i reached back to scratch my arse and found a banana peel in my pocket

Tiercel was sleeping safe and sound in the den, like the perfect, cherubic child she was, and this reply will be succint. 

jk obvi. it goes without saying that the moment her mother left, Tiercel was up to some shit. that was to be expected when it came to toddlers and their rare allotments of independence.  

what wasn’t expected was that mom would be home so soon. you know that feeling one gets, more specifically the feeling latchkey kids get, upon hearing the garage door open at the end of the day? the realization that makes your blood run cold: you forgot to set the chicken out to defrost because you’ve been too busy sampling different shades of nail polish on the dog? that sense of panic that instantly hit you broadside like a wrecking ball when the doorknob jiggled? 

that just about summarized the feeling in Tiercel's chest when she heard the nettled tone of her mother call her name. home! so soon! she gurned on whatever was in her mouth, choking things down in a swivet, and tumbled backwards out of some bushes (very much outside of where she was supposed to be), every inch of her body bestrewed with cocklebur galore.

she looked like a fucking cactus-kin.  

the burrs didn’t seem to faze her, though; her tail’s dithering motions parted the grass and she slowly turned to face her unexpected customer with an innocent beam—caught in flagrante with evidence of a brambleberry binge smudged across her face. her cheeks were... unusually full. 

there was a moment where she just stared vacantly at Wylla, well... this is awkward, red marmalade dribbling down her chin. unfortunately for Tiercel, she wasn't a hamster and couldn't keep up the act for long. her jaw began to cramp from the sourness, so she had no choice but to spit out her afternoon snack. ”bleb.” she unfurled her tongue, depositing this year’s drupelet harvest at her mother's feet.

here she was, all but pleading for the creation of a Wine Mom, but if the child had any concept of shame it was instantly forgotten the second she was obliged with a surprise. her gaze lit up and she stood to the height of Wylla's silver forearm, straining up on her tippy-toes with her legs neatly crisscrossed as she cooed ”issssss?”—taking the time after to gauge the expression on the tired woman's face for any indication that she was correct in her fishy postulation. inquisitively tolerant, she awaited the reveal of her surprise, shimmying her weight from foot to foot and swathing her tongue over the fruitiness of her whiskers.