#cradle mountain-lake | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐈𝐈𝐈.]

summary: “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have.”

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 2.4k+

warnings: angsty, Dream is still Dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: you guys remain superior. thank you so much for your love and comments, that inspo goes straight to the vein. enjoy part 3!!!

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART THREE: YEAR 304

Eternity comes with a bitter aftertaste.

Or, rather, your particular brand of it does. Over three hundred years would wear on anyone. Being cursed to wander for eternity is another matter altogether. It’s not the first time things have gone wrong, of course. Your life since the curse has been a series of trials and errors, dos and redos. The Dreaming became an escape because it’s the first and only place you’ve found that has given you rest. Provided the slightest reprieve from running, hiding, and being spat on.

Forever sounds like a wonderful deal until you start breaking it apart. Everyone else dying, bringing misfortune on those you care about, being sick or hurt but never succumbing to these afflictions. Being thrown from one edge of this universe to another with nothing in your pocket. No name, no safe place to sleep, no currency to get by, no friendly face or a helping hand.

Eternity is a lonely and cold affair. Intercut only with nuggets of happiness that come with flapping butterfly wings found in Fiddler's Green. In the trails, rivers, lakes and mountains dotted across the Dreaming, stretching for the only eternity you care to taste. It's found in Lucienne's rustling books and how light bloats and crawls across the marble floor in Dream's throne room.

You’ve gotten stuck in the past. Caught on snags and tears in the world—the type that devours humans and never returns them. There’s a reason so many vanish seemingly without a trace, lost forever. There is no escaping time, though. When caught, every day stretches for eternity that was promised to you, that was cursed upon you. On those days, even that hardened hope, the resilience you’ve honed with decades, becomes no more than brittle bones and dust.

You’ve been stuck in the past, but never for five years.

And never in Hell.

Lucienne’s face makes you want to cry. She sits with a book in her lap, her head lowered, her glasses slanted on her nose. When she’s focused, like now, she doesn’t notice them slip down the bridge or how her nose curls as she tries to nudge them back up. She hasn’t changed one bit. She’s still the same Lucienne you’ve spent countless nights and days shadowing in the library, helping her catalogue books while chatting about anything and everything. Seeing her here, now, replacing the fire, smoke and torrid ash, stinging sulfur still coating your throat and lungs, is a miracle—a blessing.

The room you’re in is sprawling, bright, and peaceful. Pale stone and lacquered wood everywhere your gaze travels. A bed that’s a cloud beneath your worn body, big enough for three; a dresser and vanity; a small couch and some chairs. For company, no doubt, though you can’t imagine anyone caring enough to visit.

“Wanderer.”

Lucienne’s call resonates through the room, stark with relief and all at once, your defences crumble. Your eyes sting, and you reach for her hand blindly, cradling it in your own. Your hands are shaking, comes the distant realisation, but you can’t find it in yourself to care or to let go. The weight from the last five years squeezes you, wriggling free every suppressed pain and laying it bare.

“What happened?” Lucienne asks, leaning closer, her word hushed and troubled. “What befell you out there?”

When you don’t respond, trembling so badly your jaw sits rigidly beneath your skin, she adds a firm, “You are safe now. Lord Morpheus would never permit anyone under his protection to be harmed.”

She’s soothing in her own way, a presence so dearly missed, but you only grip her hand tighter in yours. All your remaining strength has been funnelled into this singular task. Few stray tears drip from the corner of your eye and down the bridge of your nose, hitting the covers beneath.

Lucienne hesitates, her mouth parted as if to insist further, but she stops herself. Whatever horrors she glimpses on your face must be severe enough that she understands how fragile you are. How delicate your state is—and how easy it would be to shatter it completely.

“It’s been five years,” she states, but not in accusation, a mere reflection. “Let me catch you up on all you’ve missed…”

“Admit it, you’ve missed me,” Corinthian drawls, smooth and self-assured, nothing in his countenance evincing diffidence. “I’m the only one in this realm you can have fun with.”

“Someone has a high opinion of himself.”

You walk side by side, your arms linked at the elbows. Corinthian enjoys a spectacle and all the uneasy, leery stares that follow you two. It’s the first time you’ve gathered the strength to leave your room in three days. You’ve never had a room in the Dreaming until now. All this time, flower fields and private nooks have been your bedrooms. It’s a significant improvement to most places you’ve frequented over the decades and far safer even with nightmares roaming freely about.

You didn’t question it initially, but it has since become clear that being granted a room here, in the castle, is a big deal.

Maybe it’s lingering remorse. Dream didn’t notice your absence. What are five years for someone like him? And if he did notice, he certainly didn’t do anything about it, caught up in his duties as he is. Corinthian was all too happy to inform you of this. But you hadn’t expected Dream to go ripping through realms in search of you, certainly not after how you two parted ways last time, but it had…

It stings just a little to be reminded how inconsequential you are to him or his kingdom, but it also serves as a great reminder.

You have no home. The Dreaming is a pit stop, no more.

“Somebody has to.”

Corinthian’s words jerk you from your thoughts, your head lifting. “Corinthian—”

“Don’t bother.” He pats your hand with guileful ease, all smiles and teeth and shadows. “I know what you’re going to say. I’m simply not interested in hearing it.”

Sun glows and weaves through his golden hair, which, perhaps, is what makes him such an effective nightmare. He’s nothing like one until he is.

“Dream is not shunning you,” you defend, ignoring how his stride has become more rigid. “Everyone abides by the same rules.”

Corinthian tuts, turning his head from side to side as if he can physically shake your words off. “Now you sound just like him.” He sounds every bit disappointed, clicking his tongue. “Rules, rules, rules. You wander all you please. No one takes issue with that.”

Hellfire, ash, burning and peeling, screams and muffled moans of the damned—

“It’s not… it’s not that simple.” Words tumble from your mouth in a rush, strained and choked, and it catches him off-guard, however briefly. You can tell by the simple way Corinthian turns entirely in your direction; something he does for sparse few because he simply doesn’t care to hear anyone else. “I don’t go frolicking through flower fields, Corinthian. I’m cursed. It hurts. Every time. I’ve gotten better, but…”

The nightmare leans closer, his voice low against the shell of your ear, “Then you, better than most, should understand.”

The need to escape, to be free, to be more than your preordained purpose.

Sighing, you slow to a stop, unliking your arms to lean your palm onto the cool stone bridge instead. Jaggy stone cuts into your sensitive skin while you twist your palm, sparking immediate, tingling friction in the motion’s wake. Memories from Hell come crawling back, dark and insidious, unending, and you stop at once, swallowing.

“I do. I really do,” you stress, clearing your throat. Forcing a smile, you nudge Corinthian’s side with your elbow when you spot the downwards slant his mouth rests in. “And you’re right. I have missed you.”

His blonde head slants backwards, bright sun reflecting in his darkened glasses. A lazy smile curls across his mouth, canines on casual display. “Sweet talking me, huh?” His brows creep upwards, playful. “It might work.”

Turning, you lean into the bridge, halfway between the castle and beyond it, the Dreaming. In all its breathless, beguiling glory. You seek the sun, five years yearning for it sitting heavy in your chest. Warming under its rays, you let a slight, humorous smile creep across your face.

“Careful. I might start to think the big, bad nightmare actually likes little old me.”

Corinthian follows your example, leaning back against the bridge, his arms crossing over his chest. “You like nightmares too much.” He inclines closer, nudging your side this time, his tone honeyed and arch, “Haven’t you heard? We’re devious.”

It wasn’t a lie. You have missed him. There’s an odd, often biting, yet near amiable dynamic between you. He entertains you because he’s no doubt bored and prickly about the invisible leash he believes Dream is collaring him with. You’re the closest he can come to humanity without outright breaking rules. Such an act would no doubt evoke Dream’s wrath unlike anything else. You hope you never see the day.

Corinthian indulges in his digs and bites, snide or otherwise, but in the moments in between, like now, it’s nice. A friendship that’s entirely one-sided, no doubt—you’re not as naive as he might believe you to be—but it’s still a bond you can rely on. Others don’t like him and make no secret of hiding it. You’re perhaps the only one who willingly seeks him out. Two misfits.

Or perhaps, even to someone as dark and twisted as him, it means something to open his eyes for the first time and not have the one gazing back flinch away from him. Perhaps, sometimes, even a monster dreams of being something other than a monster.

You shrug, dismissive. “Eh, like is a strong word—”

Black catches your eye. You perk up immediately, pushing away from the bridge.

“Dream!”

The Dream King stands tall and dreary on the opposite side of the bridge, jaw set and features stony. He’s utterly out of place in an otherwise sunlit and syrupy vista. You raise your hand in a cheery wave.

“Aw, such a friendly greeting for someone who didn’t miss you much.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing Corinthian again.

But the nightmare keeps his attention focused on the Dream Lord; a faint, sneering smile perfectly in place.

“Ooh, look at that frown.” He couldn’t sound more quietly pleased if he tried. Corinthian straightens, smoothing invisible creases in his pale clothes. He taps your nose with a charming, cutting grin as he veers to go, “I’ll see you around, Wanderer.”

“Hate you,” you call sweetly after him.

He doesn’t turn, raising his hand to wriggle his fingers in the air, the amused smirk cutting into his cheeks still visible at this angle.

You approach Dream unhurriedly, basking in the fresh air, unsure how to read him, if one even could. He’s unequivocally closed off, and you hoard those sporadic softenings you do glimpse with greedy delight.

“You’re back.”

His guarded gaze flicks behind you, towards the castle, where Corinthian must have long since disappeared inside. “You have a strange affinity with my nightmares.”

It’s an anomalous observation coming from him but rather pointed. Jessamy caws from a nearby tree in a vocal agreement. Your lips pursue, humming under your breath as you halt several paces away from him. Crossing your arms at the wrists, you let them hang loosely over the bridge.

“You taught me they have a purpose. I like seeing beyond it.”

You examine the crystal clear water. Dream’s stare burns into one side of your head. It’s peaceful. Quiet. His presence alone relaxes some clenched nerve still throbbing inside you.

“Thank you, by the way,” you add quietly. “For the room.”

Not many stay at the castle, and fewer still can say they have a room granted solely for them. It’s a precious privilege, and even if it comes with an expiry date, it’s not one you plan to waste.

“You are my guest, and you were injured,” Dream replies. Deep, rumbling words, practical words—something in your chest deflates with them. “It would have been bad manners to leave you outside.”

Right, of course. Ever the pragmatist.

Scrubbing any emotion from your face, you bend over the bridge, letting your chin dig into your folded wrists as you observe the water below. Your distorted reflection splits and bobs, rippling. Fitting, oddly painful.

“I did not realise it… hurts.”

It takes a long moment to understand his meaning, to stop yourself from deciphering why he sounds so grave about it.

“Hm? Oh, you heard that, huh?” You give him a non-committal shrug, retreating inwards, burying deep. “It’s… uh, it’s nothing. The first few times were pretty terrible, I’ll admit, but after that, well. Practice.”

He doesn’t accept your flimsy attempt at nonchalance. Soft-spoken, but a tendril of power vibrates through his voice, “Where were you, Wanderer?”

Your throat parched, your skin crawling, you whisper a splintering, “Hell.”

For the first time in three hundred years, Dream goes as still as stone beside you. Birds, wind—even fluffy, large clouds floating leisurely through the hazy sky all settle into unnatural, bone-chilling stillness. You attempt to draw a steadying breath and find oxygen thin in your lungs.

“That cannot be.” Dream Lord’s voice is a silken caress, unshakable in his conviction. “No one leaves the netherworld unless it is through the Gate itself or by Lightbringer’s own will. Even the Endless require permission to enter.”

“I think… that was the point. To suffer. I couldn’t get out. I tried. I really did, Dream.” Your voice cracks. Forcing yourself to straighten, you inhale deeply through your nose, injecting levity in your voice, “Anyway, it took a while, but I managed. Sorry you had to see me like that.”

A beat. “You came here.”

“Not by choice,” you admit. Realising how that might sound, you hastily add, “I figured you’re still angry. But…”

Dream’s hand settles on the bridge, not too far from your own. “But?” he prompts.

Your smile might be small this time, but it’s genuine and fond. You slant your chin towards him, giving him your first toothy grin in five years. “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have. I wasn’t strong enough to choose, Dream. The Dreaming is safe. You’re safe.”

And you wonder what it means that the King of Dreams and Nightmare Realms has no response to that.

an: woweee, that's another wrap. thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts!!!

#the sandman #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #netflix sandman #sandman x reader #the corinthian #sandman lucienne #the sandman netflix #fic: today i bury you in me

2K notes · View notes

ohmenai · 2 months

Text

Icelandic Elastic Kinks

On the rugged shores of a lake, nestled between Icelandic mountains that scratch the skies, the cool morning air nips at everything exposed. But there is warmth in the unexpected; there stands Ragnar, an erotic vision from the exotic lands known for its chill. I him through a friend of a friend, a stripper in need of a portfolio to promote his captivating nights.

It was like discovering a raw diamond in a sea of glass. With his intense emerald gaze under the rugged contrast of a blue bandana and his hair dark as the midnight sun, he was eager to be immortalized. In the dim light of dawn, his silhouette is stark against the serene backdrop. Today, he's not just a local dancer, but a deity ensnared in my artistic vision, eager to expand his allure onto the pages of my OhMenFlex collection.

It didn't take much to persuade him to strike a pose for me; he had a kinky affinity for the tight squeeze of elastic bands. So when I promised him a collection of these tantalizing rings, he readily complied, and strutted into the lagoon's embrace standing knee-deep. This bands wrapped tightly around his biceps, wrists, and neck, enhancing the beat of life that pulsates from his veins—a beat that seems to echo through that quiet morning.

But the bands' true masterpiece lay between his legs, where they coiled around his erect cock and saggy balls, squeezing them into an outline of salacious desires. Those bands around his raging hard-on, one on his base, another cradling his shaven nuts, and one crowning his ultra-sensitive glans made him gasp, the sensations undeniable, his meat stick hanging plump, skimming the water's surface. A single dark mole was highlighted on his engorged morcilla, nestled between prominent veins, as if it were a mark left by the Gods to distinguish him from mere mortals, was so damn provocative.

With each click of my camera, Ragnar's arousal became more palpable. The elastic bands had turned his cock into a cylinder of yearning, the head of his member glossy and outrageously sensitive. His shaven balls, seemed to quiver with anticipation, as if aching for release from their blue constraints. The session—though set in nature's lap—became a theatre of carnality, each shot a confession of ardent obsessions whispered into the ear of the world.

Available now at Patreon and Fanvue

#aimen #aibara #aigay #gay #gaymen #aigayart #gay hot #gay male #gay men #gayhot #gay muscular #gay black #ai men #ai guys #ai gay art

63 notes · View notes

upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

Text

We Tried The World CH7. (The Last Chapter)

THE MASTERLIST CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA, CALIFORNIA. 2305 MILES FROM HOME.

Driving out of Nevada was much like driving into it, the roads long and seemingly unending as you drove through the desert. Mountains lined the horizon on either side of you, the rising sun making everything hazy, peach and tangerine skies, clouds that looked too big to be real.

Steve’s hands were busy, one on the wheel, the other on your bare leg, high up so his fingers could curl around the inside of your thigh, just below the ripped hem of your shorts. His sweater was too long on your arms and it smelled like the cheap detergent from the laundromat, Steve’s cologne and chlorine pools and sunscreen.

It had been easy to wake up that morning in Steve’s arms, the sun barely in the sky as the lights of the city lit up the inside of the motel room. You were both still naked, tangled in sheets and bathed in warm, summer air, your head resting on the boy’s chest as it fell and rose softly underneath you.

You knew he was awake when his large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers carding through your hair, gentle enough to make you sigh and stir. He’d grinned even though you couldn’t see, his heart going haywire at the feeling of you against him, the memories of what had happened only a few hours before, how he could smell your perfume, could remember the way you’d felt around him. It made his chest ache, how you were suddenly his last and first thought of the night and say, how he looked at the sun in the sky and thought of you, how lakes and valleys and entire mountain ranges reminded him of you.

So it felt normal, it felt right, when you shifted up his body, the slow drag of warm skin on warm skin. Steve sighed at the feel of your soft skin and he caught at your waist when you slid a leg over his hips, straddling him. Each pass of your lips over Steve’s was lazy and languid, a slow, soft sigh of a kiss that tasted like leftover mint toothpaste and sleep, and it didn’t take long for the boy to roll you both, keeping you in the cradle of his arms as he tucked you underneath him.

Steve was as warm as a summer's day, radiating heat from all the bare skin he had on show, his mouth hot and growing a little more insistent against yours. He groaned when you spread your legs for him, when he settled himself into the cradle of your thighs and kissed you a little deeper. Everything was soft noises, happy little huffs of breaths between kisses that grew more desperate as the sun started to rise and paint you both in a rose coloured light.

The city grew louder when Steve kissed his way down your body, hands dragging down your sternum, over the soft of your stomach until he was able to mouth at your hip bone and throw one of your legs over his shoulder. His hand pushed at your other thigh, spreading you for him and he looked up at your through messy hair when he pressed a kiss to the inside of your leg, right where the edge of your underwear would’ve normally sat - if you’d been wearing any.

A push of his lips, gentle, open mouth and wet. A wide, warm hand on your leg1, the rough scratch of his stubble on your skin. Big, brown eyes, earnest and full of so much fucking affection it made your chest ache.

“Can I?”

You nodded, swallowed hard, not trusting your own voice, ‘cause Steve’s was a sleepy, rough rasp, tinted with want and it made you lose your fucking mind.

“Yeah?” They boy coaxed, wanting to hear you, wanting to know that you wanted - no, needed - this too. “Can I taste you? Can I put my mouth on you, sweetheart?”

“Uhuh,” you gasped, keening high when Steve brought his mouth down onto you, licking a long, slow stripe through your folds. “Fu-uck, Steve--”

You both brought the morning in like, with Steve between your thighs, licking softly at you until you were crying, back arched, pulling at his hair until he groaned into you, finger shaped bruises painted lavender on your hips. You showered together afterwards, the lights off and the only sound the rush of the water against the tub, the soft gasps and choked off groans of the boy as you made him come with your hand and mouth, his hand pushed to your cheek in an awfully sweet gesture as you tried to take as much of him as you could down your throat.

You’d checked out with flushed cheeks and damp hair that was a little messy, Steve’s sweater covering the bruises he’d sucked and nipped over your chest, the hem of it skimming your shorts. Steve brought the car around as you walked out onto the street, the day barely starting, the clock on the car’s dash telling you it was barely seven o’clock.

You left the city behind with Steve, matching smiles on your faces and the car windows down, heading towards the ocean with a promise you suddenly felt like you could keep. It was easy, to let the boy touch you, to lean into it, to look at him like he looked at you, with a softness you weren’t used to.

Steve Harrington was summer and he had wildflowers growing between his ribs, but he looked at you like you were the sun.

You passed over the state line and into california with held breaths, the air stuck in your chest until it burned a little, tension and anticipation and excitement bleeding out of you until you were driving through the Mountain Pass with Steve’s hand still curled around your thigh and you realised that nothing and everything had changed.

You were closer to the ocean than you’d ever been, but Steve was still beside you.

The boy looked over at you, brown eyes honey in the new light, hair messy from where you’d run your hands through it. He smiled, soft and fond and awfully lovely, squeezing at the dough of your leg as the wind picked at both of your shirts, the flyaways around your forehead.

“Where to, babe?”

So you pulled out the map that was folded all wrong and creased, stabbing a finger at the Sequoia National Forest because Yosemite was too far out the way. You traced the lines of the mountains with your fingers instead, copied them down in your own sketchbook in black ink and drew Steve on the opposite page, an image from memory, the boy in bed with wild hair and closed eyes, lashes fanning shadows over his cheeks with his neck taut and his head thrown back.

Steve drove with the music quiet, murmured prettily to the songs you didn’t know, turned it up and yelled with you at the ones you recognised. The car kicked up desert dust and red sand as he drove, stopping at an old gas station with four pumps, parked up at the only one that worked as he grinned at you through the open window, winking when you flushed for him.

And when he went into the store to pay, coming back with iced tea and snacks tucked under his arm, you were perched on the hood of the car, shoes as dust covered as the BMW. You leaned back onto the warm metal, palms pressed flat as you grinned at him, hotter than the desert air, happier than you’d ever been in your life.

The boy threw the treats into the open window, keys rattling against glass bottles as he moved to stand between your legs, fingers pushing under his sweater to hook into your belt loops, pulling you flush. The kiss was joyous, electric, it tasted like young love, that first love, that real real stuff, playful and slow, like the world stopped spinning just so Steve could take his time to kiss you.

It took another car honking its horn at you both, a group of young guys hollering from their open windows at your public display for you to pull apart, cheeks flushed, Steve pink, hiding your laughter in his chest.

Steve grinned as he nodded towards the driver's seat, silently telling you to take a turn, hand slapping playfully against your ass when you let out a noise of excitement and skipped to the other side of the car.

It went like it always did, windows down, music playing, sunglasses covering your eyes but Steve’s hand cupped the back of your neck as you drove, fingers playing with the hair there.

You drove the both of you into the mountains, until the sand and dust turned to green and the trees grew taller, fuller. The roads started winding, taking you higher and away from the flat plains until the air smelled different, like creeks and pine and fresh, summer air.

It felt like a new adventure when you parked the car up in a gravel covered lot, smiling at the way the sun filtered through trees that were bigger than you’d ever seen before. Steve took your hand, led you through the paths and through the forest, walking past other tourists, people with kids and cameras and bikes and dogs.

And despite all that, there was a lovely kind of quiet, a special kind of peacefulness that you remembered feeling at the Grand Canyon, from when you passed over the long dam at The Ozarks, nothing but water to be seen. People spoke in hushed tones, birds tweeted and the sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves above, painting pretty patterns across your face and Steve’s.

The trees got bigger the further you walked, old leaves and dead pine needles underfoot, the forest creating its own burnt orange carpet for you to walk on. And then the plants grew a little wilder, flowers growing from between rocks, weeds that grew like ivy until it all led you to the sequoia trees. It felt like walking among giants, like everything wasn’t quite real anymore. You knew you should’ve felt small in comparison, you were. You were tiny, a dot, a speck, the smallest piece of stardust on the bottom of a forest floor.

But Steve took your hand and pulled you into his chest as you both craned your necks, heads tilted back to look up up up until the sun got too bright and the sky seemed like a new kind of blue. You didn’t feel as small anymore, not beside Steve, not even two thousand miles from home when the entire fucking world seemed like yours to take.

You felt bigger than the sun.

Steve squeezed your hand, grinned down at you before he rested his chin on the crown of your head and although he didn’t say anything, and neither did you, it seemed like he agreed.

You spent the afternoon like that, Steve leaning against a tree that was older than everyone he knew, you leaning against him, back to his chest as you brought up your knees and used them to lean your sketchbook on. The boy watched you draw, watched you put pencil to paper until the shapes and the lines made the trees, the plants on the side of the path, his face, one of his hands.

He’d press a kiss to your cheek when you least expected it, his chin hooked over your shoulder, a noisy smack of affection that made you huff out a laugh, nose scrunched, eyes crinkled. It was a different kind of happiness, one you weren’t sure you’d felt before but, oh my god, it felt like the warmest day, the brightest sunrise, the kind of night where all the stars came out. Steve hummed a song low in your ear, peeled a gas station clementine until his skin smelled like citrus and he had fed you your fill as you drew.

When the evening drew closer and the trees became harder to see, swallowed by the sky that turned to ink and indigo, Steve led you back to the car. It wasn’t too long a drive to town, a tiny place called Earlimart but Steve watched you yawn and took the keys from you with a look that told you not to argue. So you didn’t, leaning into him for a second as a thank you before you climbed into the car, tucking yourself into the passenger seat that you knew so well.

You both brought in the smells of the day, the forest, the moss, the oranges that you’d shared at lunch, citrus, sunscreen and pen ink on your skin. It was still warm enough to keep the windows down, the lukewarm air seeping into the open car as Steve took you back down the hills, leading down into the valley until the dark roads lit up with streetlights and trucks passed faster than they should’ve.

It was easy to find a motel on the outskirts of town, the vacancy sign a fluorescent fuchsia, the walls aquamarine and crumbling a little. It was even easier to ask for one room, one bed, crumpled dollar bills exchanged for a room key with a broken number card. The windows looked out onto the road, quiet in the evening hour, flat fields for as far as the eye could see across from it. You wondered how far you were from the ocean, if you’d know when you got close, if you’d be able to smell the salt in the air, if you’d be able to hear the waves above the roaring of your own heart.

It was late but you weren’t tired, the muffled sounds of music coming from a room below, or maybe above, and the neon sign outside the motel flickered by your window, barely concealed by the paper thin curtains. But it didn’t matter ‘cause Steve turned on the television set and battled with the static, found a showing of Fast Times at Ridgemont High that was half way through and he was falling back onto the bed with a sigh.

It was a soft noise, a happy sound that made your heart swell and your knees weak and the feelings only intensified when Steve craned his neck to look for you, opening his arms for you to fall into. You did just that, content and warm and sun kissed and held like you were precious.

The evening went like that, with Steve eventually coaxing you to lie against the pillows so he could lie between your legs, his cheek pressed to the soft of your tummy as he traced patterns under your sweater, one eye open and on the television. You were busy above him, flicking through the photos you’d both gotten printed at a gas station between Moab and Vegas, the images grainy and full of colour.

There was Steve and you and Steve and you and you and you. On the hood of the car, underneath The Arches, both of you on the precipice of the Grand Canyon, cheeks pressed together, eyes bright with something you were sure you’d never seen before.

Then there were the pictures where you weren’t looking, laid out in the grass of a park with a coffee beside you, your sketchbook and the map on your stomach, eyes closed against the sun. One of you walking ahead, sun dress a blur of movement by your thighs, a lake in front of you, one arm stretched back, hand searching for Steve’s.

You’d already agreed to go back to Hawkins with Steve, to go back to the small town with the boy you’d left it with. You’d promised him with kisses and words and nervous nods of your head and every night since Missouri, when you’d spent an afternoon stretched out by the water, you’d remembered the way you’d asked the boy if he’d found out where home was. When you closed your eyes, you could still see the way he looked at you when he answered ‘maybe’. He was all curious and soft, like he was trying to work you out, like maybe he already knew something you didn’t, even back then.

And now, with these photos spread out around you, the past few weeks of your life captured in colour, you wondered if it wasn’t all that crazy to think that maybe, just maybe Steve was right. Maybe home could be you, it could be him, instead of a place, four walls and a roof. Maybe you could go back to Hawkins and build something different with a boy who took you on an adventure, a boy who was going to take you to the edge of the world and let you dip your feet in the ocean.

It felt too soon for declarations, too soon for big words with bigger meanings and the thought of it all made your stomach twist and tighten - but then Steve let out an easy breath, a huff of air that fell over your bare thighs and he scratched the stubble on his jaw against your skin, barely looked away from the movie to press a kiss there too.

And god, you thought, you wanted that every night. You wanted this every day, no matter what state you were in, what country. You’d spend your life under a rain cloud as long as you could have Steve Harrington.

“Hey, Steve?” You whispered, dropping the photos on the bedspread in favour of combing your fingers through his hair instead.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me a secret?”

Steve smiled as he turned, facing away from the tv so he could lie across your lap and look up at you instead. He didn’t let you move your hand from his hair, grunting in disagreement when you tried to untangle your fingers from the unruly strands, only quieting when you scratched your nails against his scalp.

The boy hummed, wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed his face to the soft curve of your stomach. He was quiet when he spoke, a secret whispered into your skin, into the hem of his own sweater, the cotton smelling like you and him and the summer outside.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” Steve told you softly. “Like, ever. Not that I can remember anyway.”

Your heart did more than skip a beat, it felt like it fell down your chest, bouncing off a rib or two until it tumbled into your tummy. You felt warm, lips bitten to try and hide your smile ‘cause you felt like a lovesick fool and the only thing that made you feel better about it, was the fact that Steve looked the way you felt.

Bright eyes, rosy cheeked, a smile that couldn’t be tampered down.

“Never ever?” You whispered.

Steve shrugged, or tried his best to without letting go of you. He smiled and it wasn’t all that happy, not all that sad either because he was trying to remember the last time he felt so at peace, so ridiculously overjoyed at being with someone.

He couldn’t.

“Not that I’ve been like, permanently sad, or anything like that,” the boy told you and he thought of his friends, he thought of Robin and Eddie and the kids he called his family. “I just don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy before. This feeling—,” he gestured to you, pushed his nose to your navel and nuzzled. “This, here, with you.”

You grinned, blinked back the glassiness that made your eyes turn a little blurry and nodded, agreeing. It was an awfully lovely thing to hear, to be told, especially by a pretty boy who liked to lay his head on your lap, who looked at you like you were everything he ever needed.

Maybe you were.

“What about you, pretty girl? What secret do you have for me?”

You didn’t have to think too long and it felt like letting go of a inhale you’d been holding too long. It felt like breaking the surface of a deep, deep lake, surging up, sucking in a new breath.

“I’m not scared anymore,” you told Steve softly, “of this, of you,” you swept a hand over his forehead, pushed the hair that lay messy there away from his eyes so he could see you clearly, could watch the sincerity on your face.

‘Cause going back to Hawkins didn’t feel like giving up or giving in, it felt like trying again. And with Steve, trying again felt a little easier.

“I’m not scared,” you murmured again, soft, quiet. But god, you felt like you were yelling it from a mountain top, arms out, defiant, ready, full of something you’d never felt before.

Steve’s answering grin was brighter than the sun.

—————

It didn’t take long to hit the Pacific Coast Highway.

Steve drove, windows down, warm air blowing in the car and you sat beside him with your feet on the dash, legs bare with a dress hitched high up your thighs. You lay your sketchbook on your knees, running fingertips over the photos you’d stuck to the pages the night before, an image of you and Steve in Colorado pressed down beside the old photo of your grandparents house.

Two smiling faces next to the beach house with its buttercup yellow door, white sand, blue skies.

California seemed lazier, slower than the other states, peaceful in the way the hills and valleys rolled and dipped, more green than you’d seen before. The roads curved around collections of palm trees and bright flowers growing on bushes, the pace of everything slow, like no one was in a hurry.

It let you enjoy the scenery, bright skies, big fluffy clouds and the promise of the ocean appearing at any second. Steve must’ve known it was coming before you did, ‘cause he grinned and nodded towards your window, laughing softly when you jolted, elbows leaning on the open window frame, hair whipped by the wind.

And there it was.

Blue, blue water. A deep navy that went on for as far as the eye could see, crystal clear and aquamarine at the shoreline, white foam waves rolling onto the sand. Gulls flew above and boats seemed as small as ants as they bobbed in the distance. You weren’t sure what you expected, hoards of sunbathers on the beach, surfers slicing through the waves, maybe even huge liners cutting through the sea line.

But it was quiet, peaceful, unbelievably vast.

Water gathered at your lash line before you could stop it from happening, a hot, sharp prick of tears that made your cheeks burn and you pressed your mouth to your arm, staring out the window as the ocean kept rolling by.

Maybe Steve saw, maybe he just knew, ‘cause despite you not making a sound, the boy reached over and squeezed at your knee, the softest kind of pressure, the sweetest reassurance.

You stayed like that for a while, head leaning on your folded arms as you rested against the window frame, Steve’s music playing softly from the radio, Steve Nicks singing about going your own way.

The ocean kept scretching, curling when the road did, never going out of sight for long. It was only broken up by green patches of flora and fauna, some palm trees, a roadside vendor and some parked cars, people taking photos from the windows.

Steve asked if you wanted to stop, to get out and look but you were too busy looking at the crinkled map, nose almost pressed to the paper as you looked for the right spot, the name of a beach, the right kind of shape on the coastline that would tell you where to aim for.

So you shook your head and told him to keep driving, your breath catching in your throat when the roadside told you both cheerily, “welcome to Carmel-by-the-Sea!”

The road took you both down, sweeping along the coastline until a small town appeared by the shore. White buildings, white sand, a blue sky that melted into a bluer sea and you could hear the distant squabble of sea-lions on the rocks, music from a restaurant you couldn’t quite see yet. The air smelled fresh, less heavy with heat, a new breeze sweeping in through the open windows and you could smell the salt in the air.

When Steve slowed, driving through small streets, sidewalks lined with tourists and townsfolk, you could see the storefronts, tiny shops selling jewellery and trinkets, swimming attire and bakeries with windows filled with pastries and cupcakes.

It looked like a toy town, picture and quaint, so much smaller than Vegas and Illinois, prettier than Hawkins, neater than the wilderness of Utah and Colorado. A fountain sat in the middle of a square, a bandstand amongst flowers. Thatched roofs, cobbled lanes, wooden stairs that led downdowndown to the beachfront.

It took a minute to find a parking space, the town was tiny but busy and Steve’s desert dusted BMW seemed to stick out like a sore thumb. But you were able to draw a small heart on the hood, grinning when he tutted, ashamed of the state he’d let his precious car get into.

But the dirt and the soot was made up of so many states, hardly washed away by Colorado thunderstorms, only to be decorated again by Nevada deserts, the orange dust that blew off the mountains in Utah and you thought that the once shiny car had never looked more impressive than now.

You took Steve’s hand as you walked through town, your eyes set on the hint of blue you could see between each building, but it was hard to stay focused when each shop was so interesting, how the smell and promise of food was too alluring.

You gave in easily when Steve tilted his head towards a small coffee shop, both of you ordering something sweet and cold to drink, huge sandwiches that took up the entire plate, a bag of chips to share between you both. Steve paid, pushing away the money you tried to hand him as always, because during the entire trip, everything had been split down the middle.

And when you tried to argue, the boy’s ears turned pink and his cheeks went rosy as he shrugged, muttering something about wanting to treat you and suddenly your lunch in the corner of that little cafe felt a lot like a first date.

It was barely late afternoon when you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the sun at its peak in the sky and Steve turned to you, hand lifting to smooth back the hair that had fallen in your eyes and he let his gaze flicker to where the ocean lay behind the buildings.

“Do you wanna—?”

You shook your head, tangled your fingers in his and tugged him away from the coast. “Not right now,” you told him and your voice was sticky and thick with emotion. “Not yet.”

You weren’t sure what you were waiting for, why you were stalling. The ocean was right there, just across the street and down a flight of stairs or two. You could hear it, you could taste it in the air and even as you walked in the opposite direction of it, you couldn’t help but turn around to chance a glance at the deep blue between a bookstore and another cafe.

Steve let you lead him around town instead, hands joined, stopping every now and then to peer into storefronts, tiny art galleries, bakeries with huge macaroons, cakes and pies, stores selling tiny figurines of boats and sea lions on jagged rocks.

And every now and then you’d stop, smiling until your cheeks hurt as Steve pulled you into him, warm, wide hands curling around your sides, cupping the back of your neck, sliding into your hair so he could kiss you soft and sweet.

It felt new each time, a touch that made your tummy tumblr, your heart drop and dip and surge in your chest. You were over two thousand miles from the town you grew up in but with Steve holding you to his side, you felt like you had everything you ever needed.

When the sun started to dip in the sky, the clouds falling towards the horizon, the colours above changing from blue to lavender, pinky peach and tangerine, Steve just smiled and told you, “c’mon, pretty girl.”

You let him tug you towards the stairs that led to the beach, white sand that almost seemed the colour of rose quartz in the setting sun. There were a few people sitting along the shore, a dog running in the distance and Steve didn’t question it when you walked further down the sand, towards the cliffs that held up the road that brought you both here.

The water was a quiet rush, slipping back and forth over the wet sand, making it glitter in the light. Steve held your hand as you walked, stopping to grin wide and bend to take his shoes off and roll up his jeans, making you laugh out loud, bright and joyful when he tugged yours off too.

You carried them in your free hand, took a deep breath and stopped when the beach turned quiet, when the sun was low enough to make the ocean turn crimson.

One stronger wave pushed the water a little further and you gasped when it touched your toes, just barely, before falling back again. It was cool, almost cold and you stared out at the ocean, endless, too big to comprehend.

It seemed like a goodbye, an ending, a ‘what now?’

But you remembered what Steve had said, what you had said, the idea of trying again, starting fresh, making new plans with a boy you knew you were falling in love with. And besides, it was a long drive back to Indiana.

“Ready?” Steve asked you and his smile was full of excitement, of possibilities, of something new.

So you nodded, grinning and trying not to let the bubble of laughter burst from your chest because it felt uncontrollable, it felt dizzying, it felt electric.

You stepped forward and Steve followed, that messy haired, brown eyed boy that always fell asleep in Mrs Cheltham’s English class, the boy that was suddenly your best fucking friend, the boy with sunshine in his chest, summer on his tongue, who tasted like rainstorms and lemonade.

He squeezed your hand and you took another step, brave, scared, excited, terrified. But you took another and another and another and—

You were both shin deep, the water cold against your sun warmed skin, the waves lapping around your legs, foam bubbling white and the sand underneath shifted between your toes.

You stood, eyes wide, lips parted, a smile forming slowly until you were laughing bright and loud, clutching Steve as the waves rushed lazily back and forth and the boy kissed the sound from your lips. You could feel his smile against yours, his hand on your cheek, catching your chin and his own quiet laugh breaking out between your mouths.

You’d done it. Both of you. Carmel-by-the-Sea. The ocean.

You were standing in the ocean.

“Happy?” Steve whispered, forehead leaning down against your own, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip, the dip in your cupid's bow.

“Yeah,” your eyes were glassy, smile still there and you kissed the pad of his thumb, pressed your nose to his just because close was never close enough. “Really fucking happy.”

And when Steve turned, arms wrapping around you, head leaning on yours, he spotted a house on a small hill, white sand and tall grass lining the edges of it. It had white walls and a blue roof, matching shutters and a buttercup yellow door.

The hanging baskets were empty of flowers and the windows looked stained and dusty with age. Steve had seen it before.

“Is that—?”

You were already looking, staring at the house with an achingly familiar warmth. You’d never been here, never got to visit, never seen it outside of an old, water stained photograph, one that sat at the back of your sketchbook.

“Yeah,” you nodded, cheek pressed to the boy’s chest as you both gazed across the water and the sand at the pretty, empty home. “That’s my grandparents house.”

Steven remembered the first day, sitting across from you in a diner on the state line, only a mile or two away from leaving Indiana with you. He’d asked you why California, why here. You’d told him about the ocean, about dipping your feet in blue water for the first time and the boy had been smart enough to ask why once more, because there was so much ocean before Carmel-by-the-Sea.

And now he knew.

He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t press, he didn’t move. Steve held you until you were ready, placed a kiss on your forehead as you both took in the house with its pretty colours and its sand covered path. You waited until the sunset turned the white walls pink, orange, then lavender, until the sea got too cold and the breeze picked up.

Steve waited until you moved first, breaking free from his hug to take a step back towards the sand. He stared at you with an aching fondness and you were sure you looked back at him the exact same way. So you held out your hand once more, palm up, eyes on his.

“Let’s go home.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut

545 notes · View notes

forlorn-crows · 1 year

Note

IT'S MOUNTAIN MONDAY BITCH

As such, may I request some big boy sweetness? Mountain and Aether, basking in one another in the warm spring sun? Smut or not, up to you ♡

AND the first day of spring!!!

enjoy some big boy banter (with guest appearance by Rainy boy) ♡

A brief shadow dances across the backs of Mountain’s eyelids, a shapeless form against the almost too-bright sun.

"Soaking up the sun, big guy?" It’s Aether’s voice, warm and rich as the first breeze of spring that sailed through the earth ghoul’s window this morning.

Mountain cracks open an eye, searching for the quintessence ghoul. He finds him just off to his side, looking at him with an amused expression and hands on his hips. The earth ghoul closes his eyes and sighs with a smile, settling further into the fresh new grass growth. "Recharging,” Mountain answers. He spreads his limbs out further, reminiscent of a gangly starfish.

The ground is still damp, but he doesn’t care. The sun shines high in the afternoon sky, and a perfect patch of its light hovers on the embankment next to the abbey’s lake. That’s where he’d decided to sprawl out and just take it all in. Bask. Recharge. Soak up that first connection to new life that thrives within his element.

Rain had trailed along soon after, padding by Mountain in bare feet towards the dock. He had disappeared into the water just as quickly, leaving the earth ghoul to lie contentedly in the grass alone.

“Mind if I join you?” Aether asks now, already shucking his boots and socks.

“‘Course not; please do.” Mountain breathes another lungful of fresh spring air, voiding his lungs in a gleeful, satisfied exhale. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Aether agrees. He flexes his feet in the plush grass, wiggling his toes among the budding clover. The quintessence ghoul plops down near Mountain’s head, gently shuffling so his shins touch the top of his head. “Come here.” Aether scratches behind Mountain’s horn and pats the top of his shoulder. The earth ghoul lets out a trill of curiosity, craning his head to see Aether inviting him to lay across his lap. “I’ll play with your hair,” he sing-songs, scratching behind his horn again.

Mountain smiles and shifts to butt up his shoulders with Aether’s legs, snuggling his head into the cradle of his lap. He won’t turn down an offer for someone to run their fingers through his hair.

Aether starts to do just that, combing Mountain’s mousy brown tresses out from under his neck and away from his face. “Didn’t Rain come out here, too?” Aether asks, causally scanning the lake and surrounding area for the water ghoul.

“I think he’s at the bottom of the lake again,” Mountain laughs, adjusting the angle of his head to give Aether better access. “Been down there a while now.”

“Hm,” Aether hums amusedly. “Isn’t the water pretty cold still?”

“Borderline frigid. I don’t know how he does it.”

Aether works through a small knot, picking out what looks like a bramble or a tiny jagged pinecone. He shakes his head with a smile before tossing it aside. “I think he does it so he can cozy up to Dew after he’s done pretending to be a frog.”

Mountain snorts. “Oh, I bet. Doting on him as if Rain doesn’t also carve a hole in the ice sometimes to still go swimming.”

Aether shudders. “No thank you. That’s probably colder than the void.”

“Probably.” Mountain hums as Aether grazes his claws over the top of his scalp, having worked through any remaining knots. The bottom half of his hair is cool to the touch, slightly wet from the damp earth they’re lounging on. Aether smoothes it all back into a vague ponytail and lets it fall into the space between his crossed legs.

A comfortable silence settles over the two, broken only by the occasional purr from Mountain. Aether continues to trace nonsensical patterns through his hair, enjoying the sounds of thriving nature around them.

“Have you gone to the woods recently?”

Mountain twitches, the question startling him from Aether’s lulling fingers and the desire for a nap already pulling at the edges of his brain. “Hm?”

“You know; Rain pretends to be a frog at the bottom of the lake, and you pretend to be Bigfoot.”

Mountain barks a laugh and swats at Aether with his tail. “What do you mean, Bigfoot? How do you even know what Bigfoot is?”

“I do know how to read, you know. And you’re fond of leaving that weird nature channel on in the common room.”

Mountain rolls his eyes. “And where does that leave you, big guy?”

“I don’t pretend to be anything. I simply,” he waves his hands above Mountain’s face as if demonstrating a disappearing act, “cease to exist. In this plane, anyway.”

“You pretend to be a ghost and scare innocent Siblings in the corridors, got it.”

Aether chuckles, a deep, resonating belly laugh that vibrates through Mountain’s skull—only in the best way, of course. “I have never done such a thing.” It’s a lie, and they both know it.

There’s a pause. Aether goes back to combing through the earth ghoul’s hair. “I suppose it’s been a pretty brutal winter. Wouldn’t want to spend too much time in it, myself.”

Mountain sighs, snuggles further into Aether’s lap. “I went once, when I couldn’t sleep and things were tense. But that was months ago.”

Aether makes a noncommittal noise, scratching behind Mountain’s long, rounded ears. He feels the earth ghoul’s tail thump against his thigh, a happy little movement that stops and starts again when he moves to the other ear. The quintessence ghoul sighs, tipping his head towards the sun.

“‘S nice now,” he mutters. Mountain only hums in response, letting out a soft sigh when Aether runs his claws from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck.

They’re content to continue like that, time stretching slowly before them. Sometime later—minutes, hours, Aether isn’t sure—something catches the corner of his eye. It’s a fluttering thing, peeking out from the budding clover. A small, cream-colored butterfly makes its way near the two ghouls, looking almost like a big flake of fresh snow.

“Aw, Mount look,” Aether says softly. The ghoul on his lap only snuffles in response, ear twitching to Aether’s voice. The little bug floats away just as quickly as it came, off to find a more cozy spot to land.

“Mount?” Aether peeks over the crown of the earth ghoul’s head to find him fast asleep, breathing even and mouth slightly parted. Aether smiles fondly, returning his hand to Mountain’s hair.

There’s a rippling of the lake water against the shore, followed by the sloshing of rising bubbles. Rain surfaces half a minute later, leisurely paddling back to shore, gills flaring and sparkling in the sun. The water ghoul waves when he spots Aether on the embankment, briskly shaking out his hair and grabbing a towel and his discarded lounge pants.

Quiet on your way up, Mountain fell asleep, Aether reaches out with his mind to the approaching ghoul.

‘Kay, Rain answers easily back. He wears a lazy smile as he walks up to them, waving again at Aether.

“He needs it,” Rain whispers to Aether, regarding Mountain’s sleeping form. He cocks his head, titling to get a better look at something. He smiles when he finds it, shaking his head. “Yeah, definitely needs it. I’ll see ya, Aethe, gonna go bother Dew for his body heat.” Rain trots off, leaving a whiff of kelp and sea salt in his wake.

Aether looks over at the spot in question. Mountain’s left arm now rests on the grass, having dropped off from its previous spot on his chest. There’s patches of moss growing along the soft skin on the underside of his forearm, bright green against dusty gray. The little clover buds reach up to kiss his skin, flowering as they mingle with the tiny hands of the moss.

Aether smiles softly. “Get your rest, my sweet earth giant,” he whispers, placing a barely-there kiss on his forehead.

The quintessence ghoul almost misses the crop of orange blossoms that sprout at the nape of his neck, only revealed when Aether returns his hands to Mountain’s hair once more.

195 notes · View notes

dapandapod · 3 months

Note

oh my god, I need this in my life ;____; Pairing is dealer's choice.

36. unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping

Look. I kinda missed the mark here, in a sense, as did I miss the timely window to write/reply.... xD anyway here it is? some Geraskier, a healthy dose of pining, and a lot of semi-platonic cuddling! Thank you Ebs my love for beta-reading! And I hope you like it, Kuri-darlin! Please enjoy <3 On Ao3 here!

It starts, as it often does between the two of them, with a deep bottle of spirit and a great idea. Usually, it’s one of Jaskier’s, but this time neither of them will claim the responsibility.

Skinnydipping is a much better plan in summer temperatures, rather than in late spring. Cold water from the icy mountains is still trickling down in rivers and finding itself in the lake they are now rushing out of, bare as the day they were born.

Jaskier isn’t shrieking, he never is, he is just flexing his vocal chords. Geralt is telling him that he is indeed shrieking, and that he should stop before it gets shrill enough to call the local dogs over.

Punching Geralt’s chest is very different when he is not wearing any clothes, skin cool and slippery, and Jaskier loses himself for a moment.

This is where it all begins, in a sense.

They are both rather lost, directionless in the free way of the traveling pair they are, but still trying to make out what path is theirs, and if what they will find at the end of the road will please them.

Geralt grasps Jaskier’s hand, and holds it to his chest. If asked, he will say he is clearly making sure Jaskier won’t be able to punch him again, but if you ask Jaskier, the only thing he will remember is firm fingers around his wrist, chest hair rough against his knuckles.

When Jaskier does not immediately protest, just stares at their hands with wide eyes, Geralt declares the bard too drunk, and he pulls Jaskier with him towards land by the hand.

Getting dressed one handed is… even more complicated while drunk, but the witcher does not let go of the bard, and leads him all the way to their rooms. They technically have their own rooms, but somehow they both end up in Jaskier’s room, only half way into the bed.

Later, Geralt remembers waking up with Jaskier’s fingers laced through his, and turns to look at his face lax in sleep, pressed against the mattress.

It happens again, of course it does. This time they are between inns, with winter and his bad timing stealing one last cold night before spring broke through properly.

They have found alright shelter, compromising the comfort of the open forest floor for keeping warm, snuck in the crack of a rock formation.

The fire is doing wonders, and despite the smoke stinging their eyes, Jaskier is looking decidedly snuggly with the fire behind him outlining his figure.

Their bedrolls are side by side, and Jaskier has grabbed onto Geralt’s hand, marveling over… well, marveling in general actually.

This time there is no alcohol between them, just a sense of peace and amusement, and Geralt watches Jaskier trace each digit, using both hands to look this way and that.

His knuckles are getting a great deal of attention, as is his thumb and palm. While he does it, Jaskier tells a story about his mother and a fortune teller that probably was a sham, but there once was this palm reader he met in Novigrad, and did you know that the placing or lack of calluses really tells a lot about you as a person?

Geralt listens with a smile, and snarks at the obvious holes in the storytelling when Jaskier is making too much up again, and, between one heartbeat and the next, Jaskier’s eyes droop shut.

He is still holding onto Geralt’s hand, one cradling the side of his hand and his pinky, the other holding onto his thumb. Even as specks of snow trickle down from above, and the wind howls, the fire crackles merrily, and Jaskier is holding his hand in his sleep.

Geralt doesn’t take his hand back, and in the morning they have inched closer, and Jaskier is holding Geralt’s hand against himself like you would a teddy bear.

Not long after the summer solstice, they make a close acquaintance with death. Her foul breath brushes the bard’s cheek as a Necker’s claw dug into his flesh.

Lucky for all of them, Jaskier is wearing a leather coat, and instead of being fatal, it just ends up being very fucking painful.

Blood is not a good look on bards, at least not their own, Geralt decides when Jaskier sits eerily quiet after being patched and bundled up in a barn that they’ve got to borrow for the night, with the promise not to bleed on the hay.

That night, Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand, holding it as he presses himself up against the bard’s back, listening to his even breaths and rapid heartbeat, infinitely grateful he made it in time to save him.

As with anything, spend enough time doing something and a habit is formed.

It isn’t every time, nor is it a conscious thought, but if there is but an arm's length between them, they will either end up half way out of their bedrolls and meet in the middle, fingers lacing together, or when they’re sitting idly next to each other for whatever reason, their fingers will seek each other out, sometimes barely touching, and other times overlapping.

It stops being a conscious choice, it is something just done. Jaskier eagerly grabbing his hand as he tells exciting news and then forgets to let go, or Geralt wanting to keep track of him, or to support him, or when in a crowd.

It’s natural, an anchor when they are in danger of getting lost.

They part, and they reunite later that summer, and that fall Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands to rub them warm, to breathe on them to help him regain temperature.

He knows you shouldn’t breathe on them, knows how a breath actually can make them colder, but Geralt may or may not be accidentally brushing his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, and Jaskier is pretending not to notice, pretending he doesn’t have fine rabbit gloves tucked in his backpack, gifted by the very witcher right in front of him.

Things change, and also they don’t.

Dragons and witches and a child of the elder blood marks each change in their own way. Jaskier finds himself waking up, holding his own hand in his cold room in Kaer Morhen, and Geralt’s hand reaches across the empty bed for the bard’s even before he registers not to.

Another bottle of spirits, this time a stolen Nilfgaardian booze smelling absolutely terrible with the aftertaste of dirt, and another bright idea later, and Jaskier and Geralt once again find themselves sprawled halfway across Jaskier’s bed.

Geralt had to pull him up the stairs by the hand to keep their balance, or so they told themselves. The White gull Geralt ended up downing tastes terrible on the second day he notes, shifting and pulling the warmth by his side closer.

Jaskier grunts in his ear and knees his thigh, but only when he tightens his hold around hot, sweaty fingers does Geralt realize what he’d been missing. Jaskier is tangled against him, arm trapped under himself in an angle that will promise complaints the moment he wakes up. It is warm, and it is comfortable, and Geralt is slowly coming to terms with what pleases him.

Relearning how to share a bed is much easier when you have an anchor, a focal point, or it would have been if Geralt wasn’t startled awake by Jaskier almost falling out of bed. They resettle, Jaskier now firmly between the witcher and the wall, and the back of Geralt’s hand pressed against his lips as sleep reclaims him.

It doesn’t matter if they are awake or not, they reach for each other like a weed craves the sun, like roots seeking dirt, like vines growing where they find purchase.

The day Geralt wakes up and finally finds courage, he kisses Jaskier’s palm, and Jaskier kisses his lips.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #holding hands #hand holding prompts 2021 #shuddup i am so in time it's not been years #fluff #friends to lovers #getting together #dapanda writes #jaskier the bard #geralt of rivia

26 notes · View notes

12pt-times-new-roman · 2 months

Text

c3e86

Fearne emerges in cold air beneath snow-dusted peaks. She immediately goes back through the portal at the bottom of this lake, and her telepathic communication is restored.

Imogen and Fearne exchange spell slots -- Fearne expends a 4th level spell to give Imogen 4 sorcery points. The language Matt used here is very similar to how he described the feeling Orym got when using Ludinus' funnel.

Slowly but surely, they all pull themselves through the portal. The sun is setting, and they can see both Catha and the leylines, so they're definitely on Exandria somewhere; Chetney identifies the trees as high-altitude pines, and the air is cold, thinner than sea-level, so they're somewhere up high.

They turn into clouds, and travel straight up: they're in a lake cradled in the middle of a sprawling mountain range, but even from this high up, they don't recognize this region. It's not the Alabaster Sierras near Whitestone, or the Flotket Alps, or even anywhere on Marquet. Even with a high perception check, they can't see any towns, cities, or even light sources -- but there are structures built on the edge of the lake, like a village.

They enter and find that it's a very simple village, but there are no lights, no sounds, no people wandering around -- just silence. It looks abandoned, and much of it has fallen to the elements, decayed. There are still supplies on the shelves of a shop, but they're covered in dust.

In the clerk's office, they find records of the town: Ria'doin village, on the shores of Lake Umamu. They gather, from the nomenclature and the position of the sun, that this village is Issylran, but there's not a single temple anywhere.

It doesn't look like there was a battle or a struggle here. Laudna finds a thread of notes in the clerk's space talking about business abandonment, people just getting up and leaving the village. There were disappearances here: a child, an entire family, the Otises, all in succession -- there must've been a rumor making people leave, but the next night, there were four families gone without a trace. Then the fishmonger was seen walking into the lake. Rumors spread about bad blood, business competition, small-town politics -- before the clerk disappeared.

FCG talks to a bird, and is very rude about it. But the owl tells him that she last saw someone five years ago; they wandered through, looted some stuff, and eventually walked into the lake too.

They decide to rest here for the night, and plan to relay information about the lake portal before returning to Ruidus.

They identify the two silver rings they took from the Willmaster: one of them is a "ring of life detection," which is paired with another one somewhere else that alerts the wearer if something happens to them; and the other they have to save until morning.

Chetney update: As a result of his deal with Morri, he gets a feat. He can craft a very well-made and well-carved wooden toy with an hour of his time. It's unclear if this does anything other than generate money/story, but hey!

Sending stone to Caleb: Caleb Widogast, we are in a village called Ria'doin. It's a backdoor to the moon, maybe. Do you hear me? Come for a visit? Ah! Hello. This is strange. This has not worked in some time.

SENDING WORKS, BABEY! Time to run Matt through his paces and make him play a half-dozen NPCs!

Imogen casts sending to Caleb: I assume this means you're alright. Again, that's Lake Umamu. Can you get word to the resistance? Jas, this is Caleb Widogast. I don't know what's changed; these communications have not worked for some time. I do know where -- (sending cuts off.)

Imogen sends to Keyleth three times: We found a secret entrance back on Exandria, in Lake Umamu. Leads to subterranean Ruidus. We're in Ria'doin. Hi! Hello! Is everyone okay? You're in Umamu? That's the Karamoran Reach, Issylra. What about Ruidus? After the Bloody Bridge, the capital city of Kreveris is where they're gathering forces. There's a tunnel that leads down. Halfway there. We'll show you. Alright. Let me finish some business here, and I'll try and meet you. I'm curious to hear how much you've learned. Time is starting to run short. The portal is in the lake. We're heading back in in the morning -- haven't learned enough. Going to Kreveris. We'll leave markers for you to follow. Very well. I'll send a team to follow and see what this secret door is in the lake. Good luck moving forward. We're counting on you.

Another voice pushes into Imogen's mind. Um, hello? Mr. Caleb said I was supposed to talk to this person! Is this working? I've tried this so many times and -- so anyway, I'm curious if this is going forward! Is this working?! Please respond! Yes, it works. We met Caleb at the key. We're at Lake Umamu, we just talked to Keyleth. Okay, I don't know who that is but I'm extremely happy for you, and I'm so happy this is working! Who are you? What are you doing? How do you know Caleb? What-- I'm Imogen. We went to Ruidus. We met Caleb at the key, he was captured, we haven't seen him since. Okay, well he's fine now, and it's nice to meet you that knew Caleb at the key. Don't know what that means either, but thank you! Okay. Who is this? Oh! My name is Jester.

aDSFsdgkjghfdk my heart---

Orym sends to Dorian: Dorian. We're alive. Been to the moon, going back. Find the Tempest. If I don't get the chance again... I really missed you. There's no response, but Orym swears he hears something outside. He needs to check in on that, needs to see what it was. It might be Dorian. They wake everyone, and Orym wants to go outside, but why wouldn't he have answered?

So if sending just suddenly works now, there's one of two options: either it's the proximity to the lake -- a rift between Exandria and Ruidus -- that's causing it, and the same thing would've happened at the bridge; or the Vanguard's plans are advancing and the leylines are calming down because of that. Or, y'know, the entire sending thing was a complete fabrication by whatever's in this lake (but that doesn't explain Jester).

Meanwhile, Matt is rolling saves for all of them behind the screen -- they at least got a short rest, but there's something calling them toward that water to inspect it, make sure everything's okay. There's a presence in the water that makes them wonder whether there's an ally in that lake -- they're not alone, but not in a bad way.

They start making their way through the fog, toward the bank. The lake is appealing to their sensibilities -- Orym senses a presence that could be Dorian, Chetney senses a disturbance in the portal, Ashton senses a useful tool, FCG senses an ally.

Imogen uses detect thoughts on the lake, and there is an intelligence that settles behind and below her -- those enthralled are wading into the lake, being pushed -- they disappear under the water, and we go to break!

Can I also just say -- Liam is portraying a soldier's hope so well with Orym. Like, the situation is near-hopeless, the deck is stacked against them, they are staring into the face of unfathomable threats, and yet. And yet. They have to do it. They must. Not because it's easy or even because it's right, but because it must be done. Fate has dealt them these cards, whether they like it or not, so they have to hope. They have to. If they don't hold on to that, if Orym does not put forward and wholeheartedly throw his entire soul into paradoxical hope against all hope, then what else does he have? What else is there? He can't cry, he can't bargain, he can't even grieve. Hope is all that's left, left bleeding at the bottom of the barrel -- and if he doesn't have that, if he doesn't even have the delusion of hope, then all truly is lost. So Orym falls, hard, for any shred of hope beyond ephemera, anything that just might be more than whim and blindness, like sending, like Keyleth, like Dorian. And fuck is it heartbreaking.

Imogen grabs Orym as he dives, and she gets pulled down too.

Laudna sticks her head underwater, spots one, and casts animate object on a boat! "It's ghost ship time." It grows little hands out of the front and starts fucking talking -- "what do ya want, missus?"

For the ones in the water, it's nothing but chemical impulse that pushes them forward, toward the bramble growths that surround the portal to Ruidus. It wraps around them, cradles them, and it's a warm sensation, like this is where they're meant to be, it's everything they've ever fought for, ever wanted. While they're down here, everyone takes cold damage.

Fearne spots them, the cocoon where they're being held, and also sees a graveyard of scattered bones. Dozens and dozens of corpses, cradled like children.

Imogen damages the shadows that hold them, and everyone ensnared gets to make another CHA save -- everyone but Ashton breaks free from its influence.

As he breaks away, Orym slashes at the shadow and frees a skull; but as he grabs it, the shadow re-envelops him.

Laudna boards her animated boat and rides it beneath the waves like Captain Jack Sparrow. As she passes, FCG grabs the side and coasts down, and casts turn undead on the shadows: the tendrils turn to hair, the roads of the Changebringer leading away, and although it succeeds this does confirm that this is some kind of undead creature.

Ashton is still trapped inside the mass, and they try desperately to free him. Orym swims down, dashes the tendrils away, and spots them -- he casts misty step somehow to reach Ashton and hacks at their bonds. He action-surges and hits Ashton to wake him up (that's a whole fucking thing that I will get back to--) but Ashton succeeds, they're still buried in there and Orym is still right next to him.

FCG's second turn undead succeeds, and the tendrils all scatter, pull back -- and they have a terrifying view of this underwater graveyard that lies here. Ashton gets to make their save again and finally succeeds -- they see exactly what's below them and dart away, dart toward the surface (alongside Laudna, who also failed the turn undead).

As they surface, all the effects subside, and the shadow recoils.

(Also, I love how Matt has incorporated Candela Obscura's "initiative" rules in C3. This entire encounter happened without rolling initiative once, but it still felt very fluid and inclusive.)

The center of this undead entity is closer to the village, whereas the portal to Ruidus is around 80 feet from it.

They return to the docks, and carve a message into the wood: Beware! Dead shit down there.

Orym leaves the skull he retrieved on the dock, too, assuming that Keyleth can cast speak with dead (and not saving it in the portable hole for FCG to cast that later).

Imogen, with the statement that "none of us are thinking clearly right now", decides for the group that they should all go back through the portal to sleep rather than waiting for Keyleth's envoy to appear.

Now that they've defeated the undead entity here, it's easy for them to re-enter the portal to Ruidus. They immediately go to sleep -- even with tired watches, they get a long rest.

As they sleep, Laudna talks to Delilah. She wants more power from Delilah in exchange for keeping Imogen safe -- "grant me power, and I'll give you everything you need." [You promise?] "I keep my word, if I have a strange way of expressing them." [I have a strange question -- Pate.] "I am no more pate than you are me. We are bound inexplicably, yes -- we are strange bedfellows... Laudna. We will endure. Always." Delilah's visage fades, and Laudna falls to sleep.

Long rest, finally!

They climb out of the tunnels they slept in, and continue across Ruidus to Kreveris. As they go, they leave trails and signs for anyone who might be following them out of the portal in the lake.

FCG identifies the other ring as a ring of protection, which is huge for basically anyone -- it gives a +1 bonus to armor class and all saving throws. Orym takes it, since Ashton already has two rings attuned.

Laudna uses the syphon to absorb the power of the ring of life essence -- it strips the ring of all its magical power, and gives Laudna +2 hit points (permanently) and advantage on al attacks and ability checks until the next long rest.

The Bells Hells leave the cave and move across meandering tunnels for miles, leaving Ashari symbols as they go so Keyleth's forces can follow them.

They all continue in this tunnel for a while, until it comes to an abrupt end. Ashton, although reticent, activates the shard of Ka'mort -- they get bigger, spiker, everything becomes odd and off, a fractal, an exaggeration that is six feet tall kneeling, with the elemental arm a claw. As they phase into the rock, they sense tunnels and caverns around them, and they are not far from the surface -- Ashton clears the way and the Bells Hells emerge onto the surface of Ruidus. There's a mild dust storm going through, but Imogen rolls with advantage (with the help of Fearne) and determines the direction of Ruidus' capital.

Laudna brings up that they all need to agree on when exactly to get the fuck out of dodge. Ashton is determined not to leave until they find allies, but Laudna brings up the fact that they need everyone to complete the mission.

They set off across Ruidus toward the capital, and start walking to save their more powerful spells for the future; but Imogen casts a magic mouth spell for when Keyleth's team comes through. "Hey. We are going toward Krevaris, the direction is slightly due north. Head toward the mountain range. Hope you find this. Heading toward Krevaris."

As they travel, there's a strange vibration in the air, an anticipatory change -- and every stone arounds you becomes incandescent with bright light, time seems to instantly stop. Everyone feels like they've been around forever, the blip of immortal essence passed through them -- and Imogen, eyes white, hair bright red-violet, drops to the ground as the feeling ends. Imogen and Fearne both gain 15 temp hp as Ruidus flares beneath them.

There's a fading warmth to them, and Ashton, as elemental, feels it -- a warmth under the ground, following that trail.

When Ashton comes out of his transformation, it's rough -- they are drained, tired, even after the long rest -- he takes two points of exhaustion . But Fearne offers to carry him, and they puh into the storm, they ear the thunder in the distance.

As they emerge from the fog, from the carved valley before them, they see the faintest view of a skyline, a real sign of civlization that they are on the cusp of reaching (with Ashton on 2pts of exhaustion).

#critical role #note watches c3 #critical role spoilers #critical role campaign 3 #critical role c3 #critical role liveblog #long post

20 notes · View notes

iamthecomet · 1 year

Text

Mushy May Day Two - I Made This For You

Fandom: Ghost (The Band) Rating: Everybody Pairing: Dew/Rain implied polyghouls Featuring: Angst. Summoning day nonsense. Dew has a feeling for once. Angst and mush and idiots in love with each other. Dew doesn't do summoning days. But there's just something about Rain. Word Count: 1.3k+ Read below the cut, or on AO3.

Dew doesn’t do summoning days. Especially not his own. He’ll participate in others, sitting quietly with his pack mates. Curling in on himself as the day progresses. Picking at his food. Cramming himself into the corner of the couch, sitting, knees pressed to his chest on the dock while Rain swims. He’s present, always. But not really there. Participating feels like too strong a word.

He’d like to lock himself in his room on every summoning day. To just forget about them. He doesn’t voice that though—can’t. Not when Sunshine’s face splits into a blinding grin on her first summoning day when Mountain reveals the cake he made for her.

The others have stopped trying to make him celebrate his. It’s hardly a summoning day anymore anyway—he isn’t the ghoul he was when he crawled out of the pit. All the soft pieces of him burned away, left with scars and the occasional ache where his gills used to be.

No one blames him. He felt guilty at first. The way he’d retreated into himself on that first summoning day after his element change. Mountain cooked him his favorite breakfast. He pushed it around on his plate, felt sick to his stomach at the thought. The day didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore.

But it’s gotten better. Over the years they’ve all gotten used to it. It’s routine for everyone to pretend to forget that it’s Dew’s summoning day. Cumulus always fails, she never say anything outright to him about it—but she dotes on him a little extra. Dragging him into the cushion of her body, pillowing his head on her lap while they watch their nightly movie.

The only summoning day that makes him feel like something is waking up in his hollow chest is Rain’s. He can’t ever decide if it’s pain or pleasure. But it’s a feeling all the same. He doesn’t know what to do about it. He's been thinking about it for longer than he wants to admit. So when Rain says he wants to go for a sunrise swim, Dew ignores the sea of shocked faces around him and offers to go with him. Rain wakes him up early—before the sun is even up. He offers Dew a mug of steaming coffee. Dew’s bleary eyed, barely awake. He cradles the coffee in both of his hands and looks Rain up and down. And even though the part of him that this hurts tells him to go back to bed right now—he doesn’t. He follows Rain out to the lake. The dew-covered grass cold under his bare feet.

He sits on the dock, coffee pinned between his plams, sipping on the scalding liquid. It warms him from the inside out. The sun starts to peak over the horizon, slanting pale light over the worn dock.

Rain strips down and dives into the lake just as light starts to sparkle across the glass still water. Dew, drags his knees up to his chest. He aches.

When Rain surfaces, the gills along his neck and ribs have filled out, fanning to life. Paper thin, nearly translucent. Dew slides his hand over his own neck, feeling the strange white scars along the sides. It still seems strange that they’re gone. That he doesn’t feel them shifting against his probing fingers.

“You didn’t have to come,” Rain says softly. He’s at the edge of the dock now, arms folded over it, almost touching Dew’s knees. Dew looks down at him. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry—”

“No,” Dew puts his coffee down on the dock, he shifts, stretching out to lay on his belly so he’s face to face with Rain. He puts his warm hands over Rain’s ice-cold arms and squeezes. “I wanted to.”

Rain’s brows furrow down like he thinks Dew is lying to him. Dew shuffles forward enough to presses his forehead to Rain’s, wet hair slipping over his skin, he presses warm dry lips to Rain’s forehead.

Rain tastes like the sea.

It makes Dew want to scream.

“When you’re done with your swim I have something for you.”

Rain pulls back, eyebrows raising. “Dew—”

Dew shoves at his arms, trying to dislodge him from the dock. “Don’t get weird about it.”

“But you don’t—”

“If you don’t shut up I’m not giving it to you.”

Rain watches him warily. Dew doesn’t blame him. Dew pushes at his arms again. “Come on. Hurry up. It’s cold out here.”

Rain rolls his eyes and pushes off of the dock, disappearing into the depths again. Dew pushes himself back up to sitting. He grabs his coffee. He dips his toes into the water. Cold like always. He curls his feet up under his thighs. He finishes his coffee as the sunrises. When Rain emerges the dew has burned off the grass and everything is bright and green and awake.

Rain dries himself off, his gills disappear as he pulls his glamor back in place. Dew mourns the loss of them, reaching up to touch the place where they vanished as Rain pulls his sweatpants back on.

“Come on,” Dew laces his fingers with Rain’s and pulls him toward the Abbey. “Before everyone wakes up and makes a big deal out of this.”

“It is a big deal you know?” Rain says matching Dew’s stride, giving him a sideways glance.

“Shut up.”

“Dewdrop—”

“Rain. Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t fucking like summoning days. That’s not changing.”

“Then what—”

“Dunno. I like you? I like watching someone else enjoy water the way I used to. I’m not thinking about it any more than that.”

Rain frowns. Propelled—always—by an inherent need to help Dew out. To fix the ever present hole in his chest. To figure out how to patch him up and make this right. Dew waves him off.

“Just let me give you a fucking present. It’s probably never going to happen again.” Rain stands in the doorway to Dew’s room, hair dripping onto the hardwood as Dew rummages through his top desk drawer.

“Satanas, Rainy. Come in here and close the door,” he snaps just as his fingers graze over cool chain and warm stone nestled beneath. Rain listens, closing the door softly, still looking at Dew like something’s gone terribly wrong. Dew curls his fist around the stone, feels the warmth beating through it. Something like nerves crawls through his chest, into his stomach.

When was the last time he gave anyone a gift?

Ifrit.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, forces that thought out of his mind.

“You might hate it.” Dew says softly, holding his clenched fist out for Rain. Rain opens his palm beneath it. And Dew opens his fingers one at a time. Cool silver chain pooling through his fingers into Rain’s outstretched hand. The stone falls last, trapped between Dew’s fingers for just a second longer than it should be.

Rain uncoils the necklace, lays it out over his palm. The fire opal resting against his wrist. Rain drags his finger over it. It flickers, either in the dim light, or with the magic Dew forced into it to keep it warm.

“It’s warm,” Rain breathes.

“Yeah. Water’s cold. Wanted you to always have something to warm you up.”

Rain looks up at him, cerulean eyes brimming. Dew shakes his head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Dew did you—”

“Yeah. Made it. For you,” he says voice stilted. “There’s a jewelry conspiracy this year. They’ve been talking about it since you bought those earrings on tour. So, expect a lot of it. I just wanted…” Dew shakes his head. “Saw the opal and I couldn’t—I had to.”

Rain curls the necklace into his fist and throws himself at Dew. He’s cold and wet, and Dew isn’t expecting any of it. They land in a heap on Dew’s bed. Rain pressing his face into the side of Dew’s, lips grazing over his cheek bone. “Dew—”

“Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

“They’ll see it.”

“Make something up. I don’t need them in here throwing a party because I did something.” Dew’s look is withering. Rain kisses him, soft and sweet on his lips.

He holds his fist, clenched around the opal, over his heart as he looks at Dew, a grin tugging on his lips. “Not a word. I promise.”

Dew pulls him down into a kiss.

They’re very late for breakfast.

#comet comments #mushy may #Raindrop #Rain Ghoul #Dewdrop Ghoul #Rain/Dew #Dewdrop/Rain #Rain/Dewdrop #Dew/Rain #Ghost fanfic #ghost fanfiction #ghost fic

120 notes · View notes

lunavenefica · 1 year

Text

⛤Fairies, Elves and Vile in Slav History and Myth⛤

Many of us know a lot about Greek, Roman and Viking mythology but few of us have ever heard about Slavic folklore.

This is partly due to the attitude of the Church, which throughout history was mostly negative towards mythological beings, holidays and customs from Slavic mythology.

The myth of fairies (“vile”) is common to many Slavic peoples, and is one of the most widespread and oldest myths.

We get the first information about fairies in our area from Procopius of Caesarea (6th century), who says that the Slavs "respect rivers and nymphs, as well as other demons, and offer sacrifices to all of them, and on that occasion also do fortune-telling."

In Slavic mythology there are only fairies as supernatural beings, mysterious women who live in nature, mostly on mountains, by lakes and streams or in them, next to springs or in the ground, in special caves and pits.

Fairies resemble human women, boast a special beauty and have no wings.

They are tall and slender, with lush hair that is either loose or braided.

They wear white clothes, and sometimes they have a golden crown, a golden star or an evergreen wreath on their head.

In some stories, fairies have several physical flaws.

In one version, their hair stinks terribly, and in another version, instead of human feet, they have cat's paws, horse hooves or mule and donkey hooves, and goat or cow legs, which they then hide well.

Maybe that's why fairies love horses so much.

If someone's horse stays outside the barn overnight, they play with it until dawn and braid its mane.

Fairies are mostly good or neutral, but you have to be careful around them because they are easy to anger.

They help people by giving them useful things, they look after the flock while shepherds sleep, heal people with herbs or teach them which herbs have healing properties.

They show the way to a lost traveler, strengthen the soldiers and put to sleep a crying child in the cradle.

Sometimes the fairies make it a condition that the person to whom they gave the gift must not look at the gift until he gets home.

If the person bows down and looks, the gift turns into coal, eggshell, and the like.

The four-leaf clover is known in Slavic countries as fairy grass, and the person who finds it will bring luck and wealth, but also great misfortune if he throws the clover into the fire.

Admittedly, sometimes they know how to steal a child they particularly like (most often a beautiful and gifted child) and raise it as their own.

Sometimes they steal a child and plant their child instead (like changelings).

Although there are no elves, fairies like to seduce human youths and have offspring with them.

Men who are somehow related to the fairies are called elves, elves, or elves, but they are definitely of human origin.

If someone finds the fairies combing at the well, they take him with them.

They like to take revenge on humans if they break their oath or if they do not accept fairy friendship.

Those who accept fairy friendship often become clairvoyant or become skilled clairvoyants.

In addition to children, fairies also know how to kidnap adults.

A myth was recorded in Novigrad that says that fairies know how to kidnap a man and give him the knowledge of divination. They do this by taking him to the mountain where they live. The initiation of man takes place next to an old tree, which is a frequent initiation symbol in many mythologies.

It was also believed that fairies feed on honey, lambs, little pigs or eat lard.

Word comes that they ate the crumbs that were left on the table after people had eaten their meal.

Fairies do not drink water from anywhere but pure springs.

Sometimes their power was thought to reside in the golden belt or scarf they wore and if it was taken away, they lost their power.

That power was great, and this is best described by the legend that says that the Arena in Pula was built by fairies in one night.

They took stones from Učka and stacked them in a circle.

But fairies, in this version, are creatures of the night and when they heard the song of the first hen in the morning, they had to stop working.

Because of this, the Arena remained unfinished.

Suđenice (destinies, sujenices, birth women) are also some kind of fairy creatures that determine a person's fate at the moment of birth.

There are usually three judges who decide the child's fate after birth, and it will be as the last judge says.

They are invisible to people unless a person has a fern flower with them, and a woman in labor can hear them if she stays up all night.

In some regions, there was a custom of leaving food on the table, which the judges would then eat and then be gentle and benevolent in divination of the child's fate.

Women who claimed to be particularly skilled in healing and that fairies had taught them to do so were called elves.

There is a case dating back to 1660 when a notice was received "to the captain of Janjina in the Republic of Dubrovnik, Ivan Gučetić, that there were elves and witches in his captaincy". The captain ordered one of those elves to be brought because he was interested in what elves could do.

The elf replied that she knew how to heal and that she had been taught it by Aunt Vila, who appeared to her in a white robe, in the form of a nun.

She also claimed to be able to tell who was harmed by a witch and whether that person would recover or not.

From this statement, the mixing of the older mythology about fairies with newer Christian elements is obvious.

The reform of the Church, the fierce Protestant criticism of the situation in the Christian world of that time and the Council of Trent (1545-1563) initiated processes that strongly influenced Europe.

Namely, in addition to the reform of the Church, there was also a "reform of folk culture" when elves were put in a negative context, even though they had not previously attracted too much attention in church circles.

In the 17th century, elves were equated with witches, which meant that they were equally subject to persecution.

The practice of persecuting women accused of possessing supernatural powers was put to an end by Maria Theresa in 1756, and two years later, courts in Slavic countries were prohibited from conducting any trials against witches, elves and sorcery without the empress's direct permission.

⛤Isidora⛤

#slavic magic #slavic mythology #vile #vilenjaci #slavic folklore #slavs #fae #faeries #faery #fairy #fairy cottage #witch #witchcraft #history of witchcraft #magic #magick #witchblr

212 notes · View notes

dobbsie81 · 2 months

Text

Dove Lake Boatshed

View On WordPress

#Australia #Boatshed #Cradle Mountain #Dove Lake #Tasmania

0 notes

chapel-of-rizztual · 1 year

Text

Mountain is notorious for rescuing little creatures. His long walks in the woods often end with him returning with small, often injured creatures cradled gently in his hands, holding them against his chest keeping them warm. It’s Mostly rabbits and birds that need nursing back to health before being released again but there’s been a fox he found in the snow, almost frozen to death. A duck, that got named Elliot, that rain had found in the lake and helped him rescue. A few kittens and cats that get lost in the woods and need a Some love and affection. A couple of rats he found in traps and fixed up before giving them to Copia. Sibling’s and other clergy members would come to him with little creatures they’d found that needed his help. He gets up hourly to bottle feed the baby animals that need it. He sleeps with multiple animals in his bed to keep them warm. The ghouls den was always full of little animals that needed mountains love and help, no matter how temporary they need him for he’d always help them. Elliot the duck became permanent though. Don’t tell sister.

#I imagine mountain being almost like Mother Nature #or Snow White #nameless ghouls #ghost headcanons #mountain ghoul #the band ghost #ghost bc

117 notes · View notes

cyberrose2001 · 1 year

Note

Tfp arcee getting the passionate love she deserves by her female human s/o? Maybe after a long and tiring day arcee just needs some love and relaxation and s/o is happy to assist? Just some soft gay smut.

Scenario please but if you can't, hc's will be fine!Thank you and have a good day/night!!

TFP Arcee x human!fem!reader

this was so sweet and cute aaaaaa im dying,, thank you for requesting, this warms my lil gay heart 💕

Synopsis: The current situation of war is causing Arcee some stress, luckily her human s/o is here to help her relax, in more ways than one.

Warnings: Smut, teasing, dom/sub elements, slight angst.

Word count: 1972

It’s a summers afternoon, the sun still high in the sky. Arcee is in her alt form racing down the seemingly endless highway that leads to Jasper. Today has been long and tiring, she had been assigned with Bumblebee to hunt for one of the Omega Keys, the mission was unsuccessful. Both Arcee and Bumblebee were practically beaten up by Knockout. Not to mention she had been resisting the urge to rip out Smokescreens voice box ever since she returned to base, annoyed by his constant boasting.

She just really needed to get to you and let out her frustrations. This is what she loves about her human conjunx; she could call on you at anytime and you would never hesitate to listen. She was glad that Optimus had let her off for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring Ratchet’s protests claiming that she still needed to recover.

Eventually she parked out the front of your house, beeping her horn a few times. She watched as you peeked through the curtains in the window before making your way through the front door with a smile on your face, an overnight bag slung over your shoulder.

“Hi Arcee!” You greeted, sitting on the soft seating on her alt form, “How was your mission? Did you get the key thingy?”

Arcee is silent for a moment, not going unnoticed by you.

“No, that aft of a Decepticon took it before we had the chance to.” Arcee pulls away from the curb, speeding out of town. You can sense some tension, so you decided not to speak while she was driving not wanting to distract her, hanging on tight as the wind blows through your hair.

An hour had passed since Arcee picked you up, only making small talk along the way to her special place. A lake that was hidden by large willow trees with a beautiful back drop of the nearby mountain range, it was so isolated that she wasn’t even sure that other humans knew about it. When you first began dating Arcee, this was the first place she took you to, wanting to share its beauty with you.

On arriving to the lake, Arcee lets you hop off and transforms into her robot mode. Her pedes practically give out as she sits on the ground, leaning against a tree. You make your way over to her, tapping her servo so she can scoop you up and give her a gentle kiss on her dermas.

“Ok, talk to me, babe.” You say, laying down in the palm of her servo, “What happened today?”

Arcee ex-vents, cradling you to her chassis, “It’s just… everything… every time we get an upper hand on the Decepticons, they turn around and ruin all our efforts. We were so close to getting that Omega Key…”

You nod, rubbing one of her digits absentmindedly as you listened. You were very familiar with Arcee’s past and the number of losses that she has experienced at the hands of them, it saddens you to your very core to think about how many tears she has shed over the years of constant battles.

“I know that failure is bound to happen, but when it happens to you so many times… it’s exhausting.” She says, optics looking out onto the lake, “Makes you feel like you’re the failure.”

You stare up at her, eyebrows furrowing. You hate when she talks bad about herself, but you know that she is just venting things about herself she wouldn’t dare mention around the other members of team prime. You follow her eyes towards the lake, you then decided to leap off her servo and grab your bag to her surprise.

“(Y/n)? What are you… doing?” She draws her optics over to you as she watches you strip off your clothes to reveal a two-piece bikini (or whatever you are most comfortable in), shoving them into your bag. Arcee stiffens up at sudden sight of your bare skin, faceplates heating up. It’s not the first time she’s seen you barely naked, but it gets her riled up every single time.

“Come on,” You walk up to her, tugging on her arm, “We’re going swimming.”

Arcee quirks an optic ridge, but reluctantly stands and lets you drag her to the lake’s edge.

“(Y/n), I don’t even think I can swim.” She watches as you dip your toes into the water to get a feel for the temperature.

You scoff, “Have you even tried?”

She thinks for a moment, then shakes her helm, “No? I’ve had no need to. There’s no water on Cybertron.”

You grin, “Well there is on Earth!”

She watches as you walk out to waist deep water, slightly concerned for your safety, but she trusts you. You turn around and beckoned her over with a wave of your arm, before diving headfirst into the warm water.

Arcee releases a breath she didn’t even realise she was holding when you popped back up to the surface, and reluctantly treads into the water. It feels surprisingly soothing to her aching pedes as she walks in further to meet you, not as nice as a hot oil bath, but it’s still nice.

You swim over to her and drag her in, so she is now fully submerged in the lake, giving her a playful smile.

“Hey, can’t swim, remember?” Arcee gives you a playful smile back as she splashes you with some water. Arcee at least knows that the water is not nearly deep enough to be a problem to her, but likes teasing you, nonetheless.

Giggling, you block the water she aimed at you with your arms, then swimming your way over to her to cup her faceplates with your hands, giving her a gentle kiss. Sighing, Arcee returns your kiss, optics closing. You release from the kiss and press your forehead to hers.

After half an hour of swimming around with each other and sharing kisses in-between, you both had had enough and decided to return to the shore. Arcee had picked you up and laid you down on her chassis once she herself had laid down, both still dripping wet from the water. A tired sigh draws from your lips, and you lift your head to look at Arcee, a content smile on her face.

You bit your lip, deciding that now is the best time to continue to conversation from before, “Arcee, you’re not a failure.”

Arcee lifts her head up from the ground to look at you, a servo wrapped around your still practically bare waist.

“You are so valuable to the team, and to me.” You place a hand on her faceplate, she in return grabbing it with her other unoccupied servo and pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand, “I want to never make you feel this way ever again. I want to show you how much you are appreciated.”

Arcee’s breath hitches as you press soft kisses to her jawline, then down her neck cabling. Her face heats up as you press a tender kiss to where a humming spark lays in her chassis, traveling down the length of her body. She supresses a moan when you reach her interfacing panel, pressing a single kiss to the plating. It was always Arcee doing the work for you when things got sexual, always putting your needs before your own, she has never fully let you take charge before.

“Let me do this for you, Arcee…” You breathe, gently rubbing against the heated metal.

Arcee releases a breathy moan as she removes the panel, revealing a dripping wet valve. You smile at her moans, knowing that she can finally relax after working so hard lately. You gently rub a finger up and down her folds and Arcee’s hips shutter at the feeling. You lean down and flatten your tongue, licking straight up to collect her fluids that have leaked out.

“(Y/n) …” Arcee stutters, a servo flies straight to her intake to stifle her moans. Another servo moves down to grip your hair. You smile against her valve and swirl your tongue around her clit, loving her taste and her muted moans. But its not enough for you, you need to see her become undone and a complete mess at your hands.

You slowly insert a finger into her valve, unsure of how much she can take. You seem to be doing the right thing however, as you can feel her grip on your hair become tighter. She gasps as you insert two more fingers and then eventually working your way up to your whole hand, completely engulfed in her valve. It made you wonder how big Cybertronian dicks were, you laugh at the thought.

You continued to caress her insides whist sucking at her clit, relishing how she starts to buck her hips into your face. She moves the servo that was blocking her intake and throws her helm back with a loud moan as you let her grind on your now flattened tongue. She practically screamed as she came on it, hips jerking as you let her ride out her orgasm.

You give her clit a soft kiss as you slowly remove your hand from her valve, absolutely soaked in her fluids. Arcee whines as she watches you suck one of your fingers clean. You press kisses up her thigh plating until you were standing up.

“You don’t think I’m finished yet do you?” You playfully lick your lips as you slowly pull your bikini bottoms down. Arcee watches with wide optics as you then take your bikini top off, mesmerised by the soft breasts she’s once described to you as ‘Earths greatest invention’. She leans forward to sit up, bringing you closer to her helm so she can pepper them with kisses.

You moan softly, but then gently push her helm away, “Nope, lay back down.”

“(Y/nnnn) …” Arcee whines, falling backwards to lean her body weight on her elbows, “You know once those are out, I can’t resist.”

You ignore her as you move one of your legs over hers and sit down, her valve now flush against your own pussy in the scissoring position. It was difficult to position with Arcee’s sheer size compared to your body, but over time you figured out what was best for both you and Arcee.

“Primus!” Arcee cried out as you began to grind your heat against her clit, her own fluids providing plenty of lubricant. You moan out her name as you began to grind faster, hands firmly on the lower plating of her chassis to stabilise yourself. You watch as Arcee throws her helm back again, knowing that she was still so sensitive.

“Arcee… ughn...” You moan out. From the look on Arcee’s face, her praises and the feeling of grinding yourself on her valve, it doesn’t take long for you to finish. Your hips shaking as you draw out your own orgasm. Arcee hits her orgasm at the same time, dermas parted as her body jolts and shakes from the overstimulation. You pant hard, removing yourself from her valve, a sticky line of both of your lubricants connecting you together.

You crawl up to Arcee’s helm, laughing softly as you poke the side of her faceplate, “You ok, babe?”

Arcee weakly lifts her head, wrapping her servos around you and giving you a passionate kiss, you gladly accept the kiss, a soft moan escaping from you. Arcee pulls away and gives you a kiss to your head.

“You’re fragging amazing.” Arcee sighs, rubbing your bare back with a servo, “Thank you. I really appreciated this.”

You smile, pecking her lips again, “Anytime…” You rest your head on her chassis, “I love you so much, Arcee.”

She smiles down at you, “Love you too…”

#transformers #transformers prime #tfp #tfp arcee x reader #tfp arcee x human reader #valveplug

72 notes · View notes