks that have you whimpering into the back of your hand. He looks up at you as he does so, locking eyes with you as he works you over with his tongue, sucking lightly, making you jolt.

"I wanna hear you, honey," he says, gripping your hips to keep you from squirming away as he picks up his pace. The slick sounds of his tongue against you are obscene, but it's not quite as obscene as the noise he makes when you push your hand into his hair, tugging lightly. 

"There you go," you don't recall when he wet his fingers, but they're teasing against your entrance, toying with the rim, "this still okay?"

"More than okay."

You whine as two thick fingers curl into you, shallowly fucking them in and out, in tune with his tongue, while he works them into you, bit by bit. He maps you out like he's been doing this forever, rubbing into the exact same spot that has your thighs involuntarily clamping around his head.

"Shit, I'm..." you can't finish your sentence because the smug bastard is grinning and using his free hand to bring your thigh back, squished against his cheek.

Oh.

Tongue still working you, he closes his eyes, adds a third finger as he rhythmically fucks you open with them. You're fluttering around his fingers, whimpering into the open air as they abuse your little sweet spot, unyielding even as you try to squirm away. Heat blooming in your lower belly, burns hotter with every puff of breath against you; God, he's doing it again.

He stops. "Close?"

You almost hate him for how he's got you. Chest heaving, legs trembling. There should be no reason why this dork knows how to work you this fucking well. 

"I'm not a dork," he pouts, kicking his jeans off. Hell, you said that out loud.

"But you're my dork, is the difference," there's no use in arguing it, and he beams all the same. It's a stark contrast to the fat cock that hangs low between his legs, and you realize now that your half-drunk brain must have made it look smaller. 

"I guess that's better," you can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses you. 

It's easy now that you know what to anticipate when his cock rubs against your entrance, catching on it. Max is kissing your neck again, distracting you as the head sinks into your fluttering hole. 

"This time," he says, pausing to let you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, "I'm going to take my time with you." 

You're pulsing around him, and you know he can feel it. It's getting harder to breathe the further he sinks in, stretching you wide on his cock, and you just know you're going to be feeling it for days, no matter how gentle he is with you. 

It's only now that you can look up and see his face, jaw slackened, breathing hard as he stares at where his cock disappears into your stretched little entrance.  It's the same expression he wore in the bathroom, absolutely fixated on the sight.

"Mesmerized or something?" You grit, feeling your body quiver around him.

There's a dull ache settling deep within you as his hips finally, finally meet, flush against you. Max grins sheepishly, thumb running against your thinly-stretched rim, such a strange sensation that makes your leg twitch. "Something like that."

You know there's more to the story, but you opt not to pry; instead, you curl your fingers against the nape of his neck, guiding him down until he's just close enough for you to kiss him. Hips grind into yours in perfect synchrony with his lips, a dizzying feeling that has you panting into his mouth. 

The first draw of his hips is already enough to have you whining, it's so, so slow, and somehow it already feels even better than you remember it being. Agonizingly slow thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs with every press back into you, has you shaking as your nails bite into the pale skin of his shoulders. You're so, so glad that he isn't wearing that stuffy blazer this time around. 

The angle slightly shifts and—

"Ah!" You don't intend for the noise to even leave your mouth, never mind for it to be so loud.

Max grins, "there?"

And then he's pulling his hips back, thrusts back a little quicker this time, maintains that same angle that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a cry dripping from your tongue. Fucking you properly now, he's panting prettily against your bruised neck as you become hyper-aware of the soft little squelching sound coming from between your legs.

Such a noise should be embarrassing, but it's impossible to care about it when the thick head of his cock catches on your rim the way it does. 

There's heat flaring deep in your gut, between your legs; you can barely even think as Max drives his hips into your weeping entrance. Fucking you within an inch of your life, vision going blurry, and your eyes are just barely able to remain open. 

"Fuck, Max!" You mewl, only vaguely aware of the sweet nothings he's been murmuring into your ear, the teeth ghosting the shell of your ear. 

He's cradling your face with one hand, and you only become cognizant of it when his hips stutter to a crawl. Blearily, your eyes flutter open, confused as to why he just stopped all of a sudden.

"You're crying," he murmurs, fingertips chasing away a tear. 

"Feels good," you slur, absolutely drunk on the pulsating cock lodged between your legs, "tha's all."

Eye roll, and then he's pressing your noses together, wearing the loveliest smile. Hips moving again, short little thrusts that have your core tightening, clenching down around his dick as he fucks you. His breathing labored, gasping into your mouth as he begins to lose his rhythm. 

You can just barely drag your hands off his shoulders in favor of holding his cheeks; they're so warm, pale skin flushed from it. 

"Close," you keen, legs squeezing around his hips; there's that slick sound again, twisted with the soft patting of his pelvis against yours. 

Max is nodding, wordless as he picks up the pace, fucks you nice and deep as you weakly clench around him. So thoroughly fucked that you can't even clamp down around him, even when you try. Heat rages into a fire, and you're fluttering around him when he buckles down and pistons his hips into you. 

With a poorly muffled wail, you're cumming, jaw slack, body a trembling mess whilst he fucks you through it. Muffled praises littered into your skin, and he's just barely able to pull out before he cums with a whimper. Hot cum painting your inner thighs, your weeping, swollen hole. 

You don't know how long you lay there for, just barely clinging to consciousness. You must have drifted off there for a minute because one moment you're closing your eyes, and the next, there's a warm cloth between your legs .Max's lips are on your knee whilst he cleans you up. 

"You alright?" He asks when he meets your barely open eyes. 

All you can do is hum, making a little grabby hand when he moves to get off the bed. There's a flash of surprise, eyebrows raising, that's quickly replaced with what you can only describe as absolute, utter fondness. With a big, goofy grin, he tosses the cloth into the hamper and eases back into the bed with you.

"I'm not gonna disappear this time," he promises, kissing your forehead, "or the next, or the time after that."

Your heart flutters excitedly at that — the implication of a next time and a time after that. "How are we going to manage with...?" 

He hums a quiet little noise that you barely hear. "We'll figure it out. Come up with codewords or something. 'Rubber duckies,' maybe." 

"So you're saying that if you want to sneak around, you're going to look at me and say 'rubber duckies' and hope nobody catches on?" It's such a bizarre concept; you feel like a little kid, just trying to slip under your parent's watchful radar. 

"Okay, so maybe not rubber duckies," he squeezes you closer, tracing up and down your spine, "I don't suppose you have any ideas brewing in that head of yours, do you?" 

Hm. "Maybe."

"What?"

"Rum and coke."

#the quarry #the quarry x you #the quarry x reader #max brinly #max brinly x reader #max brinly smut #x reader #self insert #reader self insert #max the quarry #max brinly the quarry #quarry game #hacketts quarry #the quarry smut #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 oneshot #ao3fic #archive of our own #the quarry max #what are you doing stepbro #stepbro kink #ig??? #idk is that a thing #this was based off a weird fucking dream i had #updated 09/20/23 to remove mentions of hair

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Pretty colors

This was supposed to be for Wei Wuxian's birthday, but just like him, I was in the Burial Mounds and couldn't bring myself to do anything but survive - so here I am, comically late, with this cute little thing.

Enjoy <3

Today is Wei Wuxian's birthday - but he doubts anybody knows it, and frankly, this is no time to celebrate either. It has not been that long since he rescued the Wen remnants from the cruel working camps the Jin threw them in, so he must keep his guard up still - although, to be fair, he has never been relaxed ever since the Burial Mounds became his wretched home.

Not to mention that he cannot afford a celebration either - they're all on the brink of poverty, on the brink of death, so such frivolous things pale in the face of the sheer need for survival. There is barely enough food for everyone and the money is so scarce that they can barely afford the most basic of ingredients - of course there is no room for gifts or treats of any kind in such condition.

This is one of the main reasons why Wei Wuxian has decided he will be spending this entire day like he spends the rest of them - holed up in his cave, inventing all sorts of things to cover up the empty helplessness behind the place where his golden core had once thrummed power into his meridians.

Because he knows that, despite the dire conditions and the many things that they lack, the Wen remnants will do their utmost to give him something, to mark this day as special - they're all so kind, so giving, but Wei Wuxian knows they are also still vaguely afraid of him. So of course they would sacrifice a day's worth of food or clothing to offer him something as gratitude - and Wei Wuxian does not want that. They are suffering enough as it is and don't need to add to their burden.

So, Wei Wuxian sits at his makeshift desk that is nothing more than a conveniently flat piece of rock and begins writing, drawing and testing out talismans, stubbornly refusing to think about how different last year was on his birthday.

How his friends were still alive, rowdy as ever, and how Jiang Yanli would make him a special kind of cake he got to eat all on his own no matter how much the others whined about wanting some too. How he received all sorts of gifts the proof of whose existence is only now a faded memory. They all burned down when Lotus Pier was attacked.

How much easier life was - or rather, how much more comfortable. Of course, Wei Wuxian isn't a vain man and he does not care much for luxury and riches. But he still thinks of his warm bed in the Lotus Pier, of the plentiful food and the frivolous entertainment in the streets, and though he doesn't regret anything - neither giving up his core, nor saving the Wens - he does long for that life's pleasures every now and then.

Today he can't even really eat. There isn't enough for him too no matter how much granny argues otherwise - and even if he cannot practice inedia anymore, he is used to being hungry, so it's okay. A-Yuan and Wen Qing and granny need to eat more than he does. And it's not like he can treat himself with some wine or anything like that either - the money need to be used for other things.

In fact, the only thing Wei Wuxian can hope to enjoy today is, perhaps, an early night's sleep, if the talisman he's been working on will be any good. And given the fact that he hasn't properly rested in months, this is more valuable than his dwindling weight in gold.

So, for his birthday this year, all Wei Wuxian is planning to do is sleep and pretend like this is all a bad dream.

---

It is sad, in a way, though. There is nobody from his past that cares enough for Wei Wuxian to remember that it's his birthday today. Rationally, he knows Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli cannot reach out to him, same for Nie Huaisang and even Lan Zhan. He is not someone people really want to associate themselves with anymore and that's understandable.

Still, a letter or something couldn't have been so bad, could it?

Wei Wuxian decides that these thoughts are a sign he should fulfill his plan and give himself a good night's sleep if nobody else bothered to gift him anything else.

So, he lays out his shoddy robes that serve as linen, and a blanket that's more tatters than wool, and just as he is about to wave the candles off, he hears the sound of many steps walking into his cave.

With Wen Ning, Wen Qing and A-Yuan in the lead, the Wen remnants fill the space, and smiling conspirationally at each other, they shout out a lively, excited "happy birthday!"

The cave echoes with it, and the clapping and joyous laughter that follow - and Wei Wuxian is so shocked that he doesn't react at all until he feels A-Yuan hug at his legs tightly as he giggles a "Are you surprised, Xian-gege?"

Wei Wuxian realizes that he's crying only when he feels hot droplets slide down his cheeks. "I... thank you, all of you... but how did you know?"

Wen Qing smiles proudly. "A-Ning told me! You know, back then, when you were the only person that was nice to him at the archery competition, he became a little obsessed with you-"

"That's not true at all!" Wen Ning defends quickly and, if he was alive, he would be beet red. "I just wanted to know a bit about you, that's all... stuff like your birthday and..."

Laughter is pulled out of Wei Wuxian before he knows it. "That's a bit stalkerish, you know?"

"It wasn't like that at all!" Wen Ning tries, flustering even further, "I was just-"

"I'm joking, it's okay. And anyway, you saved my life and Jiang Cheng's, so I guess I can at least overlook the stalking in exchange."

"It wasn't stalking!"

Wei Wuxian laughs again, and Wen Ning can't help but join in a little bit, as much as his dead vocal cords allowed it.

"Anyway," Wen Qing continues, "We figured you'd be sulking here by yourself all day cause there's nowhere to party here, so..." she hands him a jar of what is definitely Emperor's Smile, "...we brought the party to you!"

He takes the wine with trembling hands. "I really cam't accept this... it's so expensive-"

"Well it's not like we can return it now! It came here all the way from Gusu!" Uncle Four shouts, and a few of his family smile knowingly amongst themselves.

"Gusu...?" Wei Wuxian mutters to himself, and his eyes soften even more. Lan Zhan.

"Oh and this came from Yunmeng." Wen Qing adds as she hands the other another jar, an enticing aroma flowing through the cave. "It's some kind of curry, but when I tried smelling it, it was like sinking my face into hellfire. It's apparently one of your favorites!"

"But..." Wei Wuxian starts, heart stuttering at the thought of Yanli and Jiang Cheng conspiring to have this brought to him, "...there isn't enough for everyone..."

"We want none of that, young man!" Granny laughs. "You eat it!"

At this, Wei Wuxian laughs with her, though he cannot help wondering if his body will be able to take so much spice now, despite his love for it.

"I made you something too!" A-Yuan interjects suddenly. "I know that people get flowers on their birthday but there are no flowers here and uncle Ning doesn't wanna let me steal from the markets, so..." he produces a little bouquet of colorful leaves, all tied together with a piece of one of his hair ribbons. They're all sorts of shades of red and orange, like pieces of sunset captured from the few sunny days that end in a spectacle of colors. They're neatly arranged, from the most vibrant shade of vermillion, to the palest amber, like a muted rainbow.

"Auntie Qing and I also made this." A-Yuan says as he hands Wei Wuxian a little envelope with a bit of yellow talisman paper hanging out at the top. "It's like one of those drawings you work on all day, but this one shines in all sorts of pretty colors! It's for when you have a really bad day, to make you feel better!"

All Wei Wuxian can do is pick the boy up and cry, hiding into his hair to mask his tears. "Thank you, little one. I love them. And I love you. All of you."

--

Wei Wuxian shouts out as he feels pain tear through him as unforgivingly as resentful energy bites at his bloody, mauled body. Everything hurts beyond words, beyond imagination, and his legs give out against the cruel onslaught of ghostly claws gauging at his flesh. It won't be long now before he'll be left without a voice, without eyesight, without life.

And though he has accepted it, and has stopped trying to fight the inevitable, there is still some will in him left for one thing before the world goes dark with pain and decay.

In his sleeve, still intact in its little envelope, there is a talisman.

And with a little bit of blood, Wei Wuxian sees it light up, a tiny firework show, blues and reds and purples burning through the paper one after the other.

The paper dissintegrates, and so does he.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #writing attempts

[ausetkmt]

National Review: Absurd Government Regulations Are Keeping People Out of Their Own Beds

sight. So policy-makers passed an ordinance that criminalizes camping on public land. People guilty of unauthorized sleeping sued, and the Supreme Court heard oral arguments on April 22, 2024. The case, Grants Pass v. Johnson, tests how far cities can go to regulate what happens on public property. But cities would not have so much homelessness in the first place if they did not actively stop affordable housing on private property.

This is what happened to Chasidy Decker, who lives 500 miles east of Grants Pass in Meridian, Idaho. Her problem is not that she lacks a bed. She already has one inside her tiny home on wheels, a 252-square-foot vehicle that she parks on private property. Her landlord leases space to her behind a fence in his side yard, which has hookups for water, sewer, and electricity. Yet Meridian will not let Decker sleep under her own roof. They warned her about expensive fines the day after she moved in. So, she has been homeless since August 2022.

Her trailer sits empty, while she scrambles for other accommodations.

Decker and her landlord sued to be left alone on private property. Our public-interest law firm, the Institute for Justice, represents them. A district-court trial ended in April, and they expect a decision by late summer.

Meanwhile, similar zoning disputes are unfolding nationwide. Many cities and counties oppose private housing solutions, which has contributed to a crisis affecting nearly every part of the economy. One charity, Tiny House Hand Up, tried to build affordable housing on its own land in Calhoun, Ga. But zoning officials stopped the project because of square-footage minimums. Calhoun residents must pay for bigger homes, even if they want smaller homes.

Anita Adams encountered a different roadblock when she tried to build a house in Seattle for her family. Zoning laws allowed construction, but the permit price included a $39-per-square-foot “housing affordability” fee—which added $80,000 to the project. Seattle demanded this payment to its public-housing fund before Adams could break ground. She and her family cannot afford the expense, meaning the city is effectively preventing them from building on their own property.

Amanda Root, a disabled, older resident living on a fixed income in Sierra Vista, Ariz., just wants to stay put on the same lot she has owned and occupied for more than 20 years. But code enforcers want her gone, citing a technicality: Her trailer has axles, and her street is zoned for mobile homes without axles. “I have looked at different options,” Root says. “There is nothing out there that I can afford. A tent? Where am I going to go? Behind Food City?”

Tiny House Hand Up, Adams, and Root all sued with representation from our firm. Lower-income families suffer the most from misguided policies such as these. Common tactics include occupancy caps, prohibitions on multifamily housing, and overregulation of accessory dwelling units, or “granny flats.” Shawnee, Kan., even criminalizes roommates. A 2022 ordinance makes it illegal for friends to split rent in single-family homes.

Multiple studies show what must be done: Let people build and operate housing on their own property. Yet real reform remains elusive — hindered on one side by not-in-my-backyard activists who think they should have control over how their neighbors live, and on the other side by people who believe it is immoral for developers to earn a profit — as if there were some other reason they would be willing to build.

Meanwhile, millions of ordinary families are getting pushed past their limits as the cost of living rises. People with mortgages are downsizing or consolidating. People who lease are falling behind. And those on the fringes are becoming homeless. Already, half of U.S. homeowners and renters are struggling to keep up.

The Grants Pass case deals with the fallout. Zoning reform could address homelessness before it happens. The Constitution provides the necessary firepower through the due-process clause of the 14thAmendment. State constitutions use similar language. Put in simple terms, these provisions mean the government cannot restrict activity on private land without good reason.

Decker does not want to sleep in a park. She has a bed. She just needs permission to use it.

#homeless

[topazy]

Inside, outside

Pairings: 10k x reader, Addy Carver × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

Chapter: 5.01

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story! I'm feeling a little sad but looking forward to writing the final season of the chaotic love story between Astra and 10k💕

You swing the hammer in your hands fast, cracking the skull of the Z in front of you open, flinching as its blood splattered over you. Turning on your heels, you bury the claw into another Z’s eye socket before using the blade in your other hand to stab it in the side of the head.

“I give you mercy,” you say, wiping the blood off your face with the sleeve of your jumper before putting your hand flat against a tree. You lean against it and catch your breath.

Thinking the coast was clear, you’d split off from the rest of your group momentarily to go for a pee, but ended up being chased by the undead on your way back. As you walk up a hill in the direction the rest of your group is going, you spot Doc running with a brunette by his side towards them, then hear the familiar sound of gunshots as 10k and Sarge take out a handful of Z’s.

“What’s going on?”

“A Z just said ‘no’,” Murphy replies.

“What?”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “A Z just said ‘no’ right before 10K shot him.”

“Right,” you snort, before leaning up and kissing 10k on the cheek. Dropping your backpack to the ground, you open it and rummage inside it before pulling out a bottle of water that you hand to the brunette Doc rescued, saying, “hey, I’m Astra.”

“Hi… Thank you,” she shyly accepts.

Since being unable to stop the black rainbow, the survivors of your group decided to head to Newmerica, and along the way, you helped anyone you came across. It was hard given the lack of water, food, and ammunition, but humanity needed to look after one another again, even strangers. It was the only way life in the new world would work. Maybe it was hope of a better life, but the sky seemed clearer, the grass was healthy and un-stained by blood and zombie guts, and the air was much fresher.

Once everyone had something to eat and drink, Doc declared it was time to move on before any more deaths came.

While heading back to the vehicle parked at the bottom of the hill, Murphy leans into you and says, “I don’t know about Granny; she doesn’t look so good. I swear to God I saw her cough up a hairball.”

He was right; the elderly woman who claimed her name was actually Granny looked as if she'd been sick for a long time. 10k and Doc saved her and her adult children from a horde of Z’s days prior, and initially you thought their sickly appearance was due to exhaustion, but now you weren’t convinced it was the only reason. You were worried Granny wouldn’t even make it to Newmerica. You whisper, “I think we should be ready to show mercy at any time.”

When a couple you rescued let out a deep, chesty cough behind you, Murphy looked back and waved to them. “How y’all doing back there?”

“We’re good,” the man replies. “She’s actually feeling better, and my stomach cramps have stopped.”

Murphy laughs cheerfully before turning to look straight ahead again. “If they weren’t talking, I’d swear they were Zs. What are they still living for, huh? I’d say just die already.”

“I say the same thing about you all the time.”

He glares at you, “brat.”

You laugh as Murphy walks faster to catch up with Doc, no doubt to argue about whether Warren is still alive again. The subject of their arguments caused knots to form in your stomach. You knew what it was like to have nobody believe you that someone you loved was still alive, but then again, you only experienced that with 10k because Murphy put you through it.

You step to the side to wait for 10k, who is at the back of the group making sure the dead don’t creep up, but as the others walk by, you do your best not to gag. Not only did the people you rescued look dead, but they also smelled like death.

—

Your eyes flicker between the road and the figure disappearing into the distance. Murphy had just split off from the rest of the group on his own to go search for Warren while the rest of you headed to New Mexico. Although you had a history with Murphy, you didn’t like that the group was getting smaller, plus you doubted he would survive long on his own.

“A few hundred more miles and we’ll be in Newmerica,” Doc says, railing everyone together. He stopped driving half an hour ago so everyone could stretch their legs.

Sarge stands beside you, mumbling to herself while looking between the different people. Suddenly she turns to you and says, “Oh shit, we’re a person down.”

You do a mental check of everyone that’s there and realize Granny is missing. “Hey Doc! We’ve lost one; Granny’s gone!”

Everyone splits off into pairs to try and find the elder women. Granny couldn’t have gotten far, but in her confused state, she could have been a danger to herself.

Luckily, it doesn’t take long for 10k to find her. She was hunched over, eating brains from a rotting corpse. “That’s disgusting.”

When Granny’s son pulls her back, she claims to have no idea why she ate it. It scared you to see how zombie-like she was becoming. Doc quickly orders everyone to go back to the truck. You go to leave, but 10k grabs your hand and pulls you back slightly. “Do you think Granny is a cannibal?”

“Possibly, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. They all seem so sick.”

“Do you think the black rain caused it?”

“God, I hope not; what if everyone in Newmerica is like that?”

He lets out a deep sigh and says, “We’ll figure it out.” 10k eyes soften as a smile plays on his lips. “Just think, once we are there, we can finally start to spend time together, just us, with no interruptions.”

“I can’t wait.” You press your lips against his, but pull away when you hear the sound of an engine being turned. “We better hurry before Doc sends a search party.”

Still holding your hand. 10k leads the way. Most married couples got to spend their first few weeks of marriage doing nothing but have sex, and it was growing increasingly frustrating how difficult it was for you to not even be able to spend ten minutes alone with 10k without being interrupted by the undead or someone in your group.

“Front or back?”

You squeeze his hand before letting go. “I’ll go in the back.”

You jump into the back of the truck beside Sarge; the tension between you is gradually getting less awkward. You sit with her facing the others while 10k gets in the front beside Doc.

“Alright, let’s go, kids!”

—

It made you nervous seeing how sickly everyone in the back looked aside from Sarge. The two of you kept glancing at each other, sharing a knowing look. The people you’d rescued all looked as if they were dying from some type of flu. You feared things would turn bad at any moment, and seeing the way Granny’s face began to twitch, you gripped your blade just in case she turned.

As Doc starts to pull over, you look around confused. He was pulling towards what looked like two men selling stuff at the side of the road from a camper van. Not exactly what you envisioned the new world would look like.

Feeling that something wasn’t right, you hang back by the truck as 10k, Doc, and Sarge go over to speak to them. Something didn’t seem right. You jump out of the truck and take a few steps forward, but turn back after hearing a grunting sound. You see Granny struggling to get out and offer her your hand to help her down, but she slaps your hand out of the way, jumps down, and runs towards Sarge.

“Brains!”

You get whiplash from looking back and forth between three different people who your group had taken in because they had turned nearly completely Z-like; they didn’t appear to be fully dead or alive.

When one of the men who was sitting by the stop point aims his gun at Granny, a young woman with short, slicked-back black hair appears and gently gets him to lower the gun. Her clothes were clean and fresh-looking; it was obvious she hadn’t been roughing it like the rest of you. She walks towards Granny, who was being restrained by 10K and Doc. She clicks her fingers to get the older woman’s attention and pops a black biscuit into Granny’s mouth, which turns her back to normal. Granny gives the woman a cuddle, then steps back to cuddle her son.

The woman looks at Doc and says, “How long has she been dead?”

“Dead? We just thought she was sick. She’s talking.”

“No, she’s dead. So are those two,” she says, pointing to the couple your group rescued. “They’re talkers.”

“How is that possible?”

“Since the black rain, people don’t just turn like before. Their bodies are dead, but their souls remain conscious. The dead don’t just walk—now they talk.”

Oh shit.

The mysterious woman hands more of the biscuits out to the half-dead people and explains that there are supposedly traces of brains and something else that prevents them from fully turning. You notice the similarities between the women and the figure of someone on the posters hanging up on the camper van.

“I’m George,” she says. “And this is my friend, Lieutenant Dante.”

Lieutenant Dante was most definitely already dead. Your group really messed up with the black rain; now the world has talking zombies.

“I’m Astra; this is 10k, Sarge, and Doc.”

“Sweet names. So what are you guys doing all the way down here? No offense, but you look as if you’ve been through hell.”

“We are looking for Newmerica.”

George tells you that Newmerica is just an idea that will hopefully become its own nation, and everyone, dead or alive, is welcome to vote. Dead or alive.

Doc shrugs and says, “Sign us up.”

#z nation #10k x reader #10k x you #z nation 10k #inside outisde #z nation fanfiction #10k z nation #murphy z nation #z nation doc #z nation x reader #z nation fanfic #10k fanfiction #10k/reader #10k/you #tommy z nation

[taleasnewastime]

Dating advice | Part twenty

Summary: It’s been months – ok, it’s been years – since you last went on a date. And you’re sick of it. Sick of seeing couples kissing and holding hands in the street. Sick of your friends settling down. Sick of everyone buying houses and having families. You’re going to do something about it. You’re going to snap up a man, you’re going to tie someone down, you’re going to finally commit, you’re going to – you’re going to need a bit of advice.

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: fluff; angst; smut

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: fluff, swearing

Authors Note: Over 50k later, we’re at the final part. I’d like to say a big old thanks for all the support on this and for everyone that has made it this far! THANK YOU!!  

Previous | Series masterlist

One year later:

Lots of things can change in a year. Some good, some bad.

At The Old Rectifying House there have been many changes. The staff are different, Lewis no longer works at the pub, he moved to university to study computer science, and Priya has officially been promoted to assistant manager, much to the owner’s annoyance. There are a few new members of staff, some still terrified of their boss which Priya secretly fuels with false gossip. There’s been a change in the regulars, most are the same but sadly one of the older men passed away. To the naked eye, the place looks and feels the same, but to the few that know the place more intimately there are more seismic changes, in both regulars, the small touches around the place – such as flowers on the tables – and more noticeably the mood of the owner.

There’s also been changes upstairs. Visually the place looks much the same, but if you look carefully there are different pictures in some of the frames and in some of the draws there are now clothes that definitely don’t belong to Yoongi. Granny knickers and lacy underwear, as well as jeans not in Yoongi’s size and skirts that he would deny all knowledge of wearing if questioned.

While you don’t officially live there, there is a large quantity of your belongings hanging around the place, much like there are some of Yoongi’s clothes at your place.

There are two toothbrushes in each bathroom. Floral shampoo in the shower that goes down quicker than you can use it. There’s food Yoongi wouldn’t normally buy and pictures around the room that weren’t there before. The plant life in his flat is thriving in comparison to a year ago and there are more often than not bouquets of flowers that were bought for you on the kitchen bar.

It’s you that tends to go to his more often than not. It’s easier and when he’s working a shift. You like making the use of the free Thatchers and making jokes with Priya at Yoongi’s expense, teasing the new staff about how mean Yoongi is and making up stories that he grumbles about but secretly smiles at. It’s nice to go upstairs, to curl up on his sofa, to sometimes go to bed and then have Yoongi crawl in beside you. You don’t as easily get that luxury if you stay at yours when he’s working.

There are other changes too. The two small bowls that sit under the breakfast bar weren’t there a year ago. There is a fluffy hammock hanging off a radiator that looks unused and various toys dotted around the room.

You’d finally convinced Yoongi to get that cat you’d thought would suit him so much. And while you kept dragging him back to that cat café, as well as different rescue centre open days, you’d finally convinced him what a great idea it would be. He’d grumbled the whole time about it. But you’d worked out how to get what you want, it wasn’t hard, if you asked enough times you found Yoongi didn’t stay saying no to you for long. In the end he’d give you anything you ask for.

When Yoongi finally agreed to getting a cat, he took the matter seriously. You caught him googling things in the evening, though he was quick to change tabs if he knew you were watching. He didn’t leap into getting any old cat, you visited several rescue centres before he picked the perfect cat for him. An older cat that had been in the centre for nearing a year, looked over by every other person and with FIV, a feline disease that meant he should be kept inside, ideal for a flat. He had the name Raven Fluffles. Yoongi refused to change it claiming it’s what he’d answer to.

“Look!”

You glance up from your book, feigning indifference. Yoongi’s stood, foot nudging a plastic ball, the bell inside ringing. The cat is sat next to him, looking up with much the same look you imagine is on your face. All black, with bright yellow eyes, he looks like he’d rather be doing anything else. He’s been with you for a few weeks now and though it’s taken time for him to settle into his new environment and his owners, you now wonder how Yoongi possibly picked a cat exactly like him. Because though the cat is acting like he’s disgusted, you know he’s a playful kitten inside, on multiple occasions you’ve caught him playing with his toys when he thinks he’s alone, and in the evening he creeps closer to Yoongi’s lap, giving into the scratches and cuddles he pretends to be unbothered by.

“What exactly am I looking at?” You ask.

“You missed it,” Yoongi says, eyes firmly on the ball at his feet. “But he definitely kicked it this time.”

“Like the other day?”

He shoots a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowing, before he looks back down at the ball. His toe continues its movement.

Now he’s not looking at you, you let your lips curl a little, giving away your feelings. It’s sweet really. Despite all his grumbling about getting the cat, it was him that bought the food and treats, it’s him that empties the litter tray with no complaint, it’s him that’s bought the mountain of toys that don’t get used. He’s been trying to convince the cat to play with them for weeks, and no matter what he says, he’s yet to be successful.

You’ve seen him tapping his lap gently while he watches TV, pretending not to be bothered whenever the cat decides not to sit on his lap. You’ve stumbled into the living room half asleep when you’ve heard him come up in the early hours from work but hasn’t come to bed and seen him laying out Dreamies, watching as the cat chomps each one up. You’ve seen the way he doesn’t think twice when adding something to the shopping for the cat, when he fights so hard over even the smallest of additional things you suggest for the two of you.

He loves the cat, and you can’t deny that you’ve become incredibly fond of watching the way he reacts around him. It’s like you always imagined. Your little picture of the future actually coming true.

“He probably just walked into it,” you tease.

“He reached his paw out and batted it.”

You hum, enjoying yourself and though Yoongi doesn’t turn to look at you, you know what you’re saying is working. It’s one of the things that hasn’t changed over the year, teasing each other is still a massive part of your relationship with Yoongi.

“Fine,” Yoongi huffs, giving up and giving away his true feelings.

He does a little stomp over to where you sit, a small pout forming on his lips. You put your book to the side, open your arms up for him to sit at your side. You smile as you look at him, smooth the hair that’s grown so long out of his face. God, you’re so incredibly fond of this man.

“I’m sure he did play with it,” you smile.

“He did.”

“He liked the catnip toy you bought. Maybe we should get him some more of that?”

“It’s not good for them to have too much,” he mutters.

“Ok, maybe next month as a treat?”

He nods, and your smile grows as you continue to stroke his hair behind his ear.

“God,” you giggle. “I love you.”

He looks at you, your hand moving to cup his cheek. He’s got a frown on his face, not the same look of surprise and utter joy when you first told him the words, this time it’s more annoyance.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because you’re just so dumb and yet I still love you.”

He rolls his eyes though the firm line of his lips starts to crack.

“You not going to say it back?” You goad, eyes flicking over his face, you’ve gotten so much better at reading all the emotions he tries to hide.

He looks at you, softness seeping into him now, relaxing all his muscles. “I love you too.”

You beam, and the look creates Yoongi’s small smile to grow. He winds his arm around your back so he can pull you closer.

“Though, I agree, why I have no idea. You’re so annoying.”

You giggle as you lean in, whisper just before your lips touch his, “oh shut up, you love it.”

You don’t let him agree or disagree, just press your lips into his. You know the answer anyway. Because even if he didn’t say the words back, he says it through every action he does. Because you’ve had your ups and downs and you’ve had your insecurities, but you know now. You love Yoongi and he loves you back just as much.

Taglist:

@minyoongiboongi @kookiecrumb @shydestinyyouth @minimoni7 @dopedreamfireparty @ilyk00 @hobiicores @here4btsfics @highly-functioning-mitochondria @ajw05 @xuxibelle @seoqity @jjksaveme @squakadoodledoo @jiminandhislostjams @rumpucis @bbsantc @likeshatteredrainbowglass @zae007live @mama-miss-shunshine @chaotic-floral @cowboylikevicky @yoonallthetime @feeling-woozi @neongreenlaces @jimilter @is-it-sander-oclock-yet @majamarantha @nuniah @sunshinerainbowsbts @driftapart

#Yoongi fluff #yoongi fic #Yoongi fanfic #Yoongi imagine #Yoongi fan fiction

[levynite]

Went to temple the day before CNY Eve because oh boy do we not want to ford the press of a sea of humans while fighting a granny for a folding table to lay out the food offerings while slow choking to death in the thick haze of incense. (there's still more cleaning to do at home help)

Things of note this year:

*The confusion over the pre-ordered paper offerings because only two out of the 6 attendees can actually read fucking Chinese characters and the one who did the pre-ordering did not communicate to us directly about the new conditions, and only sent her brother who speaks in the briefest ways possible so he pointed at the items in question and said "Man, woman" and we're like ???? Yeah? we get 3 sets men and 3 sets women every year? (it comes with gender coded paper clothes) and then dad saw that we were short so he bought two more. Turns out, they were selling selling couple sets now and that's what my cousin pre-ordered, AND NOT TELL THE ONES WHO ASSEMBLES THEM EVERY YEAR.

Me: Eh, the ladies get spare clothes then! Besides the extra hell money.

*As I was washing up the temple provided dishes and teacups at the sinks just next to the doors that are between the memorial tablet hall and the fireplaces? where we burn the paper offerings, chaos briefly broke out behind me and I turn to see a small pile of flaming paper offerings in the middle of the open air covered tiled floor area that leads to said fireplace? and I'm like, wtf, you are about 15 feet short of where you should be; then I realised a temple staff was loudly chiding a temple patron for moronically lighting his paper offerings on fire on the many candles inside before walking through the increasing crowd to go outside and promptly dropped the whole fucking flaming mess onto the floor short of the fireplace? oven? kiln? that is already merrily blazing and people have been peacefully queuing up with armfuls of offerings to toss in. And he dropped it because it was already on merry fucking fire? It's all paper and cardboard? There's a breeze outside that fanned he flames? Like outside has wind and airflow? And he was a good distance away from where it's supposed to be burnt proper to float off to where ever the ancestors are??

F O O L

*So here's the thing about asking spiritual beings questions: kinda hard to do. So the Chinese developed simple "fortune telling" tools to glean any indication of an answer or a general direction. In this case, after laying out the food offerings, and offering up the joss sticks, and the paper offerings are assembled beautifully in a vaguely lotus shape, we have to wait while the ancestors "eat" and "drink" the food offerings (a can of Carlsberg for my Second Uncle in this case as well) and this can take a while; meanwhile we're slowly getting smoked by fragrant incense by all the joss sticks being lit. And it's not even the insane crowd on CNY Eve!

Anyways, my Second Uncle's wife is the most senior in the temple group so she's usually the one asking if the ancestors (and her late husband) are done eating yet. We use something called a jiaobei or poe (with the accent) or loosely translated as moon blocks. These are a pair of crescent shaped pieces of wood carved with matching flat and curved sides. You toss them onto the floor after silently asking a question directed to the gods or the ancestors or whatever spiritual being, and then depending on how they land you get a yes, no, or the rarest, a confused answer where the blocks stand on their edges???? (wtf seriously never seen).

So I keep hearing the wooden clacks of the blocks getting tossed after a minute or so pause in between, with each pause getting shorter. I was guarding the paper offerings but I got curious and went over to have a look after hearing 5 clacks in a row; it was my aunt. And she really wants to go home now because it's been 2 hours of slowly becoming smoked jerky, but she keeps getting two same sides up (no) again and again. She hands it over to her daughter (said cousin who caused the pre-ordering confusion earlier) and she gives it a go; it's a NO. I was like, uh maybe I can give it a go? Aunt tries one more time, gets another NO from the ancestors. Tries in front of her husband's memorial tablet; gets a YES. Fed up, she hands me the blocks because what else has she got to lose.

Me, shuffling over to in front of the ancestors' tablets: *silent asking* Cousin who has known me since I was a baby: WAIT WAIT WAIT.....don't throw so hard. Me, about to fling the blocks down onto the tiled floor where they are sure to bounce off into the underside of the insanely heavy ornamental tables and more folding tables holding food offerings and the many feet of other devotees: .......OK.....*flings down gently* Me, staring: IT'S A YES, LET'S GOOOOOO

You have never seen an octogenarian pack up a whole ass boiled chicken, steamed cupcakes, fruits, etc etc so fast. Meanwhile I've booked it to go get the paper offerings to burn to reach the spiritual realm of whatever; I dunno, I'm not well schooled in Buddhism.

Later on during lunch at home, I told dad what had happened and he wondered if the ancestors were annoyed at Second Sister-in-law for the paper offering screw up because it's the first time we've deviated like that, and that was why they kept telling her NO but she essentially kept going (and I'm paraphrasing a friend here) 'Are we done eating yet? Are you full? Are we done yet? How about now? How about now? How about now?'

Edit: Well that didn't save properly but anyways this thing has been sitting in my drafts for almost 2 weeks. Fortunately CNY has been pretty quiet despite how busy and exhausted I was (caught hives for some damn reason on the third day). And now I can finally post this up on the final day of celebrations lol.

#cny 2024 #the funny bits

[designerecotinyhomes]

Grant Emans' Vision: Crafting Affordable Tiny Homes

Join Designer Eco Tiny Homes in embracing sustainable living. Since 2016, we've focused on crafting affordable, eco-friendly tiny homes. Experience quality living with modern, energy-efficient designs.

#tiny home #granny flat #kit homes #same day granny flats #granny flats designs #small houses #Mini homes #tiny house on wheels #buy tiny house

[alpacasandravens]

post-canon fix it where cas comes back from the empty and dean’s still dead. Jack was doing some reorganizing upstairs and conveniently let cas slip back down to earth, Grace in a bottle around his neck. and he wakes up and he looks around and there’s nobody there. so he finds a payphone and he calls dean. no answer. he calls dean’s other cell, and his other other cell. no answer. he tries Sam’s phone and Sam picks up on the fourth ring. “everyone who has this number is dead,” he says. “who are you.”

and cas explains and Sam comes to get him and takes him home. not to the bunker, to his and Eileen’s house in town. the bunker is up and running, and they keep it stocked and clean, but hunts are less and less frequent now chuck’s gone. Sam’s on the county council and the school board. Eileen runs a kickboxing class. and three years ago, Dean died in a barn.

Sam explains that it had been chuck’s last gasp, a vamp hunt designed solely to gank him, and that Jack hadn’t been able to stop him writing in time. Billie, also back and free of chuck’s manipulation, says she couldn’t help even if she wanted to. heaven’s gone. reapers just bring the souls to the metaphorical pearly gates, they can’t go inside. dean is dead, and this time it’s for good.

Sam and cas and Eileen live. and they grow and they mourn dean - though sam and Eileen did most of this mourning three years ago, while for cas the grief is fresh and new. they set cas up a little granny flat in the shed out back, and he plants flowers in the yard. Sam adopts, a little shifter boy that reminds him far too much of how they couldn’t save Bobby John all those years ago. cas gets a job at the library. life goes on.

cas has lost his love and his son on the same day, and he wasn’t there for either of them. and he’s not really a part of the life sam and Eileen are building for themselves, even if he does help out on a hunt every now and then and even if their kid does call him uncle cas. Claire drops by for a visit, tells him she and Kaia are getting a courthouse marriage and he will be one of the witnesses. life goes on.

until one day sam gets another call. dean’s back. jack’s with him, gave up his power. something about dean convincing him the life worth living was the one down on earth. dean’s Heaven had come unplugged with chuck’s computer, turned into a purgatory-like, twisted version of itself he had only just managed to escape. and he’s realized that things might suck on earth, but being alive was still a hell of a lot better than being dead.

and dean’s alive and jack’s alive but neither of them have been in so long that they don’t know how to be, and cas has been without them for so long that he doesn’t know how to fit them into his life, only that he has to. and the fic ends with dean and Jack opening Sam’s front door, and Jack seeing cas for the first time since everything went down, and saying, “hi, dad.”

#sorry to write fic in a tumblr post I am just having emotions and thinking thoughts!!! #spn #destiel #castiel

[uwuowotf2waslife]

What would the mercs reaction be to realizing their s/o needs glasses, like "wait, they aren't oblivious/clumsy, they just can't see shit!"

So we go full og Hann@h Barb@rbara Scooby Doo here?

(unironically Shaggy & Scoob were the og , no duo can get the Shaggy Scoob razz)

Scouty Boy knew all along but kept youy, figuratively and literally for shitzs and giggles. Gets worried sometimes if you fall flat on your a$$ and go full Velma mode so in the end helps you find a legal Doc ( sorry Sawbones, Optomentry aint whats on your diploma)

Soldier almosts yeets you right at Med Bay faster than you can say :4rth of July. He doesnt want his closest war buddy getting an a$$ whooping because they couldnt eyeball the sticky bombs at the door hinge.

Pyro is in the same boat as Soldier, but sometimes they wish you could have some of those real fancy heart shaped glasses , preferably rose tinted, because it looks so cuuuuuute and they would scream ( affectionately) if they could see you all day everyday looking fresher than the fresh prince of Bel Air bish!

Heavy is not a man of games that may cause physical harm, but his heart does the tingle wiggle when you relly on him e.g helping you out finding your glasses ( Medic handmaid and breadmonster repelent activated <3). It makes him feel kinda needed, and thats all he is in this earth boyo.

Demo, actual fucking adult man, paying taxes and helping grannies to cross the road without tip needed, has new glasses all day everyday for you, no matter how clumpsy or forgetfull you are.

Engie, offers to try some new device that actually makes a falcon blinder than a mole rat, but gets why you worry so he settles for some granny glasses and some extra southern care if you get on the Velma fours and start asking where those darn glasses are.

Medic...please dont, well since its a bit low even on his morals to experiment on an arguably blinded vic-patient we mean, he settles for some collegue ( not a person who ows him some organs, no, not all) so all day has a box of glasses ( new) and broken ( old) . In the end of the month he donates them to Engie for scraps.

Sniper, gets the dril. He wore glasses ever since he was 5 he had those baby goggles because it sucks to suck, if it aint 10 feet and far he is blind as a skunk. Maybe get a bit jelly if you get the real fancy ones.

Spy knows and has already ordered a pair, prolly Versace because my mans has that dough and he wants his partner to be pippin hot so he can scoff at cheaper looking dilfs at brunch cocktail parties.

#tf2 x reader #tf2 fandom #tf2 imagines #boys being boys #tf2 shitposting

[mintmatcha]

normalcy is different for everyone.

when he eventually heals, when it finally stops hurting to be alive, Kita gradually begins to fade back into normalcy. a precious routine, one he's sorely needed again in his life.

he's always been one for his routines, so settling back into one was hard. after a lot of grief, a lot of tears, and a lot of memories kept carefully preserved, Kita was gradually able to pull himself back together.

during his morning routine, once he feels he's re-established one, he lets his body carry himself through his ritual. rising early, brushing his teeth, making breakfast.

only, this time he finds himself making another meal while preoccupied with thinking about the upcoming harvet. he's going through the motions, unaware of what his subconscious actions until the bento is completed and he turns to call for his daughter--

he stops. and then he breaks.

months and months of work, an internalized routine, shattered in the face of a cutesy, cat-themed bento.

from there on out, he thinks for her whenever he makes rice.

"Dad," she once asked, watching him cook dinner. It was after Grannie had passed- back when he thought that was the worst grief he could endure, "How do you cook my lunches?"

"I measure out the ingredients and cook them according to the recipe, sweetie." Kita ran a hand through the rice, diligently washing until the water ran clear.

"You don't measure the rice or the water though."

"I don't need to." Kita dipped his hand into the pot, pressing the flat of his palm against the flat bed of kernels. "Do you see how the water comes to my knuckle? That's the perfect amount."

She rose on to her tiptoes, hand splayed out and waving in the air. Grannie always said she has his eyes, but he rarely sees it. Hers were the same hues, sure, but much more wild, much brighter.

"Lemme try! I wanna do it!" she said, before tacking on a little, "Please and thank you, papa."

With a crinkle of a smile, Kita lowered the pot to her. She dunked her whole hand in shamelessly, past the rice, all the way to the bottom of the pot. The water came all the way up to her wrist.

"Hey!" she huffed, "It's not working."

"Your hand is just too little," Kita kissed the top of her head and lets her wipe her dripping hand on his shirt. "One day you'll be old like Papa and it'll make sense."

In an empty kitchen, Kita dips a hand into the rice cooker's pot. The water touches just below his knuckle and he pictures her. It's both the image of her as she was -small, fragile, young- and her as she could have been -grown, strong, the woman she should have become.

#content.cold #angst #single dad kita

[whitmerule]

a tale of two hairstyles (3/5)

(until I find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Skimbleshanks’ hair was just as rigid as ever, at least during the day. But now his moustache was usually sticky and ruffled from the fascinated clutch of baby fingers.

Co-parenting, Munkustrap assured Tugger, was hard on any relationship. You had all the usual difficulties of living together and working around and with each other, and then here was another entire human being, dependant on you both and exhausting you to the bone. 

All very well for him to say. Jemima slept through the night, and never got the tummy upsets that Bucky did. And at least Munkustrap and Bombalurina had a relationship.

At least they owned their house together, and neither of them was an uneasy guest (a charity case) (a hostage).

… at least Munkustrap wasn’t suffering from a perpetual case of blue balls.

Tugger had a bed, in theory—in the granny flat out in the garden—but he never used it at night. He crashed on the couch in Bucky’s room (formerly Skimbleshanks’ guest room), until Skimbleshanks would come stumbling in at the sound of the latest fretful wail, and lift the baby out of Tugger’s fatigue-heavy arms, and shoo Tugger into the master bedroom to get some proper rest.

In the mornings, when Skimbleshanks stepped out of the en suite, his hair was dark and oddly flat, plastered down over his forehead and trailing little rivulets down his nape, to vanish temptingly below his cable-knit green robe.

In the evenings, or in the timeless hours of soothing and rocking in the night, it seemed paler instead: mussed and soft without that Ken doll pomade, but still, always, falling in the same direction anyway, automatic after decades of training.

In the darkness, when it had no colour at all, it was only sensation to Tugger. Easy enough to bury his face in it and breathe, citrus and sandalwood and the soft-harsh little prickles against his mouth.

(Easy enough to sneak a hand down between his own thighs, when he was almost sure Skimbleshanks was asleep, and stifle his moans into the pillow that smelled of him.)

Sharing a bed was convenience, not intimacy. They never talked about it. If limbs tangled, or hands curled around the back of a neck, or if Tugger woke up as a ludicrously large little spoon (with the skin of his belly tingling under Skimble’s firm hand)... well, that’s what you get when you’re all up in each other’s space all the time. It didn’t mean anything. Especially not to Skimble.

Tugger’s strength and muscle started to come back, and his collarbone didn’t cast such a sharp shadow below his throat. Now he was back on regular T his body was starting to change for the better in other ways too, even though Bucky was still chest-fed as much as bottle-fed. 

And Tugger was slowly lifting his eyes from the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other of survival mode, looking around and finding things to enjoy. The kitchen was becoming his domain, scene of a grand success on one day and a messy disaster the next. Gradually, Tugger made his way up to working four half-days a week, while Bucky was with Cassandra, or with Bomba and Munk. Even Skimbleshanks, that consummate workaholic, was cutting back on his hours to spend some days and half-days at home with Bucky, and taking his turn at babysitting Electra.

When Tugger was feeling vicious and resentful he’d call Skimbleshanks his Prince Charming, and laugh to see Skimble stiffen and freeze over. 

Whether Skimbleshanks had asked (ordered) him to move in out of charity, or penance, or just because he knew Tugger didn’t dare refuse… if it came down to a custody battle between the respectable middle-aged well-off model employee and the down-and-out (trans) son of a mob boss, then it woudln’t even be a battle. 

(And Father might hear of him—might learn about Bucky.)

Sometimes Tugger looked at Skimble, running long fingers through rumpled red hair and muttering to himself as he worked out the week’s schedules and shopping lists, and all the micro-managing bullshit was almost cute instead of stifling and he wished… something. But he didn’t hope. 

What could he possibly offer to Skimbleshanks apart from his body—and his kid?

(part 2 | part 4)

#tuggershanks #rum tum tugger #skimbleshanks #whitmerule fic

[laniquelovlie]

First Time! We all have them whether you’re gay or straight. And if your first time was anything like mine, it’s a moment you’ll always remember. I was young when I experienced it for the first time. Not a perverted young age, so guys relax and feel free to stop reading here. For those who dare to read on, hold on to your seat because this is going to be one hell of a ride. I was in the middle of my teenage years. Granted, that’s still not an okay age to be on my back. Since I was still technically a virgin afterward, I don’t see it as such a big, disgusting deal.

A person’s first time is one of the most special moments in their life – at least it should be. My first sexual experience was with my best friend at the time, BriAnna. This was roughly eight years ago. We were the same age, but she had already made her rounds through every freshman boy in Philly. Amongst my group of friends, we’ve always debated whether it’s best to share your first time with another virgin or be with a partner who has experience. I was always neutral to the idea – who was I to say what someone should do during their first sexual voyage?

That’s until I had that wild, unbelievable, and flat out crazy night with BriAnna. I remember it like it was yesterday and each detail still gives me chills. School was a major pain in the ass, public transportation was running slow, and – to make things even worse – it was the middle of heat blasting July. All I wanted was to see a friendly face. BriAnna was loud, loved to swear, ate anything and everything without gaining a pound, had a weird craving for cucumbers, and gave slaps in the face more than high fives. All my pleasant friends were busy or out of town. I didn’t want to go home, so BriAnna was my next best thing.

I had made it a habit to strip out of my school shirt as soon as I could. It was a tacky gray, half cotton, half wool shirt with the school’s name stitched across the left chest. Even with short sleeves that shirt was thick and nasty to wear in the summer. I often wore a tank top underneath that hideous sweat maker, but on this exact day I only had a bra on. In the back of the air conditioned bus, I slipped my arms out the sleeves of the shirt and pulled my denim jacket up underneath it. I notice a few onlookers as I lift my shirt over my head – a frowning granny, jealous teen moms, and some perverted guys from school. What more can I do but wink while buttoning up my jacket.

The bus got empty as quickly as it was filled with high school students. The beaming sun made everyone lazy and anxious to get out from under its rays. Kids were leaping onto buses just to avoid walking down the street. My stop was near the end of the route, so I had nothing better to do than text my mom. It was a modest message telling her I wasn’t going to be home for a while – detention will be occupying my time. She didn’t pry about it and sent a simple “K!” back. It was only 3:30pm, and the sun wasn’t going down anytime soon. Still, moments like that remind me of the Do You Know Where Your Children Are? message that used to pop up before the 10pm news. New century; same clueless parents.

The end of the road was near and the low hum of the bus’ engine was putting me to sleep. I used to be a pain in the ass when it came to naptime back in kindergarten. I’m so mad I took those precious 45 minutes for granted. The uptight high school I went to didn’t even allow us to shut our eyes without a teacher “rewarding” us with a demerit once we reopened them. If not for the message coming through on my cell phone, I would have fallen asleep and missed my stop. I rang the bell and stepped out the thin double doors as I opened the message.

“Why are guys such dicks?” Damn. It was BriAnna.

I was so busy huffing that I was stuck with her, it really never crossed my mind to ask BriAnna in advance if she had plans. And here I was, a block from her house – miles from my own – and she was reaching out to me with men troubles. Is it too late to hop back on the bus? I ask myself a little bit too late. The doors shut behind me long ago, and the bus is up the street making its next stop. Mines well continue to her house. If she talked about whatever boy it was this time to piss her off for more than thirty minutes I would declare that detention ended early. Spending time with my nutty family would be better than hearing about Mike or Deon or Troy or Richard or Floyd or whoever.

Soon I was standing outside of BriAnna’s house, peeking inside through the screen door. I could hear screaming and dozens of curse words flying left and right. From my spot at the door, I could see BriAnna running up and down the stairs while debating with some guy on the house’s speaker phone. Each time she came downstairs she was cradling a box overflowing with junk in her arms. She dropped each at the base of the stairs as she called the guy a bastard. He said she should have known what she was getting into when they met. BriAnna started to scream louder as she repeated everything this guy ever said to her.

“You said you were going to leave her. What happened to that? Were you just lying to sleep with me?”

He sighed with a hint of laughter hidden behind his breath. When she heard that BriAnna continued to go off. He silenced her by yelling that she was a “crazy bitch”. A classic – and very unoriginal – line that men use to label us emotional females. Once he played that card, BriAnna ended the conversation. Granted, she did it the only way a “crazy bitch” would. She picked the house phone up off its base and threw it at the screen door. The battery pack popped out and the button lights went dark. Why did all the happy friends have to be bought? I took that as a sign to turn and leave.

“How long have you been here?” But she caught me. Opening the screen door, BriAnna stepped out on her porch barefoot. “Were you standing out here listening?”

“No. I was knocking for like five minutes.” Lying comes so naturally to me sometimes; my mom blames my dad for the negative trait. “I guess you didn’t hear all the yelling.”

“You could have come in. You know the door is never locked.”

“Yeah, I know. But the door shielded me from your phone attack, so I was smart to stay out there.” I followed her lead into the living room.

“It was smart to stay outside in the heat?”

“It’s no different here. Your mom doesn’t allow you to turn the air conditioner on.”

She leaped onto the couch, extremely hype about her tiny shorts and transparent top. “At least in my house you can take off your boxy uniform. Can’t do that outside.”

“Who says” I pulled at the open top of my jacket, giving her a peek at the bra and skin underneath.

“What?” BriAnna finally sits down. “Miss Conservative took it off on a Septa bus. What’s next for the bad girl?”

I sit down on the opposite end of the couch. “Ha ha. You’re so funny. Have you been drinking?”

“No, but I want to after dealing with that ass.”

I don’t wanna ask, but the question spills out. “Who’s the ass this week?”

“Deon.”

“Oh. An oldie but a goodie.”

She whines. “And he was sooo good.”

I shake my head. “So what happened now?”

“What do you mean ‘now’? Are you trying to say this is my fault? Are all my breakups my fault?”

Yes. “No. It’s always the boys’ fault.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Thank God! I was fed up with this story way back when she texted me. I really should have ran up the street to catch the bus.

The TV has been stuck on the guide since I showed up at BriAnna’s house. Based on the highlighted channel, I’d say she was ready to click on some housewife junk when Deon called. I grip the remote before BriAnna completely returns to earth and presses play on the show. I was almost hit by a phone; I wasn’t about to suffer through an hour or more of whiny, catty women.

“You are not about to put cartoons on my TV.” She reaches for the remote.

I pull it away from her hand. “Anything is better than grown women acting like children on national television.”

“Put on something we both like.”

That only left one of the dozens of music video channels. One channel was doing a Rihanna takeover for the next few hours, so that was the obvious choice. We sang two songs while talking shit about each other’s voices. I’m laughing; she’s laughing. To any stranger that might have seen us, they’d swear we were drunk or high off our asses. BriAnna tried to hit a high note, and I covered my ears while mocking her poor vocals.

“You can’t sing either.” She pulled my hands from my ears.

“I sound better than you, though.”

She kept a tight grip on my hands, then – all of a sudden – it happened. While I was in the middle of laughing at her, BriAnna leaned in and shut me up with a kiss. It was intense and the way she pressed her soft lips against mine was a little aggressive. Her eyes were closed, but my eyes were wide open. Paralyzed to the touch, I just let her lips move over mine as I searched her face for some emotion. It all just came so natural to her while I was damn near panicking inside.

I guess I didn’t know BriAnna as well as I thought. I’d only been friends with her for two years. I never believe rumors – only what I can see for myself – but not even rumors could have warned me about this. She seemed comfortable with what was happening. BriAnna was the same perverted, sexual creature I saw when she was around guys. She has always been a freak and never one to say “No” to an attractive guy. But girls? Is this just an experiment? Has she been with other girls before?

BriAnna suddenly opens her eyes and pulls back, releasing my hands in the process. “What’s wrong?”

I was dumbfounded. “Bitch, you just kissed me.”

“I know. You didn’t kiss me back.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“When people kiss you, you just sit there?”

I giggled a little. “People don’t just kiss me.”

“I’ve seen you kiss tons of guys.”

“No, you haven’t.”

She nodded. “Yes, I have. Just last weekend you kissed that guy.”

“I don’t know what you saw but-”

“Okay, shut up. I just kissed you. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m going to kiss you again. Act like you know what you’re doing.”

She followed through on her part. I was a bit slow catching on to what she wanted. My hands were numb at my sides while hers caressed my face. Before this day I had barely kissed a guy, and I’m sure pecks from relatives do not count as “make out sessions”. Nothing could have prepared me for that moment. Even after her little warning about the second kiss, I was still left in the dark. Nevertheless, as stunned as I was, I didn't want her to stop. I had to start responding to her or she’d stop. If BriAnna stopped a second time, I knew she wasn’t going to do it again. BriAnna was often the hunted, not the hunter. She wouldn’t tolerate this role reversal for too long.

It took some time – much longer than I’d care to admit – but I steadily began to engage in the kiss. A complete first timer to the whole ordeal, I looked to her for guidance and mocked each move she made. She parted her lips and mine did the same. I let her suck on my bottom lip before I sucked on hers. When BriAnna slid her tongue into my mouth, I slid my tongue up against hers. It was this wet push and pull with the two muscles battling for the upper hand. I must have been doing something right because she began to release soft – almost whimpering – sounds from her throat.

BriAnna wanted to be touched even though she never said the words. Instead, she gripped my hands and put them on her legs. The feeling rushed back to my fingertips as my hands rested on the bare flesh just beneath the hem of her skimpy shorts. While I was timid with my actions, she was bold and knew exactly what to do. She shifted closer to me on the couch as she kissed her way down my neck. BriAnna pressed her body against mine until she had me lying on my back. I tried to relax when I felt her knee forcing its way between my tightly clamped thighs. The kiss became more aggressive – BriAnna didn’t hold back when she bit my bottom lip – as she became frustrated with my bashful demeanor.

“I don’t want to stop.” She released my lip from her grip to whisper, “But I will if you don’t participate.”

Her hands moved down my sides – feeling her way over my hips. I could feel her heavy chest pressing against mine and then my stomach as she slithered further down. Using her hands, BriAnna pulled my legs apart and sat comfortably between them. A button popped clean off my jacket when she tore it open. I shivered when her warm, wet tongue touched the soft flesh of my cleavage. Everything new she did shocked me, yet I was enjoying the control she had on the situation.

BriAnna gripped the back of my neck with one hand to pull me forward. Her free hand reached beneath me, and she undid the clasp of my bra with one swift motion. Once she released the girls from their cotton prison, I found the will to “participate” more in the heated act. I’m still not sure what it was that came over me. I felt this massive weight being lightened up on my heart – literally. I sat up and pulled my jacket and bra off, throwing them both to the floor. BriAnna’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when I pulled her shirt up over her head. She was braless underneath the blue tank top, and her C cup breasts stood proud at attention. Now, we were both naked from the waist up.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I cupped her breasts, rubbing my thumbs over her dark-chocolate nipples. “You wanted me to participate more.”

I could hear the whimpers coming from her throat again as I sucked one of them into my mouth. BriAnna’s eyelids began to lower, yet she continued to watch my tongue circle around her areola. I pressed her luscious breasts together, bringing her nipples as close as they could possibly be. Licking back and forth between them, I finally heard a loud, vocalized gasp when I flicked my tongue over each nipple. BriAnna’s head fell back – it was loosely dangling from her neck – her short hair brushed over her shoulders.

BriAnna’s hips suddenly bucked against the air. I worshipped her breasts, and her head continued to roll as if her neck had snapped off its spine. She slid her hand down her shorts. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what her rapid hand movements meant – self pleasure. BriAnna gripped my hair with her other hand, pulling my head closer to her yearning body. She was begging me for more – not wanting me to stop. I hooked my fingers into the hem of her shorts, tugging them down the generous curve of her hips. I had never seen BriAnna naked before, but all of the rumors were true – she wasn’t a supporter of underwear.

I pulled her close, feeling her ample breasts and velvet flesh against mine. Her mouth sought mine as we slid together on the couch. Our limbs entwined as we tried to get as close as we possibly could. She was on top of me, and then I got on top of her while our tongues played together. BriAnna wrapped her legs around me; her strong thighs pulling my hips closer. Even through my cotton school pants, I could feel the heat from her pussy radiating against mine. It was almost too much for me to bear. My whole body was starting to respond to her. I liked what I was doing to her, but I wanted some attention myself. Gasping – and using the last bit of strength I had – I broke the kiss.

“I want you.” The words just flew from my mouth. I didn’t see it coming, nor did I have the power to prevent it.

BriAnna giggled, her thighs tightening their grip around me. “I know. I have that effect on men… and women alike.”

BriAnna pushed me back, forcing me to sit on my heels. She undid the button on my pants and didn’t care to pull down the zipper. Grounding her feet on the couch and sitting up in front of me, BriAnna pushed her hand into my opened pants and straight down my panties.

“You’re so wet,” she whispered, her finger probing between my swollen, lower lips.

“It’s your fault.”

I was excited from the moment she kissed me – completely aroused. But it wasn’t until her fingers touched my clit that I realized just how wet I actually was. I could hear my juices gushing over her hand. I pulled BriAnna closer, my hands drifting to her plump derriere, until her moving hand was trapped between both of our sexes. Her warm, moist lips continuously dabbed over my neck as her other hand pulled at my hair.

“I’m okay with that.”

I was biting my lip out of habit. I had mastered being quiet during private moments when I was home at night. You do what you have to with a meddlesome sister and “no knock” rule mom. But the faster BriAnna’s fingers moved over my throbbing clit the harder it was to stay mute. Every noise became louder. The gushing from my wet pussy; the moans erupting from my throat; and the whimpers coming from BriAnna. Her hips pressed forward, trying to bring her clit closer to her moving hand. So engulfed in my own satisfaction – focused on reaching my own orgasm – I barely paid her frantic movements any mind.

My heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest all of a sudden. I couldn’t breathe. My gaping mouth was heavily panted; yet, there was not enough oxygen to fill my lungs. There was this intense feeling completely taking over me in an instant. One I wasn’t prepared for. Something similar to the dozens of times I had masturbated before, but this experience was a million times stronger. Coming on BriAnna’s hand was the best moment of my life. Back then that is. Almost like an out of body, being abducted by aliens, getting high for the first time type of moment. It’s the rush you’re constantly chasing, but the second and third time never compare to the first.

I hadn’t realized that until years later.

I gripped her tighter after that. It had nothing to do with love – I wasn’t that naïve – but as weak as I felt I wasn’t just going to drop her off my lap. I’m not a guy. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to expect next. I wouldn’t be able to handle awkward silence. If she suddenly pushed me away and made me get dressed, I’d be lost in a sea of confused emotions. I suddenly had a bunch of questions – ones my religious grandmother would kill me for even thinking. Still, I wasn’t ready to go home, so I hoped BriAnna wasn’t about to kick me out. I crossed my fingers, wanting the moment to last a little bit longer. On the upside, I got to lay my head on her breasts as I waited for her reaction. More comfortable than a plush pillow.

She shifted underneath me. I shivered as she withdrew her hand from between my legs. I lifted my head to see my juices glistening on my fingers. I thought she was going to rub her hand clean on the couch or one of the articles of clothing we threw on the floor. Instant, I was dumbfounded when she slurred her index and middle fingers into her mouth. My eyes opened wide, lips parted as I gasped, and the questioned continued to pile up in my head. BriAnna didn’t speak a word to me, even when she removed the fingers from her mouth. We were stuck in eye contact as she traced my lips with her soaked ring finger. The digit slipped into my opened mouth, and I could taste the tangy liquid covering it.

“I can see you and me having a lot of fun together.” She was – surprisingly – breathless as she came up from between my legs.

“Really? More than what we just did?”

BriAnna giggled. “That was just the beginning.”

“I really don’t know you like I thought.” I slid back the hair matted to my forehead by sweat.

She crawled up my body until her lips were inches from mine. “Did I open your eyes to something new?”

“You have no idea.”

#my writing #writing #creative writing

[cognacdelights]

What is the weirdest thing that ever happened to you?

Idk if this would also count as a ghost story but anyway, I never met my Granny because she died a year before I was born but at the most random times or sometimes when I'm really stressed (also happened once when I had a panic attack at school) I'll smell her perfume. I'll get a whiff of it and my whole body will just relax, but I never met her and I've never smelled her perfume. But whenever I smell that I just know it's her, the earliest I can remember it happening was when I was three and in the hospital. My mom was in the bathroom and my dad had left to get the two of them some food I smelled her perfume, I was super scared because I feel like shit, I have all these needles stuck in my arm and I'm by myself and I just remember I immedently calmed down. I've told my parents and brother about this and they agree that it's odd but I'm comforted by the thought that she watches over me and can help me whenever no one else can. That also happenes a lot with my papa, he was my best friend and he died when I was 13. I'll smell his colonge a lot and I even have dreams about him. Like a few days after he died I had a dream where he said goodbye and that he loves me. I'm very comforted by that. My mom also had a dream about her sister when she died where she said goodbye and that she loves her.

so the weirdest thing that's happened to me is probably very similar to yours? in the sense of just something happening with a loved one

so my gma's sister never had any kids so she was always "auntie" to me and my cousins. i had such a close relationship with her like she was my favourite person in the entire world. well, i was around 7 when she died and i don't remember much about what happened at the time but i went to sleep one night and had woken up at some point during the night. my room was completely pitch black but i could sort of make out a figure that was just a bit darker than the room and then i felt myself being tucked in and then like something warm on my forehead (like a kiss). now i know for a fact this wasn't my parents bc i could hear them both snoring (and my parents weren't the type to do tucking in or anything like that). then the day after i was told that she'd died.

then, my dad's oldest brother died a while ago but every now and then we all get white feathers on our doorsteps but it happens to all of us on the same day. like my gma will get one, we will get one, all three of my aunts will get one, my uncle, and even my cousin's will get them too. it's not very often like i'd say maybe 3 times since he's died but we all get them in the same day like he's making his rounds of the family and checking in.

then, not to be like "i'm psychic" but i know when bad things are going to happen. like immediately before it happens, i just know. so like obviously earlier this week i got the phonecall about my parents being in a car accident, i woke up like a minute before my phone started ringing with the call. there's so many other instances like this but they're quite personal so i don't really wanna put them on here rn that i just know something is going to happen

also this might not be as weird but my dad's biological dad went missing when my dad was younger and everyone had thought he'd gone back to ireland, or moved to canada, some people said he was in aus too. but we got a phonecall from someone a few years ago saying he had died (and ended up about 30 mins away from us). anyways, i had never met him ever, he went missing long before my mum and dad had met. so i've had people come up to me and shout my name (like my full birth name) and ask about "john" which was his name but at the time i didn't know bc my dad never talked ab him (as far as i was concerned my gma's second husband is like my grandad). so once we got this phonecall and details about him, we had to go clear his stuff out from his flat. it was an assisted living place for the elderly and they kept calling me by my name, saying i look just like him and stuff. so turns out he knew everything about my uncle, my dad and his oldest sister (his kids)... he knew when my parents got married, he knew that they had a kid, he had PHOTOS of me from SCHOOL like the school issued photos, my birth announcement from the paper, he had my uncle's obituary, my aunt's marriage announcement, pictures of my two cousins. the only thing that was even stranger was that he had told people i was his daughter? very weird for me esp when it all kind of falls into place

#replies #zealouscherryblossumqueen