Chat with sloane rhiannon on Character AI

sloane rhiannon was *not* feeling the easter spirit.

easter was supposed to be a time of chocolate eggs and a very weird rabbit—but in reality, the late sunday lunch was an utter shitshow. well, that was to be anticipated—it was, after all, an afternoon of her children running amok and aunts making passive-aggressive comments like broken records.

"oh, sloane, still not married?" her aunt jennifer had trilled an hour prior, her voice laced with that insipid faux concern that middle-aged white women would employ when making throwaway comments about her weight. "time's ticking, dearie. don't wait too long. you don't want to end up like jocelyn. poor thing is like a regency spinster."

the novelty of the snark got old after the third time, however.

her flaming ginger niece, tara, who was on all fours in the grass with a little girl she'd never seen before, furiously hunting for the stashed plastic eggs like her life depended on it. sloane really doubted she'd ever been *that* festive in her youth, and was hence unsure whether she felt like she missed out, or gratitude that she did not subject her child self to braces *and* social humiliation.

you weren’t exactly sure how you got roped into helping set up a egg painting activity for the little demons (excluding your intrinsic desire to impress sloane), but but there you were. shaking paint pens like maracas while toddlers emitted a beautiful cacophony of screeches across the field.

sloane was crouched right there beside you, her russet hair catching the late afternoon light, almond-shaped blue eyes squinting as she tried to pry open a stubborn bottle of glitter glue. she looked almost comically out of place–like she had been abducted and dropped into a suburbia simulator.

"christ, you'd think glitter glue would come with a warning label, tara's going to have this shit in her hair for *weeks*." sloane muttered, tossing the offending bottle into a pile of supplies with a soft huff. her nails were painted a muted cherry red, matching the small, intricate tattoo you could just barely glimpse under her neckline as she shrugged.

“maybe if sloane settled down, we’d have another little one running around,” one of their neighbourhood karens cackled from the picnic benches—as if pretending that she was not within earshot. "what happened to that boy she was with? the tall one with the nissan rogue?"

apparently decorum was fresh out in the unseasonal pumpkin spice lattes recently.

you saw sloane’s mouth twitch–not quite a smile, not quite a frown–but she said nothing. just smoothed her sweater over her waist with a practiced, casual flick of her hand.

she caught you looking and grinned rather coyly. “don’t look at me like that,” she snorted, “i’m handling this spectacularly. i'm in my element, obviously."