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rippersz · 8 months

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𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝕴𝖓 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖘

Medusa!Larissa Weems x Blind!Reader (wlw/fluffy/mythological)

"You and only you, can make the rest of my life peaceful," ~ Madeleine Smith

~~~~~~~~

A gentle ebb and flow threaded through the leaves and water. The small waves in the river went forward, the green strands of the grass went back, and so in tune they were when the other changed direction. Forward and back and back and forward. They paid no mind to the birds - those of which flitted from one nest to the other. Nor did the rabbits or deer, grazing and passing through, interrupt their little dance. Forward and back and back and forward. The fish swam with no place in mind and the wolves were silent in their daily musings - tasked to do with whatever it was that wolves were tasked to do on such a sweet day.

The snow of the previous season had been shed; soaked into the ground over the past two weeks while the sun stretched her arms over her head and yawned with a big hello. She carried Spring along with her and spread her over the ground, making love until evening so that the fruits of their desire fell into seeds. Figs, apples, berries, nuts, and foliage dotted the bushes, the nettle, and the trees. All slowly growing ripe in their waiting, blooming in large families to match the quick growth of the flowers. White flowers, pink flowers, red flowers, yellow flowers; lilacs and lavenders and daisies and on the far side of the traveled grounds, even roses.

It was picturesque. Undisturbed. Serene in a way that many places weren’t. The breeze was constant and fresh and the sun peeked from behind big fluffy clouds, announcing her presence with a soft whisper.

And so beautiful it was that she was perfectly content with leaning beside the stone wall of the cave’s entrance; eyes trained on nothing but the journal in her hands. It was worn and old, made from leather with a latch clasp that was slowly rusting, but it was thick and good - full of notes and ideas and places and numbers. 1546 years of being alive as she was, tallying each day until the bitterness overwhelmed the distinct pride of prolonged survival and the tallies became a thing of the past. After all, there was no need to count when the days weren’t numbered.

Sure, there was a bounty on her head, but that didn’t matter. Not in the glory of a new Spring. There was no room for bloodshed on such a beautiful afternoon - and so she was not worried about a bumbling blistering fool with a great ego and dull blade. And so she was not worried about a feral creature with no regard for predator and prey dynamics. And so she was not worried about a-

“AGH!”

-woman?

Her head snapped up, rousing small hisses from the slumbering children.

The woman, she quickly confirmed, had fallen into the river. On her hands and knees, she wavered in the current and let out little sounds- huffs and grunts and even a small curse of ‘Gods, honestly!’- while she scrunched up the fabric of her skirt in her hands and struggled to her feet. Her hair, scraggly and unclean, hung over her face, wet at the ends and dry at the top.

A part of her felt the need to offer assistance, but common sense told her to stay put - and only to watch. Eventually, as time would say, the strange woman managed to trip her way over to the river’s bank and press her hands into the mud and rock. Then she scrambled up, her sandaled feet working in earnest to help lug her body over the edge and finally- finally- leave her belly up in the grass, heaving great breaths of air. Up and down her chest fell while she faced the sky. Her skirt, patterned and brown, hung below her knees and stuck to her legs; and the shirt, white and flowing and clearly a bit too big for her frame, turned see-through with the water-lined hem that rested against her sides. Her feet were bare in her simple sandals and aside from a blue worn shoulder bag- one that strapped sideways along her front- there was nothing particularly distinct about the stranger. She was just a woman returning home. Or a woman searching for something. Or a woman on a mission to provide for her family.

But whichever she was, woman with a purpose or not, she was no friend. And so she made no move to leave her cave and instead, sat, and returned to her journal.

So the breeze passed.

And the clouds strolled.

The river went forward. And the grass went back.

And for a good long while, nothing happened.

Then there was a shuffling, and a noise of effort, and a soft simmer of hisses began to rise. Feeling the slow slipping of movement on top of her head, she looked up.

The woman had gotten to her feet, apparently done with her momentary bask in the sun, and began ringing out the water at the bottom of her skirt. The bag she had was on the ground, and everything in it was spread out on the grass. From her point by the cave, a good distance away, she could see a few bits of light clothing, a comb, a small stone knife (which needed a good sharpening), and two wrapped bits of woven leaves and twine. There was no scent of meat in the air, aside from the flesh of the fauna within the forest, so she figured the woman most likely carried berries and nuts for nutrition. Which was, judging by the contents on her person, certainly not enough in an effort to run away.

The woman looked up. Her body jumped - like a spooked young doe, and her own body tensed. Silently, she told her children to hush. Then she thought, wished,-

‘Don’t turn your head. Don’t turn your head. Don’t turn your head. Don’t-’

Apparently deciding that there was nothing to worry about, the stranger kept her back turned to the cave and went back to wringing out her clothing. The hisses and movement had ceased, but the children were still vigilant - watching with perceptive sapphire eyes as the stranger then began to- oh!

She looked away, turning her head so quickly that the children jerked with her. One of the younglings instantly took the opportunity to slide along the shell of her ear and give a mean rumbling clicky-hiss. Absent-mindedly, she reached up to flick the child back into place; paying more attention to her own behavior than anything else.

The woman had reached to take off her shirt- to draw it above her midriff and throw it onto the grass. The river, mixed with the Springtime air, was a good place to stop and bathe, she supposed. It was her plan later anyway to go for a dip herself, if not to feel clean then to at least wash the little companions she carried with her. But the woman beat her to it. And in the silence as she averted her gaze, ignoring the blush of heat on her pale cheeks, the soft sounds of clothing hitting the ground some feet away filled the air. And when that was said and done, a few splashes and small shrieks - drawn from the chill of the river.

When it was quiet, and she was comfortable enough to sneak a look, she found the woman’s back turned to her still. Her hair was wet and slicked, sticking slightly to her neck as she turned this way and that and- oh. She had soap too. So that must have been in one of the two woven bundles.

‘Hm. Smart.’ But not entirely. It wasn’t good to stay long bathing out in the open. Hunters and gatherers and silly stupid mortals had a habit of coming around at the most inopportune times.

She knew that very well.

Though… since the woman was washing up near her cave… there was no harm in observing the scenery. No harm in taking interest in the sun. No, not at all. They would each have their privacy, and as long as the woman didn’t turn around, everything would be fine. And she could keep an eye out… for birds, of course. Not hunters. No no.

So that’s how it went.

The woman bathed, humming to herself, keeping her back to the cave and turning only to lather soap on another part of her body. Completely unaware of the forest creatures watching her. And one creature in particular made it her mission to watch the land, observing and peering; hearing the crackles of branches and chirping of baby birds, listening for footsteps or voices. But none came. And soon enough, the woman was rising from the river, putting on her sandals, and going to sit on the laid out skirt from earlier. She had no cloth to dry off… and so would use the sun.

‘Hm. Not so smart.’ A hiss or two from her children told her they agreed.

It was not right for a woman to be so vulnerable like that. And out in the open. If she weren’t there, the stranger could be hurt. Or worse - killed. But it was good then that she wasn’t alone, wasn’t it? That she had a guardian of sorts… who would kill her too if only she looked her way.

Did- had she fallen asleep?

Like that?

In the middle of the grass with her belongings spread around her and her body, soft and nude, bared to the sun?

‘Is she mad?’

Maybe she was. Or maybe she was just young. Maybe life hasn’t hurt her too severely just yet. And maybe Larissa was being harsh.

Hm.

Well.

It didn’t really matter either way. There was nothing else to do, and though the stranger wasn’t really ‘company’, she was still action. So there was no desire to chase her off and there was no desire to see her maimed - thus, Larissa sat. She tucked long pale legs beneath her, shifted the white chiton to fall on her shoulders just so, and kept her journal close at hand. Night was due to fall soon enough, as it always did in early Spring, so the tools for a fire were already prepared behind her - waiting to be utilized and set later. Hopefully the woman would be gone by then.

But she wasn’t.

At some point, she’d gotten up to change into different clothing; a dress hand-stitched from red dyed fabric. It was pretty, yes, but not very practical for running away.

‘But good clothing was probably the only thing she had.’

Which was most likely true, Larissa mused. Many young women, richer than most, took it upon themselves to run away. Their reason for doing so depended on who they were. The stranger in the red dress, who decided to lay on the grass and fall asleep again, was a woman of status but not to the point of being a royal. If that were the case, there’d be men on horses trailing close behind. Unless they hadn’t found her yet… and were using dogs to track her scent…

The children stirred, hissing with disdain and fear.

She watched the young woman with anxious eyes.

Such a naive thing could lead to her death, once and for all…. and how ironic would that be. A scorned woman with a passion for soft things… destroyed by a soft woman with a passion for a free life. Had they both wanted that at one point? Or was it still something they desired?

The children settled. She continued to watch the land.

But eventually, as Spring would have it, the peacefulness of the quiet had her lulling off to sleep as well. And she only awoke to the feeling of soft kitten licks at her cheekbones. The repeated lap at her skin had her groaning and flicking the offender away - only to have two more slide up and continue twice as hard.

“Ugh, what is it?” She groaned, scrunching her eyes together before pushing herself upright.

The licks turned to urgent hisses- and her darlings started writhing with anxiety- telling her to get up! And if possessed, she stood quickly and looked out into the sudden dark of night. The sun had disappeared. There was not a single light out there in the black. But there was movement. Breath.

The woman. She was still asleep. Dreaming about whatever it was that women liked her dream about.

Larissa frowned.

Well she couldn’t just leave her out there, could she? No! That was- that was… inhumane. Terrible. A fate worse than anything. And if she woke up to the screams of the stranger- if she woke up to her pain… she could risk killing everyone in sight. Literally.

A young king nipped at her ear.

She huffed. Well. It just wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do at all.

And so she collected the fabric of her chiton in her clawed hands and marched forward to the sleeping beauty. The creatures were stiff with observation, keeping their reptilian eyes sharp and alert as she moved - quiet as a snake and dangerous as… well. Herself.

When she was finally standing over the stranger, she let the cloth fall from her hands. The woman, in comparison to her, was short. And vulnerable. And maybe she’d just take her to the edge of the nearest village… or something like that. Something far from her cave and her life. But as she finished slipping the woman’s belongings into her bag (which had since dried from her fall in the river), a whisper rumble of thunder from the clouds above had her sighing. Well. A Spring storm was usually a good sign of the incoming year, but to have one so early was… less than favorable. Her plans, too, were foiled. The children quite disliked the rain, and getting her own clothing wet was something she desperately wanted to avoid (the heavier material took much longer to dry than what the strange woman wore - so she’d have to resort to at least another change of clothes for a day. Which she seldomly tried to wear.)

‘Well. We can’t leave her out here. So as long as she keeps her back turned, we won’t have any trouble now will we?’

No, probably not. Hell for all she knew, the woman could sleep through the whole night and then she could put her back outside in the morning and she could tottle off on her way as though nothing ever happened. Or she could wake up in the middle of the night and take Larissa’s head. Yes. Or that could happen. Which would really be quite terrible. Most likely painless, but still terrible.

The thought of that had Larissa pausing. The woman’s sling bag fell limp in her hand.

Was she taking too big of a risk? Never before had she helped a stranger like that, but she was not unfamiliar with such kindness. It was hard to find in her years, but she’d witnessed the sweetest acts of tenderness amongst strangers. Usually between two women.

She frowned. Some of her children turned, peering over to look down at the sleeping stranger.

Her hair covered her eyes and her limbs were spread out like she was sleeping on the comfiest bit of cloud that ever existed. Like she had no cares at all. It was both endearing and confusing. How could a woman sleep so soundly in the wilderness? How could a woman sleep so soundly in the open? Did her lack of awareness make her an omen of danger? Or was she a passing soul Larissa could provide help for? Someone to make her feel like she was human again… Like she was capable of being good instead of being what she… was.

A flash of lightning in the distance, above the forest before her, told her it was time to hurry up. Spring held no qualms about trapping the world in a downpour, and she didn’t feel like trekking through mud before bed.

So making up her mind quickly, Larissa slung the stranger’s bag over her shoulder and bent down to pick her up. She tried to be mindful of her sharp fingers when sliding her hands beneath the woman’s back and thighs; though surprisingly, for all of her mortal weight, she was easy to carry. Strength, Larissa had figured early on into her ‘new life’, was one of the very few advantages she’d gained after her transformation. But never before had she picked up a human. And never would she do it again as she realized how difficult it was to keep from jostling them. She was just so… limp. Her head lolled a little bit and her arms ragdolled and she looked more like a young woman than an adult stranger. But nonetheless, Larissa carried her back to the cave. The children were silent, understanding somehow that they were not to wake the mortal with their clicks and hisses and little rattling sounds. As endearing as their mother found it, the human would not take too kindly to their existence - before she turned into nothing but a statue, of course.

‘Don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up,’ Larissa thought desperately to herself as she padded into the cave and placed the woman onto her bed. There was nowhere else for her to rest, and it wasn’t like Larissa was planning on getting much sleep in her company anyway, so onto the little nest of stolen blankets, wool, and pillows she went. Slipped so easily from Larissa’s pale arms - and then cared for even more when she went about gently turning her around onto her side, belly facing the cave wall, before pulling the mismatched bed coverings up to her shoulders.

The thunder and lightning from the world beyond was growing more intense by the second, striking a worried chord in her heart that had her quickly placing the woman’s bag beside her body and flitting around to get her home comfortable for the evening. The routine followed as it did every night. Gently unwind the twine that holds back the bramble, vine, and leaf-woven curtains to each side of the cave wall; being careful of the sap-gum that held everything in place. Then gently arrange the curtains, as thick and prickly as they were, to cover the entirety of the cave’s entrance. Once that is finished, move around in the dark for the corner in which the fires are conducted - then go about striking the rock and the wood and adding the sticks and gathering a flame and letting out a sigh of relief when the warm glow fills the grey emptiness of the space.

She had planned on going hunting that evening, before sundown, but the stranger stole all of her attention away; and searching for meat during a storm was a fruitless mission. They were both lucky then that Larissa had enough forethought to search for various nuts, grains, and fruits the day previous. They were stored away behind the fabric of her pillow… which was preoccupied by the woman’s sleeping head.

The world rumbled as Larissa propped herself up against the cave wall. There was never much to do besides ponder, write, sleep, and hunt… so she turned back to her journal, deciding to spend some time detailing the woman she came across. Her hand moved with sharp twirls and scritches, writing of how strange the mortal was; how innocent; how peaceful she looked sleeping in her bed, completely unaware of the monster that lurked behind her. Like a daisy in a pretty green field… soon to be trampled beneath the hungry paw of a bastard wolf; left without the gift of seeing so she couldn’t even anticipate her untimely death. It was rather sad. It was rather brutal. No woman deserved a fate such as that - for she was only running away and did not think she would be dragged into the cave of a beast.

As the embers of the flame died, the woman continued to sleep. There reached a point where Larissa thought she was dead. Despite being able to hear the warm thump of her heart, she still stood and loomed over the stranger - only to find that yes, she was still alive. Just resting.

‘Must have been quite a long journey if she’s been asleep for that long,’ she mused to herself, turning away to tend to the puttering glows of their fire.

Though as soon as the rain started, coming down in thick pats upon the mud outside of the cave, the huddle of blankets in her bed stirred, and her children stood - turning to glare at the sound. A soft swishing fell into the thunderstorm’s undercurrent as the woman moved her legs, kicked them out to stretch, groaned softly beneath her breath, and turned onto her back. She pawed at her hair, eyes still closed, and Larissa reached up to wrap her index finger and thumb around the snout of her eldest child.

‘Don’t speak,’ she quietly commanded the bunch, ‘I do not want to be the last thing she sees.’

But the crackling of the fire, paired with its warmth and light, had the woman releasing a confused hum as she shuffled onto her hands and pushed herself up to sit. Larissa watched, silent, while the stranger slowly came back to her senses and regained consciousness.

“Is there- what-” she spoke, soft voice trailing off into a myriad of inaudible questions.

The child in her grasp wriggled, having had enough of its mother’s scolding, eager to rejoin the others in their free scrutiny. She finally let it go, tapping its pale head with the tip of one finger, and then slid the journal from her lap and placed it onto the cave’s floor as quietly as she could. Spooking the woman was the last thing she wanted to do, but as she stood to her full height and gently pulled some of the loose fabric of her chiton closer to her body, the stranger jumped anyway - and instantly got to her feet.

Larissa’s heart stopped, tripping over itself as she jerked her head down.

“Wh-Who’s there?! What do you want with me?! I have a knife!!” The stranger’s voice, scared and loud, full of false bravery, was quieted by the rain and thunder.

‘You don’t have a knife. You don’t know where it is,’ was Larissa’s inner thoughts- right as the woman began murmuring to herself.

“Wait. Where is the knife…” and only when there was the dull sound of knees dropping onto fabric, did Larissa finally bring her blue eyes up.

The woman, in her absence of the knife… went looking for it. On her hands and knees… patting the ground… searching through the fabrics of the bed and slapping her soft palms against the stone of the cave’s floor… frantic and confused…

Larissa frowned.

“It’s in your bag.”

—

You jumped, letting out a harsh breath while your heart skipped up into your throat.

“Who goes there?! Who are you?!” Your voice was shrill, loud and scared as you forgot about the knife and went pushing yourself back up into your feet. “I-I know how to fight!” You yelled into the darkness, putting up your fists.

It was a lie of course- you had no idea how to fight- but that didn’t matter. As long as the person- woman?- thought you were tough enough to hold your own.

But when you huffed and puffed and bared your teeth, keeping your fists up, nothing happened. Complete silence filled the air, interrupted only by the rain and the flicker of a fire nearby. You could feel its warmth on you even in your panic - even as you stepped back and back and back until your shoulders hit something hard behind you. It was a wall; a curved imperfect wall that told you you weren’t in a cabin or home with extremely open windows, somewhere in the woods, but were instead in… in… well. You didn’t actually know. It’s not like you could see and just find out. Though despite that, you still looked around wildly - keeping your ears open for movement.

There was none.

You frowned.

“…How… are… you…?” It was a woman! The voice, spoken in front of you, across whatever space you were in, was smooth and deep. Accented. She sounded strange. Foreign. And also incredibly confused. Almost… astounded? Like she couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Don’t make me ask again,” you warned, reminding yourself that some women could be just as dangerous as men, “what do you want with me?”

“Blind…” came the soft response; so quick- it was in the air before you finished speaking; so quiet you had to strain to hear. “You’re… blind.”

Well. Yes. It was a rather defining feature; one that many noticed and took advantage of. One that people thought they could ‘work with’ and use to trick you - but you were clever. And strong. And personable in a way that many didn’t expect. The stranger across from you though… she was still just another potential danger. Still just a thing to be aware of. And so you cleared your throat and nodded, putting your hands at your sides and curling them into fists.

“Yes. I am. And what about it?” You sniffed, tilting your head up, trying to seem braver than you were.

No amount of cleverness, after all, could save a blind woman from a tricky death. If the river you had fallen into earlier was a cavern or a very deep pit, you would have been finished. Thank goodness you took advantage of it at the time.

“…Nothing. I apologize. I have- never met a blind person before,” the woman spoke, stilted and cautious. Still with an undercurrent of awe in her voice. It was peculiar, the way she was acting, but you shrugged it off. The apology was unexpected but not unwelcome. It had you squinting into the nothingness of your vision.

“Well. Now you have.” You nodded, suddenly feeling rather awkward.

—

Yes. She had. You were right.

Right and blind.

Blind. Unable to see.

The children froze, and she felt the way they looked at each other, unsure and confused. No doubt wondering ‘What issss happening?’ They were too familiar with mortal skin turning grey and hard at the smallest glimpse in their direction to understand what was happening. All they knew was their mother and solitude. And she, likewise, had no concept of how to deal with a stranger that did not want to- or simply couldn’t- kill her.

The milky color of the stranger’s eyes, although rare and odd, was beautiful. Like the wispy white of the clouds when they blanketed the moon at midnight. Light and dark at the same time… grey under a matter of circumstance. The cherry on top of the woman’s strange existence. Shocking to a new face but glorious to a trained eye. Her children observed the mortal with unending curiosity; casting violence aside as they slithered to their tallest heights and curled down, swaying their small pale heads. The situation was lost on them, but that didn’t matter. They’d understand eventually. Perhaps when the woman was gone the previous morning and she could muse over the mortal out loud to herself.

But until then,

“Are you hungry?” She wasn’t sure what else to ask.

—

You felt your stomach rumble- speaking to you as though the mention of eating had woken it up from its slumber.

“Um yes… you’re not going to poison me though, are you?”

There was a short gasp.

“Goodness, no. Why would I do that?”

She sounded so outraged- so shocked by your question- that you almost smiled. You couldn’t see her expression, but there was sincerity in her velvet voice. Like she was genuinely surprised, if not offended, that you’d ask her of all people that. It didn’t matter if you’d asked in slight jest or not; she didn’t seem to understand the consequences that came with literal blind trust.

“Some people like to take advantage,” you murmured, shrugging at the same time. Most women understood what you meant. People during that time, men in particular, saw the weak souls of the world and let their eyes light up with the chance to exert power. It was common. It was difficult. The woman opposite you, you were nearly certain, understood the sentiment as well.

“I–… yes. I realize that,” she stated, her voice growing firm. “But I’m not going to poison you. I’m not a m-” There was a soft hissing hush that filled the air, cutting into her words with a sharp strength you couldn’t ignore

What on Earth…

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” was the quick response. “I have nuts and berries I found not too long ago. Will that be enough?”

Your brow furrowed. What was she hiding?

“Um yes- yes that would be lovely… thank you.”

And with that, the stranger let out a hum and went walking around, shuffling along to grab a few things while you stood there on (what you assumed was) her bed. It was soft; pillowed with linens and fabrics and blankets that felt as though they’d come from all over the world when you shifted from one foot to the other. You frowned at the odd feeling and stepped off of the coverings- not wanting to flatten or dirty her sleeping area. It was kind of her to even put you there in the first place; though you wondered if she’d carried you herself or dragged you along. Not many women in your time, or the village where you were from, had the strength or initiative to pick up another woman and carry her anywhere, let alone their own bed. But if you were dragged along the grassy terrain outside, you surely would have felt the bumps and stops, no?

Either way, as soon as you stepped onto the hard ground of- well- wherever- you were at, you turned to the sound of movement and cleared your throat.

“And um… thank you for taking me here. Keeping me safe. You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway. So- I appreciate it.” You fidgeted; keeping your hands at your waist and picking at the soft skin around your nails.

The shuffling paused.

“…You’re welcome.” The stranger replied softly.

It was almost like she wasn’t sure what to say. Like she didn’t hear the words ‘thank you’ very often. Like maybe she didn’t come into contact with people very often. And perhaps she didn’t. How else could she have found you if she didn’t live away from civilization? It wasn’t unheard of; it was just not very common. But, as you always said, to each their own. There was no room for judgment, after all - the woman probably ran away in a similar fashion as you did. In the very beginnings of morning, before the sun even rose, with everything you could think to carry in a satchel slung across your shoulders, heading out into the world as though it wouldn’t prove to be as dangerous as the life you left had been. The only difference being that nothing could make you want to return to that - not even the scary sounds that came out of the forest at night. The woman, even if only for one evening, was a saving grace.

And still a stranger.

She puttered around some more, dragging soft things across the ground- leaf bowls you assumed- and poured water into clay cups.

“I never got your name, you know. So I can remember you.” It was a hesitant thing to say, but you figured that if you somehow made friends with the woman, you could come back to her one day if you ever needed the shelter. Or the company. The world was tough, after all; and not always did a woman succeed on her own.

That woman had, though.

That woman, who stopped her actions again and allowed the combined ambience of the rain and fire to melt into the space.

That woman, who inhaled sharply before exhaling into one spoken breath:

“Larissa.”

(Thank you for reading! Do let me know if you'd prefer the other layout/way of editing with the text dividers and character gifs. This Medusa thing may become a little series like Cannibal Larissa. Let me know what you think? Until next time, darlings - Rip x)

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writers-potion · 2 months

Text

Plant Symbolisms 🌱🌿🪴

Flora have a special corner in literature.

Starting from the Greco-Roman period when certain plants were representative of gods (like olive trees for Athena), plants have meant more than just a source of food or pleasure.

Lotus - Symbol of creation, rebirth, and the sun. The blue lotus represents spiritual enlightenment, while the white lotus symbolizes purity.

Papyrus - Represents prosperity, growth, and regeneration, often associated with the Nile River and the goddess Isis.

Mandrake - Associated with love, fertility, and aphrodisiac properties.

Poppy - Symbol of sleep, healing, and regeneration, often associated with the god of sleep, Hypnos.

Rose - Represents love, beauty, and the goddess Aphrodite.

Jasmine - Symbol of sensuality, love, and spiritual growth.

Palm - Represents victory, triumph, and eternal life, often associated with the god Osiris.

Acacia - Symbolizes resurrection and the afterlife, linked to the god Osiris and the Tree of Life.

Cornflower - Represents fertility, abundance, and regeneration.

Anemone - Symbol of protection, healing, and renewal.

Anemone, garden: Forsaken.

Almond, flowering: Hope.

Balm: Sympathy.

Bamboo: The emblem of Buddha. The seven-knotted bamboo denotes the seven degrees of initiation and invocation in Buddhism.

Bay leaf: I change but in death.

Bell flower, white: Gratitude.

Bluebell: Constancy.

Broken flower: A life terminated, mortality.

Buttercup: Cheerfulness.

Calla lily: Symbolises marriage.

Campanula: Gratitude.

Carnation, red: Beauty always new

Chrysanthemum: I love.

Clover, white: Think of me.

Clover, four-leaved: Be mine.

Cinquefoil: maternal affection, beloved daughter.

Convolvulus, major: Extinguished hopes or eternal sleep.

Coreopsis, Arkansa: Love at first sight.

Crocus: Youthful gladness.

Cuckoo Pint: Ardour.

Cypress tree: Designates hope.

Daffodil: Death of youth, desire, art, grace, beauty, deep regard.

Daisy: Innocence of child, Jesus the Infant, youth, the Son righteousness, gentleness, purity of thought.

Daisy, garden: I share your sentiment.

Dead leaves: Sadness, melancholy.

Dogwood: Christianity, divine sacrifice, triumph of eternal life, resurrection.

Fern: Sincerity, sorrow.

Figs, Pineapples: Prosperity, eternal life.

Fleur-de-lis: Flame, passion, ardour, mother.

Flower: frailty of life.

Forget-me-not: Remembrance / true love.

Furze or Gorse: Enduring affection.

Grapes: represent Christ.

Grapes and leaves: Christian faith.

Harebell: Grief.

Hawthorn: Hope, merriness, springtime.

Heartsease or Pansy: I am always thinking of you.

Holly: Foresight.

Honeysuckle: Bonds of love, generosity and devoted affection.

Honesty: Sincerity.

Ivy: Memory, immortality, friendship, fidelity, faithfulness, undying affection, eternal life, marriage.

Jonquil: “I hope for a return of affection.”

Lalla: Beauty, marriage.

Laurel leaves: Special achievement, distinction, success, triumph.

Marigold: Grief or despair.

Morning glory: Resurrection, mourning, youth, farewell, brevity of life, departure, mortality.

Mystic rose: Mother.

*some of these flower symbols have Greek or Roman origins but were also used in ancient Egyptian culture.

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

🖱️References

https://www.proflowers.com/blog/plant-symbolism-guide

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/396668679699365428/

https://lilysflorist.com/blog/the-symbolism-of-flowers-in-literature-and-poetry-a-look-at-the-hidden-meanings-of-blooms-in-classic-texts/#:~:text=Rose%20%2D%20Represents%20love%2C%20beauty%2C,and%20the%20Tree%20of%20Life.

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certifiedskywalker · 9 months

Text

How You See Me - Aemond Targaryen

Anonymous asked: hi i love you're writings so much, you have a way with words that makes you're stories so mesmerizing, i dont know if you are accepting requests right now but if you do will you write an angst one with aemond targaryen or daemon somerhing that has to do with betrayal or choosing the other side of war thank you.

You have always seen Aemond, seen past his title, and, for a moment, you thought he was finally seeing himself too...

He brought the rain in with him. Puddles gathered on the floor of his chambers, channeled in grooves between the packed stone brick. The little rivers rushed toward you from where he stood by the ironwood door, the peaks of his frame cast in the dark of the dim-lit space. If not for the shine of his silver hair and the ghastliness of his pallor in the torchlight, he would have been unrecognizable. Even sure that it was him, you found yourself calling out warily.

“Aemond?”

“Aemond.”

His name fit in your mouth too well. You liked the feel of it, how it felt rolling off your tongue. In a place like King’s Landing where all sensations, sights, and smells, were new, Aemond felt familiar. Perhaps it was simply the shock of seeing another child at court. Let alone seeing a child with an eyepatch.

“Prince.” At the sound of his stern whisper, you peered up at your father, a decorated Lord, in question. “Prince Aemond. Title comes first, just as we practiced.”

You nodded quickly, nervously, as if you got caught sneaking a sweet past curfew. “Yes, Prince Aemond.”

“And,” your father continued, “the Princess Helaena to the King’s left. It seems that Prince Aegon is absent from court. A strange thing for— Oh! Now, remember.”

His rushed, last-minute tutelage was cut short as the Lord and Lady in front of you moved from the sword-studded start of the Iron Throne. In their place was a spot for you and your father to greet the members of the Royal Family present. You swallowed hard at the sight before a guiding hand set on your back and pushed you forward.

The closer you got, the more you saw of King Viserys’ mangled features: his grey face sunken in the cheeks and eye sockets with sores dotting his every stretch of skin. Though, it looked as though his maesters went to some effort to obscure the bloody splotches with salves made to match what you assumed was the pale color of his flesh before sickness claimed it. When the King opened his mouth to greet you and your father, you saw that his teeth were grey too, at least where they weren’t missing.

“By the Gods! How good it is to see you! The last time, I do believe, you were still Daemon’s squire, yes? And— Why, is this your little one?”

“‘Tis indeed, your Majesty.”

King Viserys beamed and you stayed as still as stone, unwilling to show fear despite the state of his smile. “Well,” he continued, “I do hope our children will grow close, strengthening the bond between our great Houses. Hmm?”

“Yes, yes, your Majesty, as do I.” Your father nudged you and your mouth immediately went dry. It took everything you had to wrench your gaze from King Viserys and look to the left. Helaena seemed unresponsive, light eyes dancing about the room, looking everywhere save for you.

“It’s customary to bow.”

Your eyes shot to the right, to Aemond. Prince Aemond. He was scowling at you, his face turned up in seeming disgust; but unlike the visage of his father, Aemond’s face, the jagged scar, still red with relative freshness, did not frighten you in the slightest. Your father, on the other hand, made a mortified rasping sound.

“Already a stickler for pageantry, my Aemond,” Viserys flattered.

“Prince Aemond,” you corrected. “Title comes first.”

The King laughed, though, with his throat full of phlegm, it came out more of a cough. “Why, what a match you two are already.”

At his father’s words, you watched on, pleased, as Prince Aemond’s scowl faded, albeit slowly, away.

“Aemond?”

You called out to him again, stepping towards his shadowy figure. Closer now, you saw his eye gleaming in the limited light, how it was fixed on the floor, the racing drips in the tile. He did not raise his head as you grew close enough to touch. The untraceable distance between you was suddenly insurmountable and it made your stomach twist.

“What is it? What happened?”

Even after eight years of it, you never bored of the dance: sneaking through the Red Keep, tracing alleys down to the training yard. Your spot was always saved by the squires, who, faces ruddy with work, were too worn and watchful to make note of your presence. Hidden enough behind their slim shoulders, you could safely watch the Sers spar. Though, it was not for their cacophony that you made such moves.

It was for the music made by Aemond’s singing blade.

“Can you see back there?”

“Yes,” you hissed, barely looking at the squire in front of you hoping he would hold his craning neck back with the ask, likely assuming you were some other yard hand watching on. You perched yourself on the tips of your toes and caught a glimpse of racing silver. The crowd rose up in turn and you heard the dull, heavy thud of a leather-armored body hitting the packed dirt. Hoots and hollers resounded about the yard, bringing a wide smile to your lips.

“Aemond fell Boric the Beast?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Prince Aemond,” the squire corrected, his head turning to look at you, eyes wide in appalled surprise. You noted the scarlet cloths he adorned, the scattered ten pellets that echoed the growing reach of House Cole. “The Prince fell the Beast.”

“Yes, Prince Aemond,” you echoed, suddenly feeling a bit too seen and far too memorable as the squire studied you with disgust. He had marked your face for the ‘offense’ you committed against the royal family, but before he could tag you for it, the ramble of the crowd swallowed him whole. The men bounced and bobbed, eager for the next match, shouldering one another towards the center. You took advantage of the bustle and slipped back into the shadows of the Red Keep.

You set your back against the sun-baked brick and took a trembling breath. Eight years and simply slip of a name could—

“What are you doing here?”

On instinct, your body straightened, ready to greet a man of higher rank, to put on airs of simply being lost somewhere unfit for one of your station. You watched as the shadowy visage approached, all slow and suspecting. Quick to please by the grace of your father’s lessons, you bowed, folding your nerves in your stomach until they were nearly nonexistent.

“My Lord,” you said, dipping your form. “I find myself a touch turned around and-”

“I’m no Lord.”

Prickling fear licked your face until it started to sting. “I-”

“I’m your Prince.”

The figure grew close, allowing the stink of sweat and blood and smoke filled your nose, filling you with a strange sort of relief. “Aemond.”

You immediately melted in him, so fluidly that he had to quickly raise his arms up around you. The leathers of his armor squeaked slightly as Aemond moved, just as the sharpness of nerves eeked out of you with a sigh. At the sound, his hold on you tightened.

“I did not mean to frighten you, only play.”

“No, no,” and as you spoke, you finally met his eyes. With your head craned up against his chest, you were greeted with his jaw and lips first. That was, until, that he tilted his head down, and his bright blue eye drank in the sight of you. For a moment, you forgot you were speaking. “I- Cole’s squire, in the yard…he saw me.”

Aemond raised a brow, lips pursed in question. “And?”

Before you could respond with a biting urgency, he cut you off with a kiss, a ravenous thing that had you backed up against the brick once more with Aemond’s hands guiding your hips. You gasped at the roughness but found yourself leaning into it, letting any worry melt in the warmth of his mouth. Aemond nipped at your lower lip before trailing down the column of your neck.

“Aemond-”

“I will have him dealt with,” he grumbled, pulling away. “Even if he decides to feed the rumor mill, who will the people believe? A nameless face from a lowly vassal or the Prince?”

He held your gaze as the question floated in the limited space between you both. You thought of the squire, House Cole, your own family. A lowly vassal. The Prince. Yes, who would the people believe?

And it was like you were small again, standing in front of the Iron Throne, looking up at ten-year-old Aemond as he, so high upon the unreachable steps, scowling down at you.

Only, in the present, the wound that took Aemond’s eye was no longer raised and red. It was as pink as his post-kiss flush that roared in his cheeks. You reached out and let your fingertips trace the right peak of his face. Immediately, Aemond tilted into your touch. His lips grazed your palm, his eye closed, and you were back in yourself, all too aware of the tightening in your chest.

“My Prince.”

Aemond opened his eye slowly and a smile made his mouth into a curl.

“My love,” he corrected.

“My love,” you echoed in a sigh, welcoming the easy breath.

Your hand reached up to Aemond’s cheek, but he jerked his head from your reach.

He was already crossing the room away from you, his pace leading toward the small table nearest the window. There, perched on the marble top, were chalices and bottles of wine that glimmered crimson in the torchlight. You saw how his pale hands wrapped around the neck of one of the bottles and pour the Arbor Red into the nearest cup. You saw how his pale hands trembled as he took a drink.

“My love, you are soaked to the bone, let me undress you and-”

“No,” he barked, turning his back fully to you. “I need you to-”

He made a choked sound and shook his head, the damp, silver strands cascading down his shoulders. You watched his arm move, bringing the chalice of wine back to his lips. His hesitation made your stomach twist painfully and your breaths grew shallow.

“What do you need from me?”

“Stay.”

“It’s nearly dawn.”

Aemond moved then, his bare chest pressing against yours as he propped himself up on his hands to loom over you. Pinned between him and his bed, everything felt like silken sheets. “Do you answer to the sun?”

You bit back a laugh when Aemond ducked his head into the crook of your neck, his breath tickling the sensitive skin there before he kissed it. With him in such good humor, your reply was a teasing one: “I answer to no one.”

“Mmm, no one?” Aemond asked, pulling back. His head is cocked to the side, a smirk playing on his lips so deliciously. “I recall you answering to me last evening.”

You grinned and pressed a hand against Aemond’s shoulder, trying to push him off. He doesn’t budge, and his smirk widens with all the mischief of a young man enraptured. “But that is you.”

“The Prince.”

You push again, but Aemond stays still and smiling. Seeing no other recourse, you craned your neck up and kissed him. He hummed again, and you pushed in time, letting his bare back fall against the sheets. There was no sound of surprise, no break in your joined mouths. When you did pull yourself from him, Aemond tried to hold you close, your hips against his.

Any move you made was a move he allowed. “Aemond,” you pressed, warningly.

“My love,” he replied, his tone mimicking yours. You shook your head at his teasing, blamed yourself for letting his play chip away at the moment.

“I love you,” you said, redirecting your mind by focusing on his eye, how the blue shown in the early slivers of sun. “Not the Prince. You, Aemond. You know this.”

“Dōna run,” he breathed, High Valyrian dripping easily from his tongue. “How charming it is that you see the two as separate.”

“They are. You are different at court, in the yard, with your family. With me you are honest and unrehearsed,” you brushed your thumb along his lips, tracing his expression, “true.”

“True.” He chewed on the word before frowning. “Then, I fear I do not recognize myself.”

“Well, I see you.”

You leaned down and cupped his face in your hands. His jaw was hard against your palms and itchy with silver stubble. With your thumbs, you pushed Aemond’s lips into a smile before you let the corners of his mouth fall again. After a second time, the smile stuck without your holding it in place and you laughed.

“There you are.”

Aemond flexed his abdomen beneath you and moved to sit up, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. His hands rose up from your bare hips to your sides, before racing up to your neck. Against your thighs, you felt his body roll up towards you and the sensation sent a shock through you. A gasp parted your lips and had Aemond grinning like a fool.

“There you are,” he echoed, before kissing you again. “Now, tell me how you see me.”

His hips ground against yours as his mouth continued on with the teasing the skin of your neck. “Aemond.”

“Listen to your Prince- your love.”

“Go.”

“Go?”

You watched as he took another gulp of wine before he threw the empty chalice to the cold floor. It clattered and your stomach lurched in fright. Wine droplets dripped off the lip of the cup and melded into the rain storm Aemond left on the stone tile. Rivers of red raced about the room then, echoing gruesome tourney’s past. Or those to come.

“Leave,” Aemond said at last. “Go back to whatever middling plot your father was gifted by my King Father to buy his silence regarding my Rogue Uncle’s doings and leave.”

“Aemond-”

In a rush of silver, he spun on his heel and faced you. His eye was bright blue, burning from within itself as if dragonfire were his flesh. Through bared teeth and with a pointed finger, he growled, “do not. Do not- Address me as befitting your station or I will have the guards remove you.”

An ache filled you and tightened about your chest. “Ae- My Prince, have I done something to offend you so that you wish for my absence?”

Aemond’s flared nostrils shrank with an unsteady breath, as did the twitching of his eye. He dropped his pointed finger and straightened his stance. How different he seemed from himself moments ago, though, even then, unrecognizable.

“I am to wed a Lady of Storm’s End.”

Tears sprung from your eyes. “Do you not even know her name?”

Aemond answered with silence and the ache grew inside you like a tree. Its thick roots anchored you to the floor and wrapped around your throat. All you had was your mind and it was tangled, trying to find reason when there was none. You could not even find Aemond’s gaze as he kept it fixed to the ground, waiting for it to fall out from under you, you imagined bitterly.

“What,” you choked out, shaking your head, your tears adding to the small flood. “What happened? Please, let me see you.”

After a long beat, Aemond lifted his head then, his eye, no longer ablaze, found yours. “I am ordering you to leave.”

The ache began to change, burning itself into a plague of frustration. You dared to step towards him, and when he did not say a word, you took another. Then, another, until finally you could feel his shallow breaths and smell the storm that clung to him. “Let me see you.”

He took a breath and you saw his shoulders sink slightly as he replied, “war is brewing, and you- I need you to leave.”

“And your marriage secures the Baratheons as your allies,” you realized, taking a step back. “You’re playing Prince again.”

“I am not playing Prince,” he growled, his brows furrowing and anger returning to fill out his deepening voice. “I am the Prince, I was born for this. You simply elected to be blind to it, to my duty. Blind to this,” he gestured between the two of you, “and its predestined end.”

You nodded. “A lowly vassal.”

“What?”

“When the Cole squire saw me, you asked me who the people would believe: a lowly vassal or the Prince. I believed in you.”

“The me you thought you saw,” he spat, stepping towards you, closing the gap. You could feel the heat of him emanating off of him like the stink of a feral boar.

“I saw you,” you reached out with a shaking hand and pressed your palm against his chest before you brought yourself closer with one last step. “And I fear I always will.”

You leaned up on the tips of your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you backed away, you saw red in the whites of Aemond’s eye, a glimmering threat of tears. Tears you knew he would not let fall, even after you had gone. Yet, you still believed in him, that maybe he saw himself, who he could be, and would allow himself the grace to move.

“I wish you good fortune in the days that come,” you murmured and made your way towards the door. As you stepped out into the halls of the Red Keep for the last time, you heard the thud of knees against stone and a bitten-back cry.

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animereaderinsertwriter · 9 months

Text

to fuck a god

tags/warnings: smut, ares x nymph!reader, erwin smith x reader, ancient greece au for a hot minute

a/n: this fic is a gift for the lovely, wonderful @bluebellhairpin whom i adore (and is responsible for my schmexy icon!!!!)

There is shouting in the distance.

Your nose wrinkles, your eyes tighten. Darkness, warm and weighted, presses against you, smothering wakefulness. Peace lulls you back to slumber.

Moments later, there is a scream— you hear it past the darkness, past the weight. It is the lonely, abandoned cry of a wounded soldier. Your heart lurches, your eyes flutter.

Still you sleep. It has been too long since last you had rest.

It is a crash that finally wakes you. Pain blossoms in your abdomen as a bridge collapses, a crushing pressure that forces air from your lungs. You rise, hot, raging, vengeful; your waters churn, boiling wine-dark with the blood of mortal men. Battle has come to your riverbank, unbidden and unwanted.

The men do not— cannot— see your body as you emerge from foaming rapids, but that does not lessen the doom they face by the outstretching of your hand. This is your river. The silt and sand beneath their feet, the water in their noses and lungs belong to you; they will not savage it without price

They pay with their lives by the dozen. You extract it from them mercilessly, plunging them beneath the water's surface. As your rapids rage, one man reaches, lunging to gouge another with his spear; even in your wrath, you mark the act as strange. What manner of beast is man that even in the throes of his own death, he seeks to cause another's? You find it too foolish to fathom.

“For Athens!” cries one man just before you fill his lungs with water. “For the noble House of—��

He does not finish. You smother his battle cry with watery death. Athens could burn for all you cared, along with every noble house and home along the way. You cared little for irreverent man; would that the gods would send you power enough to flood them all.

“Such fury from one so small. Would that I could inspire like rage in even fifty men.”

The voice, though gruff and deep, was quiet, bemused. In your distraction, you allow a man to escape your clutches and crawl back to shore, gagging and sputtering as he went. Furious, you turn and find the true object of your ire lounging beneath the shade of a fig tree, a scroll in hand. Once, it might have amused you to find the god of war reading, of all things— but you were accustomed now to his all-too-frequent visits, and the oddity had worn off its charm.

“Restless vagabond,” you spit, feet slapping as you walked from your place in the water to the shore next to his tree. “Go back to Sparta, Ares—you're not wanted here.”

So saying, you fold your arms, waiting for a response. When the god doesn’t deign to reply, you flick water from the tips of your fingers in his direction. Shiny droplets land in his dark hair, glistening like dew; a single shimmer of water races down the thick bridge of his nose, then dives off the blunt tip of it to land on his scroll.

“Woman.”

The word is spoken lowly— a warning— but has no real bite. Your words, however, are far from toothless, heedless of how great and terrible is the power that he wields.

“I am no mere woman— no more than you are mere man.”

Dark-bright eyes look up at you, their russet brown edging on red as they sparkle with mischief. As his gaze follows the curves and plains of your body, Ares smiles— the very definition of crude and lascivious.

“You are a woman in all the ways that count.”

That, you supposed, was true enough.

“Why have you come?”

He nods towards the chaos of your river.

“The men brought me.”

“As if mortal man makes his own war.” Your face contorts into a scowl. “I ask again: Why have you come? Why come you to savage my banks, pollute my waters with foul man-blood and stinking mortal shit?”

“I told you the truth, pretty one.” Ares rolled his scroll gently. It crackled under his huge hands, but did not bend. “The men wage war, and whithersoever they wage, there I must be also.”

“Pretty one,” you grumble, angry at how well the compliment pleased you. “Better wrathful one, or vengeful one.”

“Those too, if it pleases you.”

He stands, brushing grass from his toga. The clothing in question, made of crimson fabric, falls just shy of halfway down his bulging, golden thigh, revealing softly curving muscle. The hulking mass of him throws a shadow long enough to cast doubt and fear into your very bones, even more so as he approaches you— but then he is close, so very close, and murmuring sweetly just for you to hear.

“Come, my Lady Wrath, my Darling Vengeance— does my presence really disturb you so greatly?”

You can smell the battle on him. His scent is metallic, like blood, and salty like sweat— and yet there is also the clean scent of the field, the spice of victory wine, and the smoke of burning bodies. Ares is and always has been a study in opposites, both animal magnetism and soft, reasonable attraction.

"Yes," you admit, striving for exasperation and hitting nearer to tremulous want. "You do disturb me."

A large, warm hand grips your hip. You suddenly become aware of the bareness of your skin, the cool damp of you against the warm heat of him. The contact brings a flush to your cheeks. Your body responds as his hand flexes, squeezing; you can't help but search his gaze, wondering, as ever, what he's thinking.

"I love that you're naked," he says, at once soft and sharp. "Your form pleases me, lady nymph. Your kind are never shy, but you are the only river-sprite I know that dares brave land baring all."

He touches you further, that large, rough hand sliding up the curve of your waist. He spreads his warmth from your hip to your ribcage to your neck, gently exploring. The touch is electric, yet strangely innocent. He is a god admiring Creation. Admiring you.

As before, you allow it— and how could you not?

Who were you to say no to the attention and affection of a god?

"The men are dying in my waters," you say as his fingertips trace your jaw. "I'll fall ill, Ares."

"You shall not. I shall send another of my kin to cleanse you, as I did before."

You have nothing to say in return. As if sensing this, he kisses you, busying your mouth with the more pressing business of his want. Both of his hands are on you now, one on your neck, one at the swell of your ass; as he pulls you close, you can feel the hot, hard length of him against you, protected only by the thin fabric of his toga. The sensation is heady, and you pride yourself on keeping your feet through the ordeal.

"Will you let me have you once more?" he asks against your lips. "What say you, my nymph of rage?"

You consider for a moment. Always, he gives you the choice. You know he needn't— he is stronger, more powerful, and could and had easily taken what he wanted before. It makes you wonder if giving you the choice, allowing you to choose him, is a way for him to conquer you. In the end, it doesn't matter. There was only ever one answer.

"Yes." Your breath comes quick as a calloused thumb brushes over your nipple. "Yes, Lord Ares. I will have you."

In the end, there is no shame. Even Aphrodite herself had been unable to say no to the wiles of the war god. As conqueror, it was not in his nature to be refused.

Having gained your assent, Ares does not waste precious time. Instead, he kisses up your neck, to your ear, taking the lobe of it between his teeth and scraping gently. The act sends goosebumps racing down your flesh, and you shiver. Ares kisses lower, down to the hollow of your throat and the plain of your chest, his hands wandering to hardened, sensitive nipple and gently curving breast. He touches you, explores you, holds you like you are precious, and your body opens to him.

"Spread your legs," he says against your neck. "I want to taste you."

So saying, he lowers himself to his knees, bringing himself of a height with your sex. Filthy and impossible, he noses at the apex of your thighs, nudges your legs apart with his hands; it is everything you can do to remain standing as he begins a great and terrible onslaught against your dignity. It is so much. It is not enough. Your hands move to his hair, pulling the soft strands as a long, thick finger finds your entrance, and he groans as he finds that his finger slips easily inside. Still, he does not budge from his task until you're trembling, quaking above him as your orgasm nears— and even then, it is only to look up at you with glistening mouth and fuck-me eyes and say,

"Kneel."

You can do nothing but obey. You kneel before Ares, and he kisses you, letting you taste your own pleasure from his mouth. It's filthy and perverse and everything you've ever wanted as he lowers you gently to the earth, wrapping your legs around his wide hips. You look up at him, awestruck. In this moment, he is soft, beautiful. He is nothing like you would have imagined War to be.

Ares takes a moment to toss aside his clothing. His sex is even larger than you remember it— or, perhaps his form alters according to his godly will, and he is striving to impress. In any case, your sexes are now aligned— his tip to the very opening of your body— and all that remains is one push before he is fully seated.

Despite all, you find yourself anxious for that push.

"Do it," you urge, smothering that feeling. "Fuck me, Ares."

You can tell it pleases him to hear his name from your mouth. Even so, he does not acquiesce immediately, which both frustrates and endears him to you.

"I'll go slowly," he says. "It is no small thing to fuck a god. I thought you'd have learned that by now."

You have no reply— not when his cockhead is pushing slowly into you, making way for the rest of his large, heavy cock. It is nearly a religious experience, being filled by him. You cry out as he's finally seated deeply within you, and all at once you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.

"Yes," you tell him as he withdraws to begin another slow thrust. "Yes, yes, yes."

The word becomes a song as he picks up the pace. It is a song of moans and cries and deepest feeling— he kisses you as you keen, and the hot, hard length of him slows to an agonizing pace.

"Are you alright?" he asks, as though you are breakable. "Should I slow down?"

It infuriates you.

With all your power, you shove at his chest. At first, be doesn't seem to understand, taken aback by your newfound aggression— but eventually, when you use the force of your hips to indicate your desire, he goes easily backwards, landing with a gentle thump on his back so that you can straddle his hips, impaling yourself on his length. Hands braced on the warm softness of his chest, you begin to grind, pushing him ever deeper into you until both of your breaths come heavy and your time is near.

"You were made to be abed with War," Ares tells you, smiling madly up as you move above him. "Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You barely hear him.

"Lovely creature. I would make you my queen, if I could." His voice pitches upward in a moan of pleasure as you use his body. "I would make you heir to my kingdom of ash and broken bone, would burn worlds for you."

Cogent thought is lost to pleasure, but you feel the meaning of his words. It pushes you closer, so close, so close—

"Come, pretty one," he says, "Awake, destroyer of man. I will catch you if you fall, in this life or the next."

You jerk awake.

A warm hand rests on your shoulder. You turn, groggy with sleep, and find a pair of shining blue eyes peering into your own. Erwin Smith—your husband and commander— has never looked more handsome than now, with chest bare above pajama pants that fall a little too short at his ankle.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks you, tender, gentle. "A nightmare?"

The wetness between your legs indicates otherwise. You guide his large, calloused hand there, wordlessly allowing him to feel your answer, and he smiles.

"In that case, I'm sorry for waking you." He presses a kiss to your temple, a finger pressing into your folds. "You don't get enough downtime as it is."

You hum in agreement and run your hands along the solid, curving lines of his biceps.

"You could always order me on bed rest, commander," you tease as he shifts, placing himself exactly as Ares had in your dream— between your thighs, your legs wrapped around his hips.

"If I did that, nothing would ever get done."

"No? Am I that big of a help, then, that the Scouts couldn't function without me?"

"No," Erwin grinned, mischievous, "It's because if I put you on bed rest, I'd never leave your bed."

You smile, then gasp as he presses against you, cock straining against the thin fabric of his pajamas. The feeling is startlingly familiar, and all at once, Ares' words come back to you.

"You were made to be abed with War. Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You wonder if the dream was entirely that. It felt so raw, so real— and, though Erwin and the Ares of your dream shared little physical similarity, you suspected that they were made of the same parts. Only the paint was different. Ares was bronze and dark where Erwin was pale and blond, but in their hearts— in their dark, violent hearts, capable of more and deeper love than a mortal could imagine— they were the same. They were men made of war, bathed in the blood of innocents.

And they both wanted you.

"Lay back," you tell your husband, pushing at the soft muscle of his chest. "I want to ride you."

Erwin grins.

"I thought you'd never ask."

#ares x reader #ares #erwin smith x reader #ancient greek au #erwin smith #nemo my beloved

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piizunn · 7 months

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september 30th, 2023

People who are not First Nations, Métis, or Inuit will never know the sickening feeling of finding out the playground you used to go to is the site of a former residential school, a school still in use by the town of Fort Smith, NWT.

fig. 1. Joseph Burr Tyrrell Elementary School in Fort Smith. Sarah Pruys/Cabin Radio.

First, I’d like to make clear that to my knowledge none of my my immediate family members are residential school survivors, I share community and space with many people who are and I personally attended the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and I will only be speaking on my own experiences. I descend from 7 historic Métis Otipemisiwak families by the names of Berthelet, Caron, St. Germain, Larivière, Dazé, Dubois, and Boudreau, who come from the historic Red River Settlement and Batoche. I come from Amiskwaciywâskahikan, Treaty 6 and I now make my home in Mohkinstsis on Treaty 7 land. I introduce myself in this traditional way of the Métis Otipemisiwak to contextualize my knowledge and experiences, honour my family, and situate myself on this land and in this conversation.

Today is Orange Shirt Day, a day that honours Phyllis Webstad, member of Stswecem’c Xgat’tem First Nation (Canoe Creek Indian Band), and survivor of the Residential School system. Her story is what has inspired this national day of honour and action. Beyond wearing orange I would like non-Indigenous settlers to really consider the history around them and the experiences of survivors and those who lost their lives. I would like you to physically step up for us, be there for us when we are being beaten down, sit with Elders and listen to their stories, learn about their joy as well their pain.

I attended Grandin School, an elementary school in Amiskwaciywâskahikan (Edmonton, Alberta) before it was renamed to Holy Child. For anyone outside of the area I will describe it; the school is over one hundred years old in a historic neighbourhood. Near the school is an LRT station underground and on one side of the platform was a large mural depicting Bishop Grandin, a nun holding a native child, an Indigenous family at camp, and a residential school. Based on the fact that Bishop Grandin spent time working in Saint-Boniface of the Red River Settlement, Fort Chipewyan in what is now Alberta, and Île-à-la-Crosse in what is now Saskatchewan, it can be assumed that the family is either First Nations or Métis, however it must not be forgotten that the Inuit of the north also suffered these institutions.

A quote from Bishop Vital Grandin haunts me to this day, more now than ever.

“We instil in them a pronounced distaste for the native life so that they will be humiliated when reminded of their origin. When they graduate from our institutions, the children have lost everything Native except their blood.”

- Bishop Vital Grandin, 1875

Fig. 2. “A mural depicting Bishop Grandin at an Indian Residential School is located at the Grandin LRT Station in Edmonton.” Image courtesy of Jake Cardinal and Alberta Native News.

I remember teachers taking us to the Is platform to sse the murals but it was not a critical conversation they were very much pro church and viewed residential schools from a sinister paternalistic perspective.

The mural was eventually covered up but the narrative in grandin elementary was that they were "helping native families. I remember inside the school by the main stairwell there was a portrait of Old Grandin and it was literally so scary to me hated walking past it so much I would sprint up the stairs whenever I walked past him alone.

I attended the seventh and final Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s national event in March of 2014, at the end of one of the days I was there I took the train to see my old elementary school, to see the mural and to really consider what I had been taught in school versus what my community and family has taught me. Again, none of my direct family are residential school survivors but many Métis are and this history is often hidden. Prayers up and tobacco down for every single survivors, living and in spirit form.

Fig. 3. The mural depicting Bishop Vital-Justin Grandin at an Edmonton LRT Station was covered in orange Tuesday, June 8, 2021. Kirby Bourne, Global News

First Nations, Métis, and Inuit have been talking about their family members who did not come home and the abuse they experienced. This is not new information, and you have to sit and listen no matter how uncomfortable you are because nothing is more uncomfortable than colonial violence. When news came out about the children of Kamloops in 2021 it was devastating how many people I knew personally that were completely ignorant of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the history of residential schools. What happened in these institutions are absolute atrocities many people would rather not face even the knowledge of what happened to these children, both alive and passed on. Like the survivors, the perpetrators of these horrors live on and have never been held accountable.

Continue to honour your community, stand up and show up for First Nations, Métis, and Inuit. Learn about the history of settler-colonial occupation of this land and how you yourself are directly benefitting from this ongoing genocide. Residential school survivors and the children who never came home are in your community; they are the kind kokum down the hall as well as the middle aged man living on the street, their children young adults, teenagers, kids, babies, they still carry these experiences and memory down to the atoms that make up each of their cells.

works cited

Bourne, Kirby. ‘Mural at old Grandin LRT Station to be removed this fall,’ September 23rd, 2021, Global News.

Cardinal, Jake. ‘Edmonton Paints Over The Grandin Mural’, Alberta Native News, June 10th, 2021.

Grandin, Vital-Justin. On the goal of residential schools, 1875.

Pruys, Sarah. ‘MLA calls for new Fort Smith schools, citing residential school legacy’. Cabin Radio, March 5th, 2023.

Webstad, Phyllis Jack. Phyllis’ Story In Her Own Words, OrangeShirtDay.Org

#my heart is there for all survivors and families that lost their babies #truly heartbreaking stuff #truth and reconciliation #orange shirt day #riel text #Indigenous #heavy day

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somethingclevermahogony · 2 months

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The Regions of Kishetal

Pictured Above: An environmental map of the land of Kishetal

Pictured Above: A map of the 7 Kishic Regions

Pictured Above: A map of the Kishic City-States and their territories

Pictured Above: A map of Significant Stable Forestfolk Populations

Here is a quick overview of the regions of Kishetal, the homeland of Narul and Ninma. And some good ol' maps. I'll be posting in the future about some of the creatures and forestfolk mentioned below!

As always send questions please!

Continues below the cut!

The Regions of Kishetal

1. The Red Cedar Mountains

Pictured Above: The Red Cedar Mountains near Kepfis

The Red Cedar Mountains stretch from the Shabalic Sea in the north nearly to the Sea of Agitu in the south. The Red Cedar Mountains were formed in ancient times having already been present in the Age of Metal and Glass. However, the Red Cedar Mountains are not among the eleven “Chains of Sanctuary,” those mountain ranges around the planet in which humanity sheltered from the wrath of the gods during the Calamity. The predominant underlying stone of the RCM is limestone, with occasional but significant areas and deposits of serpentinite, basalt, and dolerite. The region experiences warm summers and cold winters, often with considerable snow and rainfall, particularly at higher elevations. The Mountains surround Lake Shebali, which acts as an inland sea and a source of food and transport for much of eastern Kishetal. At lower elevations, such as Labisa, the predominant vegetation is juniper and oak. Forests of black pine, cedar, and fir are dominant and common at higher elevations. The highest peaks are home to alpine meadows. Wild grapes, figs, and olives are all abundant in this region alongside their domesticated cousins.

Some fauna include wolves, jackals, wild goats, giant minks, wild bulls(aurochs), leopards, kishic lions, kishic tigers, caracals, roe deer, gazelle, wild boar, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, lynxes, and kishic ibex.

Very rarely found is the Kishic Elephant, actually a species of mammoth, these tiny pachyderms are about the same size as the average dairy cow. Only about 100 still survive in sheltered valleys to the north.

Examples of monstrous and magical Fauna including Flesh-eating deer, kiriki, dorasi, and the kutiri. While there are rumors of larger monsters such as dragons, these are mostly little more than legends and folklore. Though there is no telling what creatures could be hiding in the many caves and tunnels which dot the mountains.

There are numerous small forestfolk tribes which live in isolated areas.

(I will post more about that later)

2. The Felic Plain

Pictured Above: The Felic Plain north of Boshalum

The Felic Plains primarily consist of grassland with occasional patches of deciduous forest. The area is famed for its almond trees and its many wildflowers, including wild roses and hasir flowers. During the fall, great patches of the plains turn red with the blooming of hasir flowers.

The region experiences hot summers and mild but wet winters, which makes the region ideal for farming. As such, the Felic Plains act as the bread-basket of Kishetal. The region is split by the Aratshin River, which extends from Lake Shebali to the Green Sea. The plains are disrupted by an especially dense forested area known as the Garden. All attempts to settle the Garden have failed.

Fauna include, wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, polecats( which are popular pets), felic falcons, and hyenas.

The plains are home to several monstrous/magical species, including Flesh-eating deer, garudu, takmek, and the Unturu Serpent.

There are a handul of forestfolk tribes as well as a single hillfolk tribe in this region.

3. The Western Coast

Pictured Above: The Western Coast near the city-state of Chibal

The Western Coast borders the Green Sea stretching from Bura in the north to Bisabal in the south. The ecoregion has a warm semi-tropical climate akin to a Mediterranean climate. Winter is the wettest season, and summer is the driest.

The Western coast consists primarily of three biomes. The deciduous forests in the north consist primarily of hornbeams, oaks, maples, cedar, and black pine. The central marshlands surrounding Udur have heavy concentrations of reeds, papyrus, poplar, and willow. The southern plains are similar to the Felic plain region though typically arider. Bay, olive, carob, and sweetgum are all common in this region. The Green Sea and its coast are home to many kinds of edible seaweed which form an essential part of the Chibalic and Buric diets.

Fauna include wild boars, foxes, jackals, wolves, badgers, wildcats, coastal brown bears, gazelles, deer, wild bulls, wild goats, and storks. Marine life includes dolphins, seals, whales, sea turtles, and many species of fish.

Monstrous fauna include bulari, sea-dragons, serpents, krinari, and ramitalek.

Aside from Ikopeshi's there are no surviving forestfolk tribes in this region.

4. The Northern Coast/Sheprian Forest

Pictured Above: The Sheprian Forest near Shepra

The Sheprian forest in the northern part of Kishetal is primarily composed of deciduous trees with occasional conifer patches at areas with higher elevations. Common trees include oak, chestnut, birch, hornbeam, black pine, cedar, and beech.

The climate is temperate with warm dry summers and cold wet winters. The north is typically thought of as the wildest region, with most city-states and settlements, including Shepra, clinging to the Corin river. Sheprian poetry is a unique variety of poetry, similar to the Japanese haiku, which originates from the forest festivals of the northern coast.

Fauna include wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, giant minks, horned rabbits, wild sheep, eagles, and kishic leopards.

Monstrous fauna include flesh-eating deer, garudu, kiriki, dorasi, and winged tigers.

This region contains the second highest concentration of forestfolk after the Red Cedar Mountains.

5. The Southern coast

Placed Above: The Southern Coast near Bisabal

The Southern Coast consists of three regions; the southern deciduous forest, the scrubland, and the plains. The climate in the south is quite warm, with summers being hot and dry and winters mild in both temperature and rainfall. On rare occasions, the southern coast may experience heavy snowfall.

Major cities are sparse however, many villages dot the southern coast, many of these villages rely on piracy, preying primarily on Apunian and Jezaani ships traveling to and from the Western Coast.

Limestone plateaus and outcroppings are near the border of the southern coast, and the desert are said to be the remains of ancient buildings though this is not true.

Poplar, olive, bay, carob, almond, oaks, and umbrella pine are all common.

Fauna includes wolves, jackals, gazelles, wild bulls, kishic lions, deer, eagles, storks, horned rabbits, kishic brown bears, foxes, wild goats, polecats, felic falcons, kishic leopards, and hyenas.

The south is home to relatively few monstrous/magical species though it is home to the largest population of kiriki in Kishetal.

There are only two forestfolk populations in this region.

6. The Kipsian Desert

Pictured Above: The limestone formations of the Kipsian desert south east of Kipsu.

The Kipsian desert is the least populated region of Kishetal as the arid environment is not conducive to agriculture. Ruins of older civilizations suggest that the area may have once been more hospitable.

Plant life is sparse and largely limited to hardy shrubs and grasses. The region is famous for its carob and the candies and sweets produced from the carob by its inhabitants. Mesa, plateaus, pillars, and other stone structures are common; foreign visitors often visit the region seeking religious or spiritual enlightenment amongst the arches and columns. Many never leave.

Fauna include jackals, gazelles, kishic lions, deer, gazelle, wild asses, and hyenas. The Kipsian desert is also the only region in Kishetal in which the kishic ostrich and oryx survive.

Monstrous fauna include Flesh-eating deer, takmek, sikara, kiriki, and giant lions.

There are no forestfolk populations here.

7. The Makurian Steppe

Pictured Above: The Makurian Steppe north of Shebal

The Makurian steppe is massive, spreading over most of western Masia. Only a tiny sliver of that vast extent falls in Kishetal. Trees are almost entirely absent. Vast expanses of grass-covered hills define the area. To the north of the steppe is the Shabalic forest, and to the south is the Jezaaic desert.

The heavy presence of sagebrush, sedges, and grasses and the relatively dry climate have led to a preference for a nomadic and pastoralist lifestyle. Makurian tribes regularly raid and intrude in the region, with their westward pushes typically being halted by the mountains.

Fauna include wild horses, wild asses, wild bulls, jackals, gazelle, deer, mountain sheep, macuri lions, and leopards.

Monstrous fauna include the tomob and the wulut.

There are only 3 native forestfolk populations in this region.

As always ask questions! Anything! And if y'all like this I might do this with some other regions.

@patternwelded-quill @flaneurarbiter @skyderman @blackblooms @roach-pizza @illarian-rambling @dezerex @theocticscribe @axl-ul, @persnickety-peahen @angie-j-kay

@surroundedbypearls I was looking through my intro post and I just realized I've been completely forgetting to put you in the taglist! Sorry about that!

#writeblr #writing #fantasy #worldbuilding #writer #fantasy writing #queer fantasy #fantasy world #testamentsofthegreensea #fantasy map #fantasy novel #fantasy worldbuilding #world building #narul #writblr

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birdstudies · 6 months

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October 7, 2023 - Red-headed Lovebird or Red-faced Lovebird (Agapornis pullarius) Found in parts of central Africa, these small parrots live in savannas and other woodlands and cultivated areas, often near rivers. They eat grass seeds, including sorghum, and fruits from guavas and figs, often foraging on the ground, usually in small flocks. Breeding between April and October depending on the area of their range, they often nest in ant or termite nests, usually in trees. Females probably incubate clutches of three to seven eggs.

#red-headed lovebird #lovebird #parrot #agapornis pullarius #bird #birds #illustration #art #water #birblr art

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placeofwonder · 4 months

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new year, let's go! not resolutions so much as lists.

general:

walk up all 7 of my town's hills

make progress on my big cross stitch of a lighthouse

write a few stories without trying to make them good

pasta quest (8)

books:

finish Howards End

Orlando

The Hidden Life of Trees

re-read the Inkworld trilogy and then read the new sequel

start the Rivers of London series over from the beginning

at least one David Almond novel

at least one Discworld novel

cooking:

asparagus and chilli linguine (from Cook As You Are)

soba noodles with lime, cardamom and avocado (from my recipe binder)

sweet potatoes with caramelised onions (from Small Victories)

dill-pickled cherry tomatoes (from Cook As You Are)

spam musubi (from this recipe maybe?)

halloumi and pomegranate salad (from Comfort & Spice)

watercress with smoked almond goat cheese scoops & grapes in red wine syrup (from Home Made Winter)

goat's cheese puffs with salsa (from Midnight Chicken)

okonomiyaki (from my recipe binder)

chickpea soup with sweet potato and feta crackers (from Home Made Winter)

bánh xèo (from this recipe maybe?)

beef burrito with harissa (from Cookery Course)

chicken rice (from The Year of Miracles)

grilled shrimp with feta and tomatoes (from Small Victories)

maple soy glazed salmon (from Flavour)

grilled chicken (from Small Victories)

miso chicken milanese with soba noodles (from Comfort)

ginger beer chicken (from Midnight Chicken)

chicken and leeks (from Small Victories)

roast chicken (from Midnight Chicken)

chicken stew with dumplings (from Heroes' Feast)

salami and fig pizza (from Cookery Course)

spicy pepperoni quiche (from How Baking Works)

caramelised onion pissaladière (from GBBO Everyday)

raspberry ginger cream pancakes (from Real Food Real Fast)

crêpes with roasted cherries (from Gatherings)

baking & drinks:

chocolate chip cookies (from Midnight Chicken)

marzipan, sour cherries and chocolate chip cookies (from The Year of Miracles)

rye and orange cookies (from Scandinavian Baking)

zimtsterne (from Heimwehküche Backen)

black sesame and matcha sandwich biscuits (from Flavour)

scones (from Comfort)

lemon & poppy seed muffins (from How Baking Works)

ginger & lemon muffins (from my recipe binder)

gingerbread muffins (from How Baking Works)

"black moss" cupcakes (from Exquisite Exandria)

coconut drizzle cake (from Studentenküche)

olive oil and orange cake (from Small Victories)

blackberry and marzipan apple pie (from Flavour)

maple apple puffs (GBBO Everyday)

franzbrötchen (from Heimwehküche Backen)

start working my way through Brilliant Bread (first up: basic white bread)

poppy seed bread rolls (from Heimwehküche Backen)

crunchy bacon soda bread (from GBBO Everyday)

focaccia (from The Year of Miracles)

basil lemonade (from my recipe binder)

spiced hot chocolate (from Gatherings and/or Flavour)

white chocolate coffee (from Home Made Winter)

#mine #personal #books #cooking #lists

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thecoddaughter · 5 months

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Secret Life as Every The Crane Wives Song

(EXTREMELY LONG POST WARNING)

Etho:

Nothing at All “Do you ever feel nothing at all? I do, I do, I do. I would not wish that on you”

Counting Sheep “Feign contentment for a while, that's all you know how to do.”

Grian:

Sleeping Giant “I feel the mountains, I feel the mountains shifting under me. The sleeping giants are finally waking.” (This man knows things about the sudden arrival of a ominous deity like entity)

Steady, Steady “I can take for better but for worse can't condone. Most of all for good just makes me ache to be alone.” (Not teaming up with people for so long because of fear of hurting them)

Ancient History “My dreams keep digging up the bones of memories. Discarded remnants of former times.” (Again, watchers…)

Pearl:

I Talk In My Sleep “I talk in my sleep when my demons won't let me be. They twist the things I say when you are far away.”

How to Rest “Though you've convinced yourself, you're safe and sound within. The thing you fear the most never need get in.”

New Colors “Old towns here are mean. Spit fire and gasoline. But all I want is solitude. I have half a mind to climb up in the sky and hide myself inside the moon”

The Crooked, The Cradle “I'm nobody's daughter. I'm nobody's daughter. My enemies crow. "We're alone with the kill"” “I won't pretend my season won't end, but I pray, when it's done, when it's through I'll have something left for you.”

Scar:

The Garden “The crows in the garden are laughing at my expense, drowning out all the lies that I might have told instead” (his scamming and scheming butt can't escape me)

New Discovery “Sometimes I feel like I’m lost in the desert… I see my footprints in the sand so I know where I’ve been” (desert... like the desert duo... i'm so clever!)

Can’t Have It All “I won't bargain, I won't break. My mind's made up, though my head still aches and all my love you tried to take, but you can't have it all.”

Cleo:

Ribs “Brick and mortar between my bones. Built a kingdom fierce and fortified. My name fading from the yellow page. Stones are laid upon the mountainside.”

Tongues & Teeth “I will poison all your happy thoughts. I will love you like the ashes in my cigarette box and if you're fine with that you can be mine.”

Impulse:

Little Soldiers “I fought with tooth and nail before the flag had flown but you were already gone”

Strangler Fig “You built your kingdom around me. Now I'm trapped within your walls and all I want is to be free.” (That man died and joined the apocalypse willingly to be at Gem's side)

Scott:

Pretty Little Things “Cracked lips and hands, calloused hands. I still feel his touch against my skin. Past loves linger like phantom limbs.” “Don't buy me flowers, it pains me to watch. Pretty little things wilt away.” (this man hold's onto past alliances in her heart, only second to Skizz)

Shallow River “Red sky morning, lovers' warning. Oh I know that the promise you wear, well it ain't for me.” (red sky and love refer to Jimmy’s death. The “You” is Gem though)

Bdubs:

Never Love an Anchor “It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest with this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful” (him not so subtly jumping between mounders and roomies, maybe? idk. its also just kinda his vibe.)

Naked, the Night Falls “Turn your ghosts into mine. All the years, all the years I'm alive.” (him finding Etho and Cleo again)

BigB:

Hard Sell “Hoping I can find a better me. A fresh new start buried under me.”

Metaphors “I've gotten good at leaning on metaphors. I've gotten good at living on someone else's page. I cut my teeth on second-hand sentiments. You can't trust a single thing I say.” (his cryptid butt is not escaping metaphors this go around)

Martyn:

Turn out the Lights “Sometimes all you can do is say goodnight and tuck your demons into bed cause they're not worth fighting.”

Rockslide “This wild weather's got the mountain shakin' weak. Oh I know you want to plant your feet but we best get a move on or the devil we will meet.” “That monster's comin' and it don't care for you or me. Don't look back now, honey” (This has been in my head since Martyn moved in with Jim at the top of the Mesa.)

Show Your Fangs “A ballad of a lonesome peak. I curse the ground, shed my old sins. For weight will only make me weak” “Bravely I will wield my weapon. I made from fangs of those that died.” (Big Dogs… RIP)

Skizz:

Know How “I keep my focus on what is safe. You drew a line. Made up your mind and now I'm struggling to realize.” (This song is Imp and Skizz’s relationship post Imp’s attack)

Easier “The only peace I have ever known is the peace I made with you. I won't move, but I can't stay here.” (Skizz and Tango’s relationship throughout the season)

October “Take my word but keep the upper hand. I know you, you're the daughter of a lonely man.” (My interpretation of SL!Skizz is this super caring guy who his haunted by this vague memory of bloodlust that comes out in empty threats to people he doesn’t really want to hurt.)

Gem (all of these are about session seven specifically!):

Allies or Enemies “They spread like some awful damn disease” “Are we allies or enemies? This will be the death of me.”

The Glacier House “You cursed the Earth you settled under… Under… Understand I had to go.” “Bundle up darling, you're on your own now. Seasons change as they do. Maybe I'll see you when your shivering is through.”

I Ain’t Done “I am a pretty young thing. I am consumed by selfish wanting. Carelessly broke you down but I’m not done.” (this girl came in and told a winner and a runner up that they need to get their act together and that she was gonna be the one to get them to the end. I love her!)

Joel “Loves his wife” Smallishbeans:

Down the River “'Cause ain't it easier to just move on? One door closing means another one. Opens unto some unsuspecting fool. “Sure, you can forget about all the things you've done but what about the rest of us? High-tail it when it gets to be too much.” “Too many people with your name on top of their lists.” “You were never the one to suffer.” (All of Joel’s anger about Jim celebrating Lizzie’s death and the fact that Jim then also immediately died, leaving him alone.)

Unraveling “But now my love is gone and I am left unraveling.” “And I am left here withering” “And I can't help the fracturing”

The Diving Bell “I descend so well, in an open diving bell, the beauty of the deep. Far into abyss in your silent lips call me will I sleep”

Caleb Trask “"When a flower blossoms red. That's the day, that's the day, that's the day. I'll love you. That's the day, that's the day. I'll love you." (I’ve stated before that this is his song, not specifically bc of SL. I think of azalea’s and I think of Joel.)

Tango:

Curses “There's a fire in my brain, and I'm burning up” “Every word I say is kindling but the smoke clears when you're around. Won't you stay with me, my darling, when my walls start burning down?” (Our fire man and his forever teammate…)

Safe Ship, Harbored “Where does your faith form in me? Don't break the bottle. Don't waste your blessings on me.” “A safe ship, harbored losing all of my good years to the shallow water. I ain't proud.” (The Heart Foundation [in my opinion] seemed like a great way to make alliances and be well liked, however, it also kinda put them at a disadvantage never getting any hearts of their own.)

Mumbo:

The Moon Will Sing “On some level, I think I always understood that these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever.” “With this heart of mine that's guilty, not remorseful. There is love that doesn't have a place to rest. But it would have buried you if it had settled on your shoulders” (Something, something. The love Mumbo has for Grian.)

Back to the Ground “Little buds make their graves as the warmth inside us fades but I still don't know shit about letting go.” “Our hearts lay still and cold, under frozen soil. I can't stay here anymore so remember when I go.” (Something, something. The miner destined for accidents.)

Jimmy:

Not the Ghost “If only I could break the chain of disappointments, weighing me down. Shake off the ghosts that whisper warnings.”

Keep You Safe “When I watched my friends ride to the tops of the trees. With the risk of fall, I never climbed at all.” “Time is not your friend. Time is not your remedy. No amount of waiting will make you, make you brave.”

Canary in the Coal Mine “You and I are friends of empty graves” (he does not escape this song!)

Lizzie (all of these songs with Lizzie in mind makes me cry):

Can’t Go Back “The time has come for moving on. You can't be always trying to dig up. What you've already buried.” “It's not fair (When have you ever known the world to be a fair place?) It's not fair (All things end and all things change) It's not fair (You'll look back and laugh someday) It's not fair (Or at least you'll learn to be okay)”

Of Everlong “And if my lover will not hear it. Take my voice and take my spirit, leave me weakened and dig my hole. Only my lover, not I, can keep my soul” (Only Joel mourns her and it’s a sad sad day)

Icarus “Til your far away and breathing cleaner air, oh my brother…” (her brother... the man cursed to die... named after a bird who dies of poisoned air... who'd a thunk it...)

Unplaced songs: The hand that feeds, hole in the silver lining, Once & For All

#trafficblr #secret life #secret life spoilers #secret life as songs #traffic life as songs #traffic life crane wives #crane wives

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bluberimufim · 6 months

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Cool and spooky-ish Portuguese legends and mythological creatures because it's nearly Halloween!!

I've been wanting to do this for a while now, because I've felt disconnected from Portuguese culture lately and I'm trying to get into it. So I wanted to share some cool things I found because Portuguese folklore is something no one talks about and I love to share my culture with people! Please be warned that the translations may sound kinda awkward and that this is almost 100% from Wikipedia since Portuguese mythological creatures are a super obscure topic, and the only other big resource I could find was a super expensive book. That being said, the Wikipedia sounds pretty legit because it sounds like it was written by an old person.

Now let's get into some of my favourites!

Werewolf

This is a basic one but I still find it pretty funny. When I visited Cova do Lobisomem (trans.: Werewolf Cave), I learnt that the legend there is that, if you have twelve kids, the eldest son (in the story it was a son, but I don't know what happens if your eldest is a girl) becomes a werewolf and has to go live out in the wilderness. Another closely related legend mentions they have to serve some kind of penitence, but I found nothing on it.

Peeira (or "werewolf fairy")

Known as the "female version of the werewolf" and is able to control wolf packs. Her power seems to be guiding these wolf packs by being a reasonable and more human-like figure in the group, and is described as "lovely and wild" (omg that sounds sooo pretty). Information contradicts in this bit, also saying that she either has feelings for the werewolves or that she lures men into the woods to feed them to her ghost-wolves. A girl becomes a Peeira by being a couple's seventh oldest daughter, or by being called upon by her "predestined/soulmate werewolf".

Bisarma

Ghost of colossal size that can stand over valleys with one foot on each mountain, and sing monotonous tunes in "huge voices" (idk how else to translate it). This mythological creature also shows up in parts of Spain.

Jã

Weaving spirits. If you leave out a bunch of linen and a cake, they'll make you a linen cloth as fine as a hair, but if you forget to leave out the cake, they'll burn the linen. Apparently, people used to claim their ancestors had sheets made by the Jãs.

Zorra Berradeira (trans.: "Screaming Fox")

Shows up in Algarve every 7 years and, when it's not there, it's theorized that it visits other countries. It's a fox spirit that screams all the time but can be heard better at midnight or midday and, if you mock it, it will chase you down until your death.

Velha da Égua Branca (trans.: Old Lady on the White Mare)

Appears in Algarve on full moon nights and makes a lot of noise in the fields with pots and pans. She rides a white mare, wears a white cap with red ribbons that look like lightning, and holds a knife in her left hand. She's been called a "personification of the night".

Homem do Chapéu de Ferro (trans.: Man in the Iron Hat)

Another spirit from Algarve, but evil. He appears at midnight on the sides of roads and fountains, or under olive or fig trees. He's always accompanied by an animal, which is the Devil in disguise: either a black pig, a huge black rooster, or a deer with antlers as tall as a church tower. He has a gigantic frame, is "bronze-coloured" (whatever that means) and wears an iron hat. He'll run away when he sees the Old Lady on the White Mare (oooooh Algarvian connected universe).

Hey, people who live in Algarve, blink twice if you need help with all the supernatural shit because this seems disproportionately hardcore

Okay, this next one is gonna be longer because it's a whole legend with a plot, but I still want to tell it because it's kinda spooky and I love it!!

The Golden Lamprey

On full moon nights, on the banks of the Minho River (northern border with Spain), you can see a very beautiful Moorish girl with golden hair caressing a giant golden lamprey. The girl spends the night combing her hair with a golden comb or singing a sad melody, and the lamprey swims close to her.

According to legend, the lamprey had once been a Portuguese knight, and the girl had been engaged to another man. The two had been sentenced to death for their forbidden romance and had both been cursed - he turned into a fish and she can only gain physical form under the full moon.

There were men who set out in boats to search for the girl, either to seduce her or to steal her fine silk dress, but none ever found her.

Until one night, a young man disappeared after being heard in the tavern, clearly drunk, declaring that he was going to search for the golden-haired Moorish girl. His plan was to make her fall in love with him, sell her comb, and then open an inn where he'd let curious travellers take a look at this supernatural river girl in exchange for large sums of money.

The next day, the lantern he'd set out with was found on some rocks near the river by a few fishers, and his body was found in the water, a bit further ahead. On his neck, there were the marks of small, sharp teeth, similar to the shape of a lamprey's mouth. But what startled the fishers more was the satisfied look on the young man's face. (not posting a pic of a lamprey's mouth bc it feels like it would warrant some kind of content warning but pls do look it up if you're curious, it's horrifying)

There was also another legend of another cursed Moorish girl but on a rock this time that I remembered reading in school, but I genuinely cannot find it. If you know anything about a story named "A Moura do Penedo" (not the cursed snake princess one) pls hit me up, I remember loving that one as a kid. "Cursed Moorish girl" is such a common trope in Portuguese legends that it's almost unsearchable.

And if you want to add anything or correct any of the information I presented, please feel free! This is very much "baby's first dive into Portuguese folklore"

That being said, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! There are other less-spooky legends I'd love to share, if you're interested! Happy Halloween/other coinciding spooky holiday!

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