#Benefits of Ash Trees

[gaytobymeres]

this module is actually actively making me hate people who are really into birds which is unfair because its not their fault and i do actually like birds. but how is an ecology module completely failing to actually talk about plants in a meaningful way?

[pooja90sh]

The Black Ash tree, scientifically known as Fraxinus nigra, is a remarkable species native to North America.

This majestic tree is not only admired for its beauty but also for its ecological significance, historical value, and the many benefits it provides to both humans and wildlife.

In this blog, we will delve into the secrets of the Black Ash tree, explore its benefits, and provide essential care tips for those looking to cultivate this magnificent species.

[thepinkpanther83]

Helloooooo, Im here w a request.. may or may not have actually been based on my high school experience lol… so you and Eddie are friends, your friends w all of hellfire but you and Eddie hang out together one on one more often than not. Bc you are the only one that can actually hang when you smoke. But after a while the dynamic shifts and you really start to notice him and how attracted you are to him but don’t tell anyone bc it would ruin what you guys have.. que him doing the same thing but he finally makes a move one night and it’s a friends w benefits thing.. then he really starts giving it to ya and it’s rough and passionate and that’s how the group finds out you guys are actually sleeping together 🤭🤭

Friends With Benefits

One-Shot Request: “Friends With Benefits”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: This delightfully filthy piece was inspired by an anonymous request. Thank you, Anony, for trusting me with your gloriously unhinged high school-inspired chaos. From hotboxing in the woods to getting caught by Hellfire… this one was an absolute blast to write.

Here’s to SoftDom!Eddie, stolen lighters, and getting caught in the act. 🎸🦇 With love and sin, 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸Summary: You and Eddie Munson have always been just friends, the kind who hotbox vans in the woods and laugh until your ribs ache. But somewhere between the lazy smirks, lingering touches, and too-long stares, something shifts. One kiss turns into a secret, then into a pattern, then into something rough and filthy and all-consuming.

You swore it was just sex. Just for fun. No feelings.

So why is Eddie looking at you like you’re his?

And why are you hoping that you are?

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Friends With Benefits”

You're in the back of Eddie's van, it's late at night. You're parked in the woods just outside of Hawkins. A joint burns low between two of Eddie's fingers. It's hotboxed, lazy, and laced with unsaid things.

Eddie exhales a long stream of smoke through his nose, head tilted back against the shaggy cushion propped up on the van's wall. The inside smells like weed, leather, and that Eddie scent you know too well now- mint gum, a hint of sweat, something warm and earthy. Familiar.

You’re half-sprawled across the bench seat opposite him, bare feet propped up beside his thigh, a blanket pooled in your lap. He’s wearing those tattered pajama pants that barely cling to his hips, no shirt, hair a riotous halo in the faint glow of the string lights tacked around the ceiling.

“You’re the only one I trust not to green out and puke in my glove box,” he says, voice low and amused. The joint wobbles between his fingers as he offers it.

You take it, drag slowly. "That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, Eddie."

Eddie grins, teeth flashing. "Don’t tempt me. I’ve said worse right before kissing someone."

"Oh yeah? Let me guess. 'You smell like chicken nuggets, wanna make out?'"

"No," he says with mock indignation. "It was 'your eyeliner's smudged and it's doing things to me.' Which, for the record, worked."

You laugh, deep and honest. The kind that fills the van, rattles the empties in the cupholder. He chuckles too, soft and easy, like he can’t help it.

He shifts a little, knee bumping yours. It lingers.

“Is this, like, our thing now?” you murmur. “Weekly weed therapy sessions in the back of your van?”

Eddie gives a lazy shrug. "Hellfire can't handle their grass. Remember how Dustin took that hit one time and tried to fight a tree?"

"It looked at him wrong."

"That pine was menacing."

You both crack up again. It’s easy. It always is. That’s what scares you.

He flicks ash into a beer bottle, watching the embers fade.

You stretch, letting your head fall to the side so it rests lightly on his thigh. It’s not the first time. Probably not the last. His hand drifts without thinking, settling in your hair, fingertips stroking idly along your scalp.

You close your eyes.

Eddie hums something tuneless. Maybe Zeppelin. Maybe just the rhythm of your heartbeats.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “for someone who talks a lot of shit, you’re real nice to be high with.”

“Flattery. From Eddie Munson. Be still my heart.”

He tugs gently at a lock of your hair. "Just sayin’. Most people get annoying when they’re stoned. You? You just get… floaty."

You blink up at him, something soft tugging at your ribs. "And you get handsy."

He smirks, eyes gleaming through the haze. "Don’t pretend you don’t like it."

Your lips twitch. You do like it.

But you don’t say that. You just nudge your foot lightly against his side and say, “Pass the joint, Romeo.”

He does, and your fingers brush and linger.

You notice his hands. His mouth. The stretch of his back when he reaches overhead. The stupid way his bangs fall over his eyes when he laughs too hard.

You don’t say anything. Because this is your best friend. Because ruining this would ruin everything.

But sometimes, when you’re curled up next to him, when his fingers find your wrist and just rest there, you wonder if he feels it too.

You flirt. Of course, you flirt. You always have. But now it catches, fizzles, lingers.

“Move over,” you mutter one night, nudging his knee.

“There’s, like, six feet of space in here.”

“Your hair’s in my mouth.”

“Bet you’d like it better if my mouth was on yours.”

He says it with a smirk. A dare. And you smirk back, roll your eyes, make some joke. Pretend your pulse didn’t spike.

You don’t think about kissing him.

Except for when you do.

Like when he leans too close and says your name like it’s got gravity.

Like when his thigh presses against yours and he doesn’t move away.

Like now... when he’s staring at you while sprawled out in the back of his van, eyes low-lidded and warm and hungry, but he doesn't make a move.

And neither do you.

It happens on a night like every other... except it isn’t.

He’s rambling about something dumb, a theory about Chewbacca being secretly force-sensitive, and you’re pretending to listen while watching his mouth move. Plush. Pink. Distractingly pretty.

You make a joke. He laughs, head thrown back, and the sound curls around your ribs.

The joint is long gone. The air is thick with quiet. You’re curled into Eddie’s side, his arm draped lazily over your shoulders, thumb absently tracing circles on your arm. There’s music playing low from the front seat, something dreamy and slow.

You shift closer, reaching for the lighter that’s way closer to him than it needs to be. Your breasts brush against his side. He doesn’t move away.

There’s a moment. Too long. Something thick in the air.

You shift slightly. So does he. You end up facing each other, eyes locked.

His hand comes up to brush your cheek. His fingers were steady and sure.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna do something real stupid.”

You breathe, “Like what?”

He looks down at you, eyes dark. “Like this.”

And then he leans in, slow and unsure, but you meet him halfway.

The kiss is clumsy. Surprising. Hot. It’s not gentle. It’s hungry. His hands slide into your hair, your arms wrap around his neck, and suddenly you’re in his lap, legs straddling his hips, breath mixing, teeth clashing.

Your hands tangle in the hair at his nape. He grabs your hips. You end up grinding against him, bodies flush, breath stolen.

He groans into your mouth. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t hesitate as you pant, “I don’t want you to.”

He flips you beneath him, lips back on yours like he’s starving. It’s rough. Passionate. Possessive. Like he’s been waiting forever.

He groans low in his throat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he grinds up into you. You moan. He swallows it.

“God, you’re mine,” he mutters against your throat, hips grinding down. “Mine.”

You arch up. “I’m yours.”

And that’s the start of everything.

The van rocks.

That night, neither of you slept. And the next morning, you don’t talk about it.

But you do it again. And again. And again.

A few weeks later. In Eddie’s trailer. His bedroom lit only by a flickering lava lamp and a half-dead string of lights.

You're on your back, wrists pinned to the mattress by Eddie’s calloused hands, breath ragged, lips swollen. His body is pressed to yours, sweat-damp and hungry.

His voice is gravel low and possessive as he pants against your throat, “You gonna be a good girl for me, sweetheart?”

You nod, gasping, “Yes, Eddie.”

“Say it again.”

“I'll be good, Eddie. So fucking good.”

He groans like it physically hits him, burying himself deeper inside you. One hand releases your wrist just to wrap around your throat- not too tight, just enough to hold you still, to make you feel it.

“You like being fucked like this, baby?”

You whimper, nodding, eyes glassy. “So much. You feel so good. Eddie, please-”

He smirks smugly. “That’s it, baby. Beg for it.”

His hips snap harder, driving into you with a rhythm that’s punishing in the best way. You cling to him, nails digging red tracks into your palms.

He watches you fall apart. Watches every twitch, every sound, every tremble. “You look so fuckin�� pretty like this,” he growls. “My perfect girl, wrecked for me.”

You chant his name like a prayer, your body unraveling beneath his. He drops his head to your neck, teeth scraping skin.

He bites down, not enough to break the skin, just enough to own you. And then he moans your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

And even then, even wrecked and trembling and panting, he kisses you like you’re made of gold.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice raw.

And you, lips swollen, fingers still gripping him like an anchor, whisper back: “Yours.”

Because you are.

In public, you're normal.

But in private? He’s pinning your legs back and calling you his. Slipping a hand under your shirt while you're sprawled in the van, squeezing your tits like they belong to him. Because they do.

“You're so sexy, Eddie,” you whisper one night, high and breathless as he mouths at your neck.

He groans in response, like praise is his drug of choice. "Say that again. Say it while I’m inside you."

You do. And he thanks you with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth.

But your cover starts slipping.

The way his eyes linger across the lunch table in the cafeteria. The way your hand ends up in his lap, groping his crotch during Hellfire meetings, hidden under the table until Jeff nearly chokes on his soda when he catches a potential glimpse.

The hickeys. The bruises. The way you bite your lip when he smirks at you like he’s remembering every filthy thing he’s ever done to you.

It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the group figures it out.

Shit hits the fan one Friday night.

Hellfire’s running late, the boys are loitering around outside of Eddie’s trailer because Jeff left the dice in his backpack and had to run home. You and Eddie, with time to kill, slipped into his room.

He locked the door… he thought.

Now you're on your knees between his legs, one hand braced against his thigh, the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His head is tipped back, eyes shut, fingers tangled in your hair as you take him deeper and deeper with every swirl of your tongue.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he groans, hips twitching. “God, you’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You hum around him, and he practically whimpers.

You don’t hear the front door creak open. Don’t hear the muffled footsteps in the hallway.

But you do hear the sudden, horrified squawk:

“OH MY GOD-”

You jerk back. Eddie yells. Dustin’s voice shrieks from the open doorway, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

Jeff appears behind him, mouth open in stunned disbelief. Gareth turns the corner, takes one look, and just says, “Called it.”

Eddie hastily grabs a pillow to shield himself, cheeks red as hellfire itself. “Can’t you guys knock?!”

“YOU DIDN’T LOCK THE DOOR!” Dustin shouts.

“I THOUGHT I DID!”

Jeff looks like he wants to die. Gareth is digging into his wallet, smirking. “Told you guys they were fucking, ya’ll each owe me a twenty.”

You scramble to your feet, mortified. Eddie, though… Eddie is grinning now. Still red, but smug.

Dustin sputters, “You two? Really? Since when?!”

Eddie shrugs one shoulder, slinging an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Since always, apparently.”

The gremlins are finally kicked out.

You and Eddie collapse into his bed, both flushed and half-dressed, tangled in sheets and mutual embarrassment.

“Well,” Eddie says, breathless. “That went about as smooth as a chainsaw ballet.”

You laugh into his chest, the sound muffled. “They’re never letting us live this down.”

He kisses your hair, lips lingering. “Worth it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You peek up at him, grinning. “Maybe.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, hand sliding under your borrowed shirt just to rest warm and possessive on your hip. “So… we’re, like… official now?”

You smirk. “Define ‘official’.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Labels and everything.”

You mock gasp. “You wanna put a label on this? Scandalous.”

“I just wanna make out with my girlfriend without getting cockblocked by Henderson.”

You snort. “Good luck with that.”

He leans down, brushing your lips with his. “Challenge accepted.”

You nestle back into him, letting your head drop to his shoulder as one of his hands starts tracing lazy circles along your back. The moment softens. Deepens.

“I didn’t just want the sex,” you murmur after a pause, voice small. “I wanted you. The real you. Even when you snore. Even when you talk in your sleep about Slayer.”

Eddie exhales a shaky laugh. “Yeah? I didn’t either. I mean… I didn’t just want the sex. Been falling for you since you stole my lighter and then denied it for three weeks.”

“You left it in my backpack.”

“Semantics.”

You pull his Corroded Coffin tee tighter around yourself and press a kiss to his jaw.

He strokes your back, sighing out, “Guess I’m officially off the market now.”

You smile into his neck. “You were never on it.”

Eddie grins, pulling you impossibly closer. “Hot.”

The two of you fall asleep like that, tangled limbs and soft laughter, your heartbeat syncing to his. He tucks his face into your neck as you curl around him, warm and secure.

From the hallway, in the warm silence that follows, and the light that glows dimly through the crack in the door, your quiet little shield from the world. You lay tangled together, still high on the chaos, you both know, whatever this is… It’s real. It’s messy. And it’s yours.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000

Masterlist

[speaknowgirl3184]

Ashes In His Wake

Eris Vanserra x female reader

In Autumn Court, you and Eris formed a dangerous alliance under the guise of love, but when he uses your bond for political gain, you’re left to unravel whether you were ever anything more than a pawn.

Warnings: ANGST, emotional manipulation, betrayal, toxic, grief, mentions of death, war, and conflicts. (Let me know if there is anything else).

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist

The alliance was not born from hope. It was forged in shadows and smoke, the kind of agreement made not with trust, but with desperation clawing at both of your throats. There were no witnesses. No ceremony. Only the brittle wind cutting through the bare branches above, and two people standing in the middle of a land that belonged to no one, a cold, silent clearing between the borders of your court and his.

Even the trees held their breath that night, as if they knew something fragile and dangerous was about to fracture and be named destiny.

You remembered the way he had looked at you in that clearing, his red hair tousled from the wind, the dim glow of firelight glinting in those golden eyes. Firelight, yes. But not warmth. Never warmth. Just power. Control. And something else, lurking beneath the surface, something ancient and aching, like a wound never allowed to heal. You told yourself it was longing. It was easier to pretend that he looked at you like you were more than a pawn, more than a name to be carved into his rise toward the crown.

“An alliance,” he had said, voice low and velvet-smooth, the word itself curling in the air like smoke from a dying flame. “Mutual benefit. You want vengeance. I want the throne.”

His words echoed like prophecy.

“And you want me to help you get it,” you had answered, lifting your chin despite the ache in your throat. You were already trembling from the cold, from everything this meeting meant. “What do I get in return?”

Eris had smiled then. Slow. Languid. Like a serpent sliding across frost-covered stone.

“Whatever your heart desires.”

He had meant it as a promise. But to you, it had sounded like a dare.

You should have walked away then, should have turned and vanished into the woods before the weight of his gaze could settle on your skin and dig its claws into your spine. You should have known better than to believe in a Vanserra’s vow, especially from the son who wielded affection like a weapon and wore manipulation like armor.

But you agreed.

You agreed because your sister’s blood still stained the soil near Autumn’s border — because no one ever called it a war, not officially, but she had died screaming anyway. You agreed because your father’s lands were being devoured inch by inch by Autumn’s encroaching greed, because the court you came from was crumbling under pressure, too weak to protect its own. You agreed because no one had ever given you a choice that wasn’t laced with sacrifice.

And maybe, if you were honest, if you peeled back all the scorn and fury and grief inside you, maybe, just maybe… you agreed for him.

For the man beneath the cunning and the cruelty, for the phantom version of Eris who emerged only in silence, when the masks were off, when no one else could see. The version who pressed his forehead to yours as if the act alone kept him tethered. Who kissed you not with hunger, but with reverence. Who whispered that you were the only thing in this world that didn’t ask him to be something he wasn’t.

The one who made you believe, just for a moment, that there was something real between you. Something worth risking everything for.

So you helped him.

You stood beside him like a blade sheathed in silk. The perfect consort, or the perfect distraction. You learned the names of the powerful and the wretched, how to bend your voice just enough to be heard without challenging the court’s brittle pride. You smiled in courtrooms and lied with elegance. You delivered messages hidden beneath layers of meaning, veiled threats laced in your laughter. You watched every move, gathered every secret, became whatever he needed you to be.

And the court began to whisper.

They said you were dangerous. That Eris Vanserra had taken a lover no one could quite place, a girl from a lesser court who burned brighter than anyone expected, who moved through firelight as though she belonged to it. A threat. A mystery. His.

They said he had fallen for you.

You almost let yourself believe it.

But everything cracked the day he turned you into a weapon.

Not an ally. Not a lover. Not even a friend.

Just a means to an end, polished and sharpened and thrown into the lion’s den with a smile.

And in that moment, you understood what kind of game you’d really been playing.

And just how badly you’d already lost.

-----------

The meeting was political, nothing more than another bloodless war behind polished oak doors and etched silver goblets, the kind of war where words were sharper than blades, where allegiances were traded like coin. You had known your role before you entered the chamber. Sit still. Look lovely. Let the men talk.

You had learned how to breathe silence like it was survival, how to speak without speaking, how to wear a mask as finely honed as any Vanserra. You were his consort in all but name, the quiet shadow beside the flame. And you were used to being overlooked, until you weren’t.

Until the moment they decided your presence was too loud to be ignored.

Lord Rathnor leaned forward across the long table, his gaze dripping disdain, his voice steeped in condescension. His words struck with the cold, calculated venom of a man who had never once faced consequence.

“A courtless wretch,” he said, lips curling. “And yet here she is, in these halls of power. Must be a particularly skilled—”

The rest of the sentence died on his tongue, unfinished, foul.

A wave of Eris’s hand cut the air like a blade, smooth and unbothered. The room stilled.

“Let her speak, if she wants,” Eris said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could never quite be called a smile. “After all, she’s proven… useful.”

Useful.

The word landed like a blow.

It echoed in your chest, a shuddering crack down the spine of everything you had built between you, or thought you had. You had prepared yourself for venom, for cruelty from the lords. You had not braced for it from him.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t glare at Rathnor, didn’t tear down the insult, didn’t put a single finger between you and the fire.

He let it stand. Let it twist in the air.

Let it become you.

The room erupted into quiet laughter, low, cruel, like hounds baring their teeth, but you didn’t hear it. Not really. You heard the finality in Eris’s voice. The casual indifference. The soft, deliberate cruelty tucked into the syllables.

You had been many things in this court. A ghost. A shield. A blade. His.

But now you were something else: a tool. Something useful. Something used.

Your hands curled tightly in your lap, nails biting crescents into your palms. You felt the slow creep of shame, that old, familiar sting, the kind you hadn’t known since you were a girl trying to prove her worth in a world built to deny it.

You lifted your eyes. Met his.

Fire meeting storm.

And for a heartbeat, just one, you saw something flicker in those golden depths. Not guilt. Not remorse.

Regret.

Regret laced with something unspoken, unreadable. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

Because he looked away.

Just like that, turned his gaze from you as if you were nothing more than another whisper on the wind, another pawn who had served her purpose.

You stayed until the meeting ended. You smiled when you needed to, dipped your head when required. You wore the mask that he had taught you to perfect, one final performance.

But when the doors opened, when the lords filed out and Eris turned to speak to you, you were already gone.

You didn’t sleep in his chambers that night.

You didn’t light the fire.

You didn’t wait for him to come looking.

And he didn’t.

Not that night and not the one after.

-----------

You confronted him days later, days spent in silence, in the echoing chambers of a court that no longer felt like anything but a cage. Days spent alone, unraveling every memory, every glance, every whispered word he’d ever given you. Turning them over like bones in your hands, trying to see if they had ever meant something real, or if the rot had been there from the beginning.

The fire was already lit in his chambers when you arrived.

It crackled like a heartbeat in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. It mirrored the rage coursing through your veins, not loud, not wild, but steady. Controlled. Devastating. You stood at the threshold for a breath, taking in the man who had once held your face like it was sacred, now standing with his back to you, his silhouette framed in flames.

“Say something,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. But it cut through the silence like a blade.

Eris turned. Slowly. The mask was already in place, impassive, cold, composed. But you saw the crack just behind his eyes.

“I never asked you to love me,” you said, each word trembling, hollowing you out as it left your lips. “Just not to use me.”

The fire flared. He didn’t flinch.

His gaze held yours, unreadable. “And what did you think this was, exactly?” he asked, his tone too even, too measured, like he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times before you ever arrived. “A love match? We made a deal, Y/N. You knew what this was.”

“No.” The word left you like a breath stolen by the cold. You took a step forward. “I thought I did. I thought we were allies.”

“We were.”

The certainty in his voice made you want to scream. You stared at him, truly stared, and wondered if he even knew what the word ally meant.

“Were we?” you asked, voice breaking now, unraveling like silk thread pulled too tight. “Or was I just a convenient tool to parade around, a token to keep at your side until the lords started taking you seriously? Until they believed you were more than your father’s shadow?”

Eris didn’t answer at first.

Something shifted behind his eyes, a flicker of something too raw, too human, to belong in a court like this. He looked at you then. Truly looked. And for one heartbeat, you saw it.

The sorrow.

The apology he would never speak aloud.

The truth buried beneath centuries of pride and cruelty and masks he could no longer remove.

“I told you once,” he said at last, quietly, “that I would give you whatever your heart desired.”

A pause.

The weight of it fell like ash between you.

“But I never promised you mine.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

And gods, they were worse because he meant them. Because they weren’t cruel, they were honest. Because for all his power and cunning, for all the fire in his blood, Eris Vanserra had never learned how to give without strings. Without armor.

The silence that followed stretched long and cold and aching, like a wound that refused to close.

You didn’t speak again. There was nothing left to say.

You turned, heart splintering in your chest, and walked away. Past the firelight, past the shadows that had once felt like home. Back to your rooms, to your silence.

You packed your things with shaking hands, folding your life into a single satchel, your heart into a coffin.

And when you left Autumn Court that night, you didn’t look back.

He didn’t follow.

And still, somehow, it broke you more than if he had begged you to stay.

-----------

Weeks passed.

Then months.

The world turned without him, and yet, not quite. Not really.

You kept to the quiet corners of Prythian, far from court intrigue, far from whispering lords and blood-soaked crowns. You buried yourself in work, in routine, in the dull repetition of survival. But no matter how far you ran, the fire followed. Not the Autumn Court’s fire, his.

The kind that smoldered beneath your skin, even as you told yourself you’d healed.

The rumors came like smoke on the wind, drifting in from half-burnt letters and talkative traders, from drunken tavern murmurs and sharp-eyed spies who always knew just a little too much. You didn’t ask for the news. But it came anyway.

Eris Vanserra had ascended.

The eldest son. The disgrace. The monster. Now crowned High Lord of Autumn.

He had carved his path in fire and silence, in the shadows where no one thought to look. His father, gone, his death never spoken of directly, but the implications were clear. His mother, vanished into some quiet estate, no longer seen at court. His brothers? Dead. Exiled. Erased from the board like pieces in a long, brutal game of chess.

The Autumn Court was reborn in blood and ash. A place of sharp elegance and colder mercy. And at the center of it stood him, untouched, untouchable. Alone.

And you?

You stayed away.

You built a life that didn’t require his name to anchor it, didn’t lean on stolen glances and quiet nights to give it meaning. But that didn’t mean you ever stopped remembering. The dreams were the worst, soft, half-formed things that bled into waking.

You dreamed of him. Always.

Of the boy who touched you like you were real, like your skin held stars he had never dared name.

Of the man who let you go without asking you to stay.

You told yourself he was gone. That he’d chosen power. That whatever softness once lived between you had been a trick of the light, a lie you whispered to yourself in the spaces between betrayal and hope.

Until the letter came.

It arrived on a quiet evening, the kind of stillness that felt like a warning.

Sealed in red wax. The crest of Autumn pressed deep into the envelope, still warm as if it had been sent through flame itself. You stared at it for a long time before opening it.

And then you read the words.

You were never a pawn.I only knew how to play the game, not how to win something like you.

But if you ever wish to return… not as a tool, not as a whisper in my shadow, but as the one who helped me set the court free…I’ll be waiting.Not as your High Lord.Just as Eris.

The parchment trembled in your hands.

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t a plea.

It was the truth. Stark and raw and cruel in its simplicity.

He had never known how to love you, not the way you needed. But he’d wanted to. That was the worst part. That somewhere beneath the armor and cruelty, beneath the ambition and centuries of silence, Eris Vanserra had wanted to choose you.

And hadn’t.

You burned the letter.

Set it alight in your hearth and watched it curl, blacken, collapse into ash, the same way he had collapsed everything that once lived between you.

But even as the flames devoured his words, you closed your eyes.

And read them again.

Every night after, they returned, not in ink, but in memory. You heard them between heartbeats. Whispered them into your pillow. Carried them in the hollows he left behind.

Because anger and love are not opposites.

They are siblings. Born of the same fire. Fed by the same hunger.

And Eris Vanserra had always left ashes in his wake.

And cauldron help you, some part of you still stood in them, hoping.

---------------

a/n: I hope you guys liked it <3. Thank you guys so much for blowing up both of my Azriel fics, it means so much to me!!! 💗

[planetpissed]

aaaaaugh…

There you go. You like it? It’s sin-thetic fruit of the Zaqqum tree. Keeps me sane, buddy. Keep it going.

The troll continued to pull from it. 

Who the hell is this asshat?

Please, ‘Asshat’ is my father’s name...

Disturbed the dead fellow read his thoughts, Murder flinched. His diaphragm reacted to the movement and caused him to hiccup and snort boiling, red hot magma-bile up his throat and out his nasal cavity. Part of it splashed onto the living hellhound pipe, it snarling at the startle.

 KEAUGH! KHHHAEGH! KHUEEGH!

aaaaughhh…

RAAUGHRF!! RAAUHFFF RAUGHFF!!

aaauuughh…

It didn’t distract him long, however. He kept smoking - as putrid as the sensations sounded, his demon-troll-state found it pleasant, akin to drinking pints in a sauna. He gathered himself as his tears finally ceased.

 As weird as this random encounter is tonight, the bassist can’t label it as a bad one. Thank you, Son of Asshat, for this… What did the guy say this was again? Better yet, who was this guy? What’s his actual god damn name?

Oh, come on, now!

You know me, buddy... Your band tried to summon me after you all did it for a game commercial, remember? You all wanted to see if I’d ACTUALLY help you order a good pizza if you managed to pull it off? I apologize, but I haven’t a clue what a good pizza would be... Any human food that makes it down here turns to ash once the dead touch it. 

…?

I’m Death. You died not too long ago. God status keeps you golden, though - you aren’t bound here. Lucky bastard.

He hoisted his legs and propped them at the edge of the ferry, revealing a set of stocks around his ankles.

Looks like the both of us are cursed for now, though, aren’t we?

...

Ok. So. He’s dead. Murder kind of gathered that, himself. What an interesting factoid, “Death”.

Pops and buzzes to you, all those words? 

The troll would rather keep smoking. Smoking’s good for you. Doctors used to swear by it, you know? They stopped that health-benefit narrative for Big Pharma-

Uh oh. You haven’t forgotten who you are, have you?

Uh, have you seen him? 

He’s… Murder…? 

Murderkrakish, the Lake-of-Fire Troll? Soon-to-be Gatekeeper of the Doomstar? And he loves eating bones? And hating himself, don’t forget that! Sulking is IN, baby!

…This might help; if you don’t remember, your name is William Murderface. Ring any bells?

..!

Oh, it was ringing many bells. It was as if Death had a bucket of ice water and dumped it onto Will’s head. Murderface stood up, eyes wide in shock he forgot such information, trying his best now to secure it into his mind. 

I AM MURDERFACE! 

Bassist of… A BAND! // My parents died of a MURDER-SUICIDE! //

I am a WARRIOR!

FUCKING CHRIST!

His jaw didn’t drop - it clenched. So hard, if he were still mortal, his teeth would crack. The smoke mix burned into scorching fire;

aaauuuuuggHHHH!!

Hyehhyehhyegh...

Your bull-man mommy’s not here, bubba. How about you join us on the ferry, instead of sulking at the lake crossings of lamentation and woe?

I promise we’ll bring you back before curfew…

Pipe retrieved, now being placed in a pocket,

We need to get some music back into your life. 

He cradled the beast’s head, and looked at him with eons of experience. How can the macabre be so assuring? 

Death understood - he’s complicated, confusing. Harsh. But underneath it all… accepting.

And incredibly disarming.

 Death opened Murder’s mouth wide…

…and crammed his arm down his throat. 

Easy! Easy… We need to… make sure… you’ve got one…

Thereeee we go… don’t be shy.

Relax… Open your heart up…

Ok, don’t move. Stay right there…

You’ve got a big heart for a troll, you know that? Try not to rock the boat...

After some blind searching, he hooked fingers around something, pulling the slobbery object out.

THERE WE GO! PHEW!

It appeared to be a coin, or medallion of sorts.

Here, Charon. Catch.

<<PREV - NEXT>>

[toronto-tree-removal]

Expert Tree Removal Services in Toronto: Why It Matters for Safety & Aesthetics

Introduction: The Importance of Professional Tree Removal

Trees are an essential part of Toronto’s urban landscape, offering shade, beauty, and environmental benefits. However, there are times when tree removal becomes a necessity due to safety hazards, disease, or urban development needs. At Toronto Tree Removal, we specialize in safe, professional, and efficient tree removal services across various neighborhoods, including The Annex, The Beaches, Liberty Village, and more.

In this post, we’ll discuss when tree removal is necessary, the process involved, and how to choose the best tree removal service in Toronto.

When Should You Consider Tree Removal?

Not all trees need to be removed, but some situations demand professional intervention. Here are common reasons why property owners in Toronto might need tree removal services:

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Structural Damage Risk: If tree roots are damaging underground pipes, sidewalks, or your home’s foundation, removal may be the best solution.

Obstructing Construction or Landscaping Projects: Sometimes, trees need to be cleared for new buildings, driveways, or other landscaping projects.

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If you’re unsure whether a tree should be removed, our team at Toronto Tree Removal can provide an assessment.

The Tree Removal Process: What to Expect

At Toronto Tree Removal, we follow a structured and safe approach to tree removal:

1. Site Inspection & Assessment

Our ISA-certified arborists first assess the tree's condition, size, and location to determine the safest removal method.

2. Obtaining Necessary Permits

In Toronto, tree removal regulations require permits for trees over 30 cm in diameter on private property. We assist clients with the application process, ensuring compliance with city regulations.

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Using specialized equipment such as ropes, harnesses, and cranes, we carefully cut and remove the tree in sections, minimizing damage to surrounding property.

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📞 Call Us Today: 647-558-1366 📍 Address: 2 Forest Laneway #304, Toronto, ON M2N 5X7 📧 Email: info@torontotreeremoval.ninja 🌍 Website: https://www.torontotreeremoval.ninja

Citations:

Toronto Tree Removal Services

Tree Bylaws & Removal Permits – City of Toronto

ISA Certified Arborists – Why Certification Matters

[slightecho]

Goldenrod and Aster

commission by the lovely and amazing @turquoisespace35 of a very familiar scene from my Owl House fic, Ashes!!

Then, the clearing in the trees came into full view, and Willow let out a soft gasp. The sun shone through in bright rays, lighting up everything in a warm golden yellow. No leaves touched the ground here. Instead, the clearing was filled in a blanket of yellow, purples and green! The brushing she’d felt along her legs had been lush spikes of yellow flowers, strong and healthy as she passed by them. And where there were gaps amongst the fluffy-looking tufts of yellow, bunches of small, purple flowers like starbursts grew in between. “Goldenrod,” she giggled, reaching out to lightly touch a dusty branch. As she eased forward into the clearing, she was careful not to step on any big stems. Her fingertips drifted easily to the purple next, and she crouched down with a smile on her face. “And Aster…” These were often mistaken for daisies in her dad’s shop. It was getting more common to see these two plants growing together in the wild—their colors contrasted, and that meant they would attract different pollinators. Because of this, growing together would give them each benefit from the pollinators from the other. A whole new set of ones they would have never attracted on their own. They were able to grow more flowers together, than apart, that way. A wonderfully symbiotic relationship. Willow smiled up at Hunter, and snickered. “I’m guessing you probably also found all the major beehives on this side of Gravesfield, but don’t look for them now,” she remarked. The bees were likely starting to go dormant with the days growing colder. It was best not to disturb them. Hunter blanched, his eyes going wide and his proud grin falling from his face. “Wait, what?”

Working with @turquoisespace35 on this commission was an absolute pleasure! I’ve been such a fan of her work for a long time and I knew if I ever commissioned a Huntlow piece from Ashes, it would have to be from her! Thank you again, Turquoise!!

I can’t believe how perfectly she captured the vibe and the ambience of the scene without ever having read a single word of Ashes, just my own TL;DR description of the scene. 🥰

If anyone’s looking to commission Huntlow artwork, please check @turquoisespace35 out!

If you’re interested in checking out Ashes, you can do so here:

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hi! I find your information really helpful, so I wanted to know if you have anything on nymphs?

I vaguely recall someone mentioning Penelope from the Odyssey was related to nymphs but don’t know what they are or if that’s true?

Writing Notes: Nymphs

Nymph - (in Greek mythology) any of a large class of inferior female divinities.

Usually associated with fertile, growing things, such as trees, or with water.

They were not immortal but were extremely long-lived and were on the whole kindly disposed toward men.

They were distinguished according to the sphere of nature with which they were connected.

Examples:

The Oceanids were sea nymphs;

the Nereids inhabited both saltwater and freshwater;

the Naiads presided over springs, rivers, and lakes.

The Oreads (oros, “mountain”) were nymphs of mountains and grottoes; the Napaeae (nape, “dell”) and

the Alseids (alsos, “grove”) were nymphs of glens and groves;

the Dryads or Hamadryads presided over forests and trees.

Italy had native divinities of springs and streams and water goddesses (called Lymphae) with whom the Greek nymphs tended to become identified.

Penelope - (in Greek mythology) a daughter of Icarius of Sparta and the nymph Periboea and wife of the hero Odysseus.

Roman writers such as Ovid also used the nymphs to highlight the benefits and beauty of nature through creative works.

The tradition of nature writings containing allusions to the nymphs has continued throughout history. Particularly in the Renaissance, artwork flourished with the theme of nature and humanity. Poems, paintings, and other creative modes in the modern day have continued to enhance the longevity of the nymphs and their influence on the representation of nature.

The ancient Greeks had the beautiful idea that there was a “divine” part in all nature. This divine, energetic force breathed life into everything. The Greeks recognized the calming and therapeutic benefits of nature and sensed life within the trees, mountains, and rivers. Hence, nature was given visual embodiments, the nymphs.

In Greek Mythology. Nymphs came in various forms.

They populated and beautified the stories of Greek heroes, descriptions of the ancient Greek landscapes, and the home of the gods.

“Nymph” translates from the ancient Greek as “young girl,” as nymphs took the form of young women who were also nature spirits.

“Nymphs” is also an overarching or umbrella term for many different types of nature spirits like the Dryads, the Naiads, and the Oreads.

Nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit. Ralph Waldo Emerson

As spirits, the nymphs could reflect the moods of nature.

Have you ever walked through a forest and felt it was cold and unappealing?

Or the opposite, a forest full of sunlight that comforts the soul?

The ancient Greeks identified the different atmospheres in nature with the moods of the nymphs.

Dryads took residence in trees, Naiads in the rivers, and Oreads in the mountains.

IN ART. Many writers, artists, and creative thinkers used the imagery of nymphs to depict moods and senses, set in the diverse scenery of nature.

Anthropomorphizing nature — when one ascribes human-like attributes to nature — is a common technique to draw connections between humans and nature, and yet, at the same time, it is a way to see humanity as nature itself.

Often in the modern-day, humans divide themselves from nature as something separate. However, with the increase of environmental movements, this narrative is beginning to change. We are re-evaluating our relationship and identification with nature.

DRYADS. The term “dryad” translates as “of the tree or oak.” These were, naturally, the spirits of trees, woodlands, oaks, pines, poplars, ash trees, and so on. There were many different types of dryads, but the rarest were the Daphnaie. If a tree nymph had a specific name, such as the Hamadryades, then that meant the spirit of the nymph was tied to the tree. If the tree were to perish, so would the dryad’s spirit. Conversely, if the tree were to blossom, the life of the dryad would be healthy and spirited. Dryads often hid from humans, but they could be playful. They enjoyed the company of Pan, the god of the wild. Fauns and nymphs would often play together. Their wild nature came out during the revelries of Dionysius when the wine god would bring his wild wine-infused parties through the forests. The Dryads would be all too eager to join.

NAIADS. The word “Naiad” comes from the ancient Greek verb “naiein,” which means “to flow.” This name is perfectly appropriate for water spirits. They inhabited the ocean, lakes, ponds, and rivers. The freshwater Naiads were more known for their light-heartedness and benevolence, whereas the salty sea nymphs were known to be more troublesome. The nymphs were often the companions of gods, and during their youth, would be the playmates of the gods. In one myth, there was a Naiad named Pallas who was good friends with the young goddess Athena. Pallas’ home was the Lake Tritonis in Libya, which was in ancient North Africa. When Pallas and Athena were playing war games, Pallas was accidentally killed. To remember her friend, Athena created a monument called the Palladium. This statue became an important relic to the Trojans, who viewed the Palladium as a protection charm. If it were removed from the city, the city would fall. They could inhabit lakes, rivers, springs, and fountains, and they usually had a preference for salt or fresh water.

Daphne, a Naiad, and her myth is one of the most famous metamorphosis stories. She transformed from a water nymph into a laurel tree during her lifetime. Her story begins in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

Phoebus Apollo had vainly criticized Cupid’s work with the bow, but Cupid would have his revenge, according to the story in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

And so, Daphne was cursed with a strong distaste for love, and conversely, Apollo with a great desire for love! The chase began, with Apollo pursuing Daphne, a heart full of love that would not be returned. Forced to be at either extreme, this was not a reconciliatory match.

Daphne, distressed, called to her father for help. He saw Daphne in her plight and used his power to transform Daphne into a laurel tree. Her spirit imbued the tree with life, and Apollo dubbed the laurel tree as his sacred image. From that point on, laurels would be used to crown the victor in the ancient Olympic Games, to honor and remember Daphne.

OREADS. The Oreads were the nymphs of the mountains, caves, and grottos, derived from the ancient Greek word “oros,” which means “mountain.” They could also inhabit the trees of the mountains. The goddess of the hunt, Artemis, is often associated with the Oreads since her favorite hunting grounds were in the mountains. Dionysius enjoyed the company of the Oreads, too.

The Oread named Echo was particularly famous in Greek myth. She angered Hera (Roman Juno) with her incessant chatting and so had been cursed only to be able to echo others, hence her name. Sometime after this, Echo fell in love with a man named Narcissus. However, Narcissus rejected Echo, and so she retreated to watch him from the mountain trees. Narcissus was later cursed for his vanity, and he fell in love with his own reflection, having spied it in a pool. He died from the curse, too transfixed by his reflection to nourish himself.

IN FICTION. As a rule, nymphs live in pristine, unspoiled wildernesses far from human civilization — a portrayal stemming back to Greek culture, which viewed the forests and mountains of inland areas as spirit-haunted places in contrast to the cities and farmland along the coasts.

If you're looking for these beings, you'll have much better luck searching among the shaded glens of the Enchanted Forest or hidden valleys in the rocky mountains than in urban parks or the woods behind your yard.

In Classical myth, nymphs of all stripes were an Always Female One-Gender Race; when they had male counterparts, these were generally either satyrs or male river gods. Some modern interpretations still use this version, generally treating their nymphs as either arising from nature itself in some form or as depending on humans, satyrs or other species for reproduction, but some works choose to discard the Always Female angle and include male nymphs, dryads and the like alongside their female counterparts.

Examples in Different Media

The Birth of Venus (Bouguereau): Inspired by Grecorroman imagery, the three nymphs illustrated are Nereids/Oceanids. Nymphs whose domain is the ocean and, as a result, can effortlessly swim long distances. They appear here to attend Venus' birth.

Hercules: Hercules meets Philoctetes as he is peeping on a group of nymphs lounging by a river. When his cover is blown, Phil is quick to try and catch one, only for them to turn into a pile of flowers and a tree. When he claims the nymphs were chasing him, the tree slaps him.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians: Nymphs appear fairly often as supporting characters. A large population of dryads inhabits Camp Half-Blood's forest alongside the satyrs, while naiads live in its lake. In the early books they looked like human girls, even wearing modern clothing, though later they're described as somewhat elfin. Other nymphs appear inhabiting rivers throughout the series, including the Mississippi. Nereids are part of Poseidon's court, and while naiads do not serve him directly they still honor him.

The Chronicles of Narnia: Dryads are among the numerous fantastical creatures native to Narnia, and Lewis describes them in great detail. Birch dryads look like slender girls with showery hair, dressed in silver and fond of dancing, beech dryads look like gracious, queenly goddesses dressed in fresh transparent green, and oak dryads look like wizened old men with warts, gnarled fingers, and hair growing out of the warts.

Nymphs are usually depicted as beautiful female nature spirits, considered desirable maids by mortals and gods alike. There were many subgroupings of nymphs, but the most famous were:

the Hesperides (sunset nymphs who tend the garden with the golden apples), 

Dryades (tree spirits), 

Naiads, Nereids, Oceanids (different kinds of water nymphs), and

the Pleiades (nymphs of the Pleiades constellation).

Some types of nymph served as attendants to gods, like the Lampads (who followed Hecate around) and

the Maenads (crazed nymphs who partied with Dionysus). 

Some Tropes Related to Nymphs

Painting the Frost on Windows: Nymphs were often held responsible for making natural phenomena occur; the Aurae caused breezes, the Hyades brought rain, and so on.

So Beautiful, It's a Curse: Many nymphs found themselves getting the wrong sort of attention and becoming victims of rape by male deities and monsters. Arethusa was relentlessly pursued by the river god Alpheus, Daphne was almost raped by Apollo and Galateia was desired by the cyclops Polyphemus, who crushed her lover Alcis with a boulder out of mad jealousy.

Spontaneous Generation: The Meliae were born from the blood of Ouranos when it spilled upon the Earth.

The Ageless: Usually portrayed as being eternally youthful.

Water Is Womanly: The nereids are sea nymphs and symbolic of the sea's kindness and beauty, singing melodious songs as they dance around their father Nereus and appearing as gorgeous women.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Thanks so much for your kind words! Do go through the sources linked above for more details and examples you may find useful for your writing.