#Granny Moss

[greenmagic-oilspill]

Pokemon Gym Leader Type: Granny Moss

You can take the type quiz here and put your team together here.

Granny predictably got the Grass type! As a Hearer and a conjurer, it’s very fitting. Tangela and Wormadam just spoke to me, and I associate her with the Earth element so she got two of the Grass/Ground dual-typed Pokemon. And of course, she’s a matronly grandma so she got the apple pie Pokemon, and her signature is the old lady-inspired Eldegoss.

[panda-eggs]

i also crocheted this hooded cloak with doggie ears

[weedlovingweed]

the proj im starting… will require 90 squares…. 😳

[crochica]

[mrmd2]

10 - 15 june

life is out

[dedeuteros]

Finally got my haunt pics developed >:^D

[mossmx]

taking the inktober pics today will be a challenge more than drawing bc oooh boy Autumn is here and the GRAY*!!!

[kumkaniudaku]

At Last: Part One

Summary: Patrice returns home to celebrate a birthday and a new beginning.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: None

In a little corner of Wilmington, NC, tucked behind towering Spanish moss trees and sprawling acres of lush green grass, the Habersham family were monarchs on ancestral turf. 

Enslaved Sierra Leonean men and women had tilled this land long before Patrice was a twinkle in her mother and father’s eyes. They hoped, prayed, and danced for a future where babies far down their lineage could have a place to visit for a connection to their love and guidance beyond the physical realm. According to some, their spirits still roamed the fields once holding them captive in great triumph.

Long-held West African customs preserved and passed down over time had transformed into the uniquely rich Gullah culture that still governed the eldest generation of Habershams and their children. While much of the language patterns had been lost, Sybil Habersham-Lewis and her baby sister, Rosalyn, worked tirelessly to keep the family home tidy and traditions alive. 

They never hesitated to tell stories of how their great-grandfather rebuilt the big house with his bare hands to rid his offspring of a torrid legacy from a man he reluctantly called father. They sometimes laughed about how he, a fair-skinned man with green eyes and a mean streak, met and married a slender songstress with blue-black skin within six months of laying eyes on her. Paul and Efua produced eight children in that home. Those eight children created a line of movers and shakers that stretched far and wide. 

One of those movers and shakers stared out of the passenger side window with eyes wide as saucers and a smile that rivaled the sun, watching trees donning brown, red, and orange leaves whiz past on the way to her favorite place in the world. Patrice was itching to get out of the car and kick her shoes off to feel the soft tickle of damp Bermuda grass between her toes. She longed to see her uncle’s horses, eat fresh seafood until her stomach ached, and recap moments in her girlhood with her cousins. She couldn’t wait to kiss Nana's face 95 times for her 95th birthday. She needed to smell the blue hydrangeas in her auntie’s garden. She needed to be home.

Terry stole glances at Patrice, finding joy in her enthusiasm. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before or in the nearly two-hour ride from Fayetteville. He knew she’d tucker out eventually, but seeing her brimming with unbridled happiness made his heart swell. 

“God, I hope my auntie made okra. Oooh and crab cakes. I haven’t had any in so long!”

Terry listened to the way her accent slurred and shortened words in rapid succession with a smile. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to understand you by the end of the weekend.” 

“You’ll be lucky to keep up past tonight.” she laughed. "My granny ‘dem Geechee tuh de bone."

“Y’all make everything sound like music. I like it.” 

“If you tell Moon Pie that, she might try to take you from me.” 

“You gon’ let her?” 

“Hell nah. I’ll whoop her ass. She ain’t crazy.” 

The thought of having to put hands on her cousin behind her man made Patrice scowl while Terry let off a loud, shoulder-shaking cackle. Though she was serious as a heart attack, she laughed along with him to release the tension building in her muscles. 

Terry reached across the center console to gently rub her arm before playfully caressing her chin to pull a smile from her lips. 

“No way I’d let you fight as pretty as you are. Plus, we’re celebrating all weekend. If you aren’t smiling from tonight ‘til Sunday, I didn’t do my job.” 

Patrice’s mouth twisted into a suspicious smirk. “And what’s your job? You know, if someone were to ask for a friend.”

“Keeping you happy.” His cheeky quip made her eyes roll as she kissed her teeth. 

For over a week Terry had been tight lipped about something Patrice couldn’t put her finger on. She’d tried to catch him in a fib or make him slip up and share whatever details existed behind hushed calls and unmarked deliveries. But, Terry was notorious for keeping secrets under lock and key. Whatever he was planning would sneak up on her like a thief in the night. 

“You nervous to meet everyone?” Patrice questioned to change the subject.

“Nah, I’m good.” He cut his eyes in Patrice’s direction and smiled when he found her already eying him skeptically. “Think I’m lying?” 

“Yeah, I think you’re full of shit. Either that or you’re truly unaware of how crazy my folks are. No way you aren’t a little concerned.” 

He shrugged. “I’m not too worried. I love you, so I know I’ll love them. We’ll figure out the parts in the middle.” 

Everything Terry knew about Patrice, in his mind, was a beautiful amalgamation of those who had a hand in raising her into the woman she’d grown into. He knew her mother and how the two shared the same heart for community service. From her father, she’d inherited an uncanny ability to stop a whole room from speaking with only a raised eyebrow. Though he’d only heard stories of her grandmother, he could tell that her independent nature was a founding feature. And, if those things could make his heart turn flips with one look across a crowded room, he’d have no trouble making space for his bonus family. 

Patrice tried to formulate a counterpunch to Terry’s levelheaded assessment of the situation but had a change of heart as smooth asphalt transitioned into the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her car’s tires. 

Black iron gates adorned with an ornate H were pulled open, giving anyone casually walking by a peak into an almost mythical land. Terry’s eyes darted from place to place, lingering on the hanging moss trees lining their path, then on the children gleefully chasing each other through fallen leaves around a small white gazebo, before landing on a magnificent wrap-around porch serving as a gathering spot for elder men taking inventory of fishing equipment for an early morning trip to catch the evening’s meal. The Big House, as Patrice affectionately called it, was a modern marvel, an oasis for every hue of black man, woman, and child with Habersham blood in their veins to feel like they were somebody in an otherwise cruel world. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it? Auntie did her thing with the last renovation.” Patrice asked, beaming as she started to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“Incredible. Is this al-” 

Whatever was left of Terry’s awe-inspired sentence was swept into the wind as Patrice hopped from the passenger seat and onto the concrete driveway before the car could come to a full stop. 

Like a child finally released from the confines of their classroom onto the playground for 30 minutes of recess freedom, she hit the ground in a slight jog to greet a woman about her age skipping down the porch steps to meet her halfway. 

“Imani,” Patrice hollered, her arms already outstretched in anticipation of a hug. 

Imani called her name back with equal excitement until the two women were joined in a tight embrace. Terry watched from afar, a warm smile tugging his lips to one side as he shut off the engine and exited the vehicle. 

The two women rocked side to side until they’d had their fill of one another. Imani pulled away first to get a look at her favorite baby cousin. 

“My girlfrieeend,” she sang, imitating the theme song from the only show they watched for a full summer in their teens. “You look so good. The skin, the hair, the body! It’s all working right now.” 

“Me? Look at you! I know for a fact this caftan is from like Paris or Bali or somewhere crazy.” 

“Oh you know, just a little somethin’ custom from London. Not too much, not too much.” 

“How you stand it there with that nasty looking food is beyond me, girl.” 

Imani laughed. “That’s for them other folks. People that look like us know where to get a good meal. You oughta come see me sometime. Book a flight and let me worry about the rest.” 

“Next summer?” 

“I’ll throw it on my calendar. Bring Mister Man, too.” 

Patrice didn’t need to turn around to know that Terry had made his presence known. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her lower back as he joined her side. 

If he hadn’t known her for nearly two decades, Terry would have easily gotten Patrice and Imani confused. Both women wore glowing deep dark skin like a badge of honor, soaking up rays of sun and reflecting them in the way that only ethereal beings could. Wide noses and plump, pink and brown lips complimented impossibly high cheekbones. Beauty marks at the corners of opposite eyes might possibly be a tell-tale sign if one could fight being lulled into a trance by the sheer grace they both possessed. The only difference was Imani’s slight height advantage and low, ash blonde haircut.

“Wow,” he whispered, the words catching him by surprise. He shook his head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just - y’all are damn near twins.” 

“Don’t I know it,” they spoke in unison. 

Patrice took over after a chuckle. “They used to call us Frick and Frack. Mostly because they couldn’t always tell who was who.”

“Which Petey over here never wanted to use to our advantage.” 

“Petey?” Terry questioned. 

“Wait, she never told you her nic-” 

“And, that’s enough,” Patrice hollered, purposely eclipsing Imani’s voice to keep her cousin from going further. “Terrence, this Imani. Imani this is Terrence, my man.” 

Terry could feel a bolt of lightning surge through his body as he reached out to shake Imani’s hand. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what Patrice might call him in a simple introduction. He’d always given her a treasure trove of titles - his lady, the love of his life, maybe his wife one day if the Lord willed it so. He’d introduced her so much that they never explored how the inverse would work. But hearing himself be proudly referred to as her’s was a shock to the system that he hadn’t prepared for but welcomed all the same. 

Imani waved his outstretched hand away and pulled him in for a hug. “Boy, we family. Come here and get this squeeze.”

Like an old friend, Imani pulled Terry into a welcoming hug. Patrice looked on with a silent thanks to God. If what she knew of her cousin still held weight, they’d be fast friends and thick as thieves by the end of the weekend. 

Pulling away, she lightly tapped his chest and looked at Patrice. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet Terry Richmond in person. You’re basically her Nelly!” she laughed, recalling Patrice’s near obsession with St. Louis and their hometown hero after Hot in Herre debuted. Patrice rolled her eyes while Terry and Imani held on to each other through loud laughter.

“Got damn, Moanie, hold ‘em hostage why don’t you! You ain’t the only person they know ‘round here.” 

“Hey, Daddy!” 

“Hey, Baby Girl!”

The perfectly timed distraction took Patrice’s attention away long enough for the newest tandem to exchange hushed conversation.

“Yeah, but I’m the best!” Imani hollered back before winking at Terry and Patrice. “Go on. I’ll have the boys get y’all’s stuff. Make sure you get to the kitchen. Think Mama’s got some pound cake cut for you.”

The mention of other family members awaiting their arrival was a quick reminder that Terry had barely scratched the surface of new faces and connections. Every direction he turned presented another opportunity to be pulled into a spirited handshake or warm hug. 

With the men in her life, he was immediately received with masculine equivalents of praise for his physical form.

“Son, you look like ya 'bout tuh buss out dat shirt 'round ya arms. Petey, you don’t have to worry ‘bout no protection, huh?” was Uncle PJ’s way of saying he was confident in Terry’s ability to keep Patrice safe. 

“You comin’ out fishin’? Country boy like you probably catch catfish with your bare hands!” 

“Where you from?”

“Where your people from?” 

“They white? How you get them green eyes?”

“You got kids? You sure?” 

“You know you got some ears on you, don’t ya!”

Patrice’s father, Leon, interjected to save Terry from an increasingly invasive dive into his personal history. “Don’t answer none of that. But I would like you to come out on the water with us. Have a beer or two so we can finish that conversation from the other week.” 

“Y’all talking about me behind my back?” 

“Hell, I do,” Junior laughed. “She aggravating, bruh. You can say it. Go ‘head.”

“You better not.” 

Patrice playfully poked a perfectly manicured finger into Terry’s chest to force his silence, earning a chaste kiss on the forehead. Junior scoffed and sipped from his half-empty bottle of water.

“T, you grown now. Your big ass don’t have to let her boss you no more.” 

“That’s my favorite part,” Terry answered, finally speaking up for himself. “She sweet when she wanna be.”

“I ain’t seen it.”

“Because I don’t like you, Junior. How many times do we have to go over this?”

Terry tried to contain his wide grin from watching the siblings bicker like old times. He’d been in the middle of many a verbal tussle between them, always stepping in as the voice of reason. He still held the role of peacemaker all these years later. 

“She loves you, man. Still keeps your room up and everything.” 

Leon shook his head at his children’s antics. “Good thing you here. I couldn’t take that shit this weekend.” He pointed at the passenger seat of his truck and the open lunch box resting in it. “So, you comin’. Got food for you if you wanna ride.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Terry started before looking toward the house at the small audience of women crowding at the kitchen window. They scattered when he caught their gaze, making him laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. “Give us a few minutes. I think there’s some people inside I gotta meet first.” 

“Good luck, man. I would say you got five minutes but we both know that ain’t happening. We’ll wait a bit.”

With one trial by fire ending, another began. In their short walk to the front porch, Patrice had given Terry opportunities to gracefully bow out of the incoming circus and take her father’s invitation as a get out of hell free card. He’d refused every effort with a kind smile and unfounded reassurance that everything would be okay. In his mind, he’d hug a few necks, kiss a few cheeks, and be out of dodge before anyone could hold him long. 

Stepping into the home’s foyer felt like being in a museum. Photos of Habersham descendants living and passed on to Glory lined the hallway as a reminder of their history on this land. Eyes that carried an array of stories looked back at him, leaving goosebumps across his arms. Especially once he landed on a young woman with a familiar half-smile encased behind an antique picture frame. 

Patrice noticed him stop short to give the photo his full attention. 

“My great-great-great grandma,” she informed, adding extra emphasis on the final ‘great’. “Efua. Nana says she was barely bigger than the kids but ran this place with an iron fist. I believe it. She look like she don’t play.” 

“She looks kinda like you and Imani.” 

Patrice tilted her head to get a better look. “Hm. I guess you’re right.”

Clamoring in the kitchen pulled them away from Efua’s watchful eye and around the corner for their grand entrance. 

Women of every age, size, and shape filled the room from wall to wall, each one participating in the cooking process. On one side, a small group of teenagers huddled to inspect bushels of greens for bugs and cut them in preparation for a proper wash. On the other, small girls shelled black-eyed peas and giggled amongst themselves over TikTok videos. But in the center of the room, where spices and fresh ingredients intermingled for an almost intoxicating aroma and conversation was the loudest, all of the cornerstones of the family gathered to share gossip and wisdom alike. 

Terry’s appearance, tall and muscled with a winning smile to match, sent a hush over even the loudest woman present. 

“Oh God,” Patrice mumbled to herself, preemptively embarrassed by the storm she knew was sure to follow. 

Someone whistled. Then came a low “mm-mm-mm” from an auntie fighting hard to contain herself. Terry let every sound and look fuel his ego for just a few seconds before speaking. 

“Hey, ladies.” 

“Hey, Terry.” 

Every voice greeted him in unison like the Angels speaking to Charlie over that old speakerphone. Patrice screwed her face and pinched his shoulder. He’d been given strict instructions the night before, but being in the moment called for an audible that immediately made him a shiny new toy to be paraded.

Before he could have any say so, Patrice’s mother was ushering him around for every aunt and cousin to say a personal hello. He charmed each woman who met his acquaintance like a seasoned politician. If nothing else, they could all hang on to the memory of meeting the long-fabled Terrence Richmond. 

But, for all the pomp and circumstance, every breath hitched once Rosalyn led Terry to matriarch. 

She wore 95 years on Earth well. Chestnut skin covered in beauty marks crinkled around her eyes as she smiled back at him. Even as she sat in her wheelchair more slight and fragile than Patrice remembered, Terry could see her inner strength shining through.

Patrice watched her mother lean down and speak something into her grandmother’s ear before directing Terry to crouch down to eye level. He did as he was told, gingerly capturing her much smaller hands in his. 

“Hi, Ms. Ida. I’m so happy to finally meet you. My name is Terrence.” 

The softness in his voice ignited a chorus of heartwarming sentiments from every corner. Patrice had become so enraptured in the meeting she never thought would happen that she nearly missed her mother directing her to join Terry’s side. 

Ida didn’t say much back to him. Instead, she slid her hand from his grasp and traced her fingertips along the perimeter of his face. She examined him from all angles with a nostalgic look in her gaze. Terry tried not to let confusion come through in his expression, but Rosalyn caught the sliver of uncertainty. 

“You remind her of somebody close, that’s all. Same eyes.” 

He’d inadvertently sent her back to her childhood, bringing back memories so deep in her mind she thought she might never get them back. Even with slightly darker skin and broader features than Paul could boast back then, Ida still saw him clear as day. And that, all those years later, made her feel more alive than ever on her 95th birthday.

Ida tapped his jaw lightly and laughed. “Mhm. Petey, this him?” 

Finally joining Terry’s side, Patrice mimicked him and knelt by her grandmother’s feet. 

“Yes ma’am. He wanted to be here for your birthday.” 

“Nice looking boy, ain’t he?” 

Patrice giggled. “He cute, I guess. I heard he got you a gift for tonight, but he won’t tell me what it is. Can you believe it?”

“Well, hell, this all the gift I need. Give me anything else and I might not make it to 96!” 

“Mama!” 

Sybil hated when her mother made jokes about death, but Terry couldn’t help but laugh. He wanted to joke with her, see what else she might say knowing that no one in the house could tell her what to do, but the loud blast of a car horn in the front yard reminded him that he’d made a prior commitment. 

Gently, he squeezed her knee and spoke loud enough for her to hear. “Now, I go gotta go catch you somethin’ for tonight. You gon’ be here when I’m back?” 

“Oh yeah,” she answered, reinvigorated and saucy like her younger self. “I’ll be dressed up real nice too. Might leave here with two gals on your arm.” 

“You know I never been the sharing type, Nana.” 

Ida smiled at Patrice, nodding in approval. “That’s my girl. Keep that up.”

A second and longer beep let Terry know that time was running out. He quickly bid the group farewell, ending on Patrice with a simple kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back soon. 

While she became swept up in a whirlwind of who, what, when, and where, Rosalyn and Sybil slipped away to speak with Terry on his way out of the door. He’d become the center of attention, even long after his scent had faded. 

“Is he the one from high school?” 

“What’s he like?” 

“Is he always this nice?” 

“Y’all shackin’ up?” 

“When y’all getting married? What about kids?”

More questions, more prying, more assumptions than she could handle. Short, vague answers weren’t enough for them. They wanted the full scoop from the young lady they once knew as a shy girl who only focused on her studies. 

Patrice answered every question with enough detail to satiate their curiosity and maintain some level of privacy in her relationship. For a moment, that was enough. They’d unveiled the mystery of Petey’s other life and could move on to more pressing matters.

They quickly shifted to discussions of other people’s business. Who’d had a baby? Who was divorcing? Who’s kids were raising hell in the community? They took a winding road filled with chats about celebrity news and politics, nonsense about music, and, Patrice’s personal favorite, the old days. 

Those chats, full of lore and laughter, always took place in Nana’s parlor. A room covered in powder pink wallpaper and situated in the corner of the home where natural sunlight welcomed any guests that had the privilege of visiting. 

The older women sat side by side, crammed on expensive armchairs and soft couches, to convene at their leisure. Patrice stood by her favorite spot beside the window with Imani sitting on her right and her grandmother positioned in front of her. On her left stood a small table holding hair grease, a fine-toothed comb, and duck bill clips to help her pincurl Ida’s shoulder length silver hair. Her favorite pastime. 

“Everyone of y’all was bad,” Sybil laughed, referring to the crop of children that came up with Patrice. “Y’all came here every summer acting a damn fool.” 

“Not me and Petey!”

“Especially you and Petey. The worst of the bunch. Just sneaky and sassy!” 

“I don’t know what you talkin’ about. All I did was read and sit up under Nana.” 

Patrice’s highly inaccurate recollection of her time in the country every year made Ida laugh in her wheelchair. “Don’t let ‘em lie on you. I never saw my baby gettin’ in no trouble.” 

“Oh yeah right!” Sybil exclaimed. “Ros, wasn’t you there when these two let all the chickens out and had us chasin’ them ‘round out back.” 

“Sure was. They had all the grown folk out there huffin’, puffin’, and ‘bout to blow the house down!” 

The room fell into laughter watching Sybil imitate the group of adults fighting to capture livestock. Patrice remembered that afternoon and tried to defend their actions. 

“Okay, that is true, but I remember that being your daughter’s idea. I was only helping my sis.” 

Imani shrugged and sat back in her seat. “You raised an activist. Those animals were in captivity.” 

“Moanie, you eat meat,” Moon Pie commented. 

“I never said they didn’t taste good. I said we were holding them captive. The circle of life is different. Now let’s talk about how Moon had us sittin’ at the eating table all night because she wouldn’t finish her Frogmore stew thinkin’ there were real frogs in it.”

“Heaven forbid a girl need proof!” 

More laughter. The kind of laughter that healed deep emotional wounds. The kind that seeped into the walls, keeping the home full of love and light. The kind that made Patrice happy to not only be home but to share a piece of her heart with the man she loved. 

While she wished he could hear the silly stories and witness the exaggerated retellings, Terry was fidgeting with his fingers as he waited for Patrice’s father to meet him at the back of his truck. 

Across the way, the other men sat in small clusters, chatting their way through a midafternoon lunch break. As much as he wanted to talk shop with them about the fate of the Carolina Panthers, there was a more meaningful matter on the table. 

Leon grunted as he closed the driver’s side door and rounded the truck’s cab. “Let that down, will you?”

Terry sprung into action quicker than he meant to, nervousness making him move at hyperspeed. Leon laughed and lifted himself onto the truck bed before handing over a small cooler. 

“Grab whatever you like. We got plenty.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Just Leon. Kinda weird to call your father-in-law sir, ain’t it? Plus that’s that fool’s name over there and he ain’t worth a damn. Lazy sumbitch.” 

“I got you. Won’t happen again,” Terry chuckled as he pulled a piece off of his turkey sandwich and popped it into his mouth. They sat in silence for a few moments to enjoy the sound of nature around them until he reignited the conversation. “I appreciate y’all agreeing to all this. Especially so quickly. I hope things don’t feel rushed.”

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ I wouldn’t want for my girl. She need somebody willing to go above and beyond for her. I know you always have and I don’t see you slowin’ down no time soon.” 

Terry nodded, smiling. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

“I know. Moanie got the ring, right?” 

“Yeah. We worked it all out a couple weeks ago. She’s hiding it for me and keeping Treece distracted. You know she’s nosey.”

“Her mama said to call it inquisitive.” 

“Hm. Inquisitive, huh?”

They looked at each other and spoke at the same time. “Nosey.”

“That’s her,” Leon remarked. “Time’s flyin’, ain’t it? I remember when it looked like you was drowning in your clothes. Now look at you. Big as a damn tank. What they feed y’all in the Corps?” 

“Shit, nothing but slop and a hard time seasoned with a dash of casual racism from some crazy white boy outta one of the Dakotas every once in a while.”

Their shared laughter disturbed a cluster of nearby birds, making the rest of the men look in their direction. Sir threw his hands up in the air. 

“Well, damn, Leon. Gone ‘head and fuck up the catch!” 

“Or I can fuck you up instead.” He looked over at Terry struggling to keep his face neutral and shook his head. “I can’t stand his ass. Or his daughter. Or his wife. All of ‘em get on my nerves. C’mon, so we can finish up.”

As high noon gave way to early evening and the sleepiness of fall pushed the sun into the west earlier than usual, Imani and Patrice sat alone in one of the guest rooms engrossed in conversation. 

Imani was the only sister Patrice had ever known. It didn’t matter what portion of the world they occupied or how long it’d been since they last talked, they always picked up right where they left off when they were reunited. 

Patrice focused on the vanity mirror to examine Imani’s careful twists and twirls to place her thick natural hair into bantu knots.

“You think I can grow my hair out like this by January? I’m going to Ghana and I wanna switch it up a little bit.” 

“Of course. Manifest it, my sister!” 

Imani laughed as she parted out another section. “If I ever need somebody to follow up my foolishness, I know I can count on you.” 

“What Whitney said on the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack?” 

Together, they broke into song, harmonizing to breathe life into the final track from one of their favorite movie soundtracks. Imani hugged her cousin from behind and kissed her cheek. 

“I love you, girl. I miss you so much. It gets so lonely being away from home all the time.” 

“I love you, too. Life be life-ing, don’t it?” 

“All the time. I gotta make my way out to Fayetteville and spend more time with y’all. Maybe learn some more about Mister Man.” Patrice tried to hide her bashful smile, making Imani squeal behind her. “So…tell me about Terry. I know you said something downstairs but I wanna know the real scoop.” 

Patrice sighed at the mere thought of their romance. “The way I love that man, girl, I can’t even explain it. I feel like I’m going crazy.” 

“Oooooh! Swept you clean off your feet, huh?” 

“Threw me over his shoulder and hasn’t put me down since. Never in a million years did I expect to end up here with him. I mean I hoped for it, but to be here is mind-blowing. He’s so sweet, Moanie. So, gentle. Kind. More affectionate than I think I was ready for. I don’t know. I’m just in love. I’m happy.” 

“It’s all over you. I see the glow.” 

“Well, that’s from other things,” she added, a cheeky grin spreading across her face.

“Not the choir boy!” 

“Please, don’t let him fool you. Can’t keep him off me or keep his mouth closed when he gets to talking.”

Their shared laughter spilling out into the hallway became a beacon of their location for Terry as he dragged his tired legs up the stairs in search of Patrice.

His knuckles rapping against the closed bedroom door halted the private conversation until they gave him permission to enter. He slowly pushed the door open before poking his head into the room. 

“Everybody decent?” 

“Mhmm. Come on in.” Imani invited over her shoulder. She looked back at Patrice through the mirror as her cousin adjusted her clothing and sat up a little straighter in anticipation of Terry’s avalanche of affection. 

His eyes seemed to close beyond seeing clearly from the sheer force of his smile. 

“Hey, pretty.” 

“Hey, love. You have fun?” 

Terry released a dry chuckle. “Yeah. A real hoot.” 

Imani watched the young couple flirt back and forth, her hand outstretched to pass a small black velvet box from a drawer in her vanity to Terry while he kept Patrice occupied with short kisses. He secured it in one of his cargo pockets before pulling away. 

“You stink,” Patriced joked, half lying.

“I know. I still have some set-up work to do, so I’ll bring your stuff. Don’t want you to get behind on account of me.” 

“Thank you, baby. You’re so sweet.” 

Patrice captured his chin with her fingers and pulled him closer for another kiss. 

Terry lifted an eyebrow in concern. “You sick?” 

“No. I just love you.”

“I love you, too.” He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way she softened her gaze to scan his face. The way the gloss on her lips caught the sun. The way every one of her perfect features was on display with her hair pulled up and away from her face. He’d never been more confident in a decision in his life and, if not for the promise he’d made to half of her immediate family, he would’ve done what he drove all the way out to Wilmington for right then and there.

Knowing time was of the essence, Imani cleared her throat and gave Terry a look to urge him along behind Patrice’s back. 

“Well, Terry, think you oughta get down there and set up a table or something, right!”

Snapping out of his trance, Terry stood to his full height to look down at Patrice. “Yeah, you're right. See you a little later?” 

“It’s a date.”

He wanted to give her one more kiss to take with him, but a final reminder for him to scram was the catalyst to push Terry out of the room and leave the ladies to readying for the evening. 

She was all he could think about as he toiled away setting up tents and placing tables exactly how Rosalyn wanted them, sometimes several times over. Even as he casually sipped strong moonshine with Junior and the younger men under lantern light, all dressed in his most pristine white to fit strict instructions, he thought about Patrice and what might look like in the dress she’d chosen. He needed to see her.

His hands were sweating inside of his pockets. He casually caressed the velvet of that small black box, occasionally flipping it open to touch the cold metal inside. Time moved painfully slow. Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach. His mother’s constant phone calls for updates and reassurance didn’t help. Nervousness made his chest hot with anxiety. 

“You gon’ be alright,” Rosalyn assured while adjusting his collar on one of her many trips around the backyard to adjust the tablescape. “Breathe. Won’t be too much longer.”

He thanked her for her kindness and prayed she was right. Or he prayed for the dream he’d written down on a random Tuesday in his creative writing journal to come true. He wasn’t sure anymore. But, when he opened his eyes and lifted his head to check that sliding glass door for the umpteenth time, there she stood amongst the Habersham women as they escorted the guest of honor arm in arm. 

Angelic was the only way he could describe her. Cosmically beautifully and capable of bringing the strongest man to his knees just by batting those long lashes. A toothy grin helped him bare each one of his teeth as he watched her saunter down the decorated pathway to the event tent with Imani in tow. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” the group sang once Ida and all her ladies had made it to the long communal table packed to the brim with food and decorations. 

They serenaded the woman responsible for much of their existence until their faces ached from the singing. She bobbed her head along to the song with a smile on her face then quieted their loud applause with a simple wave of her hand. 

“Ninety-five of those and you’d think I’d be used to it by now,” she laughed. “Thank you. Each of y’all are beautiful. Young and strong. Blood of my blood and I’m glad to have you here with me. Even the ones who just came along to spend some time with an old lady. I love you. Eat, drink, and dance ‘til you bust out your clothes. That’s alright with me! We got a lot to celebrate.”

Teary-eyed and full of gratitude, Patrice reunited with Terry at the dinner table as soon as she ensured her grandmother was comfortable. He worldlessly dabbed at her waterline with his thumb and kissed the top of her head. 

“You okay? Need to step inside for a second?” 

“No,” she answered, laughing at herself for her dramatics. “I’m just really happy. C’mon. Let’s eat.”

Eat, drink, and be merry had a whole new meaning under the soft, warm light wrapping variations of black skin in its embrace. Loud pockets of conversation and laughter made for a melodious cacophony of sounds while music played in the background. 

Patrice clung to Terry the entire time, always staying connected by a hand on his thigh or their fingers laced together beneath the table. Every once in a while, they’d break from separate conversations and catch each other’s eye and smile like schoolyard crushes sitting at the lunch table together. 

The romance in the air between them was palpable enough for Imani to pull out her phone and covertly shoot Terry a quick text. 

Dessert’s out. Do it now or they’re gonna start dancing. 

Now?

NOW!

Terry eyed Imani across the table. She urged him to do something with a sideways nod. He chewed his lip and fiddled with the box in his pocket. The music was starting to pick up as a few small children hit the dancefloor. Imani gave Rosalyn the signal to make a video call.

Now or never. 

He nervously clinked his knife against his wineglass and cleared his throat. 

“Nigga, you gone break it! That’s Big Mama good crystal.”

“Shut the hell up, Sir! You ain’t pay for none of this.” Rosalyn’s reprimand came with visual daggers sent to her baby brother at the far end of the table that only softened when she looked back at Terry. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” 

Terry stood to look at every confused face in the vicinity while he waited for one of the teenagers to turn the music down. 

“Sorry, y’all. I just had a few words to say. I won’t be before you long. In the real way, not the pastor way.” His attempt at a joke fell flat. Patrice tried to keep him motivated with a smile, but her eyes begged him for answers that he couldn’t provide. “Um, I know I’m the odd man out around here. Y’all have been incredibly kind and welcoming. I really appreciate it because you didn’t have to. Especially you, Ms. Ida. Happy Birthday, again. You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you, baby.” 

He nodded his appreciation and continued. “I also wanna thank Ms. Ida and everybody else who gave me permission to ask a question of somebody really important to me. Because I know being here with all of y’all is really important to her. Can you stand up for me, Treece?”

Patrice allowed Terry to help her to her feet before whispering through her teeth. “What are you doing?” 

“Something I’ve been wanting to do since I met you.” 

There wasn’t time for Patrice to process his statement. Terry slowly dropped to one knee, not caring about the dust below him. He kept his focus on her the entire time, even as quiet whispers turned into fervent murmurs. 

“When we were kids you told tell me that, if you ever got proposed to, you didn’t want a big speech or any of the stuff they did in movies. So, I promise not to do that. What I will do is tell you how much I love you. And I’ll do that today, tomorrow, and every day after that if you allow me the privilege of being your husband.” 

“Terrence,” Patrice huffed out as she tried to contain her mess of emotions. He reached up to grip her hand. "Don't make me cry in front of my people."

“Too late. Patrice, I’m askin’ you scared as hell in front of all these people, will you marry me?”

Everyone watched as Terry presented Patrice with an open ring box and a sparkling diamond illuminated by the small light tucked into the inside.

“I knew it,” Patrice whispered, losing the battle against the happy tears pouring from her waterline. 

“No, you didn’t, girl! We got you. Answer that man,” Imani hollered.

Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears. The cheering from her family began to muffle. Her body temperature skyrocketed. She felt faint. The people were waiting. What would she say? 

Just as reality began to slip away, Terry’s eyes looking back at her quieted the external and internal noise. 

Driven by pure love, Patrice met Terry in a squat and grabbed his face with both of her hands. 

“What you doing tomorrow?” 

“Hopefully saying a couple vows to this pretty girl I know from way back. I brought a tux with me just in case she wasn’t too busy.” 

“From way back, huh? I think I talked to her and she has a little time on her books.” She took another look at the ring before plucking it from its box and placing it on her left ring finger. She examined it for a bit then leaned forward to kiss her betrothed with enough passion to send the crowd into a frenzy. Pulling away, she smiled and wiped gloss from Terry’s lips. 

“Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

----

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl

[bebs-art-gallery]

Large Swan Daisy (1815-1819) by Sydenham Edwards | Moss Rose, Sweet-Scented Violet, White Jasmine (1869) by Robert Tyas | Rose, Myrtle, Ivy (1869) by Robert Tyas | A Columbine or Granny’s Bonnet (Aquilegia), with Additional Studies of Flowers (Mid 17th- Late 17th Century) by Pieter Holsteyn II

[aeshnacyanea2000]

Granny Weatherwax wasn’t popular with anyone much – except when they needed her. When Death was standing by the cradle or the axe slipped in the woods and blood was soaking into the moss, you sent someone hurrying to the cold, gnarly little cottage in the clearing. When all hope was gone, you called for Granny Weatherwax, because she was the best.

-- Terry Pratchett - Wintersmith

[poppy-metal]

I've had this thought in my head for awhile of down on his luck patrick - maybe he's in a dry spell in his tennis career, and hes really way too fucking stubborn to crawl back to his family. he'd rather be homeless - coming in too contact with recently divorced!reader.

you have way too much money. you probably have a steady job as a ceo or a doctor - something big and important. but your marriage was nasty. your husband resented you for having more money than him, claimed it emasculated him - threw it in your face that you were getting into your forties now and couldn't even give him babies. he tore down your self worth, made you feel like less of a woman - made you think you weren't worth loving. you've been separated for some time now - and you're so lonely. you're horrible at dating - you always screw it up worrying about what their expectations of you will be. if you're feminine enough for them - if you're desirable - you come home to an empty spacious apartment and watch your TV shows and think you hate your life.

meeting patrick because he fell asleep on the bench outside your complex. you almost walked right by him but something - something about him called to you. maybe it was the fact that he looked so young - in his twenties clearly. freckle spotted and pink cheeked in the cool night air. curled up on the bench like a baby, using his hoodie as a pillow. your heart strings tug. you'd like to think this first step comes from the good of your heart and not some need to be needed - not some need to fill the void inside you - but you wake him up. and if you notice how pretty his eyes are you fold that into a little square in your pocket and ignore it. you tell him, "you look like you need some tea."

and patrick needs alot of things. he needs a fucking cigarette. he needs to be able to afford a fucking meal. he needs to get into a tournament and get back into the groove of things before he burns out and does something insane like kill himself because he hates his fucking life. but tea works. he's not one to turn down free shit. especially from pretty older women.

and he probably thinks this is a transaction - he probably isn't thinking of you lustfully at all at first - your little granny aesthetic and walls covered in pictures of woodland creatures dressed in 1800s garb weird him out, if hes being honest - but he moves to pull his shirt off anyway - because he knows what a free place to stay for a night means - and pussy is pussy at the end of the day. he just wont look at your walls when he's inside you.

and when you stop him its not because you dont want him - unlike patrick you think hes nearly ethereal. there's something mousy about him - but masculine too. his hair is wild and he has too big ears and a pointed nose. but his eyes are this gorgeous moss green - his lips pink and plush - his body filled out - you can see the defined lines of his stomach when he tugs his shirt up, the v that dips down into his jeans and then disappeares, the smattering of dark hair that peeks out - a man. you're not unaffected, is the thing. but you stop him because that's not what you invited him up for, really.

"you dont want....?" he trails off. looks at you like you're a strange insect under a microscope and he's wondering what the hell is up with you. like he wants to poke you with a stick. ask, 'you could obviously use some, lady, so what gives?'

"i just want you to.... talk with me. over tea, if that's alright. you can sleep here after if you'd like. i dont mind."

he thinks he gets it then. nodding his head slowly. he can talk. he'll talk your fucking ear off. he thinks you're probably lonely as fuck and yeah, its pathetic, but hell. pot meet kettle. misery loves a hot younger guy to ogle. isn't that how the saying goes? either way, you're both clearly lost in life at the moment. your apartment is too empty. he could use your hospitality.

its kinda a match made in heaven. an unlikely bond. love and sex isn't the plan - but then, does life ever go according to plan? can a lonely woman with a kind heart and a man who's made a shit mess of his life but wants to do better stay just friends? mean nothing to eachother?

[f2e5b1]

bitter orange — okkotsu yūta [1/3]

pairings. okkotsu yūta + f! reader/original character (main); past!orimito rika + f!reader; past!okkotsu yūta + orimito rika warnings/themes. mentions of death, jealousy, hints of obsession and possession. just a lil dark romance practice (which is barely any dark romance tbh who am i kidding) sprinkled with food motifs but i dont know what im doing im just here for the vibes :P mostly sfw with nsfw themes but nothing sexual bc im too scared to go down that dark path (also no use of y/n bc i started writing with an original name and it unfortunately stuck lawl... can be treated as either or it doesnt matter tbh i cant write anything outside of 2nd person anwyay) word count. 2.8k words nothing too crazy xd playlist. knuckle velvet by ethel cain; velvet ring by big thief; pure by cigarettes after sex; only in the dreams by the marias; be my mistake by the 1975; mary by alex g

it’s been a long time since i have seen my beloved. the moss has grown on that abetachibana tree

PART ONE: ichigo daifuku

Gojō Satoru tells you that love is the most twisted curse of them all.

He had said it in passing after your first solo mission, right as you were entering the car back to Jujutsu Tech before talking your ear off with his lame jokes. The mission had consisted of exorcizing a curse that had persistently haunted an abandoned apartment complex in Omotesandō, assigned to you by the higher-ups in accordance with your newly promoted rank as a Grade 2 sorcerer, having decided that a Grade 1 was doable enough for someone of your caliber. The curse itself wasn’t anything special, though, only repeating gargled confessions of its love to some ‘Chiyo-chan’—whoever she was—the whole time you were dodging its attacks, which was incredibly annoying. You liked your battles in silence, quick and succinct, but curses make that difficult to achieve.

Gojō muses it could have been a past lover, this Chiyo-chan—its love for her having cursed itself. You didn’t really care. If you keep up the good work, complete your required missions and get another recommendation, you could be ranked a Semi-Grade 1 by your second year, then a Grade 1 by your third and nothing else after that because unless you were someone like Gojō Satoru, then you are capped forever at Grade 1.

“So anyway—snacks you like?” said sorcerer asks, finally done with his previous tale. Something about an old coworker. “Mochi, senbei, or taiyaki? Personally, I'm a mochi ice cream type of guy!”

You look at him.

“Why are you here again?”

“... Is your memory that small, Ume? I was proctoring you,” he tuts, mouth turned downwards. “Congrats on the promotion, by the way.”

You shrug. “Ichigo daifuku is good, I guess.”

He smiles, wryly.

“You’re joking, right?”

+

The building facing your childhood home had been home to Orimito Rika, an unsuspecting property with a decent front yard and the occasional street cat or two often shooed away by her irate grandmother. “Mean granny,” you’d often call her, the insult drowned out by your hushed giggles as you played with your dolls. Rika wouldn’t say anything about it, wouldn’t dare verbally agree with you, but she would always nod her head down, the corners of her lips turned up too high.

You didn’t particularly hate the old woman, but there was a certain kind of satisfaction to saying it behind her back after all the times you’ve caught her looking at her granddaughter in unbridled scorn, your own little form of revenge. You could never understand how her only remaining family could look at her like that, not when Rika was so beautiful and kind; like the cherry blossoms during spring, falling gently along with the wind. Sure, she could be a little cunning at times, and none of the other kids at school liked her because “something’s odd about her, can’t you just hang out with us instead?”—but that’s what makes her interesting, right?

Rika isn’t weird, she’s pretty, and you’re the bee drawn to her. She’s only older than you by a year, ten instead of nine, but she always played with you, taught you how to make flower crowns at the park, and when you walked home from school she’d always hold your hand. Her smile is blindingly bright, the sound of her voice a song you couldn’t stop listening to. Selfishly, you wish it would always be the two of you together; playing with your dolls, walking home with your hands intertwined.

But when she came back from the hospital, so did Okkotsu Yūta.

You could never see what she saw in him; he was short and just a little bit pathetic, always trailing after her like a lost puppy at first. You could push him off the swing and he'd move on with a sniffle, the kind to give up the plastic shovel even though he desperately needed it to finish his sand castle because he didn’t want to fight a girl. He smiled shyly and hid his hands behind his back, looking at you like he was looking for your approval. Of course, you never gave him the time of day, because it felt like he had stolen Rika—your Rika. It was supposed to be just you and her, but that wasn’t the case anymore. Now there was Okkotsu Yūta, who held Rika’s other hand after school, who took away her attention from you so easily.

“He’s so cute, isn’t he?” she asks often, a light blush dusting her face.

“I guess,” is your reply.

“Ne,” she calls, presenting to you a small, black box. You look at it in apprehension, wincing when she eventually opens it. “What do you think of this ring? It was my mom’s. I’m gonna give this to Yūta-kun, do you think he’ll like it?”

The ring was immensely simple, a silver-colored band with a small diamond in front, glinting under the light. Nevermind the fact that it was too big for a child’s fingers to fit in, Rika presented it to you as if it held all the answers to the world. Although her parents were dead, and she had definitely stolen it from her grandmother’s dresser, the ring spoke full of promise. When she takes it out of the box and lets you inspect it, it feels heavy.

“... You really like him, don’t you, Rika-chan?” you ask, quietly.

Rika looks at the stupid piece of jewelry, painfully smitten.

“Mhm,” she affirms. “I really like Yūta-kun. I want to be with him forever! Of course, I like you too, Ume-chan. You and Yūta-kun are my favorite people in the world!”

You close the box, handing it back to her. When Rika looks at you expectantly, you realize then that you could never bring yourself to take that happiness away from her.

+

The koinobori flies.

“It’s so pretty!” Rika exclaims, eyes wide and staring up at the sky where the huge, windsock carp moves around. It’s bathed in all sorts of colors—from red to blue to white to green—dancing along the azure expanse in commemoration of Children’s Day. The weather is just right, not too hot nor too cold, and the wind caresses your skin gently, the sun not too harsh. It makes the color of Rika’s hair shine in all the right ways, adds more sparkle in her already bright eyes. She’s wearing a yellow sundress, a nice change from her usual blue one. The cream-colored hat you let her borrow covers her face with the shade, but her smile remains bright and blinding. She looks pretty.

She gives you all of her ichigo daifuku, and shares Yūta’s snacks. She doesn’t even like chimaki.

“Are you sure, Rika-chan?” you ask, looking at the two sweets in your hands.

She beams. “You like them, don’t you?”

You keep them with you until the end of the event.

The day passes by incredibly fast, your little trio having exhausted yourselves from running around the park alongside the other children. Yūta chases Rika around the park, and you watch them squeal and laugh at each other and hold hands. You watch them take a nap under the shade, their pinkies intertwined, and you watch as the ugly color of green blinds your eyesight. You leave them be.

Sometimes, you wish you’re the colorful koinobori flying in the sky. You’d let Rika hold on to you, let her fly and hear her amused laugh as the wind tickles her skin. Sometimes, you wish Yūta slapped the ring away from her hands when she handed it to him. Wish he stomped it on the ground and at the same time stomped on her heart. Wish he didn’t take it with a huge smile and agree that he’d marry her when they get older; he’s not the one who’d wait long lines just to get her the best ichigo daifuku, not the one who’d jump at the other kids when they so much as think of insulting her, and he won’t be the one who’d choose to stay with her when she’s all gray and old cause he’s a boy, and boys would never do that.

Sometimes, you wish he never liked her at all—because he never deserved her in the first place.

Okkotsu Yūta could never love Orimito Rika like you.

+

He sits beside you at lunch.

Rika’s been bedridden for the whole week, which subsequently ruins your week. Yūta doesn’t seem to mind her absence all that much since he doesn’t see her a lot during classes anyway, but they’re supposed to be engaged. He should always be thinking of her, should be acting as miserable as you even at the unripe age of nine. He looks too okay with her absence when he shouldn’t be.

“What’s this?” you ask, pointing at the small bag of snacks he had placed on the cover of your bento.

“Hm?” he looks up. “Oh, it’s norimaki senbei.”

“... And?” you prod.

He tilts his head. “You don’t want it?”

“... I don’t want it.”

He looks at you thoughtfully.

“But you like them, don’t you?” he asks though he’s acting like he already knows, like you’ll take it regardless of what you say. It’s annoying.

You look at the seaweed-wrapped rice crackers—the stupid norimaki senbei—in mild contempt. “Why are you giving it to me?”

Yūta’s smile is small, knowing. “Because you don’t like sweets.”

You frown.

+

She’s a sweet girl.

You think of Orimoto Rika like that because it’s true—she smiles sweetly, she speaks sweetly, and she likes sweet things. She tells you that her favorite snack is ichigo daifuku, the very same confection you always begged your parents to buy for you just so you could share them with her. It pays off all the time because then she’d look as sweet as the daifuku itself, her cheeks as red as the fruit within it. She also likes hanami dango, but she doesn’t like the green part because she doesn’t really like the subtle taste of yomogi, so you eat the rest for her because she doesn’t want to waste it. She likes cold tea instead of hot, sweet instead of savory, like yuzu iced tea or bubbly ramune in comparison to the nutty taste of hōjicha. When you go to the store, she always gets the kompeitō with some random anime character on the packaging because those were the “cutest kind of kompeitō,” and Rika likes cute things.

She also likes the color pink, but when you ask her what her favorite color is she’d say it’s blue. It’s blue not because she wears that blue dress all the time, but blue because it’s the color of Okkotsu Yūta’s eyes, bright and round and always looking at her. Rika likes it that way—she likes how Okkotsu Yūta is always looking at her with his blue eyes, unwavering and full of adoration for her and her only.

You think Orimito Rika is a sweet girl, but sometimes she’s more than that. Sometimes, when the other kids get brave enough to drag you away from her, tell you to stop hanging out with her, they say it’s because Rika doesn’t like anyone else but Okkotsu Yūta.

Sometimes, when they tell you that, you wonder if Rika liked you at all, way before Okkotsu Yūta came into the picture.

But most of the time, you don’t really care. Even if Rika didn’t like you, you’d still like her. Even if she’d only have her eyes set on Okkotsu Yūta with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid norimaki senbei and stupid chimaki that he shared with her on the fifth of May, you’d still like her because she’s Rika—beautiful, kind, and wonderful Rika.

She has things she doesn’t like, too, such as other people but never Yūta-kun or Ume-chan! She likes it when people compliment her and praise her looks and give her free stuff like ramune or ichigo daifuku or Sailor Moon-themed kompeitō from the store, but sometimes she tells you that she dislikes this certain group of girls from Yūta’s class, dislikes the boy assigned as your seatmate, her homeroom teacher, the “weird” guy who works at the konbini a street over, and dislikes it even more when her grandmother looks at her and tells her she killed her own father without even saying anything at all.

You know all those things because you know Orimito Rika. You like her even if she holds intense dislike for the people outside her circle, people who tick her off just a little for you to see her smile crack at the edges and go stiff, the little twitch of her brown eyes, and most importantly, you still like her when all she wants in the world is the attention of the boy who wears her deceased mother’s ring.

You’ll always want sweet girls like her.

+

“Where’s Rika-chan?”

“Her grandma won’t let her go out today,” Yūta says, sitting next to you on the bench. “So it’s just you and me.”

He says it dejectedly, but it’s not enough for you. If he was really sad, then he’d be as sad as you are, so you start packing your belongings. “I’m leaving, then.”

He startles, standing up. “Huh? W–wait! Don’t leave just yet!”

“But Rika-chan’s not here,” you frown. “There’s no point in hanging out today.”

He falters, looking down at the ground.

“Even if she isn’t here, we can still play together…” he offers, looking up at you timidly. “We’re friends, too, aren’t we?”

The green-eyed monster stares at the silver chain wrapped around his neck, the ring acting as its pendant tucked underneath his shirt—like an unattainable treasure trapped inside a chest with the key thrown away somewhere you cannot find it. We’re not friends, the monster says with a snarl, stay away from me.

If there is one thing you know, then it’s that you have never wanted to be friends with Okkotsu Yūta, not after he took everything from you. He can butter you up by sticking to you during class and sitting next to you at lunch and even offering you some of his not-ichigo daifuku, not-yuzu iced tea, and not-colorful anime-themed kompeitō but you will and have never liked him for the green-eyed monster will always sit on your shoulder so long as he wears that ring on his person, a physical manifestation of his promise with Rika. Your Rika, even if that’s not really the case.

You will never like Okkotsu Yūta, because—because he—

“... What’re we even gonna do?” you ask, slowly.

He immediately brightens up.

“… Wanna get ice cream?” he offers. “There’s a new flavor I wanna try!”

His suggestion does not entice you at all, but when he stands there with an outstretched hand waiting for you to take it, like it’ll matter if you reject him, you find yourself at a crossroads. But you make your decision soon enough. Like it’ll matter, like the green-eyed monster isn’t there, staring.

“Okay,” you say, moving past him to start walking. He blinks incredulously at the blatant rejection before gathering himself and following after you, a prep to his step regardless of your actions.

You try to ignore the warmth of his body next to yours.

He’s too close.

+

“Yūta-kun’s birthday is in a few days,” Rika announces, lying on your spare futon. “Did you get him anything?”

You didn’t. “... Yeah.”

“Really? What is it?” she cranes her neck to face you. “What’d you get him?”

She doesn’t want your gift being better than hers, it checks out. “Um… just a toy. A garbage truck.”

“Oh, okay,” she turns back to face the ceiling. “I made him a scrapbook with photos of us. I worked really hard on it… do you think he’ll like it?”

“He’ll like anything you give him.”

She’s already given him a ring—what else could compare to that?

Rika smiles. “I guess… you’re right.”

Soon enough, she goes to sleep, breathing softly beside you as your fan fills the silence of the night. You continue staring at the ceiling, making out the little dents despite the lack of light. You squeeze the hand that holds your under the cover, before closing your eyes.

You hear her softly breathe on a steady beat alongside the fan whirring in the corner, and you close your eyes, squeezing her hand tighter underneath the covers of your too-close futon.

You’ll have to ask your parents for some money tomorrow.

+

“Rika-chan isn’t here again,” Yūta says dejectedly. “Her granny’s too strict.”

“She hates her,” you say quietly.

Yūta looks at you, confused. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing. Your birthday’s coming up soon, what are you doing that day?”

“Uwah—you remember?”

“Rika-chan told me.”

“Oh, well,” he smiles sheepishly, “we have school that day, but after that I’ll be celebrating at my house. I’m thinking of just inviting Rika-chan and you over… um, so, will you come?”

“I’ll go if Rika-chan is going.”

He blinks, before a smile blooms on his face. “Okay! I’ll see you, then.”

+

It happens when you aren't there.

It never should have happened at all.

Orimito Rika is pronounced dead at the age of eleven, her body unrecognizable under the heavy weight of a blue truck.

next

[keeyo7]

Hey everyone! I hope you’re doing well! It been a while but I was asked to post selfies a few times by some wonderful people. Thank you @moss-wizard @a-girls-desiresnstuff @eckspress @chubabub and @heyitsish!

Honestly things have been tough the past few months and everyday is still a lot. I’m thankful to the friends and family that have been helping me through it! Tuesday was my first birthday without my dad and it was tough but I still had a really good day. Here’s a couple of random selfies and a couple from a dodger game I went to with my friends. Thank you all for reading this far if you have haha

I tag @xoxoxoxoxos @prinxashbicth @phantombride @mi-corazon @kladivonacarodejnice @panicatthegrassshack @rosecult @xvampycandyx @ruledbythemoons @imbabyxo @treebanana @babysworld222 @strawberryxslut @eraserhead-baby-offical @strandsofmelody @stretchedoutonthegrass @mi-arrepentimiento @xlittle-ghost @mad-again @emilyyy0001 @aizeachew @uchihacumslut @bvby-peach @moonofheroin @zombiemami @ilyzuh @labradorite-princess @naneki-maid @ishaaaa @bratpixie @granny-zeniba @ughidkwhattoputasmyurl @busyfish @moments-in-0blivion @alisasacagawea @stonedlittlewraithxo @lutescent @a-little-lynx @prideandperdition @lilwhorechata @coconut-mamaa @cigarettemommy @ovsilenceandblack @greennanni @976-evil and anyone else who would like to post a selfie. As always no pressure! :)

[videostarblogs]

11. mori kei

mori kei, meaning forest sty;e, is a Japanese fashion subculture inspired by the calm, natural beauty of the forest and countryside. known for its earthy tones, layering, and vintage inspired aesthetics, mori kei captures a peaceful, whimsical lifestyle centered on a connection with nature. here's a break down on mori kei!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

origins and development

influence of nature: mori kei was born from a desire to embody a tranquil, forest like atmosphere. it emphasized living slowly, appreciating nature, and creating an aesthetic that feels like stepping into a fairytale

mori girl: mori keis popularity grew in the late 2000s through a Japanese social media community called mixing, where users shared photos of their mori inspired looks, the style was popularized by designers and mori kei icon choco yamada, who outlined the mori girl rules on mixing, helping solidify its distinct, dreamy aesthetic.

philosophy: mori kei is not only a style but a lifestyle rooted in minimalism, nostalgia, and simplicity. it often encompasses interests like photography, nature walks, drinking tea, and home made crafts!!1

key motifs

earth tones and natural colors: mori keis color palette includes soft, earthy hues like beige, cream, brown, olive, and moss green. muted pastels and off-whites are also used to create a delicate and harmonious feel, imitating the forest.

loose, layered silhouettes: the clothing in mori kei is loose fitting and layered to create a cozy, lived in look. layers of dresses, cardigans, oversized sweaters, shawls, and skirts are worn over each other to give an impression of softness and comfort.

vintage and handmade accessories: mori kei incorporates vintage inspired clothing, often resembles garments from simpler times. dresses with lace, floral prints, Peter pan collars, and earthy textures like wool, linen, and cotton are popular. items are sometimes handmade or thrifted to add a personal, nostalgic feel.

natural accessories: accessories in mori kei are inspired by nature--- think floral pins, straw hats, scarves, and woven bags. jewelry is kept simple and often handmade, featuring materials like wood, dried flowers, and stones

natural makeup and hair: makeup is usually kept minimal and natural, focusing on soft, rosy cheeks, and nude lips to give a gentle, healthy glow. hair is typically styled in loose waves, braids, or buns, and natural or warm hair colors like brown and dark blonde are common to match the earthy vibes or the outfit.

music

mori kei is often associated with peaceful and fold inspired music that eachoes the serene, introspective spirit of the forest. genres like acoustic, folk, and indie are popular, as are artists like iron & wine, fleet foxes, and Japanese indie artists such as ichiko aoba. instrumental and ambient music, including soft piano or nature sounds, are also fitting for mori kei enthusiasts who enjoy quiet moments of reflection. here are 10 artists I recommend

cocoon

iron & wine

fleet foxes

sufjan stevens

kina grannis

lisa mitchell

angus & Julia stone

first aid kit

soley

aoi teshima

movies

studio ghibli: films like my neighbor totoro, nausicaa of the valley of the wind. an princess mononoke, reflect the mori kei values of nature and simplicity. these films emphasize a harmonious connection with nature, which resonates with the mori kei aesthetics

period and fairy tale films: movies like the secret garden, and little women, feature vintage, countryside settings and styles that aligns with the look and feel of mori kei. the film Anne of green gables also embodies the quiet, pastoral lifestyle that mori kei represents. here are more movies I suggest

my neighbor totoro (1988)

only yesterday (1991)

the secret world of arrietty (2010)

wolf children (2012)

when marine was there (2014)

the tale of the princess kaguya (2013)

the fox and the child (2007)

the whisper of the heart (1995)

song of the sea (2014)

the village (2004)

books and other media

classic and nature inspired literature: books that emphasize the beauty of nature, simplicity =, and introspection are popular within mori kei. titles like Anne of green gables, the secret garden, and works by Jane Austen offer vintage inspired worlds that match mori kei aesthetic.

photography and nature journals: mori kei enthusiasts often enjoy photography that nature natures quiet moments -- forest trails, close ups of flora, and cozy indoor settings with vintage decor nature journals re also popular, where one con press flowers, write poetry, and record observations about nature.

social media: platforms like Instagram, Tumblr, and Pinterest have vibrant mori kei communities, where enthusiasts share their looks, document forest outings, and connect over shared interests in slow living and natural aesthetics

inspo

overall, mori kei is a fashion style and lifestyle that embodies peace, simplicity, and a connection to nature. with its soft, earthy palette, loose layering, and vintage inspired clothing, mori kei celebrates the beauty of the natural world and a quiet, introspective way of life. it offers an escape from the fast pace of modern life, creating a cozy, fairytale like world filled with warmth, comfort, and a deep respect for nature.

feels free to like, reblog and follow for more fashion deep dives like this!!!!! click my questions box in my bio to suggest styles you'd want me to breakdown!!! thank you for reading!

videostar signing off.........................................................................................................................................

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

The Sandman Reading List: One Shots G-O

Legend:

❗️ = Explicit Content

🔞 = Mature Content

Give Me Everything You've Got by @7-wonders

Granny’s Superstitions by @Just-some-random-blogger

Honey, I'm Home by @gardens-light ❗️

Inside My Mind by @Just-some-random-blogger ❗️

Lean on Me by @roguelov

Let Me Remind You by @fatecantstopme ❗️

Little Nightmare by @sinner-as-saint ❗️

Lost in a Dream by @lis-likes-fics ❗️

My Hope by @fatecantstopme

Never Been Kissed by @7-wonders

Night Shift by @igotanidea

No, it’s Not a Scarf it’s a Cat and My Needy Boyfriend… No More Questions Please by @thepaintedlady00

Of Nightmares and Darkness by @colorfultyrantearthquake ❗️

Only a Dream by MidnightBlast (AO3) ❗️

Only in Dreams by @Roguelov ❗️

Only You by @Shitpostingiris (@moss-is-a-tasty-snack) ❗️

Dream x Reader: Insecure by @thepaintedlady00 ❗️

The Sandman Reading List: One Shots

The Sandman Reading List

Reading Masterlist

[just-a-funny-little-brain]

Unmarked Cairn

Critical Role: Bells Hells, Orym, 1.4k words

Summary: The flowered valley just north of Zephrah holds many stone cairns and even more memories. Here are a few of Orym's.

tw: mentioned canonical character death, grief

Read it on ao3

———

There’s an unmarked cairn in the flowered stone garden. 

Orym notices it the third time Alma brings him to visit the garden. 

“Death is simply a piece of life. It’s important to understand both and not be afraid of it.”

The young halfling hadn’t understood the first time, and he’s not sure he understands now, but he’s here in the garden, and the flowers are nice.

“Who was Findal?”

Alma smiles. “They were one of the hardest working farmers down in the Talam area. They had such a way with goats, as soon as anyone had an issue with theirs, Findal was the first they went to. They had a laugh you could hear for miles.”

“Did you deliver them?”

Alma laughs and tussles Orym’s hair. “No, they were around for a long time before I came along.”

Orym ducks from beneath his mother’s hand and skips around stones of different heights to find a name with a new story. 

Soon one catches his eye. It stands away from most of the cairns. While most of the others have names engraved facing the path, the dark stones are blank.

“Mama? Who’s this?”

Alma’s gentle smile fades and she places her hands on his shoulders. “The Tempest created that one recently. Nobody knows for certain who it’s for, though. Someone very special to her.”

“Is it her dad?”

The smile returns. “No, silly, Korrin’s her dad. You know that. Come on, it’s almost lunch,” she says, gently directing the boy back home.

——

The first autumn after Will officially asks Orym on a date, they decide, at Derrig’s encouragement, to attend the Night of Ascension ceremony in the Memory Garden. The Garden is modestly but beautifully decorated, with seasonal flowers and mosses covering the cairns and lining the walkways. 

It had been a long week of training, and Orym’s muscles ache as he matches Will’s stride. Will glances down at him and grins.

“Gotta work on those leg stretches more so you can get taller and keep up,” he teases. 

“I’ll do that once you finally beat me up a tree,” Orym retorts, bumping Will’s hip. “Or maybe once you’re better with the skysails.”

Will laughs. “Okay, okay. Here, how about when either of us wins a spar against Dad?”

Orym smiles and reaches up for his hand. “It’s a deal.”

They find a place among the crowd near Orym’s grandmother’s cairn. It’s worn with loving touches and is currently decorated with a woven circlet of flowers draped over the namestone. Orym places one hand against the smoothed riverstones, a cool contrast to Will’s warm hand in the other.

The gathering quiets respectfully as the Voice of the Tempest steps forward from the crowd to welcome everyone and begin the ceremony.

As the sunlight begins to fade, luminescent insects begin to appear and gather at the flowers on each cairn. It’s a nearly perfect night for the ceremony — calm winds, cool air, and not a cloud to hide the stars that have just begun to blink through the sky. Orym glances up before nudging Will to look to the northeast. 

“It’s us,” he whispers.

Will looks up and smiles at the sight of the two moons. “Yeah,” he says softly, squeezing Orym’s hand.

Soon, the ceremony draws to a close, and Orym and Will kneel by the cairn. Slowly, Orym reaches his hand out towards the stone, and the glowing insects move towards the warmth of his skin. 

“Hi, Granny,” he says softly. “A lot’s happened. A lot’s changed, but... also nothing’s changed.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Will and I are dating now. You always said we were like one big family, and now we really are. Or, will be.” He thinks for a moment. “Mom and Nel are doing well. Leeta keeps trying to make your cookies, but they’re never quite right. We miss you, and we love you.” He looks to Will.

Will, despite his best efforts, has hardly any bugs on his hands. “Come on...” he mutters. 

Orym smirks. “See, even the glowbugs think you have cold hands.”

With a groan, Will lowers his hands, and the few accumulated insects flit over to Orym’s hands.

“You can double my hands,” Orym says with a smile.

Will sighs. “Yeah, all right. You halflings always run so warm, it’s not fair!” he says with a fake huff and a smile. 

Orym laughs softly. “Come on, before the glowbugs start thinking they live here now.”

Gently, Will wraps his hands under Orym’s, and after a quite count to three, they fling their hands into the air. In a burst of light and color, the glowbugs scatter, carrying the love and wishes of Zephrah into the night.

——

The Raven Tree is in full bloom on Orym and Will’s wedding day. The ceremony is beautiful and joyful, full of family and friends, and afterwards the whole of Zephrah joins in celebrating.

As the evening grows, Orym squeezes Will’s hand to get his attention.

“We should visit the rest of the family.”

Will nods, and the pair excuse themselves from the festivities.

The walk to the Memory Garden is quiet, a refreshing break from the chaos they leave behind. Buds and blooms line the path, enveloping the pair in a warm, gentle fragrance as they approach. 

Slowly, methodically, the two weave along well-worn paths, pausing for family and friends to extend the ceremony to each. Finally, they make their way to a fallen tree that had been carved into a bench years ago. 

Orym leans against Will’s side as he sits and lets out a sigh. 

Will laughs softly. “Yeah. It’s a lot.”

Orym smiles. “Yeah. Nobody I’d rather do it with though,” he says, bringing Will’s hand up to kiss the new ring that now decorated a finger.

“Mm.” Will drapes his arm around Orym’s shoulders, pulling him close.

The evening is quiet for a few minutes. Slowly, then faster, stars peak through the darkening sky. Orym points out the large crescent moon dwarfing its smaller red partner, both just skirting the horizon. 

“Moons are rising.”

“They’re just getting started for the night. Just like us,” Will says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Orym laughs. “Oh gods, not here, Alma might kill me if she finds out.”

“She doesn’t need to find out!” Will protests, his face the picture of innocence. 

Orym rolls his eyes with a smile. “Maybe on a night when we’re not expected back soon. Maybe .”

“It’s a deal,” Will says. “You know, someday? We’ll be old men and just sit out here all day. Watch the Skysailers during the day, and watch the stars at night.”

“And the moons.”

“We can show the moons what’s what.”

Orym laughs. “We’ll do just that.”

——

Orym is half asleep and fully drunk when a dark shadow approaches down a path of the Memory Garden. 

He doesn’t notice it at first, as the tears sting and blur his surroundings. Two new cairns make for drunken pillows, even as the sharp edges of fresh engravings carve into his skin. The stinging stone is a sad mockery of the gaping hole in his chest, threatening, promising to consume him where he lies.

A gentle wind raises his head. The silhouette is tall, a textured dark cloak obscuring the details as it trails behind.

A raven caws at the shadow of Catha, the dark new moon leaving Ruidus alone in its wake.

A hiccup escapes Orym’s chest. “Er… ‘re you here fer me too? I din’t... I couldn’t...” A sob punctuates another hiccup. “I couldn’t stop it... I don’... ‘f you take me too -- hic -- do I go where he is?”

The figure turns towards him and tilts their head. “Orym?”

Orym blinks. The voice itches in the back of his mind… something important…

“Orym, why are you here? It’s the middle of the night!”

The voice… it’s someone he knows? Important…?

“So y’r not the… the Raven… Mater… Queen Raven…?”

The figure lets out a harsh laugh. “I most definitely am not.” The figure sighs. “Gods you’re drunk.” The figure crouches before him with a grunt and begins to mutter quietly.

That voice… “What’re you…?” 

Orym blinks, then groans as a pounding pain hits his head. The voice… The Voice. 

Shit.

Orym reaches for Derrig’s shield and scrambles backwards to try to stand. “Temp— Voi— Key—“ He wipes his face and snot and tears smear across his leathers. “I’m so sorry, I-- I shouldn’t be here, I—“ 

The excuses die in his throat as Keyleth gently pulls Orym into a hug. Orym stiffens, but moments later, the exhaustion of the past week takes over.

Keyleth’s arms tighten around the sobbing halfling. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”