#i belong in the woods

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

crying screaming weeping as i follow the Worlds Easiest Tutorial for installing frosty and mods bc actually i hate technology and the fact that i must interact with it for my hobbies

[ap0t8t0]

[sweetmoonbeam17]

also every time I re-watch the first movie I always make myself laugh thinking about how fast astrid got to hiccup after he wakes up at the end of the movie. because it's either

a) astrid's house is not that far from his

or the funnier and more superior b) she lives across the island but heard the crowd forming and she morphed through her wall, ran 100mph & shoved aside every viking in her way

[bonezaw]

take me back to the forest

[coffee-mouse]

dedicated to my childhood best friend Fudge the basset hound plush 🧡

[hummingjay]

What do you think is the weirdest/silliest weapon ever?

I think maces are really funny because you had increasingly complicated halberds and glaives that parried swords and had numerous hooks for fighting cavalry at different positions, but the single most effective method of killing a guy that ignored both chainmail and plate armor was a stick. Just hit the fella. Smack him. The Japanese had a Bo staff that was pretty cool.

I think the duckfoot pistol is funnier though.

why is babygirl shooting four evenly spaced fellas? Why are they evenly spaced? It’s a flintlock so it can be preloaded, but it’s flabbergastingly funny that someone used this.

Combination weapons were more symbols of ingenuity than anything else, like modern fashion shows, but they’re so funny. here’s an axe-pistol flintlock and a percussion (I think) mace-pistol. Babykins wants to spend a solid minute loading the thing then smack ya with it.

This one’s the best. It has 6 barrels, (a secret sexy one is in the handle) is a wheel lock (very hard to clean, maintain, or even repair, but objectively better than a match lock) has a detachable axe head cover, and would be almost impossible to comfortably aim. I think it’s a parade tool more than anything else but what’s going on with this thing? I’m gonna shoot 5 evenly spaced dudes, shoot a secret 6th guy then smack someone else. I love this thing. We used to make cool things.

[widowshill]

— And do you or do you not have difficulty remembering such simple instructions? — Only during thunderstorms, sir.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC (1965) / DARK SHADOWS (1966)

[sortableroseanimations]

im ngl seeing will wood just made me acutely aware of how i feel in my body and unfortunately this seems to be a long term experience. respectfully, what the fuck

[garagepaperback]

talisman

iv.

"Wood."

It’s weird to see Marcus in a little room like this, he looks so big. Bigger than he is in Oliver’s head, even. 

Oliver, with an ease he would like history and myth and legend and whoever else might be listening to take notice of, shrugs one shoulder lightly, fluorescent light sloping across navy and wheat gold.

“Flint.”

Marcus just stares at him, the unreadable, entirely blank way. Oliver has no idea if he’s just not good at reading him or there’s nothing written down.

After a moment, Marcus says, almost like the previous exchange had been voided, as though they’ve never spoken before in their entire lives, “What?” 

and Oliver has to push a hand through his hair and remember.

v.

Oliver is driven, psychotically so; Marcus almost forgot. He watches practice from the ground, next to the coach, the assistant coach, Puddlemere’s media correspondent and above, in the stands, a sprinkling of diehards along with some fair-weathers. And girls, though they’re new, and loud. Not terribly surprising though; it’s the first practice of the season, even the drills look exciting. Marcus doesn’t think they’re likely be here forty matches in, when it’s been raining for three weeks straight.

By the end of practice, Oliver is worse than windswept. He stalks off the pitch for the showers like this is his first time on the ground, like he was born in the air and he isn’t so sure about how it’s supposed to work down here. 

“What?” Marcus says, firm and flat after, when Oliver shows up too easily, slunk ivy in the door like they’re good old pals.

“Hi,” Oliver says, fingers in his hair, heavy wet curls. 

His face is pink from the shower, not enough to cover up his freckles, but enough. He’s so fucking handsome, Marcus forgot, all scrubbed-bright. Older now, but he’s still got that look like he’s just fallen out of a tree, a summer sort of glaze. Marcus wants to lick it off of him, could scrape it off him like a rind with his teeth, he thinks.

Instead, he looks down at the Shooting Star he’s been trying to resurrect from the dead. Shit broom. It never rode well in its day and it’s been nearly a decade since then.

He fingers it like a thing imbued, like the tangible dearth that called Oliver up, caused him.

Marcus believes this: worse brooms are better. If an ideal condition is whittled and ruined, you learn to survive on less. You can learn to build everything you want when you do so from an lack. He couldn't tell yet if Wood was the ideal condition or the lack.

“Hi.” Marcus mocks.

Wood's at his side by then, hungry to be handled, liable to splinter.

for day 13 of @microficmay

[courtjesterrr]

Finally decided to start doing the animatic i said id do this summer

might as well start with my favorite part

[kkglinka]

Finally twigged what rwby (+small animal companion) are walking through the field of red plants toward the red prince's castle reminded me of. It's the scene from wizard of oz where Dorothy et all are passing through the field of red flowers (poppies?) toward the wizard's city.

[twolovelyberries]

horrified at the sight of my reflection in your eyes… (i don’t belong there!)

[sumarmz]

Warrior cats but everything's the same except they're anthromorphic animals and have guns now

[partybarty]

I'm sure you have all been wondering, like I have, what species of grass are considered acceptable for grass tennis courts. It appears the type of grass is not mandated, according to Tennis Australia's National Court Surface Policy's description of a grass court is natural grass grown from seed.

Here are some grasses that I propose we make grass courts out of: 1. Blue Fescue Grass – Festuca glauca

2. Windmill Grass – Chloris truncata

3. Snow Grass – Poa sieberiana

4. Zebra grass (Miscanthus sinensis 'Zebrinus')

5. Purple fountain grass (Pennisetum setaceum 'Rubrum')

6. Pink muhly grass (Muhlenbergia capillaris)

[blabbershere]

I am nowhere. I have left my world behind, and yet not found another. That is a tragic adventure. I have departed, but not yet arrived.

— Unknown

[grimalkinmessor]

OKAY OKAY FINE (its ecto smiley face)

Maybe Garden Care horror/smut Tea OR

L/Light fluff sweets bc im a sucker for that

@ectoplasmicsoda YEESSS *rubs my grubby lil paws together*

Decided to go with Garden Care because I've never written them before 👀 HISTORICAL AU ✨ SORTA ✨ Warnings in the tags!

Garden Care/Horror-Smut/Tea

———

There's a leaf in Morgana's tea.

Normally, they wouldn't find this particularly odd, given that tea is generally made of leaves, but this is not a tea leaf. It's a whole leaf, bright red with lingering bits of green along the veins, and it's big enough that it nearly covers the entire surface of their tea cup.

Again, Morgana would not usually find this strange; they have tracked in many a stray leaf throughout their life, attached to their sweaters or stuck to the bottom of their boots. It's hard not to find leaves and petals in odd places when Morgana shares their mother's love for plants and keeps a few in almost every room of the house.

But they find this one—this particular leaf—odd for a couple of reasons. The first being that this is not the first time, or even the third time that a leaf like this has ended up in their tea cup. Whenever Morgana makes tea, they always make sure the cup is clean first, and yet somehow for the past few months they've always found a stray leaf (bright red with lacey green veins) floating in their cup a few sips in. The second thing is that, despite how much Morgana wishes it was, it is not autumn. A clearly autumnal leaf in their tea when all the trees around them are lush and green is yet another oddity.

The third thing—and the most damning of all—is that this leaf is not from any plant that Morgana recognizes.

Morgana knows plants. They know the name of every flower under the sun, and even some that thrive in shadow. The fact that they don't recognize what tree this leaf is from bothers them. Their mother loves botany—they live in the damn woods. They have books upon books upon books on every plant known to man, and—due to Sam Manson's hidden witchcraft tomes—even some that aren't.

They are more irked by the fact that these leaves are unidentifiable to them than the fact that the leaves are appearing at all. Which, Morgana supposes, is a rather backwards list of priorities. But still! They can't stand not knowing.

Morgana asks their mom first, but she also has no idea what it could be either. And when Morgana takes it to their neighbor, Desiree (who is like a second mother to them, considering how often she's over at the Manson house and how close she and Morgana's mom are), she stares at it for a long, long moment before smiling and telling Morgana that she has absolutely no idea where it could've come from.

It's an obvious lie, and Morgana is all the more suspicious for it—as well as hurt, too. Desiree treats Morgana as her own child; she's never lied to them before.

The only option left is for Morgana to figure it out on their own.

Sneaking out one of their mom's spellbooks from beneath the floorboards of their home, Morgana grabs the leaf that had appeared in their tea cup this morning (crimson as blood, split with green) and ventures out of the house and further into the woods. Only when they're out of sight of both their own home and Desiree's do they settle down at the base of a tree. Morgana flips through the spellbook, searching for a certain page, and smiles when they find the one they're looking for.

A tracking spell.

Closing their eyes, Morgana cups their hands around the leaf and whispers out the spell. Their voice is soft, but the wind picks up around them, swirling through their oddly colored hair and whistling between the trees surrounding them. Morgana feels magic spark in their palms, a small flush of energy leaving them, and they open their eyes again to see a thin, wispy trail of blue light spiraling off into the woods.

Shock jolts through Morgana—some part of them was still convinced they were simply being paranoid—and then a bolt of excitement mixed with fear. Because this means they were right. Something is putting mysterious leaves in their tea on purpose.

Scrambling to their feet, Morgana takes off after the trail before it fades. They follow the blue mist through the forest at a run, easily leaping over stray tree roots and rocks; Morgana knows these woods well. But even then, their mother only ever let them stray so far. Soon, the amount of trees they recognize trickles down...and runs out.

Morgana knows they're not headed in the direction of the village proper—they're headed further from it, if anything. The trees begin to clump closer together the farther they go, trunks thickening and foliage beginning to blot out the mottled sunlight. The smell of wet peat and soil, moss and herbs, grows stronger with every step. Morgana runs, but the ist of their spell is starting to fade. With a curdle of dread in their stomach, they realize that they won't be able to follow it back home. Morgana shakes their head, sucking in a sharp, painful breath as their lungs burn and their legs ache. They have to keep going. Their curiosity will drive them mad if they don't.

Then, just before the mist fades completely, Morgana finds its end.

The trees are so close together now that Morgana has to go slower in order not to run into them. It's quiet here. Near silent. They stumble into a small gap in the trees, and blink.

There, amongst the gritty tree bark and thick brown coat of dead leaves, a small table sits in the center of the trees, which—now that Morgana is looking, they're uneasy to find form a perfect circle around it. It's a nice table, ornate, white marble and silver, but it's weathered and dulled, bits of moss scattered all across it. There's a single matching velvet chair in a similar state, pulled slightly back from the table, like someone stood up in a hurry and left. But the dirt and leaves around it are void of footprints, and the grime covering both pieces of furniture is untouched. No one has been here in a very long time.

The worst part, however, is the innocuous little tea cup sitting in the center of the table.

The saucer and the cup are deep blue china with gold glimmering on the rims, pristine and shining in a way that contrasts the furniture around it. Morgana swallows and takes a step forward to see that the tea cup isn't empty. A pale pink liquid sits inside, like rose tea with too much milk. As Morgana stares down at it, the familiar smell of their favorite tea floats to their nose, beckoning them forward.

'There is something...wrong here,' Morgana thinks as they take another, slow step forward. 'Very wrong...'

Sam has told them stories before, of children getting stolen away by fairies and crones and many other hungry creatures—but Morgana isn't a child anymore. They should be wary, yes, but it's...so hard to think of those stories when the sight, the smell, the mystery before them...is so enrapturing.

Then, from above, a deep crimson leaf drifts down from the canopy and lands neatly—suspiciously precisely—in the tea cup. The warm, decadent smell grows stronger.

In a trance, Morgana takes that last step forward and reaches for the tea, curling their hands around it and lifting it to their mouth. They know, vaguely, to be alarmed. They should put it down. Morgana has never finished their tea once they discovered the leaf inside. This is an unknown. This is dangerous.

Morgana blinks, hesitates—and yet still drinks.

Their eyes flutter shut, sweet ambrosia washing over their tongue that sets their every nerve alight, a sensation like wind and static racing through them. Morgana moans appreciatively into the gold rim, tipping their head back further. It feels, simultaneously, like drinking ice cold water on a summer's day and sipping from a mug of spiced chocolate as they watch the snow fall. It feels like running their hands along the softest flower petals, like basking under the sun, like admiring the stars. It feels like bathing outside in the spring, every flower turned to face Morgana as they run their palms over their skin, slick and warm with the sun.

Morgana empties the cup and whines when the sensation stops. The pretty leaf butts up against their lips, and the draw it in, desperate for more. It dissolves like lacewing in their mouth, cinnamon on their tongue.

Heat bolts through Morgana in a sudden wave. It's so strong that it makes their knees weak, and they nearly collapse where they stand, one hand shooting out to balance themself on the mossy marble table.

Around them, the forest darkens.

Morgana heaves in a breath, vision swimming, as the sunlight blots out completely. They gasp as the ground beneath them begins to shake, like the roots of the trees surrounding them are writhing underneath the dirt. The beautiful tea cup gets jostled from their hand and is promptly swallowed by the jittering mass of leaves and dirt beneath Morgana's feet.

With a sound like cracking thunder, a thick green vine shoots up out of the ground, whipping towards Morgana at such speeds that they don't have time to dodge. Several more follow, ripping up out of the forest floor to lash around Morgana's arms, legs, waist, lifting them abruptly into the air. They yelp, stomach twisting, but their struggles are weak. Their head is... They're so dizzy...

And, Morgana realizes with mounting horror as the vines around them grow thorns, tearing through their clothes until they're nothing but tatters—so wet.

Morgana is ungodly, inconceivably aroused.

A hand strikes up through the dirt, followed by a shoulder and the massive torso of something fibrous and herbal, thorned flowers growing down what looks to be thick vines of hair. Glowing sea green eyes fix on Morgana, and a long, green tongue slithers out of a grinning, fanged mouth. Morgana's head falls back, eyes wide and jaw dropped, as that tongue slicks up their bared thigh and licks right up their core, dragging up their stomach and chest and ending at their throat.

A soft, unearthly rumble of pleasure vibrates through the air. "My lovely Morning Glory, you've returned to me."

"Wh—wh-at...?" Morgana shudders out, pupils blown. Their glasses are askew on their face, more naked than not, terrified and trembling and so wet it's dripping down their leg. "What are—who—?"

They're cut off by the hulking monster slicking its tongue up against them again, this time focusing solely on the space between their legs. Morgana bites their lip so hard it bleeds, cheeks bleeding red as they muffle their moan into a deep grunt.

"Oh, you've grown into yourself so beautifully, darling," the thing purrs as it pulls back. Morgana shakes, hands fisting and toes curling as a separate vine slithers up their leg and begins to rub at them in place of the monster's tongue. Morgana gasps as the tapered tip pushes in, wriggling its way into their cunt and coating itself in their slick. It burns, it almost hurts, but its also the best thing Morgana's ever felt. They rock their hips into the intrusion, unable to help themself as their head tips back, wild eyes hazily glimpsing the reddened, black canopy above. Above Morgana, the monster purrs. "Look at you, taking it so well. I knew you would be perfect—I knew you would be mine."

Morgana can't—they can't think beyond the pleasure coursing through their body right now, every little twitch and shift making a new part of them light up with ecstasy. The creature's words are nothing but nonsense to their ears, the buzzing feeling of those glowing eyes hungrily roving over their body only serving to send Morgana that much closer to the edge.

Deep green vines slide over bronze skin, touching and stroking and thrusting, all while Morgana moans and pants into the humid air between them. They can feel the pressure—the pleasure—building in their gut, a tingly sensation sparking up in their feet and the backs of their thighs as it mounts higher and higher. Through the heavy fog, Morgana feels trepidation. There's the vague, alarmed thought that this feels too big, that this will kill them, that this will swallow them whole—

And then it crashes over them, striking lightning through their veins and making their whole body seize in place, a strangled shriek ripping out of their mouth as involuntary tears bead at the corner of their eyes. Morgana's vision goes white, the nirvana of this one, singular feeling razing through their bones and buzzing in their teeth. And through it all, the vines' movements don't cease, stringing Morgana along through the strongest orgasm they've ever had in their life.

A heavy clawed hand pushes through their hair, petting them gently as they whine and twitch with aftershocks. "Easy, darling. Wasn't that a warm welcome?"

Morgana can't see, their vision still dotted with spots of white. But their head....their head is clearing. Morgana lifts their head with a great amount of effort, managing to stammer out a weak, "W-who...are you?"

'What are you?' Morgana wants to ask, but they bite their tongue.

The monster smirks, rising up to its full height and taking Morgana with it (him...?). The flowers blooming from its draping locs wither and twist before blossoming into lavender roses and rainflowers.

"I am Undergrowth, little Morning Glory, Fae King of the Woods," it—he, responds. He presses a hand over his chest, bowing until his face hovers just above Morgana, sealing them in a curtain of vines. "And you are mine."

The vines around Morgana tighten then, possessive and warning. Morgana swallows hard, too weak right then to even struggle.

They were foolish. They should've listened when Desiree told them to leave it alone. Because now?

Now they don't have a choice.