#growing on a maple branch in my yard

[seabeck]

Not sure if this is a mushroom or a slime mold, it sure was tiny!

[spoofyleaf]

Sometimes I remember that my whole house was so obsessed with the show Merlin, that we named the first tree we planted in the yard Merlin.

When it was given to us 11 years ago it was hardly a scraggly stick, and now it looks like a giant bush

Artist rendition

[elainemorisi]

due to Circumstances, I now have a persimmon seedling and a quince tree, and I am pretty enthused about this

[ahedderick]

SHE. glows in the dusk. If I could go back a couple decades, I'd cut down the tree behind this maple, so it could grow better. The lowest branch of this tree is about 8 feet up, a bit higher than I can reach. So it was with great shock, some years back, when I saw my three-yr-old daughter up in it. How? On earth?

Well, because of the slight uphill slope of the yard and the fact the the lowest branch had a downward slant, the tip of the branch was close to the ground at that time. She had grabbed the end, pulled her feet up, and sloth-crawled under the branch to the main trunk. Then she pulled herself athletically up on top of the branch and perched there to give me a heart attack.

Good times. Did I try it myself? Of course. Somewhat less gracefully, but still.

[carolrain]

Flower Friday

I was tagged by @jamilas-pen and @mammameesh and, y'all, thank you for that, but I am not a gardener in any way, just an appreciator. I walked around my yard with my phone for you, and the results of my photoshoot are laughable. Honestly, I didn't know exactly how trashy my yard looked until I thought about putting bits of it on the internet.

However, I aim to please and to lower the bar, so here are the least-bad and/or slightly entertaining:

I don't know what this tree is, but it has cool leaves.

Current state of the roses. What is going on here? How do I extract them from this mess? There's a couple of downed tree branches and neglected mid-size plants growing sideways and it's all tangled together.

Sickly cherry tomato.

English lavender. Cat (Alexis, after you know who) in the background. Screen door the cats have destroyed, peeling paint, and some kind of weed growing out of my concrete also present.

This Japanese maple is trying to take over my kitchen window and front door. We are trying to figure out how to transplant it. In the meantime, I like its snails.

And for a palate cleanser and so you'll forget all of the above:

Not my little black duckling, but I'm caring for a friend's animals this weekend. They always make for good photos.

Does anyone have any flowers or animals to share? @mostlyinthemorning @saraminia @stereopticons @ramonaflow @flowertrigger

[sidetracked-by-nature]

I suddenly found myself hyperfixated on nature last week. So, I'm starting a new blog to dump all of my identifications and learnings! I've taken a particular interest in fungi, trees, and birds, so I expect I'll be posting quite a bit about that. Here's to growing closer to the world around me!

pictures in this post:

1. A baby plant growing inside of an Eastern redbud in my front yard! (Cercis canadensis)

2. Some neat lichens (unsure of specifics, but there's a mix of crustose and foliose) on a Japanese maple (Acer palmatum)

3. A branch of leaves of a Hidcote St. John's Wort shrub (Hypericum hidcoteense)

[sepdet]

American Chestnut Trees: Lost Giants

I knew the blight that killed off American Chestnuts when my grandparents were young had changed the face of the the country. Chestnuts were an abundant, natural food source all up and down the Appalachians and Atlantic seaboard.

I just didn't realize how frickin' huge they were, or how widespread.

"Once, the springtime canopies of western North Carolina forests were an unmatched floral display, thanks to a tree that nearly vanished,” Nickens wrote. “The American chestnut rose 100, sometimes 120 feet above the loamy forest floor. Most were nearly barren of branches [ie no knotholes, good for lumber] for 50 feet or better. … These were massive trunks, some 16 feet in diameter. And they lorded over the forest. In most places every fourth tree was a chestnut. … All told, perhaps 4 billion chestnut trees grew from southern Maine to Georgia, and they put on a pageant. A starburst of pearly white catkins tipped nearly every branch of the massive trees. Each catkin was nearly half a foot long, streaking like a comet’s tail against the dark surrounding foliage. In the spring, you could stand atop ridges and watch the white flowers roll like surf for miles.” — quoted in Memory of great forests – and hope for restoration by Kathy Ross

According to the article linked above, not only was the chestnut harvest a major source of food and lumber, prized for its long, straight growth and light, rot-resistant wood, but its heartwood was so dense it could match compressed lumber without treatment, an environmentally costly process today. Likewise, the American paper industry had to pivot quickly to find some other fast-growing wood to replace it.

I grew up in the woods and fields of Pennsylvania. It's hard for me to fathom a completely different forest where oaks and maples, giants at a couple feet across, were not the main trees of a mature forest, but mere incidentals to a completely different, massively-pillared hall.

(Front yard of my Pennsylvania house with century-old oak and maple, June 2023; N Carolina Chestnut Trees in 1910)

There have been attempts ever since to revive the American Chestnut from the root systems of not-quite-dead trees, which survive underground where this fungus won't go. It kills saplings after they sprout.  A few scattered survivors plus a Chinese species that proved blight resistant now offer hope, via cross breeding and testing, that the species can be revived from extinction. 

(note telephone poles in background)

Unusually for me, I feel almost intimidated at the idea of these behemoths on the loose again, in a way i've never felt camping in wolf or bear country. They would terraform the woods I know into something vast and strange and deep, if they could ever achieve the stature of old-growth trees again. But that's as it should be. I'm sure eastern forests are struggling in ways we don't realize with such a central pillar of the ecosystem removed.

[goon]

there's a young maple tree in my yard and last year during some feisty winds i watched the top half of it just break off. fast forward and it's actually alive. it only has one branch but it grows leaves

[derrybears]

About

Just outside our kitchen window stands a magnificent maple tree, its sturdy branches reaching high above and its roots planted firmly in the soil of history. Attached to this tree is a swing—a simple but timeless fixture that has graced the yard for generations. As I sip my coffee in the morning, I often find myself watching my children race out the door, eager to see who can claim the swing first. They push each other higher and higher, laughter echoing through the yard. This scene, so full of joy and simplicity, inspired me to bring this moment to Mik and Nik.

The swing holds a special place in our family’s story, much like it does in Mik and Nik’s adventures. When we lived in California, such a simple pleasure was out of reach. Our backyard was almost entirely cemented over, and our attempts at building a tree swing in the single, lonely tree in the front yard were met with limited success. Here in Derry, however, the swing became a part of our everyday lives. It’s a gift we hadn’t anticipated—a small but cherished tradition that now shapes our children’s childhood memories.

Even as my children grow older, the swing remains a touchstone of their lives. I’ve seen them return to it, whether to push a younger sibling or share a quiet moment with a boyfriend or girlfriend. The swing embodies a simplicity that feels timeless, a reminder that the most meaningful moments often come from the smallest things. This tradition, so rooted in the charm of Derry, has provided not only countless hours of joy but also a connection to the generations of families who came before us, who replaced the swing and kept it alive.

For Mik and Nik, the swing is more than just a backdrop—it’s a symbol of childhood wonder, friendship, and the quiet beauty of life in Derry. Watching my children, I see reflections of their boundless enthusiasm in Mik and Nik’s adventures, whether they’re racing to the swing or soaring to imaginary heights. This comic allows me to capture and share the sweetness of these moments, offering a glimpse of the joy and gratitude I feel for the gifts Derry has given my family.

[eviesessays]

40. What simple pleasures of life do you truly enjoy?

One of the greatest pleasures in life that I enjoyed for many years was travelling.  Now, at my advanced age I am too old, decrepit and compromised to be so adventuresome.  Changing planes in foreign airports terrifies me now.  Dealing with foreign currency was made  easier with the advent of the euro but still challenging.  Making myself understood with little command of the language spoken gave me moments of anxiety if not exasperation.  These days I have no such concerns.  My simple pleasure requires none of the aforementioned risks and is a pleasure I have enjoyed for many years and continue to enjoy.

I love gardening.  My home on Mountain Road has many trees and therefore much shade.  Gardening is a challenge.  My garden is confined to flowers.  there is inadequate sun   for growing vegetables.  I can garden for hours on my knees without worrying about falling due to my Parkinson’s.  

I bought the house on a cold January day.  A significant part of the yard was unkempt.  The previous owners said they used this section as a duping place for their used Christmas trees. The weeds and grass were adequate to hide most of the mess.  Many trees in this area were dead and Peter took them all down for me.  He cut them into twelve to fourteen inch pieces and with them I built a wall that separates the back lawn from the wooded area of the lot.  I bought a leaf shredder and began to attack the years of accumulated leaves, weeds and branches.

I have flower beds that separate the lawn from the treed area at the back and side of the lot.  The one thing I grow very successfully is moss but it is green and serves its purpose,

I have an eclectic garden where  i remember friends and family.  I have Rose of Sharon shrubs that came from Heather’s house on Carter Street.  They are prolific seeders and I have started shrubs for my neighbors and my granddaughter, Anne.  My wonderful neighbor, MaryJane gave me an aubergine clematis when my brother Carl died.  It is beautiful and climbs a trellis in front of the sun porch.  I brought two trellises with me from the Warner house and they are now covered with pink rambling roses given to me by a friend from the East Concord Garden Club to which  I had belonged.  Surrounding the base of a large oak and a maple tree is the pachysandra given to me by my elderly neighbor across the street, Mr Colby. All the forsythia was also gifts from his garden. He knew more Concord history than anyone else I knew and was glad to share it.  Once when I was out working in the garden he came over and we chatted a while.  He then said words I have quoted many times.  He said,”My Daddy once told me that if you have nothing to do, don’t go around bothering someone who does.”  He was a wonderful neighbor and I miss his sage stories and kind demeanor. 

On one of their visits from Scotland, my children’s cousin, Maurice and his wife Avril brought lily bulbs from his grandmother’s garden.  They were first planted in Warner and when my house was sold they were dug up and moved to Heather’s garden.  When Heather and John were moving to South Carolina, the lilies were dug up again and moved here. They had two good years and then were attacked by moles or voles or one of the many creatures that raise havoc with bulbs in this area.  Last year I was down to one rather sickly plant and I wait with baited breath to see if one wee shoot might appear.  

I have a red maple from Jaylyn’s yard in Harvard.  It thrives.  I have another that Will brought for my birthday  a few years ago.  It thrives.  A lavender azalea bush came with the house and is very visible from my kitchen window.  In summer the perennials will give color to the garden.  There are daisies in several places in the gardens.  The mullen pinks add vibrant color here and there.  The seeds of those were given to me more than twenty years ago my my coworker, Maggie.  This winter I am trying to winter over some fushia colored geraniums.  I hope I succeed.  The daffodils will be appearing soon along with the hyacinths and then the  tulips, not eaten will appear.  The Asian irises will come later.  My Stella Dora lilies will bloom in great profusion and remind me they need to be thinned.  

I cannot leave this subject without mentioning the garden on Wellington Street where I lived from the age of five til I went away to school at age seventeen.  We had a large vegetable garden in the back yard.  The green beans and wax beans had been   harvested and canned.  Every year when the potatoes were dug we had a potato roast.  My Dad set fire to the garden remnants and we were allowed to throw in the potatoes that were too small to be worth peeling.  The neighbor kids joined us for our annual potato roast.  We searched and found potatoes that we stabbed, added butter and salt and reveled in our annual feast.

I have no potatoes in this garden but I love gardening.  Maybe, I just love playing in the dirt.  One thing I do know is that my garden is where my heart soars and my spirit rests.

[bethestaryouareradio]

Grateful for Nature

“Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul.”  Henry Ward Beecher

Finally my trees and shrubs have donned their fiery fall finery. The show is spectacular as my numerous trees burst into colors of amber, gold, orange, crimson, purple, sienna, and red. Leaves on my grapevines and fruit trees of apple, prune, peach, apricot, cherry, mulberry, persimmon, fig, pomegranate, pear, and plum all boast a cornucopia of glorious hues that complement the shades of other deciduous trees including maple, pistache, sumac, tupelo, liquidambar, and crape myrtle. 

How grateful I am to witness this spectacular seasonal wardrobe change. Two of the most fascinating trees to me are my Chinese pistache. The male tree is tall, robust, sturdy, and golden. The female pistache is petite, graceful, and filled with clusters of crimson fruit that provide tasty treats for the birds and squirrels. If any berries remain in December, their colors will morph to aqua and pink, and I will pluck them to tuck into the branches of a holiday tree. I have allowed some seeds from my Chinese pistache tree to sprout in specified areas where I prune the plants to keep them small. As the weather cools, these volunteers resemble colorful blossoms.

While visiting a small town, I happened upon a front yard that featured a rusty tricycle, alongside pumpkins, hydrangeas, and a vintage bicycle with a basket filled with yellow mums. The gardenscape could have been tidier, yet it was an interesting combination of elements that piqued my imagination and brought a big smile to my face.

This is the time of year when gratitude is at the forefront of our thoughts and intentions. For me, being grateful for nature and gardens is rooted in the numerous benefits to our well-being, physical, emotional, and mental. Nature is my cathedral where I feel connected to the earth and the cycles of life.

How can we grow with gratitude this autumn? The benefits are immense. Let us count the ways!

As we prepare for the December holidays, remember that Thanksgiving is everyday. Celebrate living with grace and gratitude.

Happy Gardening. Happy Growing. 

Read Lamorinda Weekly: https://lamorindaweekly.com/archive/issue1720/Digging-Deep-with-Goddess-Gardener-Cynthia-Brian-Growing-with-gratitude.html

Press Pass: https://www.vapresspass.com/2023/12/05/grateful-for-nature/

For more gardening advice for all seasons, check out Growing with the Goddess Gardener at https://www.CynthiaBrian.com/books. Raised in the vineyards of Napa County, Cynthia Brian is a New York Times best-selling author, actor, radio personality, speaker, media and writing coach as well as the Founder and Executive Director of Be the Star You Are!® 501 c3. Tune into Cynthia’s StarStyle® Radio Broadcast at www.StarStyleRadio.com. Her newest children’s picture book, Family Forever, from the series, Stella Bella’s Barnyard Adventures is available now at https://www.CynthiaBrian.com/online-store. Hire Cynthia for writing projects, garden consults, and inspirational lectures. Cynthia@GoddessGardener.com  

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[brothfan1997]

just got order confirmation for my moth eggs :-) !!!!!!!!!! im so fcking excited

[nogendermoretrees]

Building my first mushroom garden

Yesterday was sunny and 70 degrees, the last pleasant day we'll see for a while (maybe until spring), and I had two PTO days that I had to use before the end of the year and a big outdoor project to work on, so naturally I took the day off work and put together my mushroom garden!

I hadn't been expecting to make the mushroom garden this fall, but then the city trimmed a few trees at the end of the block and left the debris behind, so I've been going over there with my collapsible canvas wagon and loading it up with branches whenever I have the time and energy to do so. The smaller branches got cut down for kindling, but I also managed to bring home a few larger logs. The largest are from an elm that had a dead arm; that's not ideal for mushrooms, which do best in wood that was cut live, because it has more moisture and is less likely to be infected with different fungus already. If the fungus you plant have to battle another fungus already in the wood, they're less likely to be able to put energy into producing mushrooms. But I also got some 3"-4"-diameter maple branches that came off a live tree—they must've been getting close to the power lines—which are a great size and a good tree species for many mushrooms.

Also, very fortunately, I recently cleaned out the garden shed and found that the previous owners—Bless them!—left us a pair of sawhorses. I ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and cornbread and got outside a little before 9 a.m. I set up by the vegetable garden because there's an outlet attached to the old clothesline support, so I could use my plug-in drill and not worry about batteries. All the smaller logs you see below are green maple wood; the larger two on the bottom-right are the dead elm logs.

I set up my supplies on a small folding camp table. In the bags are plug spawn—small wooden dowels, same as you'd use for putting together a bookcase, that have been thoroughly infected with the desired fungus. I chose two cold-producing, relatively easy-to-grow wild edibles that I haven't managed to find on my own: Lion's Mane and Blue Oyster. The round container of white stuff is plug wax, a soft wax that you smear over the plugs once they're in the logs to prevent moisture from escaping or other infectious agents from entering. I bought the plugs and wax from Field and Forest Products. They also provided very useful printed instructions.

Step one was drilling lines of holes in a diamond pattern, about 3-4" between holes and 2" between rows. That's around 55-80 holes per log! I placed a bucket underneath to catch the wood shavings so I can use it for firestarter or other projects later.

Next, each hole got a plug hammered in. They were a tight fit! This log was particularly tricky because I had to work over a large scar where a branch had broken off years ago.

Finally, I used the butter knife to scrape up some wax and then used my fingers to spread it over the plugs. My legs were getting tired by the time I took this photo, so I tried sitting down and balancing the log on my legs while I worked. It didn't work out so great, and I got some wax on my jeans. Oh, well!

When I finished with all the good, green maple logs, I still had 102 plugs of blue oyster, so I decided to try inoculating one of large elm logs. The largest didn't show as much sign of rot, and I'm hoping that the number of plugs I put in it will be able to overwhelm anything already growing in there, but I'm treating that one as purely experimental and not really expecting anything from it.

I worked on that last log in the waning light of 4:30 pm and it was pretty dark by the time I finished, but there was enough city-light to set the logs into the mushroom garden. It's a narrow strip of land on the north side of the garage, which is well-protected and receives little sun. The previous owners had a few hostas and other shade-friendly flowers there, but I removed the largest to the front-yard flower garden and plan to give away the others next spring, when I plant additional edible forest species there (if anyone reading this has a source for wild ramps, hmu!). In preparation for growing mushrooms, I collected bags of leaves that my neighbors put out with their trash and spread about 4" of leaf mulch there to help hold in moisture for the logs to wick up. I also dug about 4-6" down into the soil to anchor the logs and give them more contact with moist soil. I think there's a slight risk there of something from the soil getting into the logs—everything I've read about growing mushrooms is trying to balance giving the logs moisture with prevent infection—but since I'm growing in an urban area, whereas most mushroom farmers are growing on forested land, I'm sure there are fewer fungi in the soil for me to worry about. For the smaller logs, I leaned them up against the garage—I read that leaning them against a tree is recommended for small forest gardens (larger ones create log-cabin-style stacks)—and for the largest, I dug a little deeper and stood it on end. Here's a photo of the finished garden that I took this morning as I was leaving for work:

And now, we wait! Depending on the weather conditions and this specific wood, the smaller logs could take up to a year to start producing, and I expect the larger log to take a year or maybe two, if it ever produces at all. But once they start, each log should be good for 3-5 years of harvests! And I haven't looked into this yet, but I think I should be able to use the spent logs to inoculate fresh ones, if I still want to keep growing the same type of mushrooms by then.

I'm really happy to have this done already, and with free wood! I'll have that much more time and energy to focus on other gardening projects next spring, and these logs might even start producing by then. 

[ahedderick]

Maple

   This morning I asked my daughter to help me with the second of the sitting-in-pots-for-too-long maples. Having an extra set of hands expedited the process amazingly, but it was still hard to dig up the roots that had escaped the pot and grown into the flower bed. And under rocks. And into other pots you slut!!

  When we finally had dug it fully up and disentangled all the opportunistic roots, we took it to the bank between the yard and the creek. I’m hopeful that by planting it well before it comes out of dormancy it will survive. The darned thing is about 8 feet tall, now (it was shoulder height this time last year). If it behaves like I expect, it will hardly grow at all this year, because of transplant shock, but spend the time getting its roots re-rooted. Then, the year after, it will start growing like crazy.

   Instead of working on the last maple, we took some time to remove excess honeysuckle vines and thorn bushes from the bank, along with cleaning up numerous dead branches. There are several trees in that area standing dead, and they’re too entwined with vines to cut down safely. They’ll just have to decay slowly while standing there. The woodpeckers will be happy, at least. It was good to work together!

[liibrii]

Chapter 1 of Stillness || yokai hunter!Suna x fem!kitsune!reader || wc: 3.3k || 🦊

Synopsis: Arrival of an unexpected visitor promises your coming days to be interesting...

Genre: supernatural!au, enemies to lovers, angst & fluff, eventual smut

Warnings: reader is a nuisance, fire, mentions of blood

a/n: I'm no expert on Japanese mythology. I did my research but also took creative liberties so please keep in mind the information on yokai in this fic is lacking. Here are some links with basic info on yokai appearing in this series. 

as always feedback is greatly appreciated and if you want to be tagged let me know!

A streak of the new highway is planned to cut through your favourite part of the forest, the one you walk through when heading east to the river kappas inhabit. First trees have already fallen. You caress the bark of the mighty maple that once touched the sky and now lays at your feet, cut and bleeding from the wounds humans inflicted. You still remember when it was a sprout pushing roots into earth and hungrily reaching for the sun rays. Half a century later you fell asleep under its shade and hid in his branches from those chasing you. Why is this how you say goodbye?

Forest spirits peek out of their hiding places, their terrified chimes fill the air. They cling to you, your clothes, your tails. Some you have to convince to leave the branches of the fallen trees, the hollows in their barks that have offered them sanctuary for so many long years. They cry in pain.

And pain has a way of turning into anger.

It's searing and all consuming, spreading through your body as bright blue flames shoot from your hands. They burn all standing in their path. Equipment of workers, their machines and their boxes of metal go up in flames. Truck standing by the fence catches on fire. You transform back into your fox form, running away as it explodes with a bang echoing through the night.

It's a lonely existence, being a kitsune. With years most of your kind have hidden in the forest, many have moved to cities living together with humans, pretending to be them. As if they could ever be. You hold a bit of pity for them but mostly you just don't understand. Why do they go where humans live? Why do they want to live as humans live? Humans are interesting and fun to observe, that much you never denied, but they are also cruel and blind and they drove so many of your kind away. Empty lairs is all they leave behind.

You water the flowers around the temple as you do every morning before heading to bed. From your pocket a forest spirit you've rescued from one of the fallen trees peeks out. Morning sun makes it blink and rattle in confusion. None of your words reassure it so you leave the matter be. It needs time. Time to breathe and time to heal. As you pull out some weeds from between the cobble stones it watches and chimes, sorrowfully.

“I can't say.“ Weeds in your hands catch aflame and whither. You lay them down on the black soil. “We will find you a nicer home. There is a beautiful cherry blossom tree growing by the entrance. Would you like that?“ It gives a soft chime. “We can have a look at it later, alright? Careful!“ you catch it on your outstretched palm. “Stay with me, I'm almost finished with my duties. Do you have a name? Ah I see,“ you nod when it chimes. “How about I call you Koda? Would you like that? Now make sure not to fall off again, alright?“ You help it climb on your shoulder.

Koda turns it's head in all directions taking in the sight. It's probably its first time seeing anything but endless sky and branches. Not that the temple is anything special. It's small, with only two wooden buildings in need of repair and pond you hold particularly dear. No ducks live near it. You brought a pair once in hopes they'd have ducklings to keep you company but sadly before a month passed they became dinner to passing yokai. Ever since the only ducks at the temple are the ones on the edges of the roof.

Surrounding trees grow closely together, casting long shadows over the roofs and the small yard. In their shade a steep staircase leads towards the entrance of the temple. Every morning and every evening you sweep the leaves from the stairs, picking up and keeping the ones you find particularly beautiful. The golden, the deep crimson, and bright green, ones sprouting first when spring arrives, are your favourite. Moss has overgrown most of the steps. Koda chimes for you to put it on it and it sits on the soft green blanket seeming calm for the first time. Its home was taken but what said it couldn't make a new one here, with you? The temple has been your home for as long as you can remember and you doubt you'll ever know any other.

Your new friend still watches in amazement (At least you think it's amazement. Even you find spirits' expressions hard to read) and when you return to check on offerings you consider waking Chochin to help you reassure it. After a short consideration you decide against the idea. The stillness of the early morning is your favourite part of the day after all and you'll hear from your possessed lantern before noon rolls around anyway. Besides Chochin would only scare already rattled Koda. You'd like to spare the spirit further shocks, at least for a while. Luckily most days the temple grounds stand deserted. With each passing year less and less humans come to pay their respect to Inari. Less and less fields are to be found in the area so it's no wonder they forget how much depends on good harvest. They take it for granted and they forget. If centuries have thought you anything is that humans are incredibly good at forgetting.

You're just about to sweep the two fox statues by the entrance when you catch the sound of approaching steps. One person. Must be an early riser. You make your tails disappear and straighten the sleeves of your hoodie before instructing Koda to hide.

A young man steps through the tori gate. He's tall and lanky, a beanpole with dark hair. Most people pant and heave for air when reaching the top. He looks like he just took a pleasant stroll in the park. He takes in his surroundings then walks over to you. “Good morning,“ he greets with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach his slanted eyes.

There's an aura surrounding him. You can tell he's the kind of man people take a second glance at when passing him by. If you asked them why they'd give you a confused look. “I, I have no idea,“ they'd answer, “There was... something.“ If you asked them an hour later they'd be even more confused because they have already forgotten about him. But he is the kind of a man who wants to be forgotten. How else would he hunt yokai in peace?

“Morning,“ you return the pleasantries. Koda in your pockets shivers.

“I'd like to pay my respects. Can I offer alone or-?“ If he's embarrassed by being unsure of how to proceed you can't tell it from his face. You show him to the temple and excuse yourself, aware of how his eyes follow you as you walk across the small courtyard. You don't want him here. But you can't deny him entry.

He doesn't scare you. He's as green as sprouting grass, too young to have any real experience. He probably only recently accepted yokai are real and not just a folktale used to scare children. You might be the first he'd ever meet. At least one that isn't harmless. Still there is something about his calm voice and bored expression that keeps you alerted.

Koda peeks out of your pocket and chimes, worriedly. “We'll see,“ you murmur in response and head over to the pond. It's so empty. Should you get some koi fish? Or would they all too soon become dinner too? Many of those yokai who remain are growing hungrier. Wilder. Hearing approaching footsteps you wonder if that is what brought Mr Witch to your humble abode.

“I've heard there's a kitsune living around here.“

You straighten and turn to face the unwelcome visitor. Was someone else in your shoes they'd act smart and deny their nature. But you can tell he isn't asking. He's just confirming what he already knows. “There is.“

Visibly taken aback he hesitates. “Is it you?“

“I am.“ You don't like his eyes. They are too fox-like.

He bows politely. “I'm Suna Rintarou.“

“Good for you.“

He ignores the poison in your voice. “News of someone destroying the construction site has reached Inarizaki Clan.“ Ah, that explains the lack of fear. If he's here with the backing of a clan naturally he'd feel secure enough to directly challenge you. “I was sent to let the ones responsible know their efforts are meaningless. The road will be built no matter what you- What they do.“

“Ask? Your kind doesn't ask.“

“This might be the one for history books then.“ His face irks you. There's no fear, no nerves showing, no twitch of his mouth or fingers to betray what he's thinking. Humans are as easy to read as open books but the young man in front of you is a blank sheet of paper.

“Leave,“ is all you answer.

To your surprise he bows and obeys. Watching him leave you think he should straighten up.

As the sun rises higher you head to bed, newcomer so heavy on your mind he haunts your dreams. The sole presence of a yokai hunter is something to be worried about. First one comes, then a second, next your kind is being chased away. The only reason you're still here is because the humans can't seem to figure out a way to chase you away for good. Not that they haven't tried. If only they knew worst things live deep in the woods.

When evening falls you sweep the stairs and leave still rattled Koda besides Chochin who disapprovingly rolls it's one eye at you.

The town is only a short run away. It's small, at least you think so since there aren't many you've visited in your relatively short life. You know every nook and cranny, you know which tombstones are nekomata's favourite, you know which of the old street cats will soon join them. They can be a handful but they're the closest thing to friends you have. You pass the old house where teenagers like to gather. Its cellar has been home to keukegen for years now. You catch a glimpse of a few leaving. No doubt the fault of that damn visitor.

The place he's staying at is easy to find. How careless of him. All you have to do is follow the magic of protective charms scattered across the town back to its source. They're sloppy. Almost as if a child made them. But some of them are particularly well made. Work of another clan member perhaps?

You hide in the bushes of the garden surrounding a small house. Mr Witch left the sliding door open. Even in the garden you smell herbs meant to ward away evil spirits. He's sitting on the floor and watching a curious looking thin screen similar to ones you've seen down at the train station. He seems disinterested. When he stands up and leaves the room you silently creep closer to peek inside. The smell of herbs is stronger here. You don't find it unpleasant though many of your yokai friends would disagree.

On the screen you see a map of the town. More maps lay on the low table. Some have scribbles you can't quite read, arrows, and question marks. You hear him returning and scurry back in the safe embrace of darkness and bushes. He sits back down to continue his work, not noticing you were in his home. You lean your head on your paws and watch.

Following Suna around becomes a daily routine. You sweep the stairs in the morning and water the flowers then run the fastest your legs can carry you to the town. Luckily for you he likes sleeping in. His days are uneventful. Boring to be honest. He eats breakfast. Goes to town. Looks at historical monuments downtown. Sits on the only bench in the park and eats ice cream. Heads to library. From time to time he visits the construction site to inquire if there have been any more incidents. There were a few but none of them were your doing. Mr Witch doesn't actually think you're the only one enraged by the new road, does he? Honestly as much as you detest it you're also a little relieved humans haven't decided to build over the northern part of the forest. That would be a lot more troublesome.

You follow on a safe distance as he inspects the surrounding trees, no doubt to chase away the remaining forest spirits. For a very long time he inspects some footprints. You carefully step closer trying to see what caught his attention. Suddenly he stands up and continues on his way. As you follow you glance at the ground. Ah, of course.

He heads back to town after that, returns home and you return to your spot in the bushes. Sun hasn't set yet,  the day is still warm so he brings a low table out on the porch and pours two glasses of dark bubbly liquid.

“Are you going to keep hiding or will you join me for a drink? I have some tofu I can fry if you want. Kitsune like it, right?“ he asks without looking in your direction.

Crap. Well, no point in trying to be sneaky anymore. You step out, head raised high and your tails gracefully swaying with each step. A silver gem radiating light balances on the middle one. Once you reach porch you shapeshift to a human and hide the gem from Suna's eyes. You don't bother hiding the tails though and you take a sit across from him, carefully eyeing and sniffing the contents of the glass.

“Only three tails?“

“Are you judging my age?“

“Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude.“ That's not what his face says. “Thank you for leaving the construction site be,“ he chats on seemingly unbothered by your icy glare. “You must've noticed those footprints too, right? Have any idea where I might find the owner?“

“That sounds like your job Mr Witch.“

“It's Suna actually.“ He keeps talking like you're old acquaintances and it's making your blood boil. “Can I ask for your name? Don't want to call you Miss Kitsune.“

“Why are you here?“

Suna gulps down half of his drink before answering. “To make sure construction continues without any accidents. You seem to think yourself some kind of a yokai protector. Then I'm a protector of humans.“

You bark a laugh. “As if your kind needs protecting.“

“All the people getting sick from those keukegen would disagree.“

“Sounds like it's their fault for not staying away from infested places,“ you retort.

“Then one easy fix would be getting rid of those infested places.“

“An undertaking you have no doubt already started.“

“I'm just doing my job.“

“You can't chase them away for long you know. Your kind has tried before. They always come back.“

You've hoped your words would elicit a response from him. Anything. A trace of frustration, an arrogant grin. Suna pours himself another glass. “Do you want some ice?“

“What I would very much like is for you to leave.“

A grin flashes over his face. “Get used to my presence because I won't go away for a very long time.“

So this is how he wants to play. He isn't the tiniest bit alerted when you abruptly stand up. “We'll see.“

Your daily routine continues. The only difference is you no longer care to hide. Wherever Suna goes you're not far behind. He wants to stay, play the protector of humans, does he? Pathetic. He doesn't seem to be bothered by you following him around. Just slightly unimpressed. It makes you want to set his pants on fire. Just to get a reaction. Just to see his expression change.

“How long do you plan on following me?“

“Who says I'm following you? World doesn't revolve around you Mr Witch. Maybe I just wanted to buy myself some mochi. Have you considered that?“ You pretend to be interested in melons on the shelf. “Aren't these kind of expensive?“

Suna ignores your question. “I'm grocery shopping. There are no yokai here. And I haven't even harmed anyone.“

“Yet. Such a short word. Yet. Somebody has to keep an eye on your nasty tricks.“ You peek into his shopping cart. “Instant ramen and crab chips? Even I know humans need some you know,“ you wave your hand trying to remember what it's called but the word is buried too deep in your memory, “healthy food!“ you say instead and place the most expensive melon in the cart. “Like fruit for example.“

“Put it back.“

“It's healthy.“

“It's expensive.“

“I got money.“ You pull a bundle of bank notes from your pocket.

He puts the melon back on the shelf and grabs the cart with more force than necessary. You hum contently before putting the money in your pocket where it changes back to leaves you picked up last autumn.

The sheer number of different products on the shelves amazes you. And also makes you a little sad. All the offering humans bring to the temple are just rice and tofu and sometimes curry. Not that you don't like rice and tofu but why can't they bring one of all these colourful sweets? Or the chips Suna just put in the cart. Would he notice if one of the bags disappeared?

Walking past the vegetable stand you grab three cucumber packages and plop them down in his cart. You notice he added a bag of brown rice to it.

“Really? Three packages?“ he asks.

“They're a gift for kappas up the stream,“ you smile, innocently.

“Buy them yourself. You got money, don't you?”

“Why, would you like some? What's the matter Mr Witch, job doesn't pay well? Maybe you should consider a career that doesn't rely on destroying our lives.“

“Maybe you should live a life that doesn't harm others.“

You grin, satisfied. And so facade begins to crumble. A loud cough distracts you from throwing back another insult. An older man gives the two of you a disapproving look before returning to reading labels.

Suna grabs the cart and continues his way to the next item on the crumpled shopping list. You trail behind looking like a lost puppy peeking from behind him to see what the next item on the list is, adding new items to the cart Suna immediately puts back in their place. Even by the register you add one more package of chewing gum to the pile.

“At least take one with a fruity flavour,“ says Suna so you grab two more packages with watermelon on them. You think you see his eye twitch though it might be just your imagination. While he puts the groceries in a bag you snatch a chocolate bar from the nearest shelf, then follow him outside to take the cucumbers from the bag he's holding.

“You've been quite busy yesterday,“ you remark as you walk down the street.

“Since you followed me around the entire time I take it you weren't.“ He outstretches his hand. “Your stuff was 700 yen. Pay up.“

You give him a crumbled wrapper.

“Any particular reason you're interested in the old Nishikawa house?“ you ask, continuing to smile innocently when Suna glares at you and puts the wrapper in his pocket.

“I thought you were the local expert on all things paranormal in this town. I'll let you guess twice.“ He peels the sticker off the bananas and sticks it on your forehead. “See you around Miss Kitsune.“

Ch. 2: Red beneath the moon

tag list: @blurring-stars

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 34 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 33 here. Part 35 here.

Summary: A graveyard is a good place to bury all kinds of things.

Words: 5200

Warnings: inappropriate cemetery conduct

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: me, publishing last chapter: haha wait until they fuck on the graves, people will be--

everyone in the comments: ARE THEY GONNA FUCK IN THE CEMETERY

(DO I HAVE A FUCKING BRAND? I hate myself LMFAO)

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter--it was like pulling teeth to write, and I had to re-do it like three times. Thanks very much to @thetorturerwrites for assistance! I'm still very much loving this story, loving y'all's feedback, loving your thoughts. Hopefully you don't hate me too much for the ending of this chapter. Oopsie!! Love y'all so much. BE SAFE. <3

Beds of clovers blanketed the abandoned parking lot, pavement cracking and parting to the encroaching wilderness beyond, green valleys drowned in the sheets of rain. The Audi whirred in frustration, then stopped, wheels sloshing the muddied ground. Kylo Ren exited and stepped into the downpour without an umbrella--or really anything else that might protect him from getting absolutely soaked--while you readjusted your bonnet and flipped up the hood on the coat he’d given you.

By the time you’d managed to clamber out of the car, he’d already started down a grass-eaten pathway, long strides cutting a straight line off the winding concrete walk. You scampered to catch up with him, water pelting your face and splashing your boots--you called after him, but he either failed to hear you, or simply didn’t care. 

As he crossed into the cemetery proper, you passed entire yards decorated with forgotten graves--in the ground, you imagined the skeletons, filthy with dirt, nameless and faceless and truly dead, their identities known only to memories razed by the ravages of time. Tall oaks and maples stretched into the sky, their trunks smothered with overgrowth, some of them swallowed to the branches. Within them, you spied evidence of life--stick nests, a family of ravens sheltered from the storm under ceilings of vines. And then, further into the cemetery, a bird strangled in a mass of these same vines, wings quartered and neck snapped. 

You followed him into a clearing, plumes of wildflowers burgeoning through a white brick path that meandered to a marble slab only slightly shorter than Kylo himself. At each side of the slab, a raised black granite tomb, plantlife weaving to obscure the ledgers. Beyond that, a grass ocean billowed into a valley, rolling to the edge of a forest, all of it waving in the storm winds. Lightning bleached the sky, and you squealed, folding your arms over your chest.

Kylo stopped before the feet of the tombs, staring. Rivers raced ridges into his hair and over his cheeks, dripped down his long nose, his eyes pooled with vacancy, clear and empty and absent of anything you had the ability to name.

“You wanted to know what made me,” he said. “Ask the right questions. I’ll tell you.” Thunder groaned, miles away. 

“Okay,” you said, squinting at him. “Where are we?” 

He exhaled through his nose. “My parents’ graves.”

A curtain of rain swept the air, and you glanced between him and the graves before crossing to the slab, tearing through the slippery leaves. The stems were coiled tight around one another, but a sharp tug, and they ripped to the side, revealing the engraved dedication in large, block letters. 

Organa. 

Frowning, you glanced at him for a moment; he stood, still blank, failing to offer even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence. You sighed. The name Organa was familiar, but you’d only ever known it in connection with a late senator. To your surprise, as you tugged more, you saw her name: Leia Organa. One of the tombs belonged to her--and listed underneath her, the owner of the other tomb: Han Solo.

Breath evaporated, the pieces colliding like atoms, sparking light. You blinked, tracing the names with your fingertips as water creeked through the indentation. All he had said was what made me. But to know him--this mystery, in some moments more monster than man, and in others more hallowed than human--saddled you with more confusion than ever. This was a non-answer, a presentation in lieu of conversation. 

You turned, brow raised. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t.”

“Why did you take me here?”

His jaw tensed. “They are,” he said, voice stark in the storm, “what made me.”

More lightning, and you jumped, cursing yourself internally. You couldn’t reconcile the restrained, adjusted grandeur displayed at this gravesite with the person at its border. You knew enough about politics before Gilead to understand that a senator’s son was someone ostensibly raised in a home of democracy. Yet this man was one forged in war.

This man, the one who had helped craft and arrange the society that controlled your life, the one who had taken and destroyed any hint of hope in your life barring him--this was a man raised with values of freedom, of self-reliance? In this moment, his flickers of tenderness didn’t matter; they were snuffed in the shadows of your dependence. Kylo Ren, regardless of his rebellion, afforded you only what he determined was necessary. It was only by his grace you were out of your red dress, only by his allowance you’d known any level of escape. 

Your enslavement was as it had always been--it’d only changed, you realized, in its terms.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” you grumbled.

“Then you haven’t asked the right question, little bird.” His tone was chiding, but his face was blank.

“Wasn’t your mother a senator? Or something?” It was difficult to remember--it had been years ago. “Didn’t she campaign for civil rights?”

“She did.”

“Wasn’t she well-liked? Popular with her constituents?”

“She was.”

This game was wearing on you--but he was right. You hadn’t asked any right questions. “But… you helped create Gilead.” You swallowed. “You talk about destiny and roles and…” You shook your head. “You’re still a Commander.” 

Kylo Ren blinked, unfazed by the rain. 

“What happened?” you asked. “Did she do something wrong?”

“She feared what she didn’t know.” His voice was dry. “She abandoned what she didn’t understand.” 

“I…” That had disarmed you. But it wasn’t an explanation. “What didn’t she know?” you asked. “What didn’t she understand?”

Darkness flashed across his face. “Everything.”

The crack in his facade spurred you. “But she was your mother.” You were testing him, watching his reaction. “Didn’t she try?”

“Trying would imply she had direction.” His stare sank into you, fangs at your flesh. “She was lost.”

You raised a brow. “Lost.” There was a dropping dread that he was leading you toward a conclusion that would result in you forever seeking his permission for your humanity. You wouldn’t let him off so easily. “She hurt you.”

It was, technically, a question, in guise of a statement. But Kylo was silent. His eye twitched. It stoked hunger inside of you, a craving for his vulnerability.

“But that doesn’t make you right.” You gestured toward the graves. “Just because you were hurt doesn’t mean that someone like her raises...” You cleared your throat, swallowed. “Raises someone like you.” 

A bolt snapped, blanched him in light. “Someone like me.” 

You met his gaze; those pools were churning, now, deep below their shared surface--an ancient beast submerged in forced indifference, daring you to speak it into existence, goading you to give it a name.

“Yes.” You shivered. “A murderer. An owner of another human being.”

The sky quaked. Over his shoulders, a bird flock fled the trees. Kylo advanced, irises burning with something like anger, distant and buried, his teeth grit. Your fingers found purchase in the vines--you anchored yourself to them.

“Do you have questions,” he asked, “or observations?”

Your jaw tightened. “I have a question.”

“Then ask.”

“Okay.” You squared your shoulders. “How did they make you?”

Kylo stared--more lightning--illuminating the terrible void in his eyes. His shoulders fell, face sharpening in self-assured stoicism. “In the same way that a neglected grave grows weeds.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “You’re the grave.”

“No.” His gaze simmered as it met yours. “I’m the weed.”

“What?” you asked. “How are you the weed?”

“It’s as I’ve explained.” Kylo sniffed, returned his attention to the tomb. “I had no choice.”

“But how did you have no choice?”

“There were no other options.” His lids fluttered, thunder cracked. He stared at the ledger, following the twisted clot of leaves that shrouded the inscription on the granite. His tone was frozen steel. “They gave me no choice.”

Your fingers curled around wet stems, and you swallowed. The conversation you’d had in his den floated through your mind--it feels like I’m dying, like I don’t even have a choice. In his mind, they’d been killing him. Anxiety clenched your chest.

“Kylo, you’re not making any sense.” 

“Very few things made sense,” he said. “The world required order. I found truth. Truth they disagreed with.” For a moment, his expression etched in despair and exhaustion--the sky blinked, and it was gone. “Ask me how they died.”

“How did they…”  

You paused, looked at him. It had been big news--they were shot in their home. You gulped. A terrible, black-ink reality crept into your gut. The gunman was never found.

Hands trembling, you spun, yanking the vines to the side, exposing the dates. Both of them, deceased on November 18th, 1979. The date was too familiar--the day of the recording. The day Ben Solo signed his commitment to the foundation of Gilead. Your heart seized, throat closed, and you turned, dragging your gaze along the ground, traveling up his figure, resting on his face.

Kylo Ren’s eyes were obsidian, brittle-edged and fragile to fracture. You struggled to breathe, wanting to ask how, ask why--knowing that, in his way, he’d already given you the answer.

To any garden, a weed was an invader, gnarling through the dirt and choking eager life, sapping it of space--without intervention, an untamed weed consumed its home, ate its brethren, dominated to meet its needs. They were not like so many flowers, tended to with gentle hands, encouraged to flourish and blossom in their beds. No, weeds existed in the realm of burden, forever unwanted, accepted only to be controlled or destroyed. A weed could only be afforded the privilege to exist if it left the perimeter of the garden, renounced its birthplace, and decided, with defiance, to live. 

You pulled the coat tight around you, folded your arms. “Did they deserve it?”

The obsidian sharpened under your stare. And he swallowed. “No.”

Nervous heat rushed your skin. “You know that this isn’t truth. This isn’t right.”

Kylo reached beyond you, plucked a leaf from the vine. “I brought you here so you would understand,” he said. “There is value in knowing and realizing your purpose. In knowing your role. Inherent and unalterable.” He crumpled the leaf in his fist. “Without Gilead, purpose and meaning are lost. My parents failed to realize their purpose, and the world suffered. You’ll realize yours.” Tossing the debris to the side, he fixated on you again, his hair sticking like black thread to his face. “I’ll realize mine.”

Lightning split the sky. This hadn’t been a pilgrimage, it had been a proselytization. In his desire to grasp at meaning, he’d attempted to convince you of it, too. Yet by now, you could see, see his doubts plaguing him, deep currents in his mind--could see that in convincing you, he’d wanted, too, to convince himself, that he was born demonic, abandoned to Hell in the depths of destiny. But you knew better. You knew him.

Scanning you, he turned down the brick path. “Come.”

“What is my purpose, Kylo?”

He froze mid-step, a statue in the rain. Water whispered, then howled, a susurrus in crescendo, punctuated by a sharp, static crack in the sky. You squeaked; Kylo peered at you from over his shoulder, and even through the storm, you saw it. He was your reflection again, an augmented refraction--if you were afraid, then he was terrified.

“What’s my purpose?” you repeated, stepping toward him. “Don’t you know?” 

He didn’t speak, and didn’t move. You took another step, and another, passing like a ghost under the veil of rain. Kylo watched you, obsidian strained to splinter.

“You can't answer because you know you're wrong.” You wanted to stare into him, stare through him. “You know there's something more to this life, that we have options, we have choices--”

He shifted, and took the tiniest, most egregious step back. “We don’t.”

“We do,” you said. “But you can’t admit it because you can’t admit that you chose all of this!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!” You were an arm’s length from him. He didn’t move. “You chose your name, you chose your path, you chose this life--and you chose mine, too.” Another step, close enough to count the constellations on his face. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You can be whoever you want to be.” As if possessed by its own destiny, your hand rose, grazed his fingers, your grip slippery and warm--he trembled when you held him. “You can… you can be Ben--”

Sneering, he jerked back. “No.”

You shook your head, reaching for him again. “But I want to know him.”

“Why?” His pupils were shadowed in waterfalls.

“Because,” you said, “that’s who you are--”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you said, grabbing his hand, “I want to know him, I want to know Ben Solo--”

Kylo snarled, wrung you away. “Why do you insist on raising the dead?” He loomed--you retreated, and he chased you back, spitting through his teeth. “There is no Ben Solo!”

“But that’s your name--”

“My name is mine to give! Not yours to know!” His face was aflame with fury. “You want Ben Solo to free you--Ben Solo was the coward. Ben Solo killed his parents.” He drew closer, pressing you back with every step. “I saved you. I carried you.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smirk. “I fucked you.” Kylo had your back flat to the slab now, obsidian shattered in the throes of his wrath. “You don’t know Ben Solo. You know me.” He caged you underneath him, a black sun burning heat and gravity between your bodies. “You know what made me, little bird,” he muttered, a delicious threat. “Are you afraid?”

In the summer storm air, he sweltered you, so hot that when your wet gown glued to your back, you had no way to know if it was sweat or rain. His focus flicked between your mouth, your eyes, your mouth, and he leaned closer, framing you between his forearms, his breath scant. You stared at him--your devil, your echo, your enigma--and knew, despite all of his impossible complexities, you would never, ever be afraid.

Jaw steeled, you pushed off your hood, snatched your bonnet, tossed it to the ground. Lightning streaked and pealed with thunder. You didn’t even flinch.

“No, Kylo,” you breathed. “I’m not.”

You licked your lips, exhaled. And his mouth was on you.

Kylo Ren’s kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he gasped along your lips before capturing them again, snatching your wrists and pinning them with one large hand above your head. Arousal sparkled in your belly--you wriggled in his grip, offering a needy roll of your hips before swirling your tongue around his. His hold on your wrists tightened, and he pinned you to the stone, grinding his growing desire into the apex of your thighs.

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder. Kylo nipped your lower lip and slid to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

“Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he murmured into your ear. “Do you think you can handle me?”

Lust seared you like fire. You smirked. “Try me.”

Kylo growled, wresting you from the stone by your arms and guiding you back until you toppled onto one of the vine-encrusted tombs. He was greed incarnate, tearing your coat from your shoulders before he grappled the neckline of your nightgown and shredded the buttons apart. Your cunt clenched, lungs stalled--he kissed you again, big hands groping at your tits while he pushed you flat along the grave, crawling over until he straddled you, a beast bent over his meal.

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, shoving your hands under his shirt, reveling in the hard planes of his body--he tensed,  moving back to your neck, sucking at your throat. You memorized the muscle under your fingertips, Kylo’s skin damp and hot under your hands, and he was voracious, without restraint, pulling painful hickeys from your pulse. 

Need burned between your thighs, and he shifted lower, marking you in abandon, drawing tissue between his teeth, welts popping to life under the pressure of his lips. Anxiety flitted through your mind--he was leaving visible evidence--but the soft groan from his chest wiped it clean, your back arching to offer more of your untamed flesh. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands hiked up your skirt, tugging at your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric. You squealed, squirming, and he yanked the garment free, leaving your sex aching from exposure.

Kylo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. “So wet already,” he said and clucked his tongue. “And in a cemetery. You’d take my cock whenever I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to rub against his hand. “As if you aren’t ready to fuck me on your mother’s grave.”

He snickered. “You’re wrong.” He leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. “It’s my father’s.”

Kylo pushed into you, and you tightened around him, hips twitching, head lolling along the leaves. His mouth ravished you again, leaving purple pebbles in its wake while he claimed you from chin to clavicle, spit and storm and sweat blending on his tongue. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

“If I fuck you now,” he muttered at your jawline, “you’ll have to take all of me. Everything I give you.” He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. “I won’t be able to control myself.”

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. “Thought I’d long proved my capability.”

Kylo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. “I haven’t been able to fuck you properly in over two weeks.” Last night hardly counted, you agreed. “I need to wreck your little cunt.” His thumb swiped fast over your swollen nub. “I’ll fuck you like Ben Solo never could.”

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. “Do your worst.”

Snarling, he leaned onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, starting to suckle them clean. You were tart and tangy, your tongue slipping the length of his digits to swallow it all--Kylo’s free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

“You know how this works.” He gazed at you, lightning an electric halo around him.  “Beg for it.”

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. “Please, fuck me.” 

Before you could blink, he slapped you, sending spit from your teeth. “No, slut,” he hissed. “I said beg.”

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. “You’re not being very respectful of the dead.”

Kylo scowled and smacked you again, branding your cheek. He seized your scalp and jerked you toward him, his other hand stroking his dick. 

“Don’t make me wait any longer for your pussy,” he said. “Or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll wish you were among them.”

Your head spun, dizzy with shame and longing--perhaps the same culprits responsible for your temporary insanity. “Then I might keep you waiting.”

Seething, he reeled back and cracked you with the back of his hand, pain blinding you, screaming in your ears. He jostled your head in his grip, waiting for your eyes to refocus--his face was red with impatient desire. 

“If you won’t beg for my cock,” he said, “then you’ll beg for mercy.”

A starving behemoth, he spun you around and slammed your face to the tomb--you heaved, buried in the vegetal scent of wet leaves, and behind you, Kylo was panting. He tossed your sopping excuse for a skirt up your back before wrestling with your hips until they were in the air, rain pelting your exposed ass and cunt. One hand fisted your hair, the other gathering your wrists behind your back, and without warning, he broke your core, cleaving it open with a sharp, unbelievable bliss, head hitting your cervix. You cried out, recoiling in pain, and he shook you in reprimand.

“Oh, no.” He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. “Don’t run from it.”

Kylo rammed into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, finding oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, your clit buzzing for attention, clamoring for the long-awaited sensation of cumming around him.

“Such--such a needy little cunt,” he growled.  “It missed this cock, didn’t it?” When you didn’t respond, he struck your skull on the stone. “Didn’t it?”

You keened in pain, face smashed on the tomb. “Yes!”

“I know.” He released your wrists, letting them drop limp, and reached under your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm. “I know what you like--fuck, you’re so tight when you’re about to cum…” He groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. “Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock.”

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Behind you, Kylo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core’s pulsing slowed, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back, and you writhed underneath him.

He smacked your face, and you whined. “Don’t squirm.” Kylo shifted until he was standing and dragged you by your ankles to the edge of the grave. “I’m not done with that pussy yet.”

Propping your calves on his shoulders, he lunged forward, palm clamping down on your neck, his eyes wild, crazed with desire. His free hand pinched your cheeks, and he plunged in, jaw dropping in disbelief when he sheathed himself again in your wet heat. With a hiss, he stuffed you full before sliding back out and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. 

The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again. The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Kylo grunted, tugging you closer. 

“Open.” 

Wincing, you did--and he spat into your mouth. 

“Swallow, bitch. Show me.”

Against his massive hand, it was difficult, but you managed with a grimace, popping your jaw apart to prove it, and Kylo smirked, rewarding you with painful, blissful strokes of his hips. He wracked your body to its limit, your breath lost ages ago, your heart flying through your veins, your ass sore from the dig of vines.  

“Poor thing,” he cooed. “I think you need to cum again.”

The hand at your cheeks snaked between your legs, flicking your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust. Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, ebony void of lust.

“Whose cock is inside you?”

The words croaked out. “Y-yours, Kylo.”

His choke tightened, and your vision whirled. “Who’s fucking you right now?”

 “You--you are, Kylo--”

“That’s right,” he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. “Cum.”

Your orgasm charged you, whiting your sight, and you screamed, throttled from his hand as every muscle below your waist contracted with an agonizing ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended, and shoved you back along his father’s grave. His dick dripped with your slick, and he was heaving, cheeks flush with exertion. He drank in the sight of you--cunt spread and abused, raindrops scattered like crystals on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession--before he pounced, a raving animal.

“You’re going to take all of me,” he muttered. “Every single fucking inch.”

Kylo pinned you to the stone, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your stomach. He panted, wedging his hips between yours, his cock throbbing as he positioned it at your pleading core--baring his teeth, he slipped in, your pussy so wet and ready that it swallowed him with ease. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the root. Locks of hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze. 

“You want me.” He popped your head back as a prompt. “You want all of me.”

You nodded, despite it. “Yes--oh--I do.”

He swallowed, leaning into you, pressing his forehead to yours. “After all of it,” he said, barely a whisper, “after everything.” 

Your chin trembled, his admission about his parents piercing your heart, swelling it in anguish. In the setting of his hopeless rejection, his savagery, his apathy, his hollow rage--none of it mattered, not to you. And you knew, just as he would never know a woman more willing to hold his soul without still wanting, you would never find another man like Kylo Ren. And there would never be anyone you would want more desperately, or reluctantly, than him.

“Yes.” You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. “No matter what.”

“Fuck.” He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. “Fucking whore… I’m--fuck--I’m going to make you break again.” His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. “And then I’m going to fill you up with my cum.”

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He was right. You wanted mercy. “Kylo--fuck--please!”

“No. Take it,” he snarled into your ear. “Take it.”

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him, shaking from his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear. It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. You spasmed, biting your lip, hauled through sensitivity and into a new plane of pleasure, rapture singeing your skin, and you gasped, choked, begged in babbling nonsense for release, for him to send you soaring and screaming and cumming. 

“Perfect,” Kylo moaned, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. “Make yourself mine. Cum for me. Cum for me, angel.”

Your mind split--euphoria and disbelief--and you imploded, twitching, your climax shining lucent through your skin, shattering your sanity, igniting Kylo, too. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. 

Had not known how you’d gotten there, you might have thought you’d joined the residents of the cemetery, your spirit buoyant above you for long, witless moments, until it returned to you, floating back in a daze. When you arrived to Earth, you realized Kylo was arriving too, kissing your cheek, holding you close, the both of you fighting to regulate your breath. When you’d both relaxed, he slipped out, leaned back on his heels, revealing you to the trickling rain.

You stared at him, head heavy, attempting to comprehend what he’d called you--angel--attempting to catalogue every minute of this encounter into whatever part of your memory would carve it in permanency. Sighing, you smiled at him, joy bubbling in your chest, but he only gazed at you, affection twinkling--then guttering in his eyes. He absently thumbed your chin before he tucked himself away, and you followed suit, trying to piece together what little was left intact of your clothing. Not that it mattered, as it was all completely drenched with rain. You felt like a paper bag that had been left in a swamp.

Having finished, you looked to your Commander, who was standing at the head of the gravesite. Waiting.

Blushing, you trotted to meet him--when he turned to lead, you reached out.

“Wait.”

Kylo stopped, glanced back. Between you, you felt it again--fate, kismet, serendipity, destiny--whatever it was called, it was something that you could see, the frame of your future like an open door for you to peer inside. Beyond the threshold, the vision was luminous and distinct, a sunray lancing Gilead’s storm: You and Kylo Ren. Together, and safe, and free. 

You didn’t know how you’d get there. You only knew that for the first time, you’d understood exactly what he’d meant. 

“What if we…” You shrugged, as if what you were about to say was no big deal. “No one knows we’re here. No one has to know where we went.” Watching him, you stepped closer. “What if we leave? We can figure it out, we can get help from the Resistance,” you said. “What if we just... go?”

The sky screeched above you--the storm was close, almost right overhead, and a torrent of rain gushed from the clouds. Kylo stared, inscrutable, studying you piece by piece, an inspection of your sincerity, brow furrowing. Then his lips pinched together, his eye twitched. He stepped toward you--

Pop.

At first, you’d thought it was thunder--and when the pain hit, you’d thought it’d been lightning, instead. But then you glanced at your arm, scrutinizing the source, and found only frayed fabric, burnt thread, and a gash of bright, red blood. You blinked, adrenaline crashing into you like a freight plane.

“Oh,” you mumbled, fuzzing gaze drifting to Kylo. “I think I’ve been shot.”