#so yay lying!!

[alaskan-wallflower]

you ever just rly want a hug so you wrap yourself in a blanket burrito while drawing and pretending you’re being hugged or is it just me

[kerizaret]

Middle school

[thankstothe]

[jujuscrolled]

last christmas

☆ pairing: ex! suguru x gn!reader (if i slipped up PLS let me know)

☆ synopsis: last year suguru had broken up with you claiming it’d be for the better but the year had progressed and everything was the same. did he think so to?

☆ content: angst/some comfort, mentions of drinking,

☆ word count: 3K

The cool air nipped at your cheeks, a slight shiver running down your spine.

You watched as children laughed, snowballs held tightly in their hands before getting flung at their friends. Across the street from them; the hazy, warm lighting from a small bakery illuminated the snowy ground. The town was busy, people finishing some last minute Christmas shopping or enjoying each other’s presence bundled up to keep warm despite the cruel chill that swirled around you.

You shivered again.

You’d only been gone for a year but it seemed like everything had changed. The shops were different and the people were older.

You sighed, tugging your sweater closer to your body before walking towards the bakery that Satoru had told you he’d meet you at; he had wanted to pick up some cinnamon rolls for his party and since you had denied his offer of picking you up at the airport you’d compromised on just meeting halfway there.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. It’s not like you hadn’t kept in contact the entire year but now he was here, in the flesh and inviting you to his annual Christmas party insisting that you’d never missed one before so why start now?

Truth be told, you did always enjoy his parties and it was always nice to see everyone together, but this would be the first year - the first party- after you and Suguru had broken up.

You hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that day, having been sent off to Paris by your job and honestly, you hadn’t wanted to.

The memory had burned itself into the back of your mind; the muddy slush beneath your feet, the rain pelting your skin as you stood outside Suguru’s house and the aching in your chest as he ripped your heart out and stomped on it.

Despite that he had tried to cover you with an umbrella, insisting that you come in because you’d catch a cold. It had made you angry, the way he had talked to you so gently like he hadn’t just torn you to pieces minutes prior insisting that it’d be for the best if you spilt up.

You grit your teeth at the memory, hand hesitating in front the door before you fought through it and pushed it open. The bell above the door chimed loudly, alerting everyone in their of your presence including Satoru whose bright blue eyes had immediately lightened as they landed on your bundled up figure.

“Hey!” He greeted, enveloping you in a warm hug before guiding you over to where he had previously been standing in front of the wide display of treats the bakery had to offer.

Beautifully decorated cakes and stuffed croissants were lined up neatly next to other perfectly crafted sweets. Satoru’s heaven surely.

“How was your plane ride?” He asked, the arm that he’d swung over your shoulder squeezing you gently as he looked at you.

“So long. I think I’m gonna be jet lagged for months, honestly.” You sighed, watching as they packaged the pastries Satoru had chosen before you had gotten there.

“I thought you were just getting cinnamon rolls?” You asked, arching a brow as they packaged yet another flavor of kikufuku.

“I did! The rest is for me - you know I can’t help myself around kikufuku.” You couldn’t help but grin at him.

“Of course.”

Once the treats had been paid for you both walked to his car, him opening the door for you and entrusting you with his beloved sweets. The car ride was comfortable, spent talking about your Paris experiences and him catching you up on what you’d missed while eating a few of his kikufuku that you’d hand him.

“You’re gonna spoil your dinner, Toru.” You teased as he reached for another one, he only shrugged mouth full of the cream filled mochi.

“My stomach is an endless pit, don’t you worry.” He said through his mouthful.

“Thank you for helping me by the way. Everyone else was insisting they’re too busy to help me set up.” He huffed as you both walked through his front door, treats half eaten and cheeks burning from the snow despite only having been outside for mere minutes.

“No problem, happy to spend time with you.” You replied, allowing him to remove your jacket only for him to fling it onto the couch. He didn’t own a coat rack, you don’t know why you assumed he’d keep your jacket safe.

The two of you decorated his living room, stringing lights across every surface and sticking candy canes in random places. The tree in the corner had clearly been decorated by children; you assumed Satoru had let the neighbor’s kids help him since their father hardly ever had enough time to do things like that with them. You cleaned up the coloring books and crayons that they had left too, placing them in their designated corner.

After about an hour the place looked like a Christmas store had thrown up in it, even going the extra mile to place mistletoe on each doorway as a little gag for whoever ended up under it.

“Shoko said she’s on her way with Kento and Haibara.” Satoru shouted from his bedroom as you finished up the last of the details on the dining table. You glanced over at him, watching as he made him way to the living room, clicking on the television and pulling up one of those fake fireplace videos despite the fact that he had a real fireplace. (“The cleanup is annoying, plus Megumi likes playing around there and I don’t want to be responsible for any mishaps!” he’d say whenever you reminded him.”

Soon after you heard some knocks on the door before it flung open. Shoko had a bottle of wine in her hand, comically large and clearly hard to carry seeing as she had both arms wrapped around it.

“Y/n! You’re back!” She said, making her way straight towards you and pulling you into a side hug to avoid the wine bottle getting in the way.

“Got back this morning, Toru wanted me to help with the decor.” You replied. Kento and Haibara hugged you too, placing their things on the table. Haibara had brought a bucket of fried chicken and Kento had brought some homemade rolls saying he’d gotten the recipe from a bakery that he often visited.

The four of you mingled as you waited for Utahime and Suguru to arrive, your stomach in knots as the time passed. You weren’t sure what to expect, despite knowing that with everyone around it wouldn’t be likely that it’d be awkward but the awkwardness was the least of your worries.

You hadn’t seen him in an entire year and despite having mostly healed from the breakup, having little to no hard feelings, you still had a tiny ache in your chest whenever you remembered the look on his face when you told him you hated him. The both of you knew it wasn’t true, it had been words spat out during high tension - words meant to wound.

The doorbell rang and Satoru made his way over, welcoming Utahime with a one-sided hug before she ran to you, pulling you into a hug and asking you about your trip.

“Suguru said he’s running late because the girls refuse to go to bed.” Satoru said as he typed on his phone, presumably replying to the message.

“Shall I serve us some wine then?” Shoko asked already making her way to the kitchen.

As everyone drank their wine and chatted you got lost within your mind again, unable to stop replaying the memory you’d tried so hard to get rid of. It was strange really, you’d hardly had time to think about anything other than your job your entire year in Paris but being back had clearly reopened the wound you’d thought you’d fully healed. Seeing everyone again had your mind reeling.

Biting your lip you contemplated just going home and avoiding facing your fears. You were back for good, what was the rush?

As you opened your mouth to excuse yourself, a loud knock on the door had everyone cheering, knowing it could only be Suguru.

Your world spun as the door opened revealing Suguru, looking gorgeous as ever. Inky black hair tucked neatly into a bun. He wore a white knitted sweater and black dress pants, gauges still in his ears and purple eyes immediately landing on your figure nestled between Shoko and Haibara.

You quickly looked away, fingers tugging on the fabric of your shirt in attempts to soothe yourself. You definitely weren’t ready for this.

“Hell yeah! Let’s get to eating!” Satoru cheered, arm around Suguru’s shoulder as he led him to the table, the rest of you following suit.

As everyone served themselves, you stood idly behind Shoko waiting your turn and thanking the heavens above for Satoru distracting Suguru. You knew he’d want to talk to you and you weren’t even ready to see him so talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do.

Despite that fact, you could feel his lingering gazes on you and it only made you drink your wine quickly in attempts at easing the growing anxiety.

Shoko and Utahime made it their mission to distract you and they did a fairly good job at it, telling you stories about things they’d done while you were gone.

Unfortunately, the fuzzier your mind got the less you paid attention, only seeming to notice the way Suguru’s eyes stayed on you. Every time he had sensed a lull in your conversation with anyone he would try to get your attention but you wouldn’t let him - quickly engaging in different topics with whoever would listen. It’s not that you didn’t want to talk to him, you just didn’t know if you were strong enough to get through a conversation without crying. And you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself like that your first night back in Tokyo.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened.

You had excused yourself about two hours into drinking, your hazy mind amplifying every sound, every conversation and ultimately overwhelming you.

You’d never been much of a sociable person, limiting yourself to your small group of friends but after being isolated for most of the year, being so busy with your workload that socializing was the least of your worries, it seemed like you’d lost the ability to handle so many interactions all at once.

As you leaned over the bathroom sink, taking in deep breaths to cool yourself down, a knock sounded at the door. Thinking it would be Shoko or Utahime checking on you, you opened the door only to be face to face with the last person you’d want to be alone with.

“Please don’t close the door on me.” He said, raising his hands as you gripped the door tightly. You only frowned at him, glancing around to see if anyone else was coming to your rescue.

Only an empty hallway greeted your vision.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me so you don’t have to. I just… I know it’s not my place anymore but I could tell you were getting overwhelmed so I couldn’t help but come and check on you.” He said, eyes taking in your every feature and successfully rendering you speechless.

“I’m fine. Just…” You stopped, not needing to elaborate since you knew he could still read you like a book. It made you uneasy.

“Here, let’s get some fresh air, yeah?” He said, moving to the side so you could exit the bathroom. You could only hesitate.

“Promise I won’t talk to you if you don’t want me to.” He said, eyes begging you to follow him.

Letting out the breath you hadn’t noticed you’d been holding, you flicked off the light and exited the bathroom, allowing him to lead you to Satoru’s room and out onto his balcony.

The cool air felt good on your overheating body, Christmas lights from the houses around you twinkling under the night sky. Suguru handed you a throw blanket before leaning on the railing to look down at the snowy landscape.

“How was Paris?” Suguru asked. You glanced over at him but his gaze only stayed on the scenery below you so you relaxed a bit.

“It was fine.” You replied, feeling a bit awkward.

“Just fine? You do realize you were in Paris, right?” He mused arching a brow at you causing you to bite back a smile.

“Uhm.. Well, yeah but I didn’t exactly have time to sight-see.” You said, letting out a breathy laugh. He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head, “can’t say I’m surprised… Did you at least see the Eiffel tower?” He asked.

“It’s insane in the night time when it lights up and everything.” You mused. Suguru watched as your eyes brightened with the memory.

You don’t know how long you two just stood outside, admiring the scenery and recounting stories here and there before he cleared his throat during one of your silent moments causing you to flinch at the sudden noise.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, not meeting your gaze. You looked away from him, throat tightening as your heart rate sped up. You felt like throwing up, an apology was the last thing you needed right now.

He sighed at your silence. “I needed to apologize but I couldn’t find the right time to do so before you left and texting you an apology seemed like a shitty move.”

You blinked at his words, brows furrowing as you tugged your blanket closer.

“I know this is selfish of me but I mis-“

“Stop. Please. Just stop…” You whispered, vision blurring with tears.

“Y/n.”

“No, Geto.” You reiterated, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Please don’t cry over me.” He murmured, hand hovering over your hand that had been gripping the railing so tightly in attempts at grounding yourself, but ultimately he pulled his hand away leaving you your space.

You sniffled, turning to glare at him. “Then either stop making me cry or look away.” You hissed causing him to frown.

“I never meant to make you cry…” He said, “then why do it?” You scoffed, wiping at your tears angry that they’d been stubborn enough to fall.

“I-“ he paused, reaching for you again but stopping himself when you leaned away from him.

“Because i’m an idiot. That’s clearly the only right answer. I’m not worth your tears, Y/n.” He said. You bit sniffled, letting out a small scoff.

“And yet here we are again, Geto.”

“Please don’t call me by my last name. We may have broken up but I still want to be in your life. Even if it’s only as friends.” He said. You were growing frustrated with your traitorous tears; every time you’d wipe them away they were replaced with fresh ones.

“I don’t want to be your friend. Can’t you understand that? You broke up with me - I think I deserve some space.” You said, swallowing the sob that wanted so desperately to escape.

“I don’t want to be friends either… I made a mistake letting you go.” He said causing you to furrow your brows and look over at him. He was already looking at you, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears that he had also been trying to blink away. It made your stomach twist into knots, bile rising in your throat.

“What kinda sick game are you playing at, Geto?” You hissed.

“It’s not a game, I swear. Breaking up with you was a mistake. I thought it would be for the better - we were both getting so busy and I wanted to you have someone that could be there for you whenever you needed. Instead of trying to be better I gave you up and I’ve regretted it every day. You’re all I’ve thought about this entire year…” He said. You felt hot tendrils of anger wrap around your chest, tears now flowing freely as you’d given up on wiping them away.

“Screw you.” You spat, turning away to leave but he only grabbed your wrist, tugging you gently towards him.

“Let me go, jerk.” You said, pushing away from him but he only held you tighter within his embrace. “Please just hear me out.”

“No! Dammit, Suguru. You can’t just come in to my life again after what you did to me.” You sobbed, struggling against his embrace but it never faltered.

“I know! I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m a selfish idiot.” He said, holding you as you broke apart in his arms. “I hate you.” You cried.

“I love you. Always will. Even if you leave me again.” He murmured.

You hated how easy it was for him to snake his way into your heart again, but you guess he had never really left. There had always been a Suguru sized hole in your heart and you hated it.

“Is there any chance at all for us again? I promise I won’t make the same mistake again.” He practically begged, pulling back to look at you.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to look at him anymore because you didn’t want to give in. But you knew it was helpless. You’d never hated him. You could never hate him because you would have to stop loving him first. You couldn't give up on him despite your best efforts. But now that the opportunity was here again, you were scared. You didnt think you'd be able to handle a second break up with him.

“Suguru…”

“Please. We don't have to jump back in all at once.”

You let out a sob, allowing him to wipe away your tears as your body slumped in his embrace, you were tired of fighting.

“We’d have to start from zero, Suguru.” You mumbled shakily. He nodded, holding you tight.

“We’ll go as slow as you need me to go.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[jervis-tetch-my-beloved]

i don’t play video games

[chiropteracupola]

"What Grows on the Oak," 2024.

it's the time of year, once more, for an original spooky story!

The oak trees lie across the hills like low smoke, soft and near, and the road dips down into the valley, as inviting as any road has ever been, but the girl on the bench of the buggy on the hilltop makes no move to follow it.

Rose looks out down the road and over the hills, and taps her fingers beside her on the bench. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that there’s little other sound but the high thin sound of insects, and the wind in the long grass, and Rose’s fingers, tapping. The horse, still in harness, looks up and flicks its ear, as if in protest at the sound, and Rose sighs and forces her hand still.

There is a girl in the nearest tree, Rose notices — the fact of it is idly categorized, without true interest. All the same, the light is catching in her hair, dashing shadows over her face as she sits draped across the curve of a branch, and Rose cannot look away from her.

The Fosters, at whose door Rose waits, have no daughter — no children but the one still-toddling son, who Rose remembers as a colicky, twitchy boy. Besides, this girl looks nothing like Mr Foster and his wife, for her hair stands out about her head like a bundle of mistletoe, pale as sun-worn wood. She is, perhaps, their hired girl. Rose is struck by envy, suddenly, that the Fosters’ hired girl had the time to shinny up a tree in the last light of evening, and still would be paid for her work…

Rose sighs, leaning her chin on her hand. Perhaps it is enough for her to be her father’s driver, and to have bed and board in his house — perhaps some day there will be money for school again, in San Francisco or even out east. And perhaps it is not enough, and perhaps there will not ever be.

“Hello, doctor’s driver,” says a voice at Rose’s elbow. Rose yelps in surprise, then turns. It is the girl with the mistletoe hair — dry moss hair — hair like a cloudy day in August.

“No, you’re his daughter, are you not?” asks the Fosters’ hired girl, and Rose nods. “Miss del Llano, that’d make you.”

“Just Rose, please.” She’ll be Miss some other day — not now, in her too-short skirts and with her plait hanging over her shoulder.

“May I come up?” asks the girl.

“Surely,” says Rose, and the girl has swung herself into Rose’s father’s accustomed seat in a fluttering of pale skirts.

“Your father is the doctor — what does he do here? “He is a leech, then? A bloodletter?”

“Don’t be silly, he’s not medieval!”

“Hm-mm, I shall believe you when you prove it me,” says the girl, laughing, and leans her chin on her hand to make herself Rose’s mirror. Side by side they sit for a while, and the dark gathers in across the hills until oaks and grassland alike are made one mass of shadow. Somewhere in the trees beyond the road, a horned owl utters its deep, melancholy cry out into the dusk.

“If ghosts had telephones, I should think they’d sound rather like that,” says Rose, the early chill of after-sunset driving her quite easily to a morbid sort of cheer.

“How the times change,” says the girl, with an odd, but not entirely unhappy, look in her eyes. “No, my dear; ghosts use the same telephones as you and I, as you well know.” Rose does not know, well or otherwise, much at all about ghosts, so she nods, and feels a little more of the girl’s weight settle on her shoulder.

“You have very cold hands,” says Rose, and the girl from the oak tree smiles and taps at Rose’s cheek with clammy fingers.

“I always have, I’m afraid.”

“It’s no bother, really.” And so they sit and watch the sky, the falling-dusk and the distant fog that creeps over the hills, until there’s light, sharp as a door opening.

Rose turns, and it is only Dr del Llano, leaving his patient with his hat in his hand. She turns back, and the Fosters’ hired girl is gone.

“How is Mrs. Foster,” Rose asks, without any particular feeling in her voice, and her father shakes his head in reply. But the road down into the valley, where lies the town, is before them, and Rose is pleased enough at the journeying that she asks no further questions.

It’s in the hills and on the road that Rose meets, again, with the oak tree girl, the mistletoe girl, the girl with hands like marble in the shade. Once again, Rose is waiting for her father while he attends a patient, and, lazing in the sun, Rose has pushed the sleeves of her shirtwaist up to her elbows.

And then the girl is there again, with her shock of cobweb hair moving, ever so faintly, in a breeze that doesn’t seem to reach as far as the buggy-seat.

“Hello, my pretty-lovely,” says the girl, putting her hand out to the horse still in its traces. Though usually affectionate, the horse puts back its ears and pulls its head away.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” says Rose, half-laughing. “Save your sweet words for someone who wants them, all the same.”

“Has she a name, then?”

“Other than Morgan, for what she is? Not at all,” Rose replies. Neither she nor her father have ever thought of one, for all that they’re fond of the hardworking little mare. “And have you a name, then?” For she’s remembered, now, that her oak-tree girl had never told her of it.

“I’m called Saro,” says the girl, and again swings herself up beside Rose. “What does your father do here, my Rose?”

“Oh, I oughtn’t say,” and Saro looks back at her with a stare of please? and Rose laughs and says anyway. She shouldn’t gossip, but she leans in close anyway, and whispers that “Old Man Lucas has got the clap, and him a widower these ten years!” Saro’s mouth twitches at the corners — she can’t hide her laugh for long, and it bursts, bright, out from her.

“I shall tell, I shall tell!” says she, and Rose coughs on her own laugh with a still-merry “Don’t!”

“You’ll have to catch me and make me, first!” and Saro leaps down from the buggy and runs, her skirts, her hair a flash of white in the golden-dry grass. And Rose, her spirits raised beyond what a grown girl such as herself should permit, follows. She’s less fleet-footed than Saro, earthbound still, stumbling on furrows in the land, catching her heels in ground-squirrel burrows.

Saro, she’s sure, is holding back for her benefit — letting herself be caught. And Rose does catch her, knocking her off her feet and into the grass. Saro’s laughing-merry still, her hair stuck full of grass-seed and foxtails. Close-to, Rose can see the freckles that dapple her cheeks and nose, the squint of her dark eyes when she smiles. Saro flicks Rose’s cheek, the snap of her fingers like a prickle of frost, and Rose lies there in the dusty field, entirely lost.

But Saro’s on her feet again before Rose can blink, before Rose can reach out to her, and Rose is standing, blinking in the sunlight, stumbling back to the buggy as she dusts bits of dry grass from her skirt. She buttons the sleeves of her shirtwaist again, the cuffs of which don’t quite come to her wrists anymore, and laughs when her father hands her up into her seat like a lady.

“The best whip I ever had,” he says, perfectly straight-faced.

“Gee-up!” says Rose, holding the reins in one hand and imagining herself perched atop a stagecoach. But even for all her imaginings, she’s as good a driver as her father says, and draws the horse into a gentle trot to see them home. It’s hill and dale down into the valley, hill and dale again like a song, and in the inner slopes lie trees in amid the dust-golden grasses of summer. Beneath the sparse, spreading branches, it is suddenly cooler, then warmer again, as the horse steps evenly onward and back into the sun.

“That’s mistletoe, you know,” says Dr del Llano, as he’s said a thousand times before, and points up at the gray-green mass that clings among the summer-sparse branches of an oak.

“Isn’t that for Christmastime?” asks Rose.

“It’s an odd thing we bring it in for the Nativity,” muses her father, still looking back at the tree as they pass it by. “Poison, that — and it chokes the life out of the oak tree, too. Not a kindly thing, mistletoe, but we hang it up with the flor de Nochebuena all the same…”

He doesn’t speak after that, but sings instead, an out-of-season hymn of sons newborn and deaths already foretold. If the verse telling of tombs ought to be grim, Dr del Llano doesn’t make it so, and so the story of gloom and gravity is nothing but a blithe eventuality, predicted all light-hearted by a man very certain of the truth of it.

Mrs. Foster dies soon after. Rose sits in the church as the priest says the first of the masses for her, the first of seven that her widower has paid for. She waits at the door while her father makes conversation — how she wishes he would hurry up! But the doctor in his black coat and the priest in his cassock are two crows alike, and so she is there in the doorway until her father says ‘good-by, Padre’ and comes to join her. Rose hardly has the time to shut her hymnal closed over the catalog tucked inside before he bustles past her, eager now to be on his way.

“Damned quiet place now that the mine’s shut up,” he says on the walk home, and Rose nods, though she does not remember the mine-town as her father does. She knows that there is no more coal to be had here and no more sand, and that with the mine has gone much of her father’s custom. Without black-lung and burns and broken bones, there is far less for a doctor to do in these hills.

But there is no other doctor than Juan Soto del Llano, with his limping step and his rosary about his neck and his rattletrap of a horse-drawn buggy with his only daughter to drive it, so he goes on as he has, and mends up broken bones and offers fever-cures to farmers and their wives, and to the valley townsfolk nearer home.

Henry Freeman is twenty-two, the bright young son of a new-money farmer. He is sickening for something, he is grey-faced and cold and his eyes do not focus.

Dr del Llano is at his door with hat in hand — money passes from the elder Mr. Freeman’s worn hand into his, and the doctor closes the older man’s hand over the coins. Out on the bench of the buggy, Rose scoffs and shakes her head. The fog-touched night is cold even through her coat, and she shivers involuntarily.

“He oughn’t to do such things,” she says, to no one but herself. But all the same, Rose turns her head, and Saro is there beside her, smiling.

“What oughtn’t he do?” asks Saro, with the questioning merriment in her voice that Rose has come to like so well.

“He doesn’t ask for payment, when it’s hill sickness,” and, seeing Saro’s quirk of the mouth, the way the question lurks in her well-dark eyes, Rose continues. “Father doesn’t know what it is, still, and he can’t mend it. It cannot be consumption, for it doesn’t settle in the lungs, but all the same — it is as if something is drawing out the life from them, every one.”

“So your Henry Freeman shall die, then,” says Saro, blunt.

“Don’t—“ says Rose, and stops, cold. “Who are you?” she asks, and looks Saro in the eyes, the brown of them so dark that Rose can barely find her own reflection. And the girl with the mistletoe hair reaches out, and pulls her hand across the golden curve of the hill as if she is stroking the grass that lies like dry cowhide on the ground.

“You know my name, doctor’s daughter, is that not enough?”

“Saro—“ Footsteps, and Rose’s head turns without her willing it. Doctor del Llano still has his sleeves rolled up, the edges wet from scrubbing. He doesn’t let them down again as he drags on his coat, hauling himself up to the buggy-seat as if held down by a great weight.

“Father—“ says Rose, and looks to Saro beside her, but even as she turns back, Saro is gone again.

“I’ll not talk of it,” he says, and hauls his bag into the buggy. It might well weigh as much as all the world. Rose huffs, and pulls her arms against her chest, and sets them on the road again.

And so it goes, over and over again — the Misses Hayward, unmarried, a few years older than Rose herself — Martin Foster, only three — the widow Ruiz, whose husband died down the mine before Rose was born. All of them greying, cold, dying quick. There is sickness in the hills, and it is sickness that the doctor cannot cure, and Rose — Rose finds that she barely cares. She stands in the church, once more, at Lillie Hayward’s funeral, and cannot look at the coffin, but only turns her head to search for wild light hair among the townsfolk in the pews.

But Saro doesn’t come to town; that’s not the place for her, Rose knows. How could she stay anywhere else but where the wind drags the points of oak leaves down the sky, where the tall grass parts under her hands like water?

So life goes on as it did before — the spiders building their webs across the age-grey clapboards of the doctor’s house by the old mine, the oak leaves stuck by their prickling edges to the drying wash, Rose’s father singing softly in his parents’ Spanish as he stocks his black bag at his desk in the front-room.

Rose leans against the desk, chipping at the varnish with her fingernails. In concession to the afternoon heat, the eastward window is flung open, and the thinnest breeze flicks at the pages of the last Sears catalog laid idly within her reach. She has begun to resent the sun — she closes her eyes, hunting darkness for darkness’s sake, and thinks of Saro in her white skirts, standing candle-slender in the dusk between the hills, Saro’s hands that are always cold, pressed softly against Rose’s face, her neck, her chest.

Telephone, its jangling sound sharp in the late-summer quiet — her father’s soft noises of questioning and assent — the practiced movements of putting harness to the horse. But for all that the interruption is sharp, there’s a pleased rise in Rose’s heart nonetheless, for if she is lucky, she will see Saro on the road.

She reins in the horse when her father tells her so, and hands him his bag as he jumps from the buggy — once he’s gone, Rose allows herself a secret smile. It’s early in the evening now, with the light all golden, her father’s horse with its dark mane a-gleaming in the last of the sun. Rose has a flask of coffee with her, brewed black as her father’s coat. She drinks most of it, hot and bitter, never mind that it had been meant to be shared. It doesn’t keep her awake — she drowses, head on her arms, and feels a breeze like soft hands stroke along her neck.

Today she has a headache. Her face is hot, even with her collar unbuttoned and her hat laid aside in her father’s seat. The day is warm, and the air tastes of dust, hot and dry in Rose’s throat. Saro’s hand on her cheek is as sweet and cold as anything Rose has ever snuck from the ice-house. Saro’s mouth against her neck is a cool draught.

“My dear sweet Rose,” says Saro, quiet, with only the barest hint of her usual merriment. “You’ve been ever so patient, even while I took my time with others.”

“Mm,” says Rose, and lets the weight of her body press up against Saro’s cold frame. Perhaps — perhaps that cold could leach the heavy heat from her head, the feverish blur from her eyes.

Saro’s fingers are at the buttons of Rose’s shirtwaist, now, the full breadth of her hand an ice-print on Rose’s chest. Saro from the oak tree, Saro with her hair like mistletoe. The hills rise golden around them, the wind rushing in Rose’s ears without touching her skin.

“May I?”

“Please,” says Rose, at the last, and lets Saro draw away the last of her living warmth.

[todayisafridaynight]

journalists underestimate the magnitude of my addiction and how far i'll go for the bit

[pine-arten]

the wanderer

[bigsharkguy]

somewhat self indulgent domestic fight club because theyre all i think about and also experimenting with screen tones

[tommygotwrittenoff]

so you're telling me that t gave buck the ibuprofen that gave him boils

[procrastinationstationn]

can’t post pics but i am like this right now

[agent-morpeko]

Ume: So what do you do here? Just spy on people or something?

Spying? No, not right now... That's what I'm usually do when I'm on agent duty. For now, I'm mostly doing reports and some paper work. And I have some plans to call my colleagues because...it's classified... I'm currently waiting for them 'cause they usually late for work.

Alright, if you still think I'm a spy and those screens are surveillance camera footage, no they aren't... Actually, those screens does have purpose more than being a wallpaper, haha... Anyways, switchin' in...

Look, isn't Galar so beautiful? So, as you can see, I can turn one of them into anything. It could be an evidence board or a just a map.

[ @inaris-pokemon-world ]

[pennedinblood]

as of ten minutes ago we are officially Jobless™️. my sign to retire early and devote the remainder of my existence to writing toxic old man yaoi

[squeeneyart]

[Image description: A digital greyscale drawing of Loid and Yor Forger standing near each other. Their blue and red eyes respectively are the only colored element. Loid is looking at Yor uncomfortably, like he's drawing a blank. Yor looks up at him expectantly, cutting off some thought she was talking about.

Text pointing to Loid: Can't think of anything to say that he hasn't used insincerely

Text pointing to Yor: Is 99% sure Twilight and 'Fiona' are a super-spy power couple and wants to be friends with her.

Yor: Sorry, was there something you wanted to tell me?

End ID]

shit fuck i used all my other nice things to say on other missions where i had to fake-date a woman and now it all sounds fake, dammit

post reveal i need yor to try and win fiona over

alt goofy one under the cut

[ID: Same image, but a small, semi-transparent Anya and Bond sit far in the background.

Anya: Flirting??

Bond: Borf?

End ID]

[veloriium]

spotify cover for my little rainbow factory au thats marinating in my brain

[shirogane-oushirou]

more new hairstyle practice that i decided to color bc... he angy... :3 cute....... 💕