#the tree was a sapling from the tree from her backyard

[spoofyleaf]

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

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

Artist rendition

[aesethewitch]

When I was a kid, we moved into a house that had a huge lilac tree out front. It was mostly rotten, and it needed to be taken down before it fell. It took a while, but eventually, it was gone.

Mostly. A couple years later, little lilac babies popped out of the ground in its place. My mom was determined to get rid of them, because she'd planted a beautiful flower garden there, and the lilac trees would overshadow and kill the whole garden. I insisted on saving at least a few saplings. She said fine, but I had to dig them out and put them in pots myself.

So, I did. I spent days digging little lilac bushes out of the ground and putting them into pots. Some couldn't be saved, but some could. When all was said and done, I had five brand-new lilac saplings. Seven or eight years old, and it was my absolute pride and joy.

Three died due to sun scorching, severe drought that no amount of watering could save, and perhaps just being moved from their place in the ground. But two survived, and I was awfully proud of them! I'd go out and talk to them every single day. I watered them by hand and made sure they were fertilized properly. I learned all about their favored environments, and I was determined to make sure they lived.

One of my mom's friends saw what I was doing with the lilacs. She asked if she could have one to put in her backyard, and I agreed on the condition that she take very, very good care of it.

It's now fucking enormous. I'm talking ten feet tall and bursting with beautiful purple flowers every spring. My mom still gets updates each year as they start to bloom, which she forwards to me. And all I can think is, "That's my friend! Thriving some twenty years on, there it is."

The other tree nearly died, too. It lived in a pot for far, far too long. I wanted to plant it somewhere in my parents' yard, but my mom was reluctant. Eventually, we agreed to put it in the far back garden. It grew okay for many years, despite the shade, but in all these years, it's never bloomed.

Last year, the massive tree casting massive shadows over the lilac and the garden cracked in half and fell. It tumbled into the garden, crushing part of the nearby shed and destroying a few plants beneath it.

It missed my lilac by inches.

The clean-up is long done. The rest of the tree has been cut down, and my lilac has full sunlight for the first time in fifteen years. It won't bloom this year, I know. But it's got new shoots up. It's taller than ever. I spent half an hour a few weeks ago praising it for surviving all this time, dreaming about its future and telling it how I believe it'll become the tall beauty it's always been meant to be.

I think next year, I'll see flowers.

[angelsworks]

Nowhere to Hyde 1 Dark! Tyler Galpin x reader

1

Type: series

Requested: N/A

Summary: At his day job where he masquerades as just a Barista, Tyler meets his mate in the form of the new student at Nevermore.

Warnings: mature 18+ only. dark!Tyler, with yandere themes. Eventually the themes will get darker. Possessiveness, adult themes

Being a new student at Nevermore you were unsure of the people around you. The student body was split into social groups, often reflecting which species they were. For you, someone who didn’t fit that, it made it increasingly hard to find friends. You had no idea where to begin with navigating this strange new school you’d been sent to.

However you quickly caught up with the help of Enid, a friendly and extremely bubbly werewolf. She told you all about the groups on campus, and the history of all the couples, and the teachers, and the rumoured secret societies. It helped a lot to have someone like her around. You became fast friends. You lived close to her on campus and were able to visit often.

You bonded over many shared interest. While you weren’t as preppy as Enid you did class yourself as an optimist. You had to be.

The reason you had been sent to Nevermore was because of your puzzling abilities. While you didn’t have green fingers literally, you did have control over nature. You’d only really experimented with small plants and flowers.

After it had all gone wrong, you’d been sent here. It was a simple mistake. You’d been growing a tree from a sapling to a fully grown adult in your backyard. It took a lot of energy and concentration. What you hadn’t realised is that you were being watched, as some of your fellow school mates shouted at you and jeered, you’d lost concentration.

You could only watch as the branches grew out of control, launching through the windows of your house. The kids in question ran away. Telling anyone who would listen. It put your parents in an awkward position. Although they themselves had strange abilities, it was made clear - you had to leave.

Enid kind of understood what it was like to not fit in. She herself struggled with her lack of Lycan abilities.

When you heard she had a new roommate coming, you both looked forward to seeing a new face. That new face however didn’t look forward to seeing you. Wednesday was bold and honest. She didn’t hold back on anything she said. Her rawness drove people away and in truth it almost drove you and Enid away. But over a couple of weeks you grew as close as you could to the girl. Even though that wasn’t very close.

Over those weeks you and Wednesday talked over the case, leading to new discoveries down the road of Joseph Crackstone, Goody Addams, the case of crazy Rowan and the all too happy therapist. Enid tried not to listen, she thought the both of you crazy and paranoid. Although as time ticked on even she couldn’t deny that something was going on in Nevermore and in Jericho.

You made some serious break throughs, one of those being the discovery of a creature called the Hyde.

You’d kept in contact with your parents, using your weekly phone call to ask about the Hyde creature that seemed a mystery to all. Surprisingly your family had a history with the beast. Dating back generations. You asked for all the information they had to be sent over in the post.

After reviewing it you went to meet Wednesday and at the weathervane.

Tyler was the Hyde, that much was true. He’s been working with Marilynn Thornhill; against his will as it was, to act out her plan to rid Jericho of outcasts.

Trapped as the Hyde and alone with that knowledge had made Tyler paranoid. Paranoid someone would find out, take him away, or try to fix him.

While the murderous tendencies he faced while being the Hyde weren’t ideal, and neither was the blacking out, it made him feel alive. It gave him power he’d never had before.

It was just all being controlled by Thornhill.

His current job was to keep an eye on Wednesday and report back any discoveries she’d made. It was easy enough to do when she kept walking in to do her investigating at the Weathervane. The place he worked.

Sometimes she brought her little friends too. The werewolf, Enid, so bright it made his eyes hurt. The creep Xavier, his previous run ins with the guys had left a sour taste in his mouth.

To get close to Wednesday he’d had to feign some sort of interest in her and her dark ways, which hadn’t been easy. While she was pretty, she wasn’t his type and the hassle of dealing with Xavier would never be worth it.

Yet all his work seemed to have paid of because today she brought someone different. She brought someone new. She brought you.

As soon as you walked in, Tyler was hit by an overpowering scent. The scent so sweet it reminded him of summer. The flowery and vanilla scent engulfed his senses. For a minute he almost stumbled, making him grip the counter for support.

After becoming the Hyde he’d had an increase in his senses. His sight, hearing and smell had all become superhuman.

But no one smelt like you. He was ready to become the Hyde there and then. In the quiet coffee shop, in the normie village. Take you back to his cave and make you his, many time over.

The thoughts made him hot all over. It made blood flow to places he didn’t want it to flow to. It took a lot of deep breathing and some off putting images in his mind to calm his situation.

You sat with Wednesday, smiling brightly as you greeted her. A contrast to her blank stare and cold demeanour. Wednesday already had her drink, whereas you were left without one. This was his opportunity. The shop barely had an customers and those that were here were focusing on work for the most part.

He walked over to see you animatedly explaining something; smile bright, eyes gleaming, hands moving, lips so soft. By the time he’d walked over he had almost forgotten what he went over for.

“Tyler.” A monotone voice greeted.

The girls now stared at him, he needed to keep his cool.

“Wednesday, nice to see you again. And you are?”

You smiled, shooting out a hand for him to shake, “(Y/N), nice to meet you Tyler.”

Your skin was soft, so soft. Your touch send shivers down his spine. He wondered what it would feel like to have you hands on his cheek, in his hair, on his chest, on his -

He clears his throat, “What are you working on?”

“Classwork.” You lie. He can hear your heart beat faster as you struggle to make eye contact. You lied, and to him. But why?

He didn’t let it show on his face, but he was disappointed. Did you not feel what he felt.

“Ah, can I get you a drink or anything?”

Your smile returned and he was grateful, “oh just a (Y/D) please.”

He left to make your drink. Trying again to cool his blood flow.

You took out the old book your family had sent you. Explaining to Wednesday that your family had a history with discovering creatures. The Hyde had a whole chapter in the ancient book. Covering its appearance, it’s behaviour, it’s habitat, it’s mating rituals.

When you asked your parents how your ancestors knew such things they told you that they had close connections with them. Your mothers great great grandmother had been mated to one. Much different to being married to one.

For a Hyde, their abilities often made them uncontrollable. Their infliction occurred from a mutation and would only be triggered by a traumatic event, chemical inducement or hypnosis. Yet when under the control of a master this was rectified.

“So the Hyde is only part of our mystery, we’re looking for a Hyde and it’s Master.” Wednesday stated.

You nodded, smiling politely as you saw Tyler coming over. You shut the book moving it aside.

He placed your drink on the table.

“Thank you Tyler.” You smiled, meeting his eyes.

“No problem, are you working on the case?” He asked.

Wednesday flips her eyes up to Tyler, “Yes we’re researching the Hyde.”

Your eyes widen and they switch between Wednesday and Tyler. She sees your confusion, “Tyler knows about the case.”

“Oh.” You pull your book back out, opening it on the right page.

Tyler looks it over, not having to fake his interest this time. The pages are way past yellow, adorned with brown dust.

Pictures of the Hyde littered the page in various different mediums. Neat cursive writing annotating certain parts of the anatomy. He’s intrigued how you know so much; or how you’ve gotten such an old book about him.

Even Thornhill has little to no idea about Hydes, she just knows how to control them.

“Wow this book looks ancient, where did you find it?”

You explain it’s a family heirloom that’s been passed down and added to. You miss out that you have slight Hyde heritage.

Still you scent is intoxicating and when you move your hair from your shoulders it wafts more his way.

“That is interesting, what have you found?”

“Just a few things about the Hyde really. What it’s triggered by, where it lives, it’s mating process.”

Now that, that caught his attention.

“Really, a mating process . It’s like you’ve got a guide to the Hyde right there.”

Wednesdays eyes widened a fraction, realising that with slight Hyde heritage, it could be you. You noticed her change in demeanour, frowning.

“Are you okay Wednesday?” You asked , concerned.

She nodded, stiff as a board - not all that unusual for the girl, “I forgot I was meeting Xavier later today. You’ll have to excuse me.”

With that she leaves, making you sigh. You don’t know how your going to find your way back to Nevermore now.

Tyler moves to sit in the booth opposite. Analysing your appearance. From your eyes that sparkle in the light, to your hair that shimmers and your hands grip your (Y/D).

“Hey, if you don’t mind I’d love to learn more about the Hyde. Any chance you don’t mind sticking around for a bit?”

“No, not at all.” You smile. And he’s sure he’ll never grow tired of seeing it.

“Great, I finish in 20 minutes. Then I’ll be over.”

Tyler walks back over to the counter. Formulating a plan in his head of how he’s going to get to you. Here you were naive to the fact that he was the Hyde, with a book all about him.

He knew he wasn’t going to let you go anytime soon.

[givethispromptatry]

Funny story. This prompt is based on real life.

My father for, like, 3 years would buy saplings during a fundraiser thing for some charity and he, my brother, and I would sneak out when it was dark and plant them along a tree line in his housing development. (This is mostly because they cut down a ton of them to connect to another development. Dad hated looking at and hearing all the construction happening from his backyard and hated that they took down the wind break the trees made. My brother and I were just angry that they cut down so frigging many trees!)

One time an older woman (*cough*Karen*cough*) approached us digging while walking her dog and asked if the development knew we were out there planting trees. Thing is, my dad and I are pretty good actors and my brother knows when to let us handle things so we gave her these polite smiles and went 'oh yeah. we made sure to call and see if it was alright.' We also talked about the charity fundraiser a bit.

She asked a couple more times before leaving and we finished up quick and went back home.

Dad still checks the trees to see how they're growing and a lot of them are doing really well!

[hyuckbeam]

always been yours

seasons will continue to change, but the moments you spend below the peach tree will remain cherished in your heart.

pairing | childhood neighbor!chenle x reader

genre | fluff, angst, kind of slice of life??

warnings + notes | afab!reader, usage of pet names (sweetheart, dear, sweetie)

wc | 3.0k words

a/n | this is purely self indulgent i love chenle so much,, i just churned this out like it was nothing- ;0; anyways, just thought i’d release this hell of a brainrot for all the little suns out there someone please talk to me about him before i get swept away by hyuck 😭 likes, rbs, and feedback are always appreciated <3 thank you for reading :>

it was around the end of winter when your mother asked you to place some fruit in a basket and find a matching ribbon to decorate it with. apparently you were visiting your new neighbors who had just moved in a few days ago, and this was how welcome greetings were normally done. you didn’t really care much at the time for someone who was only seven years of age. that piece of information was out of the boundaries of your brain comprehension at the time — the only thing you knew was your neighbors probably loved fruits a lot considering you’re personally delivering an entire basket’s worth of it.

“come along now, y/n. let’s get you dressed to meet the neighbors, hm?” your mother calls for you softly, urging you to look your best to make a good impression on your new neighbors. you didn’t really get why it was important to look presentable, but your mother said it was necessary, and so you obliged without any questions asked.

“can i wear the pretty beanie, please?” you requested, pointing at the white knitted beanie as your mother sectioned your hair into pigtails and secured them highly with a few elastics.

“alright, sweetie. it’ll keep you warm for the weather outside anyways.” she responded, much to your delight. at least you had a reason to wear your cute little beanie today — your mother wouldn’t usually let you do so since you never really got outside the house much to actually make use of the cozy hat.

sure enough, she twists around the last band to keep your hair in tact. “and that should do it! go get ready downstairs then we’ll go to their house, okay?”

“okay, okay!!” you exclaimed, making sure to grab your beanie before heading downstairs like your mother had instructed. it didn’t take long for her to follow along with your father, and before you knew it, you were already outside walking to meet your new neighbors with a gift in tow.

slowly, your parents knock on the door, and a woman who seems to be around the age of your mother appears from behind. “hello! we just came to welcome you and your family into the neighborhood.” you hear your father explain, which earns a lot of praises and words of gratitude from the unknown woman. she takes a small peek at you, a warm smile sent towards your direction. “i actually have a son around her age. i’m sure they’ll make good friends as well!”

a new friend? well, you certainly weren’t expecting that out of this short trip, but it couldn’t hurt to be more social, right? “i wanna meet him!” you tug at your mother’s sleeve, beaming at her.

“darling, he’s out by the backyard. why don’t you go look for him, and i’ll make sure to bring you both some snacks?” the woman tells you, her voice filled with nothing but kindness. “my name is mrs. zhong, but you can call me auntie, okay?”

“okay, auntie!” you giggle out happily. she was certainly nicer than you had put her out to be. plus, who could deny free snacks? she had you sold on the idea ever since.

mrs. zhong quickly gave you the directions to get to their backyard. it was one simple turn on the right corner, surely that was easy enough for you to understand, so you started to make your way out.

there, you find a boy—with hair as black as the night sky—planting a small sapling by the corner of their lot. from what you could assume, he was probably a year older than you. a few strands of his hair stick to his forehead but he doesn’t really seem to care. he was mesmerizing to seven year old you, and you couldn’t place a finger on why that was.

he quickly approaches you before you could observe him further from a distance, a radiant smile overtaking his features. he was kind of blinding in your eyes. kind of like the sun that shines in the sky. “hi! mom said i might make a friend today! would that be you? my name is chenle!”

this might have been the first time you met the boy, but you think he’s someone you’re going to be spending a lot of time with in the future. “it’s nice to meet you,” you greet, fixing your beanie in place. “my name is y/n!”

“well then, y/n, wanna help me plant the tree my dad bought? he told me it’s a peach tree!”

“hm? oh, okay!” you agreed in an instant, not really knowing what took over you. had you always been this eager to plant a tree? you didn’t really know.

however, just as this day marked the day you planted the tree, it also signified the start of your friendship with the young boy.

a long time has passed since then. seven years to be exact, yet your relationship with chenle has not changed one bit. what has changed, though, was the size of the peach tree you had planted all those years ago. it had grown to be healthy and leafy, providing just the right amount of shade when the summer heat starts creeping up.

today was like any other, chenle calling you over to meet him at his backyard in ten minutes after classes ended for the day. it had become a silent routine that ensued between the two of you since that fateful day of meeting each other. the both of you were practically two peas in the same pod. there was nothing that stood a chance in the way of your friendship.

as you reach home, you quickly place your school bag on the couch in your living room and look for your mother to inform her that you will be spending the afternoon at chenle’s.

that was when you caught wind of your parents conversation by the kitchen. they hadn’t noticed you just yet, so you remained quiet by the corner. there, you overheard discussions about having to relocate to another city because your father had been offered a higher paying position at the company he worked for, but that had come at the cost of having to switch headquarter buildings. it just so happened the new building your father was now assigned to was miles away from where you currently lived. it seems they’ve been talking about this for quite a while, already having plans on where to live.

a flurry of emotions bubbled up your chest. of course you were glad your father managed to receive a promotion for the betterment of the entire family, but what about the life you’ve come to love here in this bustling neighborhood? were you going to have to throw all that away? all those memories you’ve made over the years? what about chenle?

right, chenle. you were supposed to meet your friend soon, yet you didn’t want to disturb the ongoing conversation your parents had, and so you simply ran to his house despite not getting permission like you always had. perhaps it was alright. chenle’s mother would probably inform your parents later anyways.

his parents let you in their home without much question as they were used to your frequent visits. some polite greetings were shared between you and the zhongs before you searched for their son at his usual spot.

in their backyard, you find him watering the peach tree you grew together, treating the large tree with utmost care in hopes not a single leaf would wilt. as if sensing your presence, he turns around, flashing the bubbly grin that always greeted your arrival. you were going to miss little moments like this. you were going to miss him.

how you were going to break the news to him? was he going to feel just as heartbroken that you were leaving? should you just tell him and ruin his perfectly fine day? perhaps you shouldn’t have come over in such a hurry when you didn’t even have a plan on what you ought to do. he probably caught on from the sulk of your shoulders, the grin that lit his face up now forming a sullen frown.

“come on, tell me what’s wrong.” though you hated the idea of leaving him, you knew what needed to be done. he ought to know about it. you didn’t want him to be surprised if ever you were to suddenly vanish into thin air.

“i- i might be leaving.” you choke out, already feeling the salty tears wanting to slip away.

“you mean on a trip? why would you be crying about that?” he hums softly, brushing away strands of your hair that have shrouded your face.

“no, it’s not like that.” your voice barely a whisper, “i’m actually leaving soon. leaving the neighborhood.”

in lieu of any violent reactions like you were anticipating, he only reacted with a smile but his eyes held this expression you couldn’t comprehend. “you should take care, okay? you better not forget about me.”

you were completely unaware that his smile was merely an act to cover up his pain. one of you was already hurting as a result of this information, he couldn’t bare his emotions out to you right now — you needed someone to keep you grounded.

instead, he chose to comfort you through the warmth of a hug — hoping the action would convey the feelings he couldn’t show. it fate would allow it, he wished you’d return to him one day.

a day turned into months into years, and soon, you haven’t seen chenle for a total of thirty-six months. three whole years of losing physical contact with the boy who you called your home. you had exchanged phone numbers before you left, but the messages and calls had gone less frequent the more you two were buried in your own lives.

there were times you’d wonder about his life with your absence. is he holding up well? has he gone to make new friends? has he… forgotten you already? because you, sure as day, haven’t lost all your past recollections of him.

your parents had announced that you’d be returning back to that neighborhood since your father had been reassigned back whilst keeping his new position — only fueling your queries further. would he be happy to see you after so long? wouldn’t it be awkward if he didn’t recall your name?

the thoughts swirled your mind, adding to the complexity of your friendship — if there was still an ounce of it after being left to rubble away for a couple of years. still, you knew you wanted to see him again. and perhaps, he did too.

peachy boy ✨:

hey, is this still your number, y/n?

i heard you were coming back and just wanted to meet up again… for old times sake?

i’m sure you know where to find me when you do ;)

you quickly come up with a reply in agreement, cheeks flushing from the notion of seeing him again. realizing he was probably thinking about you at the same moment that you were thinking of him caused your heart to skip a beat. so he does remember you. that puts your mind at ease.

it doesn’t take long for your family to move back into the neighborhood, seeing they were as thrilled as you were to return to the familiar area.

oh, how the tides have shifted, you laugh to yourself at the thought. chenle used you be the new kid in the block, and yet, here you were in the same position years later. either way, you were simply delighted to be back, waves of nostalgia hitting you from every corner since your parents were able to buy the same house you used to live in.

you really felt at home here, but there was still one part of the equation missing. him.

you recalled he had sent you a message the other day and you could finally visit him. you’d been anticipating this moment for months, ever since your parents first brought up the idea of returning to the neighborhood.

quickly, you bring your small purse before informing your mother you were to head to chenle’s. she utters back a reply stating you should take care and greet your auntie and uncle properly when you see them. the entire exchange felt reminiscent to your younger days, making you chuckle a little at the similarities.

you make your way over to the house beside yours, ringing on the doorbell and hearing the familiar chime that resonates in the air. “sweetheart, look at how much you’ve grown!” mrs. zhong answers the door per usual, completely enamored by being able to see you again.

“thank you, auntie! i’m glad to see you’ve been doing well too.” you giggle out in reply, finding her words endearing.

“of course.” she responds, giving you a short-lived hug. oh, how you missed her too. “now, i shouldn’t be keeping you for too long. someone’s been waiting for you all day.”

this causes heat to creep up the apples of your cheeks, “oh dear. i’ll go see him now if that’s alright?”

“go ahead. i’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

after a soft ‘thank you’, you walk towards the door to their backyard, and under the familiar cool shade of the peach tree that grows in backyard of chenle’s house is where you find the boy who seems to be anticipating your arrival by the way he immediately shoots you a grin. his hair is now dyed a coral pink, quite resembling the fruits of the tree that looms over him. it’s no longer the raven locks you once knew, but the color definitely suited his bright image. “hey, you’re late by five minutes.”

despite all the things that’s changed over the years, it was just like you never left.

“what’s a measly five minutes going to do to you?” you muse sweetly, taking the empty spot beside him as you always do. the grass was prickly under the fruit tree, but you suppose his company always made it feel like nothing, even back then.

“i’ll have you know, the wait was agonizing.” his words fall out of his tongue like honey as he eyes your figure, resting his head on his shoulder once you’ve settled down under the shade. it’s a habit of his that you’ve gotten used to from when you were kids, naturally resting your head atop his.

“i missed you.” he softly breathes out once the air went quiet, the faint sound of the cool breeze being the only thing heard.

those three words raise a soft smile on your lips. he’s never failed to remind you of how much you’re loved. “i know. you always do.”

“today feels different though.” this has you sitting up straight to meet his eyes, not expecting him to say something by the lines of that. “what do you mean?”

“it’s almost as if i don’t want to walk you back home later, in fact, i’m dreading for when i have to.” the way he said those words were solemn in nature. was this how he regularly felt all those years ago? you could see where the complaint was coming from. after all, he’d have to leave his house just to bring you back home when he was already here in the first place.

���oh, if you’re tired, you don’t need to take me home later. i’m much older now, and i can take care of myself, don’t sweat it-“ you reply earnestly, worried for his well-being.

“no- um, that’s not what i meant.” this was the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter out his words. he freely spoke his mind at any given opportunity, never feeling the need to hesitate in what he had to say. “i wish i didn’t have to since parting with you would have been inevitable. i don’t want that.”

a pair of warm hands now rest on your shoulders, prompting you to look him in the eye. you see him properly for the first time today, speckles of sunlight peeking from the leaves of the tree dot his face gently like minuscule freckles. the chenle you knew in the past had grown up bearing the same feelings you did — just as if you had both been in the same wavelength this entire time, silently holding onto each other as the feelings blossomed like the pale-colored flowers that brought life to the peach tree you both sat underneath.

chenle was surprisingly composed for someone who had just confessed to a ten-year crush (you needn’t know that). yet, for him, the fact that he had finally laid himself bare in your company was sufficient enough, even if you were to reject him in this moment.

you, on the other hand, truly didn’t know how to respond to something so heartfelt. your own heart couldn’t even control itself, wanting to break free from the shackles of your chest. and so there you stayed, frozen in place.

“sorry, today probably wasn’t the right day, huh?” his words were still gentle and warm like a fluffy blanket, even if slight disappointment was hidden behind it. it’s true, he already felt fulfilled from being able to go through with his confession, but he’d be lying to himself if he said it didn’t hurt. “i probably should have waited till you and your family settled in first but i… i couldn’t help it.”

“no. today was the perfect day for you to tell me.” you breathe out, cheeks puffing due to the smile you were unable to contain. “i’ll tell my mother i’m staying over tonight. you’ll have me, right?”

“of course.” his eyes crease, forming little whiskers on his skin. a traits of his that you’ve noticed over the years and adored because it meant he was genuinely happy. “i’m all yours. always have been.”

taglist | @haeravlgs, @liyaliar, @1-800-call-ria, @winwonies

[poorwhayfairingstranger]

Potential short film plot

Potential short film plot

In the middle of the night, a robber breaks in.

A young woman played by me is sleeping

The robber sees the sleeping woman and goes to attack her.

The woman wakes up 1st and tackles him to the floor.

End scene.

Morning. The woman is peacefully eating breakfast.

The robber's car is still parked on the street.

The woman goes into the backyard and gets a bright red spiky orb off of a tree.

She goes downstairs past a closed door and into the basement.

The robber is tied up and gagged.

The woman lifts his shirt and puts the red spiky orb on his skin.

Robert starts screaming.

End scene.

Cut to the afternoon.

The robber's car is no longer on the street.

The woman parks in her driveway and pulls out a tree sapling from her car trunk.

She smiles and greets her neighbors as she carries the tree to the backyard and begins digging a deep hole.

End scene.

Sunset.

The hole is not very big around but very deep. The woman climbs out of the hole and goes inside.

She walks to the basement, and We see the robber is now a dried out corpse.

She removes his clothes, And the spiky orb Before wrapping the body In fabric.

She carries the body to the garage and begins cutting it up with an ax just out of frame.

End scene.

Night time.

The woman carries a Burlap bag into the backyard before burying it in a hole, planting the tree on top of it.

notice there are several other spiky red orbs on various trees in the background.

She goes inside, puts the robber's clothes in the washing machine Then check on the orb.

The orb has hatched. It's a changeling.

End scene

Midnight.

The woman stops outside of a house.

She opens the window and crawls inside.

There's a baby sleeping peacefully on a crib.

The woman places the changeling in the crib with the baby.

There are now 2 identical babies.

She carefully picks up one and goes home.

The end.

[need-a-name-101]

You still remember the day when you were five years old and had gotten your first pet. It was a nice and sunny day, you were in the backyard with your mom as she was making a flower crown. You tried to copy her but the flowers wouldn’t stay stable. As she placed the crown on your head her smile died down.

“Mama?” You asked.

She gave you a small strained smile as she went into the house. You looked towards the fence and saw a man wearing a long black trench coat and a hat looking at you with a pained smile. Your mom came running out yelling, “get away from my daughter.” The man left leaving you and your mother alone, with the three headed puppy. You knew that it had to be the man in the trench coat that left the puppy. You named him fluffy, because he was a fluffy puppy and five years olds are not usually known for their creativity.

At age ten, you had found a small ruby whilst gardening with your mom. Both of you while equally perplexed thought it was a fake.

At age eleven, you found a brochure in your locker about a seminar about Greek Gods. You decided to take it as a commitment to the bit your parents had started, by putting Hades as your Godfather.

At twelve, you dismissed this as a joke by your friend, who left a brochure for joining Artemis’ hunt.

At thirteen, you started to take over the garden from your mom. The flowers you planted and raised bloomed brighter and bigger. The fragments of the flowers created a soothing atmosphere. As you were gardening, you saw a sapling you had never before seen.

At fourteen, you saw the trench coat man for the second time. The sapling had finnaly grown into a tree. The man stood on the other side of the fence, he plucked the lone pomegranate on the tree and left. The tree never bore anymore fruits.

At fifteen, on your birthday you found a simple silver necklace with a daisy on it , with your gifts. Your friends didn’t gift it and neither did your parents you still wear it till this day.

It wasn’t until when you were sixteen, you started to think about the random gifts left for you. You were walking in a park when suddenly your friend tripped on a small green rock. It was an emerald. You picked it up and pocketed it.

“Was that an emerald?” She asked.

“A fake, who loses a real emerald?”

“True but kinda random”

“Not really I find a lot of them.”

“Don’t you think that’s weird, all the random unexplainable gifts.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your dog has three heads.”

“The vet said it’s unexpected but if it happened it happened.”

“You sure because no offence I love fluffy that little cutie but three heads. He could be cebrus’ child.”

“That would be ironical.”

“Yeah your god father is Hades and cebrus’s child is your dog. What a weird world you have.”

When you were seventeen you met a boy. He was new to your town. A real charmer, good looks exactly your type. The two of you hit it off, going out in a group with your friends you found yourself sat next to him. One weekend, you parent had gone to visit your Uncle while you were at home. You a nd you friends decided to host a party. The boy was there. You guys laughed, danced. By one in the morning most had left, your friend was asleep on the couch, you covered her sleeping frame with a blanket. When you heard footsteps it was the boy. You chuckled, “God you scared me.” He just smiled.

Thinking he was going to leave you walk towards the exit, to see him out. Once in the hallway he pushed you up against a wall you try to protest and wriggle away. You can’t, you drunk and tired. Then suddenly his grip is gone and Fluffy is above him one head barking and the other two biting.

“Damn you Hades.” The boy yells disappearing in a flash of light.

Nobody remember the boy. But you do, that small moment in the hallway burned in your brain.

The day after your eighteenth birthday, you are in midst in packing. You are moving for university. The doorbell rings. You open the door to the trenchcoat man. This is your third time seeing the man. He is stood with a beautiful woman, she has flowing long brown hair, with beautiful emerald green eyes. She has flowers in her hair. She is wearing a simple black dress with regal elegance.

“We thought it’s time that we met our goddaughter.” The man spoke. He had a husky voice, which sounded like a voice echoing in a cave.

“Hades?” You asked.

The pair smiled.

Your parents listed Hades as your godfather as a joke, That would not be an issue if it were not for the 3-headed puppy delivered to your doorstep by Persephone and Hades themselves, planning to protect you from the Olympian’s shenanigans due to Zeus’ bulldickery

[finsterhund]

Sorry no updates in a while. I promise I'll talk about the con at some point but I'm stressed to hell and back.

Shit.

Depression, the inflation and the feeling of treading water affects us all. Roommate is stressed to all hell about his money issues and of course that's adding to my stress. As easy as it is for some people to say I shouldn't cover for him, ultimately the roof over my head depends on it. So there's no real way to get outta that in case you really couldn't figure that out yourself. It sucks but hey, I'm used to being poor. I spent several years as a minor being the sole breadwinner of a household at one point. I wish I could buy trinkets and toys especially because this month (May) and now because of Cazza's death June also are real fucking agony. The time immediately leading up to my birthday is not a happy one. It's traditionally when I'm the most at risk for suicidal thoughts and giving up. I just wish I could live on the farm and have a fucking greenhouse and whatever. Some shit.

I'm so scared I'm going to lose my newfound regained passion of growing plants because it's the one thing I have right now. It feels like I'm on the verge of burning out often. Like I want to just go back to depression napping. Maybe I'm just an immature petulant boy who can't be patient and doesn't want to wait for my plants to "do something" but I think what's impacting me is that I have no space and very little money. So I'm very limited to what I have room for. My singular sunflower died (Scott literally ate it. Thanks Scott) and I'm constantly playing plant Tetris on my windowsill. The dollar store bright ass pink grow bulbs don't seem to offer the correct amount of simulated natural light that is needed for most plants also. I don't think direct growing in our native soil is gonna be possible. I attempted to plant three scarlet runner plants behind the building, the same exact sunlight and temperature they got from my window. And they got just absolutely spectres-to-Andy eaten alive by pests pretty much immediately. Like those motherfuckers jumped at the chance. Just came out of the woodwork.

I did find out why my mom was so cagey about getting me cuttings though. The stupid fucking landlord or whoever killed my goddamn cherry tree. I am so fucking mad. I want to scream. I loved that fucking cherry tree so fucking much. It was an important source of food growing up. I liked playing on it and it was in the yard. Mom couldn't tell if my oak and apple trees got killed too because she couldn't look into the backyard fully. I am just fucking crushed. It was supposedly a sucker tree from the neighbor's cherry tree which is allegedly still there. But I remember the fruits being slightly different which would imply it was not a clone but rather a sexually produced offspring. Which is fucking dead now. I am absolutely fucking infuriated. These bastards will take and destroy everything I fucking love. Because of money. I wish more than anything right now I would have had the foresight to take cuttings of all my trees and/or dug up my saplings that I personally planted at that house before mom was kicked out but that shit bitch landlord literally gave her less than a month (illegal but poor people can't sue) to get out of the house. As it was when I went to help her and my brother leave in that short notice the act of moving everything so fast destroyed me mentally and physically. I just can't. My poor fucking cherry tree. The entire time I lived there it was such an important presence in my life. And these cunts just fucking killed it.

With that being said, my mom stresses that the elementary school willow tree is still very much alive and then she did evidently after pleading agree to take cuttings. She also found an acorn that had sprouted and wants to send it to me as well because she doesn't have room for another oak sapling (she has one of mine left that was never up-potted. Does not want to part with it evidently.)

I just. Fuck man. 100% that piece of shit didn't want to get off their lazy ass and actually do the minimal upkeep required for this fucking low matenance fruit tree. Landlords are fucking lazy ass parasites that literally grow fat off the hard work of others. I hate them so much.

I had a few people encourage me to maybe try and become an arborist as a career but um... I'm pretty sure I'd meet my first shithead who wants to butcher a perfectly healthy native tree that's older than they are and I'd just fucking break their nose on reflex. This just cements that. I'm reminded of when I was little and there was a tall thin tree no clue anymore what species it was that grew in the front yard next to the fire hydrant. It was there long before the fire hydrant but you know what had to fucking go? My beloved tree. I was either six or seven when this happened. I remember how alluring that tree was when first moving into that house because someone long ago had tied a scarf, now grimy and unable to determine its color, to one of the lower branches. Potentially so use as a visual reference when parking a car. I remember the sight of them taking out its giant fat curled taproot. And feeling so sad. I fucking hate change.

I don't even know if I can trust my mom that she's actually took cuttings from MY willow tree. What if she's lying and it's dead and she found a different willow tree somewhere else. How would I even know?

In other news I might be getting some of my transformative passion back in regards to my true love being Heart of Darkness. I've been thinking maybe I could try drawing again. Idk.

Roommate specifically mentioned how me buying gardening stuff was stressing him out because of money and now I feel guilty. I still have many things I need to find and buy. For instance I'm wanting to have something that can keep bugs away from outdoor plants. Like a mesh netting that won't impact moisture or light. Something like that. I've been spraying lavender oil onto leaves inside my room and I think that's working.

I want to get pitcher plants. Maybe when all my vegetables I am trying to grow this summer eventually die or something I'll only grow specific plants I really love. I wish I had an outdoor bonsai workshop. They do best outdoors and I want to have trees. And I feel that's the only way someone who's poor and young and disabled can ever have enough space for trees.

There's also a type of runner bean call black knight runner beans. They look cool as fuck. There are places online to buy seeds but it's unwise to spend money right now. Roommate told me not to for at least two months. No buying fun things. Which sucks because this is the time of year I suffer the most.

Anyways idk. I'm trying not to think about my cherry tree. It wasn't even technically mine. It was there before. But I loved it. Just like I've loved so many things that aren't here anymore.

I've had no luck rooting cuttings so far. None at all. Mint cuttings look like they are gonna die and attempts at blackberry cuttings have been unsuccessful. This is even with rooting hormone my neighbor found. Maybe I will try again in the winter or fall. It's why I'm so excited for willow. Even if I won't evet be able to fully trust if it was actually my beloved tree cuttings willow is still fun to work with. It roots really easily and grows really fast and it likes lots of water. So we're pretty compatible.

I will have to see if putting cuttings in willow water works better than rooting hormone. Or maybe it just takes a very long time. I don't know.

I wish they sold seeds of that flower that's hundreds of thousands of years old that they revived from an ice age squirrel cache. But they don't. I looked. Sad.

If anyone has any cool ice age or older plant recommendations I'd like to know.

I really wish I could have proof those cuttings are gonna be from my elementary school willow tree. I wish I could trust my mom that much. It hurts that I can't. I feel sad.

My newest fan that I got last year infact has broken off the stand. The stand is hollow so the plastic just fucking snapped. I fucking hate how poor workmanship is the norm now in consumer goods. It is a Honeywell which I know from experience in the past were virtually indestructible.

So I gotta come up with a new stand idea. Maybe build it out of wood pieces or something.

I wish I could be more active and talkative to my friends at least. But I've really been struggling to keep up to date with my online social circle. All I can do is walk Scott and tend to plants and sleep.

I am going to grow dandelions as houseplant. The entire thing is edible and I've always wanted to see what they're like when they are cared for. Also some clover I found outside. I don't know why. They just make me happy I guess.

[lunarsapphism]

its funny how google maps has created an outlet to unintentionally memorialize things. through all of the image updates of the map, you can see cities grow and environments change over time. and if you want, you can see previous versions of the map when you’re looking at a location.

there’s a version of my grandmother’s house from 2018. she is standing outside, walking to what i assume is her car. i didn’t know her then, not anymore. she died last year. 

there’s also a version of that same house from 2012. it looks exactly how i remember it. nothing special, the carport and porch were always messy. the photo was taken in may, so the bush in the front yard is in bloom. it had white flowers, my siblings and i used to call it the snowball tree. the old blue car parked on the gravel outside has the cherry air freshener that my aunt bought once and never replaced hanging from the rearview mirror. there’s a dog toy sitting in the yard. the yellow hose on the porch is wound up haphazardly by the front door, and the rickety old bench that was practically rotting against the fence is still visible beneath the greenery on the side of the house. that same dumb christmas wreath that they never took down is on the door. all of the rhodies on the property are in bloom, brightening that dreary little neighborhood with spots of bright pinks and purples. you cant see any lights on, but the people are home. they were always there. maybe my dad was there. i cant remember. i was there too at one point. i might have even been there when that photo was taken.

there are so many differences between the photo from 2012 and the photo from 2018 but i can only notice the little things. maybe its because only the little things have changed. the oak sapling that fell into the rocks just outside the path and started growing in the corner is a tree now. the trash cans are different and the carport is missing a broken down tarp-covered car. the bench is completely overgrown, you wouldn’t even know it was there if you didn’t know to look for it. there are kids’ toys in the carport for cousins that i never really got to know, and a haphazardly built chain link fence at the end of it, shielding the yard from the street. there’s a hammock between the two massive maple trees in the backyard, and that scary old metal storage unit that used to be filled with garden tools and spiders looks like it hasnt been opened in years. they let the gravel in the front get overtaken by weeds, and there are two new bird feeders near the windows. they added a screen door, but never fixed that one old rickety step up to the porch. 

it almost feels like a representation of how people's lives continue regardless of whether or not you’re in them anymore. grief may stay prominent, but everything else moves on. i cant tell if thats comforting or if it makes me sad. it could be both, i dont really know. 

i hate that fucking house

[loquaciousquark]

an account of hope, an account of redemption

So if you recall, I lost several beautifully mature, beloved trees in my backyard over the last year and a half or so. Well, about a month ago, I ordered two Schumard oak saplings through my local landscaping company on the advice of our state arborist. These are trees which grow well in my state and which grow fast without compromising strength, and they turn a stunning red in the fall.

So the landscaper calls last week to tell me the oaks are in. They close at 3:00 today, so I head out around noon to run some errands, then roll up to the building around 1:30 to check in and pay.

First wrinkle: the staff member who's going to help me load the trees takes one look at my small SUV, the back seats optimistically folded flat, and just shakes his head. No way, he says, not a snowball's chance. Not even on top like a Christmas tree? Impossible. He directs me around to the back of the lot where the trees are, and I see--oh man, no way. They're fifteen feet tall, the root buckets almost two feet round, no way these are EVER going to fit in, on, behind, or above my car. Do I have a friend with a truck? Buddy, if I had a friend with a truck, I'd be here in a truck. They suggest renting a trailer from Home Depot.

First hope: turns out there's a Home Depot two minutes from this landscaper. I call, and indeed they have one trailer I can rent. I hurry over--it's now about 2:15. On the third try I pick the right door and hurry to the tool rental desk. She starts to check me in.

Second wrinkle: They can't rent me anything because my driver's license is expired as of exactly seven days ago. (Secondary concern: I'm supposed to be on a plane to San Diego in a little over a week. A blessing in disguise this was discovered?)

I walk out to my car empty-handed, disappointed, trying to figure out when the heck I'm going to be able to get this trailer, get back to this landscaper, get home, and get the trees installed before I leave for this trip. I call my mother and tell her hey, is it okay if I just vent for a second? I'm so disappointed and I can't believe I did this to myself. Everything seemed to be falling into place so nicely, and now this. How do I get to the DMV given how busy my coming week is?

Huh, she says. Can't you renew your driver's license online?

Second hope: sure enough, there's a link on the state DMV website. There's a bunch of blanks to verify my identity. There's confirmation I've registered to vote. They're happy to take my credit card information. Five minutes later, I have a receipt, a printout, and confirmation of my renewed license. Oh, it's nothing, my mom says in response to my effusive gratitude. My hairdresser of thirty years told me he had to do this last year in line at the airport.

Home Depot takes it. The guy who hitches me up to the trailer compliments my car, tells me they don't make them like that anymore, and tells me it's perfect for me. Considering I just spent 4k getting it fixed, this was massively validating.

Back to the landscaper! 2:38 arrival, fifteen minutes to load up the saplings and strap them down for travel. The trailer is the perfect size. Thank God my dad suggested getting this hitch installed so many years ago; it's saved my bacon a hundred times. The guy who'd helped me earlier reassures me that when they lose their leaves in a week (we're finally dropping below freezing), not to worry, and here's how to check for life over the winter. Two gallons of water per inch of trunk twice a day, put the soaker hose in a wide ring around the tree to encourage outward growth of the roots.

The trees make it home, a little battered from the highway speeds but not much worse for wear. They're just on the edge of too heavy for me to lift, so I drag them down the driveway into the backyard. Trailer returned to Home Depot. The guy there helps me back into the parking spot; I think he really enjoys teaching, and I'd made the mistake of telling him I had no idea how to back up a trailer. Still don't, not really, but hey, he had a great time.

Home again and time to dig. Digging holes is hard. I have newfound respect for Stanley Yelnats, because even with relatively soft ground my arms and back are killing me. One of the trees had very fine roots that were easy to break up before installing; the other had thick, girdling roots all the way around the root ball which every guide I read, including the one from the arborist, told me to cut and pull away to avoid throttling trunk growth later in life. I will tell you that I am still petrified of how many of those I cut, the thickest about 3/4" wide. Four vertical slices around the root ball, two inches deep each, they said. Well, I did it, and the crisscrossing cuts underneath the ball after, and loosened up all the matted dirt I could, but man oh man I don't feel good about it.

The guides say always plant shallow over deep for trees. Encourage lateral growth; don't smother them, or the water will just go straight down and the roots will follow. I've done my best, so we'll have to wait and see now. I'm not very patient by nature, so this is hard for me, but I still feel like today was full of good work. If nothing else, I know where I can get another tree, and I know where to get the trailer to do it. But they're in the ground, they're watered, and I have hope! After today, I feel okay about starting there.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Do You Dream About Me?

I can't believe my first RNM Post Finale Fic is Echo, but… this is for all my mutuals who are Echo Shippers. ❤️ (Mentions of Malex & Kybel)

At first Liz didn't know where she was.  She was standing by a cliff face from which a small waterfall emerged to fill a pool of water at her feet.  Despite that, all around her, unfamiliar vegetation was dying.  There was a tall tree by the pool that looked familiar, though it was suffering as well - leaves spotted and decaying.

Then a wave of blue energy suddenly emerged from the distance, and as it passed through the area around her the landscape changed.  The vegetation transformed, growing healthy - though still unrecognizable. It was when the blue wave healed the tree and it filled with familiar looking fruit that it finally hit her.

This was a dream. She was dreaming about Oasis.

There were three similar trees in Michael and Alex's backyard - she recognized the leaves now.  Those were only saplings though.  Spindly little things that had produced flowers, but no fruit yet.  While Walt had told them what Nora and Louise had been capable of with plants, Michael had forbidden power use on the little trees.  Loudly proclaimed they could try with a few of the remaining seeds if they wanted, but his carefully grown saplings were not to be touched.  

There was one attempt by the other aliens to make a tree grow instantly from the carefully harvested seeds of the fruit that had allowed Dallas and Max to go to Oasis. It had been a spectacular failure.  That had been a year ago, on the anniversary of their departure.

Two years.  The Liz from all those years ago who had returned to Roswell would have run six months after Max left. She wasn't the same person anymore.  The universe could pry her faith in Max from her cold dead hands.

In the dream she let herself wander around the pool of water; glanced up at the alien sky above.

“This is a sight for sore eyes.”

Liz turned at the voice, heart full and broken all at once. Of course, her mind wouldn't conjure up Oasis without conjuring up Max right alongside it.  “Max.”

Max crossed the space between them to pull her into his arms. “I've missed you. Feels a bit like dying every day, being away from you.”

“Yeah, it does.”  Liz felt tears fill her eyes. Wondered if she was crying in her sleep.  “Stay away much longer, and I'm gonna have to hunt down my runaway groom.”

Max laughed, stepping back. “Yeah?”

“Michael says some trees produce fruit in their third year, so one more year and we might just have fruit.”

“Michael is growing fuel trees?” Max seemed amused. He would be, she thought.  This conversation felt so real.

“Michael has a whole garden.  He grows vegetables, Max. And he cans them.  Rosa makes me send her jars of his tomatoes.”

“I'm going to give him so much shit for getting all domestic while I was gone.”

“You better.”  She was waiting for the dream to fade.  Max took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “This feels so real.”

Max froze, and then a small teasing smile crept up his face. “Do you dream about me a lot?”

“Are you telling me you don't dream about me, Max Evans?”

“Constantly.”

The words made her smile. Best dream ever.  “I'm not going to want to wake up.”

“Well, I need you to. Cuz I'm coming back. Tonight.”

Liz groaned. “Now this dream is being mean.”

“Liz, this isn't a dream.”  Max told her.

“Of course, you'd say that - you're part of the dream.”

“No, I mean… this is a dream - obviously. But I'm not.”

The dream wasn't fading, and Liz took a moment to look around - the Oasis landscape had that dreamy quality she might expect from a dream. But Max seemed clearer.  “How is that possible?”

“It's a mix of astral projection, lucid dreaming, and entering someone's mindscape.”  Max explained. “It takes a lot of energy to do at this distance. And I didn't have the energy to spare for a long time. There's been so much going on.  I have so much to tell you.”

Her mind races through the possibilities.  “How do I know this is real?”

“Ask me something.”

“But if this is a dream, anything I know - you know.”

“Ask me something you don't know.”

“But how-”

“Ask me something Iz would know.  Call her when you wake up.”

“You're really putting me on the spot here.”  Liz wracked her brain. “Wait, freshman year. Did Kyle and her really play Seven Minutes of Heaven at Hanna Morgan’s party?”

“What? Did they? I don't know!”

“Well, darn, I really wanted to tease them if it was true.”

“Of all the questions, that's what you pick? Why would I know?”

“She's your sister.  Shouldn't you know?”

“I can tell you the reason we were at Hanna Morgan’s party was because it was our birthday, and it was Isobel’s turn to choose what we did.” Max offered instead.

“Nowhere near as much fun, but something I didn't know. If this is real.”

“It is real.”

“You'd say that even if this was just a dream.”

“I can't wait to marry you.”

Liz felt herself smile.  “You'd definitely say that in a dream, too.”

Max laughed. “Call Iz. I'll see you tonight.”

He released her hand and stepped back.  Liz resisted the urge to snatch the hand back.  “I love you, Max.”

Dream or not, she wanted to say it. A thousand times over.

“I love you, Liz.”

Liz woke up to the sound of her alarm. She groaned, burying her head in her pillow for a minute.  It was just a dream, she reminded herself.  It was Bonnie and Heath’s turn to play portal watcher today.  They had a rotating schedule. Alex had set up a parameter alarm that would go off if anyone entered or exited the direct area at night.

She hit the off button on the alarm.

It was just a dream.

She dialed Isobel’s number.

“If there isn't an emergency, I am hanging up.”

“Ah, so Kyle's there. Hi, Kyle!”  Liz grinned. Two years had taught her the only time Isobel wasn't a morning person was when Kyle spent the night and gave her a reason to stay in bed.

“He’s hiding under the pillow.”  Isobel told her. She heard a murmur she couldn't catch through the phone.

“No, he's not.”

“Mentally he is.  Anyhow, what makes you call-”

“Freshman year, did you, Michael, and Max attend Hanna Morgan’s party because it was your birthday and it was your turn to pick what you three did?”

“Wait, what?”  Isobel sounded confused.

Liz felt her heart fall.  She’d really thought...  “Sorry, Isobel, I thought it was real. Stupid, I know.”

“Thought what was real? Liz, how did you know that?”

The words made her heart speed up.  “Wait, it's true?”

“Yes, it's true. But what the hell brought it up at 7:30 in the morning?”

“It was real. Shit, Isobel.  It was really Max.”

“Max?  What about Max?”

Liz felt a smile light her face.  “Max is coming home.”

[melancholyandfrogs]

I'm writing a essay about my generational house—here's some things about it:

it is a house in Birdland, Clarkston, MI / it was built by my grandparents, Barbara and Robert, over the course of a few years and finished in 1966 / before that, my papa can't remember where they lived / he is third generation Italian immigrant, and the first to graduate college

my papa, John, was 5 / his sisters, Cindy and Lisa, were 6 and 3 / they were heavily italian in white-Michigan in the early 1960s / my papa tried but generational trauma from their racism is passed down / there is pigment in the hair of my arms that i'm still ashamed of

-

they only had money to put grass in the front yard, so after the house was finished, they spent the rest of the next two years trying to grow grass themselves / before the grass grew, my papa and his mother built two gardens in the backyard between the ages of 5 and 7

-

this was before I-75 was built / because of this, one of his first memories is a bald eagle flying over his backyard with a squirrel in its talons / the area wasn't populated yet / there were snakes (rattlesnakes and gardener snakes, as papa says, were the most common) and animals and amazing things were all around still

-

papa got his first pet (a half terrier, half chihuahua dog named Tubbs) between 1967-1968 when he was 6ish / every day she would run over to the neighbor’s back patio and do her business, refusing to go anywhere else, and every day, patiently, my grandmother would go and clean it up

his grandmother, Adalina, used to give him a fifty cent piece and say “Don’t tell your mom, she’ll put it in the bank.” / after a few months, when he was eight, papa used the collected money to buy an apple tree, and the weirdest thing is that it never grew apples

when he was a young teenager, Tubbs died / my grandmother wrapped Tubbs up in my papa’s baby blanket and buried her under the apple tree / it bloomed for the first time in his life but that year, it only grew one apple (he ate it) / the tree still blooms every year on the same month (three weeks behind other indeginous apple trees) / the apples are delicious

-

they would routinely come down to Saginaw (about a 1 1/2 hour drive) and would get samples from flowers and plants from my dad's Aunt Meg and Uncle Sam's yard / my grandmother is 1 out of 12 children / only my Great Uncle is still alive / they would bring the flowers home / papa only remembers the Forget Me Nots

every year, my grandmother would get seeds from her mother's place in Detriot / she brought seeds from Italy (an immigrant) and because of that my grandmother planted Rose of Sharon all along the back of the gardens / they're blooming white and purple as I'm writing this

my grandmother wanted Poplar saplings in the very end of the backyard and my papa still smiles as he talks about planting them / there is still tension left in his hands / he told me the rows of them couldn't have been straighter

-

there was virtually no neighbors around the house until the mid-1970s / until about 1978, there were large woods behind the house that papa played in as a child / these woods slowly disappeared as plot land was bought / I think he still misses them

most of the surrounding neighbors were white, blue-collar families / there was one hispanic family and one Black family / the Italian skin that is passed down grows darker in the summer, he was darker than the hispanic family but lighter than the Black one / he has told me stories of angry mothers who snapped white boy and cruel men / I tell him time have changed / that Italian is no longer a slur

-

papa used to catch gardener snakes that hid under logs in the woods / his mother doesn't like snakes / he would put them in the garden that she wanted him to weed with her later that day / he got away with it a lot / he remembers a time he caught a snake on his way to school / he put in a brown paper bag / she caught him and he laughed while mocking her, "Johnny, you got a snake in that bag?" "Yeah, ma, I do." / he still didn't have to weed the garden

every day he went through the woods to get to school / there was a swamp in the woods and he would hunt salamanders, lizards, snakes and frogs / he would collect salt packets from McDonald’s to put on the leeches that he’d get at the swamp / he'd have to take off his shoes, socks and roll up his pants so he wouldn't get in trouble / he still admitted that he went in the swamp anyway

-

there is one bathroom on the first floor and one bathroom on the second / my papa's bedroom used to be in the basement / he moved onto the second floor when he was ten / that room is my cousin Adeline's room now / until she was four, it was still his navy blue / now it is fushia

-

when papa was eight he stuck his head through the guardrail on the stairs / his father was mad when he took it apart / they are still loose to this day / nobody is going to fix it / it is like a poem already

-

the house is two stories / my grandmother thought that it would make people think she is successful / she grew up with eleven siblings and two parents and animals / she grew up poor / she lived her life like she was poor until the day she died / on my eightenth birthday I recieved bonds from her / she wants me to live my life like I am poor too

papa lives his life like he is poor / there have been nights that he was dumpster diving for money / or food / he told us it is okay / it is okay to cry about things like this / he taught me how to make the most out of it / he has never let us go hungry

-

there is a hand rail that was on the four steps up to kitchen from the first living room / the hand rail was taken out of the house when my grandmother died / papa made sure it was polished and drilled it onto the floor of my kitchen, which has one step up from the dining room floor / we don't trip on the step / we use the hand rail anyway

-

there are two living rooms / one has 'new' couches that my cousins aren't allowed to sit on until their parents consider them 'old' / they understand that people need to be comfortable / they are still scared to have ugly things / ruined things / anyway

one has a big piano in it / my grandmother grew up in the great depression and to make money she would play the piano / she was called a prodigy / she is in the background of albums and old school band recitals / nobody remembers her name / she died in a little side room her husband used as a office / it is my cousin Preston's gaming room now / there is nothing disrespectful about this

-

there’s a large, 50 year old maple tree in the front yard that’s a seedless maple / it's grown from a branch from a tree that my great-grandpa, Emory, who my papa is named after, planted when he was young / this tree was in Italy / he took the branch with him when he came to America / there is something to be said about him unwilling to leave the smell of his own leaves behind

when Grandpa Robert’s twin brother, Richard, died, it was the first and last time that maple tree ever produced seeds / none were collected / the tree is supposed to be infertile

-

papa knew where the wild raspberries grew in the surrounding, previously endless area of flora / there were freshwater springs he could drink from / in the afternoon where it would get hot, he knew where the big rocks were that he could nap on with Tubbs before she passed / when we talked on the phone, he called himself feral

-

this house is why, when papa moved out, he bought the biggest farmland he could and made sure we (me, my sister and brother) knew about the woods / he dug his own pond / he calls it a taste of life that’s ‘bigger than the city’ / he doesn't like cities / he lived as taxi driver in Ann Arbor for 8 years anyway / Ann Arbor is the closest thing to New York that small town kids from Bridgeport like me can get / the air is never as stale than it is there

-

I grew up trick or treating at this house / the house is on a hill / Clarkston has enough hills to make Mount Everest blush / my legs have muscles that still ache from those cold nights / my papa used to drive our van along the hills, waiting at the end, recording us shrieking and giggling / we raced our cousin Dominic from house to house

papa grew up trick or treaing at this house / his birthday is November 1st / he is born five days before my mother / his nieghbors knew him (they all knew each other) / he would get extra candy on Halloween as a birthday present / he gave me this as a reason he steals some of my candy every year

-

when talking about this I did not know my great-grandmother's name / my sister was supposed to be named after her / I had forgot where my father's middle name came from (great-grandfather Emory) even though it's my trans friends chosen name because I told her how much it means to me / she said she likes it anyway

-

he asked me twice if he was talking too slow for me / he was talking too fast / papa only left out some of the good things / he doesn't know how to leave the bad things behind / he raised us with the impression that those are not the things someone should hide / this house is in my blood / I do not remember the color of the kitchen walls

[aqueerwritesthings]

There's no such thing as a free horse, dad always used to say.

I almost didn't plant it. I'd just wanted some mint for tea. Nothing fancy, and fairly hard to kill. But the excitable kid at the counter had studied me for a moment, then handed over little more than a twig stuck in a small cylinder of dirt, and hadn't taken no for an answer. So I'd brought it home, stuck it in a corner, and forgot about it.

Or, well, I tried to.

It looked so pitiful that every time I walked into the living room my eyes flew straight to it. Dad's words echoed in my head, but he'd never been much of a role model anyway.

One cloudy afternoon, with the sky threatening rain, I cursed, got out my trowel, and brought it to the backyard.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," I muttered. "You'll be dead in a few weeks and then I'll have to dig you up again."

The sapling, being made of wood, did not answer.

I glanced up at the sky and frowned. It felt like rain any second now, but it hung waiting in anticipation.

My pants weren't made for gardening, but I wasn't a gardener so none of them were. Bright purple denim was immediately stained with the rich brown and green of the earth as I dug a hole bigger than my little sapling's root ball. I was lucky it wasn't any bigger or I'd need a shovel.

I took it out of its tight packaging and laid it down. I ran fingers over the roots, fraying them from their tight knot and giving them a chance to learn about the soil beyond its bounds. I took a moment to be grateful for video auto play, that I had seen something on transplanting trees by accident a few years ago.

"Don't know why I'm doing this," I muttered as I peered into the hole and at the roots.

Mama always used to say that I couldn't help but throw my whole heart into everything. She'd said it with a sort of mournful fondness that had grated at the time, but now only made me smile ruefully.

I tucked the roots into the hole, and scraped the removed soil in around it, tiring. As I started contemplating finding my hose to water it, the sky opened up.

I was soaked through by the time I got to my feet.

"I hope you're grateful," I snarled at it somewhat hysterically.

The tree stood dark against the grey the world had become and continued not to answer.

The next morning did not feel like the beginning of anything. After coming inside I'd stripped water-heavy clothes, dripping and shivering in my dining room, cursing myself for all kinds of fool for not throwing the damn thing in the trash.

Then I'd showered and gone to bed.

I dreamed of hearty feasts and a hand held out in offer.

I stared out my back window at the sapling. It was still where I'd put it. I reckoned I might've been a little hasty the day before in my pessimism, as it looked much more tree-like than I'd remembered, thicker around the middle, with more branches spreading out towards the sky.

I shook my head and figured it was at least something to talk about with my therapist, and went on about my day.

After that, I really did forget, for a while. Work, eat, sleep, visit friends, try (and fail) to keep up with housework. By the time I thought to look out on my backyard again, several weeks had passed.

There was a tree.

Its branches reached up, out of sight, towards the heavens. Its trunk was thick and sturdy, nearly as wide as a person. Its shade held a variety of plants, certainly more numerous than the grass and occasional weed that had been there before.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I wondered briefly whether I was dreaming. But, no. No matter what I did, there was a tree.

I took a brief moment to be grateful that I had opted to live somewhere without an HOA.

I had a tree, now, I guessed.

A knock came at the door. I glanced down at myself, a tee and laundry-day sweats, and considered not answering.

Another knock. I sighed and headed towards the door. An ancient looking woman stood, leaning heavily on a cane.

Her voice was strong when she spoke. "Peter Dennings?"

"Ah, yes?"

She pointed a gnarled finger to the barely visible tree. "Did you plant that tree?"

"I did. Is it invasive? I got it at the nursery."

She smiled and her form seemed to relax. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact. Only a true druid can grow wildwood." There was a glint in her eye as she said, "How would you like to learn magic?"

A garden shop sometimes gifts mysterious tree sapplings to customers, but they always wither away. You receive one and plant it…and it ends up flourishing.

[thedeathdoctor]

Kinktober Days 2, 3, and 4: Aphrodisiac, Thigh Riding, and Size Difference

Friday the 13th: Jason x Reader

Forbidden Nectar

Aka: sometimes you celebrate your actual 21st birthday by chilling in the woods behind your house with a Yeti tumbler full of Sangria and end up getting the best dick of your life by your local thicc stalker/slasher 

~Under the cut below~

You weren’t like the other girls, no matter how hard you tried. For you, high school had come and gone in the blink of an eye, and yet some of it still lingered in your mind. College was a chance to reinvent yourself, join in with a group of friends where you could grow into being a satisfied, competent woman. There, to some extent, you did. 

Joining a sorority was one of the few sporadic things you tried that managed to stick with you. During Fall Recruitment freshman year, you fell in love with Greek Life on campus, rushed, and accepted the invitation one of the sororities extended to you. Fundraising and outreach activities were your favorite; you had grown up with a passion for helping others, from Girl Scouts to food drives through your high school, you showed up for them all. However, you could never shake the nagging thoughts in the back of your mind, thoughts that insisted that the people around you didn’t like you as much as they seemed. 

Summers home felt especially isolating when you returned home for the break. You loved your parents and of course missed your dogs, but the difference between your busy college town campus and Yeehaw, New Jersey was like night and day. It took a few days to readjust to the change in pace when you returned. Time had a really funny way of standing still in Crystal Lake while you went to school for a whole nine months of the year. The same pickup truck stood watch over the corner store by your house as long as you could remember. At school, the surrounding towns seemed to be able to move entire roads around over break, leaving you reluctantly reliant on Google Maps to find the same pizza place you visited just four months ago. 

Crystal Lake’s lack of excitement and stimulation was good for recollecting your thoughts and having a place to just breathe. Happiness was found through the routine of everyday life and simple pleasures, like trading excess garden vegetables with family friends in town. You knew nearly everyone, and it warmed you when people would call out your name to wave hello. 

It wasn’t paradise though. Most of your tiny high school graduating class had stayed, trying to fill the few remaining positions at local businesses, while others yoked themselves to jobs in the next town over, the one that had a smattering of chain restaurants and a ghostly outlet mall. They all still had to drive places, and since Bill had passed, your parents were the sole auto mechanics in town. Crystal Lake was never a popular vacation spot, but several families routinely returned to their modest summer homes on the north shore, propping up the dwindling town. You helped around in the shop, freeing up your pa to tow cars when needed. Visitors tended to arrive in vehicles that were not as durable as promised, but that wasn’t their fault. 

“After all,” he would say, “people know when they fucked up. A lecture ain’t gon’ get them back on the road, but a hand up might.” 

He had never attempted college, nor did he want to, but you were surprised to find him more knowledgeable than some people you ran into on campus. Nothing incensed you more than snooty, middle-class students who widely looked down on “stupid hicks” like your father, as if they had the same opportunities out here and in suburbia. They didn’t know that they, too, were just one unexpected economic crisis away from being in the exact same situation, and you had long since stopped trying to change their minds.

The garage popped up first at the front of the property, closest to the road, and a private driveway led around a corner to the house. Your grandpa, Leon, had built the shop in the 40s with his pa, and ran it with a buddy of his. Grandma Susan had insisted it be built away from the house, as she “couldn’t get her beauty sleep with all that racket.” They had planted several saplings at the back, which had since grown into a beautiful row of oaks that mercifully shielded the house from the cacophony of power tools.

Gravel crunched under the truck’s tires as you turned into the driveway and pulled up behind the shop. A voice called out from the rear arch of the building, weary, but relieved. Matt, your older brother walked out, partially blinded by the patch of 2:00 sunlight though the canopy. You laughed as he shielded his eyes with one hand; the backwards baseball cap was as essential to his uniform as the filthy grey-blue jumpsuit was, but a pair of cheap wraparound sunglasses hung onto the collar swung with his every step, forgotten. 

“Hey Matt, catch!” 

Resting the paper bag of groceries on your hip, you swung the door of the Ranger closed and tossed the keys to your brother. 

“Mom needs these for dinner tonight, so I gotta take this in.” You gestured at the bag you had shifted into both arms. “Everything should be there, but the timing belts. Frank said they were on back order or something; should be back about Tuesday though!” Matt shrugged, after all, what could you do about absent parts. 

Patches of sunlight lit the driveway as you walked up towards the house. June was one of your favorite months here, where it was warm even in the shade of the woods, but the sun wouldn’t cook you alive if you were outside for too long. The front door was already unlocked, and two whirlwinds of fluff came barrelling through the door at your knees, and you steadied yourself against the doorframe. Jack and Willow were the two homebody dogs, greeting everyone who walked through the door with the same excitement every time. 

The smell of apples and sugar permeated the entire house, and you found a beautifully latticed pie cooling on the countertop as you set the grocery bag down. Taking the groceries out and laying them on the counter, you tore the paper bag in two and tossed the pieces at your pups. The click-click-click of their paws ended as they took the paper into the carpeted family room and began to shred them methodically. 

Following them, you found ma in the family room with them, curled up on the couch with her favorite book and a knit blanket. The curtains were half drawn, and her hearing aids lay on the side table underneath the dimmed lamp. Looking up from the worn cover, she smiled. “Thank you for running to the store for me, dear. I could have sworn I remembered everything for your birthday dinner tonight, but now I do. I know your pa gave you today off for your birthday, so I just need you back here ‘round six - six thirty to eat.” You responded by tapping your fingertips against your chin as you signed “thank you,” before raising your left and fluttering your “I love you” towards her before leaving. 

The screen door snapped at your heels as you walked through the back door. Past the wood shed, a long picnic table stretched out under a large oak. Nearing it, you took note of the excessive bird droppings and maddeningly long grass underneath that would absolutely tickle your calves. A mental note was made in your head to clean it down another day, and you meandered over to the edge of the woods. 

As you walked around, the thought occurred to you that you had never had any real desire to explore your own backyard more. As a child, you spent more time in town, around people, reaching out. Now, you just felt more of a yearning to connect with the home and land you grew up on. 

Twenty one was an important birthday, but just like all the ones before, this one felt more like an extended weekend here. Your friends had planned to celebrate, but that wouldn’t be until your trip to Colorado in mid-July. For now, you had the afternoon to yourself and a bottle of sangria that Catie had given you as you were packing for home. 

You returned to the house and took your half filled outdoors pack, poured some of the sangria into an empty green Thermos, and added it to the bag of stuff. A small access trail led from the edge of the backyard into the woods, and you set off. 

The trail forked at several junctions, every one of them marked with small colored dots spray painted on major trees. It was easier than having to upkeep sign markers as not many people needed to or even really went back here. Blue led down to the kayaks and the lake access, and you remembered racing Matt down the path to the dock as a child. Green led up the hill to the tree fort that Mark, your younger brother, and his friends had built with pa one weekend, back when you could still rest your elbow on his head if he stood still for long enough. Red led to the family plot, more occupied by well loved family pets than ancestors, thankfully. The path headed back to the house was better marked, dirty yellow hi-vis tags nailed to the trees in case you didn’t get back before dark. 

Further than that, you didn’t really know what lay beyond. You had never really wondered about it before, something that boggled your mind as you pressed forward. The trail became increasingly overgrown, and you were close to pulling out the brush machete that was in the pack, before you spotted a clearing up ahead. Brambles scraped along your calves as you tried to step over them and your thighs as you tried to skirt past a larger cluster. 

The clearing seemed to be an old campsite. A rusting fire pit sat near the center of the clearing; towards the left edge of the woods, and the remains of a small collapsed pavilion covered three or four rotting picnic tables. Rays of sunlight streamed down onto a relatively smooth patch of earth, as perfect a place as any to sit. 

Setting the bag down against the ground, you pulled out the rough, thick canvas blanket and shook it open. It covered enough of the ground for you to lay out with the Thermos and the book you were working on. It was a steamy romance novel, one of your truly guilty pleasures. The sangria, though sweet, left you feeling floatier than usual; you were so into the book that you practically breathed in every word off the page, and out here, you didn’t have to hide the blush across your cheeks. 

How you wished to come across a strong, kind man like that. The ones you had had the displeasure of meeting ranged from arrogant and abrasive to paranoid and reactionary. All they seemed to want was control, over her friends, her choices, her. No one lasted longer than a few careless hookups; they never seemed to care about your pleasure. They disliked how much time you spent volunteering, with friends, and studying. On the inside, you would give up everything in your life for the right person, but after meeting enough people, you didn’t believe anyone like that existed. 

You were so wrapped up in your fantasies that you didn’t notice the man watching you from the treeline. His hand rested on the handle of a sheathed machete that hung from the faded leather work belt at his waist. He had seen plenty of dumb teenagers desecrating the forest that was his home, but you weren’t doing anything close to that. You lay outstretched on a blanket, peaceful, enjoying the beauty of the clearing. Your feet slowly kicked back and forth in the air, flexing your thighs and calves. Every so often, your gaze would float off the page, looking past the book you held; he wondered what you were admiring so passionately. 

A ray of sunlight glinted off your hair, illuminating the golden streaks that were typically hidden. The blush across your face captured his attention, and your wistful eyes drew him in to you. To him, you were the epitome of beauty and purity, a sight both new and refreshing in these woods. A strange feeling wound through his body and settled in his groin. It demanded attention, and he pulled at the crotch of his pants, trying to alleviate the tightness there. 

When he returned his gaze to you, he found himself standing closer to you than before, no longer hidden by the brush. To his horror, he watched as you looked up from your novel, and noticed him standing there, hand still over his pants zipper. 

“Hi there,” you called out, “would you come sit with me? I swear I don’t bite…”

He was transfixed by the sound of your voice, how it cleared his mind of all thoughts of destruction and shame, and stepped closer. Surely, you would find him strange for wearing a mask, or for his marred skin, but you did not flinch as he approached. 

Despite your offering of space on the blanket beside you, he instead chose to sit on the very edge of it. Were it not for his dirty hockey mask, you would have bridged the gap between you two with a kiss. You offered him a smile, and showed him the book you were reading. The cover depicted a pretty woman swooning in the arms of a large, rugged man. Between the blush on your face as you held the book, and your eyes looking earnestly up at you, he realized what the feeling in his body was. He needed to please you. 

Shifting on the ground, he stretched out his legs, spreading them slightly. The tent that formed in his pants caught your attention; you rose to your knees and moved closer to him. That wasn't enough for him. His large hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you towards him, setting you down on his thigh. 

You placed your hands gently against his upper chest and settled on his thigh. Even through the fabric of your shorts and panties, he could feel the heat radiating from your sex. You gave off a distinctly sweet scent that filled his head with a light airiness. 

His thigh pressed nicely up against your clit and his hands slid down the sides of your waist to your full hips, and began to gently rock you back and forth. You leaned into the motion, slightly arching your back to tilt your hips into the sweet friction, and your forearms steadied you against his chest. It was broad and soft, and you gasped as you felt the firm muscles hidden underneath. He had picked you up without a hint of strain, as if you were just a soft little toy. 

Maybe it was the arousal bubbling in you already from the book and the drink, but you came so easily on his thigh, soaking through the fabric of your shorts. The rocking slowed to a stop as he felt your body shudder involuntarily and your juices seeped through his pants leg. 

Adrift in bliss, you barely noticed him undressing everything but his mask. You slipped your shirt off, and had hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts when you noticed him staring at you. Slowly, he tilted his head, and you felt his eyes roam your body, giving you pause. Then, with an incredible amount of ease, he stripped you nude, tearing first the cotton of your shorts, then the delicate lace of your panties off your body. Before you could react, he had set you back down on his leg, sweet nectar drooling from your lower lips onto the cool skin of his thigh. 

His hands kneaded your hips as he began to move you again, enjoying how your soft flesh yielded to his touch. You leaned against him, pressing your bare chest to his, which earned you a low hum from underneath his mask. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, feeling the swell of his muscles under your palms. Something jutted firmly against your own thigh with each movement. The shape was unmistakable, but you had never encountered one of this size before. It filled you with incredulity, and the thrill of taking it entirely overpowered any apprehension in your mind about whether you could. Once the thought had occurred to you, it pushed you over the edge again, your fingernails curling into his skin for support. Your breath ghosted over his chest as you sighed gratuitously, partly involuntarily, partly to rouse him further. 

It was successful, as he leaned back, taking you with him until you rested entirely on him, your stomach flush with his. His hands roved down your back, settling on your buttocks, massaging them gently. They were capable of doing anything they wanted to you, even hurting you, but their power had been tightly controlled. Carnal hunger swelled within you, driving you to seek more from him. 

You straddled his hips, feeling your inner thigh muscles stretch until your knees came to rest lightly against the ground. His hands wrapped around the back of your thighs, one holding you firmly as the other slid between them. His middle finger traced down your vulva and paused at your clit, rubbing until he felt your body shiver and your warm fluids on his fingertip.. Your insides ached to be filled, and with only a breathy "please", his touch crept up towards your entrance. Slowly, he pushed the digit into you, eliciting a gasp of pleasure and surprise at its thickness. It shifted inside you as he repositioned his arm, and you only had a moment to realize it before your heightened sensitivity sent you spiraling into another orgasm. 

Feeling you from the inside excited him; his chest heaved as he let out a deep growl of approval. You rested your head on his pectoral muscle, unable to form coherent thoughts as his finger plunged into you, accompanied by distinctly lewd squishing sounds. He worked with the intention of readying you for his cock, slipping in a second finger, then a third as you focused on relaxing your internal muscles. 

His fingers slipped out of you, leaving you startlingly empty for a moment before he shifted you lower on his body. The head of his cock nestled itself between your lower lips. Its presence nearly made your heart leap out of your chest. Finally, it was time. 

The tip pressed firmly against you and you gasped as your body yielded to his, granting entry to the bulbous, dripping head of his second machete. His hands returned to your hips, holding them firmly as he eased his way into you. When it felt as if you could not take anymore, he would slightly pull back before pushing further in. The movement was similar to the rocking motion he had guided you through earlier, continuing until you had taken him to the hilt. 

He let you rest for a moment as you stretched to accommodate his intense girth. When you determined you were ready, half whimpered, half begged, “take me now”. 

His shaft curved upward, and with each movement pressed against the sweet spot just underneath your tummy. The pulsing veins added further stimulation with each thrust, teasing your sensitive walls with its texture. Heavy panting became audible from behind your lover’s mask. Even he wasn’t immune to the intensity of base pleasure you gave him. You had broken his stoic demeanor, and reveled in his guttural moans as he thrust into you. 

A pulsing knot began to form in your core as he pounded away at you, hips slapping smartly against yours. Desperately, you fought to hold off your orgasm as long as you could, but there were no other thoughts in your mind to cling to as a distraction. His cock was punishing, mercilessly bringing you to orgasm, showing no signs of slowing. Your body twitched and shook; his firm hands on your hips ensured his complete control over you, preventing you from shying away from the stimulation he was hellbent on giving you. Letting your mouth drop open and eyes flutter, you surrendered all control to him. 

His breaths grew ragged, heavier, as he felt his own orgasm building up in him. You squeezed him so perfectly, and he reveled in the feeling as you pulsated effortlessly around his shaft. He pulled you down onto him as he gave one last, powerful thrust into you that left you gasping for air. Thick spurts of ejaculate coated the entrance of your uterus, filling you until you were overflowing. His cum mixed with yours, the fluid drooling from between your lips, pooling between your bodies. Your head rested and settled against his chest; for a few remaining moments, your fingertip lazily traced hearts onto his skin as you drifted off into the haze of sleep. 

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Silver

Summary: A companion series for Like Gold.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then. She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet.

Blank period, canon-compliant, Sakura-centric, some expanded plot points from Like Gold, fluff and pining, eventually becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 1/?: An Introduction to Electrocardiography

Sakura gazes out the window of her office, a pile of paperwork set aside for a poetic sort of procrastination, trying to indulge for once in a Konoha spring, though she's finding it arduous.

As pretty as it is this time of year, all she can manage to feel is wistful.

Hanami has come and gone already for the most part, though there are a few stubborn cherry blossom trees lingering at the tail end of their blooming. She can see one here from her window, up on the hillside that slopes towards Hokage Rock, clinging to the uneven land. She’s sure its roots have to be all twisted, a labyrinth of gnarled wood clinging to any scrap of land it can wind itself around as its branches and petals try against all odds to reach upwards into the open sky that she can’t take her eyes off of.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but it’s one she doesn’t care to unpack.

This year was her twentieth viewing of her namesake, though Sakura obviously doesn't remember the first few. Her parents take great pride in the retelling of tales from those first few years of her life, the ones she was too little to remember. The highlights come up annually on her birthday without fail, how she grasped at the petals like they were something precious, clutched in her sticky little hands the entire day.

A framed photograph is perched on one of the built-in shelves of her parents' living room, of her and her father on her first birthday. He was holding her up on unsteady legs, ridiculously proud and pointing towards the camera where her mother had been trying to get her to look. Her short pink hair was flying absolutely everywhere, matching the fluttering petals and in-bloom cherry blossom tree in the background, chubby hands grasping upwards. Strawberry cake and frosting were smeared all over her cheeks. They’d had a picnic for her, at the park nearest to their house.

“We came home and cleaned you up, and then your father helped you water your tree for the first time, in the little pink watering pail you unwrapped earlier. You were so cute.” That’s what her mom says every year. Sakura has the sentence memorized at this point, could recite it on cue, if she needed to.

Her parents had planted a cherry blossom sapling in their backyard a few days after they brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, so the tree is around the same age she is. She used to spend time under it often, as a kid, and some of her earliest memories involve sprawling beneath it to study the heavens while her mother gardened. She would also sneak berries from the patch when her back was turned. Sometimes her dad would join in her pilferage, and they would sit beneath the tree like a couple of bandits with stained lips, though those first few years she can remember he barely fit underneath it, as tall as he is. Many a tickle fight had been had, shaded by those branches. She would read books there on nice afternoons, when she was a little older.

The tree is fully grown now, also on the final cusp of its blooming for the year, floriferous wood expanded outwards to drape her childhood stomping grounds in a sea of soft pink. They have a picnic under it every year, in her family’s backyard, when they celebrate her birthday together. Her actual birthday has come and gone, but her birthday dinner is two days from now. Her parents swung by her apartment on Sunday afternoon for a bit with outlandishly large cupcakes, but her mom had mentioned they’d do dinner and a gift on their usual night, Thursday, since it works so well with their schedules every other week.

“We have to have your picnic, under your tree, like always. It’s a tradition! My beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’re twenty. It seems like just yesterday you were only yay high,” her dad had told her, gesturing below his knees before hugging her too tightly, ruffling the hair she'd inherited from him before they left. The cupcakes were strawberry with cream cheese frosting, one of her favorite treats. They’d left her with four extra to enjoy between then and Thursday, one for each day if she wanted it, turning her birthday into more of a week-long affair than a one-day celebration.

She and Ino had demolished two of them while watching some of the terrible movies they love to hate together, later that evening. It had been a smorgasbord of strawberries, really, because they'd washed them down with strawberry daiquiris, sugary sweetness topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream. They'd sat on her balcony, after, sipping a little tipsily and just looking.

"You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it," Ino had said, beckoning vaguely towards a Konoha beginning to bloom, renewed with a warm breeze, spring ushered in by a fluttering of pink petals. Ino likes to give compliments in roundabout ways, she’s learned over the course of their friendship; crass as the blonde can be, she does have her moments. Her words meant a lot to Sakura, so she’s trying to take them to heart, to stop and smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak. It won’t be long before Konoha crescendos into the sweltering heat of the summer.

She loves her parents and her friends. She really does.

But birthdays are weird, Sakura thinks.

Last year, Sasuke had sent her a letter on her birthday. She’s reread it so many times that she has it more than memorized; it’s stitched into the muscle tissue of her heart at this point, or maybe scarred into the lining of her aortic valve, sempiternal markings adorning the tunnels that sustain her, causing her breath to catch every time.

Sakura,

Hanami has come to the wilderness in the Land of Honey. Bees are awakening and foraging for the first pollen of the season, with which to begin again. Cherry blossom petals are everywhere, lining the pathways and floating on the water.

Happy birthday.

-Sasuke

It had been short, simple, and even a little poetic; she had cherished it, as she does all of his other letters. She’d cherished the pressed flower with it just as much; a cherry blossom, neatly flattened with a precision that screamed Sasuke, near exactly the same shade of pink as her hair.

Sakura had started crying when she unfolded the paper to reveal it sitting atop his words. His hawk had waited patiently at her office window for a response to be written and tied to its leg, perched atop the windowsill and watching the goings-on of the village below, absolutely no concept in its predator brain of how much she delights in seeing it fly, a graceful tether to the boy - now man - she has been in love with for ages.

Cherry blossom petals are everywhere. Is there a hidden meaning there, or is she making a mountain out of a molehill?

She’s tried not to read too much into the letters. She's not sure if he sends any to Naruto or not; she's too afraid to ask, because she'll either get a heart-pounding hope if he doesn't get them, or a soul-crushing disappointment if he does. She can't imagine him sending a yellow flower to Naruto, but he may very well have sent him a different gift for his birthday.

Maybe he just thought she would like a flower, which she did - it’s pressed for safekeeping, along with all of his other correspondence to her, sporadically and chronologically throughout a book she keeps on her nightstand, An Introduction to Electrocardiography. It is her take on an album of small things she holds close to her own heart, things she wishes she could read in his. Sakura didn’t want to buy an actual album for such a thing; that felt too formal, for something as ambiguous as her ties to Sasuke, overflowing on her end as they may be. So she’d settled on a book about deciphering the heart’s tells based on science only, electrical impulses and repolarization, the sizes and positions of the chambers, how to diagnose conditions utilizing one’s findings. It’s one she doesn’t need access to anymore, extremely familiar with EKGs after years of study. She’d wanted it to be something no-nonsense, all hard facts and data on how to read activity plotted over time.

Evidence-based. Are letters evidence, though? She’s not sure that would hold up as empirical proof in any of the scholarly journals she’s studied or submitted work to since beginning her research. She thinks wryly, though, based on what she has witnessed get published, that scientific verification doesn’t always matter if you know the right people.

She’s thought many times sifting through it that perhaps it is too optimistic, too hopeful of a book subject for such a thing. Sakura has agonized over it, frankly, wondering whether it was an inappropriate choice.

...But now that they’re in there, it might ache worse to move them somewhere else.

It’s the last day of March now, and she didn’t get a letter this month, which is unusual, because she’s gotten one near each month in the time that he’s been away. She’s paged through the book a few times over the past several days, rereading and admiring the preserved sakura blossom, frozen in suspended animation indefinitely on a page about precordial leads.

Sakura hadn’t really expected anything from him for her birthday, other than a monthly letter like he usually sends... but this year she didn’t even get that. She’s trying really hard to not be disappointed. She has so much to be thankful for, in the grand scheme of things...

...But the petals of the cherry blossom from last year have faded over time, she’d evaluated yesterday, sitting in her bedroom. It might be like her, always pressed in a book, fading whilst stuck indefinitely between the boundless teeth of academia. There is always more data to record, more evidence, with which one can prove or disprove their findings.

No letter this month, though. Nothing to record, no new evidence.

It might be time to move the letters somewhere else, she thinks pensively. Maybe a place where she’s not tempted to look at them all the time; their placement in the book, small scraps of paper that stick out in only a couple of places, makes it easy to go back and reread them. She’s pretty sure she has an empty shoebox in her closet that she could move them to, in a pile rather than catalogued between pages rife with information and a fragile sort of hope. Maybe she’ll do it tonight, put it up in the far right corner of the upper shelf, shoved towards the back so she can’t reach it without the stool, so she’s not tempted whenever the next bout of heartsickness slams into her like one of Tsunade-shishou’s fists used to. She needs to go by the library after work first, to return some things, but maybe when she gets home, she’ll do it. She could eat a cupcake, too; that might make it a little easier.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then.

She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet. There’s an extremely unique necklace in an antique shop she visits with Ino and Sai from time to time, and occasionally on her own, over on the northeast side of town. It’s a salt-and-pepper diamond, dark grey with inclusions, dainty and set in what must be a hand-fabricated setting. It hangs from a silver chain, towards the back of a display case filled with other vintage and distinctive pieces, but it’s the only one she ever finds herself drawn to. It is so similar to his right eye, dark smoke near black, speckled with beguiling silver startling in its clarity. The bevel cut reveals new flecks dependent on the angle at which you view it.

Sakura studies it closely on each visit, because it is so hauntingly breathtaking and it reminds her of him.

Ino has said it’s not her color, and that she should stick to warm tones and gold, for which she is better suited; Sakura has not confessed to her why it catches her eye so much. Sai has agreed with his girlfriend on the coloring note, sensitive as he is to such things, but the way he studies her every time she tears herself away from it makes her suspect he knows exactly why it captivates her so. It’s been sitting there for years at this point; she has to mentally talk herself out of buying it on each visit. It’s beautiful, but she would spend far too much time gawking at it, and it might hurt more with extended study than the gentle tugging at her heart she experiences when she’s in that old building throughout tiny fragments of lackadaisical afternoons.

Sasuke has been gone for a long time. She hopes he's finding the peace he's been seeking, that he's seeing the world with new eyes just as he'd imagined. She thinks of him every day, sends out little orisons like petals in the breeze in the hopes that they’ll find him, wherever he is.

I wonder where he is now.

Try as she does to enjoy the breath of spring Konoha is right now, and her namesake as Ino said, all she can seem to do is shift her vision to the sky, hoping against hope for a glimpse of a familiar bird-of-prey that will stay an ample amount of time for her to craft a response, before it abvolates away for another month.

Sakura smiles, then, close to laughing at the absurdity of it all, because she is so predictable. She loves this village despite its many flaws and challenges, despite the things about it she and Naruto and Kakashi-sensei and Ino and even Tsunade-shishou, off in the Land of Wind, are trying to change, but even after so many years, she’s still pining for something beyond it, something in the wilds of the sky just beyond her reach.

There’s always next year, she supposes, pupils drawn again towards the outstretched branches of the cherry blossom tree on the hill, before trailing her eyes along further. She can grow a little more to try to reach him. When she was little, she had wanted to grow tall so she could try to touch a star, like the branches of the tree in her backyard did when she and her father laid beneath them on balmy summer nights. He would tell her ridiculous stories about all of the constellations, things she knew had to be untrue, even at the ripe age of five. Precocious, he’d always called her, but in the loving, joking manner he had.

Her gaze follows the horizon, leisurely taking in the rest of her home. It really is a lovely day, despite her yearning. Spring is here again, and today's is a gentle sunset, one last little bit of sunlight with which to conclude March. The temperature is already spiking, unusually warm for early spring, but summers in the Land of Fire are always hot. She really should finish her paperwork, but it’s hard to find the motivation just yet.

Something possesses her, then, to turn her neck more, take in more of the skyline's continuation. She wants to see all of it.

And then Sakura’s eyes fall on an achingly familiar figure cloaked all in black, perched only a roof away and observing her, and she thinks she must have nodded off, because she has to be dreaming.

She subtly pinches herself in the millisecond of time that follows, but she is very much awake.

The words are blooming out of her throat before she can even process what’s happening, exultation sinking into her every vein. “Sasuke-kun!” She moves to crank her window open the rest of the way, and he hops from the neighboring roof down into her office, all nimble legerity that she still thinks has to be a mere mirage conjured from her memories. When he straightens to his full height, she muses that he has to have grown taller. The mere sound of his footsteps on the tile flooring, as familiar a refrain to her as if he’d just walked out of the village yesterday, are a treasure beyond price.

“Sakura.” His voice is a rich timbre that she has desperately felt the absence of; hearing him say her name almost makes her want to cry. She smiles wider instead, to the extent that it almost hurts, and her gaze latches hungrily onto the very eye she was just daydreaming about. A storm of soot and silver, beveled into countless fragments like some kind of dark, rustic diamond, and so staggeringly beautiful that she’s pretty sure she’s blushing just from beholding it. Gods, it's not fair for someone to be so handsome.

“When did you get back?” She asks, utterly overcome with joy. This is better than a letter or any birthday gift she could have received, brighter than any star she’s beheld.

“Just now.” He’s smiling, a small and subtle upturn of lips that is so characteristic of him. Then his words hit her, and her face must be getting redder.

Just now? As in…

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he adds before she can simmer on that for too long, and she has to blink in bewilderment, because that is the absolute last thing she expected him to say. Sakura wonders how much heat can creep into one’s face before they spontaneously combust.

Then she realizes she should probably respond, as humans tend to do in conversations. “Oh! Um… it’s okay.” She folds her hands in front of her shyly, grinning like an idiot. “Thank you for remembering.”

There is a lengthy moment in which she just soaks him in, hoping he can read in her eyes how much she’s missed him. He is still so beautiful, prized eyes and aristocratic angles that have solidified a bit more into the face of a man in the time that’s passed. His hair is different now, covering his Rinnegan eye. His cloak is a little more threadbare, too. He’s tall.

His expression, normally unreadable, is calm. Content, even.

There’s a question nagging at her that she knows she needs to ask. She tries not to bite her lip as she asks it, braces herself for the possibility of not liking the answer.

“Are you… just back for a little while?”

Did you find what you were searching for?

He gazes at her for so long that she thinks he may be glimpsing her soul, peeking into her ventricles to see his own words immortalized there, seared into her core to be felt each time her blood pumps.

“...For more than a while.” And she smiles the biggest she ever has. Oh, this is so much better than a letter or a gift.

“Well, welcome back, Sasuke-kun. It’s… very good to see you again.” It feels as if a piece of her heart has been returned to her, something of the divine stitched back into her chest and full to bursting in omneity.

There is a pause, and then he’s reaching his hand out towards hers, initiating physical contact with a touch that is feather light, so gentle she thinks she is going to start sobbing.

She can’t help it; she pulls him into a hug, tinged with elation. She hopes he doesn’t mind too much; he stiffens for a brief moment, but then settles, wrapping his arm around her and settling his head atop of hers, and she could die happy right there, embracing him with feelings momentarily set free from where they’ve been whelved into her chest.

He smells faintly like sage and smoked cedar, just as she remembered. She can hear his heart thumping, a strong cadence, and it grounds her. Oh, she’s missed him.

“...I’m home, Sakura.” Soft words float above her head, and she can feel the vibration of them through his chest, right by her ear.

Oh, she’s crying.

Sasuke lets her embrace him for a long time, for which she is so grateful. She knows he’s not one for physical contact; it’s a privilege to be allowed into his space even for a single second, let alone for an extended period.

She draws back eventually, glancing up at him again through the tears still collecting in her eyes. Her face blazes when he reaches to wipe them away tenderly with a calloused hand, careful and with a lenity that she’s always known was there, hidden under the surface.

She could just stare at him for hours, she thinks as he lowers his hand. He’s still looking down at her with one of the softest expressions she has ever seen him wear. She really hopes she’s not dreaming.

It’s tremendously hard to get it together, but she tries, because she doesn’t want to spend the entire time crying, not when he's finally back. There are so many questions she’d like to ask him that she’s finding it a challenge to pick one with which to lead.

He surprises her by speaking first, quietly. “I… had something made for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to compute.

Made for me?

Her processing speed must be exceptionally slow, stuck in the utter mush her insides have become, because he adds, “...For your birthday.”

Sakura blinks, and furrows her brows in confusion. “Made… for me?”

He nods. “...I’m sorry it’s late.” The way he speaks it is cryptic, like the apology weighs more than one needed for a tardy gift. Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care? He could have showed up in July with something for her, and it still would have made her knees weak and her heart thump furiously in her chest.

Made for me? She’s still stuck on that sentiment as he breaks eye contact and turns to rummage through his satchel, beneath his cloak.

Sasuke pulls out a medium-sized flat box, a simple white, and she doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Something that comes in a box is a lot more formal than a pressed cherry blossom, something more… permanent.

She reaches out to take it on autopilot, and is stupidly distracted by the way his hand brushes against hers, a small spark that makes something in her quake. She wonders if he felt it, too.

Sakura clutches the box with both hands like her life depends on it, murmuring softly, “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” She’ll wait until later to open it, after he’s left; whatever it is, she doesn’t want to embarrass him, and she also isn’t sure she can tear her eyes away from him just yet, anyways.

Is it just the lighting in her office, or are his ears a little flushed? She didn’t notice that before; maybe he’s had a drawn-out journey back. She wonders how much ground he covered today, if he’s still winded. He might need to rest.

But then he mumbles, voice husky with what she assumes is disuse, “...You should open it.”

His words echo in her head again. I… had something made for you.

“Okay,” she answers in a hushed voice, so she doesn’t scare him away, shifting slightly to set the box on her desk carefully. Suddenly she is very nervous, anticipation settling into her gut.

When she lifts the lid, she swears her heart ceases beating.

The most exquisitely intricate uchiwa fan she has ever laid eyes upon is placed in the box before her.

It’s carved into a likeness of a cherry blossom tree, branches twisting lissomely into bamboo framework, impossibly fine. A different set of words is reverberating in her head now.

You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it.

Made for me?

“O-oh.” Sakura is not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. She fights back the tears, biting her lip and wide eyes soaking it all in, enjoying her namesake in a way that is entirely unprecedented in its sheer severity. The amount of time it would have taken for someone to sculpt and bind and sew is unimaginable; every detail is finely wrought, flawless down to the silk and stitching, lacquered and carved pale wood shifting effortlessly into eighty slivers of bamboo, intricately webbing silk together with the lithe grace of gossamer. It’s a cherry blossom tree, petals and all, pearlescent thread shifting slightly, gorgeously in the light, unimaginable detail. She has stitched people back together countless times over the course of years, but even her expert dexterity would look like a child’s first embroidery stitching in comparison. The stamen within the petals are nearly more detailed and finely milled than an actual, real life cherry blossom, plexure sutured in a fashion so baronial that it’s impossible to believe human hands were even responsible for it.

The silk. Oh, the silk. The color shift bears a striking resemblance to the Uchiha insignia. This is not a gift one gives to a teammate.

Oh, she's crying.

This has to be a dream, some kind of paracosm her heart thought up to give her brain the high of a lifetime. Hope burgeons and unfolds in her chest cavity, bleeding into her extremities like the pale pink shifting into red before her eyes. She’s never, ever going to forget this, not even if she lives to be one hundred years old.

Made for me?

She picks it up with disbelieving hands, grasping it more carefully than she’s ever held anything in her entire life, as if she’s going to wake up at any moment and it will dissolve into synapse, lost in the hazy juncture of morning the way one tends to lose awareness of the contents of a dream upon coming to lucidity. To her absolute bewilderment, it stays solid in her hands, a finery made even more unbelievable by touch. The grooves of the carving are as gentle as his hand had been on hers earlier. She thinks it would have had to be commissioned at least a few months in advance, outlandishly expensive. She’s never seen silk like this. She doesn't know; she's smart, but she's no artisan. Maybe she should ask Sai. She's crying.

She adores it.

Tears won’t stop welling in her eyes; she thinks they may be escaping from a tender spot inside her chest that’s been reserved for him since she was a child, a leak in a metaphorical dam. She takes a steadying breath, blinks, almost has them conquered. Get a grip, Sakura.

Then Sasuke’s hand is on hers, gently turning the handle over.

Her name is carved into the pale wood, on the back in formal calligraphy, Sakura daintier and more perfect than she could ever write it, as if it had just been uncovered in one of the inner layers rather than whittled there manually. Sasuke presses her fingers to it before loosening his grip, and in that second it feels as though his lost hand is in the wood, caressing her from split atoms in the grooves from the other side.

The tears spill over her cheeks - she admits defeat - intricacy of the entire thing blurring out of focus but still somehow burned into her retinas for all eternity.

Made for me, made for me, made for me-

Her voice finds her after a few more tears fall. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, overwhelmed with complete and utter awe, trying desperately to choke down a sob. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun. I… I’ll treasure it. Always.” She cradles the fan closer to her chest, her heart - maybe An Introduction to Electrocardiography wasn’t a poorly-chosen book, after all; there is much to be read from something this precious - and regards him with watery eyes. She wishes she wasn’t crying; the distortion of the tears is making it hard to see the silver she’s loved and missed so much.

His hand lifts to her face after a moment, and to her surprise, he wipes away her tears again. She barely catches the something-more in his eyes, then, through the waterworks, precious metal flashing and pouring into the words scarred into her ventricles to live there forever, fortified in silver, but he is looking at her so -

“...Always,” he agrees, voice a little breathless, sparking scintilla near hypnotizing her in their luster, and he seems so happy -

Then he leans down to press his lips gently to hers, and this is better than her heart stopping, like when she opened the box. This time, her heart soars, and she touches a star she’s been dreaming of for eons.

[sexbirthdeaths]

if i had an orchard

ship: morgan x garcia

summary: penelope is constantly shifting, growing with each passing day as a sapling grows to a tree. with each day he learns more and more what metamorphosis looks like, up close and personal - there are some things a book cannot teach you. and he can’t look away.

warnings: mentions of minor character death (hank morgan, the boy morgan finds in the junkyard), episode 3x09 “penelope”, rotting fruit/maggot imagery, religious imagery, implied murder (boy in junkyard), toxic masculinity

words: 3000

Derek is eight when his dad takes him camping for the first time. It’s the summer of 81, Sarah is entering middle school and Desiree is about to start Kindergarten, so after all of the stress of school applications, Hank proposes they just go out, enjoy the sights of Illinois.

So they go to Buffalo Rock, and he loves it, loves the smell of nature and the feeling of the sun on his skin. He plays soccer with his dad by the campsite whilst Sarah burns through her summer reading list and Desiree cries because she doesn’t like the bugs and she’s too small to play with the boys, and it’s the best summer of his life.

One night, his father pulls a bag of apples from the rucksack, suggests they bake them in some tinfoil over the fire. So while Fran puts Desiree away to bed, Hank sits him down by the campfire and shows him how to pare an apple with a penknife. Slow, using his thumb to stabilise the blade, careful not to cut his finger.

He cuts it straight through the core, hands Derek one of the slices to parcel up carefully in tinfoil. And once those are on the flames, he gives him the knife, another apple from the bag.

“Be careful,” Hank guides him slowly, hand hovering over Dereks’ own, “You don’t want to cut yourself.”

Derek peels it clean and precise, he’s always been a bit of a perfectionist like that. But when he cuts down the core of the apple, and the two pieces fall away in his palm, something is wrong. Very wrong.

His hand retracts in an instant, sends the apple flying, maggots spilling onto the ground into a writhing mass. His stomach is churning, twisting itself in disgust at the sight, and his father stomps it with his boot.

“That one was rotten,” Hank says, pulls the knife from Derek’s hand, “No good. It’s no good.”

Even when the apples are done baking, he can’t stand the sight of them, can’t stomach it after seeing the rotten fruit.

“Tenderness is a sign of rot,” Hank informs him as he eats his slices, “They shouldn’t be soft. That’s how you know they’re bad.”

And he takes that sentiment with him. Even when his father dies, especially when his father dies. He doesn’t cry at the funeral, he starts lashing out at anyone and everyone because to be soft is a sign of rot, of corruption at the core, it makes you undesirable and unwanted and sickening. Keep the toughest rind and you will come out the other side strong.

So he picks fights, even with the kids he knows will beat him. He’s always been a tall kid but Rodney has always been taller, stronger, but to turn the other cheek is a soft man’s path, and Derek Morgan is not soft.

He picks fights and he loses them, comes home battered and bruised and his mother will fuss over him, press a bag of frozen peas to his eye and sing him to sleep. She doesn’t care if he’s too old for it, he’ll always be her son. And even when the pain runs more than skin-deep, crawls through his veins and writhes like a maggot, sickly and decay-drawn, she will cradle his body like he isn’t crumbling from the inside out.

When Derek is 11, it’s the first Thanksgiving since his dad died. There’s an uncomfortable silence in the house as Sarah and Fran work on dinner, and Desiree’s out in the backyard with the neighbour’s kids. His grandparents aren’t coming this year, something about the Chicago winters being cruel on their arthritis.

There’s a faint layer of snow already beginning to settle outside, and he can see the constellations of snowflakes in Desiree’s hair as she finally bids the neighbours farewell and comes tumbling inside, ready to bound up the stairs.

“You promised you’d help me with the apple pie,” Sarah chides as she scoops Desiree up in her arms. The girl laughs loud and gleeful, the first real laugh since the day began, wriggles as she tries to escape her older sister’s grip. Desiree is a big girl now, 6 years old and wide-eyed and too mischievous for her own damn good, and she’s too big now for Sarah to pick her up with ease but she tries anyway.

Derek steps out, takes Desiree from Sarah’s grasp and slings her over his shoulder, grinning at the shrieks he hears.

“Come on, Des,” He laughs, “You promised!”

So, whilst his mom cooks the turkey and the mash and the myriad of thanksgiving side dishes, the three Morgan children converge in the living room, and work on the apples. Sarah peels them and Derek slices them, and Desiree just watches with her big brown eyes and pretends she's helping, because Lord knows no one trusts her with a real knife.

When they’re done there’s a pile of peels in a bowl. Their mom takes it, a sparkle in her eye.

“You know,” she says, grinning and setting down her knife, “There’s an old wives’ tale that if you throw the peel behind your shoulder, it will spell your husband’s name.”

Desiree and Sarah dissolve into giggles. Desiree’s too young to know what true love like that really feels like, too young to be thinking about marriage and life as an adult. And Sarah’s approaching it closer and closer with each passing day, she’s had her heart broken by careless boys to want nothing but a guarantee that the next boy will be the one.

So they take the peels and throw them. Desiree’s looks sort of like an L from the right angle, and Sarah’s is an A, if you use a bit of imagination, and Derek doesn’t get anything because he refuses to try it.

“That’s for girls,” he scoffs, puffs his chest up like a proud robin all red and strong.

“You’re impossible,” Is the response he gets.

When he is 15 he finds a boy’s body in the junkyard. All battered and bruised and broken and he wishes he could press a bag of frozen peas to his head like his mother had done, tell this boy it would all be okay. But it won’t be okay, and the case is never solved because the police don’t seem to care for kids like Derek or the boy, seem for focused on pinning things on them than catching their killers.

When he sees the policeman shake the community centre owner’s hand, Derek knows his killer will not be caught.

He goes door to door and pools up enough money to buy a headstone, and he visits it whenever he can, touches the cool rock and feels himself break. And he doesn’t know this boy, know his face or his name, but they feel connected. Through space and time and tragedy, maybe in another life they were friends. Maybe in another life it was him, and he would be the one rotting in the ground.

Move forward a few years and he feels like something inside of him is broken. Like he’s been torn apart and stitched back together again but something went wrong in the process. He feels moldy, he thinks one day as he’s filling out college applications, disgusting. If he could he’d rip all his skin off and scrub himself spotless. But this runs deeper than skin.

He gets the football scholarship, and his mother cries when he reads the letter because her baby is going to Northwestern and he’s gonna be something great, bigger than himself, he’s gonna change the world. And the success feels like the pinprick in the lid for him, like he can finally breathe as there’s a chance for him to go. Leave those rotten parts of him behind.

After college and the Chicago department, he finds himself starting in the BAU. The team is pretty small - Hotch is a hard-ass and Gideon is, well, Gideon, and the liaison stays in her office too much for Derek to really know who she is, but the BAU feels right for him. Gideon’s got some kid on his radar and so does Hotch, but they’re both so frustratingly secretive that he has no clue who they could be.

He fits right in like a puzzle piece that’s been missing for so long, takes on a role as the ladies’ man and the handsome coworker who flirts with you over coffee, but also the guy who’ll sit with child victims for hours to make sure they’re alright. Hotch hasn’t booted him yet so he figures he’s doing something right.

And then he meets her.

Penelope Garcia, she introduces herself as, and she’s so unlike any girl he’s ever met before with her long, dark hair and she acts like she’s the smartest person in the room (and after a few hours interrogating her, he figures that sentiment isn’t too far off). She’s got these big curious eyes and glittery pink acrylics and he can see the person that sits behind the dark facade.

They don’t hit it off, at first, because he’s proud and she’s defensive and he has a job to complete, but then Hotch informs him of the deal that’s been made, so he better start trying to get along with her. She gets along great with JJ, they eat lunches together in Garcia’s ‘batcave’ and JJ’s finally starting to open up a bit more, actually talks to Derek at the coffee machine in the mornings and asks how he’s been. Before, she’d talk to him, or Hotch, or Gideon even, with strained words and avoiding eye contact.

The first time he calls her babygirl is the first time he sees her properly flustered, cheeks red and stammering as she types away at her keyboard and Hotch gives him the mother of all death glares because they’re trying to run an FBI investigation here, Derek. But it makes him smile, seeing her all blushed pink, and he decides he likes it.

She pretends she doesn’t struggle sometimes, and he sees it. The mass of figurines and posters in her office are just a distraction technique - he’s well versed in those - and he knows just how taxing it must be for her, seeing all those awful things. She loves and she loves like it’s the only thing she knows how to do, full-bodied and all in, and some days he wonders if she’s really capable of hatred at all.

“How can you do it? How do you deal with it all?” She asks one day over coffee, voice small and sad. She’s seen some awful things over the past few days, and he wraps her up tightly in her arms. The worst thing is - he doesn’t know what to say. For as long as he can remember, he’s just been pushing it away and ignoring it. Letting it sit inside him and simmer, rip him from the inside out and just pray he’ll be able to pick up the pieces once he finally falls apart.

Things shift, change, over the years as people come and go. There’s a new kid, one Gideon’s been raving about for months who’s finally gotten all the necessary qualifications, even if some exams had to be waived. And he gets hurt, gets hurt bad, and Derek wonder’s if that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back because it isn’t long before Gideon leaves. There’s a new man in his place and they’re still trying to trust him, but he just isn’t Gideon, he isn’t the mentor and the peacekeeper and the caretaker that they’ve all grown to need.

Penelope is constantly shifting, growing with each passing day as a sapling grows to a tree. With each day he learns more and more what metamorphosis looks like, up close and personal - there are some things a book cannot teach you. And he can’t look away.

She has a date. She has a date and he doesn’t know why there’s this ache in his chest, like something’s been scraped out from him and left him hollow. But it’s her choice, he figures, he doesn’t own her. And then he gets the phone call.

Shot, he hears Hotch say over the phone, voice crackled and rough, and it’s like everything in him shuts down. Like someone’s ripping him apart limb by limb. That motherfucker. He will not know kindness from me. Do you need me? He asks, but Hotch just sighs.

She needs you.

And he’s driving to the hospital but he’s so pissed he can barely even focus, consumed by the rage bubbling within him, he wants to find that son of a bitch and make him feel a thousand times what Penelope felt. His skin is itching like thousands of maggots are crawling across him, it’s so overwhelming.

He feels rotten, like he’s so full of pain he can barely breathe, and his cheeks are wet and he doesn’t know why they are until he reaches up to touch them, realises he’s crying.

Men like Morgan do not cry. It’s a sign of weakness, he thinks, and you cannot afford to be weak. Not here, not now, you have never been safe enough to be weak. You bottle it up and ignore it, because to be soft is to be rotten.

He flashes his badge to the hospital receptionist and she informs him with pitying eyes that Penelope is in emergency surgery, that he can wait until she’s out and hear the verdict. So he collapses into the waiting room chairs, unable to look at the others, waits for Penelope to be okay.

Waiting lasts a century. All he wants is to take her in his arms and let her know she’s going to be okay, but he can’t. He can’t even guarantee that it will all be fine, because from what he’s heard it’s a bad wound from a good shot and it’s not looking good.

See, Penelope is an apple tree. She gives and she gives and she asks for nothing in return but a spot in the sun and a love her body has been starved of for years. And all Derek wants is to drown in blossom petals and cider, to drown himself in her warmth. All she asks for is to be loved, and that bastard didn’t even try. Derek will try, he will try and he will pray to a God he does not even believe in (Goddamnit he’s trying, he’s trying) if it means he can love her, if it means that she will be there to receive his love.

When the surgeon comes back, gives them the news, everything in him relaxes. Like the tightly-wound coil of a music box as the lever is finally released. She’s okay, she will be okay, no one must die today.

Her makeup is gone, hair a knotted mass, she’s traded out the bright clothes and heavy jewellry for a hospital gown. And she’s as breathtaking as ever, and Morgan can’t look away. He wants to reach out and hold her hand, press his forehead against hers, let her know that he’s here and everything is going to be okay, tell her how glad he is that she’s alive.

“You really love her, huh?” JJ asks with a smile, looks up at Morgan with a piercing, knowing gaze once they file out of the room, split up the group. She’s cradling a to-go coffee cup in her hands and disshevelled - she’d been the first one at the hospital, been in charge of letting everyone else know.

It’s JJ that knows Penelope the best, if not Derek. She knows the ins-and-outs of their relationship, she can see what they’re too scared to say to eachother. Love, he thinks, this is what this is.

“I do.” He nods.

“So tell her- show her, god knows she needs you right now.”

He waits until the others have left Penelope’s hospital room. The thing is - he flirts with her all the time, has himself branded as a ladies man, but it’s been so long since he’s had something real. He’s always been too afraid to show that tender side that a relationship requires.

But he’s tired of holding back. Penelope softens him, turns all his harsh edges hazy, makes his heart wrench in his chest. He has forgotten what it means to be rotten.

So he sits himself at the edge of her bed, doesn’t care if any of the others can see him through the window, all that matters is here and now.

“I almost lost you,” he says, voice soft, “I was so scared- I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you’d gone besides tear the bastard apart.”

He scoots closer, chair handle digging into him as he leans into her. His hand cups her face, feels her warm skin against his cool palm, heartbeat thrumming under his fingertips. She’s alive, good god, and she’s here with him, and maybe everything will be okay.

His forehead presses against Penelope’s own and she seems to welcome the movement, twists a handful of his shirt in her grip like she can’t bear the thought of ever letting him go. Derek has never wanted to be loved more than right now, loved by her.

He’d bite the apple for her, Derek thinks, swallow it down seeds and all. Because he loved her, he didn’t care if the fruit was rotten or wretched, damnation was a gift if he was condemned alongside her. He’d run to the edges of the world where all that could reach them was the moon and the stars, and he’d tell Penelope how he hung them just for her.

Kissing her feels like breaking the water’s surface. Being reborn, baptised under her hands, and for what feels like the first time, he can breathe.