#evergreen trees caring tips

[challengemag]

Care for Newly Planted Evergreen Trees: Expert Tips and Guidelines

Discover essential tips and expert guidelines on how to care for newly planted evergreen trees. From watering to pruning, our comprehensive advice ensures your evergreens thrive. Take a look at our infographic for more information and visit the full article now.

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 9]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

ferocious and stubborn as an ox

cw: period talk, fluff

wc: 4.8k

Just as promised, Simon picks you up the following afternoon. 

Jack Frost paid you a visit last night, leaving intricate, swirling designs on your windows, casting the grey cityscape beyond your apartment in prismatic light. It diffuses your vision to the point that you don’t recognize Simon when he pulls up, unfamiliar with his car, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he knocks on the door. Shoulders scrunching, muscles tensing; you turn to the door with a grunt as your cramps jolt through your body. They’re worse today than they were yesterday. They always seem to grow more intense with time, but it’s a familiar pain you know how to push through. 

Shouldering on a coat, you open the door only to be immediately scrutinized under Simon’s gaze. Dark eyes flicker over your body, checking for dark circles, perspiration, and general fragility. Though you are loads better than when he saw you last week, you’re certain your crossed arms and the slight hunching over your stomach isn’t convincing. Judging by the tight line of his lips, he’s not entirely impressed. 

Mustering a smile, you glance behind him, prodding him into action. “Hey. Ready to head out?” 

He hums before nodding, boots clomping against the floor as he moves out of the way. “Got the car all warmed up for ya, sweetheart.” 

London looks magical around this time of year, especially from the passenger's seat of Simon’s car. Warm white lights twist up the trunk of every tree, spiraling along branches where stray snowflakes glint in their glory. Evergreen garland adorns street lights with faux holly and winter berries, giving your eyes a break from the otherwise barren concrete jungle. It’s beautiful. Picture perfect. Something you’d expect to see on a postcard or in a movie. Glass fogs up with your breath as you lean closer to get a better look at the streets. 

With only one more week until Christmas, the pavement bustles with last minute shoppers. Children in too-large coats and fluffy caps trot behind their parents as they squeal in delight at window displays in flashy shops. The holiday has a way of illuminating everything. Casting a warm, yellow glow on the wonderstruck faces peering through the glass. Bathing the streets until they’re lively and buzzing. Banishing the gloom of the city — you almost don’t recognize the streets. 

Of course, the grey is always there underneath the surface somewhere. Lurking with sharp, nefarious tendrils, waiting to smother anything it can. For the moment, at least, it’s nice to pretend that it’s gone forever. 

Once Simon finds a place to park, you’re able to step out into that wonderland yourself. A soft breeze nips at the tips of your ears and nose, rubbing them raw with crystalline shards like sandpaper across your skin, but you ignore it in favor of the toy shop display flashing through the window. A model train travels through a tiny village dusted with cotton-like snow. Tiny villagers go about their tiny lives as they attend church and visit family or throw snowballs at one another. Each of them are hand painted with care, complete with rosy cheeks and colorful winter attire. 

Simon’s reflection dances in the glass as he approaches your side, looking down at the scene you can’t help but gawk at. His arm brushes against yours as he inspects the paintwork on the figurines, and you glance up at him with a smile. His face glows in the light bringing his skin to life, scars and all. It casts shadows on his face perfectly, defining the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones.

Swallowing, you turn your attention back to the scene in front of you. “I wish it would snow more in London.” 

He hums, feet shuffling on the pavement. “Would be a lot of shoveling.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t have to snow a whole lot,” you chuckle. “Just enough to stick around. Thick enough to make snow angels out of.” 

You pause to watch the train travel through the tunnel. A small light fixed to the front of the locomotive cuts through the darkness, and you watch it grow brighter as it nears the exit. In your head, you imagine its whistle. The huff and puff of smoke as the engine burns coal to transport presents. You smile. 

“My dad and I used to make frost angels instead. The grass at the park would always glisten with frost, especially in the mornings, so we’d lay in the field and make angels.” You laugh at the memory as a fit of giggles erupts behind you, children passing through with toys in hand. For a moment, you almost feel warm. “They never looked really pretty, but he’d always finish them off with halos anyway.” 

“Could always blend up some ice for ya,” he patronizes. 

You mock laugh at him. “Oh sure, thanks. Think you can get all of London covered by Christmas?” 

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.” 

Ignoring the way your cheeks warm at his comment, you quickly change the subject, suggesting that you get to shopping before you freeze to death. Thankfully, Simon bites and leads you inside of the toy shop where you’re welcomed by a jovial clerk with a kind smile. A green elf hat sits on his head, leaving the children nearby to gawk at him. Christmas music plays softly through the radio on the back counter and it fades in and out as you wander between shelves where spiced cinnamon and pumpkin wafts just behind you. 

A variety of toys adorn the aisles, but Simon appears to be on a mission for something in specific. He completely bypasses the frilly princess costumes, fancy dolls, action figures  and crafts supplies in favor of toy cars and model ships. They’re cute; impossibly small. Made perfectly for little hands and fingers. 

Then you make the mistake of looking at the price tags. 

There’s a special aesthetic that surrounds this time of year. Something beautiful and kind. It’s the type of feeling that tugs on heartstrings, drawing people into warm embraces with hearty meals and laughter. It makes you feel at home even when you’re far from it. Despite it all, there’s always going to be something that’ll separate you from everyone else. You’ll never be the one bringing home gifts to family members. Never be the one to splurge. Each year you can hardly scrounge up enough to give Row something. Hell, you’re not even sure if you’ll have enough to buy the sanitary products you so desperately need. 

Then again, it’s not like you have much family left to buy gifts for. 

“What kind of present are you looking for?” Push it out of your mind. You can’t mope forever. 

“Somethin’ my nephew’s been wantin’ for a bit. He’s been talkin’ his parents ear off ‘bout it for the last few months,” Simon replies, eyes scanning the shelf in front of him. He hums as his fingers ghost over the box to a model plane. “Been obsessed with planes lately.” 

“Nephew?” you repeat. “So you have siblings, then?” 

“A brother. Thomas. Everyone calls ‘im Tommy. I like to call him a pain in the arse,” he humors. 

Chuckling, you crouch down to assist Simon’s search for the perfect gift for his nephew. The movement, curling in on yourself, temporarily eases the cramps that still fester deep in your abdomen, and you sigh. No matter how little the reprieve is, it’s always welcome. 

“Big or little brother, then?” you ask. 

“Older. Certainly not bigger than me.” 

“Yeah, figure it’s pretty hard to be bigger than you.”

Falling quiet, you put in more effort into searching through eye-catching toys flashy enough to steal away any child’s attention. They’ve got everything from small sets made out of metal, to build-your-own models. It’s certainly fancier than anything you remembered from when you were a kid, but it’s also been ages since you’ve last visited a toy store. 

“Oh, this is cute!” you coo. 

Your hands reach out for a large box padded with smooth cardboard. For its size, it’s incredibly light, so it’s easy work to slide it off of the shelf. A precious, design it yourself RC plane, complete with paint and all. The box depicts what you assume is supposed to be father and son, painting designs on the body of the plane together. 

You hold the box up for Simon to see, giving it a little shake. “Look, he could design his own little plane!” 

Simon’s eyes widen in recognition as you straighten yourself out, box still in hand. “That’s it.” 

Holding it out for him to take, he relieves you of carrying its weight. Large hands flip the box around, reading the description on the back. He smirks, then chuckles before shaking his head. 

“As seen on TV,” he quotes. “They play the commercial for this between his favorite cartoons. Been begging his mum for it ever since.” 

“What’s his name?” you ask. 

“Joseph.” 

Before you have the chance to comment further, Simon slides the box underneath his arm while his free hand retrieves his phone. The screen flickers on, casting a dim glow on his face as he flicks through applications. 

When he turns it in your direction, you’re met with a half fuzzy photo of a young boy and a woman. They’re outside, sitting in a pile of leaves, their dying colors of red and yellows vibrantly declaring the autumn season. A few torn leaves stick to the boy’s bright blonde hair as he attempts to shove a fistful of them into the woman's hair. They don’t quite stick to her copper locks, but she grins at him anyway. With bright blue eyes and beautiful smiles, they’re near carbon copies of one another. 

“Tom sent me this a few months back. That’s little Joey there, and his mum, Beth,” Simon shares. 

“He’s adorable,” you coo. “How old is he?” 

The very moment Simon answers, an unforgiving contraction rips through your abdomen. Muscles cramping and tightening, pulling so taut you fear they’ll tear each other apart. In a pitiful attempt to soothe yourself, your hand presses right above where your uterus is wreaking havoc on your body. With enough pressure, you’re sure you can phase through your organs. Reach into yourself and remove the nuisance and go on with your life. Instead, you fight back a grimace. 

No matter how hard you try, you’re unable to hide such vicious pain from Simon. He catches on quickly. Sniffs it out like a cadaver dog. His phone shuts off yet stays firmly in his palm as he presses the back of his hand against your forehead. Taken aback, you stare up at him, mouth trying to form words, yet nothing falls from your lips. There’s something about this touch that feels familiar. Something that leaves you feeling empty when he moves his hand away. 

“Sure you’re feelin’ alright?” he asks. “Still a little warm. Don’t look like you’re feelin’ too good, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it’s due to what your body has been going through as of late, or maybe it’s because of the way he’s looking at you, but your mouth grows dry. Like a desert. Devoid of the oasis of words you so desperately need. There’s no use in beating around the bush — or at least, you try to tell yourself as much — you’ve followed him out here for a reason.

“Yeah I’m just… you know. On my menses,” you explain, trying to make it humorous but it sounds more awkward than anything. “That’s, uh, one of the reasons I came with you today. Was sorta hoping I could drop by the pharmacy to pick some stuff up.” 

You were hoping the concern etched into his face would melt away with your explanation, but if anything, it only gets worse. “You shoulda said something. Would’ve dropped by there first.” 

“It’s no big deal,” you attempt to assure. “I mean, it’s not like this stuff goes away with a magic medication or something.” 

God, you wish it would. A simple pop of a pill and a quick nap to have this all fade away sounds heavenly. It would save you from the odd look Simon gives you as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made him uncomfortable. Some men get… squeamish around that type of talk. You have a very vivid memory shoved in the back of your mind of one of the cooks getting on Bee for walking in the restaurant with a box of tampons. She told them off with a bravery you could only dream of mustering, and they haven’t mentioned anything since, but the image of their tense faces is forever burned into your mind. 

You wonder if it’s the blood or the body it comes from that disgusts them so much. 

“C’mon,” Simon urges as he nods towards the end of the aisle. “Should be a pharmacy on the end of the block.” 

“But what about presents for your family?” you ask. 

“This was the last thing I was lookin’ for. Everythin’ else is already covered,” he assures you. “We’ll go up and pay and get you what you need, yeah?”

If there is one thing that you’ve learned about Simon Riley over the last few months, it’s that he’s a force to be reckoned with. Of course, you’ve known this fairly early on. You’ve known as much since the moment he taught you how to shoot pool, hands firm and unwavering against yours. It’s a force that evolves. One that shows its teeth — ones sharp enough to send a man as terrifying as Andrei whimpering and running for the hills. 

You wonder if he brings that same heat to John’s establishment. Doing grunt work in the club, fighting off men gathering around the innocent like flies drawn to rot and decay. How often have those teeth been redirected at him, causing the puffy scars that trace the features of his nose and jaw? Are his claws only razors because someone else sharpened them for him? 

Too many times have you seen men like Simon deteriorate. Shatter and become nothing but self-centered beasts who don’t fear spilling blood. Strength and power corrupts even the kindest of people — turns humans into monsters; into men like Marco. Simon should terrify you, but he doesn’t. 

You don’t fully realize why that is until you reach the pharmacy

Even with your obvious apprehension about him accompanying you inside, he does anyway. Doesn’t flinch at the hygiene products. Watches intently as you peruse, counting numbers in your head and quids in your hand. It’s that counting game again. Barely scraping by — not having enough to buy supplies that’ll last you more than a few days, forever stuck with travel sized versions of what you require. When he catches on to that frustrated expression on your face, he insists on paying for you. 

“Not gonna let you go without what’cha need. These prices are robbin’ you blind,” he says when you try to argue. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” you retort, guilt eating you alive. 

“I’m not buyin’ you a pony here, sweetheart. They’re pads and tampons. Necessities.”

Stubborn as an ox, he doesn’t budge. He’s perseverant, and certainly has more stamina than you. Saving yourself from any further embarrassment, you finally allow it. You’ll just have to buy him something another time. He carries the items up himself, sneaking some over the counter painkillers in his hands in the process. You follow behind him like a wounded animal; or, at least the clerk looks at you as if you are one. Some pathetic, bleeding bitch — it’s like he can smell the blood that stains the insides of your thighs. Shame mixes with the embarrassment in your veins, lighting you on fire until you’re nothing but a boiling mess of a woman. 

Suddenly, the only thing you see is Simon’s back. 

“Get paid to stare or are you gonna ring us up?” he grunts. 

Simon cares ferociously, you realize. That’s why you’re not scared of him. It would be so easy for him to take. To scrape up everything he wants and shove it into his pocket like it’s always belonged to him, but he doesn’t. Simon likes balance. Enjoys peace. When he snarls, it’s with sharp teeth; just enough to get the glares and smirks to dissipate, and when he looks back at you, there is only care. Doesn’t speak about the tally. There are no numbers in the back of his mind. No debt to pay. 

He doesn’t count. He cares because that’s what he wants to do. And if it’s not, then he is the greatest pretender you’ve ever met — second only to yourself. 

You’re able to breathe again the moment you’re back in Simon’s car, seatbelt fastened and supplies in hand. Dusk settles in the sky with a soft lilac hue as you’re taken back home, but the streets do not darken. Christmas joy keeps the pavement illuminated, bright lights diffusing through the window — they almost look like stars. You squint, try to pick out constellations, try to ignore the cramping and humiliation that festers in your stomach. 

“Got plans for Christmas?” 

Neither of you have spoken in so long you nearly jump at the warm baritone resonating in his chest. Glancing at him, you quell your heart as you watch him for a moment. Hands carefully on the wheel, safely maneuvering through traffic, eyes flickering to you for only a moment before they’re back on the road. 

“Oh, uhm, not really. Usually I spend it with Row and John, but they’re headed out of the country for the holiday. My parents passed when I was a kid so… uh, otherwise I think I’ll probably spend it at home? Relax or whatever,” you explain. 

An eternity passes by as you wait for his response. Engine humming, radio playing old Christmas tunes in the background — you know what he’s going to say, and you try not to grimace before the words leave his mouth. 

“I’ve got family in Manchester. My mum’s hostin’ my brother and I for the holiday. You’re more than welcome to join, if you’d like,” he offers. 

Your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh. “You know you don’t… have to do that, right?” you ask. 

“Do what?” he questions, sincere confusion lacing his tone. 

“I know that Row asked you to keep an eye on me. That she’s concerned about me, or whatever. And I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me, truly. But Simon, this is your family. I can’t… barge in. You deserve to spend time with them without having to worry about, you know… me.” 

His head shakes, eyes daring a glance at you as you fiddle with the bag in your lap. “Row isn’t makin’ me do anything. And you’re not bargin’ in if I invite you,” he says. 

Teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip, you feel yourself sunder. Long, spiderweb cracks in your foundation, heart pounding so hard you fear it’ll rip itself to shreds. You’re becoming undone in the passenger's seat of a car, and you swear it’ll be the end of you. 

“Sweetheart, I’m not askin’ you because of Row, or anyone else. I’m askin’ because I wanna know if you’ll go to Manchester with me or not. That’s it,” he says. 

Finally, you bring yourself to look at him, anxiety slithering down your throat as you swallow. “Do you… really want me to go?” 

“Course I do. Wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t. I’d be chuffed if you did, but it’s up to you.” He pauses as he spares another glance at you. “You can say no.” 

Quiet eudaimonia warms your chest at his words, but you’re not sure which part has done you in. Is it his outspoken wish that you join him? That it’d make him happy if you came along? Or is it his quiet reminder that, despite what he wants, you still have a choice? 

“When would we leave?” you ask. 

“Christmas Eve, most likely. Still got work up until then, and then would have to be back the day after Christmas. It’d be a short trip,” he explains. 

Lungs filling with air, your heart settles as you manage a quiet smile. “Okay. Well… I’d love to meet them. Your family. And it’d be nice not to be alone this Christmas.” 

Simon smiles, and you find yourself staring at him longer than you should because of it. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He is really… handsome. Ruggedness, scars, crooked nose and all; all his features come together perfectly, as if sculpted by an artist. This is the same man who fought off a blade for you, the man who assured you were safe on several occasions, who refuses to be bashful or stationary when it comes to ensuring your comfort. This is the man who always walks you up the stairs to your apartment, refusing to let you out of his sight until he knows you’re safe in your residence. The man who fixed your door. Your sink. Everything. 

As you say goodnight and reiterate your plans for Christmas, your mind repeats that phrase: Simon Riley cares ferociously. 

Simon Riley cares ferociously about you. 

It continues. Repetitive. Never ending. Not even as Simon vanishes back down the stairs and you shut and lock the door behind him. Not even when you toss yourself face first into your bed, period products discarded on some forgotten counter in your kitchen. Fervid desire swells in your chest to the point you feel yourself about to pop. Explode in a mess of viscera until you’re unrecognizable and it hurts but feels like the closest thing to freedom you’ve ever tasted. 

Something’s gotten into you, surely. Or maybe you’re more sick than you thought. Period hormones wreaking havoc on your psyche. Whatever it is, you realize you haven’t felt this much excitement since you were a kid. 

For the first time in ages, something finally feels like it’s changing for the better. 

When your phone goes off an hour later, you find yourself looking at the screen hoping it’s Simon. You drop everything, pasta nearly boiling over on the stove, just to fetch the device, and you feel your stomach plummet when you see Row’s caller ID instead of his. A palpable tension still stretches between you two since your last conversation. You still taste the bile. That stomach acid and soup. 

Your hand shakes as you press accept and turn the heat down on the burner. “Hello?” 

“Hey,” Row greets. Her voice is soft. Careful. “You sound better than you did last week.” 

“Yeah, feeling a lot better,” you admit. Your laugh is awkward. Tense. You feel like you’re talking to a stranger, and maybe in some way you are. That’s what you’ve been doing — pushing her away, building walls until you’re unrecognizable to one another. Nothing but strangers who’ve known each other for half your lives. 

“Good. That’s good. Hey, uhm…” You brace yourself, eyes shutting as you let steam from the pot brush over your face before she continues. “I wanted to apologize for last week. For… honestly the last few weeks. You’ve… been going through a rough time with work and everything and… what I thought was me being supportive was really just me being a dunce. When I see something I think is a problem, I want to fix it right away, and when I can’t I get frustrated and… and I shouldn’t have said what I said to you the other day. That wasn’t fair to you.” 

Row pauses to clear her throat, but it still takes her a moment before she speaks up again. When she does, you freeze at the tightness of her voice. “I just… it makes me sad thinking about you having to do anything alone a-and I know no one likes unwanted help, least of all you but… just know that I’m here for you. Anything, I swear. Both John and I would move heaven and earth for you.” 

Trembling lips curve into a smile, and when you laugh you’re not sure if it’s out of love, relief, or both. Row falls silent on the other end of the line, trepidation obvious even through the call. 

“You keep saying I’m alone, but I’m not. I have you, silly,” you tease. “I know you’re more of a talker than I am, and you wanna know what’s going on but… that’s just not me. You know that. But just because I’m not sharing my… feelings or whatever, doesn’t mean I’m doing this alone. I have you, and John, and —” and Simon “— and I always have you guys to lean on. I know you feel like you aren’t doing enough, or that you should be doing more, but Row, you’re doing more for me than anyone else in my entire life ever has.” 

A long stretch of silence interrupts the call as you wait for Row to respond, and when she finally does, all she can muster is a quiet: “Oh.” There’s a slightly longer silence before she’s finally able to string the correct words together. “Well, when you put it that way… I sound really stupid.” 

“You have your moments,” you humor. 

A melodic fit of giggles erupts from both you and Row. Sweet, carefree, and loving. You sound like kids again. Gossiping school girls snickering to one another when you shouldn’t be. 

“Well, thanks for helping me get my head on straight, then,” she chuckles. “Really. It’s always nice to know it was worse in my head than it was in real life.”

“I notice things usually are like that,” you quip. 

“Well, I might have gone a little overboard. The idea of you spending Christmas alone still really makes me sad, so I talked to my mum. She said you’re more than welcome to spend the day with her and granny, if you’re needing company,” Row explains. There’s a short pause before she anxiously adds: “You don’t have to go, of course, if you’d rather stay home.” 

There’s another ardent swell that expands in your chest. It travels all throughout your body, synapses tingling, neurons buzzing. Leaning against the counter, you look down at the floor — which could use a good sweep — as your toes wiggle in your slippers. 

“Well, I’ve actually got plans for Christmas now. Simon invited me to go to Manchester for the holiday. We’ll be spending it with his family,” you share. 

An over dramatic gasp crackles through the speaker. “Seriously? You’re not joking? Wait, did you suggest it? Or was he seriously, like, let me take you to Manchester?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” you say with an awkward laugh. “It was… really sweet.” 

“Oh? Sweet, was it?” Row jests. 

What you thought was going to be a quick call consisting of setting scores straight and airing baggage quickly devolves into a childish conversation about a potential relationship with Simon. You have to flip your phone on speaker to finish up dinner, and even then Row persists well after you’ve washed your dishes. 

It is… strange to be having this conversation. Even as a kid, you never pursued any sort of relationship. No one ever caught your eye. Nothing ever sparked what you imagined infatuation would feel like. For a long while, you thought you were broken. Meant to forever go about the world without a partner to crawl next to in bed or someone to make breakfast for. It would have been fine. You’ve gone your entire life so far without that bond. 

But now? Now that it feels so close you can reach out and touch it? You’re too frightened to name it — to call it love — lest you scare it off before you even have the chance to hold it in your hands. 

Eventually the call ends with promises and oaths, each of you swearing to tell one another about your Christmas excursions when Row returns from her trip with John. Lights flicker off as you slip into pajamas, soft cotton warming your skin as you slip under covers. As you lay on your back, eyes bleary as they attempt to focus on the pale ceiling above you, you think of Simon. Fingers itch to reach for your phone, to shoot him a text — to thank him for his kindness today. 

Don’t you remind yourself. Simon is the water you try to cup in your hands. Palms pressed tight together, wrists contorting into the perfect cup — you’ll spill it if you’re not careful. So you close your eyes, and for once you allow yourself to hope. To yearn. You lay there and pray that when Simon thinks of you, his heart beats just as wildly as yours does when you think of him.

[hog-farmer]

Build Your Bear *At Home*

Through the dense wilderness a sizable tanker truck carefully winds down a lone road. The crunch of gravel under its tires and its rumbling engine disturb the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. After a while the monotony of trees finally parts to reveal a large lakeside clearing. 

An expensive log cabin house sits at the end of the remote path. Standing one story tall with a wraparound porch that encompasses the main entrance and its waterfront side. The wood of its roof and siding has a reddish hue to it that contrasts against the overwhelming evergreens surrounding it.

The truck slowly rolls to a stop before the cabin, letting out a loud creek along with a puff of air as its engine rests. Moments later its driver door is thrown open as the man behind the wheel emerges. 

Clad in a pair of dark navy coveralls he steps down out of his seat onto the ground below. The only significant detail on his suit is the name embroidered across the left breast pocket, ‘Locke'. Small tufts of bright blonde hair peek out from all sides underneath his cap. A company logo is centered on its front, composed of the letters, ‘BYB'.

Free from his vehicle the man takes a moment to stretch out the stiffness from his muscles. After giving his cap a quick adjustment he begins sauntering towards the cabin. In his brief walk he admires the home's scenery till he comes to a stop at its front door. He gives it a brisk but firm knock before following up by pressing the doorbell off to the side.

After roughly a minute later the door finally opens to reveal a man on the other side. He appears to be middle-aged, most of the color has left his beard and has begun creeping up his sideburns towards his dark hair. The only other thing that might signify his age is his soft rounded middle, giving him a little exaggerated dadbod. Regardless of the extra padding, he's fairly well-built everywhere else. A firm puffy chest, bulky arms, and tanky thighs to round out his figure. He's dressed down in a pair of light gray sweatpants and plain white t-shirt.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the driver greets the man inside with a tip of his hat. “My name is Gordon and I'm here for an at home ‘build your bear’ visit.” 

“Nice to meet ya,” the other man replies with an outstretched hand that Gordon promptly takes. “Name’s Mike, come on in,” he continues with a nod of his head as he turns to head in. Gordon follows along, stepping through the threshold and beginning to survey the home around him.

The aesthetic of the inside definitely matches that of the outside. A warm and cozy cabin vibe throughout every decoration and piece of furniture. It all appears very well kept, not completely immaculate but lived-in.

“Hon? Who's at the door?” Gordon distantly hears being called from somewhere in the house.

“Delivery!~” Mike responds to the voice with a slight teasing tone. 

The muffled pattering of steps follows before another man appears around the corner. He looks older than Mike, short gray hair combed back with a few streaks of white. Laugh-lines frame his eyes while a bushy goatee sits between his bubbly cheeks. Similar to Mike he has a bulkier figure, though visibly softer with his age. His outfit is just as relaxed as Mike's too, with long plaid pants and a dark shirt that his fuzzy chest and belly peek out from.

“I thought that wasn't supposed to be here till next week?” the new man asks, confused but delightfully surprised.

“They called with an opening in their schedule, so I thought ‘eh, why not?’,” Mike recounted as he approached, swinging his arm around the other man's lower back.

“Well consider me excited,” the older man replied with a bright smile as he softly brought their noses together. “Now, care to introduce me?” He cheekily adds with a leading glance over to Gordon.

“Right right right,” Mike quickly mutters with an amused huff. “Gordon, this is my partner Arthur. Arthur, this is Gordon,” he continues as the other men exchange a handshake and their own greetings.

“So, who will I be working with today?” Gordon pointedly asks after a moment, quizzically looking between the two men. 

“Oh, that'd be our boy, Ricky” Mike clarifies while smiling back at Arthur. “We had our five year anniversary with him a few days ago, so this is gonna be his gift.”

“Ah, Alrighty then. Why don’t you show me where I’ll be working, then I can go get my gear and get things started,” Gordon cheerfully suggests.

“Sounds great, let me show you to his room,” Mike agrees with a wave for Gordon to follow after him.

“You boys handle that, I’m gonna head back and finish prepping lunch,” Arthur waves them off as he departs back to the room he came from.

The two men round the corner and make their way down a spacious hallway. Photos and memorabilia are spread throughout its walls. As his eyes drift past them one photo in particular catches Gordon's attention.

It's of Mike and Arthur with a third young man between them that Gordon assumes is the aforementioned Ricky. He looks to be in his early twenties with short, somewhat curly auburn hair and light stubble across face. The three of them smile brightly as they're out at some sort of pride event. They're all shirtless with leather harnesses over their bare chests. Ricky has his arms draped over the older men's shoulders while their hands proudly rest on the budding bear's small starter-belly.

Gordon is brought out of his fixation when he hears soft knocking. At the far right end of the hall Mike stands in front of a bedroom door. His hand is still raised from knocking while the other rests patiently on its handle.

“Ricky~ Baby? You up?” Mike gently calls out. When no response comes through he proceeds to quietly open the door and enter. Gordon hurriedly catches up with him, though the sight past the threshold makes his eyebrows rise in slight surprise.

The young man Gordon caught a glimpse of moments before is now in front of him, nearly taking up the entire width of a queen-sized bed with the sheer size of himself. His legs lay spread out, completely encased in cellulite, especially around his inner thighs. Half of a thin blanket lays over the lower portion of his thighs, the other half is wedged under his expansive stomach. It reaches nearly as far as his hips do, coming short just a few inches. Past his gut are a set of heavy moobs. His reclined position causes them to sag to his sides, emphasizing his side rolls as they spread out as far as the length of his puffy upper arms. As he sleeps his head lays back against a pile of pillows that's propping him up. Other than much rounder cheeks, slightly unkempt hair, and another chin his features are all the same from the photo out in the hall. 

“Hey Ricky~ C’mon bud, wake up,” Mike softly coaxes as he approaches and gives the incredibly fat man’s shoulder a little shake. This seems to be enough to rouse him as he takes in a deep breath, lets out a big yawn and blinks his eyes. He looks around a little disoriented till he notices Mike at his side.

“Mornin’ Daddy~” Ricky yawns as he brings one of his hands up to wipe the sleep from his eye.

“It’s afternoon Baby,” Mike corrects with a chuckle as he combs his fingers through the young man’s hair.

“Oh right,” Ricky mumbles as he recounts having breakfast a couple hours earlier. 

“Guess what buddy? Daddy and Papa got a present for you,” Mike says as he steps back towards the doorway and gestures to Gordon. With that and a confused look from Ricky, Gordon decides to enter and introduce himself.

“Hi there, I’m Gordon. I’m here for an at home ‘build your bear’ visit,” Gordon says as he comes forward to shake Ricky’s hand.

“Hey,” Ricky greets as he reciprocates the gesture. After a momentary pause his stomach lets out a resonating rumble. “Daddy, I'm hungry. Where's lunch?”

“Papa will be here with it in a bit bud, don't worry,” Mike comforts.

“Actually, it might be a bit better if he waits to eat,” Gordon interjects. “It’ll put less pressure on his stomach and let the process act faster.”

“What? But I'm hungry now,” Ricky complains with a distressed whine building in his throat. His pleading eyes stare up at Mike for help.

“You can wait a little bit, bud,” Mike consoles. Not happy with that answer Ricky proceeds to turn away and pout. After a couple minutes of trying to comfort the large young man Mike eventually gives up with a sigh. “Ok, what'll it take to make you agree and wait?”

This finally gets Ricky's attention. He stops his pouting and instead mulls over what he wants in exchange. As he thinks his eyes land on Gordon which causes him to smirk devilishly as he comes up with an idea. He waves for Mike to come closer so he can cup his hand against his ear and whisper his idea to the middle-aged man.

“You want us to do what?” Mike recoils in surprise when Ricky finishes.

“That's what I want,” Ricky finalizes by crossing his arms over his chest as best he can. “Please Daddy?~” he follows with a very pleading expression. 

The older man contemplates for a second before he relents and agrees to Ricky's demands. Having won, the young man giddily wiggles in place, causing his fat to ripple across his body. Mike tousles the young man's hair before proceeding to exit the room with Gordon on his tail.

“So… what did he ask for?” Gordon breaks the silence once they're halfway down the hall.

“He… said he’d wait if he got to watch Arthur and I fatten up afterwards,” Mike shares, amused and a little embarrassed.

“Oh,” is all Gordon can muster, surprised himself, but also intrigued.

“Yeah, honestly it’s not surprising. It’s how we met him in the first place,” Mike comments.

“Really? Then how’d he end up being the spoiled and pampered one?” Gordon prods further.

“Well, we first started chatting with him online. He was some hotheaded cub that was all about being on top and dominating. So we invited him over for some fun and… he ended up being complete putty in our hands,” Mike recounts with a fond expression. “Though that doesn’t stop him from being a total brat when he wants to be.”

“Yeah that makes sense,” Gordon acknowledges with a chuckle.

“So, can ya do it?” Mike questions, referencing Ricky’s demand.

“Adding you two to the mix? Oh yeah, I’m happy to oblige,” Gordon confirms. “I’ll go get my supplies and get things ready for all of ya.”

“Sounds great,” Mike agrees.

From there the two men part in separate directions. Mike heads for the room they’d last seen Arthur enter while Gordon exits through the front door. The blond man makes his way back to his truck and climbs inside. Rummaging through the equipment haphazardly deposited behind his seat Gordon manages to find what he needs. An insanely-long industrial hose, three phallic-shaped nozzles, a bottle of lube, and the remote for the tanker’s pump system.

With his supplies in hand Gordon takes them around to the tanker’s side. Taking one end of the hose he positions it onto the tanker’s release port before locking it in place. With that secured Gordon checks over the tank’s pressure valves and vents to make sure they’re all working properly. Confident that everything is ready he takes the other end of the hose and begins trailing it towards the cabin. Through the entrance, pass the main living area and down the hall till Gordon’s outside Ricky’s room again.

“Just one treat Papa?” Gordon hears Ricky ask as the room’s interior comes into view. Ricky, unsurprisingly, is still firmly planted on his bed, though now the older men flank him on both sides.

“No bud, you promised you’d wait,” Arthur halfheartedly scolds before throwing in a cheeky non-threat. “Or do you not want Daddy and Papa to get fattened up for ya?” 

“You guys ready?” Gordon interrupts as he reenters the room and fixes a nozzle to the end of the hose.

“Yup all set,” Mike replies.

“Okay, now, normally this is the part where I tell the subject to strip, but…” Gordon trails off as he gestures at Ricky’s blatantly naked form. This earns a blush from the young man and a few chuckles from the older ones. “So let's get him propped up, lubed, and ready.”

“Oh you don’t have to worry about lube with this one. Trust me, he’s loose enough,” Arthur embarrassingly comments.

“Papa!” Ricky cries as the red of his face flushes an even deeper shade.

“Okay okay, let’s get going” Mike deescalates as he starts removing the pillow propping up Ricky. Arthur joins his efforts by taking the young man’s hand and helping him into a more upright position. While they’re busy with that Gordon comes around with his supplies.

Eventually they get everything ready. The space behind is clear and Ricky is sitting up as best he can, though he’s leaning over his belly a bit. His legs are awkwardly splayed out to the side with his feet just hanging over the edge of the bed. This leaves the big mounds of his ass completely exposed.

“Ready Ricky?” Gordon asks as he leans into the space behind the young man. 

With a firm nod from him Gordon instructs the other two men to start. From both sides they each reach toward the crevice of Ricky’s ass. Once they have a good grip they pull to pry his massive cheeks apart. They make a good effort of it but it's not quite enough to reveal the young man’s hole, so Gordon decides to probe around for it. 

It’s easy enough to slip a couple of fingers into the fleshy divide with how damp it is with sweat. Gordon’s hand is enveloped up to his knuckles before he finally feels where the two mounds meet. He doesn’t feel Ricky’s hole yet so he trails his fingers downward till he does. As soon as his digits brush up against the sensitive ring Gordon feels Ricky’s body give an anticipative shiver. Tentatively, Gordon probes the muscle further, finding it to already be fairly loose like Arthur commented earlier.

Using his thumb and index finger Gordon exposes Ricky’s hole as best he can with one hand. With that ready he takes the hose and brings its slicked nozzle towards the exposed muscle. It’s met with little resistance, only needing a few wiggles to ease the inner muscles and guide it deeper. Ricky lets out a relieved sigh as he feels the invading equipment finally brush past his prostate.

“Okay, that should be deep enough,” Gordon decides once roughly a foot of the phallic-shaped nozzle is planted past the young man’s rim. The other men relax their hold on Ricky’s boulder-like ass, letting the gelatinous flesh envelop the hose further. As the smaller men step back they convene at the front end of Ricky’s bed. Gordon unclasps the tanker’s remote from one of his suits pockets and hands it off to Mike and Arthur. The blond man gives them a short rundown of its control, mainly pointing out the start switch and volume knob.

“You ready for this baby?” Mike tenderly asks the young man as he and Arthur lean in close to his face.

“Yeah, make me huge,” Ricky replies as he gives his belly a quick pat. With that the two men dive in and plant a kiss on each of Ricky’s chubby cheeks.

They step back once more and finally turn on the tanker’s pump, setting the volume flow to about halfway. Nothing happens for roughly a minute till they see the hose begin to twitch along the floor. It steadily pulses as the shadow of the liquid inside inches further up the tube. Soon enough the fluid begins to enter Ricky, snaking its way through his guts before coming to settle in his stomach.

After a minute Ricky begins to feel a cycle of pain and relief as the pressure in his stomach grows and eases. Eventually it all blurs into the background as a general uncomfortableness when he notices his belly subtly creeping further outward. 

“At his size a couple of pounds is like a drop in an ocean, so his growth will be more of a subtle climb than anything drastic,” Gordon explains while everyone is fixated on Ricky’s slow-growing form.

Watching his body slowly expand like dough Ricky idly strokes his hands across his stomach. His flesh gets softer and larger with each pulse in his stomach. Mindlessly, the young man finds himself breathing in sync with the pumping. His hands drift to his chest, squeezing and cupping his nipples to try and completely cover them. In his grasp he feels them grow, their weight increasing around his digits till they’re unmanageable and he lets them flop back down.

After a couple of minutes Ricky’s stomach has swelled large enough to nearly reach the end of his bed. It’s already begun to drool over its sides. Behind him his ass has gone from large mounds to absolute mountains. They’ve reached his headboard at the other end of his bed and are steadily creeping higher up. His legs were useless before, but now they’re far beyond that. They’ve blown past the size of keg barrels, preventing the hope of them ever being able to bend again. Even his feet are turning puffy with fat as the adipose of his ankles threatens to swallow them up. 

His hands and arms are becoming just as encumbered. The excessive fat around his shoulders and elbows have just about locked his limbs in place, forcing them to lay uselessly atop his side rolls. His fingers are almost at their limit to be able to bend with how swollen they’ve become. Around his face another chin has formed under his second one and his bubbly cheeks have started encroaching closer together. They force his mouth into a permanent pout and cause his eyes to squint. 

*Creeeeek* *CRACK*

The bed frame lets out a high pitched whine before quickly giving out. Its legs completely snap under Ricky’s climbing weight, dropping the mattress and boxspring clean to the ground. The one foot drop sends a massive ripple through Ricky’s malleable form. Every fold, roll, and mound of fat doesn’t settle its jiggling for half a minute. It’s at this point that Ricky feels the pressure in his stomach slowly fade away, and the pleasurable growth alongside it.

“Nooo… why’d it stop,” the now immobile man struggles to whine through his puffy cheeks.

“Sorry bud, gonna have to stop ya there,” Arthur consoles as he comes up and places a comforting hand on one of Ricky’s rolls of back fat.

“Besides, don’t you wanna fill that belly with something else?” Mike interjects. This reminds Ricky of the food waiting for him, causing the blobby young man to wiggle his fat as best he can in excitement.

“Okay, I’ll go get his lunch,” Arthur volunteers. “While I do that, why don’t you get yourself ready?” He adds with a cheeky wink as he walks past Mike, giving the man a brief peck on the cheek as he does so.

With his partner now out of the room Mike turns to Gordon, “Welp, you heard the man, let’s get things started.”

“Alrighty, while I get Ricky here unhooked you strip and get comfortable,” Gordon instructs as he steps back around to Ricky’s rear. 

The titanic cheeks have enveloped much more of the hose in their growth, smothering the equipment underneath it. Gordon grabs the hose with one hand and uses his fingers to crawl along its length and reach a point of it further trapped within the doughy flesh. He gets as deep as he can till his arm is up to his shoulder in ass fat. From there Gordon takes a firm grip of the hose and begins to slowly tug backwards. He hears Ricky groan above him as it drags across his insides once again. When the giant man lets out a sigh of relief Gordon guesses the end of the long nozzle finally exited past his rim. He still gently extracts the rest of it till it's completely free from between Ricky’s gigantic cheeks.

While Gordon was busy doing that Mike began removing his clothes. Tossing his t-shirt to a random corner of the room and shamelessly shucking off his sweats and underwear in one swoop. He kicks them to the side and as he waits for Gordon to finish up Arthur returns to the room with a cart of food in tow.

The older man parks the cart right next to the bed and grabs one of the dishes on top of it. He’s about to hand it off to Ricky when he takes a second to realize the young man’s not really able to feed himself anymore. “Well, guess it’ll be hand feedings from here on out, huh boy?” Arthur comments as he leans over the bed and brings himself and the plate close to Ricky’s face. The enormous man doesn’t vocally reply, instead expectantly opening his mouth for the food in hand. Arthur rolls his eyes at Ricky with a fond smile as he feeds the young the first bite of his meal.

“Okay, you all set?” Gordon asks, regaining Mike's attention from the other men in the room. He stands ready as he spreads a generous dose of lube over a new nozzle that's been attached to the hose.

“Yup,” Mike responds before calling over to Ricky. “You ready to see Daddy get stuffed up?” Ricky manages to pull his attention away from the food being fed to him. His eyes now fixate on Mike, though he still opens his mouth and accepts every spoonful Arthur brings to his lips. 

With an amused chuckle Mike gives Gordon the signal to go ahead. Nodding, the blond comes down to one knee behind Mike. Using one hand to part the ample cheeks in front of him Gordon uses the other to tentatively press the nozzle of the hose against the ring of muscle. Gordon hears the man let out a sigh as he relaxes his muscles to let the head of it begin to invade him. Inch after inch slowly slips in with little resistance till roughly a foot of it is firmly planted inside. When Gordon’s done inserting the hose Mike lets out a shaky breath and leans forward with his hands on one of Ricky’s bed posts for support.

“You good?” Gordon gives one last check, wiggling the tank’s remote in his hands to imply the next step. With a nod from the other man Gordon activates the controls and sets the pump into motion.

The liquid hits Mike a lot sooner than he expected, now realizing most of the hose didn’t have to be filled like when they waited for Ricky. He feels the pressure of it start deep before steadily rising up into his stomach. Reaching full capacity causes the upper portion of his belly to bulge a little. After a second the pressure subsides and just before Mike can let out a relieved sigh it rises again. As Mike becomes accustomed to the cycling pressure he looks down to watch his expanding body.

The external bump of his stomach is quickly hidden under the new layers of fat on his swelling belly. It gradually loses its firm round shape, becoming soft and doughy with a divot forming that splits the bottom of it. His chest slowly loses what little definition it had, turning into full moobs that sit heavily over his stomach.

Mike’s upper arms and thighs take on the new fat much faster than the latter portions of his limbs, giving them a slightly unbalanced look. Every so often he has to adjust them, widening his stance and the angle he holds out his arms. Under his beard his neck starts to bulge out into a chunky ring, straining the movement of his head as he tires looking behind himself.

A couple sets of rolls have developed along his hairy back, respectively connecting around to his belly and chest. The largest spectacle behind him though was his ass. Like his thighs much more of his weight has settled into his ass, giving Mike a very over exaggerated pear shape.

“Okay, I think that’s good,” Mike calls over to Gordon. The blond man gives him a thumbs up and proceeds to turn off the pump. After a few seconds Mike feels the pressure finally subside, allowing him to regain his composure and right himself. The new weight throws him off for a moment but he quickly adjusts and becomes accustomed to it. 

“Now don’t you look handsome,” Arthur compliments as he approaches Mike. His hands roam over all the newly softened flesh of his partner. Feeling up his plump arms and thighs, lifting his full chest and heavy belly. Finally Arthur brings their lips together for a passionate kiss as his hands settle over Mike’s overly doughy rear. Fondling, jiggling, and kneading the malleable mounds to his heart’s content.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough ya horndog,” Mike chuckles as he breaks their kiss and playfully bats Arthur’s hands away. He tries reaching around himself to withdraw the hose, but he can’t quite reach it. His back rolls won’t let him turn like he used to, so the farthest he can grab of his sizable rear is the top cleft of his ass cheeks. “Help me with this thing will ya?” he asks with a nod behind himself.

“Sure thing hon,” Arthur replies with one last peck to the other man’s cheek. 

He steps around Mike and reaches for the hose protruding from his ass but pauses as he grabs it. A devious idea just popped into his head, and he immediately follows through with it. He holds Mike’s hip for leverage and slowly starts removing the invading object. Though when it’s roughly halfway out he promptly reverses its direction. This catches Mike by surprise, making the man let out a soft lewd moan at the sensation. Before he has a chance to respond Arthur proceeds further by subtly shaking the hose, causing its nozzle to wiggle around inside of Mike. The larger man’s legs turn weak from the teasing abuse of his prostate, forcing him to lean against Ricky’s bed again for support. After roughly a minute of this Arthur stops toying with Mike and completely removes the hose.

“Fuckin’... bastard…” Mike laughs through labored breaths. He quickly collects himself again and heads to the half emptied cart beside Ricky to finish off his meal. Though as he walks over he keeps his gaze locked on Arthur, plotting ways of getting even with him. 

“Alrighty, my turn,” Arthur declares over to Gordon as he lifts his shirt up over his head. Stripping further, he pulls the waistband of his pants down past his hips and ass, letting them drop the rest of the way on their own. He steps away from the discarded piece of clothing and bends over against the end of Ricky’s bed. His head lays in his arms while his pudgy belly and chest freely hang below him. With spread legs and his plump rump on full display he gives his ample rear a provocative shake, wiggling it back and forth.

“Shameless as ever,” Mike chuckles under his breath, amused with Arthur's little display. Arthur responds with his own chuckle before turning his head back to Gordon and telling him to go ahead.

Hose ready in hand, Gordon approaches and squats down by Arthur’s ass. Once more parting a sizable pair of cheeks for the pink ring hidden beneath. He gently probes the nozzle against it, easing the head of it to slip through. To Gordon’s surprise though once the tip of it has entered the surrounding muscles begin to coax the equipment deeper inside all on their own. Transfixed, the blond watches as inch after inch of the hose is slowly consumed by the insatiable hole. When it's down to the end of the nozzle Gordon gives the hose a cheeky little tug to let the man know to stop. With the hose secured Gordon takes the remote and sets the pump into motion.

“Ooo baby,” Arthur shivers as he lolls his head to the side, feeling the vaguely warm fluid begin to flood him. The sensation slowly climbs upwards till it hits its limit with his stomach at full capacity. Unfazed by the pressure inside himself Arthur lets out a relaxed sigh as the subtleties of growth begin to show.

Like rising dough every inch of Arthur slowly expands, though his position pools most of it downward. His billowing belly hangs lower and lower from his abdomen with each pulse of fattening fluid that enters him. His upper arms mimic its growth with gravity pulling them down as their volume increases. A good portion of the growth deposits itself into his soft chest. Making Arthur a little more top-heavy as they become exceedingly round and voluptuous.

Surprisingly, his plump ass and hips retain most of their shape. Expanding outwards rather than sagging down, though his legs probably assist that a lot. They’ve become massive pillars of support to hold up those monolithic spheres. Down below them his feet have swollen to develop cankles and the flesh of his calves threaten to overlap them.

His back looks like a developing landscape with all the ridges and rolls of fat that’ve grown along it. The hair across his body has started to become a little more sparse with his expanding flesh. His face begins to plump up too, giving him very chubby cheeks and another chin to frame his goatee.

When his breathing starts to turn labored and his legs begin to wobble from effort is when Arthur finally taps out. “Alright, that’s all I can take,” he concedes with a wave over his shoulder to Gordon. The other man promptly follows through with the request, using the remote to turn off the pump. Gordon kneels back down beside Arthur, waiting to see the shadow of the liquid recede down the hose before he begins to remove it. With a couple teasing wiggles the full length of the instrument is quickly extracted.

Now freed, Arthur begins to feel the weight of his newly enlarged body. With some effort he props his body up with his chunky arms. His tits really catch his attention with how prominently they obscure the view of his belly below them. A soft ‘ooo’ breaks his staring though, when Arthur looks up to see Ricky just as transfixed on his chest as he just was.

“See somethin’ ya like bud?” the older man coyly asks, using his hands up to lift and emphasize his breasts. Ricky gives a mindless nod in return with his encumbered hands twitching in a useless attempt to reach out and grab them. Amused, Arthur decides to take pity on him, lifting himself onto the bed right up to the young man. Now face to face with Arthur’s plump rack Ricky lets out a whine for the remaining distance to be closed.

“Please Papa~,” Ricky whines with a pleading glance up to the older man. Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes at the display, but gives into the plea anyway. 

Leaning forward into Ricky’s massive bulk Arthur envelopes Ricky’s head in his chest. The young man eagerly sniggles in, motorboating the two heavy sacks till his tongue comes out to taste the doughy flesh. After a minute, Arthur adjusts his chest so one of his nipples is right in front of Ricky’s mouth, to which the bed-bound man immediately latches onto. His lips work the sensitive skin around it while his tongue goes wild on its tip. 

Eventually Ricky calms down, content to gently suckle the pair of tits at his own leisure. Arthur relaxes into the moment as well. Tenderly combing his fingers through the young man’s hair and letting out the occasional soft moan as his nipples are played with.

While those two are occupied Mike makes his way around to Gordon who’s gathering up his equipment. “Here, let me help walk ya out,” Mike volunteers as he picks up a portion of the hose that’s at the room’s threshold. The pair work to gather its length through the house till they come to a stop at the front door.

“Well, I sure hope you guys enjoyed your delivery today,” Gordon remarks with a hint of sarcasm. 

“Oh we definitely did,” Mike chuckles. “I’m sure we’ll be shut-ins for the next week or two ‘enjoying’ or delivery,” he adds with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Good to hear. Also, I might recommend browsing our company’s clothing options,” Gordon cheekily responds with an obvious glance down to Mike’s enlarged figure.

“Yeah that might be a good idea,” Mike concedes, thinking how none of their wardrobes will remotely fit them anymore.

“Anyways, thank you for choosing ‘Build Your Bear’ and have a great rest of your day,” Gordon bids farewell with a tip of his cap as he leaves out the front door.

---

Well it's been roughly a year since my first 'Build Your Bear' story, so I thought it'd be right to follow through with the 'at home' services I eluded to back them. It was fun to revisit this world with a new batch of characters, and I'll definitely be back to it again with some new *holiday themed* ideas.

I'm really surprised how fast I wrote this story out, only took roughly a month and a half. Guess I had a good rhythm for it. Though there was a bit of a struggle in the beginning for solidifying a plot. I knew I wanted these characters, it was just deciding who I wanted to be fattened, how much, and their dynamic between each other. Like I thought of the inverse with three bear employees working together to really fatten up one guy. Another idea was the bears giving themselves over to a benefactor to live out a very pampered blobby life.

Maybe I could explore some of those avenues at a later point, but for now I'm happy with how this one turned out. Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope to post again sooner rather than later.

[briarcrawford]

Little Details For Writers To Make Winters Seem More Real ❄

In the past I did the post “Writing Realistic Winter Scenes,” but it did not quite cover everything, so I thought I would add some more tips! I hope they help for making your stories more realistic.

Stomping Feet.

Only rude people don’t stomp snow off their boots before coming inside. Where I live, you will often also see people giving their boots a good stomp before entering a store.

Once inside a home, take off your boots and (if they have one) put it on a boot tray to stop puddling. If you are entering a store, many locations have rugs by the door. Once inside, wipe your feet a few times.

Holding a drink with both hands and no metal mugs/plates.

Tim Horton drinks are called “Canadian hand warmers” for a reason, so you will often see people waiting for a bus or city train with a drink in both their hands.

As for the metal mugs and plates, I learned my lesson for this one very quickly. When I was an Air Cadet (teens) we would go on weekend survival trips, and most the kids idolized military kits. So, many kids(myself included) would purchase military mess kits. Now, I am not saying they are not handy; plates, bowls, and even a tiny frying pan, all fold up together neatly and flat in your bag, so what is not to love?

Well, when you are camping in places below -25c, and you take off your glove for a moment, you may find your skin sticking to the metal of your plate(thanks to the cold, and steam from your meal). Now, this might seem funny, but if you are not careful, you could actually remove skin.

So, metal is great for cooking and great for the summer, but I suggest being careful if you plan on using them to eat with in the winter.

Bringing Your Animals In

In medieval times, farm animals were often brought into the house. Some houses kept them on the bottom floor while living on the top floor, others not so much. This is to keep the animals from freezing to death, but also to add some extra warmth in the house.

It was not just in the past, either. My past co-worker grew up on a goat farm, and said if it was too cold out, they would bring the baby goats in to run wild in the basement. She remembers it fondly, but it must have been incredibly chaotic for her parents haha.

New Water Source:

Creeks, lakes, and wells will likely freeze over, but luckily you may have another option: snow! Just look for a clean patch, scoop it up, and heat it. It is not a perfect system (during my wilderness survival training days, there were times of picking pine needles out of the water) but it was better than wasting energy to go cut into the ice every several times a day(the holes will re-freeze over).

If it is cold without snow, cutting the ice is exactly what you’ll have to do.

Tree Wells:

Evergreens — like pine trees — are built to shed snow off their triangle-shaped form, so often have little pockets around the trunk with less or no snow. This might not sound like a problem, but occasionally people on skis and other equipment die in them. People are on the move, fall headfirst into them, and their skis are pinned above in the snow out of reach.

Alternatively, these wells can be an emergency shelter from a storm or hunting hiding spot. Do note that you (for the obvious reason of wood everywhere) can not light a fire in these shelters.

Easy Tracking:

It’s not easy to hide prints in the winter, and they are more obvious. This could be good if your character is tracking something, but bad if they are trying to get away.

Some shows have the characters sweeping the ground behind them, but if the snow is over a foot deep, that wont really work.

Realistic Ice:

If you are on a lake, do not expect it to be quiet. It is always flexing and cracking, and sometimes this sounds like a pop, and other times it can sound like the lake is singing.

Ice can also look different. Some (like Abraham Lake in Alberta) is known for it’s frozen bubbles, while others flex so much while freezing that the ice breaches the surface into what look like frozen waves.

While we are on the topic of ice, crampons/ice cleats. Crampons are spikes that attach to your boots, and people here use smaller ones just for walking the dogs. They bite into the ice, making you less likely to slip. They are not a new invention, either. They have found archeological evidence of them that are thousands of years old in different places around the world.

Sounds:

If it is very cold out, sounds are louder. This is one part because there are no leaves on the trees, but also because noise travels through cold air easier. Both these are why any sound (such as the crunching of snow) can seem so loud in the winter.

Alternatively, the snow can muffle sounds (it is an insulator) but only to a certain temperature. This insulation can make the world around you seem almost unnaturally quiet as it muffles any surrounding sounds.

So basically, mildly cold with snow means muffled sounds, while very cold means traveling sounds.

Multiple Socks:

If you are hiking in the winter, it is recommended that you carry at least three pairs of socks to change into at some time. The reason? Your feet will still sweat even if it’s cold, and that sweat can freeze. As a general rule, if your feet start getting cold, consider changing socks.

Boots Near The Fire:

In movies, characters always put their hands near the fire, and that does happen. It is not just the hands, though. People often sit with their boots near the fire and they may start to steam as the ice and snow melt.

This can be so tempting, that there is normally that one person in the group who accidentally melts the rubber of a boot by putting it too close to the fire, or by resting their boot on the metal rings that some campsites have. While we were sleeping in lean-to’s, one kid even scooted too close to his fire in his sleep, and woke to his whole boot melting. It melted so bad, his boot had to be duct-taped together or else they would send him home.

Since people in the past would not have rubber/plastic on their boots, they would react differently to the fires, but you can bet people in the past did the same.

Pack Sled:

If the snow is deep, you may see people (especially skiers and snowshoers) with a sled that has their pack in it. This is to help take some of the weight off you, which stops you from sinking as far in the snow.

Little Modern Details:

Shoveling the Walks

It’s a silly detail, I know, but it is never in books or movies. Here, you have to shovel your walks by law, but there are two other reasons as well. You need to keep the snow from piling up over your boots, and also to keep your vehicle from getting stuck. For this, people either own a shovel or a snow-blower, then put salt or gravel over the icy spots.

Our homes here are built with a roof overhang to keep snow and such from piling at the door, but homes that are not so lucky (such as places that don’t normally get snow) or homes that face towards the wind, might end up being snowed in if they don’t keep up with shoveling.

Prep your vehicle.

In movies and books in cold places with a storm, the hero jumps into the car and rushes away. In real life, they wouldn’t be able to see out the windows. The real process: Start your vehicle about 10min before leaving. While you wait for it to warm, brush off the snow and scrape ice from the windows.

If your character is in that much of a rush, they can put the window down (if it is not frozen) and stick their head out the window while they drive(100% not recommended lol. You can’t even use a seatbelt if you do this).

Fighting for the Register:

If you are a kid and you come in with wet boots, the fight for the spot over the heat register is on! Those with the lucky spot will have far drier and warm boots or mittens for next use.

Dead Batteries:

If it is really cold out and you have something like a phone with you, you had better keep it in your inside pocket(most winter jackets have them) closest to your body. If not, even a full battery can completely die out in record time. Batteries simply are not made to handle extreme cold. They sometimes turn on again if you warm them up, but other times you will have to plug them in and charge them.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by : @aceghosts (thank you so much!!)

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writing tag list here to be added/removed

Back to working on American Beasts, and I am in the thick of Kit meeting Carter and Quinn for the first time. (warnings for mentions of death/ animal death, and Kit's general mental health):

The sprawling wilderness of evergreen trees carried on around Kit in all directions with no sign of stopping. Clinging to the trunks of the trees, she moved forward at a careful crawl, trying to keep her energy from depleting further. Plodding forward, her boots melted into the mossy carpet below her feet, comforting like a mattress she could topple onto. She could close her weary eyes and rest. Just a short rest… 

Pain stabbed through her and her knees began to buckle. She was a crushed soda can, the contents of her pouring out of the wound in her chest. Barking out dry, ragged coughs into the frigid air, clawing at her chest, desperate to rip the bullet from herself like an animal with stitches, chewing despite the harm it would do. Blood caught under her nails. She remembered hearing about other vets taking to meth when they came home as a way to deal with the pain and the nightmares, only to be burdened with imaginary bugs crawling under their skin, picking and scratching away at themselves to get the insects out. She understood that feeling now. Understood that fear. She was burning alive. God, it felt like her skin was on fire as the bullet lodged itself deeper inside, searching out the warm, dark places of her – if she wasn’t slowly dying from it, she might have laughed – her heart was certainly a fitting place as the lead seeped throughout her flesh, poisoning her. 

Her thoughts began to drift, survival still very much on the tip of her tongue as she started to replay Jacob’s speeches in her head. Humans were born with an innate sense of survival. Fight or flight. Her whole life she had lived with these apparent laws in her head, the same laws her father had instilled in her. Survival was something she knew intimately about. It defined her, a characteristic of who she was, something brought to the surface when most others became soft and learned to ignore what had been programmed into them over millions of years of evolution. The fear of snakes, spiders and sharks bred into the DNA. She was an anomaly. Most people didn’t go running into fire, they didn’t search out the danger the way she did. She faced it headlong, determined to make it bow to her, it was like she couldn’t feel it. Her brain muted the fear, quieting the sense that would have made her stop if she were a reasonable person. 

Yet more things left broken inside her. 

Crumpling to her knees, the blood rushing from her head, Kit could feel the world spinning around her, all one thousand miles per hour of it. Her breaths leaked out in gasps, hitching in her throat before her lungs would deflate again. Vision tunneling…seeing in black and white…pinpricks of light scattered before her eyes, a universe coming into being as everything went dark. Her whole chest cavity about to implode. All she had left to run on was instinct, her senses failing as they shut down around her. 

This was the end. 

But like a zombie, her body carried on, searching out the path back home. It had no compass, no map, it wandered aimlessly. Survival hinged on her giving in, succumbing, relying on the hands of her maker to guide her. Like Moses through the desert she wandered, her weary mind unable to detect even East from West using what little of the sun was left. Her feet would carry her, one step in front of the other. Marching. Forever marching. As if it were fated for her to never settle. 

The spongy layer of top soil and black earth she was sure she would fall into and be buried by, left to rot for all time, gave way to gravel. The distinct crunch pulled her to reality like a tether, tying her to the here and the now. She stared down at her boot, the toe scuffed and worn, caked with mud and beaded with rain water. Kit had walked for miles on end, into the silence that consumed the mountains and created its own plane of existence. One where she had been free to become a beast, to bleed out the sins of others, punishing them before the new world came crashing down upon the county. She looked up and the gravel hadn’t appeared without sense, it had purpose. Dotted with wilted flowers, frozen and thawed so many times they had become brown and rotten, the petals blackened with mold, a pathway led forward. There was a break in the trees…

…there was a house.

–

A shadow passed the window. A creeping thing, it’s visage unseen, but the shiver still crept down Carter’s spine. He’d been warned by his parents about the people that lived on that little island and about that old hospital at the top of the mountain. He’d read Jack and the Beanstalk and he knew about the evil giant at the top of it. He had read about the big, bad wolf and how he ate little children who went off the path. Fairy tales had become reality these last few months, especially once their father, the hunter, never came back home. He was the one meant to cut open the wolf’s stomach and pull the children out in the end. Not end up eaten as well. A cautionary tale gone wrong. 

The howling of the wolves and the cries of cougars rang out as the night began to fall and the temperature dropped even further. He and Quinn were wrapped in quilts trying to stay warm together on their parents’ bed, their fingers chilled to the point of being pink and sore, their breath escaping them in a fog inside their little wooden home. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could last. Carter knew about death, he’d grown up with it from the family farm they once had, to hunting with his father. He’d even had a pet hamster, Mr. Chippy, who didn’t last more than a year. He knew that sometimes things had to die so others could live, he knew that sometimes the heart just gave out. He wondered if it hurt when it happened the way everything seemed to now. His stomach, his body, the cramps and the cold. He wondered whether they’d ever even be found. The cat they had when he was barely older than Quinn wasn’t until they smelled it weeks later, having crawled under the house to die. Is that what they would smell like too, or would it be so cold they’d be covered in frost like the elk steaks in the freezer?

He pulled Quinn a little closer to him and listened to the wind whisper through the house. There were times it would wake him in the night, after he’d dream of his mother, imagining it was her voice. Believing for half an instant that his wishes had come true and she’d come back to them. To save them. But ever since that birthday where he’d wished for a bike and ended up alone in the woods with his sister, he’d learned not to put much faith into wishes. 

There was a knock outside, someone had crossed the trip wire his father had set up so long ago now. It wasn’t a shadow, it was a nightmare. A prowler. The monster in the dark had come to get them. Finally. 

“Quinn, you gotta listen to me, okay?” She looked up at him, her lower lip trembling as she pulled the covers tighter around herself, shaking uncontrollably. “You gotta get under the bed, and you have to be real quiet. Can you do that?”

“Whatsamatter?”

“Just listen to me.” He slipped off the bed and pulled back the ruffle sheet that draped over the frame, hiding the floor underneath it. “Come on Quinny, you gotta do as I say.”

“No.”

They didn’t have time for this. He looked at her with narrowed eyes, determined to keep her safe. His jaw went stiff and he leaned down towards her, lowering his voice. “The boogeyman is coming.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, her irises bleeding into the inky depths of her pupils. 

“He’s gonna get ya. Do it!”

She crawled off the bed, dragging the blanket with her. Sliding under the bed frame, clutching Cookie Monster as she pulled the quilt over her head to hide. 

“Whatever you hear, whatever happens, don’t come out. Promise me.”

“Promise,” she whimpered, holding back tears through choked breaths. 

“Good.” He dropped the ruffle sheet and pulled open his father’s sock drawer, grabbing the old revolver shoved at the back. It was heavy, heavier than he had expected. He’d spent many an afternoon just staring at it. He knew well enough not to touch it, even when the urge to reared its head. His dad had told him never to play with guns, they weren’t toys, they were weapons. Holding one meant you aimed to kill. 

Pulling the sheet back once more, Carter crawled in under the bed beside Quinn. Laying there, he clasped his hand over her mouth to help keep her quiet. There could be no mistakes, no do overs. If this was the men with crosses, if they were found, it would be the end.

[winchester-girl67]

Love Deliciously

Summary: After an incident on a hunt, the reader tries to boost the boys' morale with a homemade feast and a little Christmas decorating. But Sam leaves for his own romantic endeavours and she catches Dean with himself after months of feeling touch starved for his affection. Something he hasn't given freely lately as his own guilt weighs on him. Nothing a little mistletoe can't fix though.

Requested by Anonymous: "hey love! if your still taking requests, i’d love if you could write a oneshot with gf!reader who is basically horny 24/7 and just wants to make out with dean all the time. like he comes back from a hunt and reader finds him and just wants to be on top of him on the table at the bunker"

Pairing: Dean x reader (established relationship)

Square: Hanging Mistletoe @spnchristmasbingo​ Touch starvation @spnfluffbingo​  

Word Count: 3,546

Rating: mature 18+ MDNI

Warnings: language, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (be smarter than them), male masturbation, sexual frustration, touch starvation, mentions of past temporary death of reader, implied excessive drinking, kissing/cuddling, biting, teasing, a little pining, a little angst, fluff

A/N: Also written for @spnchristmasbingo​ and @spnfluffbingo​. Smut is below *** (minors dni). Enjoy!

_____

Dean hadn't touched you in three months. Your relationship had been in a rut ever since that ghost hunt that left you near dead and Sam in a cast. You tried everything from jumping his bones, to wearing practically non-existent lingerie, to even a can of whip cream and a couple cherries you'd rather not talk about.

Nothing worked. He blamed himself too heavily on this one and you couldn't convince him otherwise. Fortunately, he hadn't tried to break up with you but if your past was any indicator, that was just yet to happen.

So you decided to take a different approach and sat the latest hunt out to decorate the crap out of the bunker. You had coloured lights and garland wrapped around the staircase and a beautiful tree you found in storage set up on top of the war table.

You had a fully decked out turkey dinner prepared with all the fixings and for dessert there were zucchini oatmeal muffins for Sam and pumpkin pie for Dean. Everything still in the oven to keep warm since they would be walking in the door any minute now.

Christmas was always Dean's favourite time of year and last year with the apocalypse looming over your heads, you didn't get to celebrate the way you would've liked. With loads of homemade food and family and board games and hallmark movies and cheap gifts from the gas station down the street.

It wasn't about what you got, it was about the time you spent together. Times were tough lately, for longer than you cared to remember; this was your way of bringing joy back into Sam and Dean's lives if only for one night.

You all needed a break from your worries.

You took a step back and examined your handiwork. The library was almost unrecognizable, hidden in evergreen garlands and lights and patches of holly, glass ornaments and fake candles. All that was missing now was the final touch.

Mistletoe!

You set up the step-stool in the entrance of the library. You had Dean install a hook for the ball of mistletoe a couple years ago, which was still there, but the stool wasn't quite tall enough and you had to really stretch and hold your breath to be able to reach it. It was more than a little troublesome and you let out a long breath once you hooked the ribbon on. You smiled up at the ball of white and green and sunk back down to your heels from your tip-toes.

"Did elves throw up in here or something, Y/N? What is all of this?" You jumped and stumbled off the stool at the sound of Dean's voice.

You hadn't heard him come in. That child-like sense of wonder his eyes usually wore at the sight of Christmas decorations wasn't there.

"How'd the hunt go? Where's Sam?" You asked and shoved the stool under the table in the library.

"Same old shit, different day." Dean huffed and walked into the library.

He dropped his duffle-bag of weapons onto the floor with a loud clunk sound and Sam appeared from the hallway wearing a scowl.

"Really, Y/N?" Sam frowned as his eyes darted from garlands to candles to the ball of mistletoe.

He always was a bit of a grinch. It was the most colourful and bright the bunker had ever been. You went a tad overboard but in a good way. At least you thought so.

"Seriously, Sam? It’s Christmas Eve!”

"Yeah, well... Enjoy 'cuz I'm outta here." Sam said, giving Dean the stink eye.

Great, they were fighting. Again.

"Dido," Dean said, mirroring his little brother's bitch face.

Then both boys practically growled at each other and stormed back down the hallway towards their separate rooms. You hung back in the library to admire your handiwork regrettably, this hadn't gone the way you'd expected. And you couldn't chase after them either, you had to check on the food.

You grudgingly padded down the hall towards the kitchen, starting again when you turned the corner to see Sam was already investigating the smouldering oven.

He glanced back at you when you asked, "Is it burnt?"

"Uh," he gave you a sympathetic look like he finally caught onto what you were trying to do for them. Then your bottom lip quivered and he was quick to add, "No, no. It's not that bad, we -uh, we can salvage it."

Sam shoved his large hands into the oven mitts and pulled out the turkey first. The whole top of it was burnt, but the pie and muffins suspiciously seemed to be okay since they were on the bottom rack.

"I just wanted things to be like before," you said, popping a muffin from the tray to check the bottom of it. Burnt, just like you thought. No doubt the pie would be too. You popped the top of the muffin off and tasted a piece of the edge. "Why are you guys fighting this time?"

"Honestly, Y/N, I don't know." Sam sighed and you offered him a piece of the muffin top, "Did you put zucchini in these?" He asked around the bite he took.

"I knew you probably wouldn't eat the pie, health freak." You quipped and Sam chuckled. "Sorry it's burnt."

"Nah, the top's the best part anyways." He gave you a quick side hug which you returned.

"Sammy, you know I don't really believe you, right?" You knew he knew very well why they were arguing, he just didn't want to tell you.

He pursed his lips, "What gave me away?"

"You never say honestly unless you're lying." You squinted up at him and smirked when his stoic face broke. You knew him too well. "Was it about me?"

"Dean's just protective, Y/N."

"OVER-protective, you mean." You rolled your eyes and set the rest of the muffin top on the counter, "I hope you took my side, I always take yours." Sam didn't answer and instantly you knew he didn't. Your mouth dropped open at the obvious betrayal. It was an unspoken rule that you and Sam always had each other's backs.  "Samuel William Winchester!"

He pointed at you, "Y/N, you were dead-"

He was talking about that hunt. The hunt that put your relationship with his brother in a rut and him in a cast for two months. The ghost hunt.

You threw up your arms in protest, "Only for two whole minutes! That barely counts!"

"You didn't see him," Sam shook his head and avoided your eyes, "If you didn't come back... He's never been in love before-"

"In what?"

Four years of dating Dean and he never once said it... 'I love you'. How hard was that?!

Sam rubbed the back of his head, "Uh-"

"Wait, then why were you guys fighting if you took his side? Traitor," you muttered the last part under your breath.

"Because he's acting like he's gotta death wish," Sam explained.

"So, classic pissed-off-Dean then."

"Exactly! But he's not the only one that hated that day. You scared me, Y/N, you're my best-friend, you're family and it wouldn't be the same around here without you." Sam argued, but you understood where he was coming from.

You felt the same thing every time they did something stupid and almost got themselves killed. 

"It hasn't been the same with me lately." You sighed and hopped up to sit on the metal island.

"Look, I appreciate what you are trying to do here with the food and the decorations-"

"But?" You tilted your head and he gave you his best puppy dog face.

"But, I think you'll have a better chance at getting through to him if I take off for a bit."

"Sam, you don't have to do that. This is your home too and it's plenty big enough for us all." You frowned and furrowed your brow.

"Uh, yeah, but I was gonna go see a friend anyways." He rubbed the back of his head nervously.

"Friend?" You thought for a moment, "Eileen?! Finally! You know she asks me about you all the time."

"Yeah," Sam blushed and cleared his throat, "Good luck, Y/N."

"You too, Sammy." You gave him a wink and he headed for the door, "Remember to be safe. No glove, no love!"

Your incessant teasing only made Sam high-tail it out of there faster than you thought a moose was able to move. You were still giggling at just how red you were able to make him turn when you passed by Dean's bedroom. The room you'd been sharing with him for the past three and a half years now. Number eleven.

When you heard something, a whimpering... -Or a moan?

You rested your ear against the wooden door. Definitely moaning! That was not the type of sound he made when he was having a nightmare either, you should know!

You threw open the door, letting it hit the wall with a bang and Dean jolted up in bed. His brow was sweaty and he was panting when you noticed the tent and his right hand in his sweatpants.

"Y/N! It-it's not what it looks like." He pulled his hand from his pants and you scrunched up your face.

Normally, you wouldn't give a shit if Dean wanted to have a little self-love, but you couldn't get him to kiss you lately. Hell, he didn't even cuddle you unless he was already out cold and rolling over in his sleep. And that's on the nights he even cared to come to bed at all! He spent most of his time passed-out in the Dean cave in front of the TV, surrounded by too many empty beer bottles.

You couldn't believe it, you were jealous of his right hand; that's how fucking pent up and frustrated you were.

"Why won't you touch me anymore, huh?" You asked a stunned Dean who didn't bother to get out of the bed. "Are you trying to push me away? Is that what this is?... You're not even gonna try to deny it?!"

You growled inwardly to yourself and walked away before he had a chance to speak. You didn't even bother to shut the door, you just picked up the pace and sprinted to the library. Then started ripping the garlands down until you spotted the mistletoe. That fucking traditional ball of forced Christmas kissing and cheer was taunting you like a clown with it's thumbs in it's ears.

Admittedly, you were at the end of your rope. The mistletoe looked nothing like a clown nor did it have hands let alone thumbs or ears.

You dragged the step stool out from under the table and in a second, ripped the ball of mistletoe from its perch on the hook and tore the ribbon.

"Y/N, we need to talk."

You turned to find Dean standing in the doorway, slightly hunched over to hide the state he was in. Like it wasn't fucking obvious that he didn't finish. And 'we need to talk'? Was he fucking kidding? He was finally gonna break up with you, like this?! You almost hoped so, so then you could stop driving yourself crazy about him.

"Why don't you just go back to your cartoon porn!" You chucked the ball of mistletoe at him and hit him exactly where you intended to.

"...It's anime-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, anime." You snapped dryly and rolled your eyes.

You hopped off the stool and continued destroying your hours of work decorating. Muttering curses under your breath at how stupid your idea was. You burnt dinner and the fucking decorations did nothing to improve anyones mood.

"Y/N, stop." Dean said, when you stepped on a bulb and felt a little pinch but you ignored it and him. "Stop!" He grabbed you from behind and held on tight as you thrashed against his hold. "Stop, sweetheart."

His hold tightened and he buried his face in your neck when you sobbed. You stopped fighting and sucked in a shaky breath and a hiccup. It took a long minute until you were able to relax slightly and he pressed a kiss to your cheek when you did.

"Here, look." Dean said, pulling his phone from his pocket.

He showed you the video he'd been watching while he was alone in the room with himself. It was of you, two summers ago, at the beach. You were holding his hand and tugging him towards the ocean, turning and laughing at him when he said the water was too cold. He was really just afraid of sharks. Eventually he let go of your hand and stayed on shore while you waded in, up to your knees and splashed him with the salty brine. It was a great weekend.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in your ear and locked his phone as he tossed it on top of the bookcase. "I've been such an idiot. I thought I could do this but I can't. I just- I just love you. Too. Damn. Much."

You turned in his hold, feeling all of him against your backside as you did. "What did you just say?"

You couldn't believe your ears. He never said that, not because he didn't feel it, you saw it in his eyes every time you were alone together, every time things got heated or whenever you brought home pie... but, for him to actually say it was a big deal!

"I love you," he rested his forehead on yours and stared into your eyes.

"So," you squinted and teased your lips against his, "I guess this means you're not gonna break up with me?"

"You'll have to kill me first." He said and kissed your breath away.

His hand cradling the back of your head and tilting your mouth to accept him better. Then his tongue swiped across your lip and you parted your lips to let him in. Savouring the way his muscle slid against yours before you broke the kiss.

"You know you're always the one saying that a hunter's life is short-"

Dean's lips locked with yours again and you felt every inch of your skin burst into flames, "And your point is?"

"We shouldn't be wasting any of the time we do have together," you nuzzled his cheek with your nose and felt him sigh, "Are you done pushing me away?"

"Mhm," he nodded, his face against yours.

His skin was dewey with sweat and you could smell the musk he'd worked up by himself. It made you weak in the knees and if it weren't for his hands on your lower back you'd be a puddle on the floor by now.

You pulled away when he tried to kiss you again, "Promise?"

"I promise," he said and chased your lips.

You let him capture your lips with his and tangled your fingers in his short hair. His big hands slipped lower and cradled your butt in his palms. You squeaked when he squeezed, leaving indents of his fingers no doubt and you pulled his hair until he groaned into your mouth.

"I'm sorry I threw the mistletoe at your balls."

Dean laughed and hummed, "Maybe you can kiss them better."

**************************************

He backed you up against the table, pressing moist heavy kisses all over your neck. It sent tingles through your veins and down to your toes before you felt it settle in your stomach.

All thought was lost.

You laid back on the table, allowing Dean more access to your neck as he placed kisses trailing along your flushed skin and past your collarbone. He pulled the collar of your shirt down and continued kissing between your breasts. His hand pawing at one of your peaks as the other laced together with your hand and held it down against the hardwood of the tabletop. His hardwood pressing against your inner thigh as he slotted himself between your legs.

You turned your head to the side as Dean nibbled at your jaw and pushed up your shirt. You laid next to the initials you all carved into the wood; yours and Dean's forever etched together and encased in a heart. He was romantic in his own way sometimes.

You pushed on Dean's chest until he backed up and allowed you the space to sit up. You tugged off your shirt and jumped off the table to rid Dean of his too. Then you grabbed his waist and turned him around just to shove him back against the table. He fell onto it with a grunt and watched as you pushed your leggings down your legs along with your panties.

"You are so damn perfect," he groaned as you rid yourself of your bra, but he was looking into your big Y/E/C eyes when you met his gaze.

You thought that must've taken quite a bit of will power and chewed on your bottom lip as your own eyes drank in his vulnerable form. He was propped up on muscular arms and his tummy tensed as you dragged your fingertips from his navel to his waist band.

"Fuck, Y/N," Dean groaned though you had barely touched him and he tried to sit up but you pushed him back down. You giggled and slowly pulled his sweatpants down his bowed legs, leaving him as bare as you were. "Get that cute ass of yours up here now."

You weren't particularly fond of his command, especially after three months of lost touches and mixed feelings. So instead, you decided to tease him by kissing the inside of his knee. Then you kissed a little higher, and sunk your teeth in the fleshy part of his thigh. A little love bite that had him growling in an octave lower than natural and he fell back against the tabletop. His head hit with a loud thunk sound and you popped up from between his thighs to see him desperately trying to catch his breath.

"Oh my gosh, Dean! Are you okay?!" You rushed out and climbed on top of him to feel the back of his head.

Dean grabbed your neck and pulled you in for a heated kiss. It was months of pent up carnal desire and he had to break the kiss to pant into your mouth; fitting his lips to yours whenever he felt he had enough breath. It was like he'd just run a marathon and you felt his heart beating through his chest under your palm.

"I swear you're gonna be the death of me, sweetheart." He said and let his head thunk down on the table again, "Y/N, I just want you so bad."

"I want you, too, Dean. So. Bad." You breathed, "It's been way too fucking long."

"I'm sorry, baby. Never again."

You kissed his jaw and kitten licked down his neck as you reached between your misted bodies to line him up with your core. Dean grunted and held his breath as you sunk down slowly, determined to take him all at once. It had been a while and it stung a little with the stretch but soon enough all you felt was pleasure.

You started slowly, grinding into him and teasing him tirelessly and without remorse. It was gratifying to watch him writhe with lust for you as you gave him just enough to keep him on the edge. You thought he never looked like he wanted you more, not just anyone... you. But soon enough you needed more too and you rolled your hips and bounced on him until you were just as out of breath. Dean's hands found your breasts and he pawed at them, his fingers buried into the flesh as he held onto you and you felt him begin to twitch inside you. You wanted to keep up with him and slipped your fingers down to your centre; the touch inspiring a pulse in your nerves.

Dean felt it too and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling your chest flush to his as he took over. He braced his feet on the edge of the table and thrust up into you hard. You whimpered and tried to meet his thrusts, nibbling on his earlobe until he groaned loud and long and the sound sent you over the edge. Your orgasm stretching into his as he thrust a few more times, losing his rhythm and shuddering beneath you. His hands finding your ass and his fingernails imprinting on your cheeks as he held you to him.

Dean groaned again, "Fuck, Y/N, you're amazing."

He kissed your shoulder as he rode out his high and you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck. You kissed his pulse point, feeling the strong thump in his chest beat against yours like you were at a concert standing next to a bass speaker.

He sighed as he came down, "My beautiful girl."

You wanted to stay with him, on top of him, just like this and you weren't exactly crushing him so you did and you mumbled against his skin, "I love you. Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Y/N." He chuckled and panted as he rubbed his hands up and down your back. "I love you, too. Always."

_________________________ Dean/Jensen: @akshi8278 @laycblack @thoughts-and-funnies @mrsjenniferwinchester @crustycheeks @kazsrm67 @sexyvixen7 @lyarr24 @suckitands33  @eliwinchester99 @yvonneeeee @igotmajordaddyissues @djs8891 @leigh70 @globetrotter28

Forever SPN: @hobby27

[eloquent-vowel]

Goodbye, Evergreen - But make it Hannibal's POV

These are all my own interpretations that are definitely taking some creative licence - these are just opinions and random thoughts! This fits into the time between season 2 and season 3.

Throughout the series Will has a relationship with the forest, his house is surrounded by trees, he loves being in nature. Hannibal is saying Goodbye to Will, his Evergreen, his heaven sent.

Religious imagery flickers through this song just as it weaves through Hannibal (the series). I never can decide if Hannibal sees Will as his disciple or his God - to be worshiped. But there is no doubt in my mind that Hannibal would include his ideas of heaven in his beliefs about Will.

The use of Must suggests an inevitability, like he knew that this situation would crumble one way or another. That he knew Will would burn out, but he held some hope that the scales would tip Will towards him. Just like how Will was "in [his] dream". But the teacup has shattered

Hannibal releases his "scattered brain" - this could be seen in two ways. He is letting go of the parts of him that are connected to Will - parts that maybe don't fit with his previous images of himself. Or he is referring to Will as "My scattered brain". Calling Will "My enemy". But Will is His.

"I cut from the inside" - This feels like Hannibal cuts Will because of how he is feeling inside. Maybe he is scared, frightened, and that makes him unsettled - "Something just isn't right".

"I'm drowning in my self defence" - "I gave you a rare gift, but you didn't want it." When Hannibal guts Will he does so to survive, if he did not do so he would drown, die. When Will says "Didn't I?" then maybe the guilt begins to set in. "Now punish me."

"Think of me as what you will." - How does Will view Hannibal? As a monster, a man - a friend, an enemy? Does it really matter to Hannibal, no because he knows what he is and he is saying Goodbye (for now."

The idea of Hannibal growing "like a cancer" just screams of the idea that he has grown inside Will but he has grown from parts of Will. His influence is born of Will's cells, working beyond what they normally do. He is silent and devastating but he is a part of Will. To cure Will of Hannibal would be to destroy, claw out, part of himself and damage the surrounding structures. "Do you believe you could change me, the way I have changed you? - I already did"

Water imagery returns in the rain - the rain that washes away blood, cleansing in a way. Hannibal stands in the rain at the end of Season 2. He has shed his person suit for a brief moment. He wipes his face as the rain drops fall. A small part of me thinks that he lets a few tears fall, disguised as they are. I see this moment as his washing away that "poisoned pain" of betrayal.

"Deliver me" - the religious themes pop up again. Is Will Hannibal's saviour? Is he seeking forgiveness? What poisoned part of himself does Hannibal want saving from, or would he rather pull Will down with him? "I forgive you Will. Will you forgive me?"

It's giving obsession - a desperation to be known and understood.

I strongly believe that Hannibal wants nothing more than to be understood and he believes Will to be the only one who could ever fully understand him. As he leaves his old home, I picture him just thinking and hoping that maybe if he says it enough times - Will will know.

Please know me

It is cut off. Hannibal believes Will to not care for him, to wish to shackle him. He loves. But he is not sure if the one he loves is Will (for now)

... give it some time in Europe and that will soon change hehe

[beyondthebackup]

[Submitted]: The Red Note

The note and the indented description of its location was submitted by an anonymous author.

Everything dies.

Normally, though, Backup sees it coming.

This is the grave of his childhood.

B gazes up at the crown of the mighty tree that used to make him feel so incredibly small, now frail and withering as it towers above him. Scarce sunlight slips through the yew’s crooked fingers like liquid gold.

A kaleidoscope of shadows flicker across B’s face as he passes beneath the glittering canopy and crushes its leaves underfoot.

The old yew looms over moss freckled lichen, arching branches like phoenix wings drawing it up from the ground in one last demonstration of life’s defiance, an evergreen’s final breath drawn from pallid-gray-green to malignant gold. Surrounded by sightless spectators, there is no witness when it is unjustly slain. In death, it remains as silent as the secrets it’s kept for all the lovers who carved their names into its flesh, all the dabblers in death who stole its carmine heirs from its branches. But the untimely cascade of coniferous needles reveals a hidden missive;

—a scarlet envelope left nailed beneath a skeletal branch.

B can still make out the wounds he inflicted year after year on red-brown bark, a tradition stolen from the English children. Not letters but tally marks, counting down to the day A would finally look up at him, brow furrowed with thinly-veiled rancor as he realized B was taller than him now and always would be. A never said anything, of course he didn’t, but he didn’t have to. B knew each time A returned to this tree he’d see the evidence: a gash that sits perfectly atop B’s head when he leans against the trunk, '182' carved proudly beside it. While A's gradually stammered to just above 172, Backup's growth sailed smoothly beyond what A would ever reach. The last two marks, 172 and 167, were made without Alternative's participation.

Risking splinters, Backup drags his hand down the years notch by notch and wonders exactly when the ancient thing died; in his memories, in that photo, it is emerald, lush and verdant as evergreens should be, unless…

He comes upon a hole that must have been drilled into the trunk; he absentmindedly sticks his finger inside, noting it to be about 1-2 inches deep. Backup quickly realizes that there are several identical holes around the circumference of the tree, along with multiple cuts exposing its vulnerable white flesh. Even the grass and foliage at the base are dying.

B can make out the massive thing from an impressive distance and recalls a few moments from the past year or so — flashes of yellow in the corner of his eye during football games and smoke breaks. He didn’t think much of it at the time. It’s just a tree, after all. Like everything else from those days, it faded into the background.

But this is death by a thousand cuts. These injuries are precise, deep and deliberate. This was a murder, carried out over days, weeks, months…

Whoever killed this tree did so slowly and left it to rot from the inside…as if hoping the poor thing could feel pain. But…why? Why this tree…?

It feels ridiculous to care about what killed a tree, but it’s even more ridiculous to care enough about a tree to kill it…

Something catches his eye

—red like a fresh incision.

B recognizes the glint of a nail and his body responds in an instant. The wounds from that day Alternative hunted him like an animal in these woods have only recently healed.

Memories of steel biting into his shoulder, the ice-tipped fang tearing through his thigh, the searing ache as he dug pseudo-bullets out of his skin and the grim reality that he nearly lost an eye haunt him like a vengeful ghost.

The last time he found something interesting nailed to a tree,

A was there.

Waiting.

As if it were an ambush.

B’s pulse quickens and he scans the treeline for movement, taking the time to become fully aware of his surroundings. Alternative still has that damned crossbow; despite his best efforts, he hasn’t been able to find it. Still, A is unlikely to make the same move twice in a row. That would make things too easy.

This place has always been still and quiet, and now is no exception. Eventually, B relaxes into the nostalgia.

He is alone.

There is no mistaking it; another hidden note, but this time, placed well out of his — or anyone else’s — reach. He’d have to climb the tree to retrieve it.

It appears he’ll have to put in some work this time.

B is confident when he begins his climb. He’s scaled this tree a dozen times before, although not since his youth.

It’s no trouble for him at all to jump and grab the first branch but, it lets out an unfamiliar groan, protesting his weight…he is stronger than he used to be, but heavier too, and these branches aren’t as wide as they once were.

He will have to be careful.

The next branch is the same, creaking under him like cheap furniture as he pulls himself up to straddle it. This tree is dying and making a fuss of it, bark crumbling under his fingers as he swings his leg up and tries to scale the third branch quickly.

Nothing feels stable enough to rest for long, especially not this last branch, high enough for a perfect view but not so high you can’t get back down. Years ago he and A would sit on it for hours, but B suspects that even grabbing it might be too dangerous now.

But he wants that letter.

He doesn’t have a choice.

B takes a deep breath and for a moment feels like a child again, grasping at the limb with blind faith. His scuffed fingertips straining at the edges as it moans, B reaches further, stretching his grasp into the open air. The limb begins to tenderly pop, but he won’t make it if he gives up now. He pulls with the full force of his strength, bringing his face into the sun’s unobscured light; he squeezes his eyes shut as it blinds him just before he hears the loud crack beneath his fingers, the next moment he is in free fall.

He shouts and birds scatter, there is no time to think before he

hits

the

ground.

"Nnnnngh…"

B groans out in pain, his head is throbbing so hard he almost regrets regaining consciousness. His back and limbs are sparking with a sharp agony and it takes some time before he dares to even move them.

Nothing is broken, and he doesn’t feel too disoriented. He struggles, slowly, into a sitting position and realizes he landed in a nest of expired needles. He should consider himself lucky. The jagged remains of that old branch glare back at him, a big gap like a question left unanswered.

Looking to his side, there is the letter — and the limb. He frowns. There’s still some green left at it’s core, and the red note defiantly isn’t even torn.

The note reads: I am enamored. Scintillating sparks on the surface of my skin trickle the path of your fingers like lambent dust caught in concentrated sunlight, like earth bound stars curling on your breath. It’s silent and ethereal, the mark of your fingers lingering where they stole my warmth greedily, still there, invisible and unquenched. Do you know I am left famished even when you are pitiless? My living-ember love, you are as inhospitable as the vampirous summer sun, bleeding the ground dry, scorching all tenderness that could wriggle out of reach of your blistering indignation— I hold my withered affection close and brace for the lick of your ire… You mistake my inaction for apathy but I think if I let you, you would scorch it all to cinders, just to prove how intensely your acrimony burns, just so I would know how uncompromising your ego has become for my dignity. I think of how you threaten to discard everything we have been to each other and I want to meet your ferocity with the cold-blooded recompense that everyone tells me is due… But, how can I do that when I look into your eyes and I see someone that once saw me when no one else would? How can I when I’ve known your heart —and it is not empty? How can I kill a fledgling hope I know is still within you, the trust that I would never leave you even if life made you thorny and bleak? How can I do it when the most untamed parts of you are home to all the untamed parts of me? How can I do that when it wouldn’t matter how unsparingly you loathed me, some part of me would still love you? I cannot reason with feral rage, there is no antivenom for enmity, but my heart cannot yield to the truth; that I want you to choose to love me back. Even in spite of all you’ve done to desecrate our bond… How pathetically I want you to look at me in the way others would long to be seen, how miserably I want you to speak to me from the places that sighed so softly when you rested your head next to mine, how cravenly I want you to love me in the way my heart would understand. Oh, savage love, how little fear your sanguine threats inspire when I am already consumed with a dread with which nothing else can contend… I do not fear the pain you could inflict anymore. I am not afraid of degradation or debasement. I am not even afraid of death. But, I am terrified that we will not live long enough to finish all those unloved sketches you’ve left in the drawer, or that I might die having not written all that longs to be read by your eyes and dies waiting for a home in your heart —I’m terrified that I won’t live long enough for all that is still within me to be born.

B presses his thumbs into the envelope, caressing the frayed edge left behind when he ripped it free from the nail. He pictures the other four notes hidden away in his room; secret treasures B keeps pressed between the pages of a thick, unassuming book. They are in perfect condition, Backup made certain of that, but this one…is damaged.

The symbolism is not lost on him.

This note is different.

While the others were marked by their playful lust, pretty fantasies signed off with hearts…this one is pointedly somber. Intimate beyond the physical. The author knows the subject of these letters, or at least claims to…in a way that B has never been known, cannot ever be known.

What the hell is this…? This isn’t about him.

Talk of hope and trust and home and seeing their heart — if someone said these things to his face, he’s not sure he could stop himself from laughing. It wouldn’t just be presumptuous, but ridiculous, borderline delusional…

But B isn’t laughing. There is a growing knot in the center of his chest.

He wants this ridiculous letter to be about him.

It’s been fun so, of course he does…but it’s something more than that. There is a bitter familiarity in the author’s tone of voice that cuts through B’s impulse to write them off.

There is not just nebulous talk of ‘love’ but resentment, strife, and death. No, B would be lying if he said that nothing in this note could apply to him, but still…

——— Obelus Yoriko Umbral A ———

Yoriko, perhaps, would be willing to project such far-fetched hopes onto him…but she has the least to complain about out of all the suspects. This is simply because B senses she has the self-respect to stop tolerating him if he pushes her too far — he can’t have that, not when things are just now getting good.

Umbral might yearn for B to be more affectionate with him outside of his rewards for good performance…but he takes what he is given, and this note is almost defiant in what it’s asking for.

Was B wrong to eliminate Obelus just because he’s sure he’d never write about wearing a dress? Doesn’t he know better after studying B like a bug under a microscope for all these years? Isn’t that why he keeps his mouth shut even though his romantic feelings for B are so painfully obvious?

And why does he even keep A on this mental list?

A despises him.

Yet, he doesn’t want to eliminate the possibility from his mind.

Because he likes the idea.

It’s impossible, and that’s what makes the thought amusing. A would have to be truly out of his mind to write like this about B.

No one is crueler to Alternative than Backup.

And why wouldn't he be?

If it weren't for Backup's persistent reminders that their precious figurehead is indeed fallible, their drooling peers and instructors would inflate A's ego to the point of no return. B can just picture his look of smug superiority, that air of stern self-importance that makes B want to turn him inside out. The humiliation, the torment, the cruelty is all necessary. Left unchecked, A might grow a spine and pursue relationships with others, grow foolish enough to believe in something other than his inexorable defeat at Backup's hands.

But he does more for Alternative than just make him miserable. Their rivalry is give-and-take.

B knows the truth, even if no one else does — that for all his faux innocence and doe-eyed victimhood, the degradation gets A off.

But he won't ever admit it. A’s image is perhaps the most important thing in the world to him, and he takes great pains to convince everyone that he gets nothing out of their twisted dynamic.

One of his many lies.

No, there is just no motive for A to author these notes (god forbid with any shred of sincerity). If he had, this would be nothing short of a mixed fucking message.

It is absurd, the idea that A secretly yearns for him to drop all pretense and seriously treat him like his fucking boyfriend, right?

There is barely a moment of consideration before the answer emerges from his memory.

"They think too highly of me to suffer delusions of your adequacy~

Do you think you’d even know how to be my boyfriend if you tried?"

That is what Abel said to him, before B promptly trapped him in the bathroom and made him miss their next class.

When he said it, he meant it. When B retaliated, he meant it. After everything A has done to him, he should be grateful for B’s restraint up till now.

Even after everything he’s put him through, even after … after 'everything you’ve done to desecrate our bond’…

B scowls. Right.

A had only ever categorically denied 'everything we’ve ever been to each other’, his capacity for shame being perhaps one of the starkest differences between him and B.

In spite of the impossibility that this trepid confession could represent Abel’s genuine feelings, the notion crashes into B like water on hot stones and his agitation splinters into a disorienting fog.

Every day he and A address each other with taunts and insults, overt threats and whispered coquetry, the fistfights and arguments a theater they put on for the house while they commit attempted murder and carnal sins in private.

The one thing they do not do is speak to each other like this.

It’s against the rules.

It would be an easy enough pill to swallow if A wrote these letters to get inside B’s head, to escalate the cruelty of their game.

But, if he is this good at it, then B has so severely underestimated his abilities that he’s become unrecognizable as an opponent.

It was improbable, even if A was capable of it. These notes were not merely diversions conceived in an hour's time. Their author wrote with palpably poignant ardor, with carefully constructed allusions penned in ink. Their methodical strokes were elegant but bold enough to be written without the possibility of erasure, suggesting that every step of their creation was arduously intentional, practiced.

No… it wouldn’t be worth the farce of simply luring him into A’s crosshairs...

But, if this could be felt for Backup by anyone, if A could feel anything like this, anything to this degree, if he could even conceive of the thought and mean it — B’s train of thought comes to a grinding, screeching halt.

He doesn’t even notice his racing heartbeat, the tension crawling up his shoulders and back, teeth digging into tongue.

Why would he ever say he’d never leave me?

Of course, he won’t.

Not ever.

It’s not up to A and it never was; it is fate that he won’t survive long enough to have a life outside of this place, outside of B’s reach — but he can’t possibly know that.

B would never leave something so important up to trust.

The absolute futility of it all has not left Backup complacent.

He respects Alternative far too much to accept victory by default.

A spends each day running, trying to put as much distance between them as he can; but he can’t do it forever. He will tire. He will fall.

B chases him and blocks the exits even if he doesn’t have to, he keeps a hand on his back ready to drag him down-

Down to his level.

Dirt, graves, and hell.

They grew beside one another like trees, blocking each other’s sun, tangling their roots. B looks all the more warped standing next to A, but the rot is in both of them.

The rot defines them.

Why can’t he just let it define them?

Why can’t he stop wanting more than to rot and strangle and suffocate him until its done?

How can I do that when it wouldn’t matter how unsparingly you loathed me,

some part of me would still love you?

Backup grits his teeth, his throat filling up with something utterly intangible yet almost too thick to breathe around, he is suddenly too hot and the chittering insects are too loud. The world around him slows to an absolute crawl and when B decides he is not doing this, he is not going to waste his time thinking about this when A did not write this, A would never think this, A would never make these promises, A did not love him,

He stuffs the letter back into its envelope and tries to shake it from his mind.

But he cannot bring himself to leave it. For some agonizing reason, he cannot leave it to be bleached by the sun and consumed by insects eating through the yew’s fallen leaves.

…Why does it even matter to him?

A would have thrown it away.

A would have left it to be forgotten. If he had given it to A, he would have torn it up in front of him—

"… They say that boys often go their entire lives without receiving flowers until their funerals, I suppose now that cannot be said of either of us…"

The words spoken when A gave the flower back to him returned, it still lacked all the malice he had expected to be there. A had not disposed of it, he had not torn it apart, that’s not what happened…

The contradiction, the flaw in A’s thick veneer of antagonism, the possibility pounding at the inside of his skull, something boiling deep inside of him and threatening to burst. He wants to reject this discomfort, he wants to be excited again like he was when he thought something fun was finally happening that didn’t involve his persistent

fucking

obsession.

A dangerous idea reoccurs to him after sitting in the back of his mind for days. It consumes his every fiber, reverberates on every cell like the cicadas in the forest at dusk and he sees the opportunity in front of him with new eyes— the only way he’d get any answers is if he played the game.

If he wrote a response to these letters, but left it for A to find…

Could it affect him? Would it reach through Alternative’s facade? —Would he see a flicker of A’s desire to be truly known…even loved?

… Is A capable of wanting more than the mask of perfection? … Is he capable of wanting — tenderness?

Enough to accept it, even from someone else…?

A voice brushes his mind with unwanted advice, “Maybe—if I was just a little bit kinder to him than you’re capable of being, he might want it more than he wants to be fucked ~” C’s provocation reemerges to taunt him, and as quickly as it breaches the surface, B buries the creeping sense that he could have a point… but not before it introduces him to a new prospect:

He might receive a response from the parts of A that never spoke to him aloud —the parts that wouldn’t throw away the flower left on his nightstand…

B’s guard against ill-fated fantasy rises immediately, he wouldn’t put it past A to be vicious just to spite him.

But what if he didn’t know who they were from? What if he left them for A to make of what he would, for them to twist and pluck at his inner workings, to keep him awake at night— to let him deny ownership of if it all proved fruitless~

If nothing came of it, he could at least enjoy toying with A until his experimentation with tenderness honed him into a more skillful handler of his admirer’s sensitive heart…if this was truly his admirer.

Backup tucks the note away carefully, determined to return to his room and begin drafting his reply, but he feels a pull to the fallen limb discarded on the ground.

The yew is dead.

Nothing can be done about that.

But this limb isn’t…at least, not entirely.

B picks it up, and for a moment, contemplates its weight in his hands.

It’s easy enough to discard a flower. But if something could grow from this branch…if the progeny of that old tree could sprout from its discarded bones, and A saw such a gesture of sentimentality from B…would it rattle him?

This yew is not just the grave of B’s childhood after all, but A’s, too.

Fine.

If C wants to lecture him about playing nice, he can make himself useful.

He will bring it to the greenhouse to see what can be done.

[Lavender Note]

[Pink Note]

[Blue Note]

[Red Note]

[Tag: Love Note]

[basil-from-omori]

you said you wanted people to ask you about plants soooo

whats your favorite plant/flower? and maybe some of the symbolism behind it?

AHHHH THANK U!!!!!! my fav flower is smth I think about a lot. my current fav, tho, is probably amaryllis (pronounced like am-uh-RILL-is btw). I WISH I had one, but the temps where I live are so high, it wouldn’t do great cuz they like average temps (in growth) and low 40s (in dormancy). for lighting it needs darkness (in dormancy) and medium light in growth. it’s a BEAUUUUUTIFUL winter or spring bloomer….n it almost looks like a lily. blooms in clusters and it has different colors + species.

they often symbolize stuff involving strength, ie pride/determination, which is something I LOVE in plant symbolism. OH YEAH AND “AMARYLLIS” IS A GREEK NAME AND IT MEANS “TO SPARKLE”!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

hold on here’s a pic of one I got online

the leafs remind me of daffodil leafs almost hehe,,,

OK ALSO my fave plant (specifically houseplants tho) is smth kinda hard to answer. I like butterfly palms (always wanted one but never got one), chinese evergreen (I have one Yas), avocado trees (i messed mine up when I tried growing my own), prayer plants (I have one…I always do tho), and rubber plants (I also have one). I used to always wish I had a butterfly palm and I never ended up getting one. here’s what they look like

i know they usually have rather positive connotations stemming from Ancient Rome and Greece? but I’m not too sure on symbolism outside of flowers.

one of the prettiest houseplants that is very easy to take care of is pothos. they usually live from 5-10 years. they’re pretty resilient! they love bright indirect light. And get this: they can literally rapidly adapt to their environment, their cell functions can change just from their conditions and everything. they are simple to manage— every time you water them, you should let the soil dry out first (so every 1-2 weeks or so). you don’t need to mist it either. they’re also beautiful, so I would rly recommend this if you are chronically ill, disabled, elderly, very depressed, have executive dysfunction, etc etc.

another resilient and pretty plant is a peace lily. they come in a couple different colors. I know someone who’s had the same HUGE peace lily pot for like 15 years. I’d recommend this if you’ve just started liking plants and are currently obsessed with them, because it loves humidity and to ALWAYS have moist soil. if it’s not wet, the tips of the leaves tend to turn brown which is bad. to help with humidity, I recommend sphagnum moss on the soil. they love misting.

if you want a plant that you can walk past and mist if you wanna, but can’t bring urself to water it directly v often? I recommend something like a spider plant. They’re pretty interesting and you’ve probably seen one before. they like to be misted very often, but they only need to be directly watered after the soils dried. it’s like pothos care but for executive dysfunction.

my fav plant as far as symbolism goes? probably daffodils and hyacinth, mainly for its themes of forgiveness. if you didn’t know, that’s why I usually draw daffodils w/ basil when I get the chance. also: something something white egret orchid something something.

ANYWAYS THANK YOU FOR THE QUESTION :3 SORRU FOR THE RANTING

[comraderomeo]

Where Skin Ends Ch. 5

Updated Every Other Thursday (Unless I'm Busy And Post A Day Late)

links: ao3 masterpost

cw: none of note

You stumble back into your room, unsteady out of fatigue, which is welcome in a way. Your first stop is the bathroom, and on your way out, you splash water on your face. Still dripping, you look yourself in the mirror for a brief moment and smile. It's an insult in so many ways. You realize and stop smiling. Then, you strip down to the tank top and underwear you sleep in, the pile of unwashed clothes in the corner growing to slightly larger than is reasonable, but tomorrow you only have physical training in the morning, so you can shower and take care of laundry sometime later of course. There's not much else to consider. You already ate and gave up on hobbies ages ago. Or, should it be “hobby?” You wince at the thought and turn a fleeting glance to the rounded edge of a black case poking out from underneath your bed. No use in thinking about it now, your hands will just cramp from the memory and it'll take away from your sleep. So, you put your head to your thin pillow and call the day over. In the next half hour, you fade into that place between being awake and asleep. 

Framed by evergreens, you pushed a worn Spider through an endless sea of forest. This was a clear memory, 3023, early in your tenure with the Silver Wing. You didn't even have Her yet. And, He was a fresh scar. You were here with the rest of Alpha Lance to do some diversionary work for a potential invasion of Hyde. “Get in, destroy some infrastructure, get out,” it was a standard assignment for a recon lance. Now, you were serving as the tip of the spear, assigned to spot and harrass for the rest as they advanced. You felt lucky the forest was dense, because in a rare display, you had remembered something from the briefing, and this power station had more firepower in its defense than your employer could afford to deploy. You were shaken from your rumination on the surprising cheapness of the Great Houses when a warning appeared on a screen to your bottom right. In amber, it said, “HtSk1 Lo Flow.” Your well-trained brain immediately translated it to, “low coolant flow in heat sink 1.” It wasn't a death sentence but really would be annoying in a few minutes. You turned your thoughts to the cheapness of mercenaries and shook your head as much as it could in the heavy neurohelmet. You tried to recycle it; no luck. The warning popped up after another second. A realization hit you then: the real risk here would be getting spotted through the trees on account of the higher heat. “When on Terra…” you muttered to yourself, as you flicked your view to thermal. Through the trees, you expected to make out the vague outline of the steam plumes rising into the atmosphere from the plant and a few ominous but obscured silhouettes of turrets sitting on the corners of the perimeter wall. However, there were only muted and blurry shapes beyond. It was unsettling, but perhaps it was just an atmospheric anomaly. It was nothing you couldn't correct for once you exited the forest.

A wide line of pure, white heat split your viewscreen into two neat halves. 

The size and sheer power of the beam burned your eyes from the edges, as the light scrambled through the window and around the screen. The heat alarm blared; the Spider threatened to overheat from pure radiant energy. You tried to back it away, but the warning escalated to shutdown. You at least welcomed the blackness that saved your eyes from further damage. You rushed through the restart sequence while the light faded. By the time the outside view flickered back on, the light was dissipated, leaving only the stumps of trees buried into scorched earth and highlighted by fresh embers. By your expert tactical analysis, this was bad. No terrestrial directed energy weapon acted like this, it was closer to an act of some god. You scanned the area, looking for the source of this or any other hostiles. There were no machines of war to be seen, but so far that it strained your eyesight even with magnification, a silhouette stood on a hill. Maxing the heat sensors, She also burned bright white. You thumbed the trigger for your lasers in panic, but She turned and walked back over the hill before you could commit. The only thing left to do now was chase Her.

You tentatively accelerated toward the newly hewn end of the forest. You could smell the burning of flesh, even though the filtration system should have left you free of it. You smelled it and immediately turned to desperation, sending the Spider into a sprint. The left foot of the Spider crossed the threshold from the treeline into wasteland or a garden that always took your breath away, no matter how often you visited. Framed by elegant wooden arches painted a pristine white, planters lined a stone pathway. Each was filled with a small collection of complimentary flowers that most wouldn't even recognize as horribly exotic and equally expensive. You walked the Spider forward, taking in each small beauty. It took significant focus to determine the garden was massive such that the Spider was proportional to what a human visitor should be. Beyond the planters lay a sprawling display of local ferns and flowers, all arranged into a precisely formed layering of colour and artistry. There were benches along the paths that toured it where visitors or servants would often sit. They were empty. Peeking over the hill beyond the massive display, you could see the tops of the orchard trees –it always felt like they were spying on whomever visited. The Spider stomped along the serene path. You knew from stolen memory what to expect at the end of it: a small patio on a raised section of dirt. It was circular and a perfect vantage point. The sun was just beginning to set from its midday pinnacle, and the breeze turned the late spring warmth into a calming cool. You continued slowly now, ‘mech feet replaced with something more human. A bottle of wine fine enough to impress but modest enough for lunch was tucked under an arm and threatened to slip. I moved to adjust it with my free hand, but She caught my eye. I gasped. The bottle slipped. Crimson and glass splatter against the stone and my leg.

You sit up in your bed faster than you would even for a scramble. You're breathing heavily and put your head in your hands. Sweat makes your skin tacky. You try to remind yourself where you are, but find it hard. Your hand fumbles for the lamp switch and eventually finds it, proving to your panicked mind that you're in your temporary quarters on… You fail to find the name of the planet you've been stationed on somehow. The mind keeps flicking back to other things, and it's not as if you're known for your attentiveness, memory, or sobriety. Speaking of, you peer over the side of the bed, looking for some sign of drink. You're almost surprised to find none, having expected a hazardous pool of red wine on your synthetic wood floor. You quietly curse yourself for not drinking yourself to sleep again to avoid this waking up to shock and shivers. A sigh leaves your lips, and you leave the fleeting comfort of bed to throw on some dirty, casual clothes. There's not much room for sleep anymore.

Night walks have been a staple for you for quite a while. Whether a case of not wanting to sleep or not being able to, the calm quietness of night helps to soothe your petty issues. The air is always cooler, the streets always emptier, and the world always happier when the light of a system is hidden from view. You finish justifying your actions to yourself by the time you step out of the exterior door, only to realize you have yet to learn a good path to walk in this new environment. So, you wander. You take in the sights as you do; the garrison complex is drab and boring, as always, but just outside is a pleasant plain. You think about the rolling hills, grass, plants, terraforming, and pre-Star League colonization all in quick succession. It might've been quite the mental documentary if your thoughts were ever coherent. Eventually, you stumble upon a small park surrounding a pond. It looks quaint and peaceful enough to take your mind off of things. You circle the water, in a rush to breathe in the cool air. Something rustles in the grass a few meters away from you. It scares you within an inch of your life, despite it likely being a creature smaller than a breadbox. You start to catch your breath again when the bushes reply,

“Wait, do I know you?”

The light peeks out from the bushes, blinding only you. You stifle a scream but still turn to run. Hidden in the reeds and your panic, you hear more words but don't heed them,

“Damn, twice in the same day…”

Your bed isn't any more welcoming when you return to it, but you're used to forcing things upon yourself. Sleep follows dreamless yet empty.

[challengemag]

Green Beginnings: Expert Tips for Newly Planted Evergreen Trees

Your garden's transformation begins with the thoughtful care of newly planted evergreen trees. Our detailed guide offers a comprehensive array of caring insights, ensuring your saplings embark on a journey of robust health and vitality. From fostering optimal soil conditions to fostering proper root development, you'll uncover the secrets to successful evergreen growth. Visit our full article now.

[thetreecareguide]

Yew Tree Care, Toxicity, and Mythology

Avoid unwittingly planting a tree that is lethal to grazing wildlife, pets and people. Knowing the danger of planting yew trees on your property will help you decide if the risk is worth the threat.

thetreecareguide.com gathered essential care information, toxicity warnings, and some of the mythology associated with the yew tree species.

Yew Tree Species Information

Yews (Taxus baccata) are densely branching, evergreen trees with a large trunk reaching 20 to 30 feet tall. The bark is thin, scaly, and brown; it comes off in small flakes. Its leaves are dark green, leathery, and narrow with a pointed tip.

Yew can be grown in full sun, partial shade, and full shade. For healthier and more lush growth, however, choose a spot that gets several hours of daily sun. Too much shade can result in thin or irregular growth.

This species can live 400 to 600 years, with some specimens exceeding this lifespan. Consider the following when selecting and preparing a growing location for your yew tree:

Soil Preference - This species thrives in rich, loamy, well-drained soil with a neutral to slightly alkaline soil (5.0 to 8.0 pH). Watering Needs - Established yews require minimal watering. However, during drought conditions, weekly watering is recommended. Adding a layer of mulch around the tree’s base will help retain moisture in well-drained soil. Fertilizing Yews - Yew trees under 15 years can be fertilized each spring. More mature trees will benefit from feeding every other year. For best growth results, apply a “20-15-15” granular or liquid fertilizer around the yew’s drip line, avoiding the area immediately around the trunk. Pruning Requirements - This evergreen species is typically pruned twice a year, once in early July and again in early September. Up to 2/3 of new growth can be safely removed to shape this tree during the July pruning. The fall pruning should be a light touch-up to even out any secondary growth. Hardiness Zone - 3 through 8

Note: Taxus baccata is widely grown in landscapes for decorative purposes or privacy screening, and the species responds well to pruning.

Yew Winter Care

Yews planted in the right conditions can tolerate cold winters without protection. However, they can experience severe winter burn and bleaching. These conditions can be prevented by planting your yew trees on the north-facing side of buildings.

Note: Winter burn occurs when needles and branches repeatedly freeze and are then heated by the winter sun. Read more about protecting your yew during winter weather.

Yew Toxicity

Taxus baccata is a well-known poisonous tree species; all yew parts are deadly poisonous, except for the berry’s flesh. Eating a small quantity of leaves can be fatal for wildlife, livestock, and humans. Yew leaf toxicity is due to alkaloids known as taxines, of which taxine B is suspected as being one of the most poisonous.

Note: Taxine alkaloids are absorbed through the digestive tract incredibly fast, and poisoning signs (nausea, dry mouth, vomiting, stomach pain, dizziness, weakness, nervousness, heart problems, etc.) manifest themselves after 30 to 90 minutes. No antidote is known.

Yew Mythology

The following are some incredible examples of how yews have been embraced by and influenced cultures over millennia:

In Celtic Culture - Old yew tree drooping branches can root and form new tree trunks where they contact the ground. Thus the yew came to symbolize death and resurrection in Celtic culture. The Celts would also have been familiar with the tree’s toxicity.

In Christian Lore - The yew, in particular, symbolizes nature's power of renewal, the seasons’ cycles, birth and death, and new birth. Over time, the yew remained a symbol of eternity in Christianity. However, the words and focus were changed from 'rebirth' to ‘resurrection.’

In Norse Cosmology - The world tree “Yggdrasil” is a massive mythical tree connecting the nine worlds in Norse cosmology. Although typically translated as Ash, it is believed that this tree is likely to have been a Yew.

Ancient Warriors - In ancient times, yews were used for suicides during war times. Food and drink vessels made from yew wood could poison those who ate or drank from them.

The Druids - Yew is typically associated with the dead and is often found in graveyards. The Druids saw yew trees as the guardians of the deceased.

In Greek Mythology - Yew trees are associated with the Greek goddess Hecate, liberator of souls after death.

Note: For as poisonous as yew is, two chemotherapy drugs were developed from yew trees:

Docetaxel (Taxotere) was first made from the European yew tree’s needles

Paclitaxel (Taxol) was made from the Pacific yew tree’s bark

Fascinating how a tree so rooted in poison and death can provide treatment and hope for those with severe health concerns.

Yew Trees

In this article, you discovered species planting and care information, severe toxicity warnings, and some of the ancient mythology surrounding the Taxus baccata species.

Knowing the risks of planting a yew tree and how to minimize them will help you grow a stunning tree that can serve as a specimen tree, landscape tree, or privacy hedge.

Unwittingly planting a poisonous yew tree can lead to grazing wildlife, animals, livestock, or unsuspecting people being poisoned.

Sources: extension.umn.edu/yard-and-garden-news/ask-extension-do-i-need-protect-my-yew-winter plants.ces.ncsu.edu/plants/taxus-baccata/ heritagegarden.uic.edu/yew-taxus-baccata

For the original version of this article visit: https://www.thetreecareguide.com/yew-tree-care-toxicity-and-mythology/

[loetise]

auradon high fashion aektis gala.  ˎˊ˗             prompt: share your muse's high fashion look with the tag #descevents. posts can be written word, original drawings, aesthetic posts, gifs or other. be as creative as you please. ( there is no time sensitivity, enjoy ) dress code: winter wonderland. 

        upon receiving the invitation for the gala, allie doesn’t pay much mind to it, knowing that while she loves parties, she doesn’t care for fancier ones, things like balls and galas. being deep in the wilt of season doesn’t help either, because she often experiences seasonal depression during the months of fall and winter, so she’s not exactly inclined to go out unprompted, even to a party. however, she’s convinced after being visited by henry turner, childhood friend and fellow winter-hater, who insists that going out is good for her, and in turn she convinces him to come with her and match outfits. they pick out their outfits to resemble a fancy christmas tree, with lace and tinsel and bows.

        allie wears a tulle, a-line dress, evergreen green towards the top and bodice before turning into a pale, silvery gray as the dress flares out away from the waist, and glittering all over. on the bodice, silver embellishments resembling branches or vines, with little crystals sewn on to look like blossoms on it. for shoes, she wears white lace heels, that will almost definitely end up off of her feet early on in the night.

        on each arm she wears bracelets, silver in tone, one arm adorned in a weave of pearls that have an almost leaf pattern as they move down the wrist, and on the other, a cluster of beaded bracelets, with pastel green and white beads, star charms, and butterflies on the clasps. her earrings are silver as well, in the shape of spruce branches to match her christmas tree theme. her necklace is a little chain of petite flowers and leaves, which is, surprisingly, pretty much the only floral design she wears. all of the jewelry allie wears is fae-safe metal, obviously, even though it’s silver in color.

        she has her nails done, a glitter gradient that has her nails entirely covered in glitter by the tip of them, in an almond shape. her lashes and eyebrows glitter combed through them, though the rest of her makeup is soft and dewy, besides the colorful eyeliner on her eyes that match the color of her dress. her hair is done with loose curls and a braid crown, little silver embellishments decorating the braid. tucked underneath the braid is silver hair jewelry that runs down the curls resembling little vines with leaves.

+ henry’s outfit and theme inspo.

[raph-fangirl]

That Which We Call Beast - chapter viii

Beauty and the Beast fairytale retelling ; original story, fantasy & historical romance, ongoing

main index - includes chapter navigation and story info

——— ⋆ ❖ ː ❛ Three days passed where Rose remained in the bed, with round-the-clock care from Lucy and the other maids. Her family had already left and she thought to herself, How strange—that I am in a stranger’s castle, in a stranger’s bed, with no family nearby? She became familiar with the room during that time. Its wallpapers were yellow and brown, but she noticed there were small green details on the wall, like sprouting leaves. So small she had to squint to find them. All the furniture—the canopy bed, the dresser, the drawers, the vanity—were made out of lovely, dark mahogany wood, with intricate engravings and markings. She could tell no one had ever lived in this room before, as there were hardly any traces of human life at all. Everything was pristine and clear, with no scratches on the mahogany. And there was no dip in the bed where anyone had lain previously. 

        Her most favorite part of the room was the double doors leading to the balcony. Every morning, the light would shine in, growing slowly over the mountains, reaching in to wake her gently up. That is before Lucy came banging on the door. But before that, the golden-yellow light was lovely, and the birds twittered from outside, and the room awoke, teeming with life. Rose would stretch her arms out on the silk-linen duvet, each day growing in strength, until finally, on the fourth day, she felt well enough to sprout from the bed. 

        The young woman arose, walking straight to the double doors, as they were calling her. The light shining in the room was more silvery than golden, as it was still the earliest part of the morning. She saw the black mountains far off in the distance, and the sun peeking out over them. The acres and acres of forest that led up to the castle. The castle itself was on another mountain, with a magnificent view of the valley and forest below. 

        She opened up the doors and tip-toed out into the fresh morning air. She shivered in the chill but soon the sun’s glow came to warm her up. As she exhaled, mist formed. She could see winter turning to spring before her eyes. The last snows of the summer thawed out in the mountains far off in the distance, and sprouts on the trees near the castle grew greener every second. Of course, the evergreens in the forest stayed the same, though. The snow fell off of them. 

        Rose was so glad winter was over. She smiled and hugged herself, warming up. She wished there was a chair out on the balcony where she could enjoy a cup of tea. Ah, yes. Tea. She still felt a small bit of soreness in her throat, but with a nice, steaming cup of tea, she was sure it would go away. 

        But just then, the coos and twitters of the birds faded away into the morning air. She watched as they flew up into the trees. The land and valley seemed to grow a little darker—like a cloud had passed over the morning sun and mountains. The sound of rustles escaped out of the forest near the castle. Rose leaned forward, grabbing the balcony’s bars. She squinted, noticing the black shadow of something large coming out of the forest. An animal. No, a man. But what man could be that big? She followed the shadow as it traveled through the woods, coming out of the canopy and closer to the castle. Her heart beat faster and faster with each step that the creature took. But all she could make out was that shadow—no details, no face, nothing. The world clouded around the focal point of the black figure in the forest. 

        Knock. Knock. 

        “Miss Bourne, are you awake?!”

        Rose flinched, flinging back from the balcony. She caught herself but was nonetheless disoriented. She turned to face the rounded door and spoke up: “Yes, Lucy! I’m awake.” Yet, the girl turned straight back to the balcony, grabbing onto the bars and leaning over, peering off into the forest. But the black figure was gone. The birds returned and so did the sun. Almost as if nothing had happened. As if Rose had imagined it all. 

        Her brows scrunched together in frustration. How could it have been there one minute, and gone the next? Was she seeing things brought on by her illness? But her fever had broken nearly two days before….

        The cracking sound of the doorknob turning, and the squeak of the hinges. 

        Rose pirouetted on her heels. 

        Lucy stared, dumbfounded, her mouth agape. “Miss Bourne…” She gasped in amazement. “You-you're up!” She tossed her hands in the air, a slow smile spreading across her ruddy yet comforting and motherly features. 

        Rose grinned. “Yes. I feel much better today.” Her voice was softer now, not hoarse and full of crackles. It was as smooth as the thin, silky drapes framing the doors leading to the balcony. “Without your care, I’m afraid I would have never got over this ailment.” Her eyes turned suddenly sad. “I’m always the caretaker at my own home. I don’t know what they would do if I were sick…” 

        Lucy’s brows knitted together, her lips pursing. “Well, dear, if’n you’re ever ill again, you just come straight back to the castle and ole Lucy’ll fix you up.” 

        Rose sighed slightly then a small smile grew. “Thank you, Lucy. You’ve been so good to me.” The girl walked through the silky drapes, looking almost like an ethereal angel or spirit in her nightgown, and sat down at the vanity stool. She dipped her hands down into the porcelain water basin before the cries of Lucy echoed throughout the room.

        “Oh, dear, dear! That water’s no good at all. Let me draw you some that’s fresh.” 

        Rose looked back and forth between Lucy and the water that was dripping through her fingers. In her opinion, one-day-old water was perfectly fine for washing one’s face. But this was not so at the castle, where water was in better supply and some could be wasted. 

        Lucy scooped up the water basin and carried it into the bathroom, her skirts bustling all the way. Rose heard the water as it sloshed down the sink. Soon, the older woman came back with a steaming water basin and a few towelettes. “‘Ere you are, miss!” She laid them down on the vanity.

        “Thank you, Lucy.” Rose took a towelette and dipped it into the basin, before applying it to her face. She felt her skin opening, waking up. 

        “Shall I take a brush to the miss’s hair?”

        “You can if you want to. I enjoy doing it myself but I know you love fixing my hair.”

        “That I do.” She chuckled, coming around to Rose’s backside and unbraiding her hair. When she was finished, she took the golden fine-tooth comb off of the vanity and commenced the long process of combing Rose’s hair, beginning at her fiery tips. 

        While Rose finished washing her face and started to put cream and ointments on it—at Lucy’s recommendation—the older woman grew quiet. Much quieter than she tended to be in the morning. She had a somber tone to her and caressed Rose’s hair so softly as if it was the last time she would be seeing such lovely locks. 

        “What’s the matter, Lucy?” Rose peered into the lady’s eyes through the mirror.

        “Oh, nothin’ dear,” she replied, sniffling slightly.

        Rose gave a knowing smile. “Oh, come now. You’re not usually this way.”

        Lucy combed out a few more strands, not daring to look Rose in the eyes, before revealing: “I ‘spose it’s that… It’s just that, I’m gonna miss this.” She sniffled and straightened up, poking her nose in the air and trying to keep composure.

        Rose slumped. 

        “I’ve ‘ardly even gotten to know you, and yet, ‘avin’ a mistress for even just a few days ‘as brought me so much joy. Even if you was ill, I still treasured every minute of it. I’ve been so lonely and this ‘elped to relieve that loneliness.”

        The girl could not help but sigh, and though there were no tears in her eyes, there was the sign of crying all over her pale yet freckled face. She gulped and said, “I’ve enjoyed it, too. I never quite noticed it but, I’ve been lonely at home. I do love my family, but, I’ve lost so many dear friends and people I once knew so well since my father’s gone into debt. Nothing is the same anymore and the house is so distant and cold. It doesn’t feel like home at all.” She wrung her hands together as Lucy continued to comb, making her way up to the top of Rose’s head. The girl looked off into the distance, her eyes drawing together as she winced. “For the first time in so many years, I’m somewhere that feels like… home.”

        Home. The word in her mind was shifting from a fireplace-filled mansion, with plenty of houseguests, servants, family, and fortunes from a memory of years before but was now no more—and becoming someone combing her hair in the morning, invitations to a small, private dinner, and people taking care of her when she was sick. 

        Lucy stopped brushing her hair for a moment.

        Rose sighed. “I’ll admit, it’s taking some getting accustomed to—with all of this treatment I’m receiving, as well as… His Lordship.”

        His Lordship. The title tasted now like almost-ripe elderberries. 

        Her eyes raced around the vanity before resting on Lucy in the mirror. “But Lucy, I simply could not be happier with my stay. I’ve felt so welcome, and it’s been quite a long time since I’ve felt truly wanted anywhere.”

        “Oh, my dear.” Rose thought she saw a tear in the woman’s eyes. “I can’t imagine anyone anywhere not wantin’ you as a guest! It’s practically impossible! But just know you’re always welcome ‘ere. I’m not sure what day you plan on leavin’ now that you’re back to ‘ealth, but if you wanted to stay longer, you most rightfully can.”

        Rose faltered. “But would His Lordship approve?”

        Lucy’s eyes changed; they tilted upward at the end corners. A thoughtful, cunning smile spread across her old, chapped lips. “Well… You could just ask ‘im tonight at dinner.”

        Rose’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. Her heart sped up faster than when she saw the black figure in the forest. “Have I—have I been invited to dine with him?!” she asked, panicked.

        “Yes’m. I was told to tell ya, on the first day that you felt better and were up and about, that your presence would be requested at dinner. ‘is Lordship and Mr. Chesterton’ll both be there,” she said cheerily with a certain spark in her voice.

        The girl felt relief at the mention of Mr. Chesterton’s name. “Oh, alright, of course.” She took a deep breath and crossed her hands in her lap. “You must be overjoyed to help me prepare for tonight then,” she joked, trying to calm herself.

        “You’ve no idea!” Lucy exclaimed, combing the girl’s hair again but with more enthusiasm. “I’ve already begun makin’ plans in me ‘ead for what you’ll wear and ‘ow you’ll look!”

        “I can’t wait.” Rose winced slightly but did not want to spoil Lucy’s fun. 

        In the back of her mind, though, the girl could not help but wonder: If His Lordship does not want me for a wife—or no wife at all, for that matter—why am I being treated in such a manner?

        Rose ran her fingers over the deep red fabric. The gown was made of fine silk with ruffles on the skirt and ruby jewels decked around the bodice. It just might have been the most lavish thing she had ever worn. She probably would not have cared too much for the gown and found it too extravagant for her taste, if not for the fact that it absolutely, positively looked like her namesake—a rose. The ruffles were all in a circular pattern and motion, forming the flower. And then the bodice with the jewels was like little droplets of dew that had fallen on it from the early morning mists. 

        Lucy had done her hair up in an elaborate do once again, although this time she left a few straggling curls to frame the girl’s face. Rose quite liked that detail, as she loved her hair and wanted it better displayed. The red of her hair was similar to the color of the gown, but it had a certain orange tint to it, like fire, whereas the gown was a deeper ruby red. 

        The girl found herself twirling about in the mirror, looking at every inch of herself. She even looked at her face. Some of her freckles had disappeared from staying inside for several days and also from putting the creams and ointments on her face. 

        Two knocks sounded at the door and re-entered Lucy. “I see you’re gettin’ acquainted with the gown. I just knew you’d love it.” She lifted a wide necklace, the same color as the jewels on the bodice. “I brought some jewelry for ya.”  

        The older woman wrapped the necklace around Rose; it draped all across the girl’s collarbones and sprawled out all across her chest, leading downward in a “V�� shape. The woman then gave Rose a pair of ruby tassels for her ears. 

        Lucy stepped back, viewing her creation. She gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

        “What is it?” Rose asked.

        There were tears in her eyes. “This might be… No. This is the most beautiful outfit I’ve ever put together. And it couldn’t ‘ave looked better on anyone else but you, dear.”

        “Oh, surely you don’t mean that.” Rose’s eyes fell away from her face and instead, she looked down at the floor. She moved away from the mirror.

        “Oh, but I do!” Lucy exclaimed. “Just imagine what ‘is Lordship will think when the most gorgeous woman in all of England comes to dine with ‘im.”

        Me? The most gorgeous woman in all of England… Rose stopped for a moment, and slowly inched her head back until she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Is it true? Or just one of Lucy’s exaggerating compliments? Most certainly the latter, she concluded. When she saw herself, she did not see the most beautiful woman, not even a pretty woman at that. Just plain, with freckles. And although she loved her fiery red curls that bustled up on top of her head, not everyone thought the same. 

        “I used to be bullied for my red, curly hair and freckles…” Rose spoke plaintively, almost a whisper, with a far-away look in her ghostly blue eyes. 

        “Oh…” Lucy removed her hands from her mouth. “Well, I—” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to ‘ear that, Miss Bourne.” 

        Before Rose could reply, an abrupt knock sounded upon the door. Mrs. Kensington opened it, her head sticking out, her eyes as stern and focused as a hawk. “His Lordship awaits your presence, Miss Bourne. Are you ready?”

        “Oh, yes. Quite.” Rose hastily picked up her skirts, adrenaline suddenly coursing through her veins. 

        “Good.” Mrs. Kensington pursed her thin lips and straightened up. “Follow me.” 

        Rose trailed behind the small yet stout woman. She glanced back at her room once, finding Lucy’s eyes, but she soon turned back around.

        Thoughts pervaded her mind as she traversed down the white marble hallways. The porcelain structures of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses stared at her, some even jealous of her immense beauty. But all that she could think of was how to behave in front of Lord Ashworth at a dinner party. Would he be as agreeable as he had been at the funeral? What would he think of her rosy gown, a gown that was daring with its low, “V”-shaped cut? Was Lucy making a suggestion with the choice of it? Rose was not so sure. And then, those words came back to her. Just imagine what His Lordship will think when the most gorgeous woman in all of England comes to dine with him… Rose knew the words were not true in the slightest, but what if they were? What would he think? She had not dined formally with anyone in years, not since Father had ceased his extravagant dinner parties. And even then, she had just been a young girl, the last ones being when she was fifteen or sixteen. She had not practiced formal etiquette in years, and surely she had not practiced her conversational skills in years either. Would he think her awkward? 

        And what would he say when she asked him for a longer stay? How long would he permit her to live in his grand castle, too grand for the likes of her? She knew she did not belong in such an estate, for she was a destitute merchant’s daughter who had curly red hair and freckles, whose hands were dry and cracked from scrubbing dishes and clothes all day long, from tending to the garden to get vegetables and fruit for her family. Even though it was not a perfectly apt fit, her two sisters Minnie and Hattie would have fared much better in the castle than she. Rose was fitter to be a maid than an honored guest. And with the treatment she was receiving, she might as well have been the lady of the house—which she was most certainly not meant to be. To even think the late baroness had considered it… 

        But then again, neither Minnie nor Hattie would have stayed after hearing their potential fiancé was a beast. They would have flung themselves out of the castle doors and into the carriage, squealing the whole way. Rose almost giggled at the thought, her lips curling up at the sides. Her sisters could be silly handfuls, but she loved them nonetheless. And even if her sister Minnie were not always in the right, Rose longed for her strong heart, her courage to say what she meant and thought at all times. Perhaps that is why the baroness had chosen her. Not only because she would see past Lord Ashworth’s exterior, but because she did not have the fire in her heart to say no, especially at the expense of her family. 

        Rose could not deny, however, staying at the castle was a lovely and unexpected departure from her life as she had known it for the past several years. Even if it was strange and new, she enjoyed everyone’s presence that she had encountered. Mrs. Kensington could be stern, but Rose sensed a good-hearted, caring woman under all of that stony exterior. Lucy was the only person Rose had ever considered to be a true friend in years. The girl truly had grown fond of her. Mr. Chesterton, even if they had only met and dined together once, had captured Rose with his natural charm and humor. All of the staff were superb and tended to her every need. Not to mention the castle was staggeringly beautiful; its white marble walls had arrested the girl. And she had not even seen half of it yet.

        And then Beast… Rose struggled to find the words to describe how she felt about him. It was like—when she was a child, and she had had a nightmare, soon jumping up out of her bed, running down the hallways to her parents’ room. Everything was dark and black and cold. But then, her father would put his arms around her, and Rose would close her eyes, and everything was dark and black but not cold. She would nuzzle into Father’s chest, her eyes shut tight, the faint scent of old weathered books on his fingers from where he had read before falling asleep. That’s what the Beast was like in her head. He was both the nightmare and the comfort that came afterward. He had been there to save her when she was so distraught over the funeral, the funeral that was somehow both for the baroness and her mother simultaneously. He had been there for her to pull her out of that deep darkness, even if their interaction lasted for but a few minutes. 

        But would he prove to be this way again?

        “Here we are, Miss Bourne.”

        Rose came to a stop, taking in her surroundings after being lost in her head. The tall white doors leading into the dining room rose high above her. She gulped.

        Mrs. Kensington leaned in and whispered, with an uncharacteristically caring tone: “Are you nervous?”

        The girl nodded.

        “Well, don’t be.” Mrs. Kensington shot her nose up in the air suddenly and laid her hand on the doorknob. 

        The words were not comforting in the slightest, but without further warning, the doors that seemed to lead up to the heavens opened. Rose’s face turned awfully pale and she shut her eyes, clasping her hands together so tight that her hands and fingers turned bright red. The shuffling sound of the door against the marble. The clink and clatter of silverware. The chitter-chatter of two men’s voices, one significantly deeper than the other. 

        Rose opened her eyes, and all sounds stopped. She took a few steps forward until she stood in the doorway. Mrs. Kensington walked off to the side of the room, joining other servants.

        But a single focal point beckoned to her. The long dining table led up to it, and the walls of the room closed in on it. That single black focal point. Her eyes darted about, trying to find anything else to look upon.

        But then, she could not avoid it, when that dark voice called out to her: 

        “Good evening, Miss Bourne.”

        Miss Bourne… Her surname, in his mouth—it was like dark, overly-rich German chocolate cake, with bitter undertones.

        Her eyes finally fell and focused on the black drape. And the black drape focused back on her. It was at the end of the dining table, on the other side of the room. Such a contrast to the white of the room. The Beast.

        Before she could stumble over her words awkwardly, a loud tenor voice shouted out over the rest of the dining room: “Ah!” Mr. Chesterton called, in a feigned French accent, “Mademoiselle Bourne, delighted to ‘ave you with us zis evening!” The dapper man, with his black and white suit and tailcoat, got up from his seat and came around, swirling about the room until he reached Rose. He bowed before her and reached out for her hand, kissing it. Rose’s cheeks flushed, but then her eyes drew upwards, above Mr. Chesterton, until landing on the black figure. Lord Ashworth stood in her presence.

        She needed to say something. “Mr. Chesterton, I—” she pulled her hand away from his mouth, “I do not remember you being French.” She allowed a small simper to grace her features. 

        “No, no, you’re right,” he said, his true voice returning and his head falling. “But can’t I have my fun every now and then?” He picked his head back up, smirking.

        That dark, rich, yet crisp voice again: “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse Chesterton, Miss Bourne. He likes to have all eyes on him and so he makes a fool of himself, especially when he’s had a few glasses of wine.”

        “I do not!” Mr. Chesterton retorted, spinning about to face Lord Ashworth, with his hands on his hips. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Miss Bourne.” 

        Rose could not help but smile at their friendly banter. “I’ll try not to.” Although she said those words, the truth was she listened very carefully to every word that Lord Ashworth had to say. He spoke so cooly, so eloquently; he had command of the entire room when he spoke with his deep crooning tones. He did not have to yell for attention at all, as Mr. Chesterton apparently did.

        “I trust that you are feeling better?” Lord Ashworth inquired in a cool tone.

        “Oh, yes, much better, thanks. With the care of your lovely staff, of course.” She glanced over at Mrs. Kensington, who kept up a mostly blank stare.

        “I’m glad to hear that. Won’t you sit down, Miss Bourne?” It sounded more like a command rather than a request. 

         A servant pulled out the chair at the foot of the table. “Of course, Your Lordship.” Rose gathered her skirts up and took her seat.

        “‘Your Lordship’! Bah!” Mr. Chesterton chortled as he plopped down in his chair. “It sounds so strange to hear you call him such a thing. That title doesn’t fit him at all. Much too silly and formal, don’t you think, Ashworth?” 

        Rose turned to face Lord Ashworth. His drape flowed as he shook his head back and forth. He lifted a black glove, arising out of the drape, motioning to Mr. Chesterton. “This is what I have to put up with every time he becomes intoxicated.”

        “Oh…” Rose fumbled with her fingers, her cheeks flushing once more. 

        Mrs. Kensington rubbed her temples and sighed. 

        “You’re embarrassing me, Chesterton,” came Lord Ashworth’s aggravated voice. “And don’t you think it’s perfectly fine for Miss Bourne to call me as such since we have only met once before?”

        He lifted a glass of wine. “Well, then hurry up and get more acquainted with her so she can call you other such…” His words were drowned as he downed the drink.

        A slight laugh echoed from the black drape on the other side of the room, before Rose turned her head toward him, and Lord Ashworth stifled it. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I suppose we should… become more acquainted then.”

        Rose’s face turned pale. “I suppose we should,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The girl felt herself shaking in her seat, her heels clicking up and down on the floor.

        What a lovely impression I’m making, she thought. If only I had the strong heart of my sister… Then, she sat up a little straighter, lifting one of her eyebrows. What would Minnie say?

        Suddenly, Rose put another simper on her face, breathing in deep. She forced herself to look at the black drape. “And what should I call His Lordship once I’ve become acquainted with him?” She took a sip of tea.

        All heads in the room turned to face Lord Ashworth, who sat still. A moment later, he reached out a glove to the wine glass in front of him, picking it up and swirling it about, inviting the air in. That swirling sound was the only one in the dining room. He lifted a small part of the drape, just above his chin and mouth, though Rose could not make much out as it was all shadowed over with black—and took a sip. 

        “Ashworth, I suppose,” he replied, a bit sarcastically, his drape facing Mr. Chesterton. He then cocked his head slightly, the bottom of the drape becoming uneven as he turned his focus toward Rose. “And what shall I call you once we’ve become more acquainted?” 

        Rose lifted her eyebrows. Suddenly, all the heads in the room—Mrs. Kensington who stood against the wall, Mr. Chesterton who sipped on his wine, the servants who were in and out of the kitchen—landed on her. Her eyes dropped from the black figure across the table to her palms in her lap. “Well, you already refer to me as ‘Miss Bourne’, so I feel there is no other name to call me by except—” She bit her lip. “Rose…”

        The taste of it in her mouth was the light, airy sweetness of rose water. A dusting of perfume. A pink, dewy flower in a garden. One footprint in freshly fallen snow, mist in the air, straight out of the mouth. It was the last snow of spring when the pink roses bloomed.

        “Rose... Rose, it is then.”

        But her name in his mouth was a deep red, even deeper than the jewels on her gown. It tasted like thick red wine, felt like expensive silk, sounded like the low notes of a clarinet, and smelled like ashes as they flicked up out of the fireplace or off the end of a cigar and flew, flaming in the air.

        She liked her name in his mouth.

[obscurecrypticmystic]

Allegheny Spurge

Pachysandra Procumbens

Background  Information

Alternative Names: Mountain Spurge

Plant Type: Perennial Evergreen

Higher Classification: Pachysandra

Family: Buxaceae

Order: Buxales 

Habitat: Southeast North America; can be found in pockets of Pennsylvania and New York but truly resides from North Carolina and down along into the southeastern states.

Environment: It grows under trees and shrubs and other shady places. Its natural environment includes moist rich woods.

Zones: 4a - 9b

Invasive: No

Identification: Allegheny spurge is a low perennial, spreading with long rhizomes. Toothed leaves crowd near the top of somewhat fleshy, 6 in., erect stems. Fragrant, white flowers cluster in a spike, the many staminate flowers above, the few pistillate flowers below. Leaves and stems are "evergreen." Once the new shoots mature, the previous season’s growth disappears. Leaves have scalloped margins and are marbled with silver and purple.

Uses: Spurge is an excellent ground cover for shady areas. It is considered more attractive than the over-used, Asiatic Pachysandra terminalis. Deer-resistant, disease-resistant and drought-resistant, this is a versatile native groundcover that covers the ground densely without the domineering qualities of P. terminalis. It is useful for erosion control and shady sloped banks and works well in areas where the lawn is shaded out by dense tree coverage.

Magical Properties

Mmm.... I haven't seen any Magical Properties associated with this plant so take the following with a heavy dose of skepticism.

From its basic nature and uses the following could be inferred:

Durability, Perseverance, Relationship Bonds, Familial Bonds, Connections, Slow but steady progress, Holds everything together, Strength, Persistence, Manifestation

Spurge is from late Middle English: shortening of Old French espurge, from espurgier, from Latin expurgare ‘cleanse’ (because of the purgative properties of the milky latex)

From this, it could be considered as a Banishment, Purification or Cleansing plant.

Could be used as a Hex or Curse plant in any of the above areas due to its toxic nature. - Corruption

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

Can be toxic and sometimes fatal to animals and humans if eaten.

Care Guide

Growth Height: 2 - 8 inches

Exposure: Part to full shade

Water intake: Can tolerate drought once established

Soil preference: Moist, humus-rich acidic soil

Season: Late Spring/Early Winter

Spread: 1 - 2 Feet

Spacing: 12 inches

Maintenance: Low

Tips: Avoid areas with full sun or with poor soil drainage as this will harm the plant. Good air circulation and drainage lessens the risk for leaf blight and root rot.

[unitedflooring]

Transform Your Outdoor Space with Large Wooden Planters

Introduction

When it comes to enhancing the beauty and functionality of your outdoor space, few things can match the impact of large wooden planters. These versatile and decorative wooden containers can completely transform your outdoor area, adding both aesthetic appeal and practical benefits. Whether you have a sprawling garden, a cozy patio, or a small balcony, large wooden planters can be the key to creating a stunning outdoor oasis. In this blog, we'll explore how you can use these planters to achieve an outdoor space transformation that will leave your friends and family in awe.

Why Choose Large Wooden Planters?

1. Natural Aesthetic Appeal Large wooden planters bring a touch of nature to any outdoor setting. The natural texture and color of wood blend seamlessly with the surrounding environment, creating a harmonious and inviting atmosphere. Unlike plastic or metal containers, wooden planters exude warmth and charm, making your outdoor space feel more organic and welcoming.

2. Versatility and Flexibility One of the greatest advantages of large wooden planters is their versatility. They come in various shapes, sizes, and designs, allowing you to find the perfect match for your space. Whether you prefer a rustic, vintage look or a sleek, modern design, there's a wooden planter out there to suit your style. Plus, you can easily move and rearrange them as needed, giving you the flexibility to experiment with different layouts.

3. Durable and Long-Lasting Quality wooden planters are built to withstand the elements. With proper care and maintenance, they can last for many years, providing a durable solution for your gardening needs. Treating the wood with sealants or stains can enhance its resistance to moisture and UV rays, ensuring that your planters remain in top condition season after season.

Creative Ways to Use Large Wooden Planters

1. Define Outdoor Spaces Use large wooden planters to define different areas within your outdoor space. For instance, you can create a cozy seating area by placing planters around a set of outdoor furniture. This not only adds visual interest but also provides a sense of privacy and enclosure, making the space feel more intimate and inviting.

2. Add Height and Dimension Large wooden planters can be used to add height and dimension to your garden. Plant tall, bushy plants or small trees in these containers to create vertical interest. This is especially useful for small gardens or patios where space is limited. By using the vertical space, you can make your outdoor area appear larger and more dynamic.

3. Create a Focal Point Turn your wooden planters into a focal point by choosing eye-catching plants and arranging them strategically. Consider using colorful flowers, unique foliage, or even a mix of herbs and vegetables to create a stunning display. Position the planters where they will draw the most attention, such as near the entrance, along pathways, or in the center of your garden.

4. Seasonal Displays Take advantage of the versatility of large wooden planters to create seasonal displays. Change the plants and decorations in your planters to reflect the different seasons. In spring, fill them with blooming flowers; in summer, opt for lush greenery; in fall, use ornamental grasses and autumnal colors; and in winter, consider evergreens and festive ornaments. This allows you to keep your outdoor space fresh and engaging all year round.

Tips for Maintaining Wooden Planters

To ensure your large wooden planters remain beautiful and functional for years to come, follow these simple maintenance tips:

Regular Cleaning: Clean the planters periodically to remove dirt and debris. Use a mild soap and water solution, and avoid harsh chemicals that could damage the wood.

Protective Coating: Apply a protective sealant or wood stain to shield the planters from moisture and UV rays. This will help prevent rotting and fading.

Proper Drainage: Ensure that your planters have adequate drainage to prevent waterlogging. Drill additional drainage holes if necessary and use a layer of gravel at the bottom of the planter.

Winter Care: If you live in an area with harsh winters, consider moving the planters to a sheltered location or covering them to protect them from freezing temperatures.

Conclusion

Large wooden planters are an excellent way to achieve an outdoor space transformation. Their natural beauty, versatility, and durability make them a valuable addition to any garden, patio, or balcony. By using decorative wooden containers creatively, you can define spaces, add height, create focal points, and enjoy seasonal displays. With proper care, these planters will continue to enhance your outdoor area for many years, providing a welcoming and stylish environment for you and your loved ones. So, why wait? Start transforming your outdoor space today with large wooden planters and watch as your garden comes to life.