#i like how silly tall birch trees look

[crepusculum-rattus]

my friends going to my base after a few days of not logging on and seeing an entire birch forest where there used to be nothing

[morgandria]

Moon Musings

I am on day #!^* of One Of -Those- Migraines (thanks, March), so while I’m sitting here trying not to be miserable, you’re getting some moon stuff. I have a pile of random thoughts that are trying to coalesce themselves into a coherent lunar-focused project in the future, so the moon has been on my mind. In many ways, I miss the moon. I live on a street corner in town where two separate lights shine directly on my yard, and since they installed new LED lights there's no such thing as darkness at night. Even my backyard, which would be in the shadow of the house normally, is lit since the LEDs spill farther and brighter now, and my neighbours keep their back porch light on all the time. We won't even talk about the fact that out of the last 16 months, I think we had full cloud cover for about 14 of them. That's the reality.

So this is more of the woo side. This is UPG, 100%. I often don’t use traditional names for the different Full Moons - some of them don’t resonate, so I do what works for me. Secondly, my personal lunar lore behind the names I do use is all mashed up with a whole lot of synesthesia, and some personal experiences. So...if any of this works for you or entertains you, cool. If not? No worries. Do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I also live in Ontario, and always have, so my experiences and practices are absolutely rooted here. Weather patterns and seasons won't work the same elsewhere, so you need to work with what you've got.

January: Wolf Moon

I do use a traditional name for this moon, but only because I used to go howling with the wolves in the back 40 when I was a teenager. I used to be able to take long white walks in the fields when they were all lit up, and were fortunate to have some lupine neighbours. I love the sharpness of the night sky, and finding moments of silence and stillness. More practically these days I bundle up at home away from the ice and the cold and enjoy a good cup of tea when I can. The vibration of this moon's energy always seems to bring me insomnia, though. The colours I associate with January’s moon are white, silver, red, and a deep amethyst. Other things, more randomly: birch trees, the sound of cracking ice, the hissing of river reeds in the wind.

February: Storm Moon

There’s a tempestuous feel to February’s moon for me. It’s usually the month we get intensely cold. January is often a icy, thaw/freeze mess, but February always feels like the time when Winter decides it’s time to really throw its’ weight around with some serious storms. The feel of this moon’s energy is sinuous for me, sliding around and into everything, but also fierce. There’s something profoundly cleansing about letting a sharp winter wind pierce through to your bones and strip away all the gunk cluttering up your energy. My colours for this moon are grey and deep blues, like Prussian blue or steel blue. Other things: labradorite, blue tiger’s eye, and the smell of wintergreen,

March: Crow Moon

This is the moon when my crows come back to my neighbourhood. They usually move out around the start of December, and I start to see and hear them again around the start of March. Nothing about March in Ontario is spring-like: it’s either a solid mass of ice coating everything, or faded grey-brown and thick with mud. Ugh. I actually used to camp on March break as a teenager, but inevitably it ended up with a dozen frozen teenagers in a friend's kitchen having an impromptu Sunday breakfast while I woke up and wondered where everyone'd gone. (Stir-crazy kids in the sticks with nothing to do for a week do silly things.) Nowadays, I’d rather look up at the skies than down at the earth during this moon, and I choose to focus on my corvid friends because they make me happy. Crow Moon is somehow all aquas and peacock blues in colour, and mare’s tails in impossible blue skies, and the world smells once again of fresh, clean Earth, when the ice lets it through.

April: Seed Moon

Maybe the moon where (people who are better gardeners than me) start to get their seeds in the ground. I live in a snow belt, so I don't trust myself to plant anything until May. It's still not super warm, or even remotely dry, but there starts to be hints of things like warmer sun and breezes around the edges. Later in the month you get those days where pollen and snow can fly at the same time. There's no leaves yet, but you can see the buds getting fatter. I think of it as a "restful" time during the year, before summer gets really busy with family and friends. If we're having a good Spring I might get a day or two where I can actually get outside and tidy the yard some. I associate Seed Moon with the colours of soft buttery yellow and pale peridot green, which starts to invade around the rust-brown-green background. It's a citrine month, and also one where those little blue flowers come up in people's lawns.

May: Hare Moon

We don't have hares here. I wish we did - I used to see snowshoe hares in the country when I was wee - but I have rabbits, at least. And yet, this is not "Rabbit Moon". A hare is a different beast from a rabbit entirely. They have a fierce wildness that our Eastern Cottontails do not. And for me, the moon of May, the month of Beltane and the nuptials of the Lord and Lady, have a fierce, wild joy as the world finally explodes with warmth and light and leaves and flowers. I don't ever really trust winter is gone until mid-May. Hare Moon is emerald and violet and velvet, the shadow of leaves and sweet intoxicating aromas. There's something tactile about it - you want to run your hands through it, let it brush past you and run its' fingers through your hair.

June: Mead Moon

I sometimes also call this the Honey Moon. It is the sweetest time of the summer for me, before it's mind-meltingly hot. You get those gorgeous days that are still draped in gentle grey veils of rain on the growing, swaying green fields, and the flowers are growing tall and tangled - honeysuckle, clover, alfalfa and St. John's Wort. There are bees -everywhere-, and the very first of the summer fruits are coming ripe and I spend eight months of the year absolutely dying for the four when we get local, seasonal fruit. It's an idyll, before I'm completely sunbaked and dried out in the heat. Mead Moon is all sky blue and honey gold, saffron and ultramarine. It's warm sand and cold lakes, the smell of hay drying in the fields, and long drives down country roads to escape the concrete of town.

July: Satyr Moon

This month's moon is probably the time when folks in these parts get up to the most outdoor activity. I associate it most with a kind of revelry and hedonism - hence the 'satyr'. We get people taking their vacations, heading to the cottage, the campsite, and having their reunions and parties. Concerts, fairs, festivals...we have a lot to cram into a short time. The lilies in my yard finally have bloomed their brilliant orange, by the start of the month, and July is one long stretch of pure jewel-like greens, under bleached blue skies. This is the other month, like April, where everything feels like it's just poised, waiting to explode with the brisk business of harvest. For me, this moon is natural life in its' prime, and despite my dislike of intense heat and humidity I try to remind myself to enjoy it where and how I can. Satyr Moon is an endless mosaic of greens, a heady musky smell of wood and water, cedar and leaf, shadows and firelight dancing, and distant music everywhere.

August: Barley Moon

This moon is the first harvest moon, here, when the wheat is finally harvested and all that dust in the air makes it ripe and golden and warm. Haying season will sometimes give the moon a bit of a gold tint earlier on, but not those deep amber rises I adore in August. I am an August Virgo, and I adore the Barley Moon - I mean, I quite literally worship wheat. All the first fruits of harvest are peaking, there's SO much goodness in the fields, and yet I can feel summer slowing down, and gradually waning to a bronze-green glowing that I absolutely adore. The nature of daylight changes, subtly, and I try to catch onto every sunset and fix it into my brain, to save it for those white winter days when we haven't seen even the notion of sun for weeks. When we slide from the scorch of the dog days into long, gloaming evenings and cooler nights and the hints of colour on the leaves at the end of the month - heaven. Barley Moon is wheaten and speckled browns, endless golds, blackberry and peach, the smell of dry grass and fresh corn. It's countless toasted tomato sandwiches, far too much zucchini, and penetrating spears of bronze light through the trees as the sun slides away to let the fat amber moon rise up.

September: Harvest Moon

There's no stopping harvest. This moon is when -everything- comes down, and you have no choice but to get your ass moving. You try to get as much of it off the vine while it's best. I get very hobbity when Harvest comes, and I want to be living a simple life. I start to miss home, and rural life, and my family, a lot. It feels different than my youth, and it's...wrong now, somehow. These days it's more like Second July - it rarely cools off below 20°C., it's often stupidly humid, and can be much, much warmer. Our changing climate makes it feel like a month of dragging what I dislike most about Summer out, and it just feels unnatural. Add into that everyone still running around trying to pretend like Summer isn't ending, and I do not like it much for that reason. September always ends up cluttered and rushed, just too much going on in our lives for various reasons. I wish I appreciated it more, but I don't. But there are moments: the deepening indigo of September twilights, the movement of the birds (both those ready to move on and those snatching up all the food they can before the cold comes), the exuberance of goldenrod and Queen Anne's lace and asters. Harvest Moon is indigo and wine-red, the sweetness of a frost-touched grape, the musk of a yeast-laden apple's skin, and the first cries of the migrating geese.

October: Hunter's Moon

Hunter's Moon has two sides. From the start of October, until Thanksgiving, is gorgeous, brilliant leaves and bright crisp skies. It's deep blue waters reflecting streaks of smoke and high cloud. Any time after that, it can snow. It certainly will get wet and windy, at the very least. And then everything is grey, torrents of wine-dark leaves all with that sugar-sweet rot as they lie where they fall intertwined with the smell of the cold and everyone's woodstoves firing up. I cannot tell you how much this season refills my spirit. It's always been a hunter's moon for me. Various hunting seasons start (turkey, duck, deer, then into moose later in the fall), and I have many fond memories of delicious game meat meals with family well into the spring. It was a vital part of life, and always done with respect and thanks. Hunter's Moon is grey on grey, the edges of smokey obsidian and crimson-carnelian-red. It is antler and bone and slow-burning hardwood, the hissing of the corn stalks drying in the darkening fields.

November: Snow Moon

You'll see Snow Moons all over the winter calender, depending on where you live. For me, winter starts at Samhain, and it is inevitable that we have snow here very close to that date (whether before or after). It was true living on the Rideau, and it's still true over here in the Central Ontario snowbelts off Georgian Bay. November's is another two-sided moon: there's the gold, and the grey, The gold is of a clear day's sun through the last of the golden maple leaves clinging to the branches is clarion, of wetland reeds and cow corn still standing in the now-frosty fields. The grey comes softer than October, creeping softly across lawns and windows and the brown leaves curling on the ground, and as drifting veils of snow blowing in to cover the land in its' first lingering solid coats of white. I love the world's withdrawal into silence - I too, withdraw into myself and listen to inner voices. Snow Moon is white and silver (but also pearl grey and ash and brown) and the nights are long, powdery indigo, mounted by silent owl wings, iolite eyes set in silver frames.

December: Oak Moon

This last moon is curious for me, in that I do not know precisely why I continue to use this name. I like it - it has many associations for me in my Craft - but I guess I haven't thought much about it. Many oak trees do keep some or all of their rich tannin-brown leathery leaves through winter, though, and I do enjoy their song (along with the remnants of the leaves on our ash trees) in the wind... but that's not it. Neither is the whole Oak King/Holly King construct, which I don't really engage with. I have a strong connection with a particular energy, that of an aged, Green Man sage-type spirit that comes with this moon, so perhaps that's part of it as well. I suspect it will always be a bit of a Mystery, which I'm ok with. December's night skies seem curiously leeched of their blue hues, as the nights grow longer, a velvety black glittering blanket. Oak Moon comes dressed in the deep, rich colours of the Earth element - glossy evergreens, rich brown, deepest black, and is redolent of pine and cedar, and the flash of cardinals and blue jays at the bird feeder.

I don't know if any of that is useful, entertaining, or even intelligible. I hope at the very least, it prompts you to think about how you interact with the moons of the year, and the seasons, and how you perceive the world around you.

[sweetcatmintea]

Semantics

Flash fiction Friday! Hurray :3 I’m so tired haha, so I’ll just drop this and go. Couldn’t say no to a wonderland episode ow<~* Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated 💜

FFF is organised by the wonderful @flashfictionfridayofficial​

Prompt: Strange lands Words: 1016 Characters: Storm and the Cheshire Cat

---

Everything smelled so sweet, like jam and cream. Sweet and swirling and sickening and the sooner Storm could get back to something with a semblance of reality, the better. Try as he might to fight it, frustration frosted his chest, devouring the building anxiety and growing stronger with each minute he spent lost in these weird woods. Fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he rounded, you guessed it, another tree. The leaves brushed each other like chuckling rice maracas, dappling shadows somehow darker than the surrounding inkiness to dance along with the tempo. The darkness was more than a simple absence of light. It was a presence in itself. It was as though a beast of void had settled to rest, filling the space with the hum of its breathing where there should have been silence. It was disconcerting, if he let his mind linger too long, which he endeavoured not to do. Despite the darkness, he could still see. Or rather, he understood what should have been seen. Man, this place was giving him a headache.

He paused, leaning against the rough bark of an ashen birch. It didn’t matter how much air he drew in, he couldn’t scent anything beyond its jammy tang. He just had to keep searching. He’d find Echo, get them the hell out of there, and thoroughly lecture her about wondering off. Again.

Just stay focussed.

He moved to continue on, but a furred flash under foot had him careening backwards, almost tripping over himself in his efforts not to crush the thing. It was something like a mouse. If it had been mixed with a mushroom. The fungal creature flared its neck frills at the insult of its near maiming, darting off again before he could react.

“Strange. This place, it’s so… strange.”

“We usually prefur curious,” A voice purred into his ear, “curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes.”

Storm bolted back, pivoting on his heel to face the stranger. Ears pinned back, fists raised, he was ready for immediate counterattack. His shoulders dropped, confusion slacking the tension. He’d almost punched a cat in its grinning face. It hadn’t been there a minute ago. He’d have noticed.

“Aww, you didn’t even scream. How disappointing.” He lolled onto his back, staring at Storm with big amber eyes. If he’d wanted to look disappointed, it wasn’t a convincing display.

It wasn’t often Storm was dumbstruck. The words tumbled out of his mouth, the only sentence his brain could produce.

“I don’t talk to animals.”

The cat pouted, dripping lazily off the branch, suspending himself instead in the air. “Maybe they don’t talk to you. I wouldn’t blame them. You are terribly rude.” He hissed a laugh, putting his paw to his grin like a cutesy text icon. “I’ll furgive you if you make an exception for me~.”

Not bothering to wait for an answer, he floated closer, wrapping himself around Storm’s shoulders. What kind of cat smells like smoke and spices?

“I’m curious, you see. Curious about what you’re doing wandering around our quaint little world. They call it a wonderland you know. And yet, here you are looking all ruffled. Hmmm, are you purrhaps struggling with those demons that like to take up residence in human heads? Alices have a habit of finding themselves here. You’ve got a lot too, I can tell. Nasty little creatures.”

Storm shoed him off. “What, no. I’m just looking for my sister.”

The cat didn’t seem to care, floating wherever he saw fit. “Not a rabbit? Shame. I could tell you were he is.”

“No. My sister, Echo.”

“Echo, echo, echo.” The cat vanished and reappeared further away three times, one for each repetition. He reappeared, a puff of stirred smoke, back on his branch.

“Well, there are three echoes for you. Wasn’t that an easy quest.” His tail curled with mirth as Storm’s jaw clenched. Why was he wasting his time with this stupid cat?

Because it was the only lead he had. He took a deep breath, biting back the frustration.

“My sister. Have you seen her? She’s seven, about this tall, black hair, mute, has a toy sheep.”

The cat’s grin widened, “Oh yes, the lovely little kitten who came through. Such a sweet thing, nothing like you. You’re so sour.” If he noticed Storm’s glare, he didn’t react. “I sent her along her merry way.”

Storm perked up. “Where did you send her?” He didn’t know whether to be furious that the cat wasted so much time or relieved that he might finally get a trail.

“To the Hatter of course. He and the March Hare are having a tea party. It’ll be a splendid little affair. Oh, but don’t worry Big Brother, they’re quite mad so she’ll be perfectly safe. They will have a marvellous time, I’m sure. Then along to the unicorn and the lion. Such silly creatures, those two. You would probably like them. I couldn’t recommend them, but I did purromise an introduction and what is a cat without his word?”

The cat blathered on; Storm’s fur bristled. “What do you mean they’re mad?”

“They’ve lost their heads, naturally. It makes for an excellent baker but a terrible conversationalist, I’m afraid.”

Storm fought to keep his cool. Ice crackled up his wrists and through his feathers. Through gritted teeth, he managed to ask, “Can you tell me where they are.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that!”

His teeth creaked under the pressure. “Why not?”

“I simply can’t direct you! You’re terribly mad. I wouldn’t want to be around you for so long. Sour is one thing, but I’ve never been partial to spiciness.” He sighed, still grinning.

“Please tell me.”

“Okay, here’s what we will do, I think you’ll like this, I’m going to go and then, when you’re more palatable, I’ll come back. A very joyous reunion, I’m sure. Then I will no longer be unable to tell you what you want to know. Cheerio Big Brother!”

“Wait!” But he was already gone. Damn. What was Storm going to do now?

—

Tag List

@snobbysnekboi, @inkovert, @kainablue, @i-rove-rock-n-roll, and @goblin-writer

[petersmparker]

I Kind Of Think We’re Dating (Peter Parker x Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: This isn’t how people normally start dating, probably, but even so… this is pretty damn good.

Word Count: 1953

A/N: does this make sense?? maybe not. do I care?? no!! I had fun!! enjoy my nonsense. this was almost entirely caused by the general Tone of those nights by bastille. not the lyrics, just the Feel

The couch is comfortably snug this friday night, like every other designated movie night, and wedged onto a too-small couch Peter and his friends are quite as content as they’re capable of being. That is, as content as one can be while you’re as teary-eyed as you’ve ever been. Nothing is really wrong, of course- simply the side effect of a sad movie and a habit of getting a super emotional. It’s a little silly, Ned teasingly points out as he pushes up from the couch to get a fresh bowl of popcorn, but you’re a loud crier and already laughing at yourself to boot, so you barely hear.

It’s endearing, Peter thinks. The way that you can express yourself so easily over something as inconsequential as a movie. He’s chuckling too, knowing full well that you’ll calm soon enough. Despite this, he throws his arm around you and pulls you closer against him. You melt into his comfort easily and turn to cry into his shoulder, still giggling at yourself.

It’s without really thinking that you raise your hand to cup his jaw as you wait for your tears to run dry. It doesn’t take too long, Peter rubbing your back, still laughing slightly,  and the sound from the next room of Ned humming while the popcorn pops. The microwave beeps, the door opens and closes, and the popping sound resumes as the next bag starts. With a shaky inhale and a last breathy laugh, you raise your head to make a joking comment about how you’re acting a bit ridiculous.

The words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Peter is very close. His arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, thigh pressed against yours, skin warm under the hand still holding his face. He’s looking at you with an odd expression of endeared concern. Your vision blurs. You realize, rather nervously, that it’s because he’s leaning in. You meet him in the last few centimeters.

Despite the very prevalent fact that this is Peter’s first kiss with you- his first kiss ever- his fear is much overcome by comfort. This is new and scary, but you aren’t. He knows all too well that you are one of the most solid assurances of his life, next to Aunt May and Ned (the way Mr. Stark was, before) and with that knowledge it feels strangely as if this is not all that unusual.

He’s not sure what’s come over him when he initiates this, but the fluttering in his stomach suggests that it’s good.

The microwave beeps, cutting through whatever bubble you’ve fallen into in Ned’s absence, and you break apart. Face warm, you train your expression into something calm. You are undoubtedly consumed with nerves and yet… Peter looks back at you so free of distress. He seems so accepting of what had just occurred and of course, he had been in the first to lean in. His assured demeanor seeps into you.

Everything is okay. It’s better.

By the time Ned re-enters and throws himself down on the couch beside you, you’re turned away from each other as if it hadn’t occurred. Peter’s arm stays resting across your shoulders, barely sacrificing the distance that was gained over the past few seconds. Ned hands the gigantic bowl of popcorn over to you to hold and presses play on the remote.The movie finishes without any tears, the next rounding off the night with a much lighter plot, and it all concludes with chatting and laughter.

Despite the fact that Ned excuses himself from the Parker residence thirty minutes before you do, the kiss goes undiscussed.

Peter does, however, walk you across the hall to your apartment instead of waving from the doorway, leaving you to wonder if those extra few steps had anything to do with what had happened. You shut your door. Peter’s shuts after a few moments.

It’s several long minutes before either of you leave the entryways.

-

The kiss in Peter’s living room is the first to happen without preamble or explanation, but it is not the last. It happens several times in the following weeks without much influence on the rest of your world. They’re sun showers that weren’t forecasted. It becomes almost normal. A series of private moments. Not exactly secret, never truly hid from the people around you, just not a public announcement. Neither of you are sure that there is something to announce. Despite the lack of clarity, you find yourselves inexplicably content as is for now. Content to enjoy the moments as they come. Never quite expecting the next rainfall, but delighted to go outside to bask in it.

The first time that it happens in public, you’re beneath a tree in the school’s quad. You’re with the usual group, but not quite– several feet away and slightly detached from the rowdy conversation. Peter is leaning against the trunk of the tall birch, a heavy textbook in his lap and his lunch to the side, for the most part uneaten. You are lying in the grass next to him in a spot of sun that breaks through the leaves. Speaking lightly about your disastrous attempts to find a prom dress with MJ, your hands gesture into the air above you.

“She’s so stylish in this cool edgy way and she dresses herself so well, but when it comes to other people it’s like she’s blind,” you laugh, before gesturing vaguely down your body, “The most observant person we know and yet she didn’t notice that the dress with the tulle skirt was see through. About ninety percent crotch, just out there on display to the general public.”

Peter laughs, turning the page of his book. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” he offers, kindly.

“Of course you would say so,” You say, propping yourself up on your elbows to shoot a glance at him, “You haven’t got a single impolite bone in your body.”

“I try.”

“Bless you.”

A laugh bubbles out of you once more as you’re smiling up at Peter, and his chest lightens at the sight. It’s without much consideration that he moves aside his textbook in order to lean over and kiss you.  It’s quick, barely more than a peck. When he pulls back, you appear as calm as ever. The smile left over from a moment before softens. Affection colors your features. Peter, feeling quite contented, reorients himself and pulls his textbook back into his lap.

Once you have fallen back down to the grass, continuing on as if you hadn’t just been kissed by him a few feet from almost every person you know, Peter risks a glance at the crowd. Only one person appears to have noticed. MJ, looking quite like she knows everything and also somehow more, gives Peter a smiling nod, and directs her attention back to their rowdy friends.

The world keeps turning, maybe a little more happily than before.

And though Peter clearly didn’t try to hide when he’d gone and kissed one of his best friends in full view of god and everyone, part of him, he decided, was somewhat grateful that you had maintained some privacy.

And it’s nice.

-

The next person to be made aware is Ned.

On wednesdays, you walk Peter and Ned to decathlon practice before embarking on your train ride home. Ned talks excitedly about the progress he’s made on the coding project due next week, pleased to be a couple days ahead of where he’d expected to be. The hallways are empty now that everyone has gone home or to clubs, and there is no one else around to witness the kiss.

Outside, it’s raining. The rain has been coming down in heavy sheets for most of the day, but now the clouds have opened up, leaving nothing more than a pleasant drizzle and a pretty grey sky. You point it out as you pass by the large window across from the door to the decathlon practice room.

“Looks like it’s almost cleared up for the day.”

Peter pulls his backpack off his shoulder to shuffle through it and is quick to pull a small red umbrella from the middle pocket. “Here, take this,” he offers, extending it out to you.

It’s a sweet gesture, but you decline. You actually kind of like the feeling of being rained on.

The attempt at helpfulness was appreciated anyway, though, and without much thought you reach up to grasp gently around the back of his neck. The kiss you pull him down into is casual, and yet somehow quite serious with the presence of your friend. When you release him his eyes are wider than they had been before. He’s still got the backpack and umbrella gripped in each hand, almost like he’s forgotten he was holding them.

“See you guys,” you say, trying for a smile, and turn to leave through the nearest door.

“Bye!” Ned calls after you, excitement in his voice.

Peter shakes himself back into the moment and packs away the umbrella. Ned is grinning like he’s been told a juicy secret, and Peter supposes that in some ways he kind of was.

And yet, after he’s gotten over the initial surprise, Peter recognizes that what had happened was so natural. So normal. His chest has never felt lighter.

“That’s new,” Ned says as the glass door clicks shut behind you at the other end of the hallway.

Peter swings his bag back over his shoulder. “Not exactly,” he admits, a smile alighting across his features, “Alright, time to go.”

Ned enters the room first, shooting Peter an exaggerated look of mostly-amused betrayal. Peter follows him in, laughing at Ned’s scandalized No fair!, and feels your affection on his skin for the rest of practice.

Things are great.

-

Midtown Tech’s academic decathlon team sails to a victory at the national competition in Washington two weeks later. You’re in the crowd, of course, having promised Peter that you wouldn’t miss it as long as he promised not to vanish at the last minute like last time. He hits the buzzer a fraction of a second before the other team can. His answer is right, because they always are.

The lobby is packed with teams and audience members, but Midtown is easy to spot in the crowd thanks to their lemon yellow jackets and the trophy that Flash is hoisting above their heads. You push through the crowd, spotting Peter at the front of the group, and rush forward to meet him.

“Peter!”

He looks over to gain sight of you as you appear between a pair of audience members. Delight of winning fills him to his ears, pride is emanating from you, and you’re running to him. His team is still surrounding him, but the fact that they’re there to witness you is meaningless. The distance closes between you. The world is more in focus that it has ever been.

Forethought isn’t even there. It doesn’t need to be. 

Peter catches your face between his hands and kisses you.

Your arms are thrown out for a hug you weren’t able to give. Peter’s nose bumps weirdly against yours for a moment before he can fit his lips into their proper place. The press of his lips is almost forceful, but only in his eagerness. When you bring your hands to rest gently on his sides, the pressure lightens, being replaced by the upturn of a smile that can’t help but appear.

Pulling back, he flashes you a bright smile.

“I kind of think we’re dating,” you say, almost an offer but mostly just a confirmation.

His laughter is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

“We’d better go on a date then.”

Everything is perfect.

Tag list

@souvenirsvisuels

[varietydisco]

Hay Fever and Other Romantic Gestures

Pairing: Bill Williamson/Kieran Duffy Rating: General Audiences Tags: Crushes, Bill being soft on the DL, Jack is also there hanging out Word count: 3k

Description:

Bill gives in and lets Jack put flowers in his hair, but he doesn’t count on someone watching them.

There was a lot of thinking to be done sober.

It wasn’t usually a good thing, and thus lead to a lot of negative thoughts, but today was an exception. Bill could sit in the warm afternoon sun with his hat down over his eyes, drifting in and out of sleep without a care in the world. It was rare, but when it came it was sweeter than honey and more valuable than gold.

The grass was green and sweet smelling. The smell of wildflowers and fresh pine seemed to float on the breeze. Bill couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable, mentally and physically. For the time being, he could forget his worries and let them melt into the spring ground.

Bill was laid up a good ways outside of camp, in a little clearing with tall grass and swaying trees on all sides. The only sound to be heard was the stream babbling not far off.

He thought about everything and nothing all at the same time. Mostly, Bill drank in the warm sun, the sweet smells, and the soft sounds. It was all gentle enough that Bill could have fallen asleep.

But footsteps approaching kept him from doing so. Light, clumsy ones.

Bill didn’t need to wonder who was coming around, because once they got within a few feet, Jack’s squeaky voice asked, “You sleepin’, Bill?”

Bill grunted. “Tryin’ to.”

A thoughtful silence came from Jack. Bill heard him hum under his breath.

“Grandpa’s lookin’ for ya. He sent me to find ya.” Jack stated. His voice and steps got closer until he was directly beside Bill. “Called you a lot of mean names.”

Bill pushed his hat up a bit. “Which one?”

“Said you was a lazy and dumb son of a—”

“Which grandpa?” Bill corrected sharply.

“Oh.” Jack sat down in the grass. Bill heard it rustle under him. “Grandpa Hosea.”

Bill pushed his hat back down. He grumbled nonsense.

A breeze whistled through the canopy of leaves overhead; they shook and rustled a melody that filled the clearing. Jack plucked a fistful of grass from beside him and then scattered it in the wind.

Bill sighed into his hat.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Jack shook his head. “No... Jus’ that he wanted to find ya, and make sure you wasn’t rottin’ somewhere.”

“Great.” Bill grumbled. “Don’t tell ‘em I’m here. First time I’ve got some peace an’ fuckin’ quiet...”

“I won’t tell,” Jack whispered. He ripped up more grass and sprinkled it in his lap. “Promise.”

Bill made another throaty noise. Jack thought he sounded like an animal, which made him smile.

They both sat there in silence for a moment. Bill was thinking mostly about falling asleep, and Jack was plucking grass and generally disturbing the wildlife. It was a fine fit.

Bill didn’t mind Jack; he was a good kid. It would have shocked a lot of people to find out that Bill didn’t really mind kids this way or that. He thought they were cute, if nothing else.

His sister had a couple kids. Bill used to make it a point to go see them every once and a while for their birthdays, but after coming back from the war, things got too complicated for that. The last time he saw his nieces, they were Jack’s age, or around there; now they must have been ten or twelve.

Thinking of it in terms of years made an uncomfortable feeling swell in Bill’s guts. He pushed it aside.

Jack shuffled beside him and got to his feet. He trudged away without a word, leaving Bill to the ambient sounds of the clearing.

Spring was a weird time of year. People always raved about its beauty and how it meant that winter was finally over, but as far as Bill was concerned, it wasn’t even that great; the first half of every spring was spent dead and dreary while the snow melted, and the rivers flooded. It wasn’t until May that the trees grew leaves and the wildflowers sprouted. Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, if it all just came quicker. And if Bill didn’t need to trudge through mud puddles and sinkholes for three months while everyone else raved about how beautiful it was out, maybe he wouldn’t mind.

But he did. People called him bitter for it, but damn the spring and everything else it entailed.

Over the sound of the bubbling brook came an equally airy giggle. Footsteps crunched and came up beside Bill. Bill raised his brow to himself behind his beat-up hat. Otherwise, he stayed still.

Jack giggled again, though it sounded like he was trying to smother the sound. Bill felt something tickle his face.

“What’re you doin’, Jack?” Bill asked. His voice was hard, though it missed any real malice.

“Nothin’.” Jack replied innocently.

“Better be nothin’. You won’t like me mad.”

Jack burst into wild giggles. He fell back as Bill suddenly sat up and pulled the hat away from his eyes.

Jack had a fistful of daisies and golden rod, and a huge grin on his flushed, chubby cheeks. He kept laughing, and it took a second for Bill to realize why.

Bill reached up and touched his beard; he felt soft petals and stems sticking out. Upon glancing down, he saw a few flowers weaved into his bushy facial hair. He pulled one out and examined it, then turned an exaggerated scowl to Jack.

“This funny to you?” He demanded.

The laughter stopped, and Jack faltered for a second. His expression shifted from amusement towards something more scared and uncertain.

Bill reached out and ruffled Jack’s hair. He then stuck the daisy behind Jack’s ear.

“‘Cause I think it is,” Bill finished. He had a crooked, uncharacteristic smile as he tilted his head back. “Gimme a few more. Make me smell nice.”

Jack’s lips spread with a grin again. Nodding happily, he hopped to his feet and returned to weaving flowers into Bill’s beard. Bill closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

Bill didn’t mind being silly sometimes, just as long as it stayed between them. He figured that even if Jack did go telling others, no one would believe him, anyway.

Big ol’ mean Bill putting flowers in his hair?

Never. Not a chance in Hell.

As the stem of a daisy ticked his chin, Bill cracked open his eye. Jack looked set and serious, as if the task at hand was the most precise and technical one he’d ever had to do.

Bill thought it was cute.

“You really like flowers, huh?” Bill asked. “You’re always pickin’ ‘em an’ whatnot.”

“Uh-huh! I think they’re pretty,” Jack said enthusiastically. “Aunt Tilly even showed me how to make a daisy chain.”

“Ya don’t say? Daisies are my favourite flower. You figure you could make me one?”

Jack’s eyes lit up. He bounced on his feet, grinning wide.

“Yeah, course!” Jack shoved his handful of flowers towards Bill. “Hold these, I’ll go get the daisies! There’s big ol’ patch of ‘em by the water!”

“Alright, go ahead,” Bill said as he took the flowers delicately. “Don’t get too close to the stream.”

“I won’t— you stay here, now! I won’t be one second!”

Bill watched Jack bound off, excitedly scrambling through the tall grass. Two seconds, and he disappeared through the lining of trees like a faun.

The silence of the woods surrounded Bill once more. Smiling gently to himself, Bill lifted Jack’s flowers to his nose. He closed his eyes as he breathed deep and enjoyed the sweet scent. Maybe spring wasn’t as bad as he thought.

And then someone sneezed not far off.

Bill’s eyes snapped open, and he jerked his head towards the sound. His eyes roved over the lining of trees surrounding the clearing, though at first, he didn’t see anything.

Bill squinted and shifted up to his feet. The hard edge returned to his voice. His cheeks went red with rage and embarrassment at potentially being caught.

“Who’s out there?”

Naturally, no one replied. Bill still waited, looking comical holding a bouquet of wildflowers with a beard full of daisies and shedding golden rod. He glared around angrily.

Another loud sneeze, and Bill located the onlooker.

Kieran was half-hidden behind a birch tree, hunched over and clutching his mouth. His eyes were wide with shock.

Neither of them moved. For a long moment, they stared at each other, equally surprised and confused. When nothing that immediately endangered his health happened, Kieran dropped his hand and smiled weakly at Bill.

That made Bill come to his senses. Cheeks flushing even hotter, Bill threw the flowers to the ground and bellowed, “Goddamn O’Driscoll!”

The smile dropped off Kieran’s face. Instead, it replaced itself with genuine terror. Kieran turned and scattered, his heart pounding. Bill thundered behind him, hollering out, “Don’t you fuckin’ run, you chicken shit!”

Kieran figured if he made it to camp again he would be in the clear, or at least that he could climb a tree and hide up there, worst come to worst. However, he only made it about ten feet when his foot caught on an upturned root. Kieran pitched forward with a yelp; he fell on his hands and knees into a blanket of pine needles and moss. Kieran flipped onto his back, and Bill was upon him.

You’d think it would be hard to be afraid of a man with daisies weaved into his beard, but Bill had a burning hate in his eyes that made Kieran want to cower. Kieran winced, his arms flinging up to cover his face as Bill pounced in his lap.

At the force and Bill’s weight, Kieran wheezed. Bill grabbed a fistful of Kieran’s shirt and reeled his other fist back, ready to strike.

“You little shit,” Bill hissed. “How much did you see?”

Kieran held his hands up defensively, as if he had the strength to fend off Bill even if he wanted to.

“I don’t know! I mean, I—I didn’t see nothin’!” Kieran hesitated. He anxiously eyed Bill’s poised fist. “Nothin’ worth tellin’ anybody about, anyhow.”

“You’re damn right you didn’t see nothin’. Because if anybody finds out about this, I’ll take your fuckin’ head off your shoulders.”

For emphasis, Bill psyched Kieran out by shoving his fist forward. Kieran flinched, his face contorted with fear.

“How long was you watchin’, anyhow?” Bill demanded.

“Just a few moments! I followed Jack out here t—to make sure he was stayin’ out of trouble.”

“Or was you tryin’ to get dirt on me?”

“What? No!” Kieran’s insides felt squirmy and odd. Bill was practically on top of him, and inches from his face. His own freckled cheeks were a deep, ruddy red. “Why would I— what would I even do with dirt on ya? N—nobody at camp trusts my word, anyhow.”

That kind of threw Bill for a loop. He faltered for a second, then screwed his expression up again. He jerked his fist towards Kieran’s face, making the latter cry out and flinch.

“Don’t matter! I ain’t gonna give you no ideas.”

“Okay! Okay. I—I just think it’s cute, is all, you know?” Kieran sputtered all at once. He turned his head away from Bill’s face and screwed his eyes shut. He tried not to think of how romantic this could have been if Bill wasn’t threatening to knock his block off. “You with Jack, I mean! You don’t look the fatherly type. It surprised me and I—I didn’t mean to spy on ya, I swear. I just—just thought it was cute.”

Once more, Bill faltered. Almost immediately, he blushed, and instead of confronting his mixed feelings towards that, he gave Kieran a good shake. Bill dropped his face close to Kieran’s.

“I ain’t fatherly, so don’t be sayin’ shit like that!” He hissed.

Kieran made a strangled noise as his head bounced off the mossy ground. Something like the word “okay” tumbled out of his mouth.

From behind them, Bill heard a twig snap. A quiet voice sang nonsense.

Bill looked back over his shoulder and watched as the tall grass by the brook shook and swayed as a little body moved through it.

“Shit,” Bill whispered.

He turned his evil glare back to Kieran. Kieran’s face was contorted in a strange way, but before Bill could ask or comment, Kieran jerked his head to the side and sneezed violently twice.

“Hay fever, sir,” Kieran managed. “I got... Hay fever. And the, uh, the pollen from your beard—”

Bill scoffed. He threw Kieran down to ground and then clambered to his feet.

“Get out of here.” When Kieran didn’t immediately move, Bill gave him a kick in the shin. “I said git! Go!”

Kieran nodded wordlessly. He scrambled around, grabbed his hat, and jumped to his feet. With a last, fleeting look and a small smile, Kieran turned and hurried his way back towards camp.

Bill adjusted his hat as he watched Kieran go. Once he was certain that Kieran was out of earshot, he turned around and wiped his cheeks down. They were still fiery red, and the encounter had left his heart fluttering in his chest like a rampant butterfly. He didn’t want to think about it, and he didn’t want to think of why he felt that way, even though he knew damn well.

As Bill lumbered back into the clearing, Jack emerged from the tall grass. He had fistfuls of daisies and other flowers Bill didn’t know the names of. Roots and dirt still hung from a few of the stems.

When Jack toddled over, his smile disappeared.

“You look mad.”

“I ain’t.” Bill replied sharply. He relaxed his shoulders afterwards and sat down in the grass. “...Come on. Show me how you make them... Daisy chains.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. His smile returned, and happily he knelt in front of Bill. He laid out all the flowers, oblivious to how distracted and weird Bill was acting.

“Okay! So, the first thing you do...”

                                                    —30—

Bill’s body ached. After riding all day, scouting the area and trying to hunt, he didn’t want to think, and he didn’t want to talk to nobody— all he wanted to do was lay down and sleep until noon the next day.

When he hitched his horse at the post, Kieran glanced up at him. His mouth moved as if he were going to say something, but a mean glare from Bill convinced him to shut it again. Didn’t help any that Kieran was about the last person Bill wanted to talk to, anyhow.

Their... Encounter in the woods had been three days ago now, and Bill hadn’t heard a word of it from anyone else, either to his face or behind his back. So, thus far, the O’Driscoll boy seemed to be keeping good to his word.

The camp seemed quieter today than usual, as Bill shambled his way towards his makeshift tent. That suited him just fine, though; less people wandering and talking meant that he could get some peace and quiet. Upon entering, Bill was immediately overcome with the desire to rest and sleep, but of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

In the low light, he noted something laid out on the bedroll.

A bouquet of daisies tied together at the stems with a bit of twine rope. Bill’s heavy brows furrowed. He knelt and picked them up to look closer.

“The O’Driscoll left ‘em there for you,” a small voice said from behind him.

Bill jumped a little with a surprised noise and jerked around.

Jack stood there, innocent as could be. Loosely, he clutched a toy horse.

“What did you say?”

“I says, the O’Driscoll left the flowers for ya.” For emphasis, Jack pointed at the flowers in Bill’s hand. “I helped him pick ‘em! He asked me where to find ‘em, so I showed him.”

Bill’s cheeks flushed. He looked again at the flowers in his hand and then shoved them out of sight partially behind his back.

“Great,” he grumbled. With his other hand, he shooed Jack away. “Leave me ‘lone, now. I wanna get some rest.”

“Are ya gonna thank him?” Jack asked. “Mama says you’re s’pposed to use manners. Pleases an’ thank yous, even if he is an O’Driscoll...”

“You worry about your own business before mine. Now git!”

With one hand on Jack’s shoulder, Bill steered the boy out. Afterwards, he closed the curtains of his tent which acted like a half-assed excuse for a door and settled in the half-dark. A little light came in from under the curtains, barely enough for Bill to see what he was doing. He brought the flowers back to his front.

Kieran had left these. Put effort into fancying them up, too.

Bill’s cheeks were red, and his heart raced.

After a moment of deep contemplation, he lifted the flowers to his nose and breathed. They smelled sweet and fresh, like how spring was supposed to smell. No mud or rain, or dirt or death.

Just sweet.

Maybe a little bit like puppy love.

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 7

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Less angst, some lewd undertones....actually it might be more than undertones. What I’m trying to say is that the “do will be done” at some point in this chapter and you might get to read some of that. K? Also...I’ve not done any corrective readings on this, sorry (I know, bad me).

7. Getting into shape

Daily walks with Loki helps rebuild some of your constitution, and each time the god notices improvement, he finds some task or exercise for you to undertake. Although some chores are less tempting, you don’t mind because it gives you something to do, not to mention a chance to understand the way of life in Utgard.

The new task of the day is even one you have been hoping to be given. Standing in the stables with a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow, the joy of working with or near animals is bubbling within you, making you giddy as you look up at the giant black horse. Already, you have zoned out Loki and the conversation he is having with the stable boys in the guttural, rumbling language of the Jötuns – none of what they say makes any sense.

You had managed to sneak an apple from your breakfast tray, hiding it in the pocket of the dress you have been given to wear for menial tasks. It’s a bit big for you, clearly made for a Jötun who generally are of bigger stature. Maybe it is made for a child? Either way, the rough material is comforting to you because it is what you have been used to, and it is much warmer than the flimsy silk gowns which are not made for the winter that is settling over the kingdom.

A soft muzzle nudges your shoulder, making you realize that you have lost yourself in thoughts. Mumbling an apology, you give the horse the fruit and enjoy the loud munching, adding to the companionship by stroking the smooth neck of the beast. Even the strands of its mane are silky to the touch, threatening to sidetrack your thoughts again. The silent exasperation rolls through your lungs, then you begin the work.

Once upon a time when life was normal, you had become the one to tend to the larger animals of the little village although they were not shared property. But the three cows, one donkey, two mules, and a score sheep and goats mixed were easier tended to in a single herd, allowing more villagers to work at the quarry or tend to other tasks benefitting everyone in the tight-knit community. All hands were needed. From a young age, you spend full days in the pastures before the new enclosure stood finished, and after that your time was divided between the animals and seasonally dependant chores. You grew confident in the much larger beasts presence, learned to understand their behaviour as easily as if they spoke to you.

“Come on now,” you mumble to your new companion while nodding at the wet hay below the enormous hooves, “you don’t wanna step in that, do you?”

A huff and shameful shake of the mane provides the answer, and a nod to another corner of the stall is enough to get the stallion moving. He’s so gentle. Patting the creature as a way of showing your appreciation, you resume the work of cleaning out the dirty bedding.

Side-eyeing the black horse, you keep talking gently to him. “What do I even call you, huh? Can’t just call you any silly ol’ name…”

“His name is Magni.”

Maybe you manage to hide how the voice startles you. You hope so. There is no reason to look for who is answering you because even if you had not recognized Loki’s soft tone, there is still only one other who speaks your language. How long has he been standing so close, watching?

“Magni.” You stroke the horse’s flank before dumping the last pitchforkful into the wheelbarrow.

“One of the boys will take it from here.” Loki announces.

The secretive curl in his voice is slightly unsettling, creating a cool seed of worry in your guts that grows and begins to bloom as you follow the king of Jotunheim through the courtyard and out the heavy gates.

It is the first time you set foot outside the castle grounds during the day, and even the view from your chambers have not prepared you for the endlessness of the landscape on this side of the old fortress. Standing on top of a giant hill, the landscapes fall away in rolling waves of faded green dotted with shrubs and ragged cliffs on which lichen grow. Here and there is a birch tree, naked against the cold winds that flattens grass and whirls leaves towards the grey clouds that are hanging heavily above. Further off are the rivers and dark woods of evergreens. Whoah.

“Yes, it may appear a harsh or even unforgiving land to most, but I find Jotunheim holds a beauty best appreciated in the changing of the seasons.”

The comment could have been meant as bragging. It’s not. There might be a lot to learn about him because, truth be told, nothing you had been told had turned out to be right. Months around him had not proven quite as fruitful in terms of getting to know him as you had hoped, and yet…Oh! No! Not going there again! A warm knot is already forming in the pit of your belly, matched only by another heat in your cheeks. You don’t want to look over at him, nervous he might be watching you for any reactions. He may be an enigma to you, however, a suspicion that the god is able to read your mind is increasingly prevalent. He is in your mind, under your skin, appearing in dreams that have no business appearing let alone starting an aching need between you legs. So now you stand beside him, looking over the rolling hills of this wild, rugged kingdom and knowing that you cannot escape even if you tried because this world is an unforgiving one.

Outside the shielding walls of the keep, nothing keeps the wind away. Tearing at you clothes and hair, it sends a chill into your bones and a shiver is setting in.

“Here.” Loki wraps a cloak around your shoulders and fastens the clasp under your chin. “It is time you learn about the area.”

It is wonderful to be out and about despite the slight worry that creeps in as the two of you move away from the solid structure that has been your prison for soon two seasons. Thoughts are racing through your head, analyzing everything about the situation and any potential reasons might have for taking you out here. Kill me? No, he would not have a problem doing that at the keep, he has proven that before. Imprison me elsewhere? That would be impractical, considering how much time the tall man spends in your company. Have his way with me? The idea does not scare you as much as you do (that does frighten you, though), but either way it is still just as unlikely as murdering you. Each idea becomes more and more farfetched, granting you no peace. This is how it has been since Loki came back and practically saved you. Was that planned? Nothing in your world is right anymore, fueling a desperate determination to find out what is going on then. Maybe, as things begin to make sense, the strained tension will dissipate.

Rounding the top of the hill brings the forest visible from you windows into view. An arm is stretching for the keep and it is towards that that Loki now strides, his long legs carrying him so fast that you sometimes have to run a little bit to keep up – not that you are sure you really want to, but being left alone in a distinctively different land than your own is not anything you want either.

By the time you reach the trees, the first snowflakes of the winter are floating down from the leaden clouds to settle in your hair, on the cape. On the mosses that carpet the forest floor in shades not unlike Loki’s eyes when they flicker darkly each time they travel over your form. No, wait, I wasn’t going to think like that! Leafless birch and rowan are replaced by the spruce and fir that shield better from the cold but strengthens the shadows until the two of you are walking in perpetual dusk. It is all too easy to imagine the dangerous creatures roaming the woods, and it urges you to stay closer to the god leading the way. Thankfully, he has slowed down.

It feels like hours before he finally stops, making you bump into him because you no longer have been paying attention. For a second, you freeze with fear of what Loki will do as he reaches out to you, but he only wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into his lap as he sits. There is no part of your body that does not ache. Knees are weak. Finally. Looking around, you see the seat is simply a large, flat stone placed almost perfectly in a circle of taller granites shaped by rough carvings. Old figures are staring down with empty eyes below horns that turn into ridges creating swirling patterns adorning their naked bodies. Naked bodies with surprisingly detailed…parts. Though you are no virgin, it still makes you blush.

“Makes one think, does it not?” Loki asks playfully, his hand drifting to your thigh, and you watch it with apprehension. “These are ancient carvings made by the ancestors of the Jötun. My people.”

Before your very eyes, the hand of the god changes. Transforms. The fingers grow a bit longer…or maybe it is the entire hand that grows? It does not matter, though, because there are other alterations: skin grows blue like cobalt and dark lines appear before rising into ridges. For a moment, your eyes flash to the crude statues then back to find that the nails now are black and claw-like.

“Look at me, [Y/N].” Loki begs softly.

A deep breath steels you, making it possible to turn to face the Jötun. There are no horns adorning his brows though the ridges are a bit more prominent. His eyes. Black pupils in an endless see of dark red. Orbs of blood. I’ve seen this before. Vague memories attempt to claw back to the surface, but they do not bring the same terror that you once associated with Loki’s strange nature. Instead, you find him strikingly handsome. Every trait that have haunted your dreams as forbidden desires are enhanced, mixing with a raw tenderness as he exposes what must be his true form to you.

A small frown fails to wrinkle the ridges on his forehead. “You do not fear me?”

“I’m sure you can be…ermm…scary like a monster if angered, but…” You hesitate in order to make sure. “No…I don’t fear you because of…this…” With a vague wave of a hand, you gesture his appearance.

Watching his lips curl in a smile adds to the confusion in your body. He looks truly happy, reminding you of how rarely you have seen joy in his eyes. Your hand cups his face before you know it, the thumb stroking a chiseled cheekbone. This is his real form. It should be frightening, as he suspected. The reaction is far from that, instead showing itself as a warm knot in the pit of your belly and an insistent tugging at your heartstrings.

I should know better. The words are meaningless. Stretching, you brush your lips against his. Heat meeting cold and your breaths mingling as the kiss deepens. Loki inhales sharply when you run your fingers through the dark strands to pull him closer, and you grab the opportunity to slip your tongue in.

He has you straddling him soon enough. Blue and, to you, normal coloured hands are tugging at clothes, searching for skin to mark and explore in any way possible. More. The aching need between you legs is back, followed by a dampness that begs for contact and has you fumbling with belts and buckles to free his manhood until he stops you by reaching his goal first. Shivers race through your limbs as long, cold digits delve between the folds, spreading the slick and making you moan breathlessly by the time he reaches the sensitive nub. More. Suddenly, you can only hold on, hands fisting his black hair and teeth digging into his shoulder to maintain a semblance of decency.

You are gasping shamelessly when he finally retracts is fingers from inside you to undo his belt. More.An insatiable craving is eating away at you as you watch him free his cock (also blue and with smaller ridges tracing spiral patterns along the shaft), and you have your hands wrapped around it as soon as you can. Exploring. Pumping gently until his head falls back and he groans softly. More. Nimble and determined, you reposition yourself to slide him in. Slowly. The cold of his erection soothing the stretch.

[jenunderscore]

The Walk

It was a sunny day in late September when Beth decided to skip working at her desk and instead head out to the forest where she could wander, without worrying about timelines and deadlines.

It wasn’t the kind of thing that she did often, but it was days like this, when the sun shined through the leaves of the tree outside her window when she found it impossible to stay seated at her computer.

The air outside was crisp but the sun was warm. Exactly what the doctor ordered.

She’d always felt like a rat in a wheel. From the first day she stepped through the door of an office. She always told herself this desk job situation was temporary. Yet here she was, pushing 40, and still doing the same thing she’d done since that first day on the job.

A lowly pixel pusher, rearranging words and pictures on a screen so that some person she’d never met could churn it into more money to fuel the corporate machine.

Out in nature, Beth remembered who she was. A little girl that daydreamed about where she would build her witch hut in the forest. Always looking for a small clearing slightly off the trail, with a nice a view and close to resources like fallen branches to build her cottage.

It was silly, but she still did it every time she walked through the forest, especially in the fall, and today was no exception.

She’d never walked this trail before, she knew it was popular with the locals and so she hoped that she didn’t run in to too many dog walkers, or worse, someone she knew. Silence is what she was seeking.  

About an hour into her walk, she could still hear the hum of the highway and decided to do a little off-roading and wander deeper into the forest. She also had to pee. Ever since having kids, her bladder didn’t quite have the capacity to keep up with her. The kids. She couldn’t forget that she had to go pick them up today. They’d both been kicked off the bus last week and as a work-from-home Mom she was the lucky one who got to play the role of chauffeur while Dad worked the regular day job.

As Beth wandered deeper into the forest, she reminded herself to remain grateful for the fact that she had arranged her life to afford the ability to take a day off when she wanted or cut the workday short to play Mom duty.

As she pondered the various pros and cons of her life’s situation, she hadn’t noticed that the trees were changing. When she had gone off-trail to pop a squat and do a little off-roading, the trees were your standard straggly young birch and maple. In this part of the forest though, the trees were bigger with thick branches that created a canopy that almost completely obscured the blue sky. It wasn’t until she shivered that she snapped out of her daydreaming and looked around to find that she was completely disoriented. She had been following the sun, but now she couldn’t really tell what direction she was headed.

Setting her backpack on the ground, she dug into her front pocket where she always kept her phone, and quickly realized it wasn’t there. “Dammit!” she said, the first words she’d uttered out loud since leaving the house that morning.

Why was it that she never seemed to put her phone in the spot that it was supposed to be? One by one, she removed every item from her bag. A notebook, a small blanket, the snack she packed herself, her car keys, a lighter and a small joint. “Fuck!” No phone.

So, she laid out her small blanket on the ground, lit her joint and puffed as she tried to figure out where she was.

She guessed that she’d been away for about 3 hours by this point. How could she be so stupid? In her mind’s eye, she could see her phone sitting in the console of her car. If she was to get to the school on time, she’d have to start heading back soon, but if she headed out in the wrong direction, she would certainly not make it in time.

As a kid she would frequently flip through her father’s outdoor survival guides and as she sat there, she tried to remember something about what side of the tree that moss grew on. Was it the north or south side? And if she was following the sun, that means she was walking east, right? She started to hum the tune to the “Beauty and the Beast” song, the part where Angela Lansbury sings “Certain as the sun, rises in the East”, and figured that was her cue to butt out her smoke and start to get serious about heading back the way she came.

As she packed her things into her bag, she heard a rustle in the tall grasses around the clearing. She froze and noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye. Holding her breath, she slowly turned her head in the direction of the sound and caught another movement in the grasses. For a second, she thought she was hallucinating, but she was a seasoned stoner, and in all her years she had never had a hallucination.

The white snake was sitting as frozen as she was with its head peaked in her direction. It’s black tongue busy at work, sniffing the air, as it sized her up. She wondered whether it was poisonous and didn’t recall anything about white snakes in her survival guides. It was slightly larger than your average garden snake and she wondered if it was simply an albino. She quickly discounted the idea as its eyes were black and not pink. She felt an overwhelming sense of calm as she stood nose to nose with the beautiful creature. She liked snakes, and feeling inspired by her morning of imagining herself as a forest witch, asked “Are you my familiar?”

The snake uncoiled itself and moved towards her as though in response. Without much thought, she reached out her hand and invited the snake to climb aboard. The snake’s skin was surprisingly warm to the touch but at this point she was beyond the point of being frightened, the snake had completely charmed her. As the snake continued to crawl up her arm towards her neck, she noticed that the snake seemed much larger than it had a moment ago.

The snake coiled itself around her shoulders, down her other arm and it continued to span the length of her body. How was this possible? She was certain the snake was getting longer as it slithered around her, yet, she was still not frightened. In fact, her heart rate seemed to be slowing and her thoughts began to slow along with it. She was no longer thinking about what side the moss was growing, what time of day it was, or even about her kids. Her mind was a completely blank, like a pure white light.

After what felt like only a few seconds, she opened her eyes. Her first thought was that she didn’t remember closing them. Her second thought was “Where the fuck am I?”.

- The End -

(the snake was poisonous and she’s dead now)

[lifeisafunnyplace]

It was a beautiful Saturday, one of the warmest this year, a kind of day where most kids packed their bags and left for the lake. Chanyeol had followed Baekhyun to the pond instead. It had become their thing over the summer. Baekhyun didn’t like it too much by the big lake. By the pond, he could patiently wait in the shadow, rest his back on the trunk of one of the white birches while his goofy friend splashed around in the water. No one asked questions or teased him for not jumping in.

His mother always told them to be careful, and to stay away from the pond. Yet, the pond was where they ran.

They ran past their twisted climbing tree, under low hanging branches of pines, not having enough time for the longer way, until they finally could see the familiar pattern of white lilies scattered out on the shiny surface of the pond.

As always, Chanyeol pulled off his shorts and shirt, kicked away his shoes and let himself fall backwards into the black water. It might be sludgy, but it felt like silk on his too warm and sticky body.

While Chanyeol splashed around between green reed and white lilies, ducked under just to pop back up another place, hair and skin covered in tiny drops of mud, Baekhyun just watched. He watched out for him, as he used to word it.

Chanyeol didn’t believe in the stories, he didn’t tease Baekhyun about it either. If his best friend was afraid of water, then let him be. Chanyeol never pushed it.

The stories Baekhyun referred too were the ones his grandma used to tell. On snowy days when they had stumbled into her warm kitchen after chasing a fox, or each other, she tucked them in warm blankets in front of the fireplace. While socks and shirts were spread out on warm bricks, and their fingers curled around mugs of steaming tea, she told them all the familiar stories. Some of them cute, some really creepy.

She was right about the pond looking bottomless, it was too black too see anything down there. Chanyeol had tried, but never been able to dive deep enough to reach the bottom. He still knew it was there. How could anything be bottomless anyway? And he understood it was possible to tangle your feet into the lilies strong stems. But that they could drag you under? That the lilies could hold you until the nøkk or a wood nymph would find you? Not possible.

They were just fairy tales. Therefore, he jumped in.

It was not like the lake. There he could be swimming around for a long time, until his feet turned numb from how chilled the water was. The pond was warmer, but also muddy. Spending time on land next to Baekhyun was the fun part of their expeditions anyway.

Chanyeol crawled back up and spread himself out on the soft moss to let his body dry in the sun. Baekhyun moved closer, close enough to reach out to touch. Using one finger, he painted silly figures and patterns in the faint layer of mud covering Chanyeol’s long upper body. Chanyeol tried his best not to laugh too much from the tickling sensation. Chewing on his lip he tried his best to focus on the single finger and to guess what it was Baekhyun was drawing.

It felt like tiny hearts.

“What do you think love is?” Baekhyun sounded lost in thoughts, his voice soft and dreamy. “My mother tells me ‘you won’t know until you’ve kissed and lost your heart in it’

“So you have to kiss to know it is love?”

Chanyeol had to think for a moment, he had never thought much about it, not until resently. “I don’t know. It’s just something my mother used to tell me.” Chanyeol rolled over on his side, rested his head on his arm so he could look at his friend.

“My mom says lots of stupid stuff, like ‘don’t kiss a hulder, then you’ll never get your heart back.’, so you can’t really listen to her talking about love. She never answers properly to those questions anyway.”

This had both of them laughing. Mrs. Park was a kind woman, but she joked around a lot, told the kids funny stories. For many years, Chanyeol was afraid of eating berries because his mom once told him the tiny seeds in them could start growing in his stomach.

“But how do you know if something is love? Is it possible to love someone when you are just a kid?”

“Of course it is! I love my brother” Sehun might be a pain in the ass, but Chanyeol never doubted that he loved his stupid brother.

“You don’t want to kiss your brother.”

Chanyeol dropped his head to the ground and groaned, clearly annoyed with his friends stupidity. “Of course not and I don’t know, I love you. You are my very best friend.”

“You’d like to kiss me again?”

How dared he? Baekhyun had promised never to mention it again. Chanyeol didn’t know what he wanted or not. After that day, something had changed in him and he felt so much closer to his friend. It was scary as hell and he was never going to admit it, and most important, never letting it happen again.

“No! I mean, not love you like that”

Chanyeol’s gaze was strong and angry enough to make the other chuckle shyly and utter as weak “Sorry”.

None of them had it in them to stay quiet for very long though. Slowly the conversation turned to safer places, like school and how much work they had to do. Parents never seemed to be happy enough and just why did one have to work on warm summer’s days? All the important questions being discussed while the sun travelled from south to west on the sky.

Chanyeol had jumped into the pond once more to cool down and was happily splashing around. Baekhyun had kicked off his shoes too and for once he pushed his body closer to the edge. Carefully, tentatively, he let his toes breach the surface.

It didn’t take long until he had both his feet dipped in water, tapping the surface with them, making tiny swirls that made the water even muddier than it already was.

Baekhyun looked so incredible pretty sitting close to the water. Chanyeol probably let his gaze linger on his friend for too long, at least long enough for him to feel the need to duck under to cool down his ears. Soft, messy, blonde hair framed his tiny face and rays of warm evening sun painted his skin in golden tones. Reflection from the water made all of him sparkle, as if he was covered in tiny crystals, all of him. Baekhyun didn’t even look human.

Chanyeol ducked under once more, had to focus and shake away those thoughts. Still under water, he swam closer to his friend, popped his head up just in front of him, surprice!

When Chanyeol thought of it later, he knew he had been wrong. He had been the worst friend. Of course he knew that Baekhyun didn’t know how to swim, how could he know when he never tried. Chanyeol had forced him into the water anyway.

He remembered every second of it.

With a firm grip on both of Baekhyun’s ankles, he pulled his friend into the lily-covered pond. Close to land, they had their feet safely tucked in soft mud, but as Chanyeol jumped backwards and pulled Baekhyun with him, there were no longer any ground for their feet to rest on.

It was not funny for many seconds. His friend’s desperate cry behind his back was going to haunt him for years.

Tall trees were making shadows on the surface that made it even more hopeless to see anything. Chanyeol sucked in as much air he could in his lungs and rubbed his eyes before he ducked under again, and again. He yelled his name so loud it had nesting birds flee the area. He crawled up on the grass on the other side, the scary side with all the lilies, and dived back in.

Baekhyun had to be somewhere. The pond was not that big and he had not pulled him that far from the edge. No one just disappear in thin air, or black water.

How long does it take for swirling water to turn completely still?

Chanyeol had been sitting under a tree for longer than that. Alone, with his knees bent up against his chest and arms tightly wrapped around them. His limbs were stiff from swimming, lungs exhausted from holding the breath for too long, eyes red and itchy from being forced open in the sludgy water. It had been to no use.

Chanyeol knew he had to run home, to gather as many people as possible, to tell, to run back, to search all night. He just needed a moment to rest because right now the claws he felt in his chest, were close to ripping his heart apart.

He tightened his grip around his legs a notch more, stared out over the shiny surface with an empty gaze and focused on getting air into his bruised lungs. All he could see was waterlilies. Those damn waterlilies.

[sockablock]

Here’s Chapter 4 of my Critical Role backstory fic, this time featuring Beauregard! It’s the longest one so far; I had a lot to write about the Disaster Lesbian™ (check out Fjord, Caleb, and Jester too!)

Word Count: 4686

From Where We Came: Chapter 4, Beauregard

Beauregard is born in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, to parents glowing with immense pride. Beauregard is hastily handed off to her nurse in the early morning hours of the 18th of Brussendar, in the height of summer, by parents who don’t even do their new daughter the kindness of hiding their disdain and disappointment. She is whisked away, down the hall, to a different room furnished in soft blues and filled with little wooden toys and plush animals. She is placed into a wooden crib. The nurse leaves. In the lonely quiet, the newborn girl begins to cry.

“No, Beau, dearest, stop fussing with your dress,” her mother scolds quietly. “This is a very important tour, and you mustn’t behave this way. It would look absolutely terrible for your father if you caused a scene.”

“But, Mama,” Beau protests, “I hate wearing this dress. The lacy parts are itchy and the sleeves are too long.”

 Her mother pats her on the head. “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll get you another one made.”

 Beau pouts. “Mama, I don’t want another dress. I don’t want to wear a dress.”

 Her mother tuts quietly. “Don’t be silly, dear. Look, Mummy is wearing a dress, isn’t she? Don’t I look pretty? You look so pretty too.”

 Beau considers her mother. Then her eyes wander a few yards away, where her father is proudly showing off the brewery’s newest oak barrels to group of tall, very important-looking men. They are dressed in long coats, with their trousers tucked into sturdy, but well-made and needlessly fashionable boots.

“Why can’t I wear what Papa is wearing?” Beau asks. “He’s not got a dress on, so why do I have to wear one?”

 Her mother laughs. It’s a soft, twinkling sound, like a little bell. Beau knows this laugh. It’s the we’ve-got-company-and-my-child-is-talking-too-much laugh. Beau knows this laugh well.

 “You can’t wear trousers,” her mother says, “you’re a girl. You could if you were a boy, but you’re not, are you?”

 Beau knows the answer to that question. “No, Mama,” she says.

  Darien is a boy, and one of the most exciting people Beau knows. He’s eleven, two years older than she is. He’s the son of another winery owner, as renowned and as wealthy as Beau’s parents. The edges of their lands weave together easily enough, and he frequently slips away from his duties to go hang out with the rowdy girl next door. Together, they pester the workers and write cuss words in the dirt paths and chase each other through endless rows of gleaming purple grapes. During peak harvest season, one of their favorite things to do is steal the fattest grapes off the vines and meet in the woods between the properties to compare their loot. They sit together in one of the tallest trees and munch on grapes and talk of benign, childish things.

 “I could beat you up,” Beau says between mouthfuls.

 Darien considers the muddy hem of her dress, her rolled-up sleeves, the leaves in her hair. “Yeah,” he says, “You probably could.”

 “Probably could?” Beau raises an eyebrow.

 “Definitely could,” he admits. “But I’m not that strong.”

 From six feet up in the branches, Beau leans against the tree trunk. “That’s ok,” she says in a rare bit of open friendliness, “you’re good at other stuff. Like climbing trees and stealing things from your dad.”

 Darien shoots her a grin. “You won’t believe this,” he says, “but I picked a lock yesterday!”

 Beau’s eyes go wide. “No!” She exclaims. “Really? How did you do it?”

 His grin broadens. “I can show you when we finish these grapes!” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, even though there’s nobody around for ages here. “I lifted a set of thieves’ tools from one of the sheds,” he says, “and I’m not really sure why they were there, but it was probably fine because nobody goes in there ever anyways. And I was messing around in there but then I knocked some stuff over on the top shelves and it hit the door and then the door locked and then I was like oh, Pelor, I’m gonna die, but then I just shoved some of the hooks from the set into the lock and then it opened!” Darien takes a deep breath to refill his lungs. “And now I’m an expert rogue,” he concludes.

The pair stand in front of the door. “It’s not locked,” says Beau. “It was just rusty. I think you probably just messed with the inside hard enough to unstick it.”

 Darien gives her a reproachful look. “That’s basically lockpicking,” he says.

 “Nuh-uh,” Beau says.

 “Uh-huh,” he replies with scathing wit.

 “Nuh-uh,” Beau retorts eloquently.

 “Uh-huh. It wouldn’t open before, and now it does.”

 Beau considers this point. “Alright,” she says eventually, “I’ll give you that one. But it’s not lockpicking like real thief would lockpick.”

 Darien points a finger under her nose. “Then just you wait!” he declares. “I’ll learn how to be a real thief and then you can’t tell me what’s what anymore.”

 Beau grins. “Oh yeah? What if I do it first?” And she cuffs him over the head and scampers off, shouting about how real thieves could move quick as the wind. Darien gives chase, whooping loudly behind her.

Beauregard stares out the window, and chews on the end of her quill. The clouds look quite fascinating today, and the fact that she even had that thought must be a testament to how godsdamn bored she is. Father and Mother are making her check the books again, and even though her tutors have praised her mathematical skills (“When she applies herself she really is quite good,” the one with the annoying mustache had said.), Beau really can’t be bothered to even try and be interested in numbers. Even though her parents have hinted numerous times that she should be stepping up and helping out more with the business, Beau doesn’t want to. It’s boring. She’d rather run around outside or pick grapes or do almost literally anything else.

 She sighs and glances down at the page. Only a few rows left.

“You spoke out of line again, Beauregard! That tour was incredibly important, and your comments disrupted my guests and made me look like a fool!”

 “I’m sorry, father, I’m sorry! I won’t do it again.”

 “If you do, you know what the punishments are.”

 She does.

So when Beau accidentally lets slip to her parents that her clothes are always filthy because she spends all her free time traipsing through the woods with the neighbor’s son, she expects the worst. There are grave punishments for doing boy things. For being disruptive. For being ungrateful and ruining the lovely things we give her and being a bad, bad girl.

 What she doesn’t expect is for Mother to scoop her up in a big hug and cry tears of joy. What she doesn’t expect is the flicker of impressed surprise that flits across her father’s usually stoic face.

 “Oh, my darling, this is wonderful news!” Her mother gushes. “And you’re sure this is young Darien? You’re sure he likes to spend time with you?”

 Beau makes a face that neither of her parents notice. “Mama, of course I’m sure it’s Darien. And, uh, yeah.”

 “Oh, this will be absolutely fantastic for your father. Won’t it, dear?” She asks with a glance at her husband.

 He gives the slightest nod. “How old are you, Beauregard?”

 Beau looks down at the ground. “Twelve, Papa.”

 “You are rather young,” he muses, “but this opportunity…”

 Beau’s mother nods enthusiastically.

 Her father nods again, this time more firmly. Then his frown returns and he says, firmly, “But pleased as I am with this match, you two cannot keep spending time the way you currently are. No more of this running through the forests and getting into trouble. You are a young woman, and should compose yourself as such.”

 Beau can feel the weight of his gaze. She doesn’t like it.

“I can’t believe our parents are making us do this,” Darien groans. We’ve never had to be fancy around each other before.”

 Beau grumbles, misery dripping off her slumped shoulders. “This sucks ass,” she says. Swear words are still rather new to her, but she has a good feeling about them. She makes a mental note to ask the servants for some more.

 Meanwhile, Darien risks a glance over at where his mother and father are talking with Beau’s at the other end of the garden. They’re seated around a polished wooden tea-table and passing each other the weird little sandwiches that grownups like to eat. Between bites, they discuss (probably) the best way to ruin their kids’ lives. A maid hovering behind them, striking empty cups with the teapot like an eagle diving for heron. To the side a butler stands, staring at pink lilies, artfully pretending not to be waiting for commands while also waiting around for commands. Birds chirp in the flowering trees above them. A few bees hum softly in the background.

 Darien turns back to Beau, whose scowl has somehow gotten even deeper. “Hey,” he says, “do you think they’re doing this ‘cause they want us to…you know? Get married and stuff?”

 Beau sighs and gives a shrug. “That’s what they were talking about yesterday.”

 Their eyes meet, and they consider one another for a moment.  

 “No,” they say simultaneously.

 They both nod in acknowledgement of a good decision and slide further down on the bench. Beau’s dress, a horrific, daffodil-colored poofy nightmare, prevents her from achieving optimal slouch. Darien fidgets with his coat. They are basically in hell.

 Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Beau hops to her feet. “Okay, I’m done now. Let’s go.”

 A slow grin spreads across Darien’s face. “The birch tree by the river?”

 They wait for just the right moment. And while the parents are preoccupied with one another and the maid is busy fielding refills and the butler is distracted by a particularly unruly-looking begonia, they slip away, adults none the wiser.

Beauregard stares out her window. Her cheeks are sticky from dry tears, and the sniffling hasn’t quite stopped yet. Her face is still a bit puffy, and her eyes are bloodshot. But the worst relic from the last half-hour are the words, which she are trying desperately to bury so far into her subconscious that nothing would ever be able to bring them out again.  

 Horrible, useless child, how could you be so ungrateful—This was an incredible opportunity and your selfishness has ruined it—His parents were appalled at your behavior—How could you just run away like that and wreck everything—We raised you better—

 —Oh, for Pelor’s sake, stop crying, you’re nothing but an embarrassment. Get out of here, Beauregard. Get out and stay in your room while your Father and I try to fix the damage you’ve caused.

 Beau hits her forehead against the glass.

“Father is sending me away,” says Darien from outside the open library window. “I snuck over here so I could tell you, but I have to go back before he notices. He’s kind of still super pissed about our disappearing act.”

 “Yeah,” Beau mutters. “My parents are too. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

 Darien smirks. “The sticks up their asses are pretty lodged in there.”

 There is a brief silence. Then, “Where to?”

 “It’s an academy in Rexxentrum, if you can believe it. Apparently lots of young nobles and wealthy hoity toity assholes go there to learn…whatever it is they learn.”

 “How long?”

 “I don’t know. Father says it’s until I can ‘behave properly enough to live up to my duties,’ which I think is a load of shit.”

 “How long do you think that’ll take you?”

 “…I’m not sure. But I think he wants me to be there for like…a long time. A really long time.”

 “Will you come back?”

 The answer is instantaneous. “Yes,” Darien says. “I’m his heir. He said so himself.”

 “Alright then,” Beau closes the ledger she was working in. “I’ll probably be here when that happens. It’s not like my parents are going to do anything with me.”

 Darien leans through the window and reaches around Beau’s shoulders rather clumsily. “You’re my best friend,” he says.

 “You’re my brother, dumbass.” Darien doesn’t argue. And the next day, he is gone.

“Papa,” Beau asks tentatively at dinner, “am I your heir?”

 He continues to skim the documents in his hands. “No,” he says.

Beau continues to work the books for the brewery. It seems like the times she quietly retreats to the library to manage ledgers are the only times her parents don’t make their displeasure with her quite as overt.

 At least you’re good for something, goes unsaid.

 She also keeps up with her studies, though she really would rather not. History is about boring dead guys fighting in stupid wars because they do stupid things. Geography doesn’t matter; it’s not like you can do anything about it if you don’t like it, and it’s not like you need to keep an eye on it in case it runs away. She finds marginal interest in the stories of the gods from religious studies, but could do without the constant, underlying our gods are superior and nonbelievers are scum. Math has always just been math, and she couldn’t care less about the politics of the Empire.

 The only things she really enjoys reading are the tales of adventure she finds in the dustier sections of the library. She steals them from the shelves and hoards them in her room. At night, she’ll pull them out and reread her favorite parts by candlelight. She absolutely loves The Mountain Range of Gold, and almost cheered out loud when the protagonist resurfaced in Part 2. She delights in gratuitous descriptions of kick-ass fight scenes, and sometimes tries to reenact them with that a particularly kind onlooker might call “enthusiasm.”  

 There are also many, many romance scenes. Beau is unprepared for the sheet amount of…canoodling that some of these adventurers get up to. She’s rather annoyed by the unfortunate tendency of the broad-shouldered, handsome male characters (heroes) to sweep the beautiful, helpless female characters (love interests) off their feet. Beau could do without ever reading about a Sir Diggory and his seemingly endless muscles again. Usually she’s also disgusted by the way the women are portrayed, as gorgeous damsels with hearts of gold and not enough clothing and apparently very soft skin.

 Though sometimes, a small part of her is absolutely delighted. Beau isn’t sure what to make of that yet. Yet.

When she isn’t raiding the libraries or being forced to learn things, Beau continues to run through in the vineyard and the nearby forests. Doing so does feel a bit empty without Darien around, and the loneliness would never go away, but the sharp edges of solitude had smoothed down into soft corners over time. Besides, Beau has to do something, and stir craziness does not sit well with her. 

 So rather than mope around all day in the manor, which is probably what her parents would want, Beau climbs trees and wades through streams and throws pebbles (unmaliciously) at squirrels. She also has the clothing for it now. A while back, in a stroke of genius, she asked the one of the more slightly-built workers for a pair of trousers, a linen shirt, and a hefty pair of worker’s boots. Despite her worst fears of being reported to her mother, the boy didn’t seem to mind. And after a while of hanging around their quarters and volunteering to do chores and refusing to bugger off, the servants move from tolerating her presence to inviting her for drinks (non-alcoholic) and stories. She hears about daring adventurers from ages past, brilliant and bloody battles, and learns quite about the various criminal elements of the empire. One day, an older worker teaches her how to really pick a lock, which comes in handy on the nights she stays out too late and has to break into her own home. They help her touch up her disguise, which allows her to hang around outdoors when her parents expect her to be in the house doing ladylike things. They let her hide her outfit with their belongings, and even occasionally pass along other hand-me-downs to her.

 She has never been so free.

“You’ve gotten rather fit, haven’t you, Beauregard?” asks the dressmaker as she measures Beau for another terrible ensemble. “Just look at you!”

 Beau considers herself in the mirror. “I suppose so?”

 “I can’t imagine how,” says the dressmaker, “with you being home and learning to be a proper lady all the time.” The comment is pointed. It indicates that at any point Beau’s mother can be brought into the room and also shown how rather fit Beau has gotten.

 Beau sighs. “I promise I’ll stop squirming,” she says.

 “Don’t worry, dear, it’s refreshing. Too many young ladies these days look like a light breeze would blow them over.”

Beau can now successfully hang upside-down on a tree branch by her knees. She considers this one of the greatest achievements of her young life.

“Her tutors are quite impressed by her abilities,” her mother says to the guests in the drawing room. “Aren’t they, dear?”

 “Yes, Mother,” says Beau. Her hands are folded in her lap. This dress is blue, at least, but that only helps so much.

 The other ladies are speaking. They sound like birds tittering ceaselessly outside a bedroom window in the early morning.

 “Not too impressed, I would hope?” says one, louder than the rest. Beau doesn’t like her. She’s got hair that’s obviously going grey, though the woman tries to hide it under an ostentatious hat. There’s also a mole growing on the edge of her nose. It’s got more personality than she does.

 “A husband wouldn’t want his lady to be too clever, after all,” says the terrible woman. “Can’t have her getting too controlling of his household.”

 Beau’s mother laughs. It’s another tinkling laugh, the I’m-richer-than-you-and-we-both-know-it-so-don’t-you-dare-lecture-me laugh. “Of course, Deannie, she’s properly educated. She just excels at what she’s taught. Why, she was almost betrothed to young Darien. It’s just that his father decided the boy should be sent to school before committing to anything.”

 The women sip their tea in a manner that indicates how impressed they are. Beau wants to pick up the tea cart and use it to smash the window open.

Beau receives another letter from Darien. She crumples it up shortly after reading it. Then, immediately filled with regret, she picks it up and tries to smooth it out best as she can. Her fingers trace over the words.

 Beau,

 I’m sorry to say this but I won’t be coming back. Father is having me stay in Rexxentrum to be the face of his company in the capital. I know I promised I’d see you again, but there’s nothing I can do. Believe me, I tried to fight him about this. But he said that with him in Kamordah already, there’s no need for me to be at home. He wants me to be a businessman. You and I both know he won’t change his mind. You’re my sister, Beau, and I’m so sorry—

 She puts the letter in a drawer and goes to bed.  

There’s a new maid at the manor.

 Her name is Mariel. She has dark, curly hair and freckles across her nose. She moves like a storm through the Quarters, cussing loudly and joking cheerfully, and old Reddick tells Beau she’s from one of the rowdier coastal cities. She’s seventeen, and Beau is thrilled to finally meet a girl her own age. But Mariel makes Beau nervous, and she isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s her unrestrained spirit. Maybe it’s her wide smile and mischievous eyes.

 Maybe it’s the loud, echoing laugh that dances through the halls when she watches Beau—who had scaled the manor to the third-floor and tripped over the windowsill as she tried to sneak in—spill onto the floor and land on her ass.

 “Ow.” Beau rubs her head. She looks up at Mariel. “I’m not a thief,” she says.

 Mariel snickers, and Beau is struck by complete lack of decorum in the action. “Yeah, a real thief wouldn’t have fallen like that.”

 Beau scowls. “I mean I’m not a thief ‘cause I live here.”

 Mariel leans against her broom. “Yeah, right. Mister, you’re wearing worker’s clothes two sizes too big for you, and you’ve got dirt all across your face. And haven’t I seen you around the Quarters before? I could have sworn you were playing cards with Reddick yesterday.”

 Beau freezes, and swears inwardly. Of course, someone new would think she was one of the servants breaking into the Boss’s house for some gold. Over the years, the help had welcomed the muddy-faced and loud young lady of the house into their fold, and largely ignored her antics. She had gotten so used to making a fool of herself and breaking rules in front of everybody except her parents that she’d forgotten how unacceptable her behavior really is. She sighs, and figures there’s no good way out of this situation.

 The truth, then.

 She pulls her hair out of its messy bun and does her best to wipe the dirt (fresh from the forest) off of her face. She tugs at the sides of her pants, trying to flare them out like a dress. “I’m Beauregard,” she says. “Please don’t tell my parents?”

 The broom falls over, and Mariel almost does too. She hastily picks it up and tries to curtsy with a four-foot wooden stick in her hands, which only makes her almost drop the broom again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she says, and when she rises her face goes red, “wait, fuck, I mean…oh shoot, dammit. I’m sorry, milady.”

 Beau tries to suppress the smirk threatening to split her face. “Nobody warned you that I do this sometimes?”

 Mariel swears under her breath and curtsies again. “No, ma’am.”

 Beau fails, and when Mariel resurfaces from the curtsy, she is met with an absolutely shit-eating grin from Beau. “I kind of hang around the Quarters and run around in the woods a lot. I think everyone thinks it’s funny, and I always loose a lot of money when we play cards, so nobody really cares. Except my parents. Who can’t know,” she adds.

 Mariel stares at Beau, and bursts into laughter again. After a while, she wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Wow, when I heard that the daughter of the house was a troublemaker, I thought they meant you were shitty to the servants or something. I didn’t think they meant you dressed up in boy’s clothes and lost at cards to us.”

 Beau rubs the back of her neck sheepishly. “Well—”

 Footsteps echo down the hall. Then, “I’m sorry, Madam, but I really don’t think it was a servant.”

 There’s a scoff. “It had better not be. Honestly, I pay you all well enough to keep quiet and keep out of trouble. If I found out it’s a servant making noise this late at night I’m docking all of your pay.”

 It’s her mother. Beau freezes.

 Mariel quickly looks around. Then she grabs Beau by the wrist and yanks her down the hallway and into an empty guest bedroom. She carefully clicks the lock shut, then squeezes Beau and herself against a wardrobe just beyond the doorframe so their shadows don’t peek under the door.

 Footsteps go past, along with an angry tirade by Beau’s mother.

 They breathe a sigh of relief. Then Beau notices how the other girl has both her arms around her to keep her still, how she’s still holding her wrist and how well her body fits into Beau’s. How soft her hair is, and the way her chest rises when she—

 “See something interesting, Milady?” whispers Mariel. Beau’s face colors. Her head snaps upwards and their eyes meet.  

“You’re eighteen. And though our previous efforts failed thanks to your actions, new arrangements can always be made. It’s high time we planned for the future of this business, and it’s not as if you’re completely undesirable. Marcus would be a nice match, I should think.”

 Beau carefully helps Mariel into the branches, then swings herself up the trunk and lands next to the her.

 “Nice of Syra to cover for you today,” she says.

 “Personally, I think Syra is on to us, and I think she’s doing her best to keep us together.”

 Beau pulls out a book. “Perfect! That means we can keep going. Now, where were we?” she asks.

 Mariel grins. “I think Sir Diggory was just about to compliment Lucianne’s tits in a much-too flowery manner.”

 Beau snickers. “Oh, you’ll love this part.”  

She leans against the pillow, breathing heavily. “Mariel?” She says.

 “Yes, Beau?”

 There’s a pause.

 “I think I love you.”

They let their guard down. It’s a mistake.

“Your father and I have decided to send you to Zadash,” says Beau’s mother. “You’ve left us in a very…difficult position, and it was extremely hard for us to find a place for you. But Archivist Xenoth has agreed to teach you, and we think learning from the monks will be a positive influence on you.”

 “Why?” asks Beau. “Because monks do what they’re told and don’t have sex?”

 Her mother’s face turns a scandalized crimson, and her fists clench. “Beauregard, you have caused enough trouble for this family. You’ve always behaved extremely poorly, and you’ve never listened to your father and I when we know what’s best for you. You destroyed your own chances at a future with Darien, and got him sent away by his parents. You continue to mess about with the servants when you should be mingling with the rest of dignified society. And now you allow yourself to get tangled with this common girl, and—”

 “Don’t you talk about her like that,” Beau says through clenched teeth.

 “—and you get caught and you’ve scandalized the entire family—”

 “Nobody needs to know! And why does it matter, anyway? Why does it matter what I do?”

 “—you have duties to carry on this legacy your father has worked so hard to create for you—”

 “I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t want any stupid legacy! This would be fine if I were a boy!”

 “—shut up! You are not a boy, as both of us are well aware, and if you were one then everything would be so much easier for us! But you’re a girl, even if you seem incapable of acting like one, and we cannot have you soiling this family by continuing to stay here and being the way you are. If you aren’t going to do what we wanted you to all along, you’re going to go to the Cobalt Reserve and you’re going to become a monk, and maybe you’ll learn some respect and come home, or maybe you’ll just stay there and keep studying. But whatever happens, you’re going to become respectable, and you’re not going to ruin our name. Is that clear?”

 Beau is biting her lip. There are tears running down her face. Her mother is shaking with anger.

 “Is that clear?”

 “Yes.”

It could have been worse, Beau thinks. At least they gave her some neat robes. At least they let her swear. At least they taught her how to fight. And she was really good at that last bit. But all this crap about “preparing her mind” and “preparing her soul” and “being the truth” learning about patience and sorting shelves and reading books is…is all crap. Beau doesn’t give a fuck. And so when she packs a bag and slips on her uniform and cracks open the window and slides onto the balcony, she moves quietly. And she doesn’t look back.

[randomaliha]

parade

Credence/Graves regency AU snippet, pg. read on ao3

Credence was supposed to be handing out leaflets to the passers-by. He knew he was, but the heavy sky had opened up shortly after he left the chapel and now he was wet and so too were the precious leaflets, which meant Ma would punish him for being careless again.

That was why he hadn't gone straight back home. Instead he'd walked on past the coal depot towards the docks, until he reached the little park where the trees were nodding with the steady rain, their grey branches tinged with tiny green shoots like feathers.

Credence loved the park when it rained. No one else was ever there. Sometimes he imagined that it was part of a grand estate, one with wide green lawns and a vast lake that reflected the sky, surrounded by willows and oaks and silvery birch trees, and a woodland that held soft and shadowy secrets. When the park was empty it was easy to imagine walking around an estate like that; easy to imagine all that space was his own. It would have a grand home to go with the land, of course; something with huge windows and sunny places to read.  Credence sometimes wondered if he'd dreamed up this wonderful place or if, perhaps, he'd known something like it as a baby, before he'd been sent to the orphanage and adopted out to live in a small, dark room in a chapel that had rickety stairs and mice in the corners.

A group of young children ran toward Credence then, their wet faces bright with glee as their footsteps thundered along the path and sent water splashing into the air. Credence stepped aside to let them pass, smiling a little to see them so happy and free. For a moment he wished that he had run through puddles when he was a boy, but Ma had said it was improper, and now that he was twenty that was certainly true.

His smile dimmed. Ma was going to be so very cross about the leaflets. Perhaps he should throw them into the river and tell her that he had given them all out like she said -- but that would be a lie, and somehow Ma always knew when he was lying. He had the scars on his hands to remind him, ugly white lines where the belt buckle had cut into his skin. Never tell lies, those scars warned. God will punish you, and you will suffer.

Modesty once said that it was Ma who punished them, not God, but then whose fault was it that Ma had adopted them in the first place? If God was real and wanted to punish people, putting them in the care of someone like MaryLou Barebone was sure to make that happen.

Credence reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the spoiled roll of leaflets. The rain had softened the lettering so that the black lines of print that read Witches are among us! Repent and Protect Your Families! had smudged and torn, and they looked a lot less intimidating like that. He would throw them away. No one would want them now -- no one ever wanted them, really -- so the dark, grimy river was probably the best place for them. After all, once Credence had been down by the docks and saw some people pulling a body out of the river, so a handful of silly paper wouldn't be so bad.

The rain eased off a little as he walked and he looked up, wiping his face and hearing as he did so the distant sound of cheering. He crossed the street curiously, ducking between carriages as they rattled over the cobblestones, and followed the sound through the twists and turns of the city until he saw a crowd gathered along the roadside. Down the middle of the street marched rows of soldiers, dressed in bright red uniforms and holding muskets against their shoulders. Credence shuffled forward until he stood at the front of the crowd and watched in fascination as the soldiers passed; there was a drummer and two men holding flags, and behind them came some other soldiers mounted on fine-looking horses -- those were officers.

Next to Credence stood a boy, skinny but red-cheeked, who looked up at him and said, 'They's going to Spain to fight the Frogs. I wish it were me! I have to wait til next year, Pa says, when I'm old enough.'

'How old are you now?' Credence asked. The boy looked terribly young to him, about the same age as the orphans who flocked to Ma's chapel looking for a bowl of soup.

'I'll be thirteen in June, sir,' the boy said, puffing his chest out proudly. 'George's my name. Are you going too? They says they need every man they can get to fight Ol' Boney.'

'I -- I don't know,' Credence said, and changed the subject. 'Which regiment are these?'

'That's the __th, of course. You never heard of 'em? They've won ever so many battles! My sister Nelly reads it all out of the newspaper for us.'

George began to describe one of those battles but the officers on horseback were now passing by right in front of them and Credence was suddenly deaf to the surrounding noise.

He swallowed hard. 'Who,' he said, 'who is that?'

'Which?' said George, obstusely.

'The man, the one there on the black horse, the tall one.'

'Oh, well, that must be Colonel Graves. This is his regiment. I s'pose we should have saluted him.'

'Colonel Graves,' Credence said unsteadily, watching as the Colonel rode away down the street.

'That's right,' said George blithely. 'He's always in the despatches. Nelly says the Prince Regent particularly thanked him for his service -- imagine!'

'He sounds like -- a great hero.'

'I shall be a hero too -- as soon as I'm allowed!'

'I'm sure you will be,' Credence murmured. He could still just see Colonel Graves's dark head and strong shoulders above the now-fracturing crowd, and past the noise of people he could hear the beat of the drum.

As if the clouds knew the parade had passed by, the rain began to sweep back in, starting off with a sudden patter of rain and then falling in earnest, sending people scattering for cover. George whooped and dashed off into the grey of the city, but Credence stood still, lost in thought and uncaring of the rain. He was already wet, after all, and now strangely warm, and it was with a very pleasant air of distraction that he tossed the hated leaflets into the river and began to make his way home.

He thought back on it that night, in the late hours when the whole house was asleep. He thought about how Colonel Graves had looked at him for a moment, a shining moment, just as he had passed by on his towering warhorse. The Colonel's dark eyes had swept over the small crowd and paused, briefly, on Credence, causing a jolt to go through Credence’s insides. Colonel Graves had no reason to look at him, Credence thought. His clothes were old, and old-fashioned besides, and although he tried to be as neat as he could Credence knew he did not look appealing the way other young men did. For the most part, people didn’t look at him at all.

But Colonel Graves had. And Credence remembered the shock of it, the way that gaze had pierced him, as he lay in bed, gripping the bedsheets beneath him. He wanted to reach down under his sleeping clothes to where his body throbbed. He wanted to touch his fingertips to his hot skin as he remembered how Colonel Graves had looked against the pale grey sky, how his strong thighs had spread across the saddle, how Credence had looked up and Colonel Graves had looked back, so tall and well-formed, his dark brows and firm mouth, and the blazing red of his regimentals. By God, Credence had never seen anything so fine, so beautiful.

He mustn't, of course. He mustn't touch himself like that. It was a sin to give oneself pleasure, says Ma.

That must have been why it felt like sinning, standing there on the roadside in full view of God and all, looking at Colonel Graves.

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter 2: The Scholar’s Jewel

An archiver’s visit to the western monastery usually lasted under twelve minutes. For Sahn, it was over an hour. The Kelshin monks walked silently around him as he wandered up and down the rickety stairwell of the monastery library, practically gliding in their thick wool robes. Sahn breathed in the tower’s musky scent, wanting more than anything to vanish into the hundreds of scrolls that surrounded him. Every wall was covered, floor to ceiling, in octagonal shelves filled to the brim with sacred texts, all coated with a thin layer of dust. He ran his fingers along the carved wooden covers, leaving a stark trail behind him. These stolen moments were Sahn’s only opportunity to lose himself in perfect silence. Today, however, silence could not drown Aurie’s words out of his mind.

I want to see a joghon. Just once.

The phrase had repeated in his thoughts like a song ever since he left her in the fields. It was not the first time she had shown her interest in the monsters that lived beyond the horizon, the monsters whose very presence, according the sacred words written on the stone walls of the High Temple of Shianyi, perverted the very nature of the Kelshin soil.

The Only Order Is the Natural Order

They were sacred words, to swear by, to never be questioned. Yet, Aurie had practically walked out of their mother’s womb asking question after question about the monsters. “What do they look like? How do they live? Do they pull magic from the air? From the earth? Do they truly sacrifice animals? Do they truly dance naked in their blood?”

Their mother’s earlier response was tame compared to the usual slap on the ears and wild-eyed command to not ask such “heathen acquisitions.” Sahn never blamed her for it. They did not need magic curiosity to add to their oddness.

Sahn circled around the tiny scriptorium, peering over the monks’ hunched shoulders. With steel fingers, they painted a map of Kelsh along the thick beige paper.

Kelsh and only Kelsh.

A hiss from the dark-eyed men signaled that Sahn had once again overstayed his welcome. He strapped the newly-copied scrolls into the wooden pack on his back and, with a bow of gratitude, set off in his little raft. His long, thin oar pierced into the rocky bottom, pushing him along Rin River. The land on either side of him was sprawling rice terraces and grain fields, copses of birch and curved tiled roofs. No mountain, not even a hill large enough to block the view to the blurred line of the horizon.

Devoid of mountains and magic, eh, boy? Novoyai chuckled, sitting cross-legged on the braided reeds, sliding a flat rock along his ethereal cutlass. What am I going to do with my qigara blade, then?

What the exact purpose of a qigara blade was, Sahn did not know. But, he still chuckled at his imaginary friend’s quip. “Let’s hope you never have to use it.”

Oh, come now. No need to be such a pacifist. The hero’s thick black whiskers curved in a cold smile, his braided beard wrapped around his neck like a scarf. What about your grandfather?

Sahn stiffened. “What about him?”

He could use a close shave, I’m sure.

“Novoyai…”

I bet I could slice him clean in half, and I’d never hurt him half as much as-

“No,” Sahn shrieked, startling a flock of sparrows off a nearby willow. “No magic blades on my grandfather. There’s no…” His face heated again at his own silliness. Of course, Novoyai would never be able to even touch his grandfather. Still… “There’s no need for violence, Novoyai.”

Tell that to-

“No,” he said again. “No violence, and-” his teeth gritted behind his lips. His fingers drifted to the long, thin scar at his collarbone as he whispered, loud enough only for Novoyai to hear, “and no magic.”

Novoyai snorted before returning to his sharpening. Where’s the fun in a world with no magic?

 The citadel stood at the tip-top of Gleaner’s Hill, first to touch the light in the morning and last to touch it at night. The building was of rich burgundy wood carved in patterns of leaping carp and blooming water lilies swept up in lapping waves. A gleaming gold sun stood at each curved tip of the green tiled roof. The inside was paneled with dark wood, the walls varnished with oil murals of sailing ships and groves of cherry trees. The floors were inlaid with shining squares of gold and turquoise stone. Sahn’s footsteps echoed as he weaved through the maze of the same octagonal shelves, stacked atop each other like honeycomb, filled with newer, sleeker copies of Kelshin history and lore, folktales and sacred texts, from the adventures of Tuma and Moyane to simple accounts of village residents. Most of Kelsh’s books were archives of the nation’s history, retreading its many great achievements in its five thousand years of existence. Their fiction, what little there were, held no magic in them, not even their children’s stories. They held monsters and otherworldly beasts, they even held gods. But never magic.

Each citadel was meant to be a beacon of knowledge, a scholar’s jewel, a place for every Kelshin, no matter their station. Everyone of Gleaner’s Hill being illiterate was either an unfortunate accident or a cruel twist of fate.

Their citadel may have been a marvel to behold, but the scrolls remained unread, the gleaming stone never grew faded from the feet of a curious reader. All but few of the people of Katha ate and slept and plowed from the cradle to the grave without ever learning their letters. “I’ve got no time for letters,” Old Maga, a rice farmer with thin arms and a pot belly, grunted when Sahn had asked about it. “I wake up in the morning, I plow, I muck, I seed, and I go home and sleep. Besides, knowing your letters doesn’t make you smart.”

“But, my ma and da know their letters,” Sahn had protested, “and they’re smart.”

Old Maga had scoffed. “If your ma were smart, she wouldn’t have married a foreigner.”

Kale never spoke of Vyorn, never spoke of his family (if he ever had one) or what his life was at all before Kelsh. “There is nothing to tell,” he would say. All his children ever knew about his heritage was from his sheer size, all shoulders and legs and scraggly brown beard.

Of the three of them, Sahn bore the least resemblance to his gentle giant of a father. Jerra inherited his massive stature and copper skin, arms taught with hard muscle, flecked with scars from years of plow work, and a beard that grew like mad if he did not shave regularly. Even Aurie, with their mother’s kind amber eyes and clear sandstone skin, obtained Kale’s curved mouth that made her seemed to always smile, even when she was not.

Sahn, inherited everything from his mother, only in short supply. His figure was tall and wiry, his hair thin and black as mulch- kept a short, straight mop so as not to fall into his eyes as he read- and his skin the sallow yellow of aged parchment. Not to mention his rather humiliating inability to grow facial hair. His features were soft, unthreatening, “effeminate,” some said. The only thing he gained from his father were his large angled eyes, a bright, striking peridot green.

He unloaded the strapped scrolls onto a nearby table, the noise echoing off the polished walls despite his delicate touch. He noticed silhouettes showing through the paper windows of the mezzanine. Okan-Isan was pacing back and forth, flailing his arms. Another figure, hunched shoulders and bent knees, was standing still. Voices rang as Sahn silently slid the new scrolls into their shelves, his movements slow and deliberate. “… don’t care who they are and why they are here. We are under treaty.” Okan-Isan’s voice, high pitched and raspy as a crow. “How dare they come into these lands. Who do they think they are?”

Sahn blinked. He glanced at Novoyai, but he did not seem quite so interested. He pulled a scroll from the shelves and tapped it rhythmically against his forehead. Sahn gasped, nearly dropping his satchel. “What are you doing?” he cried.

I’m bored.

Sahn gently set his satchel down on the table long enough to snatch the scroll out of his imaginary friend’s hand. “Have some respect, Novoyai,” he said as he caressed its carved wooden cover, green rice terraces filled with water. It was a document of Great Batti, the lonesome shepherd who brought the groundbreaking art of irrigation to the Kelshin fields. Sahn knew every scroll in the archive forward, backward, and sideways. “This is nearly four hundred years old.”

Old. Everything is old, in here. Novoyai hopped onto the table and returned to his whetstone, his gaze lingering on Sahn. Would you hold a girl like that, boy?

Sahn put the scroll back, his face heating.

“How do you think I feel, Okan?” the stranger’s voice cried from above. “I’m the one who had to let them port.” Sahn stopped altogether. It was Matsu-Isan, of Agaoka. The last time he was in Okan-Isan’s quarters, Sahn and half the nation had been bed-ridden with pox. “I had to watch them set their filthy feet on our beautiful cobbles,” he continued. “I had to look into… look into their…” He did not finish. Moths fluttered in Sahn’s chest. “Let us hope it’s only temporary.”

“Temporary,” Okan-Isan snorted. “And how long is ‘temporary,’ Matsu? Weeks? Months?” His voice grew higher with every question. “Years?”

Matsu was silent. Sahn turned to Novoyai, who had finally ceased his sharpening. “What in the world are they talking about?”

Novoyai said nothing. He was interested now, his narrowed eyes focused on the windows. The shadows danced behind the mural of golden Tuma and silver Moyane stretching their hands to each other.

“It doesn’t matter, Okan, and it doesn’t matter what we think,” Matsu-Isan finally spoke. His silhouette shook with his voice. He was as afraid of Okan-Isan as Sahn was. “They won’t listen to the Shianyi Council, and they certainly won’t listen to us. If you want to go down there and tell them to leave, be my guest.” His figure backed away, toward the door. “See how long you last.”

He raced through the threshold, slamming the sliding doors shut, denying Okan-Isan the last word. He shuffled down the ornamental staircase, shivering like an excitable dog, his large brown eyes darting back to the mezzanine over and over. Sahn called to him from his place in the corner.

“Matsu-Isan.”

The old man jolted at the sound of his voice, his eyes widening to extraordinary size as they fell on Sahn. No doubt Okan-Isan had informed him of the Mad Darru on his arrival. “What were you two talking about?” Sahn asked, attempting to sound bold, and failing. “Who is staying?”

Matsu-Isan wrung his hands, plagued with gnarled skin from fish hooks and sea water. He was much older and thinner than Sahn remembered, bony and malnourished. His hair grew in clumps of silver fuzz. His back made a perfect curve beneath his stained, threadbare robes. He glanced once more at the murals (Okan-Isan’s silhouette was no longer there) before speaking. “Joghons,” he whispered, too softly to echo. “Joghons are here.”

Sahn’s breath caught. “What did you say?” Surely, he had not heard him right.

“Joghons are here,” Matsu-Isan whimpered. “The disgusting, defiled perversions are on Kelshin soil.”

It was as though the room no longer had a floor. Joghons, monsters, majysts, here. “Why?”

Matsu-Isan shrugged.

The scroll in Sahn’s hands twisted and creaked. There had not been a majyst in Kelsh since- a pang rippled through Sahn’s heart. So many questions suddenly crowded his tongue all at once, climbing and clambering over each other, fighting for the chance to be asked first. How long had they been here? How many were here? Were more coming? Sahn had thought the terms of the treaty were unbreakable. But perhaps they had found some sort of loophole? If that were the case-

           “All Kelshins are forbidden to approach the port towns of Orutan and Agaoka. No exceptions.”

           Sahn’s thoughts shattered like glass. “Why?” he repeated.

           Matsu-Isan loosened a sigh laced with irritation. This was a question he had been asked a lot already, a thought that surprised Sahn. “It is Moyane’s will to remain among the green, to keep to the natural order.” Sahn swallowed back a sigh. Moyane’s will. Always with Moyane’s will. “Besides, if we come to them, interact with them, it might tempt them to enter further. It is best to… leave them where they are.” Sahn knew what he had wanted to say. It is best to keep the disease from spreading. He also knew that Matsu-Isan was not a human man saying his own thoughts in that moment. He was a silver-winged kess repeating Okan-Isan’s words in a monotoned squawk. “Agaoka and Orutan are being evacuated as we speak.”

           “Why?”

           “To keep our people from the joghons,” Matsu-Isan snapped. “Moons, have you heard anything I said? Or is that the only word you know?” His mouth clamped shut as he looked away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t really been myself lately.” His hands pressed into his stomach as though furthering his point.

           Beside him, Novoyai fidgeted in his spot. His trembling fist clutched the jeweled hilt of his cutlass. Oh, there’s no need for that. We already know a majyst. Sahn’s gaze darted between the two men standing before him, one real, one imaginary. Go on, boy. Tell him.

           Now is not the time, Sahn wanted to say. Matsu-Isan still held his stomach, gritting his teeth.

           Tell him, Novoyai pushed. What’s the matter? Are you ashamed?

           Sahn gulped.

           Ah, Novoyai said disappointedly. You are ashamed.

           Stop it, he thought.

           Don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, is it not Moyane’s will to hate anything different-?

           “Stop it,” Sahn blurted out to him, immediately thinking he might burst in flames from the heat that exploded through his face. Matsu-Isan looked in Novoyai’s direction and, when he saw no one was there, Sahn watched in horror as he turned from beige, to pale, to bone-white.

           “Stop what?” he asked slowly.

           Sahn mouth opened and closed. “Are you hungry?” he asked far too loudly. He rifled through his satchel and pulled out Aurie’s uneaten breakfast box. “Here. It’s a bit cold now, but…” His gaze remained on the checkered tiles.

           Matsu-Isan chewed on his lip, his fingers wiggling, aching to take the box, but he hesitated a moment before tentatively closing the space between them and plucking it from Sahn’s hand. He gulped at the sight of the food. When was the last time he had properly eaten? Sahn wanted to ask, but he felt he had asked this poor man enough questions, though more still burned his tongue.

           “Thank you,” Matsu-Isan croaked, gawking at the boy, wondering why he would give him such a gift. Sahn did not know himself. He only nodded, flushing a bit.

           Matsu-Isan left the citadel licking his fingers, his belly full for the first time in days. He had been in such a hurry getting his people out of Agaoka, making sure they were housed and fed, that he had entirely forgotten about himself. He glanced back through the lattice window, watching the boy reading the archive scrolls, still as a tree in dead wind, his free hand always on that little satchel. “Stop it,” he had said to the air. Matsu-Isan’s eyes narrowed into slits. What are you hiding, boy?

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Rest Your Weary Little Head

From the outside, the house looked normal.

It was a typical suburban two-story house in your average white picket fence neighborhood. The home owners had covered the trees and front porch with Halloween decorations: a skeleton was hanging from a birch and a stuffed werewolf sitting on the patio bench, elaborately carved pumpkins with red LED lights illuminating them from the inside, and a small fog generator that caused a thin sheet of smoke to billow out from the cracks in the front door.

Hesitating, Fiona stood by the fence and huddled deeper into her long black coat because this October was colder than any had been in the previous decade. She exhaled sharply and watched her breath condense in the air before her. Taking a last moment to wonder if her Bride of Frankenstein’s Monster make-up still looked alright even though she only lived down the road from here, she finally approached the suburbia hell-hole. Gravel crunched underfoot with each step that carried her closer to the front door. It was almost midnight, and she was fashionably late—or rather, had finally worked up the courage to come to this shindig, as a few of those snotty bitches she did not feel like seeing would probably be attending as well.

The moment she stepped onto the boards of the patio, a device hidden somewhere emitted a fake sound of creaking wood and a cartoon monster laugh that erupted from the werewolf doll. Although fairly loud, it did not stand out much against the sounds of the party going on inside the house. Fiona could hear a small crowd cheer someone on to chug down beer, the droning bass of rap music from loudspeakers, and a round of laughter suddenly erupting.

She reached out and rang the doorbell. Muffled through the door and almost drowned out by the blend of noise from the party, she heard someone inside there shout, “Come in!”

Something else was said inside the house though the words were unintelligible to her. This was followed by another chorus of laughter, in which she could identify the voice of her best friend, Tim. This brought a smile to her face while she opened the door and stepped inside—

A different place. Perhaps it had been the same house, but it looked dilapidated now. The carpets were rotten, the wooden floorboards looked old and dusty, cobwebs filled every corner, and Fiona smelled that disgusting hint of mold in the air. It somehow was the same house, as all the party-goers were lying around on the floor and on the antique-looking furniture—whether they were dead or asleep, she could not tell from where she stood. They were all still disguised in their silly Halloween costumes, but hard to distinguish in the dim twilight that filled this dark place, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

Fiona’s heart started beating so fast that she could feel it, and she found it hard to breathe. Her breath condensed in the icy-cold air inside the house, and she felt pure fear overcoming her. She looked back through the door she had entered as it was still standing ajar, with the knob still in her hand and her knuckles turning white with the force with which she gripped it. Beyond the door was a pitch-black abyss of pure nothingness with no patio or natural outdoors in sight. Tiny lights danced in the distance like fireflies.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something move. A shadow? When she swiveled around with a gasp, there was nobody there.

“Hello?”

Her voice had no echo, the environment swallowed the sound of it, just like her footsteps that followed when she began to walk deeper into the house. Something crunched under her boot, and she moved her foot to see what it had been. A loose, rusty old nail. She cautiously stepped towards an unconscious Dracula lying on the floor and nudged him with the tip of her boot.

“Hey. Wake up,” she spoke softly, then raising her voice with each word till she said the last one loudly.

She nudged him more and then knelt down to push him onto his back. It was Tim, barely concealed under sloppy make-up. She began shaking him by his shoulders and saw breath escape his nostrils with visible condensation in the air. Then she heard something like a snore from him. It was not enough to quell her mounting fear. Fiona looked up from him and over at the other bodies, focusing all her attention and ceasing to breathe or move for a few seconds. Judging from the subtle movements of gently heaving chests, she could tell that all the people here were merely sleeping.

After shaking Tim for what felt like almost a minute and no sign of him waking up, she stood up to explore this strange place, but she wobbled the moment she rose and struggled to stay standing. Despite the knot in her stomach and a palpable sense of dread, her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Even though a deathly cold permeated this place, an urge to lie down and take a quick nap was creeping up and overcoming her. Her vision blurred more with each blink of her eyes.

That’s when a primal survival instinct kicked in. She stumbled back to where she had seen the old nail and pawed at it. When she swiped at it the first time, it rolled away a few inches and she tumbled down onto one knee. Then she grabbed it, clutched it tight, and began to breathe so quickly it was almost like hyperventilating. She jammed the nail into the back of her hand and the pain must have kick-started every nerve in her brain.

Fiona did not scream. She did not whimper. She blinked and fought that growing sensation in the back of her head that kept telling her to just lie down and get some rest. And then that shadow, again. It darted away when she turned her head to look and got back up on her feet. Something only visible in the corner of her eyes had moved again. Fiona would swear up and down: there was another presence here. Right behind her.

It was curious.

A strange dripping sound caught her attention, and she watched blood trickle from the back of her hand, dropping down onto the old floorboards. She clutched the nail in her other hand with all her might, feeling the wet warmth of her blood on it. Clenching her jaw, she slowly turned around to look behind her.

“Hello, little girl,” said a whisper in her ear.

She quickly stepped away and backed up to the nearest wall. The shadow had moved again, just out of sight. Several steps away, in a doorway to another room, long, spindly fingers emerged, wrapping around the door’s frame and clutching it like a spider stretching out and bending its legs. The fingers were pitch-black like the night itself and too long and with too many joints to be human. Too long to appear natural. The silhouette of a shadowy head with two tiny red dots for eyes peeked around the corner of the door frame, peering at her. If it had a mouth, it kept it hidden, revealing only those fingers and part of its head, as if it was too shy to show itself.

The voice returned and sounded soft and soothing like snowfall when it whispered, “Do you not find it cold, too? You could lie down and rest your weary little head while I start a cozy little fire.”

A feeling of overwhelming fatigue draped itself like a blanket over Fiona. She fought it, snorting and then piercing her own flesh with the nail again. Gritting her teeth and wasting no time, she ran towards another door. Not looking back, she sensed the shadow following her in form of a numbing fog of cold rapidly closing in on her. She slammed the door shut and locked it before she looked around, panicked. It was a kitchen—or it had been a kitchen, decades ago, before it had been ravaged by a fire that scorched its walls. The barren room felt empty aside from some sleeping bodies. She began rifling through drawers, hoping to find something to defend herself with.

Not even a single knife or corkscrew, even in the fourth drawer she had pulled out. Nothing but dust and mildew. The wooden drawer hit the ground when she backed away in shock as she noticed the locked door had been opened in complete silence and the shadowy figure crept towards her. It moved with no sound and now had no discernible limbs or tangible figure. The thing looked like a huge, slender person made of pure darkness, and its two tiny red dots for eyes looked at her with a burning malice. Just like a shadow cast by moving lights, it grew taller and taller until it had absorbed the ghostly twilight around her and loomed above her like a giant. Fiona trembled and was mesmerized by the red-glowing eyes staring intently at her. Her eyelids drooped down and her vision blurred again, just long enough that she missed how long, spindly fingers covered in fur and looking like they consisted of nothing but perfect darkness were reaching out to her, twitching like spider legs as they were mere inches away from her face.

“This is my palace now, and I will warm it with my fire,” the shadow whispered.

The words came from right behind Fiona and she screamed. Not in fear, but in defiance. Instead of piercing herself with the rusty nail to fight the slumber that was overcoming her, she swung at the shadow creature with it and felt the resistance you would expect from dragging a nail across someone’s skin, followed by a ghastly shriek. It sounded something like a mixture between a vinyl record scratching and the pained howling of a thousand dogs.

Instantly, the shadow shrunk and backed away from her, and its hand melted back into the featureless, tall shape. The tiny red eyes grew large and furious, and they burned with an otherworldly fire, small plumes of orange-red flames flickering from them now. Another hand with unnaturally long fingers reached out to her, but they ended in long, sharp spikes this time. Fiona gnashed her teeth as to not scream in pain as the claws shot forward with startling speed and dug into her belly. She plunged the nail straight into the shadowy arm and more howling screams resounded through the dilapidated house from every possible and impossible direction with such volume that her ears rang.

Not giving this thing any quarter, she repeatedly stabbed it with the nail until it backed away from her completely, flowing into the shadows underneath the kitchen table. Unrelenting, she poked and swiped and punched at this creature with the nail. This thing was incorporeal but very real, and this nail was deeply hurting it with each injury she inflicted upon it. Empowered by a growing sense of victory, she swung one last time with every ounce of force she could still muster despite soft wings of sleep slowly trying to envelope her.

The shadow folded into itself until it was a basketball-sized lump of darkness. Something that sounded like a mistreated puppy’s whimper and nails dragged across a chalkboard screeched meekly, and the shadow flew across the floor and out, straight through the kitchen door. Fiona got up and shot a glance at her stomach—whatever it had done, it had left no mark. This filled her with new courage and fury, and she chased after the monster.

Beyond the kitchen door, everything was back to normal. As it should have been. Everybody was partying. Bradley was doing a handstand over the beer keg while Zack and Bobby held him by the legs and he chugged away at the beer from a tube to the cheers of the circle of people surrounding them. Someone looking very drunk accidentally dropped a cup filled with soda, spilling it and staining the carpet, and bursting out into laughter at the mishap.

Dressed as Harry Potter, Harry pushed past Fiona to get into the kitchen and said with his typical sarcasm, “Nice costume, Fi.”

Fiona started to question her sanity as she swiveled about and looked into the kitchen, where the bitches, all dressed as glam rock girls from the eighties, were leaning onto a counter, holding drinks, and shooting her some dirty looks while probably gossiping. Fiona regained her composure and returned to the den where the boys were drinking themselves silly and bumped into Dracula. Or rather, Tim.

“I want to drink your blood, Fiona,” he said with his best Bela Lugosi impression and a warm smile. His facial expression turned concerned and he asked, “What’s up?”

She blinked in confusion, and her eyes followed his outstretched index finger until she saw him pointing at her hand.

A steady trickle of blood trailed down the back of her hand and dripped onto the floor.

—Submitted by Wratts

[valerie-royeaux]

Spring

Some consequences of the last session of our RPG table. I swear I’ll post what is going on one day!

“And she thinks I am the one who goes so out of reach...”

Still it made Anora proud how Gwen strove to stand tall, despite her fiancee failing to hold back the tears after the conversation with Bryce.

Fiancee. 

Anora felt surprised at how easily the word came to her mind. Not her lips - her mind, her mind’s voice, her mind’s eye: it cast a whole new glow over Gwen’s saddened, battered countenance. It painted those first bewildered, innocent smiles over the Cousland’s frown. Anora’s eyes moved from the sunken shoulders to the modest golden ring in her finger. 

Engaged. To another woman. To Gwen Cousland.

Gwen would likely not be able to perceive the smile that flashed, quickly, on Anora’s lips. And even if she did, Anora feared the other woman would think it due to a clever ploy, a breach in Bryce’s defenses and arguments, the thread’s end that would bind the Couslands’ full support to Anora’s plight for Ferelden’s throne. Of course, these things whispered rushing through the queen’s mind, but the queen’s mind was a blur, a blurb, backdrop and tear drops behind Anora’s hand. A hand with just the one engagement ring. A hand free from the golden band-shackle lost in one of Gwen’s drawers.

“You should have allowed me to have one ready for you!”

“Sorry -- What?” Gwen replied, snapping out of her gloomy trance.

“Nothing, love.” Anora said in a sly smile. That very particular one Gwen loved so much. “Come.” Maybe the tone she used was also that specific loving-commanding that did indeed command Gwen’s sighs? She held Gwen by the hand, feeling bothered and at bliss by the unusual feeling of the golden circle in between her fingers, in between Gwen’s. Through the corridors and hallways, Anora could not believe she managed to put the room where Bryce would meet Cailan and Arl Urien so far back, in the deeper recesses of her mind.

The women reached the Cousland’s state winter garden, in fervent bloom in the last days of the very apt Bloomingtide month. Anora liked the old, stern Teviner names for the months. But 9:29 Dragon did not have a Molioris. That year, it was Bloomingtide. She guided them to a stone bench under a birch tree. The green leaves matched Gwen’s dress - always green. Anora loved that.

“This is where you first met me. Anora.” She continued forcing her voice through Gwen’s protest. “No. When Alfstanna introduced you to me, she did not introduce me to you. This is where you first saw me. Unfortunately, or maybe not - in the arms of another woman.” She paused, on purpose, letting that sink on Gwen and holding a firm grip on her hands  - the brunette would feel resistance if she moved them away. Her eyes, too, they assailed Gwen’s - they were in love.

“They feel like silly youngling affairs, those days. That time with Celene is a blur. That night with Celene is a blur. There is only one thing I see clearly from that night: Celene’s shoulder and hair framing your face, my love. Your pure, radiant smile. You caught my eyes that night. You snapped my thoughts.”

Anora looked up at the birch tree above them. “I want this to be our special place, my love. I want this to be my engagement gift. This garden is our garden. And this spring is our spring.” And finally, she laid upon Gwen a pure, radiant smile. That other specific one Gwen loved so much.

It didn’t feel like spring, not at all. The rain was unforgiving, the cold chilled through the moist into the bones, and it was not fair, it was not fair at all! The look of despair in her mage-sister’s face drove through Adaia’s flesh the same blades she was not able to pierce the Skeleton-thing with. The elven woman simply dove into her sister’s arm, pulling her into a gripping hug that assured her own self more than the human that everything would be alright. She didn’t need to look at Alistair’s despairing face to pull him into that hug too. The man did not resist. The three of them pressed themselves together, in silence, against the cold, against the rain, against the shivering through of the golden crown on the mage’s hand.

Truth be told, Adaia: this was more than you signed-up for. Being a Grey Warden was supposed be an easy ride. An easy way to make some money, live off the king’s purse and larder, get something back to Shiani. Now... Now you are soaked in rain in this Maker-forsaken place called Ostagar, after having being humiliated by one of the senior wardens, and abandoned by the other one. Surrounded by thousands of Darkspawn. Oh, Maker! she could feel them! By the thousands, lurking, communing, hundreds of feet beneath the ruin’s cliff.

She wanted to tell them it would be alright. She wanted to tell them they would be alright, her Warden-siblings; that, as usual, she would take care of them. Yet, she knew it was a lie. She was desperate to hear those things herself. To hear that Octavius would come back from wherever he went to. That Ser Knight was a good sport and not a bully. That Fionn and Astrid were arriving with that Avvar certainty of theirs. That she would be able to cuddle with her mage-sister in a warm bed and be healed of everything. She wanted sunshine. She wanted it to be spring again. 

[misskittysmagicportal]

hello i wanna tell you about a dream i had when i was 14-15 since it's honest hour (this might be kinda vague because i can't really put it into words) (also it might be all over the place)

i had a dream where i was in my room and i thought i woke up in the middle of the night because it was dark and i just sat there for what felt like 5 or 10 mins

then my door opened i thought maybe it was my sisters dog (she pushes my door open if its no closed properly) so i started to call her over

but then a wooden leg went thru the door and then they put there whole entire body thru the door it it was this big tree dude

and since he was so tall he was hunched over and he looked at me and and opened up this weird portal

after he opened it up he crawled/walked a bit closer and then garbed me and crawled/walked thru the portal

when we went thru it was so calming and it looked beautiful there was 2 other tree people one was taller than the other and they were all different types of trees

the one that garbed me was a birch tree

the taller one was a dark oak

and the shorter one was a spruce tree

the birch one (they never told me there names) had a giant battle axe and this satchel that was a (i think) brown with gold and silver stitching

the dark oak one had a bunch of little trinkets with her (rocks, peaces of metal, coins etc etc) and had these big vines that where hanging off of the branches

and the spruce one had a bunch of books (and i look a that now and wonder how they got the books because something might have happend if you know what i mean) and the books where so big i feel like i could fit a house on them

and most of the where about bugs and animals which was cool

i wish i could have that dream again i really liked it and i was scared at the start you know because a anthropomorphic tree garbed me and brought me to another world but other that that it was fun (it was kinda wired since my room was small so i was kinda confused on how it fit thru my door)

hope you have a nice day/rest of your day

This is actually a really beautiful dream! You know this almost reminds me of you getting to go to the planet where Groot is from! have you ever thought about turning this into a story? I'm not being silly, or taking the piss as they say, I think you should honestly turn this into a short story because this would make a wonderful children's book!! ☺️☺️☺️

[cameronf24]

Give Them Room! Spacing Trees Correctly

A drive around any older neighborhood will quickly show you giant trees right up against houses, blocking windows, damaging foundations and drains, and making rooms dark and gloomy. Bad decisions about planting distances are easy to find, so why are they made?

The biggest single reason for poor tree placement is the way we see plants as cute and small, and our wish to surround our homes with green. But the consequences, in removal costs, damage, insurance claims, and in the forced cutting down of heritage trees, are serious. Trees take time to grow, and many can and do grow large, so when planting a tree it really is worthwhile to take some time, and use a measure tape, when choosing that planting spot. Don’t get caught out 20 years from now by a hasty choice of tree species, or planting spot.

Remember that roots spread wide

There is a common idea that the roots of trees extend to the ‘drip line’, the place where the foliage ends. The image of the root-system being an upside-down version of the branches is very wrong, because for almost all trees the roots extend 1.5 to 3 times the height of the tree. A sixty-foot tree will therefore have some roots over 150 feet from the trunk, but those outermost roots are small feeding roots – usually not the large structural roots that cause damage. The depth of roots, on the other hand, is much less than the height, although this is affected by the soil. Deep, sandy soil allows roots to penetrate downwards 10 or 20 feet, but many soils have hard clay or rock just a few feet down, and that effectively prevents deeper rooting – as is seen when a tree blows over in a storm.

Consider What Tree It Is

How far the roots will spread, and how badly they might affect drains and foundations, depends not just on the ultimate height of the tree, but on what kind of tree it is. The most well-known of these aggressive trees is the weeping willow, but all willows that grow large can be a problem. Other trees with similar habits include cottonwood, aspen and any other poplar trees, silver maple, Norway maple, black locust and American elm. These trees should be planted 100 feet from any buildings, drain pipes, sewers or swimming pools. Don’t forget to consider your neighbors home and pipes too.

On the other hand, most conifer trees – like spruce, Thuja and pine – have more fibrous, shallow root systems that rarely cause problems. That is why they are popular choices for lawn specimens, hedges and screens. But just because they don’t create damage doesn’t mean they won’t get too big for your garden, and evergreens are especially bad for blocking light.

Think about the hidden future costs

Planting trees too close to a building – your own or your neighbors, or a property line, can end up costing you plenty of money. So can choosing a tree that is too large for your property. The removal of large trees, especially in confined spaces, is expensive. So is ripping out sewer lines and replacing them. If your tree invades your neighbor’s lines, or damage their foundations, you will be left facing the bill for its repair. Tree experts can pin-point, through root examination, exactly which tree is doing the damage, and you may not like what they find. Neighbors can force you to remove a tree that is, or could, be damaging – at your expense.

Tree trimming to remove dangerous over-hanging branches is expensive too and may need to be done regularly. Many people plant large trees, thinking they can leave any problems to future owners, but trees that are, or could become, dangerous problems will reduce the re-sale value, so you do end up paying for your own mistakes.

How Much Room Should I Allow?

With all these considerations, when you are looking for trees to plant, look at the final sizes listed for them and then get out into the garden with a measure, to see how much room you really have, considering all the things we have talked about here. Look at the places you were thinking of planting and consider the following distances.

To protect foundations, sewers and drains, allow the following spacings:

Small trees, such as flowering dogwoods, magnolia, or smaller conifers – allow 10 feet.

Medium-sized trees, such as fruit trees, birch trees, or larger Japanese maple – allow 20 feet

Large-trees, like sugar maple, oaks, Gingko, or flowering pear – allow 30 to 50 feet

Large, aggressive trees like poplars, silver maple or willows – allow 100 feet

Distance from buildings and other trees

There are other factors worth considering when planting near your home, besides protecting foundations. First there is visual scale. A typical two-story home, with a pitched roof is 20 to 25 feet tall. Many trees, evergreen or deciduous, will grow 60 to 80 feet tall, and right alongside your home that is going to look pretty silly. Besides that, overhanging branches can break, causing roof damage, or if the whole tree comes down in a storm it will demolish most of your home. Far better to plant trees that grow no more than 40 feet tall within a 20 feet radius around your home. Keep those larger trees further away, where you can see and admire their beauty, without any risk.

Consider too the width of the tree. As a rule of thumb, if you half the width listed for a mature tree, that should be the minimum distance away from the house – even then the branches will in time touch the windows. So a better rule would be two-thirds of the listed width. That is also a good rule for spacing trees apart, if you want them to retain their individual identity. Trees planted close together make a nice forest, but that may not be the garden style you had in mind!

Think about light

If you are planting a larger tree, where will the shadow fall? Roughly speaking, a tree will cast a shadow equal to its height by mid-afternoon in mid-summer. That shadow will be to the south-west of the tree. In winter the shadow will be much longer, which is why large evergreens are not good choices near a house. On the south side of your home, a deciduous tree may cast welcome, cooling shade in summer, and let warming sunshine through in winter – a much better choice.

Don’t be put off planting trees

All of this doesn’t mean you shouldn’t plant trees – with all the joy and beauty that brings. It does mean you should choose wisely. Today we have many smaller versions of full-size trees available, plus all the trees that stay small naturally. There are many, many good choices available, depending on your circumstances, so plant away – just give some thought before you do it. If you really do want a specimen of a giant redwood in your courtyard garden, there is always bonsai!

Give Them Room! Spacing Trees Correctly posted first on https://www.thetreecenter.com

[elsielewi5]

Give Them Room! Spacing Trees Correctly

A drive around any older neighborhood will quickly show you giant trees right up against houses, blocking windows, damaging foundations and drains, and making rooms dark and gloomy. Bad decisions about planting distances are easy to find, so why are they made?

The biggest single reason for poor tree placement is the way we see plants as cute and small, and our wish to surround our homes with green. But the consequences, in removal costs, damage, insurance claims, and in the forced cutting down of heritage trees, are serious. Trees take time to grow, and many can and do grow large, so when planting a tree it really is worthwhile to take some time, and use a measure tape, when choosing that planting spot. Don’t get caught out 20 years from now by a hasty choice of tree species, or planting spot.

Remember that roots spread wide

There is a common idea that the roots of trees extend to the ‘drip line’, the place where the foliage ends. The image of the root-system being an upside-down version of the branches is very wrong, because for almost all trees the roots extend 1.5 to 3 times the height of the tree. A sixty-foot tree will therefore have some roots over 150 feet from the trunk, but those outermost roots are small feeding roots – usually not the large structural roots that cause damage. The depth of roots, on the other hand, is much less than the height, although this is affected by the soil. Deep, sandy soil allows roots to penetrate downwards 10 or 20 feet, but many soils have hard clay or rock just a few feet down, and that effectively prevents deeper rooting – as is seen when a tree blows over in a storm.

Consider What Tree It Is

How far the roots will spread, and how badly they might affect drains and foundations, depends not just on the ultimate height of the tree, but on what kind of tree it is. The most well-known of these aggressive trees is the weeping willow, but all willows that grow large can be a problem. Other trees with similar habits include cottonwood, aspen and any other poplar trees, silver maple, Norway maple, black locust and American elm. These trees should be planted 100 feet from any buildings, drain pipes, sewers or swimming pools. Don’t forget to consider your neighbors home and pipes too.

On the other hand, most conifer trees – like spruce, Thuja and pine – have more fibrous, shallow root systems that rarely cause problems. That is why they are popular choices for lawn specimens, hedges and screens. But just because they don’t create damage doesn’t mean they won’t get too big for your garden, and evergreens are especially bad for blocking light.

Think about the hidden future costs

Planting trees too close to a building – your own or your neighbors, or a property line, can end up costing you plenty of money. So can choosing a tree that is too large for your property. The removal of large trees, especially in confined spaces, is expensive. So is ripping out sewer lines and replacing them. If your tree invades your neighbor’s lines, or damage their foundations, you will be left facing the bill for its repair. Tree experts can pin-point, through root examination, exactly which tree is doing the damage, and you may not like what they find. Neighbors can force you to remove a tree that is, or could, be damaging – at your expense.

Tree trimming to remove dangerous over-hanging branches is expensive too and may need to be done regularly. Many people plant large trees, thinking they can leave any problems to future owners, but trees that are, or could become, dangerous problems will reduce the re-sale value, so you do end up paying for your own mistakes.

How Much Room Should I Allow?

With all these considerations, when you are looking for trees to plant, look at the final sizes listed for them and then get out into the garden with a measure, to see how much room you really have, considering all the things we have talked about here. Look at the places you were thinking of planting and consider the following distances.

To protect foundations, sewers and drains, allow the following spacings:

Small trees, such as flowering dogwoods, magnolia, or smaller conifers – allow 10 feet.

Medium-sized trees, such as fruit trees, birch trees, or larger Japanese maple – allow 20 feet

Large-trees, like sugar maple, oaks, Gingko, or flowering pear – allow 30 to 50 feet

Large, aggressive trees like poplars, silver maple or willows – allow 100 feet

Distance from buildings and other trees

There are other factors worth considering when planting near your home, besides protecting foundations. First there is visual scale. A typical two-story home, with a pitched roof is 20 to 25 feet tall. Many trees, evergreen or deciduous, will grow 60 to 80 feet tall, and right alongside your home that is going to look pretty silly. Besides that, overhanging branches can break, causing roof damage, or if the whole tree comes down in a storm it will demolish most of your home. Far better to plant trees that grow no more than 40 feet tall within a 20 feet radius around your home. Keep those larger trees further away, where you can see and admire their beauty, without any risk.

Consider too the width of the tree. As a rule of thumb, if you half the width listed for a mature tree, that should be the minimum distance away from the house – even then the branches will in time touch the windows. So a better rule would be two-thirds of the listed width. That is also a good rule for spacing trees apart, if you want them to retain their individual identity. Trees planted close together make a nice forest, but that may not be the garden style you had in mind!

Think about light

If you are planting a larger tree, where will the shadow fall? Roughly speaking, a tree will cast a shadow equal to its height by mid-afternoon in mid-summer. That shadow will be to the south-west of the tree. In winter the shadow will be much longer, which is why large evergreens are not good choices near a house. On the south side of your home, a deciduous tree may cast welcome, cooling shade in summer, and let warming sunshine through in winter – a much better choice.

Don’t be put off planting trees

All of this doesn’t mean you shouldn’t plant trees – with all the joy and beauty that brings. It does mean you should choose wisely. Today we have many smaller versions of full-size trees available, plus all the trees that stay small naturally. There are many, many good choices available, depending on your circumstances, so plant away – just give some thought before you do it. If you really do want a specimen of a giant redwood in your courtyard garden, there is always bonsai!

Give Them Room! Spacing Trees Correctly published first on https://www.thetreecenter.com