#window sill planter

[silvabrylee]

Modern Exterior Mid-sized minimalist white one-story brick house exterior photo with a clipped gable roof and a shingle roof

[qweerk]

Exterior in Austin An illustration of a mid-sized, white, one-story minimalist brick home's exterior design. It has a shingled roof and a clipped gable roof.

[starrylightbox]

Exterior - Transitional Exterior Inspiration for a large transitional beige two-story stucco exterior home remodel with a hip roof

[brn-t]

Thermotropism

TAGS:

eyy where my plant fuckers at? 👀🌱🌿 you can read it on AO3 here

I don’t think I should have taken this plant home…

Like, when I saw it baking in the sun in that alley outside my building, it’d looked like it had a lot of potential! It was all shriveled but the leaves branched out from a thick basal stem like a monstera almost and there were these bright red blotches on its roots that looked super cool!

When I brought it in (heavy!!) I could tell just by looking how root bound it was, so I popped it out of it’s cheap decorative planter (poor thing was probably never repotted) and yup, there were more roots than dirt.

I had no idea what the hell it was. Inatural had no frickin clue. It looked like a tropical plant with it’s broad green leaves and knobbly aerial roots, but the ground roots were so thick they looked like tubers!! 

I have to admit I was fascinated, but I should have gotten rid of it then…

It spent uh, a couple weeks underneath my shitty little plant light, the one in my room. I was quarantining it in there until I knew it didn’t have any critters on it, but it seemed happy with its repotting and daily soakings for the most part.

The thing really liked water

Like, I started off watering it once a week, and it did perk up, but it didn’t really change much until I started dousing it every morning before work.

And man when it started goin off, it really went off.

It seemed like every time I came home it had sent out a new aerial root or new leaf! The thing was voluptuous as hell! When it got too big for my pathetic little plant light I moved it to the window sill next to my bed. 

It was kinda nice! Like a natural blind or something once it got its runners going up the screen.

I didn’t mind, it was always hot as hell in my little apartment and my landlord couldn’t be arsed to install an AC. I just had to be careful not to accidentally crawl over the little shoots it was sending out all over when I got into bed.

I guess where I fucked up is when I found out about.. its uh.. nutrient preferences

I swear it was a complete accident the first time!! 

I had just gotten home from another 10 hr day and I was tired and smelly and needed to jerk off pronto. I hosed myself down and threw myself into bed, still steaming from trying to scrub off the smell of fried food from my skin, and cracked open my laptop.

Now, fun fact, there's this thing that plants do where they move towards things. Most of the time its towards light, but they can also be attracted to heat! It’s called thermotropism. So I dunno if it was the heat from my ancient laptop or the steam off my skin, but just as I'm about to nut I feel something brush against the head of my dick.

It took me so much by surprise that I came right there, frickin coating a leaf in my jizz. The thing had turned completely around from facing the window above my bed to nearly touching me with its broad soft leaf.

Even for a tropical plant that’s shockingly mobile.

So I cleaned it off as best I could but I guess some of my spunk got absorbed into the soil, I dunno, I passed out shortly after that. I didn’t wake up until nearly nine o clock the next morning because the room was still completely dark thanks to the density of the wall of leaves covering my window. The plant had frickin doubled in size and the terracotta pot I had repotted it in had some fresh cracks in it where the aerial roots were exploding out through.

I didn’t have time to freak out about it since I was once again late to work, but I gotta admit, I was digging the jumanjI vibes it brought to my otherwise very dull room 

So.. I may have started jerking off into it every night?

What! It’s like, natural fertilizer, or whatever!! And the plant seemed to like it? 

I even got it to flower!! It started putting out these crazy flower stalks that closed up during the day but unfurled at night giving off this crazy floral fragrant scent.

It made me remember being a kid and running around in the woods behind my stepdads rental cabin, so I let it keep spreading.

I realize now, this was not the smartest idea, but fuck it, my landlord all but explicitly told me I wasn’t getting the deposit back unless I sued him for it so when it started putting its roots into the drywall, I let it.

It was nice honestly, coming home after seeing nothing but concrete grey for hours and then throwing myself into my little tropical nest. And the smell of the flowers really set the mood when I was jerkin it.

Embarrassingly I think my mind started associating the smell with orgasm because I swear I walked past a florist shop the other day and had to walk bowlegged to the 7D train.

The trouble really started when it started sending its roots in my direction .

Now, I ain’t proud of it, but I more often than not just sleep on a bare mattress. Its got one of those memory foam layers on top and I just couldn’t be bothered to put a fitted sheet on it half the time.

So when I started feeling a bump underneath me as I lay in bed, I just thought it was like, a sock  or something that had gotten shoved underneath there, nbd, until that night… 

I was feeling particularly pent up and kept grinding my ass against that spot on the mattress. I don’t know why I did it, I just wanted more friction and the blooms on the ceiling above me were gettin me wound up with their heavy fragrance. Anyway, it feels like there's a soft tear below me and suddenly something hard and Wide and cold is pressing right against my gooch.

I kinda jump (because it’s cold!!) and look down to find that the frickin plant has grown into the mattress !!

And it was a fat root too, no idea how I didn’t notice it more earlier.

It was kindof freaky to be honest how fast it had grown, the thing really must have liked my semen, but at that point with how humid the room was and how dizzy the flowers were making me feel… I went with it.

 I ground my ass into it and when the thick ridge popped in past my ring I swear I came harder than I ever have in my life dude

I felt like I blacked out a little at the end there because the next thing I knew, it was morning and I'm absolutely painted in my own cum. I guess at this point I should have realized what was going on but I think the pollen those flowers were putting out were scrambling my brains a little. When I woke up, there was a network of thin bright red roots crisscrossing my body, sending out these feathery little things, absorbing the frankly ludicrous amounts of cum I had shot out last night. They pulled at my skin a little as I tore them off but part of me was still a little horny. So I cleared them away and and pulled out my phone.

Fuck it, right? It was my day off and I had no responsibilities that day anyway.

I just rolled over and started going to town on my morning wood.

My ass twitched around something and that's when I noticed...

The fuckin root was still in my ass from last night!!!

I'm trying to use one hand to milk my dick while the other one shoots down in between my legs and sure enough, that fuckin root had buried itself who knows how deep! I tried in vain to pull the thing out, but it was rooted in the mattress after all and didn’t budge. So, humiliatingly, I had to pull myself off of it.

I have to admit, I came a little just from feeling how much of it was inside of me, there was a good 7 inches of thick knobby root dragged out of me, grinding against my prostate as I pulled myself off of it.

I just lay there breathless, staring at the root, sticking straight up out out of my mattress now that it was no longer buried in my ass. My inner walls twitched and contracted, trying to close around the space it had carved out in me.

I guess I still had some sense then because I did actually prune the plant after that

I pulled the root out of my ruined mattress and trimmed all the stalks and roots near my bed. I started jerking off in the bathroom and yea the leaves wilted a bit but that was too much for me, you know?

Well, I don’t know if plants can get pissed but I must have pissed this one off because it responded to me suddenly not “fertilizing” it by sending out these little sticky climbers that got everywhere.

I woke up one morning to the fuckers wrapped around my tiny nipples. I went to sit up and yelped because they got yanked by the fuckin things, pulling my chest to the side. I tried to pull it off as delicately as I could, but the thin stems snapped in half, bleeding a reddish sort of liquid all over my chest!

It sort of burned but I just yelled at the plant, wiped it off and got dressed for work.

Now, I don’t know if I was allergic or something, but for the rest of that day my nipples stayed hard and puffy, poking out visibly from underneath my thin uniform shirt and earning more than a few snickers from the girls up front.

Good thing I had a vacation week coming up.

It had been asked for months in advance, and was the first one I’d had in a decade. I was supposed to drive out to the lake across the state to hang with a buddy of mine at his parents bougie lake house. Well, that night was the night before I was due to head out, and I went to bed in my travel clothes so I could just pop out of bed in the morning. Not wanting to ruin my clothes, I watered the Plant like usual and saved the jerking for when I got to my buddies place.

I was just on the edge of unconsciousness when I felt something moving up my shirt sleeve. I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming it or not so I just laid there, feeling the thing slowly snake its way up to my chest, resting on the sensitive swollen bud there 

I only really tried to react when I felt a second tendril branch out from the first and start oozing that same irritating sap over my OTHER nipple!

Groggily I straightened up, falling for the same headphones on the doorknob trap as last time, but this time it felt a lot better.

My nips hadn't really gone down since that last time so when they got yanked I thought a yelp of pain was what was gonna come out of my mouth, so imagine my surprise when a full bodied moan slipped out instead.

I immediately got super red in the face and yanked off my shirt.

This, unfortunately, snapped the thin tendrils stem, causing it to bleed more of its spicy sap all along my side and chest as I shucked off my shirt.

It left an angry red trail of raised sensitive skin, swelling my nipples far beyond what was normal, and they stuck out of my chest like two puffy toilet plungers out from my swelling pecs.

I tried to pull the tendrils off of them but they were too tight and my nipples were too big now.

I looked up from groping my chest to see how many of the plant’s flowers had opened up above me, showering me in who knows what.

I couldn’t take it anymore, I was openmouth panting, inhaling the perfume and palming my shorts which had at some point started to fill out. I ripped my shorts off too, and only after a few strokes realized how deeply I had just fucked up

If you guessed “that idiot just smeared a sap he’s clearly allergic to all over the most sensitive part of his body” you would be correct...

I was howling in pain as it started to burn, but after a minute or two I was thrusting into the air and moaning like a whore, the fire had turned into an electric storm of pleasure.

My dick was swelling way past normal hardness and I could only continue to try and fuck the hell out of my hand.

It was entirely too humid in that room, everything felt wet and sticky, so when I came finally, I barely even felt it on me

I screamed so loud the neighbors probably thought I was dying I probably did die a little... I think I shot into my own mouth at one point??  I collapsed immediately after, and when I woke in the morning, the whole plant looked shiny and glossy, like it was gloating over the fact it’d gotten me to come for it yet again.

I know it was just a plant but I got mad

I jumped out of bed, completely ignoring the tendrils still wrapped around my nips, put a thick jacket over my shirt and left the room with my suitcase while flipping it the bird.

I felt bad that I would be gone for a week but I’d set it up with a slow release watering pitcher, so I figured it’d be fine without me.

What I didn’t plan on was how I would do without it.

What should have been a great vacation turned into the worst case of blueballs seen this side of the Mississippi.

Not only did my nipples constantly pulse and throb against the tendrils, but I found out later when I went to go use the bathroom that one had slipped around the base of my dick as well, which had also refused to recede back to its normal size. The woody chord was a bit thicker and it wrapped around the base and balls, completely blocking any and all attempts to even get hard.

So instead of focusing on the boat ride or my friends stupid alcohol choices, I was stuck in a constant struggle of being aroused by my throbbing nipples and being unable to address it at all. I was actually filled with relief when the final day came and I was saying goodbye to my hosts.

I flew home after that in my tiny little beater car, shifting uncomfortably at my seatbelt rubbing directly against my chest. I practically kicked the door in, shedding all my clothes in a line to my bedroom and threw myself into bed.

I yelped when I landed on several thick somethings beneath my body creak under my weight, poking me through the thin layer of foam.

The Plant was the worst I’d seen it since I brought it home, with several dead leaves deposited on the bed and an explosion of fuzzy white runners running the length of that bedroom wall.

The roots jabbed into me like it had planned this.

“Ow!” I’d said, “ I'm sorry ok? I just needed a break!”

As a response, I watched a giant cream white flower slowly expand and burst open, sending a shower of shimmery yellow pollen floating down directly over my face.

Things uh, got a little out of hand after that…

The tendrils had finally loosened enough around my dick to where I could pull them off but that just led to all my pent up semen literally dumping into my balls as soon as the tie was removed. I moaned as I could physically feel them growing heavier as a weeks worth of pent up jizz dropped into my balls. They felt like leaden weights.

It was almost painful how quickly I got hard, and it didn’t take more than a stroke or two before I was yelling and releasing said load all over myself and the plant.

You could visibly see it perk up, opening up more buds, showering me with pollen and dusting the bed. The two substances got mixed by my frantic motions and soon I was lightly cheeto dusted with the stuff,

My skin was on fire but it also.. uh, felt really good somehow... So once the high of the first orgasm died down, it wasn't long before I was rarin to go for a second round.

I palmed my recovering erection and was just about fully hard when I felt it.

Again, at my ass!! Was one of the plant’s thick basal roots!! Except this one looked a little weird..

First off it was tremendously thick, about the width of my wrist, and secondly it was covered in all these little backwards facing ridges, like a drywall sink

Man, I don’t know what wires go crossed but between the way my ass was twitching and the pollen I was huffing, I put my ass right against that thing

It must have reacted to my bodyheat because it felt like as I was pressing down on it, the thing was pushing into me as well.

It was intense, there was no give to its turgid walls, so I had to stretch myself out around it to get it past my ring.

Once it was properly seated inside me I started going to town on my dick, which at this point was leaking like my kitchen sink maintenance had refused to address for weeks.

I swear I could feel the root get deeper and deeper inside me as I jerked and spasmed around it I was panting and moaning like a bitch, I can’t believe how horny I was

at some point I felt something at my mouth and wouldn’t you know it, an equally thick tuber had been drawn to my hot breath and was poking at the corner of my lips

I was way past the point of rational thoughts at that point, I just leaned forward and let it creep into my mouth.

The further it got the hotter I felt. My tongue swiped across the underside and that’s when I tasted something sweet

Was this root leaking sap??

Turns out the itchy nectar tasted amazing so I ended up suckling it as I frantically jerked my dick. The root inside my ass had reached my prostate at that point and thats when things got really hazy for me.

I remember exploding all over myself, I would have been screaming if not for the thick root tunneling its way down my throat

I was jerking and spasming to the best of my ability but the roots were getting a little out of control, they were budding from the base of the main roots and expanding all over my body, and every couple of inches they would plant a sticky little node like a command strip onto my skin and keep going, until I could barely move.

The only part that hadn’t been covered was my right arm, which was moving too fast jerking myself off for the tendrils to colonize.

The root in my mouth seemed to expand further, and suddenly I realized that I could still breath despite it feeling like it had reached my guts almost.

My tongue felt a small hole on the underside and sure enough, I could breath just fine.

Good thing too because that’s when I noticed the two thinner roots making their way up my nose, expanding into my nostrils and plugging them completely.

The root in my ass must have had the same idea...

At this point I was slowly starting to realize, like, “oh shit, I really can’t move” and started trying to pull things off of me to escape bu t I honestly couldn’t budge. My left arm was completely rooted to the mattress and my right arm couldn’t be lifted above my waist, just enough to reach my dick but not enough to reach my face.

Leaves were starting to branch out from the tendrils, and with them came more flowers.

They were visibly crawling all over me now, moving fast enough for me to track with my eyes, and I watched in horror as several thin tendrils spiraled up my cock.

I wish I could have broken away but I was quite literally rooted to the spot watching these tendrils poke at my leaking pisshole and worm their way inside.

I screamed and cried but the progress was unceasing, it steadily tunneled into my dick until it hit the base and pinched my prostate against the root in my ass, which at this point must have reached high up into my guts.

I screamed against the root as I came, but no semen escaped my completely plugged dick.

I could feel it making its way inside my through my internal passages, rooting itself straight into my balls, 

At that point I really did pass out, whether from lack of oxygen or overstimulation I couldn’t tell.

Well, I'm awake now and I am utterly fucked, the roots have expanded into nearly every available orifice, even trying to fill out my belly button and uh.. they might have broken through the skin...

I can see ridges beneath my skin.. little hard lines were they’ve penetrated me.

I'm being constantly milked and I can’t even move as they constantly grind against the inside of my cock

I'm not even thirsty or anything, the liquid being drip-fed down my throat fills me up and I'm just kept in a constant state of bliss.

I dunno what to do bro, I have my phone but even texting is getting hard with one hand and roots slowly crawling down my fingers…

you’re the only one close enough to me, theres a key underneath the mat..

you gotta help me man before it's too la

[luveline]

hii could you maybe do remus or tasm peter with a reader who has chronic pain esp in their legs and back and has trouble walking at times? i’m bedridden and tired rn lol

for you, hope this is ok ♡ fem!reader

"Is it bad?" Peter asks. 

You're leaning against the dresser in his bedroom, arms crossed over the top, trying to shift the brunt of your weight onto your arms rather than your legs. You laugh, a little panicked. 

"Want help?" he asks, shoving the sheets of his bed down to the baseboard with his feet. 

He stands up. You shift from foot to foot, pain bounding up your shins like tight laces, not sure if you can walk on them anymore. "I think so." 

Super mutant strength has its downsides, but the up and up is that Peter could pull you into his arms without hesitation if he wanted to. He doesn't go that far, offering an arm to slip behind your shoulders. You stretch your forearm behind his head. 

"What were you trying to do?" he asks, taking practically the entirety of your weight and walking you back to his bed. It's a double that feels like a single whenever you share, but it's comfortable, and it's where Peter does his best cuddling. 

"Just wanted a drink." 

"I'll get that for you," he says, as though you're a weirdo for thinking he wouldn't. 

It's not that you don't think he'd wait on you hand and foot if you needed him to. He's done it before. He'll likely do it again. "Wanted to do it myself," you say, struggling to hold in a sigh of relief as he helps you sit down at the top of the bed. It's crammed right against the wall next to a low window sill, the breeze filtering in fragrant from the baby flowers blooming in the planter on the fire escape. 

"Sorry. I could pick you up? Wear you like a backpack? I'll be your legs." He grins as he says it. Preposterous and entirely genuine, you know he'd carry you around in his arms if you asked. 

"Maybe later, Spider-Boy." 

Peter sits on the sheets, careful not to touch your legs without your say so. "Pass my pillow?" 

You pass him his pillow and lift your socked feet, hissing at the feeling that spreads from your joints as he slides the pillow beneath them. 

"You want ice? Leg massage?" 

Peter frowns at you as you shake your head from side to side but doesn't ask anything else of you. Instead, he shuffles to the top of the bed. "Pain anywhere else?" he asks, tucking his hands behind your back. 

"Kind of everywhere. Mostly my legs." 

"I'm sorry," he says, hands rubbing up and down your back out of rhythm. You don't want him to be sorry. Though, it is nice to have your pain taken seriously and sympathetically, nicer when his head dips down and he kisses your shoulder. "I'll get you an ice pack in a minute. Some painkillers." 

"Can you web me upside down?" you ask. 

"Your legs would be super elevated," he says agreeably. "But no. I don't wanna hurt you anymore than you're already hurting." 

"Worth asking." 

Peter laughs, kisses soft as the touch of a butterfly's wing up the column of your throat. "Relax. We're gonna lay here and keep your legs up until you can walk again, but then we're gonna lay here some more. You need to rest. I'll look after you, okay? Stop stressing." 

"Okay," you mumble, dropping your head onto his shoulder like a mirror image. "Fine. Love you." 

"I love you." His voice sounds as honey feels. Smooth and slow. 

[weministertomonsters]

Imagine This #6 - Scarecrows

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The repetitive sound wakes you up. You crawl out of bed and throw your window open wide. Outside is cool and the wind howls. Another small pebble narrowly misses your face.

"Stop it!" You hiss, squinting into the inky blackness of the night.

You can just barely make them out down there, standing in the planters and trampling the flowers. Moses and Maisy, that's what your mother named them. Names that sounded like they belonged to characters in a children's book, but then again, they were only supposed to be scarecrows. Nothing more, nothing less.

Maisy takes a turn at slinging a rock and it pings against the window, scraping it.

"You're going to wake the whole damn house!" You snap. "What is it?"

"Come play with us," Moses says, his straw hands shoved deep in the pockets of the overalls your mother had dressed him in. "You never play with us anymore."

You sigh. "We're too old to be playing."

Maisy laughs and her hair, which is a cotton candy pink wig, dances in the wind.

"You're never too old. Don't be a drag. Come down."

You know you're probably going to regret going out to see those rascals. But, a few years of living away from home had reminded you of how much you missed them. They'd been there for you when no one else was, and you had grown up together. You were glad when you came back from college to find them still alive, or animated, or whatever it was they were.

You perch on the window sill and dangle your legs, trying to eyeball the jump. Moses steps forward, his stitched smile wide.

"Go on," he says. "I'll catch you."

And he does, even though he crumples under your weight and you end up rolling down the small slope together.

"Ouch, my elbow," you complain and sit up. "Are you okay?"

His button eyes shine and he reaches out and brushes the dirt from your clothes.

"I can't get hurt. I'm fine."

Maisy helps you up to your feet and plucks leaves out of your hair.

"Let's play a game."

"What game?" You ask.

"Tag. You're it!" She taps your shoulder and bounds off into the darkness.

"Hey, wait!"

They've already disappeared into the dark, even though you can still hear their laughter. Shaking your head, you follow them, stumbling now and then on loose rocks. It's idiotic to be running around in the dark, but it brings back the sense of freedom from your childhood years. You don't notice that they are gradually leading you further and further away from the house...

[a-strange-inkling]

daily headcanons 💫

chrissy creates little fairy gardens every place they have ever lived together. she makes her first one in a old flower pot at the trailer that wayne helps her water and maintain with a little spray bottle. she then sets one up in a window planter at their apartment in chicago. eddie’s crow gifts decorate every inch of her little village. he makes her little houses out of pebbles and twigs and carves and paints her figurines. she keeps another one on the window sill in the kitchen of their new york apartment. livvy and maggie love their mother’s fairy garden growing up, it is often the backdrop to many of polly pocket’s adventures. when they settle upstate, chrissy is able to create a large, vast fairy village in one of the raised flower beds that eddie builds them. it has solar twinkling lights, all her favorite flowers and all of her little treasures they’ve collected together. 🧚🏻‍♂️

[live-love-be-unique]

The Witch At The Edge Of The Woods

Inspired by @ghouljams incredible OC: Witch and featuring Price. This is my first attempt at writing a female character x female character and female x female x male characters story in any way so I hope I’ve done that and your OC justice.

You’d come home late one night and found your fiancée in bed with another woman, and now you were seeking revenge. You wanted him to feel your pain. In your heartbreak you sought out the woman they called Witch. You’d heard talk of her but hadn’t felt the need to seek her out like others had.

It felt like you had been walking for hours but you hadn’t even lost sight of the town. The forest grew like a hedge maze your father had taken you to one year when you were younger, you’d gotten so turned around and lost that you sat down and cried until he had found you.

As the familiar tendrils of anxiety wormed their way through your ribs and wrapped themselves around your heart you were sure your eyes were deceiving you the snow-covered trees and paths were changing to blossom-filled branches right before your eyes. The beautiful pink petals falling over the path around you. The sun, which had been hiding behind gray clouds, now shone bright down into the forest.

As you basked in the now shining sun, heavy-soled footsteps followed behind you, turning to find nothing but wisps of black smoke in the shape of a man, dancing in the trees. You paused for a moment before remembering that you were close to the witches cottage and stopping to investigate strange black smoke was possibly not the smartest decision.

You swore the shadow man was following you, staying almost in sight, lingering in the corner of your eyes like an abandoned cigar left sitting in an ashtray as you made your way towards the small cottage surrounded with flowers and plants, some you readily recognise growing alongside a lot you didn’t.

There was a woman kneeling by a planter completely engrossed with her flowers and herbs. As you approached she didn’t acknowledged you as she placed a small green sprig of something into the ground.

The heady, earthy smell of cigar smoke that had followed you intermingled with the perfume of the flowers as you walked closer to the small cottage. “Don’t mind him” the woman spoke, not looking up from the plants as she covered its roots with soil “he knows not to interfere” glancing back at the shadow man you didn’t notice the witch step closer to you “follow me”

The cottage was small but the moment you stepped through the door you felt a wave of comfort fall over you. You wanted to live here, you thought instantly. The mismatch of furniture and nicknacks were dotted around what you could only assume was the living room and sprigs of dried flowers and herbs decorated the curtain rods and candles covered every available surface. The air smelt of lavender as you were led into a small kitchen and ushered to a table underneath a sunny window, the sill covered with small succulents.

You studied the witch as she moved around the room. There’s a power to her, simmering beneath the warm surface. A power, that if crossed, would be scarier than death. Her exposed skin that you could see was covered in a patchwork of black signs and sigils and you guessed that there would be more under the skirt and blouse she wore.

The small kitchen looked exactly how you expected a witches to look, shelves filled to the brim with jars and containers of various powders and liquids, snake skin and other matters and something that; to you; vaguely resemble eyeballs. She however, was not what you had expected, there was no green skin or pointy hat in sight. The woman in front of you was beautiful, nowhere near the witches you heard about in the stories your grandmother read to you.

“Were you expecting something else?” She asked, pausing to glance at you over her shoulder as she busied herself with something at the stove.

“I..I don’t know what I was expecting”

“Your grandmother’s stories were wrong” she looked at you with a smirk, you felt your cheeks heating as her eyes met yours “but that can be a talk for another time” she says as a cup of steaming tea is placed before you on a matching saucer. She must have noticed you eyeing the cup warily “it’s not going to kill you if that’s what you’re thinking, poisoning my customers would be terrible for repeat business”

“I wasn’t…”

She smiles knowingly “it’s tea. Lemon balm if you want to be specific. Good for a broken heart”

“How did you know?”

“Do you know you’re one of the only ones who hasn’t come to see me before, not for a tarot or palm reading or something more specific. I was intrigued” she leaned forward in her chair opposite you, her chin resting on her hands, she was studying you, you realize. She lights a cigarette as she watches, waiting for your response.

“Did your cards tell you about me?” You ask in awe.

“No” she giggles “the cashier at the supermarket is a terrible gossip” she says with a wave of her hand.

You look down at your hands clasping the steaming mug of tea in front of you “I want to hurt him. I need him to feel what I feel”

The witch tuts, leaning across the table, taking your hands in hers turning them over, gently tracing the lines on your palms “Your hands are pure, clean” she shook her head “I won’t let you dirty them with revenge”

“You’ve done it before, for others” you say as the familiar pinpricks of tears begin. Why would she help them and not you?

She looks up at you “do you want me to take your pain, sweet girl?” still holding your hands in hers, still tracing little symbols across your skin. Looking into her eyes you felt yourself suddenly forgetting the pain and heartache left behind by your ex. Your cheeks heat up again as she studies you “are you sure I need to?” She asks, tilting her head with that ever present knowing smile.

“I don’t…” you start, unsurely.

You watch as she stands from her place opposite you and makes her way around the small table and stops in front of you. One of her delicate hands lifts your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes once more “do you want to stay?”

“Yes” you whisper; after a moment.

Your pretty witch leans forward as her lips meet yours. You let yourself sink into her as her hand moves from your jaw and flattens against the back of your neck. You would stay with her for as long as she wanted.

The heady, earthy smell of cigar smoke fell around the room as a deep voice came from behind you “What a pretty picture I’ve found” the shadow man purred.

“You startled her Price” Witch says to the shadow man as you fall back with a gasp. The shadow man; Price; had materialized before your eyes. He was handsome with a rugged air surrounding him and his piercing blue eyes shone as he observed you.

He takes your hand in his and pulls you to stand “Hello petal” he smiles, plucking a small pink petal from your hair “we’ve been expecting you” he smiles as his lips find their way to yours.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Beyond Help

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Will, Miranda Even Demeter's daughter can't heal the flowers of a god's soul when they start to fade. TOApril day 26 - Wilting Flowers. This one is actually set between BOO and THO. Apollo equates his sense of self to the Curse of Delos, so what would that look like while he's being stripped of his godhood?

“I’m sorry, Will.”  Will swallowed at the despondent sound in Miranda’s voice as he forced himself to look at her.

She still had her fingers buried in the soil of the planter on the window sill, but there was no sign of the usual spark of life the daughter of Demeter could bring.  The flowers stayed drooping and faded, as though they were mere moments from losing their petals and drying up into the shrivelled brown stems of dead plants.

It was normal, a part of nature.  Will was familiar with the seasonal nature of plants the same way most people were, used to different flowers blooming at different times of the year, always with some colour to display proudly somewhere.

He had never, ever, seen these flowers wilt before.  Logically, he knew that they weren’t the exact same flowers that he’d first seen when he was seven – they’d moved around, had different shapes and clusters – but whatever happened to cause those changes always happened without his notice.  Will suspected overnight, when the flowers took on a silvery hue in the moonlight, but he’d never seen them to prove it.

They were his dad’s sacred flowers, as eternal as the god himself.  In eight years, they’d never faltered.

But now they were changing, wilting and losing the inherent life that always thrummed through them, and Will’s heart felt like it was being constricted by an ever-tightening serpent the longer it went on.

He’d known that Miranda probably wouldn’t be able to do it, when he’d finally caved and gone to the Demeter cabin for help.  They could help any plants to grow, revitalise the soil, whatever was needed – but this was different.  This was the flowers of a god, and Will had the horrible, sinking feeling that it was no coincidence.

None of his siblings had heard anything from Apollo since before the Argo II had left camp for the Romans, and their father’s silence had persisted long past the end of the war and Gaia’s defeat.

Still, there was a significant part of him that had hoped she could produce a miracle and restore the life and vitality of Apollo’s flowers.  The fact that she couldn’t wasn’t the resigned dull ache he’d thought, but a far more vicious pain.

“It’s okay,” he told her, pushing past the way his heart felt like it was cracking in two, the separating parts being crushed together by serpentine coils as though an organ could compound fracture.  “Thanks for trying.”

She pulled her fingers out from the soil, dirt clinging to her skin like it couldn’t bear to be parted from her.  Most people would brush it away, but children of Demeter weren’t most people when it came to soil, and Miranda didn’t seem to even notice the specks of brown on her hands.

“Is there still no sign?” she asked him, gently because that was Miranda all over – gentle and caring even if she had a spine of steel behind it.  Will thought the state of the flowers was answer enough for that, but he humoured her and shook his head.

“Nothing,” he admitted, feeling his lip tremble slightly.  “He’s still silent.  The dreams haven’t started again.”

“There must be a reason,” Miranda said.  “I’m sure he wouldn’t go silent without reason.”  She didn’t even know Apollo, but she’d been in camp long enough to know how close Will and his siblings thought they’d got with their father.

“Yeah,” he said, despondently.  “A reason.”

It wasn’t that he thought Apollo suddenly didn’t love them, or had never loved them.  That was a thought process too far, even in the current silence, although Will wondered if that was the better option.

Because the other option was the one that haunted Will.  No-one had heard of Apollo since the giant banes started appearing, and on top of whoever Apollo’s giant bane was, there was also Delphi, and Python – because Python wasn’t a giant.  Delphi was one of Apollo’s seats of power and it had fallen, and no-one had heard anything from Apollo since.

Will liked to think that he’d, somehow, feel it if something had happened to his dad.  That the sun would feel different against his skin, or a feeling with an unmistakable meaning sinking into his bones.

(The hurt that came from the wilting flowers, the squeezing snake around his breaking heart, meant something, but Will ignored them, because he wasn’t strong enough to handle whatever they were trying to tell him.)

Miranda fumbled a little bit, a good friend but not one equipped to deal with Will facing the hell that was the rest of his life without the father that was supposed to be immortal, before resting a dirt-covered hand on his shoulder.

She couldn’t promise everything would be okay.  Neither of them would ever have believed that, not after two wars and the deaths of too many siblings (Will had lost more, yes, but Miranda hadn’t lost none and even one was one too many; grief wasn’t a competition and Will had never let himself fall into one).  “You’ll get through this,” she said instead, with a quiet confidence.  “Whatever has happened, whatever will happen, you’ll get through this.  And if it gets hard, remember you’re not alone.”  She pulled him into a secure hug, and Will felt his shoulders start to shake in companionship with his lip.

He didn’t cry, but it was close.

“I know,” he said instead, with a voice that shook.  “Thank you.”

[bhaalsdeepbat]

Baby's First Urge

SFW | AO3 | Baldur's Gate 3 Word Count: 2,219 CW: Gore, death, child death, and hints at future cannibalism. General Durge Shit

The sorcerer was ten, barely an adolescent, when the Urges first began to truly awaken. They began as an itch deep beneath layers of muscle and flesh, an uncomfortable stirring accompanied by a thought that disappeared as quickly as it came. Then, the itch became a whisper coursing hot through their veins, a burning need to put the violence written in their blood into action and slaughter the family holding them back from their destiny. A/N: This is just a piece exploring some of the night Mercy first felt the Urge. I imagine they had thoughts, but never the urge until this night. Sceleritas also makes an appearance <3

The cottage sat on the top of a hill at the very edge of the city, overlooking the twist of the river Chionthar under Baldur’s Gate. The home was small, a modest two bedroom hastily constructed with cheap materials and hidden by a thicket of trees. Secluded, but no less welcoming. Flowers in full bloom sprouted from the planters built outside the cottage’s open windows, cared for under a bit of magic and a careful hand. The wood paneling on the exterior of the cottage was painted a golden yellow, the window sills and door frames accented in ebony.

Spring ushered bounteous life that year. The snow had melted early, allowing an overgrowth of lush greenery and colorful flowers in abundance. The first warmth of the year stirred the insects and rodents sleeping deep in the cold earth, bringing them up to the surface in offering to the larger creatures stalking the lands. The sounds of a late Spring evening filled the air: The buzz of cicadas, the repetitive hoot of hunting owls, the leathery beat of bat wings flapping in the night air. The symphony of the creatures of the night mixed with a cacophony of screams drifting from a lone cottage.

The sorcerer was ten, barely an adolescent, when the Urges first began to truly awaken. They began as an itch deep beneath layers of muscle and flesh, an uncomfortable stirring accompanied by a thought that disappeared as quickly as it came. Then, the itch became a whisper coursing hot through their veins, a burning need to put the violence written in their blood into action and slaughter the family holding them back from their destiny.

Their purpose is to die at your hand. All of them.

A sweet coaxing at the back of their mind as they slept, their own voice echoing the words, until the sorcerer couldn’t even tell if the thought was their own or not. Each repetition of the desire to kill was accompanied by the image of their family’s corpses, strung up and on display over an altar overflowing with blood, savaged by their own hand. A large skull loomed menacingly in the background, its eyes glowing an ominous red, as it gazed upon the first of many to be slaughtered in offering. 

Your purpose is to devour, until there is nothing left of this world.

When sorcerer finally stirred from their dream of carnage that moonless night, it was late into the evening. Darkness peaked, devouring their bedroom with pitch black shadows. Their sister sat on their chest, her weight crushing the air from their lungs and pinning them against their mattress. She sat hunched, eyes wide as ragged breaths shook her body. She gripped a knife, knuckles white and blade trembling in her hand. The tip dug into the sorcerer’s skin, a sharp bite drawing blood below their right eye. There was a violent hunger in the glow of their twin sister’s red eyes, her yearning for death almost palpable. 

The moment the twins’ eyes made contact, the desire to devour overwhelmed the sorcerer with an insatiable appetite. The child’s self-control was pulled too taut, stretched out until it broke and carnage became inevitable. Darkness consumed their consciousness, pulling their awareness back to allow the awakening Urges within to take over. 

When the child finally came to, jolted awake and suddenly back in their own trembling body, the home was a wreck. Blood splattered the walls, marking the struggle with a trail of blood. The furniture had been knocked over and pulverized. Wood flooring singed from the bite of a blast of lightning, sulfur and smoke mixing with the tantalizing scent of burning flesh. The atmosphere was static with the sorcerer’s lingering magic.

The putrid scent of blood and death was heavy in the air where three bodies lay in mangled heaps at the center of a circle of blood, its imperfect lines wavering with a crying child’s hand. Two adult tieflings were set on opposite sides of the body of a small girl damaged beyond recognition. A nauseatingly sweet scent wafted off her in enticing waves. The sorcerer’s stomach lurched hungrily, a desire deep inside stirring with ravenous abandon as the Urges admired the beauty in front of them.

“No!” The sorcerer’s voice was a sore rasp, their vocal chords straining painfully as another lump formed in their throat. “No, no, no, no-”

Expressions of agony and horror twisted the adults’ expressions. Fear of the child they had loved and raised as their own etched with permanence in death. Their bodies were ripped open, clawed until their innards spilled along the ground where the sorcerer struggled to drag them next to their sister’s unrecognizable form.

Devour them all.

It was no longer a whisper. The demand was loud and the sorcerer couldn’t tell if the thought was from their hunger, now fully awakened and begging to be sated, or their appetite was their own. The desire for cruelty and death burned in their veins, accompanying the pounding war drum and the chants for death reverberating throughout their entire being, loud and disconcerting, nearly drowning out the grief threatening to overflow from the child..

A sob racked the sorcerer’s body. Tears streaked their cheeks, wet trails cutting through blood and dirt. Waves of warm bliss crashed over them, a comfort encouraging them to admire the beauty of such violent death. For a moment, the child raked their eyes across the destruction, then dragged their gaze to their own bloodstained hands. Bits of viscera clung to the tips of impossibly sharp claws, their joints aching where the digits unnaturally distended into dark talons, pale flesh blending into hard keratin.

They lifted two claws, pressing the tips against the line carved along the curve of their right cheek and arced across the bridge of their nose. The wound was fresh, a parting gift from their dear, deceased sister. The sorcerer swiped the oozing drainage from the long cut, then pressed it to their tongue, tasting the lifeblood of the slain family mixing with their own sweet ichor. The taste of their ruin was accompanied by another burst of bliss, comforting waves of warmth wrapping around their tiny body as a pleased smile tugged at the corner of their lips.

They went ice cold when the warmth cloaking them almost protectively finally dissipated, leaving them alone to bear the full weight of the sin laid out before the child. The sorcerer yanked their hand away from their lips, eyes widening with dawning horror that something had broken inside them. A beast was unleashed, ready to raze the world over, and conquer as it was created to do. The child stumbled backwards, nearly tripping on an overturned chair as they tried to put distance between them and the evidence of their depraved misdeeds.

Desire to admire the gore attempted to consume them, but the exhausted sorcerer held on as they turned away. Their stomach churned, the threat of bile in the back of their throat accompanied by a painful twist in their intestines. They whimpered, nearly collapsing from the stab of pain in their stomach. Their legs wavered beneath them, threatening to give out. Their hands and arms throbbed, the muscles strained from clawing, ripping, grappling-

The sorcerer finally collapsed before they could reach the door to the exit of the once happy home. Sobs racked their body, shaking their tiny shoulders as the child curled in on themself. They wanted to be smaller and disappear, but instead their mind raced with flashes of memories:

Their mother’s body motionless and their father gurgling on blood welling where his throat has been slit open by their own hand. An echo of their pleas rang in their head accompanied by flashes of the child’s talons clawing through muscle and sinew with ease, ripping apart the life they had with equal parts anguish and delight.

“Don’t cry, my dear, tainted angel.” The disembodied words were sweet, almost angelic, as the voice cut through the child’s sobs echoing in the empty home. Orange and red light danced across the surface of a pool of blood, a momentary flash before the blood began to ripple. Crimson shaped the translucent form of a small creature. The blaze of light spread across his form, only to be snuffed out the moment the goblin’s shape solidified.

The child tensed, sniffling as they tried to bite back tears. They shoved themself up onto their knees and curled their lips into a snarl flashing sharp teeth. “Stay back,” they growled, the tip of their pointed tail flicking dangerously as electricity began to spark with erratic flashes of blue light.

The goblin simply chuckled with a fondness that had the child’s skin crawl. The stranger shook his head as he ignored the threat and simply hobbled over to the bodies on display. “This was quite the show,” he commented, beady red eyes raking across the violent offering. He nudged the child’s corpse with a sharp, overgrown toenail. “You did so well for your first time, though I think we can…refine your skills.” 

The creature turned and cast his gaze down on the trembling sorcerer. He smiled at the ten-year-old, thin lips revealing his own sharp teeth, but there was no threat in the expression. He was disgusting, small and demonic, but the sorcerer could see the sincerity in the way he looked at them, like he saw a child, not a monster. 

The child was speechless at first, disbelief furrowing their brows as the air finally went stagnant. The electricity around the sorcerer died as quickly as they initially summoned it. They swallowed back another lump forming in their throat as the creature took this moment to hobble towards them. 

He closed the distance between them much quicker than the child expected. They flinched as he held out a clawed hand, but the touch was gentle, rubbing their back in comforting circles. “Come, now. No need to cry over broken toys.” He hummed for a moment, tilting his head as he watched them with unblinking, beady eyes. 

The child scowled as they balled their hands into fists. Their eyes narrowed into a glare that they directed at the creature beside them. “What did you do to me?” The accusation was sharp, dripping with poison. The force of their anger had the child lurch at the creature, their small body crashing against his and shoving him down to the floor. They held him down, gripping the collar of his tattered coat. Droplets of tears fell from their eyes, collecting on the red jabot fastened to his neck. 

“Me? Oh, no, I cannot take credit for this vile deed. I am so proud to say that is all you.” He didn’t struggle beneath them, simply smiled as the child held him down. 

“What’s wrong with me?” The child’s voice broke, accusation gone from the tone as they directed their disgust back at themself. They sniffed and tried to bite back their tears, but they were exhausted. Their body and heart ached in tandem.

“Oh, my vile Master.” He spoke gently as he lifted a hand to pet the child’s head, comforting with a warm, loving touch. “There’s nothing wrong with you! You’re the victor of a destined bloodbath. You were absolutely perfect.” 

The child was motionless as they stared down at him, the fight leaving them entirely. Their chest swelled with foreign pride and they knew this feeling wasn’t coming from themself, but they leaned into it. Anything to keep from feeling the ache of loss in its entirety.

The sorcerer’s grip on his coat loosened as they slumped back onto the ground beside him. The child watched him apprehensively as the goblin rose to his feet. He picked his hat off the ground and set it on his head, taking a moment to straighten it and pat some dirt from his tattered trousers. Content that he was acceptably put together, he turned his attention back to the child and offered a hand. “We’ll get you cleaned up and rested, then we can find you something else to play with.”

The child stared at the hand, focusing on him to keep from looking at the corpses looming in the background. Their head began to pound as they tried to make sense of the goblin’s kindness. Uncertainty momentarily froze them, until the thought of being alone scared them into motion. They placed their hand, small and fragile, into his, allowing him to help them onto their shaky feet. 

Once back on their feet, the child kept hold of the creature’s wrinkled hand, their eyes burning with the threat of more tears, but the sorcerer kept them back. They kept their gaze lowered. “Who are you?”

He placed his free hand over the child’s, cupping it in both of his own as he gave the adolescent a reassuring nod. “Sceleritas Fel, at your service. Your Father sent me so you’d never be alone, dear Master.” He patted the back of the sorcerer’s hand.

The tiefling wiped their eyes with the back of their free hand. At a loss for words, they gave a nod. Exhaustion fogged their head and seeped into their bones. Overwhelmed, tired, and afraid of being completely alone, the child followed Sceleritas into the night.

[glasswaters]

the lake by the mountain

It starts, as all things do, with a story. It begins, gauze-thin and stretched across these mountains, long before I was ever born, with the unspooling of a thread. Cotton, bleached white and pulled taut to keep a petticoat’s hem.

“Such was my task”, says my grandmother, who smells of wants and conviction the way my mother smells of daffodils. Her hands are worn, now, by age or by exhaustion, and when she holds her embroidery into the light, I can see the sun peeking through pierced fabric. The gas lamp on the table gives a groan, the sharp noise of the last of the wick eaten up by flame, just before it dies.

 *

Here is how my mother tells it, when my father has left for the day and she lays the pelts out to dry: your grandmother is a stubborn thing, sweeting. When they lay the phone lines, she refused them. When they carved space for the plumbing, she filled it with soil. When they traced cables from outlet to outlet, she stood, lamp in one hand, knife in the other, and bared her teeth.

The grocer knows her by name, yet.

 *

My grandmother’s skin is paper-thin. When she turns her head, I can see the light through it, as though she has long since been pulled taut over a bulb’s jutting edges. When she opens her mouth, her voice comes out a sharp thing, whetted and precise. “What use have I”, she says, and pulls the thread until it near snaps. “My sweetling, whatever would I do with fancy baubles?”

The fire cracks, and paints in the shape of it, my grandmother’s face golden. I shrug. “Comfort”, I say.

“Convenience”, says my grandmother, and drags her mouth downwards. There is a fountain in the courtyard and an outhouse by the trees. There is copper cookware, lined up in the kitchen, and a basin sturdy enough to hold her. The windows are open wide, and in the planters hanging off the sills, my grandmother has made for the bees an offering of sweetness.

Every summer, they feast on the flowers, a thick buzz of wings.

“What need do I have for wires?”, she asks, with her fingertips hooked underneath my chin. “The mountains are slow, dearling, and there is much lays heavy in the valleys that has not yet reached the summits.”

“Heat settles high”, I say, and my grandmother laughs. The furs on her sofa are as soft as they have ever been, silver things that I can dip my hands into and watch them disappear. My fingers sink into them undisturbed, until they rest at the downy warmth of them.

 *

Stories are things made of thread and words, half-spun and half-dreamt. When my grandmother was new, with smooth hands and skin thick enough to break teeth, she would sit on the summit, just by the cross that marks its highest point, and hem petticoats and linens. Her feet were bare, then, and bleeding, still dripping stubbornness over limestone and fossils.

As the locals tell it, a spirit rose from the lake in the valley at night and made the trek to the summit; bloody feet and tender, stubborn mouth. With wild hair and wilder heart, it dragged from the bottom of the lake to the top of the mountain sweet freshwater pearls.

It sat, wanton and wanting, on the moss, until someone came to pin it by the limbs to plush velvet. A needle threaded through every fingertip, string tied about every toe, it stayed, like that, under dull eyes and duller teeth.

Until the dusk came, and brought with it the sun’s death.

As the locals tell it, the spirit made then the trek back down to the lake. Sometimes, at night, something wanton lay, with eyes like polished pearls and hands carved of dripping limestone, motionless until the sun rose above the mountain peaks.

 *

“The skies were clear”, says my grandmother, and in the soft light of the waning sun, her eyes shine white. “Planets pinned to the firmament, and you could map worlds in the space between. Some days, I could see beyond this solar system.” She smiles at me, a wrinkle from the corners of her mouth to the slack of her cheeks, and keeps me pinned, still, on her furs. “When the day was cold, and there were no clouds, I could see to the ends of the universe at night. Not anymore, now.”

In my back pocket, my phone buzzes. My grandmother drags her fingers to the seam of my trousers. In my ears roar the rocking waves of a storm. “I don’t have to check it”, I say. My palms ache at the tips, still buried in the pelts, still half-hidden. Half curled.

My grandmother tilts her head. Like a bird, almost. Like something with sharp claws and sharper teeth, with eyes that see – something moves. Somewhere within my ribcage or tangled about my spine, something shifts. My grandmother’s eyes are mother-of-pearl, and her teeth are soft, soft things.

“Don’t you?”, she asks. Her skin shimmers in this light – a blanket of oil on a lake’s surface, a layer of despair around a kernel of dirt. Hands, worn and wrinkled.

Mine are smooth, still, and I shake my head. “I don’t”, I say. She laughs. She holds out her hands, and fits them to the curve of my jaw. They lay, like that, unmoving, stubborn things, against my skin.

“Child”, she says softly. “Sweet thing.”

My mother leaves the pelts out to dry once my father has left for work. Before he comes home, she collects them and folds them, damp still, until they fit into the suitcase on top of the dresser, with its broken clasp and the belt tied around it. Her mouth has long since fit itself into the gaps of my father’s smile.

Her phone in her pocket buzzes. When she picks up, my father’s voice drips from the speaker. “Hello, my loves”, he says, and my mother fades around the edges.

“Hello”, she says. Her hair is dry.

 *

At night, something lies in the lake, its eyes wide open, its mouth agape. Its hands are smooth the way stones are in riverbeds – so long have they lain in the water that there is nothing at all to them, anymore, except polished rounds. Its hair floats, weightless, like seagrass sprouting from its head. Or, perhaps, like fabric does when it is put to soak in water that is more gasoline and blue dye, now, it drags, swirling, until it lies trembling at the lake’s surface.

The stars are dull behind their layer of light. The city is alive, even at night, flickering billboards and humming streetlights and girls with bright eyes and brighter smiles, gathered about the pavement. They carry their heels in one hand and their phone in the other, texting half-formed flirts to half-shaped crushes.

Laughing, bell-shaped.

The thing in the lake watches the skies. In the morning, it will lead wet footprints to the mountain’s summit.

 *

“Come”, says my grandmother, ever sharp. “Why don’t you help me with the linens?”

I drag my hands from her pelts. My phone in the back pocket of my trousers is warm, and presses smooth against me. I don’t check it.

My grandmother’s hands are a solid weight on me, and my hems are still wet. My feet leave bloody prints on her wood floor.

“Come”, says my grandmother. I come. I breathe.

I reach for the linens. ______ commission for @hasenfu, thank you for commissioning me!

[bakuliwrites]

In Our Youth, Chapter 1- Empty

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Baldur's Gate III

Pairing: Eventual Gortash x Tav

Tags: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Eventual Romance, Pre-Canon, Location: The House of Hope (Baldur's Gate), Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Past Abuse, Body Horror, Eldritch, Warlocks, Warlock Patrons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers for Gortash, BG3 Spoilers

Summary: Enver, in this dream, we are happy. In this dream, we are free. And I am yours, forever and ever... Yours Always, Orlando.

Years before death cults, tadpoles, and nautiloids, a young Tiefling girl is taken to the House of Hope, where her life is forever changed when she meets a young Enver Gortash. Together, they must figure out how to escape their prison and make their own way in the world.

Read here or over on my AO3.

Orlando is eleven, and she sits at the window, staring out at the bustling harbor of Baldur’s Gate. Last night’s storm lingers in the cracks of the cobblestones below and hovers in the earthy scent of petrichor. Orlando wonders if her mother found shelter last night, if she stayed safe from the ruinous tempest that swallowed boats on the horizon and battered piers to splinters. She wonders if her mother is adrift in the sea, lost and confused, unable to follow the sound of the ocean home because the ocean is all around her.

She should’ve been home by now. She should be in her room, curtains drawn shut to drown out the painful sunlight, sleeping off the exhaustion that has crept into her muscles from night-after-night of hard labor on the docks. But instead, Orlando’s mother’s room is empty, and silence seems to permeate every inch of the little flat, save the restless drip of water into the basin beneath the leaky window. Orlando watches each drop beading from the loose sill: small at first, then fat, fat, fat- until the drop swells and plips in a ripple along the surface of the pool underneath it. Perhaps, Orlando thinks, her mother is a ripple in the sea, and nothing more.

The door to the flat bursts open, crashing against the wall and sending a hanging planter crashing to the floor.

“Cían!” Orlando scolds, knowing their mother will be furious when she discovers the mess of soil and shattered ceramic in the entryway, “Be gentle!”

"Sorry,” her brother sheepishly mutters, shrinking where he stands. A wave of guilt courses through Orlando’s veins as she realizes she is being far too harsh. This is as difficult a time for her twin brother as it is for her. She lifts herself from where she’s been keeping watch by the window and goes to help Cían clean up the mess.

“Any luck?” she questions, plucking broken pieces of pottery from the ground. Her brother shakes his head, webbed ears sinking dejectedly.

“Me neither,” is all Orlando can manage.

“I tried the dockmaster, but he didn’t know anything,” her brother begins, scooping up piles of soil into his taloned hands and dumping them into a nearby pot, “Said he’d ask around. Guess a lot of people are missing after last night.”

“You don’t think-” Orlando starts but can’t bring herself to finish. Her brother shoots her an irritated look.

“Mom’s not dead,” he spits, his motions becoming agitated. He deposits the last of the soil with a furious thrust, rising swiftly from the ground and storming over towards the window. His eyes scan the road below, “She’ll be back. She always comes back.”

Nervously, Orlando sidles over to him, plastering herself to his side and slipping her hand in his. She gives it a tight squeeze and finally, his foul mood relents a bit. He smiles sorrowfully, leaning his head against his sister’s shoulder and sighing.

“She’ll be back,” he repeats, and Orlando hopes to the gods that he’s right.

***

Days pass with Orlando and Cían taking turns going out to hunt for their missing mother, while one of them stays home to keep watch in the chance that she makes her way back. In the evenings, they rifle through the pantry to make a suitable meal for themselves. The children sit at the windowsill gnawing at bread that is swiftly going stale and nibbling at the remainder of a chunk of cheese. As their store of food begins to dwindle, Cían takes it upon himself to break into their mother’s emergency funds. Guiltily, he swipes a couple of coins from the stash underneath one of the loose floorboards in the hallway.

“I don’t think she’d mind us using it for food,” Orlando tries to reassure, wringing her hands in worry. Her brother gives a small nod before they set out together to navigate the bustling market. They speak to no one, schooled strictly by their mother to not speak to strangers, especially when she isn’t around. Orlando and Cían keep their heads down except when to politely thank a vendor or to murmur a quiet, “Excuse me,” in order to squeeze by someone.

The children keep their eyes peeled to see if, perhaps, their mother might be wandering through the crowd, lost and confused. But there is only a sea of strangers to greet them. Eyes seem to track Orlando and her brother, leering out from beneath dark cowls, watching their every motion. Cían pulls his sister closer to him when he spots a hooded figure leaning against a wall, glittering gaze staring after them. The man watches them for a long while, pushing away from the wall and trailing after them through the crowd.

“Get ready to run,” Cían whispers to Orlando, fear tightening his grip on her hand. But Orlando manages to tug her brother into a small crowd of elderly women who fawn over the two Tiefling children for a moment- long enough for the man to lose sight of them. After they’re sure the coast is clear, Orlando and her brother slip away through the crowd and head back home, shaken by the city crowds. Orlando is beginning to understand her mother’s fears.

“Are you scared because papa might be looking for us?” Orlando had once asked her mother after receiving another lecture on why Orlando and her brother shouldn’t be talking to strangers. The look in her mother’s eyes was one of abject fear.

"Yes,” she confirmed, glancing swiftly away, “Yes, your father. And-” Her mother paused.

"And who?” Orlando pestered. Her mother swallowed hard before setting down the rag she’d been using to dry off the dishes. She turned to her daughter, smiling softly, though notably not answering Orlando’s question, which irked the little girl to this day.

“You and your brother are- unique,” her mother began, gently taking Orlando’s shoulders.

"Isn’t that what every parent says to their kid?” Orlando had petulantly returned. Her mother laughed.

“Yes, but-” another pause as she gazed intensely at her daughter for a moment, “There are people that would pay a lot of money for people like you and Cían. For people like me. Because of what we can do.”

Orlando glanced furtively around before whispering, “The thing we’re not supposed to do?”

Her mother nodded, “Right. Unless we’re in danger.”

"Unless we’re in danger,” Orlando had repeated, a mantra she held close to her heart.

That had been the last time the subject of the children’s father had been brought up, but not the last time their mother had given the siblings the “stranger danger” lecture. It was a monthly reminder, now. And now that their mother was missing, Orlando found herself going back to this conversation over and over again.

***

One night, Orlando and Cían decide to sneak out into the darkness, hoping to avoid the crowds. Perhaps tonight will be the night they find her. Perhaps tonight, the sea will be kind, and the tides will bring their mother back to them.

No luck on the docks, so Cían suggests they split up and meet back up before the moon rises too high in the sky.

“I’ll check the square if you want to check near Basilisk Gate,” he says, “We’ll meet up near Sorcerous Sundries when we’re done.”

Orlando gives a determined nod before marching off, tugging the hood of her cloak down to obscure her face. She darts down dimly lit alleys, careful not to be spotted by any of the city guards who might be wondering what a little one is doing out this late. When she reaches Basilisk Gate, she hides behind a stack of crates and peers out into the moonlit darkness. A few stragglers from nearby taverns stumble along the streets. Shuttered produce carts create strange, amorphous shadows in the darkness. But there is no sign of her mother.

Orlando is so focused on her watch duty that she does not notice the marching sound of footsteps coming up the alley behind her.

“You there!” a harsh voice calls. Orlando nearly jumps out of her skin, whirling around to face the two hooded figures that have snuck up beside her.

“You shouldn’t be out this late,” one of them speaks, peering at her from beneath their cowl, “Where are your parents?”

Orlando, too frightened for words, merely makes a choking sound in her throat. There is something in the eyes of these strangers that sends shivers up her spine. Something hungry. Orlando grips the handle of the little dagger she keeps hidden on her belt, ready to swipe at them should they come any closer.

“Lost, little one?” the other purrs, creeping nearer. Orlando feels a surge of anger in her chest, scowling at the man.

“Come any closer and I’ll scream,” she spits, assessing what her options are. Screaming would certainly alert any nearby guards, but would they reach her fast enough? These men could snatch her up in an instant and disappear down one of the nearby alleys or manholes into the vast sewer system beneath the city. Her brother would be left alone, motherless, sisterless. She couldn’t do that to Cían.

She could run, but surely, they would follow her.

Unless we’re in danger, echoes in her head. There is that possibility. But it would be an even greater risk than if she were to simply run.

Orlando doesn’t get much of a chance to decide. She hadn’t noticed the third man creeping up behind her until he was nearly on her. She feels his presence in the hairs standing up at the back of her neck. Reacting on instinct, Orlando whirls around, knife drawn, swiping out in an arc and slashing the man’s arm. He cries out in pain and anger, the momentary chaos enough for Orlando to dart out from behind the boxes and dash down the alley. She can hear the pounding footsteps of the men following her. They’re fast, but she is faster and more agile. Orlando weaves through tiny spaces and narrow corridors, on the lookout for anywhere she can hide. Finally, she is able to duck behind some large casks outside a tavern, pressing close to the wall, webbed ears listening out for her stalkers.

After a while of relative silence, Orlando peeks out from behind the large cask. It seems she’s lost the men, much to her relief; but just as she is about to risk stepping out of her hiding place, she is forced to dart right back into the shadows. Someone skulks out of one of the backdoors of the tavern, shifty gaze darting this way and that down the alleyway. When they are satisfied that there is no one else around, the figure wanders into a small patch of moonlight and sighs. Orlando scrunches against the wall, making herself as small as possible, fearful she’ll be chased yet again. However, the stranger merely stands there, letting the moonlight and the gentle night breeze wash over them.

Orlando relaxes, peering closer at the figure, curious, but careful not to make any sudden moves. However, even if Orlando wanted to move, she couldn’t, awestruck by the silver glimmer of the stranger’s pale hair. It seems to be woven of starlight, iridescent and cold, curling around his pointed ears like soft, snowy tendrils. The man turns his gaze upwards and that is when Orlando catches a glimpse of his irises: red like polished garnets, and filled with a deep, deep sorrow. In fact, Orlando has never seen someone quite as crestfallen as this pale elf. There is something lost about him, aimless and adrift. She wonders if he is some Elven prince, lost in a city he’s unfamiliar with, searching for a home he cannot find.

Searching for home, sounds in Orlando’s mind. She is suddenly pulled from her silent awe when the man speaks.

“Little tip for skulking in the shadows,” his voice drawls, casting his gaze over towards the cask Orlando is hiding behind, “Try to breathe a little quieter. A deaf cat could probably hear all that sniffling you’re doing.”

Orlando’s ears droop in embarrassment. She takes this as a sign to emerge from her hiding spot. The Elf’s gaze hardens as the Tiefling creeps into the light, the angles of his face severe in the shadow of the moon.

“Hmm,” he hums, scanning her, quirking a pale brow up, but saying nothing more. Orlando blushes softly as she continues to stare curiously at the Elf.

Just as Orlando is about to ask if he is a prince, the tavern door bursts open.

“Oi! Pretty boy! Where’d you get off to?” a voice shouts in a slurring, singsongy tone. The Elf scowls, giving a small, “Tsk,” before storming back into the tavern, leaving Orlando alone in the alley once again.

The momentary spell Orlando had been under breaks, and she suddenly remembers why she’s out at this late hour. She scolds herself, feeling guilty for allowing herself to be distracted. Orlando vows to come back to the tavern tomorrow night, to see if she can’t help this sorrowful prince find his way home. She understands how scary it can be to not know where you are, how dreadfully sad it is.

I’ll bring a shell! she thinks, recalling what her mother had once said when Orlando had gotten lost on her way home from the market.

“Whenever you cannot find your way, my darling,” her mother had begun, wiping away Orlando’s tears with a handkerchief, “Listen for the sound of the ocean. Let her waves guide you back to me.”

That day, her mother had given her a little conch shell and explained that it would always help her find her way. Orlando wouldn’t dare part with the shell her mother gave her, but she could certainly find a different one for the Elven prince with hair woven from starlight.

Cían is already waiting at Sorcerous Sundries by the time Orlando gets there. She worries that he is upset with her, based on the look on his face. However, as she draws nearer, Orlando realizes her brother’s frown is one of sadness and not anger.

"No luck either?” he begins, and all Orlando can do is shake her head. Hand-in-hand, the siblings retreat to their home, weary and losing hope. They will rest tonight to gain strength for another day of searching tomorrow.

***

After yet another unsuccessful search, Cían and Orlando debate going to the city guards. Mama had said not to trust anyone, but did that include the authorities? Orlando isn’t sure. And neither is Cian, really. But they both decide that enough time has passed where they need help, both for their Mama and for themselves. So, hand-in-hand, Orlando and Cian head to the nearest guard on patrol and explain their situation. The guard nods, instructing the children to return to the safety of their home for now.

“We’ll take care of it,” the guard explains, smiling gently at the terrified children, “Do you have anyone you trust that you can go to?”

Orlando and Cían shake their heads, to which the guard frowns.

“I’ll send someone to come look after you,” they finish, before sending the children on their way.

Before they return home, Orlando requests to go to the beach, where she searches for the perfect shell for her Elven prince. She finds one, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, iridescent just like her prince’s hair. But she does not have the chance to go to the tavern again that night, having been instructed to stay home until someone can come look after her and her brother. For now, she sets the shell on her bedside table and promises to go back tomorrow, hoping she will see her Elven prince again.

That night, she dreams of being the princess of a faraway land; wearing gowns made of gossamer and silk, hanging on the arm of a handsome prince, and spending her days reading and writing and practicing her spells. In this dream, she is safe, and so is her brother and her mother. In this dream, she does not have to run or hide or worry about anything anymore. In this dream, she is happy, and her heart cannot be touched by fear.

***

The strangers arrive the following morning, four of them marching up the road towards the furniture store Orlando, her mother, and her brother live above. The owners of the shop are gone, so the men have to force the door open to get to the flat above. Orlando and Cían hide in their room, clutching each other close, free hands clasped over their own mouths to prevent them from making any sound. There is something foul about these strangers, something hateful in their gaits. Orlando recognizes one of them as the guard they confided in, and the other three as the men that harassed her near Basilisk Gate.

“This is all my fault,” she whimpers to Cían, who hushes his sister softly and reassures her.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, trying to quiet her tears, “It isn’t. They would’ve come for us eventually, anyway.”  

It takes little time for the children to be discovered, pulled out by their tails from their hiding place under Orlando’s bed. Orlando scratches with her talons, tries to poke out their eyes with the sharp tips of her horns. Cían sinks his teeth into the hand of one of the men. The man swears, dropping the little Tiefling boy. He scrambles towards his sister’s captor but is caught by one of the other men and bashed in the back of the head. Orlando screams, struggles harder as her brother falls limp to the ground. Rage burns through her, splitting open her chest. She can feel her imminent transformation, her skin coldly simmering and threatening to take new shape. A forbidden shape, one her mother told her never to use.

Unless we’re in danger.

Orlando’s leg kicks out, knocking over the shell on her bedside table and sending it shattering across the ground. This only fuels her rage, mother-of-pearl glimmering in broken pieces beneath her.

“Hold her!” one of the men shouts frantically as Orlando squirms and writhes and feels her skin burning away. She’ll be free, she thinks. She’ll save Cían. But in moments, pain blooms across the back of Orlando’s head and she, too, sees only darkness.

A/N: It has taken me many, many months to figure out what direction I've wanted to go with this series. And finally, I feel happy with what I've been writing. Each story in this series will focus on the relationship between my Tav, Orlando, and Gortash over the years. This first fic will focus on Orlando and Gortash's time in the House of Hope, from their youth into their early adult years. It may end up that I publish this series in a slightly weird order, depending on what I'm feeling inspiration for, but I'm going to try to stick to being chronological. We shall see. Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Working on chapter 2 of this fic, along with some other fics in this series. Not sure when they will be out, as I have a million other WIPS I'm working on, but hoping to have them out soon. Thank you so much for reading, for your likes and reblogs! Hope you are all doing well! Lots of love <3

[xxx-sir-pentious-xxx]

Redeemed Pentious is a secretly soft yandere to Y/N and Lute finds out about it so she tries to kill Y/N but before she does anything, Pentious kills her but no one ever finds out who killed her (Lute)

You were just walking with your boyfriend Pentious to a diner in heaven. You giggled as he played with your hair and found it so cute when he gave you his coat.

You didnt know he gave you his coat purely to hide your body a bit so no one would look at you. He wanted to be the only one to see your pretty body. He was so warm and sweet, always blushing and looking at you, holding your hand.

The only time you saw him not so sweet previously was when you pointed out your ex. He had this violent gaze to them like he wanted to fight.

Then today Pentious gave a new expression that only read as lovingly sinister. It would be cute if he wasnt towering over you. He was just so visibly capable of eating you alive if he wanted. He never would though and that was just the paranoia talking. Lately you felt you were being stalked, you noticed weird scratches on your homes window sill planters and the side of the house near higher up windows about 10 feet up.

Pentious was so sweet and would help cover the scuffs up so you knew it couldnt be he doing it.

He dropped you off at home after the lovely meal, but as you shut your door you could have sworn you saw a darkness shroud his face as the door cut off your full look of him.

He just looked like a masked dropped, maybe he was just disappointed that you didnt let him in yet. It took a lot of trust.

The next day you heard about a murder, Lute was found ripped apart in the promenade with no witnesses. Blood seeping down her face with her head sitting on the ground perfectly cut free. It was like a tiger got to her body but her head was surgical.

Of course everyone blamed Pentious but you vouched for him and he looked horrified, he fainted even making you have to catch him.

No one looked into it further as there were no good answers or evidence, and they simply had a hard time believing Pentious could really do it.

You were so anxious about this event though that you let Pentious move in so he could make you feel safe with his large cuddly hold. You loved your big sweet gentle giant.

[o-craven-canto]

Extracts from Alan Weisman, The World Without Us, 2007. The book considers the material aspects of human civilization and how long they would last, unattended. If humans were to vanish from Earth, if all maintainance and repairing work ceased, what would happen to what we leave behind?

(The book went on to inspire two speculative documentaries, Life After People by History Channel and Aftermath: Population Zero by National Geographic, emphasizing different aspects of it. They were neat.)

Chapter 2: Unbuilding Our Home

No matter how hermetically you’ve sealed your temperature-tuned interior from the weather, invisible spores penetrate anyway, exploding in sudden outbursts of mold—awful when you see it, worse when you don’t, because it’s hidden behind a painted wall, munching paper sandwiches of gypsum board, rotting studs and floor joists. Or you’ve been colonized by termites, carpenter ants, roaches, hornets, even small mammals.

Most of all, though, you are beset by what in other contexts is the veritable stuff of life: water... moisture enters around the nails. Soon they’re rusting, and their grip begins to loosen... As gravity increases tension on the trusses, the ¼-inch pins securing their now-rusting connector plates pull free from the wet wood, which now sports a fuzzy coating of greenish mold... When the heat went off, pipes burst if you lived where it freezes, and rain is blowing in where windows have cracked from bird collisions and the stress of sagging walls. Even where the glass is still intact, rain and snow mysteriously, inexorably work their way under sills. As the wood continues to rot, trusses start to collapse against each other. Eventually the walls lean to one side, and finally the roof falls in...

While all that disaster was unfolding, squirrels, raccoons, and lizards have been inside, chewing nest holes in the drywall, even as woodpeckers rammed their way through from the other direction... Fallen vinyl siding, whose color began to fade early, is now brittle and cracking as its plasticizers degenerate. The aluminum is in better shape, but salts in water pooling on its surface slowly eat little pits that leave a grainy white coating... Unprotected thin sheet steel disintegrates in a few years. Long before that, the water-soluble gypsum in the sheetrock has washed back into the earth. That leaves the chimney, where all the trouble began. After a century, it’s still standing, but its bricks have begun to drop and break as, little by little, its lime mortar, exposed to temperature swings, crumbles and powders.

If you owned a swimming pool, it’s now a planter box... If the house’s foundation involved a basement, it too is filling with soil and plant life. Brambles and wild grapevines are snaking around steel gas pipes, which will rust away before another century goes by. White plastic PVC plumbing has yellowed and thinned on the side exposed to the light, where its chloride is weathering to hydrochloric acid, dissolving itself and its polyvinyl partners. Only the bathroom tile, the chemical properties of its fired ceramic not unlike those of fossils, is relatively unchanged, although it now lies in a pile mixed with leaf litter.

After 500 years, what is left depends on where in the world you lived. If the climate was temperate, a forest stands in place of a suburb; minus a few hills, it’s begun to resemble what it was before developers, or the farmers they expropriated, first saw it. Amid the trees, half-concealed by a spreading understory, lie aluminum dishwasher parts and stainless steel cookware, their plastic handles splitting but still solid... The chromium alloys that give stainless steel its resilience... will probably continue to do so for millennia, especially if the pots, pans, and carbon-tempered cutlery are buried out of the reach of atmospheric oxygen. One hundred thousand years hence, the intellectual development of whatever creature digs them up might be kicked abruptly to a higher evolutionary plane by the discovery of ready-made tools...

If you were a desert dweller, the plastic components of modern life flake and peel away faster, as polymer chains crack under an ultraviolet barrage of daily sunshine. With less moisture, wood lasts longer there, though any metal in contact with salty desert soils will corrode more quickly. Still, from Roman ruins we can guess that thick cast iron will be around well into the future’s archaeological record, so the odd prospect of fire hydrants sprouting amidst cacti may someday be among the few clues that humanity was here...

In a warmer world... drier, hotter desert climates will be complemented by wetter, stormier mountain weather systems that will send floods roaring downstream, overwhelming dams, spreading over their former alluvial plains, and entombing whatever was built there in annual layers of silt. Within them, fire hydrants, truck tires, shattered plate glass, condominia, and office buildings may remain indefinitely, but as far from sight as the Carboniferous Formation once was.

No memorial will mark their burial, though the roots of cottonwoods, willows, and palms may occasionally make note of their presence. Only eons later, when old mountains have worn away and new ones risen, will young streams cutting fresh canyons through sediments reveal what once, briefly, went on here.

***

Chapter 3: The City Without Us

Under New York, groundwater is always rising… Whenever it rains hard, sewers clog with storm debris… With subway pumps stilled… water would start sluicing away soil under the pavement. Before long, streets start to crater. With no one unclogging sewers, some new watercourses form on the surface… Within 20 years, the water-soaked steel columns that support the street above the East Side’s 4, 5, and 6 trains corrode and buckle. As Lexington Avenue caves in, it becomes a river.

Whenever it is, the repeated freezing and thawing make asphalt and cement split. When snow thaws, water seeps into these fresh cracks. When it freezes, the water expands, and cracks widen… As pavement separates, weeds like mustard, shamrock, and goosegrass blow in from Central Park and work their way down the new cracks, which widen further… The weeds are followed by the city’s most prolific exotic species, the Chinese ailanthus tree… As soil long trapped beneath pavement gets exposed to sun and rain, other species jump in, and soon leaf litter adds to the rising piles of debris clogging the sewer grates.

The early pioneer plants won’t even have to wait for the pavement to fall apart. Starting from the mulch collecting in gutters, a layer of soil will start forming atop New York’s sterile hard shell, and seedlings will sprout…

In the first few years with no heat, pipes burst all over town, the freeze-thaw cycle moves indoors, and things start to seriously deteriorate. Buildings groan as their innards expand and contract; joints between walls and rooflines separate. Where they do, rain leaks in, bolts rust, and facing pops off, exposing insulation. If the city hasn’t burned yet, it will now… with no firemen to answer the call, a dry lightning strike that ignites a decade of dead branches and leaves piling up in Central Park will spread flames through the streets. Within two decades, lightning rods have begun to rust and snap, and roof fires leap among buildings, entering paneled offices filled with paper fuel. Gas lines ignite with a rush of flames that blows out windows. Rain and snow blow in, and soon even poured concrete floors are freezing, thawing, and starting to buckle. Burnt insulation and charred wood add nutrients to Manhattan’s growing soil cap. Native Virginia creeper and poison ivy claw at walls covered with lichens, which thrive in the absence of air pollution. Red-tailed hawks and peregrine falcons nest in increasingly skeletal high-rise structures.

Within two centuries… colonizing trees will have substantially replaced pioneer weeds. Gutters buried under tons of leaf litter provide new, fertile ground for native oaks and maples from city parks. Arriving black locust and autumn olive shrubs fix nitrogen, allowing sunflowers, bluestem, and white snakeroot to move in along with apple trees, their seeds expelled by proliferating birds… as buildings tumble and smash into each other, and lime from crushed concrete raises soil pH, inviting in trees, such as buckthorn and birch, that need less-acidic environments…

In a future that portends stronger and more-frequent hurricanes striking North America’s Atlantic coast, ferocious winds will pummel tall, unsteady structures. Some will topple, knocking down others. Like a gap in the forest when a giant tree falls, new growth will rush in. Gradually, the asphalt jungle will give way to a real one.

***

Chapter 7: What Falls Apart

(context: this chapter describes Varosha, a city in Cyprus evacuated in 1974 after the Turkish invasion, and left abandoned until 2019)

[Two years after abandonment] Asphalt and pavement had cracked… Australian wattles, a fast-growing acacia species used by hotels for landscaping, were popping out midstreet, some nearly three feet high. Creepers from ornamental succulents snaked out of hotel gardens, crossing roads and climbing tree trunks… Concussions from Turkish air force bombs, Cavinder saw, had exploded plate-glass store windows. Boutique mannequins were half-clothed, their imported fabrics flapping in tattered strips…

Pigeon droppings coated everything. Carob rats nested in hotel rooms, living off Yaffa oranges and lemons from former citrus groves… The bell towers of Greek churches were spattered with the blood and feces of hanging bats.

Sheets of sand blew across avenues and covered floors… Now, no bands, just the incessant kneading of the seathat no longer soothed. The wind sighing through open windows became a whine. The cooing of pigeons grew deafening.

Varosha, merely 60 miles from Syria and Lebanon, is too balmy for a freeze-thaw cycle, but its pavement was tossed asunder anyway. The wrecking crews weren’t just trees, Münir marveled, but also flowers. Tiny seeds of wild Cyprus cyclamen had wedged into cracks, germinated, and heaved aside entire slabs of cement…

Two more decades passed… Its encircling fence and barbed wire are now uniformly rusted, but there is nothing left to protect but ghosts. An occasional Coca Cola sign and broadsides posting nightclubs’ cover charges hang on doorways… Fallen limestone facing lies in pieces. Hunks of wall have dropped from buildings to reveal empty rooms… brick-shaped gaps show where mortar has already dissolved. Other than the back-and-forth of pigeons, all that moves is the creaky rotor of one last functioning windmill.

In the meantime, nature continues its reclamation project. Feral geraniums and philodendrons emerge from missing roofs and pour down exterior walls. Flame trees, chinaberries, and thickets of hibiscus, oleander, and passion lilac sprout from nooks where indoors and outdoors now blend. Houses disappear under magenta mounds of bougainvillaea. Lizards and whip snakes skitter through stands of wild asparagus, prickly pear, and six-foot grasses. A spreading ground cover of lemon grass sweetens the air. At night, the darkened beachfront, free of moonlight bathers, crawls with nesting loggerhead and green sea turtles.

***

Chapter 10: The Petro Patch

If, in the immediate aftermath of Homo sapiens petrolerus, the tanks and towers of the Texas petrochemical patch all detonated together in one spectacular roar, after the oily smoke cleared, there would remain melted roads, twisted pipe, crumpled sheathing, and crumbled concrete. White-hot incandescence would have jump-started the corrosion of scrap metals in the salt air, and the polymer chains in hydrocarbon residues would likewise have cracked into smaller, more digestible lengths, hastening biodegradation. Despite the expelled toxins, the soils would also be enriched with burnt carbon, and after a year of rains switchgrass would be growing. A few hardy wildflowers would appear. Gradually, life would resume.

Or, if the faith of Valero Energy’s Fred Newhouse in system safeguards proves warranted—or if the departing oilmen’s last loyal act is to depressurize towers and bank the fires—the disappearance of Texas’s world champion petroleum infrastructure will proceed more slowly. During the first few years, the paint that slows corrosion will go. Over the next two decades, all the storage tanks will exceed their life spans. Soil moisture, rain, salt, and Texas wind will loosen their grip until they leak. Any heavy crude will have hardened by then; weather will crack it, and bugs will eventually eat it.

What liquid fuels that haven’t already evaporated will soak into the ground. When they hit the water table, they’ll float on top because oil is lighter than water. Microbes will find them, realize that they were once only plant life, too, and gradually adapt to eat them. Armadillos will return to burrow in the cleansed soil, among the rotting remains of buried pipe.

Unattended oil drums, pumps, pipes, towers, valves, and bolts will deteriorate at the weakest points, their joints… Until they go, collapsing the metal walls, pigeons that already love to nest atop refinery towers will speed the corruption of carbon steel with their guano, and rattlesnakes will nest in the vacant structures below. As beavers dam the streams that trickle into Galveston Bay, some areas will flood. Houston is generally too warm for a freeze-thaw cycle, but its deltaic clay soils undergo formidable swell-shrink bouts as rains come and go. With no more foundation repairmen to shore up the cracks, in less than a century downtown buildings will start leaning.

… When oil, gas, or groundwater is pumped from beneath the surface, land settles into the space it occupied… Lower the land, raise the seas, add hurricanes far stronger than midsize, Category 3 Alicia, and even before its dams go, the Brazos gets to do again what it did for 80,000 years: like its sister to the east, the Mississippi, it will flood its entire delta… flare towers, catalytic crackers, and fractionating columns, like downtown Houston buildings, will poke out of brackish floodwaters, their foundations rotting while they wait for the waters to recede.

… Below the surface, the oxidizing metal parts of chemical alley will provide a place for Galveston oysters to attach. Silt and oyster shells will slowly bury them, and will then be buried themselves. Within a few million years, enough layers will amass to compress shells into limestone, which will bear an odd, intermittent rusty streak flecked with sparkling traces of nickel, molybdenum, niobium, and chromium. Millions of years after that, someone or something might have the knowledge and tools to recognize the signal of stainless steel. Nothing, however, will remain to suggest that its original form once stood tall over a place called Texas, and breathed fire into the sky.

I cannot really describe the feeling I get from reading these portions in particular, only that it’s the strongest I ever got from any book. It’s certainly not one of joy: I don’t want humans to disappear -- in fact, there are a lot of humans among my family and friends -- and I don’t want human civilization to vanish, after the unspeakable effort it took to put together, with all the promise that, despite everything, it shows. It’s not one of sadness or fear, either. I suppose it’s just one of awe, of terrible grandeur, similar in kind to what I feel when considering the alien horror and beauty of evolved life, its sheer multi-layered complexity, or the unthinkable vastness of geological time.

[theghostlyhero]

Drabble #1: Sprouting

It had only been three days since Morgan shoved dirt in a plastic pot and trapped seeds inside. Seeds provided by his son Ethan, part of those new biodegradable greeting cards that made rounds these days. A splash of bottled water, and the windowsill of the bedroom he shared with Dylan at Paragon was all he provided.

He had zero hope. Yet, he woke up that morning and saw some green poking up. The sight was foreign to him.

A strange spark and glow flickered inside Morgan's chest. Eyes wide with dumbfounded shock. Gathered on his knees, sight fixed, marveling at the simple little shoot.

The soil was not barren of life, something had appeared. Healthy and seemingly happy. Morgan hadn't been able to keep a plant since elementary school days, where the teacher would show young children the simple science of nurturing plants. A straightforward process, yet the rest of Morgan's life was spent picking out a plant at the grocery store with high-hopes, only for it to turn brown and dry within a week.

As if his touch was the opposite of nurturing. Deep down or perhaps obviously. The universe had been trying to give him a sign.

Morgan stopped buying plants. Stopped looking to be enticed by the many filling convenience store corners. What was the point? He would just hurt them.

His dark gaze lifted to peek through the window, above the shoot. It seemed that destiny had roomed him just in the right place for the sun to reach the plant, but not zap it of life. This feeling of small accomplishment made the man smile. He stood up and found another abandoned water bottle, and gave the planter another splash.

That night, when Morgan had returned from a gathering with his fellow supers, he went about his usual routine. Changing for bed, minding his hygiene, and putting the classic Scooby Doo Where Are You? series on TV.

Amid his teeth brushing and through flickering blue light, Morgan noticed the small planter was no longer on the sill. Something dark strewn the floor. He bent down to find the planter there, on its side, and a small mound of dirt tipped out across the carpet.

In that moment, the sensation of sunlight, glee and hope was replaced with a darkening dread.

He didn't move at first. Allowing the feeling of being watched to linger and fall across his broad shoulders. Once his courage crept back, he used both hands to pull the potted plant together and return it to its rightful home before the window. Eventually, he went to bed.

The next day, Morgan journeyed to town and the local hardware store. He asked for someone to help him pick out planters and seeds. Just enough to begin a humble set for the window sill. To start his new hobby.

Tended and aligned, the plants received the same magic touch; a splash from a crinkly water bottle in the morning. The first already stages ahead, but no longer standing alone.

[tyler-lawson]

Hello, Dispatch. I’m sorry. You want to know what?!

"Hello, Campus Public Safety, this is Dan, how can I help you?" The department receptionist answered the phone. He listened intently for a few minutes, his face growing more and more confused and concerned. "Why would that not be legal?" He asked, scrunching his face. "Oh, uh, let me see if one of the officers can help with that." He put the call on hold, and looked up to me in shock.

"Officer Lawson, I have a student on the phone asking if it would be legal for them to grow poppies in his dorm room. He says he is asking because he knows poppies can be harvested and brewed into a narcotic tea, and just wanted to clarify that is not what he wants to do, but wants to know if there are any issues he could run into?"

I slump into my desk again. For being college students, these kids are remarkably dumb, and apparently think I am dumber still. "Get a name and room number and tell them I will call them back."

"Okay. ... Hello sir, can I get a name and room number, the officers are all busy, but I will have one call you back as soon as they have a moment. Uh huh. Okay. Got it. Thanks. Yes, you have a nice day too." Dan hung up the phone and looked at me with a face of utter confusion. "Here is his info." He said, handing over a note. "What the hell? Is this the kind of stuff I have to look forward to this year?"

"Every year. It is never boring. You have to admire the creativity, though maybe not the common sense. Alright, well, I guess I am off to give this kid a house call. So much for a slow office day." I gripe, standing up and heading collecting my gear.

It was a short walk across campus to the dorm room. I knocked on the door with my patented Cop Knock, and heard scrambling inside for a bit before the door was pulled open. Standing in front of me was a thin man wearing a black hoody and faded blue skinny jeans, with a drop crotch. His pants were sagging down enough that his vibrant blue and yellow splotched boxer briefs were visible beneath the hem of his hoody. His brilliant orange shoes helped to draw attention away from his cupped and nearly exposed package.

"Hello, I am Officer Lawson with Campus Safety. I was told you had some questions about some room accessories you were looking at?"

"Oh, yeah. I thought you were just going to call."

"Yeah, I was in the area when Dan called, and figured this would be an easier option. So, want to explain to me what is up?" I asked innocently. "Mind if I step in and we take a seat?"

We take a seat, I sit on a chair and he perches himself on the side of the bed. His sag becomes more clear as he sits, I can tell that his pants are fully beneath his butt, and his boxer briefs are clearly visible over his ass as he sits with just his butt on the bed.

"Uh yeah. Sure. So, my buddies and I are, uh, getting into horticulture, and wanted to try gardening this year. I heard poppies are a, uh, good starting plant. So, I, uh, we, uh, were just like, hoping to do a small planter, over there, on the window sill." His focus on irrelevant details highlighting this lie, his stuttering and stammering emphasizing his discomfort.

"And you called the police just to check if it was okay to put a planter in the window?", I ask, unamused, sitting and scanning the room. The room is dissheveled and chaotic, the bed, desk, and dresser covered in discarded clothes, papers spread on the desk and piled in place. I can smell the clear scent of marijuana, and notice a bong barely hidden under jeans and several pairs of boxers.

"Yeah, uh, so, I, uh, one of the guys, uh, they like, they heard that like, poppies could, you know, if cooked right or whatever, could make like a light version of heroin or something, if, you, I don't know, put it in a tea or something. And, look, I don't want to get arrested for a hobby, right? So, like, I just want to make sure that you guys are not going to like slap me in cuffs for having a planter in the window or whatever." He continues stammering. "So, like, I figured I would just, like, call and check."

"Sure, sure. So, listen. No, possession of a poppy plant is not a crime, you can grow it and stick it in a planter in your room."

He breathes in finally, relief spreading across his face. "Oh, cool. Great. Well, thanks for stopping by." He says, standing and trying to usher me out the door. His pants sink a bit as he does, and he reaches down to catch them.

"No, the plant is not illegal. Having the intent to manufacture narcotics with it, that part is illegal." He stops in his tracks, his face flushing. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly unable to form words. He finally swallows and is able to croak out a few words.

"No, *gulp*, no. I don't want to manufacture narcotics. I am just trying to learn how to grow my own plants."

"Dude." I say flatly. "You are not fooling anyone. You are a druggy. This room reeks of weed." I lift up the underwear off the bong, "You sat me right next to your bong. I bet if I searched this room I could find weed, mushrooms, maybe some acid."

"No, please. Look, I am sorry. It was stupid. But I really don't want to do aything other than."

"Shut up. Between your call with Dan, which, like all calls to the station are recorded, by the way, and the conversation we had here, I have more than enough to charge you with possession with intent to manufacture."

"What?! But, I don't even have..." He stammers, trying to summon words, but none come. He starts shaking nervously, hugging his arms around his chest. That pulls his hoody up from his waist, fully showing off his abstract-art-covered package trapped above his jeans waist.

"Face the wall, put your hands behind your back." I instruct, kicking clothes and snacks out of the way on the ground to clear a path for him. I point to the wall and guide him just barely touching his elbow.

He steps up against the wall, and puts his hands down behind his back, wrists crossed. He rests his forehead on the wall, then bangs it softly against the wall several times. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." He repeats.

I pull out a pair handcuffs, and slip them quickly over his waiting wrists, double-locking them with the key.

"Alright. You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?" I ask, starting to frisk him.

I feel over his hoody, down his arms and along his chest and stomach. I tuck my hands in under his hoody, feeling his thin shirt against this skin. He shakes as I drag my hands across his body. Down over his boxer briefs and then down into his pockets. I pull out two small baggies of marijuana, and drop them on the desk.

"Anything else you have on you? Now would be the best time for me to know." I ask a tinge of gloating in my voice.

"No." He breathed, pressing his body against the wall and hiding his face. I finish the frisk, and open the door. I have him step outside and put him up against the wall, standing in the hallway. His sagging jeans fall further as he shuffles, and his vibrant-painted butt of blue, white, and yellow sticks out for any passerby's to see. Several students were walking or standing in the hall and turned to watch the cuffed boy being manhandled by a cop.

I step back in the room, and start collecting and bagging or tagging everything that I found. The drugs get individual bags, the bong got a tag taped to it. I found a bag of poppy seeds that were bagged and labeled.

My work as interrupted as I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. I stepped out and saw the kid running down the hallways, slightly tripping as his pants fell lower, struggling to keep his balance with his hands cuffed behind him. He pushed past several students who had their phones out. I took off down the hallway behind him. He tripped and stumbled as he reached the door at the end of the hallway, and started trying to fumble with the handle, twisting his cuffed hands around to the side of his body to try and work it.

I caught up to him still fumbling with the door. I grabbed his elbows and straightened him out, slamming his chest against the door. "Well, that is not going to make anything easier for you." I scolded, holding him against the door and kicking his feet apart with mine. I pull out a pair of leg irons from a pocket in my BDUs, and bend down, locking them around his ankles, over top of the legs of his faded, torn skinny jeans, above his stark orange shoes. He probably wished he did not have such loud shoes to draw attention to his new restraints.

I walked him back to his room, him now tripping and stumbling as the chain of the ankle cuffs and his own pants conspired together to make movement a challenge. I used another pair of cuffs to lock his wrists to the nob of his door, forcing him to now stand outside in the hallway facing out. His boxer briefs the only cover for his package as students walked past to get to class, snapping pictures and recording video.

I got the students who had footage of him running from the room in cuffs to provide me a copy of that, and got their names in case the prosecutors needed additional information from them. I proceeded to finish my search in his room as he stood locked to the door like a living statute, his hands cuffed away preventing him from hiding his shame, unable to cover his junk or his face, and both clearly visible to all that passed by.

I eventually finished collecting everything, ultimately finding LSD, marijuana, poppy seeds, a bong, a pipe, and a vape. Everything was bagged and tagged, but I could not take it with me if I also was going to escort my prisoner. So, I closed and locked the door, sealing it with tamper-evident tape before uncuffing him from it.

We walked, well, I walked, he shuffled and stumbled like a penguin as he tried to learn to walk with chains on his ankles. His inability to grab and pull up his pants another new challenge for him, and one he was not winning.

I brought him into the station, and dumped him cuffed and shackled in a holding cell for booking. Before did that, I had to share around the video of him "running" cuffed and losing his pants.

(Inspired by @saggysammy)