#desole the cone

[rotin0]

Its his true form, a cone

i have not played Azran Legacy yet but im quite confident in this theory i made

[cyber-seagull404]

ELON MUSK FART ROCKET EXPLOSION PEACE AND LOVE ON PLANET EARTH

[lovebugism]

hiii idk if you’re still taking requests but can you do something smutty with steve in season 3 w his scoops ahoy uniform on after he gets home from work or something🙏🏼🙏🏼

like sub!babygirl!steve is so 🤤🤤😽😽 and a

dom!femreader 🫶❤️❤️ AND OMG HE HAS A MOMMY KINK😧😧 I BEG OF YOU

✶ ┄ OH, BABY !

summary: after a long day at work, steve harrington needs someone (*cough cough* you) to take care of him. pairing: sub!steve harrington / f!reader word count: 5.6k warnings: sub!steve, brief use of a mommy kink, r calls steve daddy like twice i think, mention of a breeding kink, 18+ mdni (ignore any typos, i am way too tired to proofread <3) a/n: hi, it's me again, turning a blurb request into a full length fic. also i can't stop writing for sub steve apparently. all i can say is baby girl is baby girlin real hard in this one lol thanks so much for your request! enjoy xoxo

( BLURB SLEEPOVER ) | ( MASTERLIST )

It’s sunset by the time his shift at Scoops concludes. He serves the last few remaining customers while Robin less than kindly ushers out the loitering teenagers that have stuck around all day. 

A group of moms clad in vividly colored spandex tells him “we’re being bad today” like some sort of mantra that makes them feel better about ordering plain vanilla ice cream. Some middle school aged girls with a mouthful of braces, crimped hair in pigtails, and absolutely wreaking of fruity perfume and daddy’s money try helplessly to flirt with him while they use a matte black card to purchase a banana boat sundae.

His last customers of the night are an old married couple, all gray and wrinkly and smiling like life’s still so new to them. They order one strawberry cone to share between them and hold onto each other’s shaking, frail hands as they make their exit.

Steve smiles as he watches them go. He sees a lot of you and him in them. He hopes by the time you both are all old and brittle, you’ll still be happy like that, still so in love.

Working in the downstairs abyss of Starcourt makes him feel crazy sometimes. With no windows and only manufactured fluorescent lighting for ten hours straight, it makes time feel less and less real.

Sometimes he’ll be in before sun out and cower like some sort of vampire when his shift is over. Other times, he’ll come out when it’s pouring down rain and be absolutely baffled at the sight of it because it was perfectly sunny when his shift started.

Everything else but ice cream all but ceases to exist in the hole of Scoops Ahoy — weather, time, life.

Even though it’s closing when he leaves, Steve doesn’t realize how dark it’s gotten outside until he’s walking through the desolate parking lot to his car. The bustling mall has fallen asleep with the rest of the town. The sky has long turned to a navy velvet, the stars and full moon bright white silk. 

It makes his limbs heavy and his eyelids heavier as his tired bones ache for rest.

Steve makes the longer drive out to the cabin rather than his own home to see you. Hopper’s out for some conference which means El gets to spend every ounce of her time at the Wheeler’s and you and Steve get to play house. 

He doesn’t bother to knock before he comes in. He shuffles through the entrance like his feet are made of lead and leans his weight against the door after he clicks it closed.

The sound of his arrival gets your attention from where you scurry around the kitchen. A smile pulls slowly at your face as you turn over your shoulder to look at him, placing a cover over a pot of something that smells like your infamous chicken alfredo.

“Hey, Stevie,” you greet with a beam and a sort of sunshine in your voice that Steve’s been missing all day.

His body relaxes for the first time since he got up this morning at the sight of you, freshly showered and in your pajamas for the night — an oversized t-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to you before, because it used to be his.

You look more like home than any four walls could ever be to him.

Steve tries his best to give you a smile in return, but it’s weighed down by fatigue and not all there.

You can see it all over him, every ounce of exhaustion on his lax and tired features. Slinging ice cream for less than grateful customers for ten hours straight has taken an obvious toll on him. The bright blue sailor’s uniform makes him look more boyish, but no less tired — or hot.

Your heart swells at how cozy he looks, fatigued and warmed and in dire need of being taken care of. It makes you glad that you started dinner earlier than normal, even happier that you’ve got the house to yourselves.

You exit the kitchen and walk the short distance to him, taking his scruffy cheeks in your palms and rubbing your thumbs against his cheeks.

“Hard day?” you wonder softly and smile to himself when you feel Steve nestle further into your touch.

The boy hums lowly in reply — neither a yes or a no, but a short hmph that means he doesn’t want to talk about it now. He doesn’t like thinking about work when you’re in his arms and all over him. He’d rather pretend like you’re the only thing that exists and let the rest of the world slip slowly away.

He turns his face to kiss the inside of your wrists. You smell like lavender, he finds, and it makes him that much more tired and needy for you.

His hands settle on your arms, fingers wrapping themselves just below your wrists. “Just tired,” he answers finally. “How was your day?”

“Better than yours, I’m assuming,” you quip with a smile. Your hands drag from his face, down the tense columns of his neck, and settle at the white lapel of his uniform. Steve lets you pull him down by his red neckerchief until his lips press against yours, the pillows of them far cozier than the bed and blanket he so craves right now.

He grows somehow heavier against you. He exhales deeply through his nose as his aching muscles start to relax, the warmth of it brushes against your cupid’s bow. His hands fall to your back and ball into your shirt as he clutches so ardently onto you, as though terrified he might have to go another agonizing ten hours without you.

Your smile contorts against his mouth. A laugh exhales sharply through your nose at this tired boy, exhausted and too willing to let you swallow him whole.

As much as you want to take care of you him, you want him to get a little food in his belly and fresh clothes on his skin.

He’s got freshly laundered cottons sitting in a drawer you cleaned out in your room especially for him and a pot of his favorite food simmering on the stove. He’ll be golden in an hour or more and you’ll happily take care of him then.

Steve whines when you pull away from him. The pathetic sound bubbles from his throat and his face screws up like you’ve actually pained him by not kissing him more. He ducks down, looming over you, as his lips chase yours.

You giggle at him, letting him kiss you — one, two, three quick pecks and a fourth sweeter, more drawn-out one he presses against you as the two of you stumble back into the living room.

“You need to eat first, okay?” you protest when you part from him again, lips clicking wetly as they separate. “You probably haven’t had anything all day.”

“I had half a banana in the break room at lunch,” he retorts, half-heartedly.

“Exactly,” you scold. “Go get changed and then we can eat, ‘kay?”

“If you wanted to see me naked so bad, you could’ve just said.”

You roll your eyes at him and how he’s still so sly despite being so damn tired. You push playfully against his chest and squirm out from under where he’d cornered you between his body and the back of the couch. “You smell like a sundae and cheap cologne—”

“Blame those assholes from Abercrombie.”

“—hit the showers, Harrington,” you tell him with a playful sternness, swatting him on the ass as you pass by him.

The action stopped surprising him a long time ago. He’d complained relentlessly about corporate and the stupid outfit they made him wear to work every morning until he realized how much you liked it. 

After that, Steve figured he could put up with the itching and the chaffing and the weird stares from other mall-goers. As long as it meant you being unable to keep your hands off of him, dropping to your knees in front of him before he left for work, visiting him at lunch because you just had to see him again.

“You comin’ too, or…?” he jokes in reply, already inching towards the bathroom, but secretly hoping you’ll say yes.

You refuse to amuse him, though, and instead tell him that you have to keep stirring the pasta so it won’t burn. He’s too tired and too excited to wash all the muck of the long workday from his body to beg.

You knew just what he needed — like you always do. He’s as good as gold by the time he gets out of the shower, smelling of your shampoo and practically glittering at how good he feels.

His skin gets to breathe for the first time all day when he slips on a pair of boxers and a faded forest green Hawkins High sweatshirt. They’re freshly washed. He can tell by how soft they feel and the way they smell of fresh detergent. 

It makes his heart swell. 

While he’s been slinging ice cream and questioning all of his life choices, you’ve been washing his clothes, folding them and putting the in their own drawer in your dresser. You’ve been cooking him his favorite dinner, knowing he hasn’t eaten all day, because you know everything about him. 

You do it all because you love him. You don’t have to think twice about it before you so effortlessly take care of him.

He swears you’ll feed him if he begs hard enough, but Steve hasn’t reached that level of tiredness yet. He does, however, force you to sit halfway in his lap while the both of you opt to eat on the couch in the living room rather than the kitchen table.

A repeat of Miami Vice plays on the tiny television across the room and you tell him about what you’d done on your day off in between shoveling forkfuls of pasta into your mouth with your legs slung into his lap.

Most of it was spent taking care of chores, a feat made harder without Hopper and El to take on the extra workloads but easier because their absence meant less shit to get done. 

You drove Dustin and Lucas to the Wheeler’s house later that morning, then doubled back across Hawkins when Max called and all but begged you to free her from the hellscape on Cherry Lane, as she so lovingly put it. You picked her up and dropped her off with the rest of her friends.

And even though they all swore they had rides back home, they’d called again some hours later and asked too sweetly if you could take them back across town.

You complain and grumble about it, but you do it for them anyway.

Because you take care of people. That’s just what you do.

“So you were a personal chauffeur for a bunch of kids all day?” Steve jokes and laughs to himself as he swipes a smudge of alfredo sauce from your chin with his thumb

“Basically,” you nod in reply.

When that’s all done — and the episode is over and the dishes are in the sink and your teeth are freshly brushed — you tell Steve to get into bed, and then to get his head out of the gutter at the look he gives you after.

He’s pleasantly surprised when you bring a whole basket of things from the bathroom and into your bedroom. He watches silently, obediently, as you light a candle on the far side of the room before climbing into bed beside him.

“Scoot down a little,” you tell him. “And take off your shirt.”

He does it all without question. He rises, strips himself of his top, and tosses the thing mindlessly on the floor beside the bed. With his lean torso and bare chest on display, spotted with tufts of chestnut-colored hair and smelling of your body wash, he lazes back onto the bed again with his head on the pillows.

Steve holds his breathe when you straddle his chest.

“Comfy?” you ask him quietly.

He can only nod in response.

His eyes are wide, twinkling with love and curiosity. It makes you smile. He’s always so soft in his way, so compliant with you — and, fuck, if you don’t love how he looks when he’s underneath you.

You lean down to press a chaste kiss to the chiseled tip of his nose then reach for one of the many bottles stacked inside the wicker basket. You drip the rose-scented liquid onto a cottonpad and tell him that it’s cleanser.

“I thought I was already clean?” he retorts.

“Well, this shit is gonna make ya glow like a baby, Harrington,” you tell him and swipe the stuff up and down his face — across his forehead, along his nose, and around his stubbly jaw. “Which means it’s perfect for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means you’re a baby,” you quip once, then smile lovingly down at him. “My baby,” you correct.

“Damn straight,” he hums with a soft smile, then shuts his eyes when you trade the cleanser for what you call a liquid exfoliator. He doesn’t ask what that means. He doesn’t say much of anything really, because he’s enamored with the way you dote on him.

Your day has been just as busy as his, maybe not as mind-numbing, but still busy. You’ve been bouncing all across town, trying to make sure a bunch of kids weren’t putting themselves in total danger — Steve knows firsthand how hard that can be.

And yet, you keep caring for him, like it’s more important than how tired you must be.

The way you’ve settled on top of him is just a bonus. It’s not as domineering as you usually are in this position, straddling your legs over him and forcing his face between your legs with your fingers tangled in his hair. He wouldn’t have minded if that’s what you’d done in the first place. He would’ve thanked you for it, really.

It’s comforting more than it is anything, the subtle weight of you on top of him, keeping him grounded.

You rub something that feels like lotion into his skin. The tips of your fingers massage his face — they dig softly into his temples, relieving all the strain there, then trace around his curve of his jaw. Steve sighs and melts into your touch. It makes you laugh.

“Look at you,” you giggle, all soft like the moonlight streaming in rays from the windows. Then you tease him. “My baby’s gettin’ all pampered tonight, huh?”

“That stuff smells really good,” he notes. “Think it’s safe enough to taste?”

You know he’s joking, but you flick him in the center of his freshly moisturized forehead anyway, when his tongue darts out the side of his mouth to lick around his lips.

“You’re such an idiot,” you scold with a laugh. “There’s no way we’re gonna be able to have a kid if you keep acting like one, Steve Harrington.”

The boy's eyes fly open. “…A kid?” he repeats in something short of a whisper.

You only hum in reply with a little shrug like you’re trying to play it all off. Like you didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on him and left him to pick up the pieces. Like it isn't the sweetest goddamn thing he’s ever heard in his life (even though you are sort of making fun of him).

“You want a kid with me?” he presses, eyes sparkling and full of hope.

“‘Course I do,” you shrug again, focusing on capping the moisturizer and putting it away rather than meeting his intense gaze. “Want anything and everything with you, Stevie.”

The boy doesn’t bother to hide the grin your words put on his face. He’s all but beaming from where he lays beneath you, trying to make sure he’s still breathing because his heart has started to flutter something fierce.

It was something the two of you only ever talked about in passing — usually him bringing up the idea of having kids and you swatting them all down.

“We’re too young,” you tell him. “We’re too broke���, “we’re too dumb.” The occasional “my dad is literally in the next room, he’ll kill you if he hears you talking like that” shuts him up real quick.

But here you are now, telling him you want a baby with him, that you want everything with him. It drives him absolutely insane.

“Yeah?” he hums in response, idle hands rising and settling upon your bare thighs, rubbing at the smooth skin there, petting you almost. The room gets suddenly and unbearably hot with the look he gives you, innocent and knowing and hungry.

You feel him shift from underneath you, the hardening cock in his boxers making it hard to stay as comfortable as he had been.

“You wanna be a mommy, honey?” he all but coos. “Wanna take care of our kids like you take care of me?”

Though his words set a fire in the pit of your stomach, the tone of them makes you roll your eyes. It’s like flipping a light switch when it comes to Steve. It takes next to nothing to turn him into a puddle of mush.

He’s always raring to go when it comes to you, and you’d be lying if you said it was totally invigorating. 

“What happened to my sweet, sleepy, baby Stevie, huh?” you tease, hands leaving his face to caress the ones he’s got resting on your thighs. “Thought you were too tired?”

He shakes his head defiantly. “Never too tired for you.” 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” you scold with bubbly laughter when you feel his large hands trail up your legs. His finger falls beneath your shirt, the tips of them sneaking into the rounded hems of your underwear, all but cupping your ass to drag you further up his chest.

He’s practically salivating at the mere thought of tasting you. Of knowing that the only thing separating you from him is a couple of inches and the thin fabric of your underwear.

He knows that when he slides them to the side, you’ll be wet and needing him underneath, slick enough for his tongue to slip right in.

And, truth be told, oral sex wasn’t the easiest when you weren’t alone. It was too precarious of a position. If Hopper knocked on the door and barged in hardly a moment later, you needed to break away quickly.

So when your dad and little sister were home, it was easier to use your hands to get each other off. And, maybe, if Steve was real good, you’d let him fuck you.

But his mouth on you? There wasn’t enough good he could be for you to let him do that, not when your father was on the other side of the door in the living room. Because you’re pretty sure death would be easier than your dad catching Steve Harrington giving cunnilingus to his daughter. You’re pretty sure you’d die on the spot, anyway.

But Hopper is miles away. Your sister is on the other side of town. And you’re alone with your boyfriend, hidden away in a cabin in the middle of the woods. It’s the perfect recipe for the best sex of your life.

“Don’t care,” Steve murmurs, pressing kisses to the inner parts of your thigh when he settles you more intently over his shoulders. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“Yeah?” you croon. From below you, the boy notes the arched brow and knowing glint in your eye that usually means trouble. “Daddy wants to make mommy feel good, huh?”

Steve knows exactly why you said it. Why you chose to say it like that. It’s the same reason you brought up the kid thing in the first place. Because you knew it would drive him crazy.

And it’s not like you ever had to try to make him mental, all you really had to do was walk into a room and he was done for. But you didn’t just want to just make him go insane, you wanted to ruin him. 

And you know you’ve done just that when a groan spills from his mouth and two strong hands dig rather ruthlessly into your hips. He pulls you down without warning, pressing your clothed pussy closer to his face and dragging his nose between your covered lips. A moan leaves your mouth in a heavy exhale when the tip of it nudges your clit.

“Like being called daddy, huh?” you tease through bated breaths.

Steve nods in reply as he hooks a finger through the hem of your panties and slides them to the side, putting your pretty, glistening pussy on display for him.

He was right about what he said before — you were soaked. 

All but drunk on the sight of you, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh. “Like the other thing, too,” he mumbles against your skin, like he’s hiding himself there.

“The other thing?” you question with pinched brows. The confusion ebbs like a rolling tide as you realize: “Oh. You wanna call me mommy, Stevie?” you ask with a joking lilt.

“Shut up,” he groans against you.

He’s pleasantly surprised when your hand grabs the strands of his hair like reigns, pulling him back just before he puts his mouth on your pussy. He’s even more stunned at the stern expression taking over your features, not nearly as playful as you’d been moments before.

Suddenly you’re ten feet tall, and he’s nothing more than an ant, at the mercy of your boot.

“That’s no way to talk to your mommy, is it, Stevie?” 

He shakes his head with glazed over eyes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry… what?”

There is an underlying tone in your voice, something teasing and yet somehow serious all at once. It’d make him roll his eyes if he weren’t lying beneath you like this. Now, with your pussy mere inches from his face, he isn’t quite sure how to be anything but obedient.

“Sorry, mommy,” he corrects.

A flip switches and you’re smiling again. “Good boy,” you praise and it makes his cock twitch in the confines of his boxers. Your hand guides him to your pussy again.

Steve’s always been good at oral. A little too good, actually. It made you jealous sometimes, to know that his technique has been perfected over years of experience.

“All the other girls were just practice for you, honey,” he’d soothe your seething rage with a wink and a tongue shoved deep into your cunt.

You believe him now, that every other girl was just an obstacle for him to get to you, because no one’s had him like this. No one will ever have him like this.

You’re the one who’s got him on his back with his mouth on your pussy. You’re the one who’s got him calling you mommy.

And it makes you feel like a fucking giant.

He wastes little time to envelope your cunt with his mouth. You feel the muffled grunt he lets out at the tangy and familiar taste of you. His tongue pushes into your cunt, licking you with the intent of devouring you entirely. His nose presses intently against your clit, prodding the little button as you ride his face. He encourages every thrust, guiding your hips up and down his mouth.

“Fuck, Stevie,” you whine and feel him smile drunkenly against your pussy, never ceasing his assault against your sensitive skin.

Your head falls back, suddenly too heavy to hold up. Your gaze settles on the ceiling, though you’re not exactly looking at it, and moans fall from your open mouth and into the heavy air — billowing laments in the moonlight.

“You make me feel so good,” you murmur to yourself, but to him especially, knowing he turns into a ticking time bomb when he’s praised. “Always make mommy feel so fucking good, baby.”

He groans against you, and it makes your hips twitch over his face.

Your head turns and your glazed over eyes fall on the hard cock trapped in his underwear. It’s more than apparent against the thin fabric with a wet patch of precum darkening the plaid cotton. The sight of it, paired with his lips wrapped around your clit, makes you moan most pitifully.

“Fuck, Steve,” you cry. “You’re gonna make me come. Holy shit, baby— gonna come so hard in your mouth.” The promise makes Steve double his efforts against you, wanting nothing more than to taste every drop you can give him. “I’ll ride you after, 'kay? Make you come so hard you can’t see straight. Fuck. I’m so fucking close.”

You figure his muffled whine is an affirmative.

“If you make me come now, maybe I’ll let you come inside me—”

You barely get to finish your sentence before Steve’s wrapping his arms around your thighs and keeping you pressed against his face. His tongue works overtime inside of your cunt, attentively flicking against every part of your velvet walls that it can reach, while his nose nudges your clit most relentlessly.

It has you reaching your climax within seconds, hips jerking against him while his hold on you tightens. Steve only lets you go when he’s certain you’ve ridden out every inch of your orgasm.

You’re shaking and half-numb when you unfold your body from his and settle next to him on the bed. You press yourself over him as your lips swallow his, tasting yourself on his mouth that glistens with you.

Your torso is splayed over his bare one, knees digging into the mattress at his side as you arch your back to push yourself further into him.

“Was that good for you?” he mutters after you’ve pulled away, sliding the tip of your nose up and down the bridge of his.

A laugh escapes you in a sharp scoff. If he couldn’t have felt how good it was for you — after you all but writhed against him — surely he must’ve tasted it dripping like honey from your cunt.

“It’s always good,” you assure him, then murmur more quietly, “Always so good for mommy.”

You keep the promise you’d made him no more than minutes beforehand. You pull down his boxers at the same time he’s trying to get you out of your shirt, and it’s just a mess of yearning limbs until the both of you are naked.

You rub yourself over his cock a few times, getting it all slick with you in the place of lube, because you know taking him is never an easy feat. The stretch of his dick inside you is always delicious but fuck if it doesn’t burn. It’s like fire in every sense of the word, hot and filthy paired with a distant ache.

Steve lets you set the pace as you get used to his length nestled deep inside your velvet. His hands rest compliantly on your hips as you grind against him, honeyed gaze fixed on your fucked out features as you take him — brows pinched, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

Then, when every inch of him is snug in your cunt and your senses return to you, you deny him of his want to touch you. Your fingers wrap around his wrists and push them into the pillow on either side of his head. “Mommy didn’t say you could touch her, did she?” you purr to him as you lean over him. He shakes his head obediently, if only it meant that you kept fucking yourself on top of him.

And you do. Most ardently.

You keep your bare chest pressed against his fuzzy one, nose-to-nose as you slide your hips over his. And even though he’s had you like this before (in this position and many others), it feels brand new every time. It’s like he’s never felt you before despite how familiar you feel.

It triggers his body into a sense of fight of flight, as though frightened he’ll never get to have you again. It leaves him fucking you like it’ll be the last time he’s inside you, every fucking time.

It never is, though — obviously. Most times he only has to wait a couple minutes or more before he gets to take you again.

But now, with his hands balled into fists beside his head and your’s braced on his chest, digging into the patch of hair there as you rock back and forth on his hard cock — the tip of it nestled deep inside of you and hitting every sweet spot that makes you keen — has left him an absolute wreck beneath you. 

He’s chasing his pleasure like he’s never felt it before. Like he won’t feel it again.

“Your cock feels so good, Stevie,” you moan above him.

“‘M not gonna last long, baby,” he mutters between harsh and labored pants.

“’S okay… I want you to come,” you promise and press a too sweet kiss to his swollen, pink lips. You move your hips more intently over him. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills your bedroom. “Want you to fill me up.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out in something short of a whimper. His eyes are glassy and his brows are furrowed and it takes everything in him not to fuck up into you — because he wants to be good, he wants to be good for you. 

“Yeah… Want you come in me… Fuck me until it takes,” you babble over top of him, knowing exactly what it’s doing to the whining boy beneath you. “Wanna give you a baby— fuck— I wanna make you a daddy, Stevie.”

A whine spills from his throat. His toes curl into the fabric of your comforter, eyes rolling back into his head, body tensing as he digs his fingers into the skin of his palms that still ache to touch you.

Your name spills from his mouth along with a string of curses and pretty little cries when he stuffs you full of his come.

You happily accept every load he shoots into you as work him through every aftershock of his orgasm. Yours doesn’t come so easy — you roll your hips over yourself and rub your clit until you’re twitching right along with him. 

You come down from your highs together with a tender softness. You lay over him, one hand combing through his curls and the other stroking softly at his sweat-slicked bicep. You watch with heavy eyes as his orgasm rolls over him. 

His chest rises and falls with every heavy breath, stuttering when another pang of pleasure hits him all of a sudden. “Fuck,” he whines harshly into the heavy air.

He’s happy you don’t deny him when his arms wrap around your waist, hands rubbing up and down the expanse of your slick back.

You press tiny kisses to his face as he comes down — his nose, his cheeks, his forehead his stubbly chin and jaw. You press one, two, three pecks to his lips before you slide off of him, then laugh when he whines.

You’re gone for hardly more than three minutes, but to Steve, it feels like an eternity’s gone by.

You return from the bathroom, wiped freshly clean, and blow out the nearly burnt-out candle on your dresser before you slither back into his side. One of his arms curls beneath your shoulders to pull you closer to him with his other rests on the back of yours that’s settled on his chest.

You share one pillow, noses inches away from one another’s, while you bask in the warm moment and the sex-coated air around you before you have to break it.

“You know I’m still on the pill, right?” you ask him.

He nods.

“And that we’re—”

“Way too young to have a kid right now?” he finishes for you, though the idea makes him sad. He nods.

“Yeah… And—”

“Too broke? I know that too.”

“Also my—”

“Your dad would kill me if I got you pregnant?”

It makes you laugh. You hadn’t realized you’d talked about having kids this many times — at least, not enough for him to memorize all the reasons why it’s not the best idea right now.

“Yeah, I know it’s not happening any time soon,” Steve says with a sigh. “I like to pretend, though. Plus, it’s not even about that to me, you know? I just… I just like being with you and… everything.”

Everything, you repeat to yourself. A word that means so much and nothing at all.

No one knows what everything means, they just know that it’s a lot, a whole lot. That’s what makes it so special. Steve wants it all with you — the overbearing dad, the sister with powers, the teenage kids who never let you have a single second to yourselves when they’re around. 

It’s a lot sometimes, most times, but he’ll weather it all with you.

“You like being with me?” you echo just to see him nod.

He does. “I love being with you,” he corrects.

“Love calling me mommy, too, huh?”

He realizes then, the sincere moment was just a set-up for that stupid joke. He groans and flops his head back on the pillow, but makes no move to distance himself from you.

“Oh, my god,” he moans in annoyance. “Am I gonna have to deal with this the rest of my life?”

You nod. “Sorry, Harrington, but I’m never letting that shit go.”

Good, he thinks to himself, even though he pretends to hate it because it makes you laugh. He never wants you to stop.

[fatchance]

Scenes from Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument. This was the first time I had hiked in the park since the Tunnel Fire in 2022. In only 48 hours this wind-driven wildfire swept through the monument, burning over 20,000 acres (8,100 ha), or more than 60% of the protected park lands. It's hard to imagine a more rugged and blasted environment than a lava field or a cinder cone, but the loss of vegetation and trees made it feel even more desolate and otherworldly.

[talonabraxas]

"The Kiss" by Artus Scheiner Hymn to Pan by John Keats "O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds-- In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now, By thy love's milky brow! By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan! "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completions--be quickly near, By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine! "Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherd to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown-- By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O satyr king! "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsmen: breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms. Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge--see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows! "Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between, An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean!"

[velarisbynight]

Stone Statues and Viperous Hair

Elain x Ianthe

a/n: this might ruffle some people’s feathers, so please scroll past if you aren’t interested! 🩷🩷

warnings: Ianthe; Elain being a seer

word count: 1.6k~

~~~~

Vanilla and marzipan follows in her wake, diaphanous pink trailing behind the soft-padded footsteps of the female as she passes through the desolate halls of the Spring Court temple. 

Earth-roughened hands lay home-grown flowers to the foot of the altar—pale white lilies, the interior of the narrow, creamy petals speckled with mauve and striped through with a peachy blush. Gentle fingers with clipped nails reorganise the bunch, so they’re laying neatly atop the hard, rectangular cushions, situated to lay one’s knees upon for comfort of praying. 

Ringlets of burnished gold slide forward over full, pale shoulders as the female bows her head, hands resting in her lap, falling to silence. 

~~~~

Ianthe sits comfortable, concealed deep within the interior of her temple. Powdery blue cushions litter the private sanctuary, sheer silk curtains strung from the coned-ceiling, illustrations of the seasons passing around the circumference. Barley and corn are painted in gold, cattle in ox-blood red though the paint is peeling, seeds and shoots glow with lush green, and the sun’s rays stretch like narrow threads to every part of the year, though they wane in winter. Silver chimes hang from the entrance: stars and crescent moons, thin rings and fat drops of metal, a shower of hand-crafted charms dripping down to the cracked tile floor, each one no bigger than the nail of one’s finger. 

The pale blue stone mounted on Ianthe’s brow swirls with iridescence, fading to its dull navy once thick lashes raise from teal eyes, the magic nulled. 

Ianthe had paid little attention to the female visiting at first—had hardly noticed her comings and goings in the dead of night. Just another virtue-signalling visitor, pretending to pray merely because it’s what’s expected in this court. But then she’d begun appearing at night, a supple figured creature creeping into the swirling blue of her priestess’ stone, slipping into Ianthe’s unconscious mind with every night-time visit. Ianthe had considered removing the stone from her brow, but a cold sweat rises to her skin at the mere thought of disobeying the rules instilled into her from a young age, fearing those dagger-tipped fingers.

The temple is empty save for the female whose name alone has a mix of sickness and fury icing and heating her blood in equal parts. Elain Archeron. Archeron. 

The carpals in her ruined hand burn with pain, aches searing through her wrist to her forearm, shooting to her shoulder and burning through her palm. How long has it been seen Ianthe’s ventured to the outside? When was the last time Ianthe breathed air, untouched by dampness and mildew, laced with the fermented burn of ethanol that was mixed with varnish to seal the golden paint in high above?  

Ianthe has no recollection of where her hatred came from, nor her fear; the sweat-slicked terror that sears through her blood, coming from allowing her teal eyes to ponder the pale fullness of exposed shoulders for a moment longer than she should. 

How dare the female visit her temple; seek refuge beneath its high-topped roof; find peace in Ianthe’s prison cell. 

How dare she be the cause of the tempest of swelling desire and anguish that laces her blood. 

How dare she invade her only sanctuary. 

~~~~

Elain raises her head when the air stirs, motes shifting faintly against her skin, senses preternaturally aware. 

A faint prickling of hairs gathers on the righthand side of her body, cocoa eyes remaining still and steady as her pulse spikes. Is someone else here? It should be empty. 

Her throat rolls, gaze set on the lilies while her ears search for noise, sharpening for any sign to flee. Elain despises the idea of anyone witnessing such a private passing of prayer. 

Dust stirs to her right, and without shifting her gaze she can find the figure concealed a few hallways away, through the antechamber with six ionic-carved columns upholding the ceiling. Elain’s brow narrows, finding the female’s eyes closed, the stone contained within her silver circlet shimmering. Priestess robes wrap her body, and her silvery-pale hair hangs like deadened snakes down her torso. 

Through her mind, Elain encroaches further, her conscious floating nearer until she can make out the myriad of opalescent grains twinkling within the whirlpool of blue, a darkness at its centre, not dissimilar from the pupil of one’s—

Teal eyes snap open, the stone pupil closing, and an icy gaze glares throughout the empty chamber. Elain recoils, slamming back into her body, panting faintly in the frigid air of the temple. She’d been caught. 

~~~~

Ianthe trembles in her seat, staring out between the twinkling silver of the charms, the six pillars lining the entrance to the enclosure, practically a pathway to find her, if the female chooses to seek further. A pearl of sweat slides down the pronounced knuckles of Ianthe’s spine, breath misting as it curls in hot tendrils from her lips. The sense of something much larger than herself looms in the background of her recent memory, terror coiling in her chest at the depth of that power, a cauldron frothing over its wrought-iron lip, pale fingers tracing the circumference, eyes as pale as the full moon staring out from behind the thickened mist, piercing right into the Priestess’ sanctuary. 

On shaking calves, Ianthe rises to her bare feet, parting the frozen stream of silver charms to peer out into the empty antechamber. Through that door at the far end, down the hallway and left, along the second hallway, turn to the right, and she’ll find the alter. The female knelt at its base, choosing to lay her skin upon the unforgiving tiles rather than the rectangular cushions provided. 

They’re probably damp by now, anyway. 

~~~~

On hesitant feet, Elain trails through the doorways and hallways, carried by curiosity deeper into the temple to places and rooms she hasn’t ventured before. The air here is as stagnant as it is in the main chamber where she’d come from, except it’s lonelier. Nobody’s come down these hallways in a long while—she can tell.

Two heavy doors lead to the six ionic-carved pillars, and at the far end…the Priestess. 

Elain can see clearly that the robes are far from pristine, heavy and creased around a narrow body. Teal eyes stare out from the darkness, though they’re practically hidden beneath the weight of the large stone sat on her brow, wreathed in a delicate silver circlet.

Elain steps into the antechamber, the air noticeably cooler within the windowless, high-topped cavern. She pauses only a few paces inside, observing the stillness of the priestess’ body, thinking of the ones who take refuge within the library of the Night Court. In as gentle a tone as she can manage, she calls out, “Who are you?”  

Heartbeats pass, thumping into the silence of the chamber until the female inclines her chin, pressing a pale, bare foot to the tiled floor of the temple, stepping out from the darkness. “This is my Temple.” She replies, standing tall and wiry in the dim light of darkness. The crest of teal eyes narrow, sharpening. “And what are you?” 

“I am a seer.” Elain’s tongue swipes across dry, rosey lips. “I felt you watching me.” Despite the distance and darkness, it’s easy to pick out the rigidity that crawls up the priestess’ spine. “This is my Temple,” the priestess repeats, firmer than before. “I oversee it.” 

Elain’s breath hitches, foot inching half a step closer. “You are also a Seer?” 

A pale hand raises to the stone atop her brow, tapping it with the sharpened point of her nail. “I see through my Invoking Stone.” 

So, no. 

Elain can’t help the discouraged slope of her shoulders. But, “I haven’t seen you before. —In the Temple, I mean.” 

A pause, then, “I keep to myself.” 

Spring is still rebuilding itself, even so long after it fell. Elain wonders if the Priestess remained here even throughout the desertion. Did she stay out of a sense of duty, or fear? A mix of both? …she could probably find out, by taking less than a few steps further and gauging how she would react. 

Elain dips her head once. She has her answers—the Priestess was watching over her Temple. Elain can leave, now. But she doesn’t. “Have you seen me before?” 

“No.” 

“I frequent your Temple. You would have seen me before.” 

“Not in person,” the priestess replies, tone icing over. 

“But through your Invoking Stone?” 

A beat, then the swift dip of her head. Elain’s throat bobs. “Then, you’ve seen me pray.” It’s not quite a question. 

“A number of times,” The priestess replies, shifting on her bare feet. “I watch over everyone who enters.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s my Temple.”

There’s a note hidden in that chord, somewhere. A note of emotion Elain can’t quite place, but it sounds like anger. “I didn’t mean to intrude… Temples are open to anyone, aren’t they?” 

Narrow lips purse, nails digging into sunken skin. 

Elain swallows then straightens her spine, inclining her chin. “I’ll leave you to yourself.” She doesn’t want to be watched over during such a private exchange. That someone has been all this time…Elain’s skin crawls, a feeling on contamination spreading through her gut, slimy and cold. 

As Elain turns to leave, however, the priestess calls out. “You can stay.” Her voice tremors. “I haven’t… Hardly anyone else comes by. I won’t look if it’s just you.” 

Cocoa eyes flick over to the other end of the antechamber, but the female has vanished, retreated back behind the thin veil of silver and blue. Charms chiming in her wake. 

[darklordazalin]

Azalin Reviews: Darklord Althea

Darklord: Althea Domain: Demise Domain Formation: 686 BC Power Level: 💀💀⚫⚫⚫ (2/5 Skulls) Sources: Domains of Dread (2e), Monstrous Compendium I and II (2e)

Within the island chain known as The Finger in the Domain of Lamorida is a small island called Demise that houses a mysterious Darklord who’s history has been obscured by time and most likely the diligent work of our ever present tormentors. This Domain is ruled by the Darklord Althea.

From the sea, Demise appears as a large cone of dark basalt rock sticking out of the ocean with desolate shores. Those brave enough to climb the cone discover the island is a large crater that contains a vast tropical jungle at its center. From this, one could gather that Althea’s homeworld was associated with volcanic activity or, at the very least, far warmer than the arctic climate of Lamordia.

At the very heart of the jungle is a structure made entirely of white stone with a single arched entrance – a portal of a sort with runes engraved all around it. None in the lands of Mists have been able to decipher its meaning and I theorize that is a harsh reminder of Althea’s homeland. Within this structure is a vast labyrinth made of stone and illusions, the combination making it nearly impossible for one to navigate. It is within this maze that Althea is trapped.

No one, not even I, have discovered Althea’s history before she was dragged into the Mists. Her crimes must have been great to not only be imprisoned on an island but also within a labyrinth on that island. What can be determined about Althea is that she is a Medusa. If you’re not familiar with their kind, Medusa are beautiful women with snake scales upon their body and hair made of living snakes. Althea’s isolation has driven her into despair and desperation. She longs for companionship, but her gaze turns most that look upon her into stone. 

Althea’s gaze is quite deadly and she can even extend it into the astral and ethereal planes, but if she is ever to view her own image, she too would be turned to stone. Given that their own reflection is a medusa’s greatest weakness, a vampire medusa would be quite formidable. Perhaps I should conduct some experimentation into the matter…

Althea’s snakes spit venom and she herself is skilled with both bow and sword and though she loathes the maze she is trapped within, it is the perfect lair for one of her kind. Each bend of the maze, she could hide behind, ready to paralyze any that look upon her. 

I find it difficult to fully rate a Darklord who’s history has been so thoroughly obfuscated by the Mists. Without her illusion-filled maze, she would be rather easy to defeat. And given that she is just as fooled by the illusions as any would-be hero, I find her Darklord status a bit lacking. I will grant her two skulls, one for her mysterious past and one for her snakes.

[raiolsclangenstorys]

Moon 0

Echostar stood infront of the godess Lady Hestia as she followed her further into the desolate camp and then out the other end to a tree that seemingly reached to the stars “I shall bring you the rest of the way since…it is a large climb for a demigod such as yourself” Lady Hestia said smiling kindly at me.

We appeared in the clouds and Hestia quickly took twoleg form to go to the rest of the gods…?

The first throne and grandest one was the first one Echodapple could see where a god looked rather intimidating…they all did in some way or form but he looked especially intimidating,

“Lord brother Zeus I bring the demigod you wish to speak with Echodapple…daughter of..”

Lady Hestia looked around as if trying to spot my father… the one who got my mother Sootear pregnant…

Suddenly a male twoleg took form I flinched as they suddenly turned into a Tom cat and pointed at me with their tail “thought ya be more comfortable with me in this form….ugh I’m just glad I’m not with those brats in camp half-blood we just got new campers Luke and Annabeth we where supposed to get a daughter of Zeus….but” Dionysus glared at a male twoleg in a simple stone chair…? Who just glared at the Twoleg god called Zeus?

The twoleg god turned cat gave a small smile in my direction “the names Dionysus or better known as Wine the loner aka your dad”

I looked shocked as Dionysu- dad? Father turned back into his twoleg like form of a grumpy twoleg a stick with a pike cone floated above my head Dionysus looked pointedly at me “it’s a thysus I suggest you learn what it is you are MY daughter after all” I flinch at the tone I was just always told my father was just a sire my mother mated with not a….not a god.

The twoleg god- Zeus looked extremely mad in his grand seat and it made everyone including herself sit in uncomfortable silence until graceful female twoleg who had brown fur that flowed seamlessly in the wind and sharp stick by her seat spoke “father…..we had to make a deal with those starry cats…” her face turned into a scowl, “it was the only way to make the clan a reality might aswell explain what that means” she finished face turning neutral once again

Zeus nods “you are right daughter but I feel as if it falls into lord brother hades domain to explain” Hades scowled but nodded “the starclan of the clans wants us to give you nine lives and souls of apsoldol to go to starclan instead in return we gain the power to make your clan and be allowed to influence it and to bring souls we believe need punishment to Tartarus if we so wish”

Zeus clapped his hands together “we shall now give you your nine blessing do not waste them”

The human with winged feet stood first and turned into a dappled brown tom whose eyes reminded me of snakes “I am Hermes god of messengers and a lot of other things I give you a life of tireless energy so you may never tire of taking care of the clan”

Next was the blonde haired women who broke the Silence after turning into a golden furred she cat with the most beautiful silver eyes she ever seen “I am Athena goddess of wisdom I give you the life of curiosity may you never stop expanding your knowledge”

Next was someone named Hera her cat form was a stripped brown she cat “I give you the life of loyalty may you always stay loyal to your people and your partner unlike your father and uncle” Hera turns to glare at both Dionysus and Zeus.

Another women stepped forward turning into a masked pale ginger she cat “I am Artemis goddess of the hunt, Moon, wilderness, maidenhood and childbirth I am the protectotif children Andi I give you the life of instincts may you always trust them”

Another god turned cat stepped forward they looked at bit like lady Artemis “I'm Apollo! God of Archery, art, music, poetry, light and the sun, prophecy, healing & plagues and of course truth speaking of truth I give you the life of truth may you be able to trust your clanmates like they do you!”

Next was another she cat she looked like her fur was a light pink “I am Aphrodite goddess of love and beauty I give you the life of love I hope you can find it in your lifetime”

Next was my….father Dionysus “I am Dionysus the god of wine, grape harvest, fesitivity, madness, fertility and theatre do you clancats have not figured that out yet…. I give you the life of happiness I hope you live a long life with a happy clan my daughter….knowing they will also learn about the stars you will be come a celestial in the so called starclan in your own right”

Next was Hestia smiling kindly at me as she approached “I am hestia goddess of hearth, fire, home, family and hospitality I give you the life of Sympathey and understanding I hope you learn to sympathise with your enemies while keeping a strong fighting spirit”

Zeus practically boomed as he spoke as if lightning was striking across the room “God of the Sky, Thunder, Lightning, Kingship, Honor and Justice,King of the Gods and King of Olympus I give you the life of bravery use it to make Olympus proud welcome Echostar of Half-blood clan”

Hestia soon helped me back to my camp where I collapsed in bed soon id have to make Hermes den as their the god of travellers but first….i needed to rest

[walpu]

ADESINA, DREAMS OF A DOOMED PLANET (4/4 - Light Cone) 5* Quantum Destruction 5* Lightcone, "Children of A Doomed Land, Enemies of Propagation" The wind whistled softly over the arid and desolate landscape of the distant planet. Six figures raised their gaze to the star-studded firmament, each representing a light of hope amid the darkness that enveloped Primis.

Dressed in attire that clashed with the sandy hue of the soil, they gathered in a circle, united by mutual admiration and the need to find solace in the wonders of the universe. Their eyes, bright with a mixture of fascination and sadness, reflected the constellations above, as if seeking in them answers to all their questions.

“What do you guys want to do when we leave Primis?” Ireti asked, looking at her colleagues lying on the roof of their base “I want to cultivate a garden, as Primis' soil does not allow for this”

“I want to study more about other planets technology”

“Live in somewhere calm”

“I want to see as much as possible!” “A rainbow!” the youngest shout excitedly “I read about them in some lost archives. I want to see a big rainbow!” Above their heads, the stars twinkled in a silent dance. Each star told a distinct story, a tale of grandeur and mystery that transcended the limits of time and space. And to those six Mortuas, these stars were much more than just distant stars - they were beacons of hope, reminding them that, one day they will be the ones to touch them.

A reverent silence hung over the group as they took in the magnitude of the night sky, setting aside for a moment the worries and challenges just for a minute. For a fleeting moment, they allowed themselves to become lost in the immensity of the cosmos, finding comfort and inspiration in the stars that shone above, thinking about their future.

"We're going to see a rainbow. The biggest one that all the cosmos saw” - The following effects only work on characters of the Path of Destruction.

Lost Dreams

Increases the wearer’s ATK by 40%-68%. Whenever the wearer is under the effect of a debuff and attacks an enemy, they gain 1 stack of Catalyst Eye that increases their CRIT Rate and CRIT DMG by 24%-40% for each stack, up to a max of 3 stacks. The wearer gains an ATK bonus equal to 30% for each ally knocked down until the end of the battle. If the ally is revived this effect is lost. 🌺 anon

YOU COULD'VE JUST STABBED ME AND IT WOULD HURT LESS

[jhokey]

Snowy sakura

Usually, winter brings about a desolate feeling with barren trees, stripped of their leaves. But imagine if trees like cherry blossoms remained lush even in winter, wouldn't they resemble pretty pink ice cream cones?

[flushedmusings]

————————— ୨•୧—————————

i see your shadow in the reflections of red taillights on wet pavement, your face haunts me in the windows of white cars.

i drive a little faster to outrun you, my feelings, i splash on the puddles to muddy your image in the water.

and still. the guilt lingers.

the radio softly humming some song from your playlist, punctuating my thoughts with soft crackling against the windshield. my hand out the window the cool, moist air matching my hot tears.

i press harder on the gas, listening to the engine drown out my thoughts, feeling the car shake with my hands.

trying to drive home but the street signs just take me to the same empty house. a cold hollow place to lay my head at dusk and rise before dawn.

a rhythm only broken for brief bursts of joy in fragments and hazes, speeding past me, and i can put the pedal to the floor but i still seem just behind you.

i’m just not your favorite make and model, not bad but i’m not quite what your looking for. maybe you want a different body, interior, just not the right fit for you. doomed to sit forever in a lot and never your driveway. forever driving down your block or passed your street, itching for that sense of home. just out of reach.

ill turn on the heater, open the air freshener breathe in a superficial scent to cover up the stench of my rotting heart, cold and bitter with jealousy.

and it’s not enough.

no amount of speed or wind in my hair could match the adrenaline of your presence, no factory packaged scent could make my heart race the way lavender does, melted and mixed in your skin.

and in the golden refracting of headlights in raindrops that stream across my windows, i’m reminded of your incandescence again.

so i’ll watch the needle fly off the speedometer and grip the wheel until my knuckles are white. live in the moment because even yesterday feels miles away. flying down the interstate of life watching years, months, weeks and days all fly past me into a haze of memories in my rearview.

i’ll race my way down the interstate passing through cones of light, chasing you. but every time i seem to get close, you take the turn to your little circle and i’m stuck on the road leading me back to the desolate wood structure i am doomed to spend my nights in, alone.

————————— ୨•୧—————————

i’m not sure i like the ending to this, i may come back and revise it ( i always say this but i mean it this time!!) (maybe)

anyways ! i tried this time to stick to sort of a constant theme to keep this poem feeling cohesive i hope you all enjoyed:3

i’ll have another one out for you soon i have one in the works and another idea (that i may just tie into what i am writing or may make a separate parallel poem)

hope this was a satisfying entry of girlfailure poetry™️ for you guys and i hope you have a lovely night :)

- 🍒

[rosy-avenger]

Dreadful as the Dead Marshes had been, and the arid moors of the Noman-lands, more loathsome far was the country that the crawling day now slowly unveiled to his shrinking eyes. Even to the Mere of Dead Faces some haggard phantom of green spring would come; but here neither spring nor summer would ever come again. Here nothing lived, not even the leprous growths that feed on rottenness. The gasping pools were choked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about. High mounds of crushed and powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly revealed in the reluctant light.

They had come to the desolation that lay before Mordor: the lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing – unless the Great Sea should enter in and wash it with oblivion.

There's a post going around that says Tolkien made the evil places barren wastelands because of his experiences on plantless battlefields, and I'm not denying that as a possibility, but this passage to me speaks more of the pollution of industry than the trenches and foxholes of a WW1 battlefield. Tolkien did hate industry as well as war.

[sybilazu]

It brings me a tiny bit of hope in humanity to know that people from other countries are aware of how intellectually desolate that fucking orange traffic cone with a corn cob balanced on top of it is.

[evqenvs3000s24]

Unit 05 Blog Post: The Jack Pine (free write)

A Jack pine tree

Considering there is no blog post this week, I wanted to touch on something extremely important to me, and it involves Jack pine. 

I am sure most people have seen one before. Whether in person, in a famous Tom Thomson painting (which has hung on the walls of our home for as long as I can recall), or on Google images, people tend to know what this tree looks like. One of the most interesting things about the Jack pine is that its seeds require a temperature as produced by a forest fire to open their cones and allow growth (CTV News). In my family, this turned into a kind of metaphor for having to go through something hard to grow as a person- “Jack pines only grow after forest fires”. This became something we talked about after my older brother, Jack, got a tattoo of a Jack pine on his arm. While I’m 99% sure it was just because his name is also Jack, he would say that it is meaningful- that Jack pines only grow after forest fires.

The main reason I chose this topic for this week’s blog post is because it is currently approaching the three-year anniversary of my older brother Jack’s death. This time of year is conflicting for me- the leaves are changing and so much beauty surrounds me, but it also serves as a reminder of the loss of my best friend. Jack was an incredible human being. He was extremely intelligent and was in the process of completing a degree in mining engineering at Queens University. In addition to camping in the Algonquin interior, Jack spent time in Kirkland Lake working in a mine. In all the time he spent up north in nature, I believe he felt a sense of identity with it. He would seek out interesting hiking trails, enjoyed fishing with my father, and took tremendous pride in being the one to make the fire and keep in going. I believe it was up north on a trip with my father in Algonquin that they discussed the different types of trees. I think it was then that he became interested in the Jack pine. 

Following his death, my mom, my dad and I decided to get his tattoo. Now, the four of us have an identical Jack pine tattoo on our right triceps. The Jack pine has now become a symbol of finding light in the darkness- to acknowledge the growth we face as a result of adversity. 

My brother Jack's Tattoo

Whenever I look down at my arm, I am reminded of my brother and the connection my family has with nature. During trips up north with my father, we search for Jack pines and he always makes sure to point them out to me. Jack was my biggest role model and I am lucky to have been his sister. Even in his death, he has given me a gift- he has strengthened by relationship with nature and given me something to seek and connect with when out in the natural world.

My tattoo of a Jack pine tree

Bjorn, D. (2024, October 11). Jack Pine. Flickr. https://www.flickr.com/photos/dbjorn/878733054/

CTVNews. (2023, September 15). Photos: Here’s how desolate land can become lush forest again post-fire. CTVNews. https://www.ctvnews.ca/climate-and-environment/photos-here-s-how-desolate-land-can-become-lush-forest-again-post-fire-1.6563216

[pomacanthidae]

Running to the Forests

To love something is to let it go, to love something is to allow it to exist free from the confines of your perception. To love the forest is to allow it to burn in search of greatness, and to love the burnt trees is to allow them time and space to regenerate.

We the people cannot be separated from the branches of the trees, humans have been on the continent of North America for tens of thousands of years, and generations of people have grown up among the pines.

Here in Western Montana, you can see the smoke across the horizon, another reminder the people here have been removed from the land they love. It's not that they would not allow the burns, on the contrary, but the new methods of forest stewardship are not those that show love to the lands. Culturally important species, those that hold a place in societal practice and often in spirituality, are being choked by "common sense".

To assume with fire comes damage is understandable, we can see the smoky ghosts of ponderosas and fir, and run our hands across the blackened bark until we too are covered in a layer of char. The next season, among black spires and broken branches, the huckleberries and the deer and the other brothers and sisters of the forest will come. The trees will sprout again, cones opened by the flames, growing green toward the sky like their ancestors have for generations. There is beauty in the desolation, for it is merely a new beginning, not a time of destruction.

And just like the trees, sometimes humans need to let themselves burn to bring forth more beauty. Sometimes we need to let what comes, come, and what may be, be. Fill yourself with wildfire smoke, let the fire open pinecones of hope and potential, and bring forth the worlds inside your heart.

[la-pheacienne]

This is beautiful. Me personally I am obsessed with this passage from the passage of the marshes that is not given enough credit imo (probably because of how bleak and dark it is) but the language and style here are truly top-notch:

At last, on the fifth morning since they took the road with Gollum, they halted once more. Before them dark in the dawn the great mountains reached up to roofs of smoke and cloud. Out from their feet were flung huge buttresses and broken hills that were now at the nearest scarce a dozen miles away. Frodo looked round in horror. Dreadful as the Dead Marshes had been, and the arid moors of the Noman-lands, more loathsome far was the country that the crawling day now slowly unveiled to his shrinking eyes. Even to the Mere of Dead Faces some haggard phantom of green spring would come; but here neither spring nor summer would ever come again. Here nothing lived, not even the leprous growths that feed on rottenness. The gasping pools were choked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about. High mounds of crushed and powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly revealed in the reluctant light. They had come to the desolation that lay before Mordor: the lasting monument to the dark labour of its slaves that should endure when all their purposes were made void; a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing – unless the Great Sea should enter in and wash it with oblivion. ‘I feel sick,’ said Sam. Frodo did not speak. For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows. The light broadened and hardened. The gasping pits and poisonous mounds grew hideously clear. The sun was up, walking among clouds and long flags of smoke, but even the sunlight was defiled. The hobbits had no welcome for that light; unfriendly it seemed, revealing them in their helplessness – little squeaking ghosts that wandered among the ash-heaps of the Dark Lord.

Like actual insane imagery and I have never read a more intense depiction of horror in my life i think, it is so palpable I can feel it in my bones as if I'm there.

Tolkien’s best passage

Tolkien gets a lot of respect for being a great storyteller, but I think a lot of times people don’t really understand that, as an author, he had an amazing command of language and style (and poetry). I wanted to share my favorite passage of his, in terms of linguistic style, which comes from the Return of the King, for those who may not be as familiar with his work. It is worthwhile to read this aloud and really listen to how the sentences flow: 

“And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of his enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems and wars his mind shook free; and throughout his realm a tremor ran, his slaves quailed, and his armies halted, and his captains suddenly steerless, bereft of will, wavered and despaired. For they were forgotten. The whole mind and purpose of the Power that wielded them was now bent with overwhelming force upon the Mountain. At his summons, wheeling with a rending cry, in a last desperate race there flew, faster than the winds, the Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths, and with a storm of wings they hurtled southwards to Mount Doom.”

I hope you appreciate this as much as I do. If you have similar favorite passages (in terms of storytelling, or style, or anything), reblog and let me know. In terms of pure emotion, I don’t think anything in the Lord of the Rings is more beautifully done than the scene of Sam and Frodo talking about being in a story and part of an adventure, but this passage wins in terms of literary ability.