#my herald of spring

[linseedling]

Drawing American Woodcocks to revitalize my life essence.

[magnusmodig]

||. Thinking quietly about Thor and his friends. How they all filled a space in him and outside of him that Thor needed fulfilled... The most obvious being in the group's battle formation, but even outside of that too.

Volstagg with his jolly nature helping Thor keep morale up, being the glue that keeps the warriors together, especially when it comes to making group compromises and hard decisions. Hogun with his straight-laced practicality , the way he'd be able to offer an outside perspective to Asgard's ways — something invaluable to Thor. Fandral for all of his apparent womanizing likely keeping up with the courts of Asgard and so Thor would be in the know in a much more close manner through what Fandral knows, and what he's able to find out in Thor's stead. And he's quite personable, in a manner much more suited to crowds than Thor... so that makes the finding of information that much easier, and quicker to relay. (Thor may be a prince, but he's also got Homeschooler Energy out the wazzoo.) Thinking about Sif and Thor being something of childhood friends... Or as close to childhood friends as someone like Thor can have, when you live in a palace your whole life and are largely confined to its walls with your tutors and your parents and your brother for company keep. But Sif would be the exception, I'd imagine, if indeed she is of noble birth the way I'd suspect it.... and Thor and Sif would have gotten along splendidly, especially once he finds out her desire to become a shield-maiden, and then that leads into learning about the Valkyrie, and of course then Thor would want Sif to be HIS Valkyrie, because of all the people who are mighty and brave and compassionate, and who would then deserve to be his esteemed commander of guard, surely why WOULDN'T it be Lady Sif?

And of course there's Loki, who completes many of Thor's loose ends and falterings in plenty of ways, but that's it's own story and its own post for a different time.

Thor picked his warriors well and he picked them wisely. There's not a single quest or mission they can't overcome because each of their strengths buoy the other's weaknesses. Together, when in sync, they're all six of them a well-oiled machine, and it's really no wonder that they, together, become "Asgard's Finest", and it's really no wonder that they were all to be Thor's council as King. (If only all of them lived...)

[harmcityherald]

Blue wildflowers And Cthulhu.

And

He jumped to another tub!! Now..... Is this Cthulhu ? Or is this Cthulhu clone? Somebody call Lovecraft I need to know how Cthulhu Reproduces. Who out there knows the mating Customs Of dark elder god beasts?

[redsinistra]

Another character concept for my world building. This time is a Demigod. This concept was in the works for far too long and I finished it! Finally!They are also known as The Herald of Seasons. The three elemental gems can summon three different instruments for the herald to use. (Yes, behold, a bard)

[nightfaeses]

Primrose & Proper 🌷

[blindmagdalena]

The Cuckoo's Nest

18+ 6.3k siren!homelander x f!reader. dub/noncon, infidelity, mind/emotional manipulation, gaslighting, voice kink, masturbation, penetrative sex, fingering, blood, gore, cannibalism? creampie, stalking, minor character death, praise kink, good girl/pretty girl.

The gentle and pleasing voice of the cuckoo bird has made it a renowned herald of spring, and perhaps one of the most famous of songbirds. One would never guess merely by looking at it that it is a predatory parasite.

What you thought would be a dream job working for Vought as Homelander's very own secretary turns into a surreal waking nightmare as reality and dreams converge in a confusing mess. The only coherent thread that strings it all together is the alluring pull of Homelander's unnatural voice.

written for Monsterlander Mania. fair warning, this fic is fairly dark! thank you so much @anon-nee for this amazing banner art. 🖤

When you were hired as Homelander’s secretary, the gig had been pitched as a cushy desk job. Now that he’s the new face of Vought, and Ashley the company CEO, he needs someone who will keep his day to day affairs in order. Apparently, you’re just the person for that job.

“You probably won’t see much of him,” Ashley tells you distractedly. She rarely ever looks away from her phone for long.

“There are two landlines on your desk. The left one is for general business, and the one on the right, the red one, is exclusively for him. Don’t make calls on it. He has the number memorized, he’s the only one who’ll ever call it, so make sure you always answer it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say diligently.

Glancing over, Ashley does a double take. “Aren’t you married? Where’s your ring?”

You falter, looking down at your hands. “Oh,” you say, taking said ring out of your pocket. “I put hand cream on earlier, I just forgot to put it back on.”

“Make sure you keep that on,” she says, giving you a critical look before returning her gaze to her phone. “He’s particular.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Nevertheless, you make sure to always keep your wedding ring on while you’re at work.

True to Ashley’s word, you see neither hide nor hair of Homelander during your first three days. You make his appointments, you take calls on his behalf, and you organize his bookings.

In your office, directly across from your desk, hangs a borderline comically oversized portrait of him that stares relentlessly at you as you work. You often find yourself staring back at it, the back of your neck prickling with the irrational feeling of being watched.

You know that it’s just in your head, but you can’t help but be put off by the feeling. Sometimes you consider covering the portrait, but the last thing you want is for the man to appear out of the blue and see a blanket thrown over his likeness.

Your instinct proves correct.

“Hey you,” comes a voice like silk. You startle, looking up from your desk to find a shock of red, white and blue standing in your doorway, his arms folded casually behind his back.

“Homelander,” you say, nearly choking on the name. “Sir, hello. I’m–”

“I know,” he interjects smoothly, cape swaying behind him as he passes the threshold, making his way over to your desk. That voice. He’s not even said five words to you yet, but it lingers in your ears like warm honey, causing a flush of warmth to roll through you. You convince yourself that you’re just embarrassed to have been caught so thoroughly off guard. “My new secretary. Sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, sir. I know better than most how–” you hesitate, watching as he takes a turn and begins walking directly towards you, circling behind your desk. “–busy you are,” you finish, looking up at him as he looms over you. You wonder if you should stand, but he’s so close to you now, you’d just knock right into him.

He smells good. Earthy and slightly sweet, like vetiver.

“That’s pretty,” he remarks, gesturing to your ring finger. “Sapphire, huh? Unusual choice.”

You swallow, trying desperately to reign in the cadence of your breath. Your heart is pattering as wildly as rain drops. “Thank you. My husband chose it, it’s his birthstone.”

To which Homelander giggles. It’s a delighted, slightly off-putting little noise. “P’wow, he gave you a ring with his birthstone, huh? Really staking his claim,” he says, reaching down to take your hand. He looks at you just before he makes contact. His eyes are even bluer than the stone in your ring. “May I?”

Dumbstruck, you nod, lifting your hand and placing it in his upturned palm. He sits on your desk and turns your hand this way and that, watching the way your ring catches the light. Eventually, his gaze slips back to yours. “Happily married?”

“Very,” you say immediately, your throat suddenly dry.

He smiles, and only then do you notice how unusually sharp his canines are.

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he says, giving your hand a gentle pat before he lets it go. You immediately drop your hand into your lap, touching your ring. You feel strangely lightheaded all of a sudden, unable to look away from his piercing gaze. Even when he isn’t speaking, you can still hear the warmth of his tone echoing all around you.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, standing from your desk with preternatural elegance, as if he’d floated more than lifted himself.

“Please, the pleasure was all mine,” you say with a smile, somewhat dazed. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

He looks pleased as punch at that. “I’ll try not to be such a stranger, hmm?” he purrs, reaching out to give your shoulder a friendly squeeze. You feel the rumble of his voice roll all the way down your spine and into the core of you, leaving a light throb nestled between your thighs.

“I’d like that. Thank you, sir,” you say, your voice sounding dreamy and distant in your own ears.

Flashing that same toothy grin, he shoots you a wink before he turns face with a slight flourish of his cape, the fabric billowing in his wake as he takes his leave, disappearing down the hall.

The second he’s gone, it’s like the spell of his presence breaks and you come crashing back to yourself, eyes wide. A hot broil of shame rolls through you when you realize how aroused you are, that throb lingering. You’re equal parts shocked and disgusted with yourself, sickened by the hot prickle lingering on every inch of your skin.

Holy shit. What the fuck was that?

You wind up leaving an hour early, eager to be home. The shame makes you desperate to see your husband, as if touching him will erase the residual traces of the effect that Homelander had on your body.

It doesn’t. In fact, that feeling of being watched follows you all the way home, the feel of it becoming a specter haunting your house. When your husband seeks intimacy from you in your bed later that night, you push his hands away.

“Sorry,” you say softly, shaken. “Not tonight.”

Your body still remembers him too viscerally.

That night, you dream of songbirds.

Two days later, the right landline rings for the first time. You stare blankly at it, your stomach immediately twisting into knots. It rings, once, twice, nearly a third time before you hurriedly snatch it up off the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” comes Homelander’s familiar drawl. His voice falls over you like a wash of sunlight, warm and heavy. “Thought you might be ignoring me for a second there.”

“No, no, never. Sorry, sir,” you say, reaching for your water. You take a quick sip. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing too dire, just a little shuffling. Can you bump tomorrow’s 4pm to Thursday for me?” He asks, voice slipping around your throat like a noose. The press of it makes you slightly breathless.

“Of course,” you say, balancing the phone on your shoulder while you manipulate your tablet. “That’s no problem at all, done.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, the phone turning his voice into an intimate rumble in your ear.

You blink, feeling like your mouth is full of cotton. You can’t seem to form a response.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, and you swear up and down you can hear a smile in his voice. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Was there anything else, sir?” You manage to blurt out, words leaving you in a clumsy spill. You’re breathing shallowly, mouth parched. You snatch up your water and take another quick sip. There’s a long pause on the line, the silence so deafening you think for a moment you must have missed something. “Sir?”

“Touch yourself.”

Your heart falls into your stomach, but that feeling is nothing compared to the unbidden liquid heat that those words erupt throughout your body.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says patiently. Amused, even. “Touch yourself. Take your hand–no, no, the left one,” he says in response to your right hand drifting down. You weren’t even aware you’d started moving. You swap the phone from your left hand to your right, and grab hold of your thigh with your left hand.

“I don’t understand,” you say, the words feeling as thick as molasses on your tongue. “Why are you–”

“That’s good. Now, move those pretty fingers in. Just like that,” he directs, and to your own distant horror, your hand moves, sliding between your legs and lifting up your skirt, your sparkling ring disappearing beneath it. You press your middle finger directly to your beating clit and let go a shuddering breath, massaging it through your panties.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me how you like it, mm? Bet your husband still doesn’t know the first fuckin’ thing about how to make you feel good. He ever watch you do this to yourself, ever bother to learn how you like to be touched?”

Disoriented, you shake your head. Your hips reflexively lift to meet the smooth figure-eights you rub yourself with. You’re sure you’d agree to anything he said so long as he keeps talking.

“Didn’t think so. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, sweetheart. I know exactly what you need.”

The heat of his voice envelops you, makes your whole body feel aflame. You’ve never been so sensitive in your life, already shuddering and squirming in your seat from the intensity of sensation building beneath your fingers.

“Slow down. There’s no rush. You’re as good as mine now.”

His voice is like velvet but his words sting, needling something inside you that squirms. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head more fervently. “No, no, m’not… I don’t…”

“Shhhhh,” he hushes, the hiss of it like a serpent in your ear. “Give it up for me, sweetheart.”

A whimper escapes your throat, the noise all but choked out of you. You can’t move, save for the increasingly frantic stroke of your fingers. His voice is a physical caress that slips down the line of your throat, between your breasts, slinking in serpentine patterns until it spills over your fingers and–

You gasp awake, staring wide-eyed at your blurry ceiling as wave after wave of pure euphoria crashes over you, stealing your capacity for breath. You ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm in a state of delirium, the shadows on your ceiling dancing like a voyeuristic crowd. You’re not sure if it takes seconds, minutes or hours to end, your perception of time distorted by the sheer intensity of sensation.

Looking to your side, panting, you see your husband sleeping soundly beside you. His snores are faint and peaceful. The curtains of your balcony door billow softly with the night’s breeze.

Your day comes back to you in a slow blur. The phone call was real, you’re sure of it… Aren’t you? Reaching for your phone, you hurriedly log into your Vought calendar and check the schedule. Sure enough, in your history, you can see that you bumped his next day R&D meeting to Thursday. That was real.

You wrack your brain for the details of your day, trying to piece together how you got from there to here, and whether or not any of Homelander’s voice cooing lewd commands in your ear was real. 

It couldn’t have been. 

The more the dream fades from your mind, the more you remember the rest of your day. You remember hanging up the phone, finishing your work day as per usual, and going home to your husband. Though it’s all something of a strange blur, the memories are there.

Even so, the dream somehow feels more real than any of it.

It’s 5am and you doubt you’ll be sleeping again. You get up early, shower, and make breakfast all before your husband even makes it to the kitchen. Your dreams and the haze of yesterday fade with the rising sun, as all dreams and memories often do.

You’re in the process of putting your dishes away when he walks in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You got an early start today?” He asks, biting back a yawn.

It’s cute. He’s cute. You feel an irrational spike of guilt.

It was just a dream.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you admit, kissing him on the cheek. You wrinkle your nose. “Oof, morning breath,” you say playfully, but there’s an edge of truth to it. You can’t explain it, but there’s something off about the way your husband smells this morning.

Your mind drifts wistfully to the pleasant memory of sweet vetiver.

By the time you make it to work, your morning is nothing but a distant recollection at the peripheral of your consciousness. 

Nonetheless, the sight of that bright red landline still makes you blush. 

You don’t see Homelander again for another three days. At least, not at work. In reality, you’re more aware of him than you’ve ever been in your life. His face is everywhere, be it TV or billboards. You see him in the grocery store, the post office, and even the goddamn DMV. You never really noticed until now how inescapable Homelander truly is.

It’s no wonder he continues to appear in your dreams, too. You can’t seem to remember any of them very well, but you know without a doubt each time you wake that you were haunted by sapphire blue eyes and a voice as decadent as sin.

Sometimes you recall a gorgeous view of the city hundreds of feet in the air. Other times you recall a blue bed, but the thing you remember most is mirrors. You see yourself clearly in them. You see him with you.

All the while a budding friction between you and your husband continues to grow. You find yourself telling him more often to brush his teeth, shower, anything to combat this bizarre stink he’s taken on. Some days it’s so bad, you swear you smell rotting meat before you realize it’s him. Even the sound of his voice grates on you, both rough and shrill in a way that agitates you further and further into isolation in the house you once happily shared.

On that third day at work, you’re penciling in a meeting regarding a potential collaboration with Superplastic when a rhythmic knock at the door jostles you from focus. You look up to call them in, but Homelander is already striding inside, stealing the words right off the tip of your tongue. 

“Goooood afternoon,” he drawls, the door falling shut behind him. For as much as you’ve continued to see and hear of him, you had forgotten how different he sounds in person, the force of his presence instantly a weight upon your body.

Your brain completely malfunctions. Night after night of erotic whispers suddenly crashes down upon you in visceral detail, how multiple times you woke to the throes of an orgasm with his voice still echoing in your ears. Humiliation and arousal flood you in equal measure, turning your skin hot.

Homelander smiles at you from the other side of your desk all the while. 

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks slyly. The question hurdles you backwards in time to the moment you were seated in this exact spot with him whispering downright pornographic filth into your ear, coaxing you into touching yourself into a frenzy.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was a dream.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you finally manage to say, wincing internally at the sound of your own voice.

“Don’t be so formal,” he says, giving a dismissive little wave. “C’mon, call me Homelander,” he says, once again circling around behind your desk. Your eyes widen slightly, mouth bone dry when you try to swallow. He sweeps his cape out of the way before taking a leisurely seat on your desk. He lifts his brows, pinning you with an expectant stare. “Go on, try again.”

“Uh, good afternoon, Homelander,” you correct yourself. His proximity to you is making it hard to focus–there it is again, the scent of vetiver. He smells like summer grass warmed by the hot sun, and he has a gravitational pull to him that has you leaning subconsciously towards him.

His smile widens. “Much better.” His eyes narrow a touch, flickering down briefly before snapping back up to meet your gaze. 

“So! How’s the office, everything nice and cozy?” He asks, one hand braced next to him on your desk, the other gesturing vaguely about. Before you can even answer, he points to your lap. 

“Chair good? I know how important lumbar support is when you’re sitting all day.”

Discussing your lumbar support needs with Homelander certainly had not been on your bingo sheet.

“Uhm, yes, it’s–” Again, before you can get a real answer in, he’s sitting up and making sweeping motions with his hand.

“Let’s see, up, up, lemme take this bad boy for a spin,” he says, making your heart leap up into your throat when he catches you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up out of your office chair, turning to set you on your feet. With a flourish of his cape, he drops down into your chair, legs spread wide.

You gawk momentarily, watching him spin side to side.

“Oop, there’s that lumbar,” he says, leaning back into it. He’s grinning at you all the while, the moment entirely surreal. You huff an incredulous little laugh, crossing your arms. He’s a little ridiculous, you realize, but personable. 

Have you been the problem this whole time, turning him into something he’s not? You’re starting to lose yourself in your thoughts as you watch him.  

“How about we test the suspension? C’mere,” he says, giving his thigh a pat. “Sit.”

You snap back to attention, your smile falling away. “Pardon?”

“Sit,” he says again, his smile a predatory curve of his lips. He pats his thigh again “Right here.”

You look down at his lap and then back up, your ears buzzing with the timbre of his voice. Logically, you know that what he’s just demanded is wildly inappropriate, yet the silken tone he said it in leaves you utterly agreeable. Slowly, you lower yourself into his lap, uncertain of why you wouldn’t abide by such a request.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he coos, bracketing your waist with his arms.

 ”That’s better, isn’t it?” He asks, his hands moving up and down your thighs. You shiver, a chill running down your spine despite the fervid heat of his body pressed along the back of yours.

A distant voice in the back of your mind whispers it wasn’t a dream, though you can barely hear it over the pounding of your own blood in your ears.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the word a warm huff on your neck. 

Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, your body goes slack against him. Your heart continues to race even as a wave of calm sweeps through you, the two sensations frantically battling one another. Eventually, however, your pulse succumbs to the warmth seeping from him, and you begin to calm, soothed by the slow sweeps of his palms and the way he’s muttering sweet nothings into your ear. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, the smile audible in his voice. “That’s it. Feels good, hmm?” His hands move more firmly on your thighs, closer to a massage.

You make a thin noise of pleasure, tipping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“When I tell you… that I have been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. 

“But I had to be sure you were the one. Most people start to go insane after the first night, maybe the second, but not you.” His teeth, sharp as razors, delicately graze your throat. “You’ve been… perfect.”

“What’re you talking about?” You ask, feeling slightly slow and disoriented.

Homelander chuckles, the rumble of it moving from his chest through your back. 

“My voice. It tears apart people's minds… But not yours. Why is that?” His lips are warm on your skin, trailing lower. He lifts a hand to pull your collar askew and kiss at the exposed crook of your neck.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, eyes flickering shut. His mouth feels incredible, the slight dampness that his lips leave behind making you especially sensitive to the air as he exposes you to it. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the drag of his mouth. 

You don’t even realize he’s unbuttoned your shirt and slipped it off of your shoulders until he’s kissing that newly revealed skin, nipping playfully at your bra strap.

“Here I was thinking you were just a pretty, tasty little thing… Turns out you’re so much more,” he purrs between kisses. A jolt of pain makes you gasp and then whimper, the sting of it soothed by the way his tongue drags over the spot afterwards.

It takes you a beat to comprehend that he’s just bitten the junction between your neck and shoulder, sunk his sharp teeth in so deep you smell the faint tang of blood.

“Turns out you were meant for me all along,” he says between slow drags of his tongue, lapping at your soft skin. He moans for the taste of it. “Watching you writhe in your bed, wanting me, touching yourself while your useless husband slept. I thought I was the one going fucking insane.”

Comprehension is a slow, creeping thing to your addled mind.  “You were watching me. The dreams, you–”

“Whispered them into your ear while you slept,” he interjects, kissing at the shell of your ear. “You took to ‘em like gasoline takes to a spark,” he says, that voice of his wrapping around your body and limbs like a dozen slithery tendrils. 

The touch of his voice is just as tangible as his hands sliding up your thighs, your stomach, cupping your breasts through your bra. You let out a shuddering moan.

“Every night, I was so sure you’d break. But you didn’t. You won’t.”

His confession brings back images in a flood, untangling dreams from memories. You remember a silhouette standing over you, you remember piercing red eyes glowing in the dark, and you remember the filth he spoke over you that made your body twist and sweat and come harder than you ever have.

All of it intertwines with this very moment, with his hands on you, his body against yours. It has you moaning, writhing back against him the same way you did in your bed beneath his gaze.

“Call your husband,” he tells you, hand slipping between your legs, hooking under your skirt.

“What?” You rasp, clutching at his wrists. You shiver at the hot slide of his tongue just behind your ear.

“Call your husband,” he repeats, thick gloved finger rubbing sparks between your thighs. “Tell him you’re coming home early. Tell him to wait for you in the bedroom.” 

Leaning forward, Homelander snatches the left landline off the desk and pulls it into your lap, resting it atop his hand while he fingers you in slow, precise circles.

You pick up the receiver and dial unsteadily. It doesn’t sound like something you shouldn’t do. Even as it rings, you feel no dread or apprehension. Just the drive to obey the voice cradling your mind and body so very sweetly.

“Hi,” you exhale when he answers the phone, screwing your eyes shut. It takes everything in you just to focus on speaking. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m coming–” your breath catches as Homelander pushes your panties aside and breaches you with a single finger, sliding into your soaked pussy in one slow, continuous slide. 

“I’m coming home early today,” you say, holding both the receiver and Homelander’s wrist in a white-knuckle grip. “Can you wait in the bedroom for me?”

He’s thoroughly confused, but all that does is frustrate you. His voice comes through ugly and nasally over the phone, grating through your nerves instantly. You feel the urge to yell at him, but the breath is stolen from your lungs by the sweet press of Homelander’s thick gloved finger crooking inside you, stroking exactly the right spot to make you see stars.

“Just–just do it, please? Wait in the bedroom, I’ll be–I’ll be home soon.”

You slam down the phone just in time, letting out a cry, lurching forward. The phone tumbles from your lap with a clatter and Homelander catches you with an arm across your chest, pinning you back against his chest.

“Good girl, that’s it. Give it up for me. Lemme feel that pretty pussy come,” he moans, grinding up against you, the sound of his finger pumping into you obscenely loud and wet. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Whet my appetite. Gimme something before it’s time to fucking eat.”

You come loudly, clenching your legs tightly around his hand. He stops just to feel you tighten and convulse through his glove, his lips and teeth and tongue all wreaking havoc at your throat.

“Fuck,” he sighs, followed by the low rumble of a chuckle. Your thighs shake as he pulls his hand away. You can smell the heady smell of your own slick when he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you from it, the sound lewd in your ear.

“You even taste pretty,” he hums, voice frayed like a growl. There’s an inhuman split to his voice, like there’s three of them layered over top of each other.

The whole world feels like it’s spinning. You have no center of gravity, just the sensation of movement as Homelander effortlessly maneuvers you up into his arms. Your head lolls against his chest, vision swimming.

Warm lips press sweetly to your forehead. “Rest up, pretty girl,” he murmurs. The words instantly make you drowsy. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”

The world slips into darkness. The last thing you’re aware of is the feeling of flying.

When you come back to consciousness, the darkness remains. You recognize your bedroom ceiling above you, familiar shadows dancing across it, beckoning you awake. 

A dream…?

Your limbs are leaden, weighed down to the bed. You try desperately to untangle the fantastical from what is real, walking backwards through what you remember. Touch, smell, sound, and pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known. You remember Homelander’s hands on you, in you, his body and voice all around you, the sound of–

Sound. What is that sound? It’s close to you, but you can’t move your head to see. It’s a series of wet, soft squelching noises akin to someone manipulating piles of drenched laundry. Then you hear a crunch like a tree branch snapping, and you start to recognize another sound; panting breaths followed by an erotic moan of pure indulgence.

You open your mouth to speak, but your throat is too tight, and nothing escapes it. As you come back to yourself more and more, you realize the bed beneath you is warm and wet.

You manage to force a noise from the back of your throat, a strained sound born of the effort to move. Next to you, something shifts. 

“There’s my pretty girl,” coos Homelander’s familiar voice. Your heart crashes against your ribcage, the only part of you that can freely move expressing the shock of hearing his voice here in your bed.

“Shhhshhhh, no need for that,” he murmurs, moving into your line of sight, hovering over you. His face is spattered in something dark, but when he smiles his sharp teeth are white and bright, even in the dim moonlight of your bedroom. His voice soothes your frayed nerves almost instantly.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. You do so easily, as if you were never paralyzed. “Good. Perfect timing,” he tells you, his tongue sliding along his teeth, his lips, threads of saliva stretched between his teeth snapping. “I’m still plenty hungry for you.”

He kisses you, swinging his leg over to envelop your body with his. All at once you can move again, your bones no longer weighed down. You relax beneath the press of his lips and the weight of him, exhaling a breath through your nose. 

“Kiss me,” he mumbles fervently. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with everything you have, your lips sliding slickly against one another. He licks the taste of copper into your mouth.

Blood, a distant part of you realizes. Whatever horror you should feel is replaced by building excitement, his touch reigniting heat throughout your body. Like gasoline takes to a spark.

His lips move to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, trailing bloodied kisses down your throat. He has less patience for your clothes now than he did in your office, tearing your shirt and bra from your body with a feral noise. His hands are upon you instantly, spreading the blood on his hands down your chest, massaging your breasts until he works a needy moan out of you.

“Can’t believe I almost ate you, too,” he says with a smile.  Before you can respond, he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, hands sliding lower. You gasp and push your hands into his hair, slicking it back with what sprayed into it. His mouth is inferno hot on your skin, goosebumps erupting over every inch of you. His tongue is a devilish thing, working your nipple in circles, but it’s the light pinch of his teeth that make your whole body lurch.

He makes quick work of your clothing from the waist down, too, stripping you until there’s nothing left between you and the blood soaked fabric of his suit. His hand disappears from you, and you hear a metallic click followed by the hiss of a zipper. He nudges your legs apart to settle properly between them, pulling off of your breast with a satisfied pop. He licks his lips of the blood he had spread to your breast, eyes wild and glowing faintly red.

“Let’s get rid of this while we’re at it,” he says, lifting your hand. He kisses the tip of your ring finger before taking it into his mouth, gaze flickering up to meet yours as he takes it all the way down past your knuckle, your ring disappearing past his lips. He catches the metal band with his teeth and drags it slowly off, sucking your finger clean of it. A chill runs down your spine at the crunch the metal gives as he effortlessly chews and swallows it.

You stare in numb, abject shock, but even that rapidly fades to the fires rolling through you. 

Hands on your thighs, he easily pulls your ass into his lap. You look down to see his cock freed from his suit pants, thick and nicely curved. He bends over you, hitching your legs up over his shoulder, and you feel the flat curve of the bottom of his cock press against your cunt. He grins down at you, rocking his hips to grind through the slick mess he’s made of you.

“Let’s see if you feel as good as you taste,” he says, claiming your lips once more. He pulls his hips back, and you feel the head of his cock drooling precome as it slides over your clit, down to your soaked cunt. The dull stretch of it splitting you open burns, has you keening against his lips. He kisses you again and again and again.

“That’s it, baby. Open up for me. Lemme feel that perfect pussy,” he grits out, voice frayed at the edges like he’s finally beginning to lose that cocky composure of his. Even still, his voice retains that otherworldly aspect to it. He bottoms out with a low moan, hips flush to your body.

“Oh fffffuck,” he groans, cock throbbing against the velvety walls of your cunt. You can feel the pulse of him, even more so when you squeeze. It gives you an unexpected and intoxicating shot of power when doing that makes him gasp. “Perfect. My perfect fuckin’ match, fuck. I knew you would be, I knew you were made for me,” he babbles, bordering on incoherence as he starts to thrust, gripping your ass with one hand while the other goes to the headboard, slamming it against the wall with each snap of his hips.

“H-Homelander,” you moan, tangling both hands in his hair, dragging your nails harshly down his scalp, the back of his neck, throwing your head back against your pillow. 

He gives your ass a sharp slap just to feel the way your cunt clenches with it, a growl rolling from his throat.

“Come with me,” he demands, instantly sending the pressure building in you into a soar. He moves faster, deeper, each slam punching out pitchy noises from you. Every drag of his cock feels like a spark inside you, like the strike of a match igniting stars in your peripheral vision. You come with a near scream, nails biting fruitlessly into Homelander’s skin. 

He rides your orgasm fiercely, fucking you into the bloody mess of your bed until he, too, succumbs to the clench of your cunt. He lets out a guttural cry, the wood of your headboard snapping in his grasp as his release floods you, so hot that it nearly burns.

You’re both panting into each other's mouths, lips occasionally brushing. There’s a possessive growl to the edge of Homelander’s breaths, as if warning anything that might hear of the danger of approaching.

“You’re mine now, you understand?” He says lowly, his velveteen voice hoarse, almost animalistic. “My match, my mate, mine.”

Deliriously, you nod, mind still lost to the aftershocks of your climax, your pussy quivering around the girth of his cock. It’s not enough for Homelander, who gives another sharp thrust, knocking an overstimulated moan out of you. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you gasp, meeting his gaze. His harsh expression softens at that, the crimson glow fading from his eyes, leaving only that familiar ocean blue in its wake. He kisses you leisurely, but with no less hunger. He lets your legs slip carefully from his shoulders, but remains buried deep inside you, staking his claim as thoroughly as possible. He kisses your neck, makes you wince when he sucks at the mark he bit into your skin.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been looking for you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You stroke your fingers through his hair, soaking in the feeling of his superhuman body thrumming against yours. You tighten your grip in his hair and lift his head, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. He looks curiously at you until that curiosity flips to surprise as you kiss him, earning a pleased little hum from him. 

When you part, his surprise has melted away into something dazed and soft. Something like love, or maybe satiation. The two look so very similar.

Homelander kisses you a while longer before he nestles down against you.

Your head lolls to the side for the first time, and only then do you see the full scope of the horror resting next to you; bones jut out from the mess of viscera and meat, shredded clothing thick with blood and innards. It looks like the work of a rabid animal, something vicious and hungry.

You know instantly that the mess is all that remains of your former husband. 

It occurs to you that you should feel a dozen different awful things about the pile of gore splayed out on your bed, but ultimately, the only thought that lingers is how he finally suits that rotten meat smell.

Looking back to the ceiling, you continue to comb your fingers through Homelander’s hair. His weight is a comfortable thing upon you, and beneath the smell of gore, you’re soothed by the gentle, warm scent of vetiver. Your eyelids grow heavy, and within minutes, you drift to sleep.

When you wake, there is no tang of blood heavy in the air. You sit up in a bed that is both alien and familiar. It isn’t until you see the mirrors around you that you realize that this is the bed from your dreams.

You feel warm, despite the early morning chill beyond the blankets. You feel a tug, and as you look down, Homelander pulls you back down into his arms.

“Mornin’, pretty girl.”

“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. He hums pleasantly as you touch him, your hands roaming the naked scape of his body, testing that he’s real. You draw back, brows furrowed.

“Everything alright?” He asks, his voice as rich and creamy as ever.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, a touch uncertain. “Weird dreams.”

He smiles, bringing your hand up to kiss. “Well, you’re awake now.”

Somehow, you’re not so certain. 

Regardless, you huff a little laugh and snuggle back into his arms. 

“Love you,” you say, losing yourself to the familiar comfort of a partner in your arms, in your bed, in your heart. The longer you’re there, the more the dreams fade away, replaced with the reality of your waking world and the sweet smell of vetiver.

Homelander squeezes you to his chest, stroking idly up and down your back with his knuckles. You can hear the smile in his voice as he returns, “I love you, too.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Redamancy.

Yan Scaramouche x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 1k.

“You scowl too much.” 

If anyone else were to speak to Scaramouche, Sixth of the Eleven Fatui Harbinger in this way, they’d certainly be reduced to a pitiful pile of ash on the ground. Perhaps he’s thought about subjecting you to this fate, once or twice. That number could very well have been bumped up to three times if the indignant air he currently regards you with is to be considered. 

Then again, no one aside from you would get to experience this deceptively domestic scene. You sit beneath a canopy, branches free from winter’s thaw hastily preparing buds to herald in spring. Scaramouche holds your thighs captive, the soft flesh serving as his pillow. Indigo locks splay out against and tickle your skin. 

“There’s a lot to scowl about,” he replies, though he makes an effort to relax his tense facial muscles. The contemptuous smile he gives makes his previous expression look benevolent in comparison. “I’m stuck dealing with a fool of a woman who’d probably wander off a cliff because she was too busy admiring the clouds.” 

“Clouds are meant to be admired.” 

“Case in point.” 

“You make it sound like I’m chained to you with iron shackles, though,” you raise your ankle (notably shackle free, imagine that), drawing his attention and ire. Your sarcasm never fails to rile him up. He never seriously tries to put a stop to it, however. Such is his capricious nature. “If I’m such a bother, why not let me wander off the cliff?” 

Scaramouche grits his teeth. “Because…” 

There’s a pause, then, weighty and tangible. You know what he both wants and fears to say. If he were any less of a coward, he’d fill the aromatic air with truth, rather than engaging in his usual sidestepping. He’s so proficient at the act you swear he could moonlight as a crab. This mental image earns a barely contained giggle from you, one that further sours his mood, if such a thing were possible. 

Knowing you as intimately as he does, he correctly assumes that he’s the unwitting source of your amusement. 

“I can’t stand you,” he grumbles. Whether it’s to you or himself, you can’t decide. “Truly, I can't.” 

“Then hand me over to someone who can.” 

There’s a flash in his eyes then — otherworldly, malicious — he disregards composure like a snake abandons shed skin. He rises in a flash. Inhumanly cold fingers take your chin captive, bringing you closer to him, his delight in the ease with which he can manhandle you evident. Always the type to go for grand gestures, this one. His theatrical outbursts befit his moniker. 

Scaramouche grins, beset with an onslaught of bitterness akin to a black hole. It draws in and swallows anything unfortunate enough to be nearby. 

“You just love testing my patience, don’t you?” 

If you feared him, maybe you’d tremble, but you don’t, so you are still. It’s likely that you should fear him. He is volatile, a mess of contradictions too complicated to untangle, a vessel who fills himself with acrimony, the same way humans must with air. He delights in it and considers it his birthright. 

Your smile is not without kindness and that’s what bothers him most. 

“Come, don’t pout. I have no intentions of being complicit in whatever havoc you'd wreak if I was with another.” 

His eye twitches at the pesky word ‘another’. The mere thought of this faceless, nonexistent being having the audacity to lay claim to you, even in the land of fantasy, has his nostrils flaring and jaw tightening. You can see the ripple of muscles beneath his synthetic skin. He’s a wonder, this proprietorial doll, who can exalt and condemn you in the same breath. 

You are mine, and mine alone, his eyes seem to scream, and I’d sooner end the world than exist in it without having you for myself. 

“You really do scowl too much,” you reiterate your opinion from earlier, gently, almost sweetly. Whatever spell Scaramouche was under temporarily breaks, or perhaps he’s held prisoner to a new one, far more agreeable if not equally dangerous. “Your face is too pretty to always be frowning.” 

You enchant him by running your finger over his lower lip. It trembles by your command. His eyes go lidded, a lovelorn haze obscuring the former tempest. He can never decide if he wants to destroy or devour you. For someone like him, he can’t do one without the other. His love for you is a death sentence, despite the immortality that should’ve never belonged to your mortal body. 

It’s you who kisses him. 

He temporarily forgets himself. The arrogance, the hurt, the fear that you might slip between his fingers should he ever relax his hold. You find him foolish in that regard. He can have you in the palm of his hand if he likes, and you know he’d like that very much. There’s nowhere else for you to be. Not when he’s seen to the fact himself. 

Scaramouche melts into your person, returning your kiss with rapture, drunk on the way you offer yourself to him. He makes a deep, breathy noise, willing you closer, demanding total subservience. You let him have his way. Civilizations could rise and fall in the seconds that follow, and he’d pay them no mind, too absorbed with savoring your temporary connection. 

It is what he lives for; what he'd kill for.

His fair skin is flushed when you part. From the apple of his cheeks to the tip of his ears, he’s painted in a color from your palette. The pigmentation suits him. Red is the color around his eyes, of his longing for you, and of what would spill across the land should you ever part. 

“There,” you whisper, as if it were a secret meant for him alone, “That look suits you far better.” 

He wants to deny it — you can tell by how his grip tightens — but he remains uncharacteristically quiet. If he gets to delight in you, it’s only fair that you can occasionally delight in him, he supposes. 

Such is your capricious nature. 

[historiaxvanserra]

Every Exquisite Thing | A Regency AU

Summary: The first of the season brings with it so many things; new friends, new enemies, a masquerade ball, and a rakish young gentleman with eyes like burnished gold.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (Regency AU)

Word Count: 3.1k

This is the first part of a series that had been consuming my thoughs day and night for about two weeks. We don't meet Eris yet but we get glimpses and I like what I see 👀 I just wanted to give a feel for the regency vibe and see if we're feeling it or not! Next chapter well get Eris in all his regency glory and I promise you, he's worth the wait.

The townhouse that your family occupies on the main street of the Ton is unusually quiet this morning, you think. The first of the season typically brings with it an air of frivolity; the ladies in their Spring colors, gentlemen riding horse-drawn carriages through the cobblestone streets and the hum of the city beyond. A myriad of color -- lilacs and honeysuckle, dappled with the greenery that climbs along the facades of the townhouses -- a colorful oasis from the bleak gray and green of a Winter spent in the country. 

However, today, the main square, where Pryhtian’s most ancient and noble families convalesce during the fairer months, is blanketed in an oppressive palette of indigo and gray as the last of the Winter’s storms ravages the world beyond Crescent House. 

The sound of the howling wind as it rages like a great tempest through the streets rouses you from your perch on the chaise near the dying hearth. 

The street below the parlor is veiled in the shadowed hues of the storm and not a soul in town has dared brave the wrath of the elements since the dourpour began. Hail patters dismally against the window panes of your families townhouse and an ice-kissed wind crawls its way along the exposed planes of your shoulders and collarbones and in the distance you hear the distinctive draw of a carriage along the main square, near Forest House. As you near the window you observe the hail as it falls like pearls from the darkening sky onto wet, cobbled streets. 

From the oppressive darkness a carriage emerges; a considerable vehicle of polished wood, lacquered with dark emerald paint, the trim and doors are framed with delicate golden embellishments and the doors and rear bear a family crest, obscured by the gloom of the afternoon. The cart itself is drawn by four bay stallions with long, dark manes, sodden with the downpour. From the cabin steps a shadowy figure of a man, once obscured by the oppressive darkness, now illuminated by the lamplight; he’s all dressed in black, save for the white collar of a linen shirt and his long hair, curls away from his face in tousled, auburn waves. He burns most ardent against the bleak afternoon, even in the din of the oil lamps, he looks like something out of one of Feyre’s paintings. Or perhaps the formidable and brooding romantic lead of the romance novels Nesta so adores. Either way he cuts an intimidating figure in the dark streets of the main square. Tall and broad-shouldered, and rather rakish as he stalks up the steps of the townhouse opposite yours. 

From your perch overlooking the street you see him turn outward; admiring the graceful planes of his face, the aquiline nose and high-cheekbones falling to the slender cut of his waist and hips and the broad spread of his shoulders and sculpted arms. 

It occurs to you then that you have been all too obvious in your voyeurism. 

You are watching him. 

And he is watching you in return. 

The very thought elicits something in you; something dark and sentimental and terribly anxious. It is a cruel, coiling thing, in the pit of your stomach. Some ill-fated omen. A harbinger of your own downfall. The ghost at the feast, or a raven in the night that spells your undoing. Whatever it is, there is a deep sense of foreboding in you at the prospect of what this dark figure might herald in with him. 

The tolling of the city bells brings with it a flurry of movement on the street and your eyes meet his strange amber gaze across the way and he scowls. A deep furrow of a brow; the firm set of his jaw, the flex of a pale hand, before retreating into the house. 

“Come away from the window girl,” Your mother chastises in her usual cutting tone as she eyes you from her place in front of the hearth. Her gloved hand inspects the fine silk fabric of the dresses the modiste had sent to her. She holds the fabric between those fine-boned fingers and drapes each swatch over the pale skin of her slender arm with a rehearsed ease as she takes the time to scrutinize every hand-sewn seam and embroidered adornment. 

“Yes mama.” You say absentmindedly, casting one last longing glance towards the dark facade of the townhouse across the street, where the orange flicker of candlelight illuminates the window.. 

Your mother is an austere woman with a cutting sort of beauty rather unlike your own. Her eyes are cold and grey and her features, angular; feline in a way that is almost unnerving to look at. Though even in her age, she bares fine, high cheekbones, unblemished skin, and her long golden hair falls over the delicate slope of her shoulder in coiffed ringlets. She had been quite a remarkable beauty in her youth, it had been said. Now all that remains of her lost youth is an oil painting hung above the hearth-- the paint, yellowed and cracked with age-- and the legacy of her ancient and most-noble lineage. 

Her piercing gaze falls onto you again as you take a turn about the room, perching on the cushioned bench in front of the pianoforte. You run a hand over the untuned keys and in your wake dust mites filter through the stagnant air. 

That piano had once been the beating heart of this room; a symphony of high arching notes that rang through the halls of this house. 

It has not been touched since Nesta left. 

“You look drawn, my dear,” She says simply, her eyes cruel and unyielding as she looks over you and the fine silk draped over her arm, “green does so very little for your complexion.” 

She considers you for a moment longer before turning to the modiste with a quirked brow. The seamstress at least, has the good grace to look apologetically between you and your youngest sister before nodding in agreement to your mother. She murmurs that a deeper shade of green would suit you better, though your mother ignores her entirely.

“Perhaps an emerald tone would suit better” she muses to no one in particular. 

“It would make you look more…tempting” The modiste decides with a sly smile to you when your mother looses a shrill gasp. Your mother hums her disapproval once more from her spot in the armchair before turning her attention towards Feyre on the modiste’s podium as the slender woman takes her measurements for the last alterations to her gown. 

“You look beautiful Fey,” You say lightly, pulling at your own faded sage gown as you regard your youngest sister, “the silver looks exquisite on you.” Feyre smiles brightly at you from her place on the podium and pulls a few strands of her long, golden hair to frame her face. She looks as though she is wreathed in starlight in the silver gown; the high bust lays perfectly over her chest and the cuffed sleeves are trimmed with silver thread and sheer lace and accentuate the slope of her strong shoulders, the skirts fall in a swathe of silk and chiffon and the pearls and opal sewn into the skirts catch like moonglow in the blue light. She smooths the skirts with a flair of her gloved hand and admires the matching slippers that peek out from the long hem. 

“Hmm,” Your mother murmurs lowly, bringing a slender hand to her painted mouth as she assesses the garment carefully, “Yes - the silver favors you, my darling.” Your mother purses her lips once more and nods decisively at the modiste who offers a courteous bow in response. 

“I have hopes that the Lady of Autumn might name you her ‘incomparable’, afterall.” Your mother’s voice is frightfully wistful as she casts a look up to her portrait hung above the dying fire. Beside it, on the mantle Nesta’s painted face stares back impassively at you and you feel anxiety twisting within you again. Feyre laughs. A small, disbelieving thing as she thanks the modiste and exits the parlor in favor of her sketchbook. 

“She did so love Nesta when she was first presented,” You mother recalls, her eyes glassy as she sips at her cold tea with a grimace, “and your sister does so remind me of her.” 

You smile fondly at the thought of your eldest sister; painfully absent for the last few years but missed dearly. Nesta had always bore the brunt of your mother’s cruelty -- until she could bare it no more -- and then you took her place. 

“Yes mama, she will do very well at court.” You say genuinely, though your mother can’t bring herself to acknowledge you. You bite down the bitter taste of jealousy when her eyes linger on the portrait of Nesta hung along the mantel. The way her brows dip in a moment of fleeting grief for her favorite daughter. 

When she looks at you again you get the sense that looking at you now -- in the pallid light of the storm -- is like looking in a mirror. 

It is a mother’s curse you think.

A daughter’s burden. 

Breathing deeply as the modiste pins the hem of the dress you find yourself thinking of the happy recollections of your childhood; you think perhaps your mother is reminiscing on those times too. 

She had been the only daughter of an Earl somewhere on the continent once. Beautiful and graceful. Green and foolhardy. Named the incomparable of her own social season; she had dreams of an idyllic life in the countryside, summers shaded in the laughter of her many sons, and measured in the unyielding smiles of a good husband.

 Of course, as was the way of things, her girlhood ideations had been nought but that-- dreams. Dashed and divided like stardust in a vast twilight abyss. 

A series of scandals and bad investments led her to Pryhtian as the sole heir to an old name. A lamb to the slaughter by her own mother, to be the docile wife of some dull Lord, almost two decades her senior 

In time, she did the same to her own daughters.

Time is a cruel mistress; and the woman she is now is one tarnished by the years. Imposing and cynical; demanding in a way that it was impossible to please her. In your youth you recall her endless cruelty towards you all, though none more than Nesta.

Her prodigy. 

Her pride and joy. 

It was that ceaseless need for perfection that drove Nesta away in the end. 

So with the wave of her hand she gestures to you to take to the podium.

An ill-fated replacement for the daughter she lost.

Her perpetual disappointment.

The modiste is a young woman, who hails from the continent with beautiful dark hair that fell in coiled ringlets over her shoulders, she speaks to you in a low, velvet tenor and has a thick accent that distinguishes her to the natives of this land. She is favored by many of the young ladies of the Ton for her exquisite garments; each made with richly adorned and embroidered fabrics imported from her homeland. You watch impassively as she records your measurements and swatches a few scraps of fabric against your skin. The woman quickly discards the silver that Feyre had worn and opts instead for gold and offers your mother a few other options for your dresses this season; sapphire and cerulean, emerald and ruby, topaz and onyx. 

Then selects a beautiful emerald gown, trimmed with jade and adorned with matching beads and crystals that shine with the glittering darkness of some forgotten forest when the light of the storm outside refacts in their many surfaces. The modiste admires the garment as she holds it up to you; her keen eyes finding yours and smiling brightly and nodding deliberately. 

“This is the one,” She says, her accent so thick with delight that it is difficult to fully understand the words, “perhaps the Lady of Autumn might name you her favorite in your sisters place” She offers it jovially, almost in jest but your mother’s face twists nonetheless. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Your mother laughs cruelly as she regards you in the beautiful garment. You think perhaps that in you she sees all the things she hates about herself. Your mother takes a moment to scrutinize you; her eyes reap over every curve and divot of the skirts as they fall against you, every minute details to find fault where she can. 

It is a mothers’s curse, not to know a daughter’s pain. 

You imagine it is also a mercy too when she looks at you like you are her own reflection. 

Her perpetual disappointment. 

After another silent moment she nods her head to the modiste and rises to her feet. The tea cup rattles and rings viscously through icy air as she sets it down and wanders towards the doors.  

“Oh Feyre darling, you look exquisite!” Your mothers voice is shrill and dripping with pride that elicits a strange sort of jealousy and you swallow down its bitter taste. In the foyer your sister glides down the marble staircase dressed in all her finery. 

Feyre has the type of beauty reminiscent of a falling star; all pale skin, that looks like porcelain, dappled with the iridescent stardust that falls from the sky around her birthday each year. Her dress is one of flowing indigo and complemented by intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs and bust, the long line of her neck is adorned with pearls and diamonds that refract in the light of the chandelier; dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky. 

She smiles brightly and her laugh echoes like birdsong around the hall as your mother takes her hand. And almost like an afterthought, your mother regards you with thinly veiled horror at the garment that clings to you like a plate of armor. 

A deep merlot gown, inlaid with rubies and pearls; that cast a bloody halo as you step into the light of the chandelier. The skirts bleed into a train made of gossamer thin spidersilk that has a metallic quality to it that makes you feel as though you are some ancient Goddess of love and war. 

Aphrodite perhaps, as deadly as she is beautiful. 

Your hands, though they tremble, bare many gold rings, each polished to the heavens so that she sees her face distorted in their many unblemished surfaces. There is a part of you that hopes craves your mothers love more than you long to insight her ire. 

But that part of you died the day Nesta went away. 

“How do you suppose you’re going to tempt a man into marrying you dressed like that,” She chastices, pulling at the skirts of your wine red dress, “you look like a common whore.”

“At least a whore is paid to abide the insipid company of boring men.” you counter under your breath as your mother strides out into the street. You catch Feyre’s eye and she smiles at you like a feral cat. 

The rest of the carriage ride is spent in solemn silence as the facade of The town hall draws ever closer. You mother’s idle gossip about one Lord of the other hardly seems the rouse you from though as you watch the world beyond this cart pass you by. 

The storm had broken sometime around midday and the tempest gave way to sunlight; soft ochre and gold as it filtered through the open windows of your father’s library, where you had spent the afternoon. Nestled into the worn armchair favored by your father and a quiet comfort when he is away. There, in the confines of your father’s study, you allow yourself to dream; of debauched gentlemen and tortured artists. Stories painted with the vivid imaginings of Gothic heroines and vast and sweeping landscapes. Of temptation and sacrifice.

It is a hobby inherited from your sister and one much discouraged by your mother. 

But as afternoon bled into night you were called away from the pages of manuscripts written in some foreign tongue. For, the Lady of Autumn’s masquerade ball marks the true commencement of the social season each year. It is a night of mystery and secrets; of dark romance and all things fanciful. 

It is the one night a year that you allow yourself to be swept up in the excitement of the season and tonight every eligible Lord and Lady will don their finery for a night of high-arching orchestral music and sweeping dances that herald in the social season. 

It is tonight of all nights where the Lady of Autumn will name the incomparable of the season; a young woman both fair and accomplished that will inspire awe and ire in equal measure. For her troubles she might hope to tempt an eligible gentleman into marriage by summer’s end. And as your mother gives Feyre one more adoring look you know that she is hoping that your sister will insight that awe tonight. 

The carriage draws to a tumultuous halt outside the doors of the grand town hall and you hear the distant laughter of courtiers. The chatter of the ladies distracts you momentarily and you catch their idle chatter; something about the new Duke and his wicked beauty. A beauty as cruel as he is, they say. Their chatter dies when they meet your eyes and they devolve into mean-spirited whispers about the poor Archeron girls and their absent sister. 

“Quickly girls, we mustn't be late.” Your mother instructs and steps from the carriage turning expectantly as you disembark from the vehicle with all the grace you can manage. Your stomach twists in knots and the anxiety is so consuming that it addles your mind. So much so that any intelligent thought you might have had seems to abandon you. 

The gardens of the town hallare saturated in the light of the last shadowed sunbeams as they are obliterated by the rapidly falling night; veins of indigo and amethyst that streak across the black. The air is heady and thick with the smell of wildflowers and wine and every now and again you catch the scent of half-burned oak and bergamot’s on the evening breeze. 

The first of the season is in full swing and the courtiers look like a jewel toned fire in their finery; swathes of ruby and topaz, dappled with emerald and carnelian. You had felt the shift in the air when the sun had begun to set in the sky; that anticipation so palpable you could taste it. It tastes like wood and wildflowers, undercut with something darker. 

You abandon yourself to the thought of it; what he might taste like. 

Hedonism; earthy and dangerous as you swallow it back. 

In an hour or two, when the stars materialize like a million quarts against the velvet abyss, the Ladies will retreat into the mazes, in twos or threes and their Lords, like hungry wolves will begin the hunt. 

A hunt that will last the season

[crevicedwelling]

fall field crickets (Gryllus pennsylvanicus) are charming heralds of the coming autumn, dressed in golden wing-vests and sporting perfectly round shiny heads.

meanwhile, the tiny juvenile Gryllus hopping around now aren’t their kids—they’re baby spring field crickets (G. veletis), a species that overwinters as a half-grown nymph rather than eggs. the two are very similar in appearance although in my area I think G. veletis has a much darker set of wings. I’ll have to wait a few months to show you one of those!

[dogfennel]

Introducing my WBN OC! This is Roving and her familiar Sol. Roving is a spirit who became The Witch of the Marketplace. She travels between city markets, selling potions, poultices, and crafts from other witches, and wool from her parents.

I was immensely inspired by @rebe-draws own Worlds Beyond Number OC, Scrap!

[Here's a little lore if ya feel like reading!]

Her parents found her as an infant spirit while they were grazing their flock high in the mountains. They raised her as their own, and she spent most of her childhood playing in the pastures with her sheep. Because her fur was as soft as wool ready to be spun, her parents named her Roving. 

Roving learned witchcraft from two witches. The first taught her how to control her growing magic, and it was at her cottage that Roving found Sol. He had fallen from his nest while his siblings fledged, and so they became Witch and Familiar. Roving made her glamor after him. 

Her first witch already had an apprentice, so when Roving had learned all she could, she left the mountains and traveled to a city to find the second witch. There Roving learned new witchcraft and the ways of people beyond her little village. When people began to murmur of a strange coyote which could only be seen when lantern light caught the iridescence of its fur, Roving departed once more. 

She traveled to many witches, and offered to sell their crafts beyond the reach of their sanctums. When the road carried her back to them, she brought them their earnings and crafting components they could not get from their own homes. In marketplaces Roving became a welcome sight, offering tokens woven with witches’ magic to people with no witch of their own. 

People speak with excitement of The Witch of The Marketplace’s approach wherever she now goes. 

Perhaps, by lantern light, those same people whisper of another omen of the marketplace. It roams the streets like a coyote, they say, but from the corner of an eye, its legs stretch a little too long and its face holds a little too still. Some say the omen heralds a bountiful day of trade; others say it is a warning for sharp-tongued vendors. Many have done a dirty trade and found their wares gone in the morning.

Roving returns sometimes to her two witches and to her parents, to exchange the treasures from the cities for treasures they have made. At the witch's cottage the swallows still nest every spring. And in the mountain pastures, no sheep has ever fallen prey to a predator, just as they hadn't when Roving walked among them many years ago.  

[harmcityherald]

The turtles got their new food and they seem to be liking it well. They had been using the sandbox all night in and out so it looks like I will be building a much bigger sand unit onto their enclosure. My other tank got a very expensive cleaning last night for peppermint and foremost. I also was able to get them an air stone. I also bought anything to vacuum out their tank and so last night they got quite the cleaning which will be finished this morning. I was also able to get half of my cutting done in my garden yesterday so my garden is finally taking off as well. Hopefully today I can put it in a little more work and bring my garden a little bit closer to being started. Artemisia is very watchful that I don't overwork myself because sometimes I have a tendency to where my garden is concerned. So the coffee is made and I'm sitting outside and enjoying it right now other than the fact that all my dinosaur buddies are sitting here in a circle looking at me in the trees bullying me to give them more food but we of course has suspended operations because of the bird flu. Sorry little guys but I think I know better than you I can read the medical journals you can't. So until I feel like it's safe again you guys are on your own I hate to say that. I guess I will offset that by giving my inside buddies a little more attention than they've been getting. The little tank is looking a lot better. Foremost loves the air stone much more than peppermint does. I think our reading let us to the correct decision that the snail needs an AirStone and that is exactly what she got. I also scraped off the six masses of eggs that she laid around the top of the tank, luckily I don't have a female to fertilize them all or I would have a million snails like I'm afraid I'm going to have a million Turtles before it's all over with. I won't be able to release them in the wild if it actually happened but we'll cross that bridge when we get there. I love my critters and my critters love me.

I would add more tags but they only allow me a certain number so I should end it there. Or else I'll talk myself right into a bad mood. And that's not fair to my little buddies is it?

Mark my word, we are all going to live to see the day to read about that man doing something incredibly stupid. I'm not going to try to lay any future or philosophical View on what that could be. Trust me, he's a pedophile with an arsenal of ghost guns. And it's a situation that I'm too old to try to help and solve. My other two grandchildren the one being autistic and the other being transgender make me want to reach out and help them and yet the transgender child is under extreme brainwashing by him. One time he even told her that he would fuck the lesbianism right out of her, and for me that's not something that should ever come out of a father's lips to a daughter ever no matter what the situation is at all. And yet that same transgender child, under his pristine Direction, hates my very guts. The only one in the family who would actually call you by your real name and would refuse to use your dead name and yet I guess the fact is that Alan loves his father and any concessions that meat had makes for her must make her feel at least somewhat accepted. But because of the Meathead Saga I do not get to see those two sets of grandchildren anymore. Because I'm a deep state leftist, if you can actually believe that's a reason to hold your children back from someone. That's very sad to me I have seven grandchildren all together. It is only two that I get to react and deal with everyday living here with me and I'm so thankful of that. Many people would say it's a financial burden I should not subject to myself to. But I've always been a firm believer that you never throw kids to the wind ever. Especially not in this fucked up world the way it is now. If you throw your kids to the Wolves you're no better than a Spartan throw in your baby off the edge of a cliff. And that's not how I was ever taught that parenting was done. I have never raised a hand to a child ever not in my whole life. I've always gotten so much more from children when you talk to them and treat them like people the people that they no doubt are.

Anyway, Meatheads brand of ineffectual terrorism doesn't really scare me in any way. I have no idea why I'm really on this this morning. Perhaps the youngers are arguing last night reminded me of the tension in the house when Meathead was here pretty much destroying everything in his path. We're trying to destroy everything in his path which included me. I had six police officers and four doctors all together bum rushed me in the room to convince me that I needed to press charges. I told him if I pressed charge does that means I won't be able to get them out of my house and the only thing I want is for them to be out of my house like tomorrow so I didn't press charges against him, which I'm sure he walks around in his own little tiny house Castle now Vindicated somehow that the cops wouldn't touch him when really it was me that kept that from happening. Trust me if it had been any other situation I would have made sure he got every little bit of punishment he deserved for it but it was more important for me to clear this place out and have a nice calm place for my Artemisia and our wonderful youngers

[tylermileslockett]

POSEIDON

“I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great god, mover of the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of Helicon and wide Aegae. A two-fold office the gods allotted you, O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and a saviour of ships!”  

(-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

POSEIDON(puh-SAI-din) is the God of the seas, earthquakes, droughts, and horses. Pulled along in his seashell chariot by half-horse, half-fish creatures called Hippocampi, he holds his sacred trident high, bringing a tumultuous storm behind him. Standing beside him is his sea nymph wife, Amphitrite, who is the eldest of fifty nereid daughters of Nereus; the “old man of the sea.” 

Amongst the waters are the god’s faithful followers. The half-fish, half-man creature at bottom right is Triton, herald son of Poseidon, who uses a conch shell to calm the waves and announce the God’s arrival. In the middle is a Nereid, a female sea nymph, typically portrayed as a maiden riding a dolphin. Bottom left is Palaimon, sea god and protector of sailors, sometimes depicted as a boy on a dolphin. 

The god of the sea is known for his savage retributions. One fascinating episode involves Poseidon and Athena entering a competition to become the patron god of Athens. Upon the Acropolis, Poseidon produces a salt water spring for the Athenians, while Athena wins by creating the first olive tree. The sea god, in his anger, sends a flood to punish the mortals. In the odyssey, after Odysseus blinds Poseidon’s son, the giant cyclops Polyphemus, the god causes havoc and disaster for the hero and his crew as they attempt to sail home. Poseidon sends Cetusthe sea serpent to punish QueenCassiopa for her hubris in comparing her daughter Andromedato the nereids. And, he sends a bull from the sea to terrorize Theseus’ son Hippolytus’ chariot.

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024. check my bio LINKTREE

Thanks for looking and reading! :)

[rhysdarbinizedarby]

Rhys Darby returns to New Zealand for two huge milestones - Spy

Rhys Darby is back in New Zealand.

Why is Kiwi comedy star Rhys Darby back in New Zealand?

Rhys Darby is returning from his base in Los Angeles for a double celebration over the next few weeks - his 50th birthday and a special event to mark his 25 years working as a stand-up comic.

“I’m home for my 50th birthday celebrations,” he reveals to Spy.

Darby hits the big milestone on March 21 and says he, his wife and manager Rosie are planning on a shared party with their family and friends.

A week later, Darby will be in proud parent mode as his eldest son Finn’s band, Great Big Cow, will be performing at The Whammy Bar on Karangahape Rd on March 27.

“So, as a cool dad, I’ll be there of course, with my band manager suit on,” he says.

There will be fun and laughter to have on Waiheke Island the following week too. Popular island spot Wild Estate Vineyard in Onetangi has secured Darby for an exclusive one-off New Zealand show with an intimate audience of only 200 tickets.

Punters can be sure Darby’s will be giving the native birds on the island a squawk for their money with his famous bird calls from his 2021 TV stand-up show Mystic Time Bird.

“The show is called ‘25 Years’ - it is a celebration of my stand-up career,” say Darby.

“I’ve hand-picked the best material from my five comedy specials, and I’ve also added some new stuff,” he divulges. “It’s all killer, so the audience can expect me having a blast, and so I’m sure they will too.”

Wild Estate has become the go-to live venue on Waiheke for comedy and live gigs; last month, the Jordan Luck Band rocked the vineyard, and comedians Nick Rado, Tony Lyall, Paul Douglas and Ruby Esther have all had successful stand-up nights there too.

Darby has been home several times over the last few years, whether to film with his mate Taika Waititi in West Auckland for the second season of their hit HBO Max show Our Flag Means Death in late 2022, or his Kiwi road trip with David Hasselhoff called Hoff the Beaten Track last spring.

Darby finished the year with aplomb, hosting the 51st International Emmy Awards in New York in November.

The production company for his road trip show, Stripe Studios, made headlines last month with the New Zealand Herald’s Media Insider column, penned by Shayne Currie, reporting Stripe for unpaid bills. The production company also filmed a travel-style show with US comedian Iliza Shlesinger. Currie reported the Netflix comedy star is applying to have Stripe Studios (Comedy) Ltd liquidated. Stuff followed up this story, reporting Hasselhoff was also owed money from the production company.

Darby politely had no comment on the state of his and The Hoff’s road trip show, but sources say Darby played a big part in getting as many of its Kiwi crew as he could paid by Stripe.

However, Darby did share that Hollywood has been rather wet and dull so far this year. “I have a few top-secret TV and film projects in development, which I am really looking forward to.”

“What I can reveal is: I’ve been involved in Mukpuddy’s awesome adaptation of Badjelly the Witch,” he says.

“I think it’s going to be so so good!”

Source: NZ Herald

[persphonesorchid]

Spring Crescent - JJK x reader

Summary: Just you, Jungkook, and spring time.

Genre: fluff

Warnings: one swear, they shower together.

Wc: 2.0k

Masterlist - Here

If you like my content, please consider supporting me 🥺 - Here

Notes: Dedicated to the loml @xpeachesncream !! I HAD to keep it secret (keep it safe lmao) from you even though you kept asking what 'the jk thing' was. Happy birthday my love, I wish you the best, because you deserve it and way more! Here's to more of our crackhead conversations and simping over men! I love you ❤️

“Baby...” Jungkook’s voice is a rumble in his chest, against your back, sleepy and barely there. He’s warm where he’s pressed against you, legs tangled somewhere lower with yours and the sheets.

You’re awake, have been for a while, but not wanting to move and disturb him. Watching the chill of the night cling still to the window, and the slow rise of the sun that heralded a new day.

Bits of frost melts and slides away as winter wanes and ushers in spring. You follow the slow slide of frost down the window with your eyes, and Jungkook shifts behind you. The tip of his nose is cold where he brushes it against the back of your neck.

“You awake?” He shifts and his hair tickles your neck, he props his chin on your arm, sleepy eyes peering at you behind the mess of his hair. “Hi.”

“Hi,” You smile, freeing your other arm from the warmth of the sheets to brush his hair back. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhmm.” Jungkook hums before he flops down behind you, pressing his chest against your back, “Ah, it’s so cold.” He whines.

“Well,” you chuckle, “You refused to put the heater on, so it's your fault.” You shift away from him to get up, and he only whines louder as you escape.

“Where are you going?” You’re already halfway across the room, and he’s wrapped the covers tightly around himself, eyes sleepy and hair everywhere. “Come back here and keep me warm.”

“I have to pee. Want me to stand here and do it?”

“You’re so...” Jungkook sighs loudly, his fingers peeking out from the covers to shoo you away, “Fine. Begone.”

Laughing, you make your way across the hall to do your business. It wasn’t long before Jungkook followed, the shuffling of his slippers giving him away. You’re brushing your teeth when he knocks and opens the door, making a face at you.

“Traitor. You weren’t planning on coming back to bed.” He says, you smile at him through the toothpaste, and he drags his feet over to the toilet.

The toilet flushes, and Jungkook’s next to you, nudging you to the side so he could wash his hands. He plucks his toothbrush from the hanging holder mounted on the wall, “We should go for a walk...there’s this new place that opened a couple blocks from here...we can get breakfast there?”

“Sounds good...” You spit the toothpaste foam out of your mouth, “But do we really have to walk all the way there?”

“It’s good exercise!” Jungkook sticks his toothbrush into his mouth while you rinse yours. You wander over to the shower, more than ready to take a hot one before Jungkook stops you. “Wait, wait. Don’t go in without me.”

You wait another two minutes while he finishes brushing his teeth, busying yourself with getting fresh towels from the cabinet. When he’s done and he’d carefully put his toothbrush back into the holder, he complains once again about the cold as he slips out of his large tee-shirt and sweats, hopping into the shower before you do despite asking you to wait.

You follow not long after, the water’s already flowing in a steady hot stream while Jungkook just stands there under it with his eyes closed like he’s found the fountain of youth. He leans his head back a little too far, then jerks it forward, sputtering.

“That went right up my nose, fuck.” He steps out from under the water, maneuvering you to take his spot with gentle hands. He blows the water out his nose, rinsing his fingers with the water that flows off of you.

Jungkook pokes at your sides with his fingers when you turn to grab the bar of soap and the washcloth. “Hey, d’you think if I smack your ass right now it’ll hurt more because of the water?”

“You know, regular people plan stories in their heads in the shower.”

“So that’s a no?”

You turn around just in time to catch Jungkook’s hand on the draw back. “Don’t,” you laugh, pressing his hand to his side, “I’ll smack you right back.”

“I’d like that though...” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, giving you a smirk that looks as dangerous as the droplets of water sliding down his flushed chest.

“I know you would, you little freak.” You chuckle, giving him the soap and the washcloth, “Get lathering.”

By the time you and Jungkook get out of the shower, the sun’s up a little more, past the slightly gray clouds and shining into your shared bedroom with its beautiful morning glow.

Jungkook makes sure you’re both properly dressed to brace the Spring’s chill, passing you a pair of fleece lined tights and fitted sweatpants, along with a light blue sweater and a long white coat.

“You’re always stealing my hair ties...” you mumble, as Jungkook sits between your legs, letting you brush his hair back to tie somewhere in the middle. The hairs at the front that’s too short to make the pull hangs loosely on his forehead.

“We’ve been over this, babe. Our hair ties.” You shake your head even though he can’t see you, trying to tame the fly-aways near his nape that refuses to lie down.

You’re down the stairs in the next five minutes, after Jungkook took forever to decide if he was going with the long or short coat, both of which were black. He’s now wiggling his feet – clad in those ungodly toe-socks he likes for reasons you would never understand – into his boots while you do the same. With perfectly, socially acceptable socks.

The chill isn’t as bad with your layers, but you shiver nonetheless as Jungkook locks the house. You stare at the car, a little forlornly when Jungkook throws an arm over your shoulder and directs you out the driveway and down the sidewalk.

He’s humming some song he says he’d heard somewhere, brows furrowed because he just can’t remember the name of it or where he heard it from. You weave your way through the other few early morning walkers, off to their own destinations, exchanging pleasantries as you pass them by.

There’s a young girl helping her mother set up the eye-catching sidewalk displays in front of a flower shop, talking and laughing about something. People who decided to brace the cold in thin sweaters while they jog past you and Jungkook.

You don’t mind the walking so much now that Jungkook has you tucked close to his side as he talks about how pretty the flowering trees look. You can see the trees that guard different spots in the park a good ways away, some of them in little clusters of pink and whites and pale yellows.

Jungkook points out the small diner tucked between two other buildings as you draw nearer, wondering out loud what their breakfast menu would look like. There’s a little tinkle of a bell somewhere above you when Jungkook opens the door and lets you walk in first, and you’re greeted with blissful warmth and a comforting smell of coffee and fresh bread and sweet pastries.

The inside is small and neat, booths with brown leather seats tucked into sides and corners, tables and chairs in more open spaces. All the tables are dotted with cutlery and napkin holders, and little shakers with neat labels, all on top of large white doilies. White tiled walls reflecting the hanging lights that are on despite the daylight streaming in through the large clear windows, dark brown hardwood floors that look nicely polished.

There’s a digital menu on a TV screen on the wall behind the counter, with little pop-ups of daily specials and limited time drinks. A display showcase divided by two with warm and cold pastries, different types of bread on trays at the bottom. It's surprisingly empty, but you’re sure more people would show up in a little time.

Jungkook makes a soft ‘Oohing’ sound as he goes over to the showcase, eyeing the different flaky pastries on display inside. “They’ve got blueberry jam tarts!”

A door behind the counter swings open, and a girl who looks to be in highschool, fixing the straps of the beige apron she wears under the collar of her black tee-shirt. “Hi, I’m sorry I kept you waiting!”

“We just walked in, don’t worry.” You smile at her, and by the way she flutters nervously through asking you and Jungkook what you’d have, you could tell it’s her first job.

Jungkook leans down a little to ask, “What’d you want?”

You hum quietly, squinting at the menu thoughtfully. They have a variety of options, American and Asian breakfast foods all of which catch your eye and make you indecisive.

“Chosilog?” Jungkook asks, looking at the menu and then back at you, and you only nod because you’d be standing there forever trying to decide. He orders while you look at the pastries again, thinking about getting some of the cupcakes with the pretty swirled icing on top.

You and Jungkook sit in a booth near the large glass window, watching the people passing by and onwards. The diner is a little fuller now, and there’s two people behind the counter trying to keep the line to a minimum. You’d both stacked your used utensils neatly in one corner, with the cupcakes you’d wanted tucked into a neat little white box and your coffee in a take-away cup, you left.

Jungkook swings your joined hands between you both as you walk the couple more blocks to the park. Jungkook wanted to take photos of the trees, and who are you to deny him?

You’re sitting on a bench, now that Jungkook has enough photos of you both and the trees that he can change his wallpaper at least fifteen times. The trees look prettier up close, flowers and leaves being plucked off their stems and flowing down in the breeze.

"They're really pretty." You say, staring up at the small yellow flowers sprouting on the branches of a large sansuyu tree. Jungkook presses his lips against your temple and lingers there, fingers making a home of the spaces between your own.

"I've seen prettier things."

There’s people walking to and fro, minding their own businesses, Jungkook’s head leaning on your shoulder as he furiously texts the group chat he’s in with his friends. He's forced to put his phone on silent, as it keeps going off every second like his friends decided to wake up at the same time to chat.

“Ready to head back?” Jungkook asks, lifting his head from your shoulder to prop his chin there. He tucks his phone into the pocket of his coat, “We’ve both got nothing to do today, so we can watch a movie or something...”

You hum your agreement, and you and Jungkook make your ways back up the couple blocks towards home.

Now you’re curled up next to Jungkook, warm and comfy with a show on the TV you’re barely playing mind to. Staring at Jungkook, who’s staring at the TV with rapt attention, buttered popcorn in his hand, mouth still chewing at the bit he put there before.

“You’re not gonna miss a thing if you blink.”

He throws a half popped kernel at you without looking, and it bounces off you and skitters to the floor. He doesn’t pay you much attention, except his fingers softly tugging at the material of your sweatpants for no reason at all, or when you poke his side and he remembers to blink.

The box that held the cupcakes sits empty on the coffee table, now only holding the cupcake wrappers and smudges of frosting. Softly, Jungkook nudges you a little, shifting so that his legs are behind you. He sets the half empty bowl of popcorn aside, opening his arms for you to lay down.

You go without complaint, laughing when Jungkook sputters, brushing your hair away from his face with that hand that wasn't under your head. He tucks your head under his chin, sighing as he relaxes.

The comfort of your day lasts till the end of it, where it’s just you and Jungkook.

Tagging: @eoieopda @luaspersona @matchy6812 @madbutgloriouspond @bangtansmauyeondan @taestefully-in-luv @blog-name-idk @allhobbitstoisengard @dontstoptime @amon-rei

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Tuesday 20 February 2024

In my local community garden the snowdrops are heralding the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Most of the bulbs have single flowers but there are some clumps of Galanthus nivalis f. pleniflorus 'Flore Pleno' (double snowdrop).

Jill Raggett

[cloudy-li]

chapter three - together, we'll change the world

pairing - luke castellan x unclaimed afab!reader warnings - chunky dialouge :( a pinch of angst masterlist - found here

A full moon heralded in the beginning of winter. The days were getting shorter and the nights were getting longer as campers who went home for the winter break began to filter out, drifting away like how autumn leaves fall from trees – only to return in the spring. As the atmosphere had started to cool, your friendship with Luke had started to warm.

Now, the two of you would often accompany each other to the lake. Which was where you were right now. Luke gingerly put one foot on the surface of the lake; he nudged the half-frozen surface continuously, testing the waters. Then, he put his other foot on the ice waiting a grand total of one second before turning to you with a victorious smile on his face. 

“See, I told you by now it would have froz–ACK!” Luke jumped into the air as the ice underneath him cracked and unceremoniously soaked his entire foot with shocking cold water. You snorted, trying to contain your laughter behind your hand, stomach-aching - eye crinkling laughter poured out of you as Luke dejectedly ran to you on the embankment. “Looks like ice skating will have to wait a few weeks for everyone,” you managed to wheeze out. Luke pouted as he began pulling off his drenched shoes and socks. “Hey! It looked pretty solid, okay?” You giggled as you got up and fell into step with him. “Alright, whatever you say~” Luke broke into a grin.

The camp was emptier than normal and the kids that were still here – all rounders like you and Luke – had all gathered in the Hephaestus cabin for dragon-toasted s'mores. Luke slumped near the hearth of the Hermes cabin as you fussed about grabbing logs, matches and some tinder to get a fire going. Afterwards, you plopped down next to Luke, taking off the cardigan from around your shoulders and folding it on your lap. “Did you hear it again?” Luke nods and something flashes in his eyes. Indecipherable to all but a select few. It's the same look he gets while sparring or leading or standing up for new campers against the occasional Ares kid. Some may decipher it as focus, vigilance. But you know that look intimately well. 

It is the look of determined rage. Violence. Stirring beneath his warm brown eyes.

“Is it the same dream? On the winter solstice?” again, Luke nodded. 

You held your cardigan to your chest. 

“Are you gonna do it?”

“Yeah”

“Then let me help”

“No, it's too risky” 

“Luke, you’re doing this because of your father, right?”

“Yeah but–”

You cut him off. “Then let me do this because of my mother. I want to spite her – whoever she is, I want to see her fall from her grace on Olympus.” You picked at the skin on your fingertips, eyes staring straight into the cracking hearth. “I want to see the gods burn, indiscriminately. They’ve done nothing but treat us like trash, humiliate us,” Luke touched the scar on his face. “It's only right we do the same, their time has come – and gone. They’ve had centuries, aeons, to learn from their  mistakes but they never will. To them, we’ll always be an afterthought.” You clenched and unclenched your fist leaning closer to Luke for some semblance of comfort. “I mean, my mother had seventeen years to claim me,” Luke’s hand drifted to yours, interlinking pinkies – a promise left unsaid. “And yet, she couldn’t be bothered.” There was silence afterwards, broken only by the crackling fire and the faint laughter emanating from the Hephaestus cabin.

“Okay, starlight,” Luke whispered. 

You smiled at the nickname, albeit sadly. “Thank You,” you gently squeezed your interlocked pinkies. Your eyes landed on his face. “We’ll get through this together. And we’ll change the world , for the better. For everyone.” 

A thin, sad smile adorned Luke’s face.