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astralnymphh · 2 months

Text

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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tiredwitchplant · 7 months

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It's Time for Samhain! (Oct 31- Nov 1)

What is Samhain? In the Celtic calendar, Samhain marks the end of summer and the harvest season, and the beginning of the dark, cold winter months. It falls opposite Beltane on May 1, which represents the beginning of spring and the life-filled growing season.

It’s believed that the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest on Samhain. Historically, people were worried that they would encounter ornery spirits if they ventured outside on Samhain night, so they dressed as ghosts or wore masks to disguise themselves. Folks would leave treats on their front porch or place an extra setting at the table to welcome any friendly spirits who stopped by. You can see how these Samhain rituals easily morphed into our modern-day version of trick-or-treating in costume.

Nighttime bonfires were another of the long-standing Samhain rituals - this one was thought to help combat the impending darkness of winter and the fearful chill that accompanied the idea of roaming spirits. Because the veil between living and dead is believed to be the thinnest on this night, Samhain is also a powerful night for divination and spellcasting by candlelight.

Usual Symbols of Samhain:

Ale or Mead

Pumpkins

Skulls

Besom or Broom

Beans

Cauldron

Bats

Keys

Squash

Pomegranate

Nuts

Apples and Cider

Bones

Herbs and Plants for Samhain:

Rosemary – Associated with remembrance and is needed during this season in taking time to honor the memories of our ancestors and other lost loved ones. Can be used in an incense blend and at ancestor altar

Fall Flowers – Includes flowers like marigolds and chrysanthemums. Are associated with protection and chrysanthemums come in handy with connecting to the spirit world

Apples (the fruit, branches and blossoms) – Is considered sacred to a lot of gods. A good apple harvest means that the gods have shown the community their favor. You can use apples in different rituals, especially divination

Pomegranates – Is associated with the realm of the underworld and helps with communication with the dead. It is also associated with fertility of the fall.

Squashes, Pumpkins and Gourds – Is associated with abundance and provides sustenance for your family when the fields become bare and covered in snow. Is linked to psychic awareness and development and protection.

Mugwort – Is associated with divination and dreaming. Using Mugwort baths or incenses in the rituals can focus on treating depression, especially with the seasons changing

Rowan Trees – The branches and berries are a way to keep evil spirits out of your house and are associated with good health. If you plant a tree near a grave, it will prevent the dead from rising.

Sage – Is associated with cleansing and grounding. Is a great incense to cleanse your home to bring in the new and out with the old

Hawthorn – Has been associated with the gateway between humans and the spirit world. Is also rumored to an area where you can see fairies.

Crystals for Samhain:

Amethyst – Aids in opening one’s third eye and is valuable to be able to see Samhain’s spirits around

Black Obsidian – Is great for grounding and protect from evil spirits. Can be used in scrying when speaking to deities and spirits of Samhain

Citrine – Is used to honor the sun. Aids in prosperity spells and carries joy

Black Tourmaline – Wards off unwanted spirits from your property and can be buried into the ground to protect from psychic attacks and spirit intrusion

Orange Calcite – Orange is a sacred color to Samhain. This stone is associated with one’s sacral chakra and can cleanse and align reproductive organs, sexuality and get creativity flowing

Bloodstone – Known to heal cardiovascular illness and disease. Can help with ancestry links and work

Spirit Quartz – Is great in helping communicate with the spirits of Samhain and releasing old and toxic habits

Lepidolite – Used to appease the fairies that roam during Samhain

Serpentine – Is associated with snakes and aids in remembering past lives. Loki seems to like this stone and may be great to use for him if you work with him during this season

Dragonstone – Dragons are guardians of the earth, spirits of place, and connect us to Mother Nature. Helps say goodbye to the old years and our old selves

Skull shaped Stones – Since skulls are symbols of Samhain, skull shaped stone can help with symbolism during this holiday. They represent the life-death-rebirth cycle, wisdom and our ancestors

Spells and Rituals:

A Samhain Tea (Apple and Hawthorn Berry)

1 apple, sliced

2 Tablespoon dried hawthorn berries (or 4 Tablespoons fresh)

1 cinnamon stick

A pinch of cloves

4 cups water

Honey, to taste (optional)

Combine all ingredients in a small stockpot.

Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 10 minutes.

Strain the plant material from the tea, then transfer the tea into two mugs.

Enjoy one for yourself, and leave the other on your table or front porch to nourish any wandering spirits who may pass while the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest.

A Pumpkin Spell for Prosperity

A pumpkin

Some paint

Go to the pumpkin patch (or local store) and select a pumpkin. Or let the pumpkin choose you.

Bring it home and paint prosperity symbols on it – money signs, runes for prosperity or harvest glyphs (whatever means prosperity to you).

Then place by your front door to invite prosperous vibes into your home this Samhain season.

Bonfire Release Purification Spell

Paper

Pen

Source of fire (bonfire, fireplace, candle flame)

Gather your materials and sit by the fire.

Take a few minutes to just listen to the fire crackling.

Gaze into the flames and connect with this powerful element.

Next begin to think about what habit or person you are releasing this Samhain. Think about why you’re purifying your life from this thing or person.

Then write the habit or person down on the piece of paper.

Fold it away from you 3 times.

Hold it in your hands and allow all of the negative thoughts and energies inside of you to “drain” out of you and into the paper.

Then throw it in the fire and say,

“After this Samhain, never again. Never again. I release _________ from my life by the power of the Samhain fire. So, mote it be.”

How to Make a Samhain Altar

Beautiful autumn leaves or flowers that you collect on a nature walk

A candle

A mugwort bundle

A string of rowan beads

A bowl of apples or a small pumpkin

A hawthorn wand or bowl of freshly picked hawthorn berries

A picture of your ancestors

To make an altar, first find a corner of your home or a table surface where you can arrange a few treasures. You don’t need a ton of space. You could use the top of a dresser, the corner of your desk, an unused side table, etc.

After you’ve assembled your altar, spend some time sitting quietly in the space. Light the candle and/or mugwort wand, sip on a cup of Apple & Hawthorn Berry Tea and meditate on this energetically powerful day.

I could find specific written instructions for a crystal grid but I found a video!

Crystal Grid for Samhain

Let's get ready for Samhain and have a great and safe time!

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divine-crows · 10 days

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10 Ways to End a Prayer Aside from Saying Amen

Note: these are just ideas based on something I struggled with when I was a newbie pagan. I by no means am saying you can't use the word "amen", I'm just trying to help those who may not want to! If something works-- then it works!

Being raised in a very hard-core Christian household I was always taught to end my prayers with the phrase "Amen", but when I realized the faith didn't really fit me... I found that using that phrase didn't really fit me either! So, what could you say in place of it? Here are some ideas! Some I came up with, some I scoured the internet to find!

"THE END"

I have two younger siblings and they both used to say 'the end' all of the time because they thought when we said 'amen' we were actually saying that. It's very direct, but I suppose it works!

"AS IT IS REQUIRED" / "AS YOU REQUIRE"

I also use this phrasing in place of "so mote it be" when I do spellwork, not because it's a bad phrase, but mainly because I'm the type of person who has to vibe with the words I utilize. (I'm sorry I'm insufferable lol). I've used it at the end of prayers and it's nice and to the point without being too crass sounding.

"AND SO IT IS"

This one always reminds me of manifestation. Kind of a "I will obtain xyz" mindset. Sometimes I use it if I'm praying for help when I'm working towards a goal.

" DONE "

The first couple of times I tried praying without using the word "amen" I got lost on what to say, so I very awkwardly just said done and went about my day. It might work for you, but it definitely felt weird for me!

"AND SO IT IS, AND IT ALWAYS WILL BE"

I've used this phrase quite a bit and I currently like it a lot. I mainly use it when I'm doing prayers to show my admiration for my deities, or when I'm doing prayers for special occasions. I came up with it while writing some poems this Beltane and it kinda just stuck!

" LET IT BE SO " / "SO BE IT" / "VERILY" / "TRULY"

According to wikipedia, these are all translations of the word amen? So I suppose you could find a way to use them!

"BLESSED BE"

I'm gonna be honest, I lurked on some reddit forums for ideas and this one came up A LOT. I've only ever really thought of this phrase as being a form of "goodbye", and I didn't realize you could end a prayer with this!

"THANK YOU"

Sometimes the best way to end something is just a simple "thanks for listening".

UTILIZING ANOTHER LANGUAGE

If you feel so inclined, finding a language that suits you and your practice and looking for a similar meaning to 'amen' might be helpful to you!

POP CULTURE / LITERATURE

This may sound weird, but I saw a few people talking about using "This is the way" from the Mandelorian, and I even saw someone who recommended using "as you wish" from the princess bride! I also saw a suggestion where someone took a phrase from an Old English text and utilized it! The world is your oyster!

So there's a teeny list to get you started! As always I'd love if people would reblog with their own ideas and alternatives!

Online sources I looked at:

#paganism #pagan #paganblr #celtic pagan #pagans of tumblr #beginner pagan #pagan tips #celtic paganism #pagan witch #hellenic paganism #norse paganism #kemetic paganism

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ymaohoh · 6 months

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Beltane Eve - Halsin x Female Tav (NSFW)

Just a one-shot between our favourite druid and a druid Tav character. I've purposefully tried to make her as vague as possible so this could be a Halsin x reader. Definitely NSFW.

(Words - 8,549)

Warnings: lots of smut, kinky druid sex, oral, size kink

Also on AOO

Beltane Eve

She breathed in the warm springtime air and let it fill her lungs. The weather was getting hotter now and she relished the feeling of sunlight grazing and caressing her skin after so many long days of darkness. The light tickled her skin like loving fingers and she sighed happily. It made her feel cheerful. Joyful even.

She had spent those hard days in the dank cities of the Underdark and the terrifying Shadowlands. Both of those places had sickened her to her soul and nearly made her forget what a starry night sky looked like. She had bravely persevered and battled on because she knew what she and her companions were doing was bigger and more important than her own wellbeing. She would gladly sacrifice her peace of mind for what they were fighting to achieve.

A safe and thriving world. She thought about the Shadowlands and how they were already mending from the curse. That was worth all of the heartache.

Still, that very first moment of stepping out into the fresh air was as good as a health tonic. It tended to her battered body and stitched up the fibres of her being so that she was once again whole.

As a druid she understandably felt more connected to the world around her than maybe the wizards or barbarians in her company did. She drew strength from the rich tapestry of life all around; the feeling of velvet grass beneath her feet, the murmur of birdsong, the tart smell of some flowers growing close by that were on the turn. These primal things gave her life and sustained her.

Life sustained her.

It was just after midday and she had walked a mile or so from the main camp in pursuit of a quiet spot where she could meditate and embrace the new lush scenery around them. Nobody from her camp had noticed though she left a scribbled note saying she would be safe. They were camped on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate now and everyone in her party was distracted by the idea of exploring the nearby village of Rivington. The thought was tempting and she too was excited by the idea of jumping back into the hustle and bustle of city life after being on the quiet road for so long. Even Astarion, who had dubbed the people of the town ‘boors’, looked eager to reacquaint himself with some hard liquor and soft bedding.

She thought about the opportunities that such a place could offer; good food, merry music, hopefully some stimulating companionship. She had spent time in many human cities around the land and found them all to be similar in their pursuits, and expected that Rivington and Baldur’s Gate would be no different.

She was eager to drink it all in.

Though perhaps she should bathe and comb out her hair first?

Eyeing a secluded riverbank, she decided that this spot was as good as any. The water of the river seemed to beckon to her and she untied the belt at her waist. She shrugged the worn fabric of her robes from her shoulders and let them drop to a heap on the muddy bank. The robes had cost her a moderate pile of gold from Dammon but she had no real attachment to her clothing or belongings. Let them get creased and muddy - who cared? Her feet were already unbound as was her preference and she dipped them into the refreshing chill of the river. A moan of sorts escaped her lips when the water lapped against the skin of her thighs.

She took her time bathing in the river and washing herself. Her hands caressed her skin and she even let her fingers dip down between her legs to touch herself. It had been almost two weeks since she’d felt any pleasure there and the absence of touch - of any contact - was something she was unused to.

Eventually she returned to the bank and eyed her flimsy smallclothes. She hesitated for only a second before she reluctantly slipped them on. She didn’t know the area well and it would be unfortunate if some farmer or woodsman stumbled upon her in nothing but her skin.

She wouldn’t have minded. She felt so at ease naked that clothing made no real difference to her but she knew humans had silly ideas about such matters.

She recalled the early days of their adventures and one incident when she innocently walked naked back to her tent after bathing. Such an action was as normal to her as breathing and she paid no notice to her companions as she knelt by the fire and twisted the water from her hair. Back in her grove nobody would have cared one bit yet she’d looked up to see them all staring at her. Some, she’d noted wryly, with wanton smiles but poor Wyll and Gale looked as if they’d been dunked in cold water. Though she didn’t agree with human expectations, she still didn’t want her companions - and later friends - to feel awkward in their shared living space. She’d made sure to at least wear her smallclothes around the camp following that night though she still slept unclothed.

Interestingly the only one of her companions who had not looked at all was Halsin. Her gaze had flitted across to where he usually made camp (as it seemed to do more and more these days) but found him stoically looking elsewhere. This had intrigued her as she assumed he’d be the last person to care about such things. She found him intriguing. He was a figure from campfire stories and legends and was renowned throughout the land by elves and humans alike. She’d heard tales about his mighty deeds ever since she was a babe nursing at her mother’s breast. That he should be journeying with her now - and actually pledged her his loyalty - was almost unimaginable. She wanted sorely to get to know him better.

Yet…would he even want to share with her? She was twenty-six years of age. A grown woman in the eyes of the human world (long past marrying age in truth) but to a wood elf this meant she was still a child in the eyes of some. Young, inexperienced, undisciplined. What could he possibly want to know about her?

She had known some of her other companions. She’d made love to Astarion that very night by the campfire but denied his bite. She’d also known Shadowheart’s gentle love a few nights following under the blazing stars. Then there had been others - Tieflings, Harpers, tavern bards - who she’d come to love and share her heart and body with. She’d been interested to pursue a night with Gale after a moment channelling the weave but after knowing more about his nature (that he could only pledge his desire to one and expect the same in return) she’d had to let him down gently. She respected that other people lived their lives that way but it was not for her and she didn’t want to give hope where there was none.

She remained in her smallclothes and stretched out on the grass. The sun was high in the sky now and she bathed in its warmth. She allowed herself to breathe in and out slowly and let her eyelids flutter close. She focused on the world and noises around her and felt herself fall into a deep trance of meditation. Meditation had always soothed her mind and refreshed her body. She felt that it helped with her spellcasting too. In her mind, a druid couldn’t manipulate nature completely if they didn’t know it well. It was important that she take the time to immerse herself in it. Breathe it in.

She wasn’t sure how long she lay there for. It could have been minutes or hours, it mattered not to her.

But then - a noise.

It was as faint as a whisper but still she heard it. She wasn’t sure if it was through her own ears or through the vibrations of the air. An attack? An ambush? A split second pause and then she felt the corners of her lips lift into a smile.

She knew that Halsin was standing a few paces away among the trees behind her. She could tell that he had not meant to stumble upon her now but he didn’t want to leave either. He was letting her choose whether or not to invite him into her moment of tranquillity.

She did. “Aerister.” Teacher.

“Forgive the interruption, little one. I was hunting nearby for our evening meal and would not have disturbed you, but then I saw how at peace you looked here among the wilds. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a welcome sight.”

She liked the way he spoke and the warmth she heard there. Ever since meeting the acclaimed druid she’d always taken pleasure in the rich sound of his voice - whether it was gentle like now or roaring commands on the battlefield. His words always held weight and meaning.

And she trusted him. As a fellow wood elf and first druid he was her elder (in rank, ability, age) and naturally she owed him her respect, but she gave it freely.

She also liked the way he called her little one. It was an ongoing jest following her comment on his size when they first met.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Your presence soothes me,” she spoke quietly. “Stay with me.”

At her invitation Halsin sat down and lay his weapon on the grass. Even without looking she could smell fresh blood on his knife and knew he’d been successful on his hunt. A deer or boar carcass would be sat somewhere nearby, ready to nourish them later. She wondered that he’d used a weapon to hunt with at all when he could just as easily shapeshift.

“You’ve been in the water,” he noted, breaking up her thoughts. “I too found a moment to enjoy the lake further along the bank but I admit I’m not one for swimming. I imagine you spent a lot of your childhood swimming and playing on a riverbank someplace in the south. You didn’t grow up in the Emerald Grove.”

“Good guess. We spent more time in the water than in the woods, truth be told. Being here like this makes me think about those days. They were happy, safe…or at least they felt that way to a child.”

She imagined she sounded very naive to someone like him. He would have been one of the warriors fighting to ensure those years for her and the other children did indeed feel safe.

She went on…“I can’t find the right words but laying like this in the sunlight...it is magic. It gives me life. I have missed it greatly. I’m not a creature for dark and cruel spaces. Now that we are finally here in the open again I want to make the most of it. Who knows where we will venture next…”

“I understand.”

“I know. I think you’re the only one here who could.”

She finally opened her eyes to look up at him and found his steady gaze already upon her. He smiled at her words - like one confidant to another. A thread of understanding seemed to flow between them and in that moment she felt that she did truly know him. Maybe she didn’t know what he liked best for supper, but she knew his heart. She watched as his eyes flickered to the light freckles that adorned her arms and then to the line of her sunlit body.

She was conscious that her cotton smallclothes were very light indeed and he would be able to see the outline of her breasts through the fabric should he wish to. As if reading her thoughts (maybe he did) he began to untie the laces of his own leather armour. He stopped when he was wearing only the bottom half of his robes and just like her he leant back on his forearms to enjoy the sunshine on his skin.

She would be lying to say she tried to look away.

His tanned chest was broad and powerful like the rest of him and she knew she could spend an age studying the muscles that lined his arms, his shoulders, his back. His waist was narrow in comparison but even that was thicker than both her palms laid out flat. When he reached up to re-tie his dark hair she watched how the muscles of his stomach moved and contracted.

She had seen Halsin fighting beside her on the battlefield and knew he was an impressively terrifying figure in the eyes of their enemies. His strong hands looked like they could easily crush a skull or wield a broadsword.

She imagined those same hands making love and a shiver ran down her back.

She suddenly wanted to trace the intricate lines of his ink markings with her fingers more than anything else in the world. Battle scars lined his figure and she wanted to know the story behind every one.

Calm yourself, she thought. Remember that he did not look upon you before.

So instead she sighed and she allowed her fingers to weave into the long grass beside her. It felt like an anchor almost. “Might I ask your counsel? Druid to druid. I feel so attune with everything today,” she admitted. “Every blade of grass…every leaf in the tree…I can even feel the heartbeats of the animals hiding underfoot. Is this truly just a reaction to being stifled in shadow for so long? I feel so strong today. So powerful. Do you feel it too?”

“I think you’ve been spending too much time with vampires and sages that you’ve forgotten your seasons. Today marks the first day of summer. It’s no wonder that you’re feeling this way, the world around us is calling to be heard.”

Understanding washed over her. “Ah…Beltane!”

“Beltane, Cétshamhain, Calan Mai…it’s known by so many different names but it remains the same in essence,” Halsin added. “A powerful day for those who are attune to the earth and its riches. It’s normal to feel more aware of your magic during this time. Were I back home we’d have a whole week of celebrations and festivities. I would be called upon to lead some of the ceremonies.”

“It was the same back home. We would have a great feast to mark the evening itself and then light a bonfire as big as a hillside. I would braid the yellow may flowers into my hair and dance around the fire with my sisters. We sometimes wouldn’t stop until sunrise.”

“I would have liked to see that. It’s one of my favourite celebrations.”

She heard the note of wistfulness in his tone. She thought about the many years she’s enjoyed the festival herself and felt for a moment very home sick. She used to love taking part in the dancing and feasting though due to her age she was not permitted to formally join in with the most important ceremony that always took place very late at night. Only the most privileged and experienced were allowed to do it.

All of a sudden she had a thought and spoke before she could stop herself. “You say you led some of the ceremonies. Did you…did you join in with the rite?”

Halsin burst into laughter and she smiled weakly, her cheeks suddenly aflame.

“Of course. Many times. It was expected that I perform it.”

The rite was a very important ritual where a chosen male (selected for his vigour and status) was expected to mate with many partners over the course of Beltane Eve. By spilling his seed into them and onto the earth beneath them, it was done as a way to honour the gods and increase the chances of a fertile summer. In addition, it was hoped that the blessed unions between man and woman might also produce children that were thought to be extra lucky.

There was also said to be a hunt involved in the ritual and she wondered if the Emerald Grove celebrated that particular part of the ritual too.

The idea of Halsin completing the rite was certainly intriguing to her though she should have known someone of his rank would be asked to complete it. She suddenly wanted to know all about it.

In her enthusiasm she sat up and leaned towards him. They were sitting very close to one another and as she moved the line of her thigh brushed against his own.

“I was never permitted to take part…though of course I always wanted the honour. One of my sisters was chosen last year and I remember helping her prepare though I was so twisted up with jealousy. I had hoped that this year might have been my time and I could be bred,” she admitted. “But here we are. I suppose fate has another plan for me. I should try and be content with that.”

In response to her words, Halsin placed his hand on top of hers and she liked how his fingers looked threaded against her own. His fingers were large which was expected for someone of his size and again she wondered how they might feel on her. His thumb brushed against her own and it made her shiver again.

She looked back up and met his gaze. She didn’t know what she was expecting to see in his eyes - sympathy maybe - but she was taken aback to find a blazing heat there. He was looking at her like he knew exactly what she was thinking about and he liked it. She thought that she might fall into that blaze if she didn’t catch herself.

“Had you been at the Emerald Grove, I would have mated with you gladly. More than gladly. I would have not been able to see anyone else’s face but yours. You must know that I can barely control myself around you.”

Her eyes widened and words spilled out of her without much thought. “But you don’t look at me. The others, they do. They’ve made their intentions and desires well known to me…but you…I had thought you were looking elsewhere. That someone else held your attention.”

He really desired her?

Halsin reached up and ever so gently brushed the back of his hand against her cheekbone. In response she turned her head and she pressed a soft kiss to his palm which made him draw in his breath.

“Then the fault is mine for not confessing this sooner. My heart, I believe that life has a plan for us all and our meeting was no mere coincidence. Even now, sitting here together on Beltane Eve, cannot be by chance. I admit you are not what I expected for one so young as yourself, but I have seen you show love to those who do not always deserve it and an openness which moves my heart. You show greater wisdom than even I at times,” he admitted. “My gaze has been drawn to you more often than not over the last few weeks. I, who have taken many lovers in my time and experienced all manner of love, feel such a stirring for you that it has taken me by surprise…I admit I have tried to look away from you at times but only to keep a leash on my desires. ”

His words made her tremble but she made herself bite out the next words so she knew exactly what it was he was asking of her and there could be no doubt. She wanted to know his heart truly before taking what could be an incredible plunge. “You want to be with me?”

“I’m saying that I want you. I want to taste you, to consume you, to give you such joy that will leave you weeping. I want you panting my name into my ear so hard that I can carry the memory of it with me into our final battle. You say that I have not looked at you but I have spent hours lying awake thinking about all the different ways I want to take my pleasure with you...”

He cut off and she saw a glow of light erupt from his body as he fought back his natural urge to change form. He took a deep breath to steady himself and the light disappeared.

“…Sitting so close to you now on this riverbank clouds my senses. It’s intoxicating. Your voice, your scent. I can see the dips and curves of your body beneath that shift and I want to rip it off you. It’s taking all I have not to lose control again, but I will not touch you unless you want me to. I swear it.”

His face was so close to her own that she could feel his hot breath against her skin. She took this opportunity to study his face and looked at the long jagged scars, the scarlet ink markings, the liquid gold in his eyes. She knew then that she had wanted him physically from the moment she first saw him.

“You are so beautiful, Halsin.”

Her reply served to soothe some of the strain away from his shoulders and instead he grinned at her. “I am nothing in comparison to you. You who draws the eye and enchants everyone we meet. Your beauty must be the envy of even the gods above.”

She pressed another kiss to his hand - but this time allowed her lips to brush over one of his fingers too. She made sure not to break eye contact as she let it pass through her lips and onto her eager tongue. She heard the rumblings of a growl come from his chest. Elated, she licked along its length and then slowly pulled away.

She saw him shudder with want.

“How many times have I been distracted by that little mouth? Your lips feel as soft as woven silk,” he murmured. “Tell me that you want me too. I must hear it from those lips.”

“I’ve wanted you since the moment we met.”

He groaned in relief and pulled her fully into the strong embrace of his arms. “You are not bound to another?” he insisted. “I know that you’ve shared your time with the vampire and some of our other bold companions. Do they not have some hold over you?”

She smiled widely. “Aerister teacher, it is not in my nature to belong to only one person. I may be young like you say but I have had my fair share of lovers and have always loved fiercely and freely. I believe that to share your heart and body with another person is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Even if only for one glorious moment. I am not bound to anyone and I feel that you may feel the same way…Halsin, I will gladly share this day with you.”

“You are a wondrous creature,” he said in awe and tightened his hold. “Then let us celebrate this Beltane Eve together and be as one, as fate intended.”

The words had barely left his lips when they descended on her own. It was both everything she expected and surprising at the same time. She climbed onto his lap and pressed herself as closely as she could to the line of his body, aching for the heat of his skin against her own. Halsin’s kiss was hard and demanding and she gave into it gladly. She allowed her fingers to finally grip hold of his strong arms and then trace them up and down. She could feel the power and strength that lay untapped beneath his skin. It only fuelled her desire further.

His lips moved down from her mouth to her jaw, and then further to the skin of her throat. He kissed her like a man starved. When he reached the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulders and dragged his teeth against it, she hissed at the quick wave of pleasure.

She felt herself growing warm for him and he must have scented this.

“I must taste you, little one, I cannot wait any longer. Lay down here and bare yourself to me.”

Not needing to be asked twice, she lay back as he begged and opened her legs so that he could see her glistening core. Halsin breathed out when he saw that and gripped hold of her thighs so tightly she knew they would be marked tomorrow. He knelt down between her knees and ravenously licked his tongue into her juices. She allowed her head to fall back as another wave of pleasure took over and she uttered his name like it was a prayer. His tongue set to work immediately as he probed deeply into her flesh. His movements were slow and languorous. He was tasting her thoroughly and she enjoyed every sensation.

Above them she saw that the sun was beginning to dip low behind the mountains and they had maybe an hour left of light before it turned to dusk. She knew dusk was the time of romance, of secret trysts, of endless possibilities. It seemed rather too fitting for what they were doing now. The sight of Halsin between her legs like this, surrounded by nature’s beauty, seemed terribly poetic and right.

He made a noise that sounded like a growl and draped her legs over his massive shoulders so that he could explore her depths further. She felt one of his wonderful fingers probe gently into her fold alongside his tongue so she twisted her fingers through his dark hair and pulled him even closer.

She could feel the familiar waves of her pleasure begin to grow but she didn’t allow herself to fall apart completely. Before she reached the beginning of her climax, she pulled back on his hair to cease his efforts. She knew that her chest was pounding and he looked at her in surprise as he knelt back. She could see that his eager mouth shone with her juices. She sat up and licked carefully along his bottom lip so she could taste herself.

Halsin was looking at her with longing. “Tell me how you would have me, my heart. Be my guide. Tell me what your desires are and I will be at your command.”

Images crossed her vision of all the things she wanted to do with him then and it was difficult to choose. She found that she was usually the dominant partner in her coupling but that felt presumptuous when it came to someone like Halsin. She thought about the hardness she had felt when sitting atop his lap and knew then what she wanted most of all.

“I want you inside of me. I want to ride you.”

Heat smouldered within his eyes and she could see he wanted that too. He began unlacing the bottom half of his robes and her eyes widened at the measure of him.

“Amakiir flower…I would be gentle. I am…larger…than most and you have a slight frame. You may need to start slowly if you wish to ride me.” She knew that he wasn’t saying this out of ego like some men might but he was truly wanting to prepare her for his size which was very large. She had never been with a man with such a large member. She wasn’t even sure if she’d seen one.

Yet she was no blushing virgin either. She lifted her shift and then climbed on top of him. Her knees found purchase against the ground either side of his hips.

Halsin placed his hands on her waist to help hold her up as she positioned herself so that his tip aligned with her entrance. He was already hard and waiting for her. Slowly and carefully she began to lower herself onto his length. She could feel the skin of her core stretching in response and though it stung it made her desire for him only increase ten fold. He felt so thick and warm within her, filling her completely. She lowered herself another tortuous inch.

She could feel that she was getting so wet for him and that the scent of her arousal was making it hard for him to leash the animal in him. He was doing his best to hold himself still but the effort of this was making him grip onto her tight. She could see that the animal in him wanted to bury himself deep within her but Halsin, ever the considerate and giving partner, would never put his needs above her own.

She inched down bit by bit. When she thought that she had taken in as she could take, she began rocking her hips gently back and forth. Now pleasure began to wrap itself around any discomfort.

His hands moved from her hips across her body and she felt through her bliss him ripping apart the clasp of her smallclothes and tearing them from her flesh. Now her breasts were free Halsin made quick work of touching and admiring them. His touch was no longer gentle and she moaned when he took her nipple between his fingers and pinched.

“Oakfather preserve me. You feel so tight around me,” he murmured. “You look glorious. The most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. That you’re here with me now…it is a gift that I cannot possibly deserve.”

Her movements began to quicken as she found her stride and she pushed down against his chest.

“You deserve it all and more. This feels so good, Halsin. So right. You fill me completely. ”

He tugged her down to him then and she relished the feel of her chest against his own. He pressed a searing kiss to her lips.

She cried out when he began to thrust his hips upwards into her, going suddenly deeper and deeper. She wrapped her thighs around him and tried her hardest to keep up but it was beginning to feel like a frenzy.

“Halsin,” she panted. She panted his name over and over without caring how loud she was being. Let her cries shatter the sky above. All that mattered to her right now was the wonderful feeling of him rutting up into her.

She had known love before and had known every sexual position conceivable, but she had never once felt this close to another person. It wasn’t just the feelings he was inspiring inside of her, but there was something deeper afoot taking place. She could feel it. Some magic that was unravelling all around them and tying the two of them together. She saw the glint of knowing in his eyes and knew he was thinking the same thing.

“We are becoming one,” he said. “And the earth around us is taking heed. It is blessing this union.”

“Then let us give it something it wants,” she replied before she could shatter completely.

Without another word she once again purposefully ceased her movements though it took everything in her to do so. She pressed her shaking hands against his chest and he immediately stopped as well though she could see the effort pained him. His hands came up to cradle her face and he looked startled.

“Wait, my love…” she whispered and he obliged. Shakily, she managed to climb to her feet and took a few steps back though her legs felt useless. The loss of his warmth and size inside her made her feel incomplete and her body ached for him. Her back came into contact with a tree and she leant back thankfully against the rough bark as she caught her breath.

She heard him say her name and ask if she was well. She nodded.

He rose and took a cautious step towards her. Her eyes fell again to his naked body and the strong powerful muscles of his thighs. If she were a fawn he would have no difficulty in hunting her.

She licked her lips before speaking. “I want to complete the rite with you. I want you to chase me.”

She hardly recognised her own voice for it sounded more wanton, more greedy, than she had ever felt towards anyone before. For a moment she was worried that she had annoyed Halsin but as he drew closer there was a look on his face that was both savage and full of heated desire which came close to overwhelming her. She could see that he liked this idea. He liked it a lot.

He wanted to chase her. Wanted to claim her as his partner. Wanted to complete the rite with her this Beltane Eve.

He had, of course, done this before (many times he’d said) but this would be her first time. She hoped she would be a match for him.

She was trembling in her desire but when he beamed at her she returned it. “You are sure? I won’t be able to stop myself again once we begin. It’ll only end with my taking you.”

She took another deep breath. She turned to face the wooded area behind them which was nearly dark now, save the last lingering rays of sunset that glittered through the leaves. She looked back over her shoulder at him and gave him a truly wicked smile. Her mind was set.

“Try and catch me, Oakfather. If you can.”

She used her powers to shapeshift and wasted no time in bolting into the darkness. She could hear laughter behind her and the familiar sound of Halsin changing shape as well, though she did not stop to check.

Her usual shape to transform into was a wolf and that’s what she changed into instinctively this evening. The sleekness of the animal made it possible for her to charge through the trees without worrying about the pesky roots below that might trip her. She bounded through the woods, propelling herself as quickly as she could forwards. She had no idea how far she’d come but the trees were getting larger and more dense. She didn’t know the layout of the forest though she could still hear the waters of the river somewhere to her left.

She knew she only had precious minutes before Halsin would catch her. Though he didn’t know the forest either, he was far more experienced with hunting in his bear form and more attune with its hearing and smell. He knew her scent already and would be using it to track her.

Though she was eager for his touch again, she didn’t want this to end so soon.

She veered to the right and kept on running.

She wondered if maybe she had a chance of actually winning this chase - could that even be possible? - but then the sound of padded feet came to her woof ears. No, there was no chance. He was close behind her.

What to do then if she couldn’t outrun him? She could hide. She came to a small clearing and quickly swerved behind a knot of old twisted trees. She flattened herself against the floor of the forest amongst the pine needles and grass. If she kept very very still then there was a possibility that he might race past without thinking and she could use that hiccup to give him the slip. She kept as still as she could as she heard the noise of his massive bear form come into sight. Though she knew it was Halsin the huge beast was scary nonetheless with its sharp teeth and claws. To her surprise it didn’t look like he meant to stop and her plan might actually work, but then he slowed in his movements.

He knew she was hiding but he didn’t know where yet.

She kept low to the ground and moved very slowly. If she timed this right she might be able to slip past while he was still working out her scent.

She should have known that Halsin knew exactly what she was planning. He was not going to let his prey get away from him that easily.

And so she leapt - and he leapt - and she felt herself being tackled mid air by his large frame. As they came tumbling to the forest floor she managed to change back into her human form and she landed with a soft thump on the grass.

She lay there panting, listening hard, and then…movement beside her.

Halsin had changed back into his usual form too and was reaching for her. She pushed herself up on her elbows and opened her mouth to tell him I’m okay... but the words never left her lips because as soon as he caught hold he climbed on top of her and pinned her down. She recognised his movements without even needing words. He had caught her. She was his. He would claim her. This was the rite.

A wave of absolute lust and frenzy took over them both then. He gripped hold of her legs to pull them up around his waist and then he pushed with all of his considerable might right into her.

She cried out at the bittersweet feeling of pain and pleasure as he drove right into her core but all she could think about was wanting him deeper and deeper inside of her. It was an urge now - a dark urge - one that demanded satisfaction or be damned. Unlike before when they were inspired by their desires this had turned into something primal and primitive like the world around them. He was thrusting into her with pure animalistic need now.

She twisted her legs up around his waist tightly as he slammed her back again and again into the ground beneath them. Her fingers scraped against the soil and earth and it drove up between her nails. His own hands were gripping hold of her so tightly that she couldn’t move away even if she wanted to. He had her completely in his thrall.

Heat rolled off him in waves and she clung to him, pressing herself as close to his fiery body as she could.

He was so thick and deep inside of her now that moaning was not enough and she began screaming out her desire. The pleasure that she was feeling was like nothing she had ever felt before and it began to edge her completely to the brink of destruction. She screamed out into the night air and felt herself raking her nails down his arms and back. She bit down hard onto his shoulder and she tasted blood.

When she came, she came sudden and hard and it felt like a thunderbolt had struck her.

When he came it was with a roar that had the very trees around them trembling.

Hearts racing, they collapsed against one another and lay very still. She thought she could sense the world around them taking a deep breath too. Whatever magic they had woven this night with their passionate mating - it had surely been accepted and blessed.

She felt a soft brush of lips against her forehead and then again at her temple. Halsin was very gently moving to his elbows in an effort to shift his weight from her.

He looked at her and she found she had tears in her eyes. She began to smile. She began to laugh.

“That was magical.”

Halsin laughed too and the kiss he pressed to her lips was so full of affection and love that it threatened to unravel her into desire again.

“You are not injured?” he asked. “The rite can be overwhelming, especially on your first attempt. It’s a very old and powerful ritual but the forces at play are not necessarily gentle or kind. I am sorry if I caused you any harm in my pursuit.”

“Some soreness probably, but I can heal that myself. Halsin, I’m…I have so many questions but I also need to rest…I…”

She could feel every nerve in her body tingling and it felt like her body was alight with some force she could not name. It felt as if she’d taken three health tonics all at once. She felt that right now she was at the pinnacle of her magic and could level an entire city in a blaze of cinders should she wish to. Her words came out in a rush as she was unable to focus her thoughts.

He interrupted her before she could go on. “Peace. I understand how you’re feeling and I will answer any questions you have, but first of all let me take care of you. We have mated now on Beltane Eve and it’s my responsibility as your mate to make sure you are cared for. I will make us a fire and find some nourishment. Under other circumstances there would be a grand feast to follow but I’m sure I can find us something.”

She trusted him. He pulled out from her but as he did so his seed ran down her body to the back of her legs. There seemed to be so much of it. She sat up herself and ran a finger down her stomach where some of it gathered. She caught his eye and she could’ve sworn she saw a proud glimmer there.

“Kyre…” he murmured, kissing her cheek. Perfect.

He did as he promised and found them a safe spot to rest close to the riveredge. She cast her gaze over their surroundings and if she squinted hard enough she could make out some lights far back along the river where she thought their main camp might be. No doubt her companions would see that she and Halsin were both missing and put two and two together.

He offered to carry her but she felt fine walking unaided, though she spotted some blood running down her legs as well as his seed. It was not surprising given the passion in their mating and his size. She cast a quick healing spell on herself to mend any internal harm yet did nothing to clean herself right away as it was a testament to their act. Bruises would come along soon also and she could see scratch marks on her arms and knees.

She felt a wave of pride in the thought of what she’d just done. In what they had done together. Nobody she knew had ever mated like that on a Beltane Eve. With a first druid, no less. The stories told around the campfire had left her utterly unprepared but she knew now there could be no human or Elvish words to paint it just right.

She watched silently as he summoned a fire and gathered something for them to eat. As he did so she noted again the strong hard lines of his naked body and allowed herself to eye the frenzied scratches that now graced his back. She could see the bite mark she had left on his shoulder too. Again, she felt proud about this. She had marked him too.

Incredibly, she felt another glimmer of desire and longing fill her belly at the sight of him but she knew he was right and she should eat something. It was important that those who joined in with the rite were cared for and looked after their coupling. During usual Beltane celebrations there would be a great feast following the mating where they would eat and drink their fill and celebrate with music and laughter.

As it was they sat alone together on the riverbank in the glow of the fire, and they were at peace. The world around them was the only witness to their union.

When Halsin sat down behind her, he gently wrapped one of his large arms around her shoulders and drew her to him so that she was leaning back against his chest. His powerful legs were sprayed out beside her own. The gesture was tender. Comforting. She allowed her head to roll back so that her pointed ear was next to his skin. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He presented her with an offering of some fruits and goodberries and she fell on it ravenously. “Eat, little one. Tend to your needs.”

“Are you not hungry?”

He smiled. He began to use his fingers to comb out the new snarls in her long hair. “The rite does different things to everyone and I’ve found that I do not require as much rest as others after it. I am well sustained on the magic around us and by the rite itself. You need not worry. But it is a pleasure to care for you and see to your needs. It is thought in my grove that by doing so any fruits of our union may be doubly blessed. Though…I admit I wish to care for you regardless. You were wonderful, by the way, I could not have prayed for a better partner in this. I’m very very thankful that you gave me the gift of chasing you too.”

She smiled, though she probably had berry juice around her lips. She could feel that she was still shaking but Halsin’s free hand moved up and down her arms slowly to try and steady her.

“The fruits of our labour…the offering to the gods for a fertile and bountiful summer…but there may be a child as well,” she said. “I could feel a twist of something while you were inside of me. Something was blessing us. I could feel it.”

He didn’t hesitate in his motions for even a second. “If such a child is born from this union then I will count myself very fortunate. I will love and care for any child of ours that is born from your flesh, as is my nature. Granted a pregnancy is not ideal given our present circumstances and the dangers we face, but ignoring our way of life and setting aside such an important ritual? It would be the same as letting the shadows win, in my eyes.”

She found herself in agreement with that and wondered how many children he'd sired in his lifetime. It was foolish to think that someone such as he had not fathered dozens by now. She, like the rest of her people, had a very relaxed attitude when it came to bearing children and she would leave the outcome to fate as intended.

She put aside the empty bowl and she found herself twisting around to look at him. He was looking at her with such tenderness that she knew in this moment he truly loved her and she him. Their hearts beat as one this night.

“Is it always like this?” she asked. “The rite?”

“No. The chase itself is usually the same, although you got further than most,” he complimented. “But the mating afterwards did, in my experience, feel very different. I have never ended a coupling so sure that it had been seen and blessed. With you it was like the very heavens were watching us and were pleased by what they saw. And you are so very lovely.”

A fleeting but sad thought crossed her mind.

“I feel more alive than I have done so in a long time. So attune with the nature around us. I can actually feel the blood pumping around my body. I admit that a part of me is saddened to think that I may never experience such a thing again. You’ve quite ruined me for any other partner,” she teased. “Know that if we survive this next battle, I will come back to the Emerald Grove next year and demand another chance.”

“I will hold you to that. We have Beltane Eve, but there are other important rituals I observe throughout the year. Each one holds its own magic and promise. My heart, you’ll find that coupling with a first druid will never get tiring.” He leant down to capture her lips and when he whispered into the shell of her ear she felt herself shiver. “And I would say that even without those sacred days, I am regarded as a very good lover. I would never leave you wanting. As I told you before I have not felt such a desire for someone in a long time. You have stirred something deep within this old heart whether you meant to or not.”

“You’re saying that even after all of that you desire me still?” she whispered.

She knew that right now she looked like the very crude image Human’s often had of wood elves with her tangled hair, her brazen nakedness, and the mud that still coated her hands and knees. Her lips were stained red with berry juice but she made no effort to rub this away. She looked as wild as she had ever done.

The look in his eyes told her that it was all for the better.

“More.” He stroked his hand down the length of her back. “And if it pleases you I will continue to share my nights with you until a time comes where we must be parted. Just say the word and I will be at your service. Whether you want me alone as we are now…or with another of your choosing.”

Thoughts of sharing Halsin with a third party was enough to make her moan and her fingers moved of their own accord. She trailed them down his stomach and to the hardness that she found waiting below his waist. He was ready for her again. She found herself aching for him.

His hand moved lower to grasp her waist. “The night is still young.”

“And I will have you again, my love.”

Without looking away, she lowered herself down between his legs and she took his full length into her mouth. Halsin hissed with pleasure and the noise drummed through her body, urging her onwards.

He took her again on that riverbank and again in the lake afterwards. He showed her what he liked best (mostly having his mouth on her) and in turn she taught him what she liked (which featured him ramming into her from behind). They learned each other's bodies thoroughly and blessed the night over and over. They spent the entire night pleasing one another in every way they knew how and when the sun rose the next morning they found themselves aching and thoroughly spent.

A/N: Let me know if I should do another one. I'm thinking of doing a Gale/Female Tav next but LOVE this kink honestly.

#halsin #halsin x reader #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #smut #halsin x tav #halsin x female tav #halsin bg3 #tav x halsin #baldurs gate

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blackcrowing · 1 year

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Important Facts about Bealtaine from an Irish Celtic Reconstructionist

Spelling and Pronunciation

OI. Bealtaine (Bell-tin-Na) has more recently been written as I. Beltaine or Anglicized Beltane (Bell-tain). In the Cormac Glossary it is said to derive from the deity Bel and OI. 'Tene' meaning fire.

Dates

Most Reconstructionists celebrate Bealtaine on April 30th-May 1st, sundown to sundown. Iron age Irish (and other Celts) structured their days from sunset to sunset so while we now track this time as stretching over two days, they would have seen this period as one single day, being the first day of the month of May by the Gregorian calendar. Some Reconsructionists might prefer to celebrate by the Julian calendar which would place this holiday on May 13th-14th (by the Gregorian calendar), still of course from sundown to sundown. In the most traditional sense this holiday would have been celebrated when the livestock was moved from the winter grazing fields out to the summer grazing fields.

Importance in Mythos

Most mythological reference to this holiday comes in the form of the movement of peoples or invasions of peoples.

The mythological invasion of Partholon and his people occurred on Bealtaine and the plague that wiped them out also began on that date and lasted a week. The Tuath De Danann are said to have arrived on the island on Bealtine as well and lastly the Sons of Mil are said to have invaded on this date also (Macalister, 1940).

In later times when Christianity had made its mythologies the way of the land and the old deities were moved to the status of Fae this idea of movement and invasion seems to have persisted. Traditions hold that this date is a dangerous time for mortals as the aes sídhe are moving amongst the daoine sí and may stop by unsuspecting homes to ask for butter or perhaps some water, but if this request is granted they will steal the homes luck for the year.

I will make a note here that while the Cormac Glossary notes the deity Bel there is no Celtic/Gaelic deity of this name (though there is a Mesopotamian one) and this seems to cause a lot of confusion, especially when it comes to Wiccancentic ideas and articles. Cormac was likely referring to the Celtic/Gaelic deity Belenus NOT the Mesopotamian Bel. Belenus/Belenos was associated with the sun and healing and during the Gallo-Roman period was often noted to be the Gaelic Apollo. There is evidence to suggest that Belenus/Belenos was known throughout the Celtic/Gaelic world, though we don't have any specific information about how prominently he was worshiped in Ireland itself it is relatively safe to assume that the Iron age Irish would have known who he was.

Celebration Traditions

Like on Samhain, at the opposing 'end' of the year livestock were transitioned from one grazing area to another. While on Samhain, when the 'dark' half of the year begins and the livestock are moved in from summer grazing to winter grazing, Bealtaine is the opposite. It begins the 'light' half of the year and livestock are moved from the winter grazing out to the summer pastures. At both holidays to ensure healthy animals and protect them from any malicious factors great bonfires were built (most notably on the hill of Uisneach) and livestock would be driven between them.

There seems to be a traditional emphasis on the protection of homes, barns, livestock, peoples, and crops. Generally this seems to be a time when warding against ill luck for the community became a focus. Yellow, specifically yellow flowers (primrose, gorse or hawthorn blossoms), appear to have played a role in this as they have been used to decorate, but when exactly this tradition originated is unknown. The healing wells of Ireland and specifically the dew on the morning of Bealtaine have been thought to be important. Some traditions hold that the dew, when washed with will bring beauty, while others think if drank by the milk cows it would cause them to produce more, but again the origins of these traditions are relatively unknown.

Interesting History to take into Consideration

Given Bealtines long lasting history in Irish mythological tradition of being associated with mass movements of peoples and a need to protect ones family and community in this tumultuous time it is -possible- these ideas persist due to the movements (and possibly famines or plagues) during the "Megadrought" of the Bronze age (1250-1100 BCE). Most studies have focused on the effects of the Mediterranean at this time, but it is reasonable to assume the ripples of effects could have been felt strongly enough in Ireland to leave a lasting impression, especially since it is not outlandish to assume that people fleeing the Mediterranean area, which was no longer able to adequately sustain them, may have fled to the more temperate British Isles and passed on their trauma through oral tradition. This could possibly be backed up by looking at the etymology of 'Bel' not as referencing Beleus/Beleos but as referencing the Irish Balor (or perhaps they are different aspects of the same figure) who embodies not the life sustaining properties of the sun but the deadly and destructive ones. Balor balcbéimnech, 'Balor the strong smiter,' Balor birugerc, ' Balor of the piercing eye,' Balor mae Doit meic Néid, 'Balor son of Dot son of Néit.'

This is obviously only my personal opinion and can be taken or dismissed as one likes.

#celtic mythology #celtic reconstructionism #celtic paganism #celtic reconstructionist #celtic #Irish #irish mythology #irish reconstructionist #irish reconstructionism #irish paganism #beltaine #Bealtaine #Beltane #festival #fire festival #blackcrowing

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the-hermit-at-midnight · 13 days

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Embrace the Renewal: Exploring Beltane

As spring unfurls its vibrant tapestry, the ancient celebration of Beltane beckons us to revel in the warmth of the sun, the blossoming of flowers, and the promise of new beginnings. Originating from Celtic traditions, Beltane marks the midpoint between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, heralding the peak of spring's fertility and the onset of summer's abundance.

Origins

Beltane derives its name from the Celtic god Bel, meaning "the bright one," who symbolizes the sun, light, and warmth. Historically, Beltane was a fire festival, where bonfires were lit atop hills to honor Bel and to encourage the sun's vitality as it ascended higher in the sky.

How to Celebrate Beltane:

1. **Light the Fires:** Beltane is synonymous with bonfires, symbolizing purification and fertility. Gather with friends and family around a bonfire, or if that's not possible, light candles to honor the sun's strength.

2. **Maypole Dancing:** The maypole dance is a quintessential Beltane tradition, symbolizing the intertwining of masculine and feminine energies, as well as the union of earth and sky. Decorate a tall pole with ribbons and flowers, then dance around it, weaving the ribbons into intricate patterns.

3. **Flower Crowns and Garlands:** Adorn yourself and loved ones with flower crowns and garlands, celebrating the beauty and fertility of nature. Collect seasonal blooms such as daisies, roses, and lavender to create stunning floral arrangements.

4. **Feasting and Merriment:** Beltane is a time of feasting and merriment, as communities come together to celebrate the abundance of the season. Prepare a feast using seasonal ingredients such as fresh fruits, vegetables, and grains. Share stories, songs, and laughter with loved ones as you revel in the joy of spring.

5. **Rituals of Fertility:** Beltane is a potent time for fertility rituals and spells, whether you're seeking to conceive new ideas, projects, or relationships. Plant seeds, both literal and metaphorical, as you set intentions for growth and renewal in the coming months.

6. **Nature Walks and Sacred Sites:** Embrace the natural world by taking a leisurely stroll through the countryside or visiting sacred sites associated with Beltane, such as ancient stone circles or groves. Connect with the land and its energies, and offer gratitude for the blessings of spring.

Beltane invites us to embrace the spirit of renewal and the joy of interconnectedness with nature and community. By honoring ancient traditions and embracing the beauty of the season, we can cultivate a deeper sense of gratitude, abundance, and vitality in our lives. As the fires of Beltane burn bright, may they ignite our passions, illuminate our path, and inspire us to live in harmony with the rhythms of the earth.

#beltane #witchcraft #blessed Beltane #witchblr #witch #magick #witchythings #pagan witch #witchy shit #druidry #wheel of the year

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breelandwalker · 9 months

Note

Very aware you've probably answered this before but I am just starting to look at witchcraft and I'm interested in non-Wicca wheel-of-the-year type things. Do you have any recommendations on where to start looking/your own calendar?

You've come to exactly the right place! I have a little series of posts that offer secular ideas for celebrating the solstices and quarter days, as well as an ongoing series on observances for the full moons.

Imbolc

Spring Equinox

Beltane

Midsummer

Lughnasadh

Autumn Equinox

Samhain

Yule

The secular celebrations DO follow the WOTY model, since the original idea I had was to offer non-Wiccan ideas for commonly-referenced holidays that anyone could use for their seasonal observances, but it's worth noting that all of these occasions exist as festivals outside of the Wheel.

(I'm currently working on building the concept out into a secular witchcraft book that explores the calendar beyond the Wheel and offers monthly ideas for festivities, spellwork, reflections, and craft-building exercises. It's a WIP, but I'm excited about it.)

In addition to any seasonal or harvest-cycle-related occasions you wish to observe, you can also add in personal anniversaries, family holidays, regional traditions, pretty much whatever you like. I include things like First Robin Day on my calendar every year, where I mark the date that I first see a robin, as a sign of oncoming spring. Other observances include things like First Clover Day, Myrtle Day, Maple Day, and First Frost.

Hope this helps!

#cosmic-raven #witchcraft community #witchcraft #pagan #lunar calendar #secular witchcraft #secular celebrations #holidays #Bree answers your inquiries

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lizzybeth1986 · 3 days

Text

Reader Fatigue

Book: The Royal Romance

Rating: G

Pairing: Hana Lee x Kiara Theron

Word Count: 2, 501 words

Summary: Over a year after she has settled in with her wife in Cordonia, why does Hana not feel the same joy when she reads??

Tagging @hanaleeappreciationweek and @sazanes for HLAW Day 3: Bookworm, @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW and LGBTQ Archive, and @choicesmaychallenge24 for the theme "Athena: Wisdom".

Three months.

Hana stirs in her bed, frowning drowsily at the abandoned book on her bedside table. The thought is small, fleeting, a tiny grain of doubt that could be swept away in the wind. Yet it persists, in the harsh, too-bright sunlight streaming in from the French windows in her bedroom, reminding her that it's mid-afternoon; the time she typically would use to enjoy a cup of tea and a light read.

Hana allows herself a small smile as the figure next to her groans and inches a little closer to her, her arms still wrapped loosely around her waist. It's usually Kiara who gets up earlier from their afternoon siestas, teasing her over wanting to read "when your eyes aren't even half-open yet, chérie!"

On weekends, Kiara would encourage her to sleep in a little more. She knew Hana would appreciate the opportunity to binge-read cover-to-cover - perhaps re-read if she really liked the material.

It's been three months now since she's been able to complete a chapter, much less a book.

Hana stretches, catlike, before blindly groping for the book she'd left abandoned on the bedside table. The Crown and the Flame. It's an abridged version, one she'd carried from her childhood home and always found herself devouring in less than two hours...yet somehow she hasn't been able to move past Dominic Hunter's account of his first encounter with a young Princess Kenna at a Beltane festival.

Hana wishes she know how - when! - it had come to this.

When she got married to Kiara last year, it was almost as if the floodgates had opened on everything. Whatever Esther had predicted in that patisserie in Paris - maybe you're fated to be a prim, girly girl adventurer who has unknown depths just waiting to be found! - seemed to be on the cusp of becoming a reality.

Back home in Shanghai, almost every morsel of literature Hana managed to devour was a guilty pleasure; she'd hidden books in secret corners, savoured words and worlds unknown underneath the comforting cocoon of a blanket, uttered half-truths to keep the more scandalous material out of her parents' hands, weaved happy endings and bright futures for favourite couples and charactes, long after she had put the books down.

Hana wonders now if half the fun, back then, was in the secrecy. If half the comfort had come from sharing space with Father and Mother, and knowing they would never truly be able to capture the joy she experienced from reading or make it their own. There was a freedom in that - and for Hana, any freedom would be a luxury to be savoured, like a bonbon from a visiting relative, savoured bite by tiny bite just so the pleasure could last a bit longer.

That shift in circumstances when she married Kiara, had been overwhelming. And perhaps the way she had just gone rogue the minute Kiara gifted her her own personal library, was to be expected.

No rules, no restrictions, no restraints on what she could or couldn't read. The cocoon of her blankets gave way to the vast expanse of her library, with its wide welcoming spaces, its winding staircases, its comforting, velvet seats that allowed her to sink into them, whenever she felt like having a reading marathon.

(Which was often).

Hana had spent so much of her childhood looking over her shoulder as she devoured her books, that the idea of just reading whatever the hell she wanted felt overwhelming. But she grabbed it. With both hands. And embraced the prospect. With all her heart. Hours and hours perusing over every possible scrap of reading material she could find - history, mythology, mystery fiction, true crime, even gothic horror (which she didn't expect to wholeheartedly love the way she does now!).

Whenever the two of them got even a sliver of free time, Kiara would come to expect that Hana would suggest sneaking into the library first.

(For a reading session? To ravish each other against the bookshelves, sending an entire pile of French Renaissance literature tumbling to the floor? Both possibilities held equal appeal)

Hana would even give the occasional gossip rag the once-over, though the abysmal editing and the awful typos made her grit her teeth on occasion.

It was glorious. Novels, poetry, essay collections, her favourite mythological retellings. There was nothing Hana wouldn't read; this library was her oyster. Some evenings when Kiara came home later than Hana did, she wouldn't even bother searching anywhere else in their manor - she'd just make a beeline to the library.

That was a year ago.

Wearily, Hana places a bookmark (handmade, laminated, with pressed dried flowers she had selected herself) on the very page she'd opened, letting out a soft sigh. It's almost as if - after the exhilaration of reading whenever and whatever she liked - her brain has decided it's had enough, and has shut down.

In the first two weeks of this strange predicament, Hana had tried to put it down to different things. Overwork, or the aftermath of juggling all her new roles and all the new skills she'd managed to learn. Perhaps her reading has suffered because she doesn't have the time.

But she knows in her heart that that isn't quite true. Hana isn't sure she has been as free in her life as she has been these past few months. Her calendar has been freed up considerably; she's managed to have more romantic dates with Kiara in the past month than they'd had all year. It can't be a lack of time or even general fatigue, because these days she doesn't do much else that taxes the mind.

No - she has the time. She has the resources - thanks to Kiara, far too much of the resources. And there's no question that she has the desire to keep reading. She just can't ever bring herself to finish.

As she places the book, dully, back on the bedside table, Hana feels a slender arm snaking its way around her waist, a chin nestling against her shoulder with a murmur of approval.

"Mon ange," Kiara whispers, her voice rough, grainy, deep, like freshly-ground coffee. She plants a kiss on Hana's shoulder, lacing their fingers together.

Lazily, Hana turns in Kiara's arms and moves her hands so she can lightly finger her curls, marvelling at how soft they feel in her hands. Kiara takes a long, hard look at Hana as her vision clears, probably wondering what she's hiding. Hana wishes her wife wasn't so good at guessing when something doesn't feel right.

She tries hard to school her features into something more neutral - more fitting for someone who just woke up and wasn't ruminating over something she has lost - but Kiara has never been that easy to fool.

"Everything's okay?" Kiara says, "You've been looking a bit...off for the past few weeks."

Hana looks down, pretending to busy herself with the crocheted fringes of the blanket. Could she laugh it off? Claim that her wife is probably overthinking, that she is worrying over nothing?

Because in the grand scheme of things, it is nothing. She's been doing well. She's never been happier than she is now - she has a home, a purpose, a wife she is madly in love with, passions that she's never felt more free to pursue!

She curses herself as she begins to feel that tell-tale burn in her throat. Struggling to read a book shouldn't affect her this much.

She looks up at Kiara, and almost begins to lie. But Hana knows she's not the best of liars, that most times her eyes give her away. Kiara's fingers are already moving towards the corners of her eyes, brushing the teardrops away.

Hana sniffles. "It's silly."

"Humour me," Kiara nudges her gently. "I don't care how stupid it sounds."

Hana sighs, and tells her. Midway through it all, Kiara props up two pillows against the bedstand and gets them to sit up, Hana safely ensconced in her arms. She tells Kiara everything. How much joy she'd had every time she'd picked up a book. How that joy would spring up double fold if it was about something she barely understood. How easy it was, a year ago, to speed-read the first time, then savour re-reads. How - whenever she felt a little bit naughty - she'd read a book backwards, from the last chapter to the first; giggling as she came to the beginning of the book knowing how it would end.

How...of late...she can find no fun, no joy, in turning to the next page - much less the end of a book.

"It's a stupid, stupid thing to worry about," Hana rails on, "I can just imagine my people at Krysanthe looking at me and shaking their heads and thinking 'oh, the Duchess and her first-world-problems'."

Kiara laughs gently, snuggling Hana closer to her. She passes a small handkerchief to her free hand. "That's all of us, with our people. And they're not completely wrong - of course our lives have always been far better and easier than theirs...most times through their labour. But that doesn't mean that you have to ignore things that confuse or distress you, ma moité." Her hand caresses Hana's shoulder in an attempt to give comfort. "And learning that a pastime so beloved no longer gives you the joy you always got from it...is bound to confuse you."

Hana blows her nose into the handkerchief. "I think a part of it is that...I'm beginning to wonder if I was lying to myself about loving reading books, this whole time."

She takes a deep breath, running her hands back and forth over the soft blanket for comfort. "And if I did...what else have I been lying to myself about? What else will I find I don't like, now that my parents can't dictate the way I live my life? Fashion? Poetry? Music??" Hana takes in a deep breath, almost shocked at the things she's revealing because she hardly ever allowed herself to dwell upon any of this before, much less say it out loud. "What if there's nothing that I liked that I can't put down to parental pressure? What if I keep unraveling, and peeling off, everything I thought I was and find that I'm...well...nothing?"

For one moment, Kiara's eyes seem to search her face, frowning deeply. Then her body goes slack, only her hands enfolding her in a tight, comforting hug. She sighs softly against Hana's hair. "Oh, Hana."

For several minutes, Kiara says nothing - just cradles Hana in her arms, rocking her back and forth, her hands moving in a light caress up and down her spine. When she feels Hana go calmer, she moves her hands to her face, cupping her cheeks.

"What you're facing right now...that's something almost every book lover will have gone through, sometime or other. Especially if their passion was something they had to keep a secret, and they suddenly find that they're no longer bound by any rules or restrictions."

Hana raises her eyes to Kiara's face. "Even you?"

Kiara laughs. "I'm not exactly as passionate about reading as you are, but I've seen that fatigue in Baba often. And I've faced that often with my translation work too. It's what happens when you haven't learnt yet how to regulate your passions. You do too much, you overtax your mind. And maybe this phase...maybe it's your brain and your body screaming for you to find a little bit of balance, darling."

It's now Hana's turn to frown. "What do you mean?"

Kiara's eyes dart upwards, in that way it does whenever she is pondering deeply over the best way to convey a thought. And then she suddenly smiles, almost as if she's found the perfect way to get it across. "You do love chocolate, don't you?"

Hana takes a long, hard look at Kiara's face, then bursts into delighted laughter. "Well, it's impossible to argue about or deny that!"

"What if you gave yourself unlimited access to it...no restrictions, no holds barred, allowing yourself to have as much of it as you've wanted all the time? Would it always taste the same?"

Gazing into her wife's face, Hana marvels at how perfect this analogy is. How fitting. "Of course not. I'd maybe even grow a little sick of it at some point!"

"Does that mean you'd been lying to yourself about loving it this whole time?"

Hana throws back her head and laughs, a full-throated joyful sound this time. "You could even say I'd probably get back to remembering how wonderful it tasted if I spent a little time away from it."

Grinning, Kiara bumps her forehead playfully into Hana's. "Only a bookworm would understand a metaphor that quickly. I wasn't even halfway through explaining that."

Hana slips her hands into Kiara's curls again, just the way she knows her wife likes it. She lets out a watery giggle. "That's very nice to hear."

Kiara exhales and shakes her head. "So much has changed for you, Hana. And it isn't your fault that you found freedom in a thing you loved and pushed yourself into it so much. It's natural for someone who was expected to live her entire life on someone else's terms." She holds one of Hana's hands tight within her own. "When we got married, you approached your reading the way a child would approach a shop full of bonbons for the very first time. Now you're learning the more adult way of doing it - enjoy it... but never too much all at once."

Smiling, her eyes a tiny bit watery, Hana gently cups her wife's chin. "So wise, for one so young," she teases gently.

Kiara playfully punches her arm, pursing her lips in muffled laughter. "Stop sounding like my Baba and act more like my mrati."

In higher spirits now, Hana gives Kiara a quick kiss, then makes a move to get off the bed. "All this talk of chocolate is making me hungry. What do you say I make us a mug each of my special hot chocolate, now that it's almost teatime?"

Kiara smiles, sighing in relief. These are not the words of a woman who is trying to move away, unsuccessfully, from thoughts that disturb her, or an attempt to change the subject. Just a sign that her intrusive, self-flagellation thoughts are moving in a different direction. A better direction.

She nods, eagerly. "Hayati," she says, giving her wife a saucy grin, "when have I ever said no to your hot chocolate?"

Translations:

Ma moité - French for "my other half"

Hayati - Darija/Arabic for "my life"

Mon ange - French for "my angel"

Baba, Mrati - Moroccan Darija terms for addressing one's father and wife, respectively

A/N: Post the pandemic I've been struggling a lot with my reading, and had a lot of the same questions my Hana had running in my head. I guess this fic was an attempt to make sense of that, but using Hana's post-marriage context as a springboard.

#hana lee #the royal romance #the royal heir #the royal finale #hanaleeappreciationweek #HLAW #HLAW 2024 #HLAW Day 3 #HLAW Day 3: Bookworm #lizzybeth1986 #content: fanfic #hana lee x kiara theron #series: petals and thornes

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nixieofthenorth · 2 years

Text

Sabbats Masterpost

The History of Samhain

Samhain Facts

Samhain Correspondences

Samhain Crystals

Samhain Colors

Samhain Plants

Samhain Incense & Oils

Samhain Animals

Samhain Foods

Samhain Ritual & Magick

Samhain Deities

Samhain Altar Ideas

Samhain Activities

Last Minute Samhain Ideas

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The History of Mabon

Mabon Facts

Mabon Correspondences

Mabon Crystals

Mabon Colors

Mabon Plants

Mabon Oils & Incense

Mabon Animals

Mabon Foods

Mabon Ritual & Magick

Mabon Deities

Mabon Altar

Mabon Activities

Last Minute Mabon Ideas

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

Lughnasadh/Lammas History

Lughnasadh/Lammas Facts

Lughnasadh/Lammas Correspondences

Lughnasadh/Lammas Crystals

Lughnasadh/Lammas Colors

Lughnasadh/Lammas Plants

Lughnasadh/Lammas Incense & Oils

Lughnasadh/Lammas Animals

Lughnasadh/Lammas Food

Lughnasadh/Lammas Ritual & Magick

Lughnasadh & Lammas Deities

Lughnasadh & Lammas Altar Ideas

Lughnasadh & Lammas Activities

Last minute Lammas Ideas

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Litha History

Litha Facts

Litha Correspondences

Litha Crystals

Litha Incense & Oils

Litha Colors

Litha Plants

Litha Animals

Litha Foods

Litha Deities

Litha Altar Ideas

Litha Ritual & Magick

Litha Activities

Last Minute Litha Ideas

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The History of Beltane

Beltane Facts

Beltane Correspondences

Beltane Incense & Oils

Beltane Colors

Beltane Crystals

Beltane Plants

Beltane Animals

Beltane Altar

Beltane Food

Beltane Deities

Beltane Ritual & Magick

Beltane Activities

Last Minute Beltane Ideas

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Ostara History

Ostara Facts

Ostara Correspondences

Ostara Colors

Ostara Crystals

Ostara Incense & Oils

Ostara Plants

Ostara Animals

Ostara Food

Ostara Altar Ideas

Ostara Ritual & Magick

Ostara Deities

Ostara Activities

Last Minute Ostara Ideas

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

The History of Imbolc

Imbolc Facts

Imbolc Correspondenses

Imbolc Colors

Imbolc Crystals

Imbolc Incense & Oils

Imbolc Plants

Imbolc Animals

Imbolc Food

Imbolc Altar

Imbolc Ritual & Magick

Imbolc Deities

Imbolc Activities

Last Minute Imbolc Ideas

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The History of Yule

Yule Facts

Yule Correspondences

Yule Crystals

Yule Colors

Yule Plants

Yule Incense & Oils

Yule Animals

Yule Foods

Yule Ritual & Magick

Yule Deities

Yule Altar

Yule Activities

Last Minute Yule Ideas

#sabbat #esbat #samhain #mabon #lammas #lughnasadh #wicca #witch #pagan #heathen #shaman #beginner witch #litha #beltane #yuichiro matsumoto #ostara #imbolc

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martiwikiwi · 3 months

Text

Some sketches of ideas for the OCkiss week, featuring my Time Traveller and Prince Beltane.

#Marta Selusi #my art #sketchbook #ockiss24 #artists on tumblr #traditional art #oc

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theharrowing · 1 year

Text

An Ghealach

Field Linguist Jimin Park travels to a remote island called An Ghealach off the coast of Ireland to research and document an endangered language, just in time for the community’s Beltane festivities. What he encounters is both horrifying and mesmerizing beyond his wildest dreams.

🌑 Jimin x Female Reader 🌒 word count: 9k 🌓 speculative horror, gore, major character death, dub con, smut, nsfw, 21+ 🌔 warnings: 🕊 dead dove! creepy folk horror themes (shapeshifting, human sacrifice), unable to tell dreams from reality, gore (mention of entrails, mention of bleeding someone dry, cutting palm and drinking/smearing blood), dubious consent (use of magic to put into a trance & coerce), angst, infidelity (mention of an engagement), smut (voyeurism & exhibitionism, oral & vaginal sex, a bit of ass eating, rough sex, holding of throat, blood licking, a little biting, forest sex, a need to be cum inside of), nickname "pet", major character cloning & off-screen death. 🌕 note: hello, and welcome to my fun little Beltane horror fic! appearance of reader in this fic shifts, and is therefore described. sometimes she has pale skin, other times dark, purposefully left vague aside from hair and occasionally eye detail. this story is a bit rushed because of yoongi concert week and final exams happening in the same month; i had a lot of ideas, but the time just kept creeping up and up and up, and here we are, at the end of May!

🌖 i also made a lot of shit up in terms of the magic, left a lot of shit vague, and did not worry much about whether things make any sense, so...go into this with a grain of salt; this is not meant to reflect any real Beltane rites or rituals, even if certain things (like the maypole) sound familiar. it is also not meant to depict a real place or a real dialect of a language. the Gaelic words are meant to feel wrong and strange because this place is wrong and strange. (a friend of mine who is Irish & a linguist helped me with the words; i promise you, the intent is to feel wrong.) enjoy!

🌗 mc goes by the name Rí; Jimin's pov appears in italic paragraphs

🌘 written for A Spring Offering Collab! check out the other works! 🌑 beta read by @neoneunnajimin 🌒posted may. 2023 | read on ao3

Cross his heart, hope to die Hang his entrails, bleed him dry

He is Here. He is here. Heard, have you? He is here.

The women of the island chirp and coo at one another, heads tilted inward, as if sharing a profound secret. Their voices are low but lilted with excitement, and the language in which they whisper is old – nearly extinct.

Your footfalls crunch through grass that has hardly seen rain – unseasonably dry, despite the air holding onto a thick, shrouding dampness. Soon, the sun will stay risen for more than eight hours, and, if this summer is bountiful, the clouds will open up and shower your island with abundance.

Seen the man, have you? They whisper, unused to men from outside the confines of the island; unused to skin darker than porcelain. No outsider has stepped foot permanently on this land since your father had, all those years ago; only mysterious strangers who last as long as the holiday allows.

Strange, his name is. They whisper. And the sun, his skin shines with deep hints of its rays.

"Girls," you call in a tongue that whisps through your lips, wind fluttering between delicate petals, ancient. "Our manners, let us not forget."

"Our manners, Rí," the women respond in a chorus, pulling their expressions straight, only to begin giggling the moment they think you are no longer listening.

Bright orange hair falls in tight curls to your shoulders, which are exposed to the sunlight. You wear a white long-sleeve chemise that rests mid-bicep and is tied loosely in the front over perky cleavage. Your emerald green bodice sits under-breast and opens to a long emerald skirt that falls to your bare feet over a hoop skirt made of layers of cloth.

Your girls are dressed much more simply in white chemise dresses and underpants. Some wear modest green or burgundy bodice dresses, and some wear plain white or black cloth shoes.

The propellers on the white aquatic plane whirr as you approach, and you hear two male voices speaking loudly over its engine. One man, dressed head-to-toe in a white pilot uniform, docks with the help of four of your women, and he exits the small aircraft.

After a pause, another man appears wearing a tan blazer over a white tee that is tucked into fitted blue jeans, with a black leather belt and black boots. Around his neck, a white kerchief is tied, and his hair is coiffed delicately off his forehead, casting a beautiful wave of silvery-blond that hardly blows in the winds coming from the sea. He looks as if he is dressed for a weekend getaway to somewhere far more exotic than here, and you find it absolutely adorable. He is more petit than you anticipated – average height and slender – but what stands out the most is the man's face.

Even from this distance, the man is breathtaking. His full lips pout as he straightens himself out, and he seems surprised and apologetic when the girls begin to assist with his things, pulling suitcases from the plane.

At his shocked expression and attempts to communicate with precious creatures who do not speak a common tongue, you make your way forward, holding your many skirts in hand so your feet do not trip. As soon as you approach and begin to shout to the girls to be careful, the man's eyes lift, lips part, and you watch the moment he notices you, deeply breathing in and holding it while you speak.

"Girls, girls," you call in the ancient tongue, "handle gently."

As his things are brought to the pier, the man begins to organize them. Everything is on wheels, and he must deem a certain suitcase more important than the others, taking it by its extending handle and dragging it to dry land first. There is a short set of steps between the path and the pier, and you walk down and reach a hand out to offer help.

"Thank you," the man mutters, seemingly uncertain whether you are one of the many who do not speak English.

"You must be Jimin Park," you say, reaching for the handle and watching as recognition and relief paint his pretty features.

Up close, Jimin is a thing out of fairytales. Wide, dark eyes glance curiously at the landscape, and each curve of his face is soft and delicate, despite his profile being sharp lines. An anomaly of beauty, carved with careful hands.

Jimin guesses at your name and you nod, flashing a sweet, welcoming smile – you had been the one corresponding with him before his arrival. He must relax, because as you begin to tug for his suitcase to lift it up the three short wooden steps, his hold loosens, and he eventually allows you to take it, only letting his gaze linger a moment before he turns to grab more of his things.

You help him with his belongings – four black cases in total – and each of you take two to wheel down the dirt path past the open field, along the edge of the woods that peeks out into the village, to the inn that sits ahead, to the left. Although your home is in the woods, you have prepared a room in the inn, sharing a wall with Jimin.

The village is quaint. There are a few homes at the far end of the walk, along a stretch of foothills. A town hall rests between the homes and the inn, and there is a small store room holding onto all imported wares, farmed goods, and hunted items. To the right is all forest until the cliffs open up to the vast ocean, and on the other side of the wood, village elders live out their days, never minding what you and girls do on this side, so long as their bellies stay full and hearths stay ablaze.

"Have you lived here your entire life?" Jimin asks slowly, annunciating each word with precision. There is a hint of his own accent giving the English a very pretty lilt.

"Nearly," you respond, eyes slowly wandering from the inn, sweeping the small hints of village that come into view, landing on the forest. "My parents arrived when I was little, but my mother was born here. The island is in my blood."

"And you are the only person here who speaks English?" Jimin asks, voice a bit shaky and hesitant.

As you turn to gauge his expression, you find hints of anxiety. You wonder if Jimin is not the kind of person who likes to seek the help of others; if, perhaps, you will have to be assertive in offering assistance with everything he may need.

"I am," you respond with a smile, "which means you and I are going to become quite well acquainted, Jimin Park."

Over dinner on the first night, Jimin opens up about growing up in South Korea and attending university both at home, and in the United States. As girls come to fill your plates with more cured meats, he notices that they call you Rí.

Jimin is an inquisitive fellow, whose pretty dark eyes are wide and curious – and somewhat glossy after two cups of honey wine – and you smile with feigned shyness, nodding your head demurely when he asks you about the nickname.

"It means king," you tell him with a grin.

"Ah," Jimin responds with a growing smile of his own. "So are you their king?"

With a chuckle, you shrug and say, "I suppose I am. We have elders but they live on another part of the island. I'm the one who takes care of the girls."

"And the hunting and farming?" Jimin asks.

"Much of our bounty is from the autumn equinox," you admit shyly, vaguely. "We had an abundant winter."

"Wow," Jimin responds curiously. "Good weather last year?"

It was luck that two cops came snooping around the island just before Samhain; their blood was the perfect offering to the old gods. With their entrails strung up, dangling from the trees, and slowly drip-draining into the grass below, the skies shined favorably through the cold season, and wild animals practically skittered and galloped happily into your traps.

"Yes," you respond simply, smiling fondly at the memory of the two transmuted squirrels who were sent home in the men's stead with nothing to report on but normal goings-on, on the island.

Magic of that caliber works best on the holidays, when the passages are open and the power from the other side covers your island like a rich fog, sparking it to life with intrinsic energy. A shame you used that power to create two men of the law, but the last thing your little homestead needs is more blue-capped guards snooping around for their missing men.

With the perfect specimen for this year's festival sitting beside you, your excitement shimmers, vibrating under your skin and making the air around you feel charged. You had hoped that, being as young as he is, you would be sent someone without a spouse, making it easier to fall under your spell – buying you a little time before having to clone the poor guy and send him back.

A shame that this season's sacrifice not only comes with a gold engagement band around his finger, but is so dreadfully pretty that you almost lament the thought of watching the light drain from his eyes.

But the land is hungry, and feed, she must.

“Cross his heart, hope to die. Hang his entrails…will he have pretty entrails, do you think?” you sing-song, lifting a handsome red squirrel in both hands, holding it eye-level to inspect. It had come to your window at the stroke of midnight, cheery and pliant.

An offering from the land.

A host.

“What a shame I can’t just keep him for myself,” you muse, considering the fact that you were able to transmute two men before. “Perhaps I will have to make a second clone, this time. Can you bring me a friend?”

The sound of thumping is what wakes Jimin up. At first, he thinks it may be a tree branch tap, tap, tapping against the window. But as sleep falls away to wakefulness, he realizes the sound must be coming from the other side of the wall.

Your wall.

Falling asleep was difficult, in the first place. Something about the island, and especially the inn, feels incredibly ominous, like there is a presence looming just out of the peripheral, never fully seen. And the scent that you carry – spiced cloves and fresh bouquet of wildflowers – lingered in the air, filling his head with thoughts of you.

Now, as he blinks through the darkness, he wonders if he had slept a wink, at all.

Jimin rolls over, attempting to ignore the sounds in favor of getting more sleep, noticing in his brief moment of wakefulness that it is still pitch black outside. But then he hears it…humming…low and inviting, causing all the little hairs on his arms to stand at attention.

Somewhat mindlessly, Jimin pushes the thick quilted blanket away and climbs out of bed, heavy-lidded and barely aware of his surroundings in the mostly-empty room. Golden lantern light glows in through the window, allowing him to see ahead of him just enough to make a clear path toward the sound.

In his dreamy haze, Jimin imagines voices whispering – beckoning him forward. Come to me, they say, tangling and slipping over one another, mostly incomprehensible flits of lips, teeth, and tongue, spoken too softly to truly be fully heard.

Jimin places his hands against the wall, presses his ear against the wood, and listens. The humming continues, muffled delicately by the layers that separate it from him. Is it Rí, he wonders.

As he continues to listen, his eyelids flutter closed. The thumping sound is rhythmic and soft, and the humming has shifted into something more sensual. Moaning, perhaps? Whimpering, even? He feels entranced by it and presses harder against the wall, feeling the cool wood against his cheek gradually heat, until his breath huffs out sticky-warm against it.

Come to me, Jimin, he is certain he hears in a voice that can only be yours. Don't be shy.

He feels drunk and loose-limbed, rubbery and pliant, and he sways his hips to the inviting song, dragging his blunt fingernails over the wall. The humming – the moaning – it intensifies, drawing his breath ragged, forcing small sounds of his own to come falling past his lips. His body feels electric – charged with a current that runs ultraviolet through his bloodstream, desperate for more, picking up hints of spiced clove and musky floral notes.

With a crescendo of whimpers, the thumping quickens and abruptly ends, and Jimin gasps, waking from his stupor, stumbling listlessly from the wall and wiping drool from his face. His head feels hazy as he blinks and turns, taking in the dark room and wondering what kind of dream he was just having.

In the quietude of the night, he stands still and listens. Had he imagined hearing something before? Was it all a dream? Only the scent of the trees below his cracked-open window fills the space, but he inhales deeply in search of something more.

Silence settles, heavy but somehow light, and he sighs, runs a hand through his damp silver-blond hair, and returns to the bed, trying his best to ignore the ache in his pants – hard and neglected.

"Not tonight," he whispers, scolding himself. Not over the thought of you. Not when he has someone waiting for him back home.

"Sleep well?" you ask at the sight of Jimin exiting the inn.

He wears a black tee tucked into black fitted jeans, with his black belt and shiny black leather boots, and you smile to yourself, both over the simplicity of it all, and from how much he stands out in a place like this.

Although denim is not frowned upon in the village, and is worn often by the elders on the other side of the island, the girls love to dress up in renaissance-reminiscent clothing and make believe that every day is a fairytale. After all, on An Ghealach, it can be.

You are modestly outfitted in a white chemise dress that is cinched at the waist, with an undershirt to hold your breasts in place, and simple cloth white shoes. Your straight, black hair falls waist-length, braided intricately away from your face, letting the sun hit your deep-golden skin.

"I slept alright," he responds, voice rough from disuse.

Jimin smiles softly, and you check for any glimmer that he has noticed the shifting of your appearance, of the outside of the inn, of the stone path that stretches around the forest edge. When Jimin smiles and asks if there is anything he can do to help set up for Beltane, seemingly unaware, you nod and lead the way.

"All there is to do today is prepare the land, which the girls have under control," you inform. "We can discuss phonemes in the meantime, if you have your equipment handy.”

With a wide smile, Jimin pulls a small recording device and notebook from his back pocket and holds them up. "Always prepared."

You chuckle and mutter, "Perfect," continuing along the path to the field where the girls are cutting the grass with old, metal devices on wheels, and gathering all the prettiest weeds and wildflowers to fashion into crowns.

Jimin makes good company, curious and open-minded without asking too much. You can see in the way he watches the girls that there is so much he would like to know – can read each question that flits over his eyes, only to be blinked away. Where did they come from? Why do none of them speak English? Where are the men? These are questions that just hang for brief seconds at the tip of his tongue but that he never works up the courage to ask.

Perhaps he knows it is best not to know. Perhaps some part of him is aware of the horrors that might lurk behind the corner of posing one question too many.

The two of you spend the day discussing vowels, consonants, and syntax. His grasp on modern dialects of Irish Gaelic is enough that he instantly begins to draw similarities between those and the older language spoken on the island.

And as the sun moves from burning hot overhead to sinking beneath the horizon, moving your studies into the inn's tavern, you find yourself scooting close on the bench while offering more honey wine to your eager, beautiful guest.

Jimin has never sleepwalked before. In fact, he tends to lay so still that often, his neck and limbs are sore the next morning, popping as he stretches in an attempt to get the blood flowing adequately.

So when he opens his eyes to find himself standing barefoot in the woods, hands outstretched toward the trunk of a tree, he yelps and jumps backward, nearly fumbling to his butt.

“What the fuck,” Jimin mutters to himself as he glances around, eyes becoming more alert.

The woods are nearly pitch dark, save for the bright glow of the waxing gibbous moon shining through the trees. What luck, he thinks, that the clouds are scarce tonight.

Although there is no foreseeable path, the ground appears mostly clear of thick brush. Jimin turns and makes his way out, careful not to step too hard, gently shuffling his bare feet outward with each step, avoiding sticks and rocks as best as he can.

Fear simmers just below Jimin’s skin. He attempts not to spiral, telling himself that he could not have possibly walked far. His blue flannel pajamas are warm, but thin enough that the chilly night air would likely have woken him quickly. And so, onward he presses.

A flickering yellow flame glows through trees ahead, just to the left, and Jimin lets out a deep sigh of relief as he changes course. Although he is pleased to be making his way back to civilization, his new worry is being disruptive as he walks back through the old, creaky inn. He does not want to disturb Rí, who he imagines must be asleep at this hour.

Despite the island being mostly covered in dense forest, the night is surprisingly quiet. Eerily so. Even in the daytime, insects and rodents are lively to the point of seeming cacophonous. How is it possible for everything to be so…still?

The sound of a particularly loud stick snapping – not underfoot but ahead – has Jimin tensing and freezing with fear. He holds his breath while his shoulders raise to his ears, trying his hardest not to be detected, until smoked clove hits his senses, and—

“Jimin!” you call softly, certain that his fear has spiked nearby, radiating like heavy, bright fumes between the birch trees.

And then you hear it, a soft, delicate voice, calling a tentative, “Rí?”

Ah, so the pretty thing is just ahead, and your plan to at least get him into the woods has worked without a hitch. You wonder what it was that snapped him out of his trance too soon. Next time, you think to yourself. You still have one more night to get him into the passage of his own volition.

“What are you doing out here?” you ask, feigning worry and exasperation.

“Ah—“ Jimin begins, voice sounding somewhat closer. “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Is that something you do often?” you ask, holding the lamp higher.

Jimin’s pretty face comes into view, peeking from between a thin birch that separates you, and you smile wide and welcome, taking in the blend of fear and affection that wafts from his pores and surrounds you.

“No,” he responds softly, eyes wide and curious. “Never.”

“Strange,” you mutter, momentarily stuck in time and space from him standing so close to someone so dreadfully beautiful.

“Yeah,” he says soft as a whisper, blinking heavily before standing straight and rounding the tree.

You also straighten out and take two steps backward to give him room. When Jimin appears before you, your eyes drop to his bare feet, and you frown, making a mental note for the next time.

With skin shades darker and hair shorter than earlier, you wonder if Jimin catches onto the new appearance. But his face gives nothing away. So the spell is just as strong, even if he broke the call of the other side just before entering the passage. Interesting.

“How did you find me out here?” Jimin asks as you turn and lead the way back to the inn, searching the shifted dirt path for a believable excuse.

You slowly lead the way toward the inn, and Jimin quickly falls into step beside you. When you walked outside to follow your guest just moments ago, you had left doors open and lights on intentionally, and you raise a hand to point in the general direction of the building.

“I came out of my room and your bedroom door was wide open," you say. "The front door, as well. So I grabbed a lantern and ran outside; I figured you could not have gone too far.”

“Oh,” he responds, already sounding ashamed even from one syllable. “I’m so sorry.”

With an insistent shake of your head, you say, “Not at all. I am just glad I found you.”

“What if an animal, or—“ Jimin begins, but you cut him off.

“There is nothing on this island that we fear. Closed doors are only such to keep the cool air out where it belongs. In the temperate months, doors and windows are left wide open.”

You are the witch of the wood, after all. Nothing that lives and breathes on this isle exhibits an ounce of free will if you wish it otherwise. Which reminds you… Slowly, you will the creatures of the night to stir – a scurry here and a dance of wings there – gentle enough to keep Jimin from noticing.

Except he does notice. You can practically feel each hair on his body stand at attention the moment a squirrel is heard clawing up a tree, and you take a step just a little too far to the right, bumping into him softly with the hope of providing a bit of a distraction.

"S-sorry," Jimin mutters, rubbing his hands on his blue pajamas. He seems nervous. Cute.

"Lost my balance," you respond, shaking your head with a gentle chuckle. "It is past bedtime, I am afraid."

"Sorry again for the trouble," Jimin says as you reach the inn, passing through the threshold and stopping just at the foot of the stairs.

You turn to Jimin and give a soft, sympathetic gaze.

"It is no trouble at all," you mutter sweetly, smile saccharine. "I'm just glad I was able to find you."

Jimin hums, nods, and says, "It won't happen again," with a light bow of his head, then makes his way up the stairs, dirt-dusted feet falling quietly on each step until he is down the hallway, past your room, and closing his door softly behind him.

The look of wonderment on Jimin's face really is something. As you walk through the small town, past the stretch of woods in which you found him last night, he keeps turning his gaze back to the trees. Is he wondering what it is he was doing there when he woke up from sleepwalking? Is he curious what drew him to that spot?

You watch his micro-expressions as his brows knit and he wets his lower lip with just the tip of his tongue. He had been mid-sentence before, trailing off the moment you approached the spot through which he emerged.

Jimin's gaze drifts to you, and he seems shy suddenly, cracking a soft smile while blush rises to his cheeks. Once you pass the wooded area and come up to the opening of the field, he seems a little more present.

"Sorry," he mutters, and you continue to study him, noticing how his shyness seems to steadily build the more you watch him.

"Has something caught your eye?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder toward the line of trees.

A dark mist pulsates between the slender, white and brown trunks and branches, beckoning with tendrils that billow out and evaporate – yearning for the pretty man with the soft smile. Soon, you want to tell it. Be patient.

"Ah," Jimin mutters, scratching the back of his head with his face scrunched as if searching for a memory. "I guess I feel a little strange about sleepwalking last night. How did I end up in the woods, of all places?"

You hum in understanding and say, "The wood calls to us all, I suppose."

Without giving Jimin much time to dwell on your words, you hold out your hand and point him to where, in the center of the open field, some of the girls are setting up a maypole, and others are building a tall triangle of logs in the center of a stone circle.

Jimin takes out his small recording device and field notebook, and you begin to describe the scene before you in a mix of English and the ancient tongue, carrying your studies through the evening and into the early night.

In the woods again.

Jimin stares down at his hands covered in dirt and wonders how he has managed to sleepwalk two nights in a row. He stands with his shoulders slumped forward, bent slightly at the knee with an arm outstretched as if he was reaching for something before waking up. In front of him is the u-shaped opening between two thick tree trunks. Or is it the same tree? Jimin cannot quite tell – too difficult to parse in the dark – and he tucks the information away to ask Rí about later.

He would be freaked out, only the smell of the wood – rich, earthy, and damp, with the sweet, musky smell of blooming flowers – feels calming now that he is confident that he can find his way back. He takes a deep breath and resists the urge to wipe his hands on his pajama pants.

The walk back to the inn is short, and although there is no path where he is, a golden lantern glow flickering past the thin birch trunks guides him. As twigs snap underfoot, he notes that he took the time to put his sneakers on before sleepwalking, relieved to not be barefoot again.

Jimin thinks he can hear faint sounds of voices – whispering, or, perhaps, chattering. Maybe singing. The island inhabitants certainly are an interesting bunch. He supposes that being far from modern civilization and with minimal technology would make people behave a little strangely. With Rí being the exception.

Something about you seems…different. And not just because of your appearance. There is an aura about you that feels almost otherworldly. Perhaps in the way you carry yourself. Jimin finds himself intrigued by you...he wants to know more…

"Right there," you sigh in a tongue as rich and ancient as the soil, tilting your head back to reveal more of your neck, switching to English. "Feels so good, little pet. Don't stop."

His kisses are tentative and shaky, but he grips onto your hips with purpose, pressing his chest firmly against your back to hold you steady. Golden lantern light flickers through the curtains, one long, bright glow of a lamp that hangs just below your window, signaling that your friend is awake and that he has not entered the passage.

The woods are calm tonight, seeing Jimin swiftly return to tilled earth without interference. It is only a matter of time before he breaks through the forest edge, and you huff impatiently. Tomorrow is your last shot; you will need to beckon him with a blood ritual.

You reach for the ties on your chemise and begin to pull them open, but your pet takes over, raising his hands to deftly do the work while his lips and teeth drag over your neck, sending a small but steady tingle of arousal through you as the sticky-sweet huffs of breath warm your skin. With the top undone, his hands freeze in place, and you yank the fabric open, exposing your breasts as they fall past the thin white material.

"Touch me," you sigh, needy. "Touch me the way he desires to."

On your command, his hands cup your breasts eagerly, fondling your nipples until the skin is pebbled and sensitive, making you hiss with pleasure. Your dress falls down one shoulder and he sinks his teeth gently into the skin, sending a flow of electricity through your body, exiting in the form of a moan.

You tremble and tilt your head further to the side, giving his mouth more room to explore while his hands fall lower, attempting to gently lift the cotton layers of skirt and farthingale hoops before impatiently taking handfuls of the garments and shoving them up, over your hips.

Clear of the woods, Jimin moseys along the path, in no rush to return to his room, enjoying the crisp but warm night air. Something about tonight feels ominous, and he tips his head toward the sky, noticing a bright moon shining back. Is it full, he wonders. It must be, given the way it glows past the thin sheets of cloud, illuminating his path even more so than the lantern light that hangs from the inn.

As he approaches the inn, Jimin glances up, noticing light coming from one of the windows on the second floor. He wonders if it is the room you stay in, and what you might be doing awake at this hour.

Gravel and dirt crunch underfoot, quiet and calming as he walks down the path. Shadows seem to dance over the window above, and Jimin finds himself gazing upward. Briefly, he thinks he sees the appearance of palms pressing into the window, halting his steps. But the glass is frosted, and he cannot clearly see through.

Shame travels up Jimin's neck as he gets his bearings, realizing he had been trying to peer through someone's window. He shakes his head and takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air as he presses forward.

Voices continue to chatter and sing, but Jimin does not see where they are coming from. Rather, the sounds seem to be lifting and floating with the wind, settling around him on all sides only to slip away into the night. Despite feeling fully awake mere moments ago, shivering against a chilly gust that blows his hair into his eyes, there is a heavy sense of drowsiness that begins to tug at him, pulling him forward, as if willing his feet to take each new step, craving his bed.

The man behind you grips your hips tightly, then sinks to his knees, sliding his hands down to your ass as he lowers. He grabs firmly and spreads you, causing you to fumble forward and place both hands against the glass. Below, Jimin glances upward, attention caught by the movement. You wonder what he would think if he saw you like this – breasts exposed and mouth parted with surprise.

Perhaps it is the way eagerness and curiosity emit from Jimin, or how your own excitement from being touched has mewls and gasps falling from your lips, but the man digs his tongue eagerly into your ass, slurping and sucking over your hole, sending a steady wave pleasure and arousal coursing through you.

"That's it, pet," you whimper, nails scraping down the glass as you get your bearings. "Don't stop."

The man attempts to bend you further, tongue trailing down to your cunt, in search of your clit, but bending more would be too precarious, especially with the layers of material gathered, making it tough to move. He shuffles back instead and takes you by the hips to spin you roughly, causing you to yelp as you attempt to get your bearings and not fall over.

When you look down at the man – the imposter that was spawned from the flesh and blood of a mature red squirrel, crafted perfectly to look just like him – you gasp.

His plump lips are slick, glistening, and soft, reddened by the dim lamplight, and his short, silver-blond hair is a mess as he stares up with an eagerness that has you burning with desire. Ordinarily, you keep the clone for a bit; play with them a little until you have to wash their memories of you and send them home. But staring down at an imitation of Jimin just makes you want him – the real deal.

“Please,” you mutter, breathy and aroused. “Don’t hold back.”

The imposture rakes his blunt fingernails up your thighs, sending a shiver through you that escapes with a gasp, and he leans forward, eagerly lapping over your cunt with his tongue. It feels charged and galvanic – a hum that vibrates in your bloodstream on a low but steady frequency.

As your head lolls back you hear a gentle footfall on the bottom step.

Jimin finds it odd that your light is on at this hour. He hopes that somehow his absence from the inn has not awakened you again, and he does his best to tiptoe up to the landing.

It is soft, but he hears what sounds like a moan coming from your room, and he freezes, foot suspended in air just before your doorway, which is cracked open two enticing inches. A sliver of golden light casts a streak against the otherwise dark hallway, and Jimin feels a pull to it, eager to have just a tiny peek.

A whimper of the words please don't stop has the hairs on his arms standing tall.

Come to me, Jimin, he thinks he hears the voice say lowly, inside his head. Don't be shy.

Jimin wills his feet to move – exerts all the force he can muster into taking three more steps ahead. And then he stops in the light that shines from within, and he looks.

Surely, he must be dreaming. There is no other way to explain how he is standing in the doorway to your room, watching as a man who has his exact same hair and body type devours you. Your legs are spread, one ankle over his shoulder, toes outstretched as you hold him close, and your bare breasts heave as you pant softly and beg him not to stop.

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to watch. As your fingernails dig into the wooden edge of whatever the look-alike has you pressed against, you unravel from his mouth. His sounds are lewd and wet, slurping and humming in a low tenor that Jimin recognizes as his own, and arousal stirs between Jimin's legs. He grants himself permission to touch, just this once, gently grasping onto his erection and squeezing it over his pants.

Since this must be a dream, he allows himself to whimper from the warmth of his palm, eyelids flitting from pleasure as he listens to the man who looks just like him eat you out. He wonders what you must taste like – wonders if you would let him crawl in there on his hands and knees and try for himself.

The man stands, turns his head slightly to the side, and wipes his hand over his mouth, leaving a trail of slick behind. The jaw, the nose, the shape of the brow – he is a spitting image of Jimin. How Jimin is in two places at once, he does not know, but he keeps his eye on the man who undresses in a flash, displaying his own tattoos exactly where he remembers them, flexing familiar taut muscle that he has spent years building and maintaining.

When you wrap your leg around his hip and pull him close, your eyes find Jimin, gazing over his look-alike's shoulder, and he gasps, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. You shift before his eyes, hair turning black and then orange and then blonde, and he begins to question how you are supposed to look; he cannot remember your hair, nor eyes, nor skin, but nothing he sees now feels incorrect.

"That's it, Jimin," you moan, eyes trained on him, looking over the look-alike's shoulder, and causing his aching cock to twitch in his pants. "Don't stop."

Jimin squeezes his eyes closed tight, and when he wakes up suddenly in his bed, he gasps for air, covered in sweat. The heat from what he presumes had to be a dream covers him like a blanket, and he cannot stop himself from relieving the ache between his legs.

Guilt and shame do nothing to stave off just how hard he cums thinking about you.

"Just this once," he tells himself, whispered softly like a prayer. "Just this once."

Today, you have returned to the long, orange curls, with piercing green eyes. Shadow and light morph your skin tone with each passing step, as the full strength of the island's magic fills you from the crown of your head to the tips of your fingers and toes. When Whitman waxed poetic about the body electric, could this have been his meaning? Certainly not.

Beltane begins today.

Around the maypole, you and Jimin will dance, with a belly full of cured meats and a heady concoction of honey wine laced with blood and a generous dash of magic. But first, you must greet your sleepy guest, and you tiptoe to his bedroom door dressed only in a thin, white chemise dress with light blue embroidered hems, and rap your knuckles three times against the stained wood.

"Just a moment," Jimin mutters from the other side, sounding sleep deprived.

What must he have dreamt about after stumbling like a lust-sick zombie back to his bed to the sight and sound of his clone fucking you breathless? Did he come to in a cold sweat, gasping for air? Did he touch himself thinking of you?

When Jimin opens his door, he is dressed in a loose-fitting white cotton shirt hanging over matching cotton pants. Along each hem is an embroidered design of light blue rounded flourishes that match those on your dress, and on his feet are plain white shoes. You offered the clothing to him last night, to be worn for today's festivities, and you are pleased to find him outfitted in the attire.

His silver-blond hair is somewhat disheveled, and he has a hint of bags under his pretty, deep brown eyes. As he takes in your appearance, his petal-soft lips part, and you watch as his eyes linger here and there, as if tracing the faint outline of a memory, for split, fleeting moments.

"Good morning, sunshine," you tease, adding, "May the fires of Beltane light your path," with a gentle bow of your head.

When you glance up once more, Jimin is still staring, curious eyes glowing with a new spark that seems entranced and somewhat foggy. Here but also not. You allow him to stare until he begins to blink and shake his head, and then he smiles softly and returns your greeting with a hint of blush darkening his cheeks.

"Merry Beltane, Rí," he says with a slight bow to his head. "May the fires of Beltane light your path."

At the breakfast table, down in the decorated inn tavern, Jimin laments having no pockets for his recorder and field notebook. "What if there are things I want to make note of?" he pouts so cutely beside you.

"Today is a day for celebration," you insist, dropping a generous serving of spiced honey into his tea and scraping the wooden spoon against the porcelain just enough to make Jimin stir where he sits.

"For celebration," he responds in a tired, malleable haze.

Lust and curiosity pour from Jimin, covering him in a rich cloud. Each time you speak, his body shifts ever so slightly closer, gaze lingering on your lips and throat, flitting down to your breasts. Shameless, the way he does not seem to care that you take notice.

"My dear, did you sleep poorly last night?" you ask, trying not to tease, pretending not to notice the way his cheeks darken further and he heavy-blinks again and again.

"I had a dream I woke up in the woods again," Jimin responds, slowly reaching for his tea and raising it to his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he breathes in the sweetened chamomile and spice. "And then…you were there."

"In the woods?" you ask, tilting your head with feigned curiosity.

Jimin shakes his head. "In the inn. Your door was cracked open and I walked by. I saw you—"

Pulled from his trance just enough to mind his tongue, Jimin cracks a soft smile and lets out a breathy chuckle.

"My dreams have never quite been so lucid before," he continues after a quiet moment.

You hum in response and mutter, "Perhaps the magic of the wood is calling to you."

Jimin nods, slow and shallow movements, brows knitting a hair before he concedes to the notion. "Perhaps."

Jimin certainly is an eager man.

Eager to drink from the wineskins and learn all the steps to the harvest dance and dangle colorful ribbons from nearby trees. Eager to join the girls around the maypole and cast his wishes and fears and desires into the tall bonfire which licks at the stars above.

At nightfall, under the glow of the full moon, you slice open the palm of your hand with a stone dagger and allow droplets of blood to fall into his cup of magic-imbued wine. Jimin sits unaware, eyes glazed over as he watches nude bodies jump over the dying fire. You lick over your wound, tasting brassy warmth, and pass him his cup, which he grabs automatically to sip from.

"Enjoying yourself?" you ask, leaning close.

Jimin hums in response, downs his cup, and turns to you with wide, ever-eager eyes, hair sticking out on the sides from beneath a daisy crown.

"What have you done to me?" he mutters after a long moment, and you giggle in reply.

"What do you mean?" you ask, watching as his eyes travel to your lips and back up.

"I feel…" he begins, eyes widening as he gazes at the celebratory scene before him, then back at you again. "I don't know. High?"

Jimin searches your features, which shift in the flickering flame light, and he shakes his head lightly. "How do I feel so high?"

"Blood ritual," you respond with a grin, noticing as Jimin's face and scent alternate between fear, acceptance, and confusion – unsure where to land.

"Blood ritual?" he asks, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.

With a nod, you lift your hand and begin to stand from the wooden bench, beckoning Jimin to follow you with your index finger. Blood trickles down from your palm to your wrist, tickling the skin.

"Your hand," Jimin mutters as he stands in a rush, stepping forward to inspect your wound.

"Follow me," you sing-song, taking large strides into the wood as the dripping red begins to stain your sleeve.

"Rí," Jimin mutters sadly, following dutifully with his eyes trained to your wrist, reaching out with limbs that are just slightly too slow to grasp. "you're hurt."

As your footfalls snap twigs and the world around you darkens under the cover of trees and long rainbow ribbons, you press yourself against a thick trunk and reach your uninjured hand out to grab onto Jimin's wrist and pull him close.

"Rí," Jimin pouts, "I can't—"

With a whispered, "Shh," you reach up and smear your spilled blood over Jimin's lips and chin, pulling a surprised gasp from his lungs.

"You're mine now," you say, and Jimin nods as he lunges forward, slotting a knee between your thighs as his hands lift to your chin to draw you close.

Jimin's lips are pillow-soft and tangy-sweet with blood and wine mingling deliciously. He moans as you open your mouth for him, and he eagerly licks inside, tasting and taking like a man starved.

Blood smears across his neck and into his hair as you pull him close, and he gasps and moans between your lips as his hands begin to untie your modest cloth dress and push it down past your arms, past your hips, to the forest floor.

"Need you," Jimin growls as his fingertips press harshly into hips and, waist and he lifts one of your legs to rest over his hip.

He shoves his pants down and in one swift movement, spears you on his hard cock, stretching you with a pleasure-pain that has you sobbing into the night. Jimin fucks you in a rough tangle of balanced limbs, skin slapping desperately against skin, and you clench around him, working yourself up as pleasure unfurls in rich tendrils through your bloodstream.

Once he cums inside you, there will be no going back. He will belong to you – to the land – and the passage to the other side will open up and swallow him whole.

But his hips still before he reaches his orgasm, and he pulls out and drops to his knees, making you whimper in confusion before clawing at the tree for stability from pleasure the moment he tastes you. Your eager pet was good at mimicking just how greedy and talented Jimin's mouth is, but pales in comparison to the real thing. Jimin hums and moans as his tongue laps at your cunt, devouring you while his fingertips sink into your soft flesh.

How can you sacrifice something so remarkable? Will the lands forgive you if you keep this one, just this once?

Pleasure builds and breaks suddenly, and you cum on Jimin's tongue, gasping and sobbing into the cool night air as the trees flutter and rejoice all around you. The air is effervescent, filled with power, engulfing and billowing around you, reaching its greedy fingers for your sacrifice as you ride your high, trembling on his soft, kiss-swollen lips.

When Jimin stands, covered in a pink smear of blood and your slick release, he yanks his borrowed white shirt over his head and throws it to the ground. You pull him into a kiss, sucking his tongue into your mouth until only faint traces of your essence remain.

"Please," you whine as you spin and grip onto the tree, rubbing your ass against his throbbing cock. "Please, Jimin."

Never have you needed to be filled with the seed of a sacrifice so badly; never has the oxygen coursing through your bloodstream shimmered opalescent for someone like it does tonight.

Jimin lines himself up with your entrance and wraps one hand around your throat, sinking himself in slowly while manicured fingernails dig into your hip. The pleasure is white-hot intense, quaking through you as you tilt your hips backward, desperate to feel full.

"So tight," he groans as he pulls out and snaps his hips forward. "Been wanting you so bad."

You moan as Jimin slowly pulls out and roughly thrusts in, asking, "Yeah?" when you find that no other words are able to form.

"Feels like I'm going fucking crazy," Jimin groans, slowly pulling back and roughly snapping forward, back and forward, back and forward. "These woods…the blood…what are you doing to me?"

Before you can respond, Jimin's grip on your throat tightens, and he fucks you at a rough, quick pace, forcing air to punch from your lungs as arousal and pleasure ebb and ebb endlessly.

You scratch at the tree, ripping away chunks of bark while you lean your head against your wrists and try not to collapse under the treacherous, horrifying weight of euphoria as Jimin thrusts hard and deep, filling the night with the sounds of skin against skin and feral, animalistic grunts.

The hand on your hip reaches down between your legs, and as the pads of Jimin's fingers swirl deliciously over your clit, he growls, "Cum for me" into your ear.

Your walls pulsate and squeeze, and you follow his command, building and building your pleasure until you can no longer hold back, allowing the floodgates to burst as you cum once more.

"Fuck, that's it," Jimin moans with a drag of his lips and teeth over your shoulder and neck. "Feels so good. So fucking good. I'm so close."

"Cum inside me," you beg, desperate, squeezing around him with every last ounce of willpower you have.

As if having a sudden moment of clarity pulling him from your spell, Jimin quietly mutters, "Wait…I can't," against your shoulder, dropping his hand from around your throat.

"You must," you beg, petulance rising as Jimin's hips begin to slow and his whimpers die.

"What are we…" Jimin mutters softly, "I shouldn't be doing this."

With an exasperated huff, you pull away from Jimin, letting his cock slide out, then spin, resting your back against the tree once more. Jimin's eyes are wide and afraid as he takes you in, and he begins to glance around as if searching for a way out.

You reach the hand that remains covered in blood and drag it over one of your shoulders, scraping tiny pieces of tree bark against your skin as you tilt your head and say, "Have a taste."

Drawn by the scent of your blood, still under its spell, Jimin leans in close and drags his lips over your skin, chest lightly grazing over your hard nipples, and he hums as it fully takes over his senses once more. Jimin's fingers grip roughly at your hips, and you lift your leg, wrapping it around his hips and pulling him forward as you reach for his hard, slick cock and guide it back inside you.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him close while you adjust once more to the stretch – your pussy feeling used and sore. Jimin licks over your skin and begins to move his hips, and when he straightens out and fixes you with his dark gaze, he appears equal parts entranced with bliss, and afraid.

Jimin's eyes are somewhat absent of their full glaze when he thrusts forward, and you watch as slivers of doubt cast over his features. Although your magic is strong, the will of a man can be difficult to break, even on a holiday such as this, when the ritual is strongest.

But as you squeeze around him and let your scent of spiced clove and musky wildflowers fill the air, Jimin's pupils blow wide, and he leans forward, dragging his lips and teeth once more over your bloodstained skin.

As he sets a steady pace and chases his high, Jimin begins to suck and nip at your skin, huffing moans and groans while holding your ass firmly in two hands. Your body is tired and sore, back scratched, and hair matted from rough tree bark, but the pleasure overpowers, building like the clouds of an impending storm, thick and foreboding.

Cross his heart…

"Close," Jimin whimpers, and you tighten your leg around him, keeping him from pulling out as his hips thrust and quake unevenly.

"Come for me, Jimin," you command, sinking your fingernails into his shoulder while your other hand tugs at his soft, silvery hair and holds him close.

Hope to die…

Jimin mouths at your shoulder and neck, digging nails into your hips so hard you wonder if the skin might break. And then, with a desperate, almost pained groan, Jimin's hips still and then shake, and he fills you with his release.

Tendrils of fog wrap around each of Jimin's limbs, dancing over his throat, as the passage opens up and begins to swallow the two of you whole. Once he is on the other side, he can be prepared for sacrifice, and in the light of the morning sun, this land can drink of his blood.

Hang his entrails…

"Good boy," you mutter softly, as Jimin's teeth clamp down weakly, and he sobs through his orgasm, pressing his body into you as it convulses and quakes. "You've done so well."

"What—" Jimin mutters into your skin, then moans deeply as his cock continues to pulse and drain. "I can't s-s-stop."

"Shhh," you whisper softly, stroking blood-slicked silver-blond hair and pulling him close.

Jimin shivers as the smoke dissipates, skin sweat-sheened and shining in the bright moonlight, and you run your palms up and down his back. His body begins to give out, and he leans his weight into you, dropping slowly to the ground. Around you, the voices of the others – the inhabitants of this side – whisper, sing, and chant. As you assist Jimin to lay on the forest floor, exhausted from his journey to the other side, you kneel and then drape yourself over his chest, playing softly with his hair as you fall fast asleep.

Bleed him dry…

Dawn breaks as you stand tippy-toe, dangling dripping tissue and sinew from branch to low branch like a holiday garland.

"Pretty entrails, indeed," you beam as you take a step back, covered in dripping blood, to admire your work.

"Merry Beltane, Rí," Jimin's rich tenor greets you, just before two strong, warm arms wrap around your bare waist and pull you into a back-hug, skin against skin.

"Merry Beltane, pretty," you respond, turning your head to the side just enough to greet him with a soft, chaste kiss.

Upstairs, in the inn, a copy of the man sleeps soundly. Today is his last day on the island before his research is concluded, and you pull your nude, love-struck Jimin past the edge of the forest, where you will leave him with one last kiss before shifting the wood to appear normal and free of bloodied guts.

You bow your head to the land and thank it for the bountiful summer you will undoubtedly receive, then turn your head to the rising sun, and beg it with eyes closed to allow you to be greedy and keep a pet, just this once. At least until the long days shift to long nights, and, on the precipice of Lughnasadh or Samhain, a new eager stranger comes along.

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tags: no tag list for dead dove oneshots.

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #jimin horror #jimin angst #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #a spring offering collab #fic: an ghealach

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