#or almost a month

[devil-doll13]

Summer Breeze

Ciarán x cottagecore!Reader

Tw: mostly Fluff and a lil bit of Smut at the end, mostly a collection of drabbles rather than a connected story, this is mostly just an excuse for me to ✨simp✨ for Ciarán so there isn’t much of an actual plot lol enjoy

Based off of this post I did a month ago or so

Word Count: 4078

Summary: While minding your own business in the cottage you’ve inherited from a relative, you catch the eye of an ancient, mysterious being…

Dividers by firefly-graphics

Life certainly doesn’t get any better than this.

The sun is shining, bright and cheerful, as you dander up the road towards your modest home. You can’t grow strawberries in this temperate climate, but you can certainly buy them; it’s only about a 15 minute walk from the village and back.

That’s not so bad, you think, admiring the Irish countryside that surrounds you. Verdant green, rolling hills, filled with fluffy sheep and lazy brown cows. You hear the telltale clip-clop of hooves behind you and turn around to see a ruddy-faced, smiley rider on a dappled stallion. You wave at them, grinning back, and you are allowed to pat their horse’s nose. He eagerly snuffles into your hand, searching for treats, nudging you as you giggle.

Once you’re back at the cottage, you clasp shut the white gate behind you and make a beeline to your kitchen, sweeping off your hat and depositing your groceries on the counter. It’s overflowing with jam jars and fruit bowls, a veritable cornucopia. Once you’re done putting away the food, you pad shoeless into the cozy living room and enjoy the sensation of the furry rug beneath your feet. This room is packed wall-to-wall with old, retro armchairs and your blanketed sofa, and crammed in between them is your sole, lonesome bookshelf. A small television sits off in the corner, a relic from decades past.

The Summer afternoon glows sweet and yellow through your windows, melting into your floral wallpaper like honey. It’s dinnertime by now, for both you and your feathered friends; you step out of your back door and cheerfully greet your chickens outside, watching your girls strutting and clucking as you scatter feed on the ground.

“Now, Bertha… Let Milly have some. You need to share!” You scold. Bertha has been hogging the feed again, believing her size and status to be superior.

After you eat, you crack open the book you’ve been putting off reading and curl up on your pillows. You feel good today. It’s peaceful here, not like the frenzied bustle of the city or the social competition of the suburbs, where all your nosy neighbours are desperate to spy on you. You’re grateful that your relative decided to leave you this place in their will instead of someone else in the family.

Outside, you hear the clip-clop of hooves again, thudding on the grass in a canter.

“It’s so late…” You yawn. “Who could be up riding at this hour?”

Stretching, you wander over to your curtains, peering out at the moonlit night. Silver fog has swallowed up the mountains, hanging over the lands like a dewy wedding veil. You blame the way it appears to shimmer on your drowsy sleepless state. Things always seem strange here late at night, and in the back of your mind you remember the myths and fairytales you were told as a child. It’s as if there’s an ancient magic here, untouched by the rapacious grip of human civilisation.

Then you see him. At first, you do not believe your own eyes; but this sight cannot be blinked away. In the quiet, blooming meadows, silent and as if in awe, stands a figure on a strong, black horse. The glimmer of the mist conceals his upper body, but you still can see his sharp, pointed sabatons resting in the stirrups. This is no farmer.

It seems he senses your gaze, and he and his mount turn to face you. Your heart almost stops. For wonder or for terror, you do not know which. Only you are frozen, unable to move. It is only when he pulls back and gallops away into the night that your paralysis gives way, and the fog lifts too, revealing only the milky white flowers of the field, bathed in the moonlight. You gasp for air, feeling as if you’ve been doused with a bucket full of ice water. This brush with what you believe to be the Supernatural does not soon leave you, but engraves itself deep within your mind.

That night, you dream of him, still hidden by shimmering mist.

In the days that follow, you feel a presence follow you on your afternoon walks and your visits to the village. Curiously, you do not feel unnerved, but instead when you leave the local pub late at night, it seems an invisible aura of protection wards off all danger. In the most outlandishly wee hours of the morning, too, you hear the pounding of hooves and whinnies and snorts, and no longer do you fear that a fox in the night will gobble up your beloved chickens or that a burglar will invade your home for fear of crossing him.

You are now quite convinced that this mysterious entity has been watching over you, keeping you safe like some dark guardian angel. How you caught this being’s eye, you have no idea, but you know rightly not to take it for granted. You’ve been taught to respect these lands and all the creatures that still live within them. Often you leave a basket of sweet fruit and bread or homemade brownies outside your door, and in the morning you find in return a bunch of carefully arranged flowers or precious minerals left in its place. This alone confirms your theory, and you can’t help but feel positively giddy at the idea of befriending a fae. Any scepticism you once had is long gone.

Now unafraid of threats in the night, you embark on nightly wanderings across the foggy moors, hoping to catch a glimpse of him again. Your mind has begun to fabricate all sorts of strange tales and explanations for him being here; for why he favours you.

But you want the truth. And on one of these late night walks, you see him again.

You’re certain that if he didn’t want you to, he could’ve hidden himself from you forever. Now, he chooses to reveal himself. All the air leaves your lungs as you see him looming over you on his horse, and you now realise he lacks a head. A wispy blue light flickers on his neck, hissing like a furnace. Before you, the fog draws back like curtains on a stage play, and you are his speechless audience.

He dismounts, and you find yourself drawn towards him. You’ve heard of such a figure in folklore, but never could you have anticipated the true grandeur of his presence. Like some kind of mythic royalty, he exudes a kind of unearthly majesty. You can’t help but feel a little intimidated by him, even though you have been anticipating this meeting for weeks.

It strikes you then that all the offerings of food you’ve given to him were probably worthless. The way his mare nudges your hand tells you that she probably enjoyed your apples, though. You turn back to look at him. He’s watching you, and though he has no eyes, he beholds you with such an intensity that it makes you shy away from him.

“Who are you?” Your voice echoes into the dark. “Um… Could I know your name?” It is difficult not to feel meek, dwarfed by this otherworldly knight.

You don’t expect a verbal answer, and barely even hope for one at all. But soon he extends his black, gauntleted hand and in his palm you see a smooth, carved stone. You take it, lips twitching in amusement. He even gives you a small, polite bow. It’s like he’s giving you his business card.

“Thankyou.” You beam up at him and gladly tell him your own, and you are pleased to see the flame on his neck flare in response. You hope that means something good.

It surprises you that night how readily he is able to answer your questions, as if he’s been expecting all of them. Without words or expression, it requires some interpretation on your end, but you manage. The night grows late and you receive a first tentative horse riding lesson; though you spend much of it nervous and watchful of the great distance between you and the pitch black ground below. A steady arm winds around your stomach and holds you fast against a cool, solid metal cuirass. Now you start to allow tension to leave your body and trust in your companion. You feel in your heart that he would not let you fall or come to harm.

He returns you home far faster than you would’ve liked. You find that you enjoy being close to him, held fast by strong arms. It is this stubborn little thought that makes your face feel hot as he helps you back down. The cracks of dawn, softly orange and warm, are already peeking up from the horizon. You wonder in the back of your mind if this is why he must leave you now. Considering his sluggish movements, he seems as reluctant to part with you as you are.

“Goodbye!” You wave a farewell to him, and he draws up on his magnificent horse as she whinnies, galloping off into the darkness.

When you return to your cottage that night, you feel so sleepy you collapse on your sofa, dizzy.

After this encounter, it’s hard to believe that your life will go back to normal. Everything seems different now, cast in a new light.

You don’t go searching for him again right away, but you’re aware of his gloomy, stalwart presence shadowing you. You stop leaving him food, convinced he’ll find it useless; you’re eager to keep him interested, hoping that he’ll continue hovering curiously around you. This does not stop him from continuing to give gifts to you, something you find out one night you almost stumble over a bundle of oddly made spades on your way to your little garden; they feel so light and well-adjusted to your hands. When you discover them, you feel a sense of relief wash over you, and bashful glee. Not because you’re materialistic, but because you’re beginning to nurse what you thought were foolish hopes. To think that he might return your growing interest, that he sees you as more than simply a trifling amusement to waste his plentiful time on.

Those tools were exactly what you needed after all: you had just very recently broken your old spade.

To your delight, he grows progressively bolder, and one evening while you’re trying to pry Bertha off the others’ shares of chicken feed, you sight him lurking on the horizon, watching over you in the dimming light of the sundown. This encounter sends a happy thrill through you, and motivates you again to learn more about him. Either one of you needs to break the proverbial ice, and considering your mortal lifespan, you don’t want to sit around just waiting for him to do it.

Unfortunately, you don’t crack the code on the rock he’s given you for days. It takes some fair effort to translate, as well as several visits to the local library and several dives down internet rabbit holes, and even then you suspect he has tried his best to communicate with you. But this language was ancient, older than your most distant ancestors. You hold it in your hands and it thrums with power, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Ciarán…” You murmur under the lamplight, studying the runes engraved in the stone. They are tiny, chicken scratch etchings that make your head hurt when you look at them; perhaps not entirely due to eye strain. “And… Gorm… Laith…” In your mind swim many forgotten Irish pronunciation lessons, and it takes another google search for you to feel confident enough to address him by his name the next time you meet.

“That’s your name, right? That’s what you were trying to tell me?” You ask him. Again, he looms over you, his armoured figure almost melting into the darkness.

The icy glow of his neck-fire morphs and spits in what you hope is happiness, because you’re actually quite nervous about messing this up in front of him.

“Oh, that’s good…” You sigh, relieved.

That night you acquaint yourself a little more with him, and the next evening he takes you out for another ride. This time not due to necessity, but for leisure. You trot up mountains and through shaded trees of woods, and he reveals to you hidden glades shimmering in moonlight, crowned with mushroom rings.

This is how you begin your friendship with him, though in your heart, you know you want more.

You are quick to welcome him into your home, and in the darker evenings he makes a habit of keeping vigil quietly as you cook dinner (if only for yourself) and fold laundry. You often find yourself rambling to him about your day. It’s very easy to slip into revealing so much about your personal life to him, because he is so stoic and unbothered. You are certain you could mention to him off-hand that you’ve murdered someone and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Not that he has them.

Ciarán is a man of scant words, of course. He will stand quite upright, unmoving, for hours on end for you. It is for this reason that you are shocked when he strides across your tiny living room and picks out a book from your dusty, neglected shelf.

“Oh… Yeah, I never actually finished that.” You say.

You have always felt slightly guilty for this, and wonder now if you should give it another try. He cracks it open and presents it to you, gesturing in his elegant way.

“You want me to read it to you?”

By now, you’re well used to interpreting him. He hisses in what you assume to be a ‘yes’ and you shrug your shoulders. You’re a little bewildered, but he crams himself into an armchair that’s far too small for him and you start the book again. This time, it seems far more interesting, maybe because you’re hoping he enjoys it as well. To be honest, it may also be an excuse to keep him here for a while longer. He tends to insist you go to sleep when it’s late, and leaves you.

But it’s difficult not to feel drowsy sometimes, and you do nod off; only to find yourself waking up in bed, snuggly tucked into your cushions. You sit up, and he is nowhere to be seen.

One night, you decide to teach him to write in English.

He isn’t difficult to persuade. If anything, you begin to suspect that he has been trying to ask you to do this for a while, nudging blank sheets towards you and tracing a sharp talon over it. More than once he has poked a hole in the paper this way. You want to kick yourself for not realising this sooner, and lead him eagerly to your sofa to your cluttered mess of stationary and notebooks.

The sight of him holding a tiny pencil between his huge armoured fingers is comical to say the least. You notice that his handwriting is unusual, seemingly wanting to stray back into the esoteric runes and symbols that are more familiar to him. You teach him how to write your name and it becomes his favourite thing to scrawl on his paper, second only to ‘Gormlaith.’

For a while the only other words he can manage are “Hello,” and “Dear to me,” but his terse, broken notes to you grow gradually into more refined passages. Even with simple tools, you find he can construct quite meaningful sentences, rich with surprising emotion. He pens several letters to you, and you scour over them all, one by one, in hopes that you’ll understand him better.

One day you notice he treats one of these letters to you as being of great importance, and when you open it you are astounded to see it is a declaration of love. For you.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested in a human like me…” You stare at your feet, flustered.

For all your overthinking, you haven’t realised how clear his intentions have been all this time. Then, you hear the scratch of a pencil over paper, and he pushes it over to you. You shift and read it over:

“You’re more precious than you know.”

This makes your ears ring. Feeling bold, you bestow a kiss on the cold metal of his gauntlet, and hear a crisp hiss sounding in response. You allow yourself to lean against his chest and sigh, murmuring your acceptance.

From then on, there is an agreement between the two of you: you are his now.

One night you pack up for a picnic in the dark, and he humours you despite his inability to eat. He seems to enjoy your company regardless.

You’ve never known fireflies to live in Ireland, but you have the funny feeling that the tiny glowing orbs that welcome you aren’t lightning bugs. There’s a curious music in the air, like windchimes, and a warm Summer breeze rustles the grass around you. You choose a sheltered patch in the glade to lay down your tartan spread and basket. Gormlaith, still sporting a knitted blanket you had fashioned for her, trots over to a nearby river and laps at the water there, leaving you and Ciarán alone. He curls an arm around you and you lean into him, all cold, sharp metal and fire, but you have never felt so comfortable.

Something strange happens as you spread jam over a slice of bread, and your attention is drawn by your lover pointing off into the distance. You see it, then, a ghostly blue wisp hanging over the marshes shrouded with fog, and almost drop your sandwich. There are more behind and to the sides of you, glowing with ice. You realise they’re surrounding you both now, haunting the bog like death’s lanterns.

You should be used to this sort of thing by now, but to be able to confront it as a real, tangible phenomenon, and not simply the work of an overactive imagination, is always incredibly surreal.

“Is this your doing?” You stare at him accusingly, grinning. He makes no move to confirm it, so you turn back to watch the flowers sway, biting into your sandwich. He is never transparent, and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t bother you sometimes. Even after giving him the tools he needed to tell you all, he remains a great mystery to you.

There’s something wistful about him too, like an old soldier come back from war. You wonder if you’ll ever know him, truly.

Your staring is a little too obvious. He gently touches your cheek with his hand, a soft caress of gauntleted talons. The fire on his neck crackles richly, flaring like he’s admiring you. When you smile and lean into his touch, you see his chest swell proudly.

“Ciarán,” you start, “Could… Could I see you without the armour?”

It’s a loaded question, but you hope he won’t take offence to it. You’re not afraid of him, but you don’t want him to clam up.

His hand comes to stroke your side, and he seems deep in thought for a moment. You’re content to snuggle in closer to him, but then he shifts off the ground. You look up at him questioningly, but he offers you his hand. ‘Come with me,’ he’s saying. Gormlaith trots over on his command, and nudges you.

Ciarán lifts you up with ease and places you on her back. You pat her neck as he mounts, embracing you gently from behind. Your pulse is thick in your ears. You’re thinking you can take this as him allowing you to see him; but not here.

He kicks firmly, and you gallop off.

You shut the door of your bedroom and pull the curtains closed. All is quiet, except for the furnace-like hiss behind you and the beating of your heart.

For a long time, you’ve seen the armour as if it was his own skin, and you almost can’t believe you’re seeing it removed now, clasp by clasp. His gauntlets come off, stiff as if they were frozen, and you see his skin is ashen grey, drab like a corpse’s. Your hands are extended, unsure, but they meet him eagerly. Ciarán allows you to trace an experimental hand across his forearm and up through his collarbone. You see where his head was cleaved from his body, and though it may be a gruesome sight to some, you only wish that you could brush your warm cheek against his, and kiss him there. He clasps your fingers in his and gently rubs your thumb, as if to soothe you against this thought.

He tugs gently at the bands of your clothes and you feel your body shake a little as you shed them and reveal yourself to him. But you’re overwhelmed by want as he touches you, and your embarrassment is quickly away.

He gathers you up and sits down on your bed. It creaks dangerously under his weight, but you cannot think of that now, close as you are, almost melded together. He handles you as if you were his toy, guiding you into his lap. You feel so hot, bunching your hands into his embroidered tunic. You feel your way into his naked chest, finding relief in the cool, solid flesh there.

“I need you…” You sigh breathlessly.

He’s kneading your hips like a cat, almost purring with satisfaction. You think he’s trying to savour the moment, but you can’t help but feel that he enjoys you like this; all desperate and needy. He creeps a hand downward, and your stomach twitches as you feel his palm smooth over it, your heart throbbing as he reaches the inside of your thighs. His movements are achingly slow, and you’re unable to stop yourself from pressing into him.

“Ciarán!”

The deft strokes of his fingers feel mind-numbingly good. You’re shivering with anticipation, brushing softly against his crotch. He’s hard, too. Once he’s satisfied he’s prepared you enough, he draws the strings on his breeches. You swallow at the sight of him, and eagerly position yourself above him. He keeps you still with a firm hold on your thighs, hissing heatedly.

Ciarán finally sinks inside you, and you cry out against him. You’re being stretched like never before. You can tell from his hesitation that he’s being careful not to hurt you, but through the momentary pain you feel white, hot pleasure.

He’s still holding your hips in place to keep you from moving. You whine, torn agonisingly between wanting more and being overwhelmed by sensation. It all feels too good all at once. Ciarán grips your waist and fucks you deeper still, petting your head fondly as a reward for taking him so well. It isn’t long before you’re cumming messily around his cock, almost drooling onto his shoulder.

Ciarán lays your sweaty body down on your pillows, his fire blazing. He’s not done with you yet. That night, he has his way with you until you’re spent and exhausted, and you barely remember falling asleep before you’re wrapped in linen.

-

In the morning you wake up with a nagging fear pricking at your neck. For so long you have been paranoid; what if your lover is a mere fantasy, an illusion conjured by mist? But you open your eyes, and feel Ciarán’s cool skin against your face and his arms enveloping you.

You stir drowsily, sighing in contentment. It was not a dream. His neck is unlit at first, but it soon crackles to life as you adjust yourself; you have no intention of leaving his embrace. Your thick curtains shield you both from the early morning sun, its pure, golden rays reaching only to the foot of your bed. A soft breeze flutters from the open window, smelling of wildflowers. Outside, you hear the sweet calls of songbirds and the clucking of your beloved chickens.

You lean over to kiss his collarbone, and he rubs a soothing thumb into your naked thigh. It seems he feels no pressing need to move either, drawing the sheets closer to your body, as if to shelter you.

You can feel yourself starting to fall asleep again, and you don’t try to fight it, but doze off contentedly on his chest.

Life certainly doesn’t get any better than this.

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @myers-meadow, @solmints-messyocdiary)

This is my nsfw Taglist, let me know if you want let off/added

[ato-dato]

Go on, burst every one of his bubbles why don’t you

[chloesimaginationthings]

William Afton winning that “idgaf” award in FNAF

[hellsitegenetics]

this blog has officially existed for 6 months. 🎉

[lenny-link]

[clownowo]

been replaying the Portal series I think this is where its heading

[krysmcscience]

At long last: either an alternate explanation for or continuation of my prior comic regarding how Bill was ABSOLUTELY naked in Ford's karaoke night drawing. (Because errors in art do not exist. Artists do not make mistakes. So if you see any in this comic, No You Do Not.)

I am so normal about these old dorks.

I'm not really clear on exactly when Bill started throwing his desperation book at Ford just like a needy ex do, but I find it extremely funny to imagine it happening literally the day of or after the makeshift funeral. Bill just gets this weird sense of 'Ford is taking steps to move on' and CANNOT FUCKING ABIDE.

I hope you enjoy all the goofy things I added to each page of Bill's sad spieling. (Everything SHOULD be readable so long as you view the full size, but I have added basically this whole little fanfic in the image descriptions, LMAO, which lays out all the little written notes and such.) Also don't ask how Bill managed to sneak that vampire pen in there. I have no idea, and honestly? I don't wanna know.

Oh, and a little bonus comic:

Of course Bill would take it as flirting. Because between the two of them, Bill is the bigger masochist By Far. :)

Also I have continued applying The Good Place logic to any of Bill's attempts to swear. Case in point, one last bonus image, this time with a motivational line from my slapdash Theraprism OC, EV-01:

Yes, its name is just 'love' backwards. No, I will not be taking any feedback on this. Yes, EV-01 was only ever assigned to Bill's case due to the Theraprism being desperate to make some progress in rehabilitating him. No, it did not work anywhere close to staff's expectations - Bill didn't even appreciate EV-01's matching fondness for bowties! (He claimed the fondness to be "cultural appropriation" and insisted he'd been traumatized by it.)

Anyway, if you like my stuff, reblogs are very much appreciated, and if you really really like it, perhaps consider my commissions or yeeting a teeny tiny tip my way? I am trying to recoup over 500 dollars in vet bills, ahaha... 🙃

In other news, I loved all the fun tags people added to the prior naked-karaoke comic (such as 'the hat and bow-tie stay ON during sex' and the classic '[insert keysmash here]', as well as the many amused/bewildered remarks about how I either made the bricks a piece of clothing or just straight up peeled Bill's skin off). However, I think my favorite thing by far was the several people losing their shit over the fact that I gave Bill toes. Like, excuse me? The magical talking triangle can have fingers but not toes??? Since when was that a rule????? 🤣 (Also the one person who reblogged with the cropped panel where Bill's fishnets pants are falling off to ask why Bill peed himself. Dude, I want to examine your brain...?)

Okie-dokie, I'm sick of looking at all of this stuff now and I'm off to go to work, after which I will either scribble some more goofy "Billford" comics or perhaps draw my lame human!Bill in Situations, idk yet. Maybe I'll even finally draw more than just a single other person's human!Bill...? Who knows, but I sure hope I can mix it up a little and not turn whatever I draw into a month-long fukken project. >:\

[cyani07]

ctommys

[helpallthenamesaretaken]

medusa in the tv show asking for someone to come help her in the kitchen KNOWING that percy would be lured in because he has a single mom and helping in the kitchen would be instinctive and it actually working is genius writing fr.

[jasminebythebay]

for true story

[space-bowl]

Ep 7 Aftermath (given the planet didn't explode yet)

Part 2

[3lkin]

i was feeling spooky…..

.......for many a long hour......

[yyeojj]

stripped 🥀

[deadliestpieceontheboard]

"She was a child. She was my baby sister, and I should have protected her, but I— I was just a child, too."

[marlocandeea]

🍂 Led through the mist, by the milk light of moon... 🌙

My cross-stitched Halloween pillow is finished!!

[hychlorions]

you were a fleeting, transient love