#strange trails aesthetic

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

art history moodboard – strange trails by lord huron

Procession in the Fog – Ernst Ferdinand // Sawn Oak – Ivan Shishkin // Lake in Fog – August Cappelen // Forest Road – Albert Zimmermann // The Hunter in the Forest – Caspar David Friedrich // Forest Interior – Berndt Lindholm // Morning Mist in the Mountains – Caspar David Friedrich // Forest Interior – Berndt Lindholm // Waft of Mist – Caspar David Friedrich 

[bones-ivy-breath]

The Night We Met by Lord Huron

[bombshelllblonde]

Moodboard for Frozen Pines // Lord Huron.

“I don’t want to be the only one living when all my friends are gone. I will be waiting for you, on the other side of the frozen pines.”

(this song has been on repeat for days. absolute days. i can’t believe it took me so long to find this song)

[spritelemonaid]

If I Told You

Sometimes i wonder

What you would do

If you knew

About the things i never told you

What would you do if i said i still have your tie

What would you do if i said i miss the way you smell

What would you do if i said i rember July

What would you do if i said i kept the key to our one night hotel

What if i told you i miss your smile

What if i told you i still have your favorite shoes

What would you do if i told you i still kiss the rim of ur old bottle of booze

What if i told you i would wait for you for a while

I’m not saying what i said is true

I’m just asking what you would do

What if you knew i would do anything for you

What would you do if i pushed myself off a bridge for you to have a better view

[black-brained]

God maybe I do have a problem? I love Lord Huron so much tho lol

Credit to the photographer

[unorthodoxfaithxx]

Yandere Ghost Smut

afab reader ; nsfw

“This house is totally perfect! You’ll love it,” is what your realtor told you when they finally found a house within your budget. You loved the aesthetics of historical homes, so when they discovered an older house that not only was in your price range, but had just minor damages, they called you immediately. 

You moved in within the month. It didn’t take long to settle into your new home. There was a room with shelves meant for books, and you spent most of your free time there, enjoying the books from your collection that could rival a library. Sometimes, you would feel a sudden chill in the air when reading, and grow pensive. It would feel like someone was watching you. But besides that, nothing was out of the ordinary. You just assumed you were too stressed out and growing paranoid as a result. Everything was fine.

Well, it was. Until you started waking up with strange markings on your body. You woke up one day in a cold sweat, waltzing into the bathroom to wash your face off, only to find what looked like hickeys on your neck and upper chest area. Weird. Did you have bugs in the bed? Was it an allergic reaction to the new detergent you bought for the sheets? You had no idea. 

You were never able to solve the issue because the markings disappeared within a few hours, and didn’t come back again. Once more, you shrugged it off and assumed nothing was amiss. 

Yet eventually, things got even stranger. Your panties started disappearing one-by-one, and you were sure you hadn’t misplaced them. Specifically, your already worn undergarments would disappear from the dirty laundry bin before you could wash them. What the fuck?

“I don’t know, Mary,” you call your best friend one afternoon, “I feel like this place is haunted. And what’s even weirder is I keep getting these wet dreams…like every night. I’m not even sexually frustrated so I don’t know why I wake up wet or with markings on myself.”

“Maybe you got a ghost fucking ya?” She jokes around and you both get a laugh out of that. But for some reason, the deepest part of your being can’t dismiss that thought. 

You begin to grow paranoid and start searching for any signs in your house that someone else is living with you. You decide to enter the dusty attic, and find rather antique furniture and a box containing a photo of a man and a woman. He was handsome, albeit a little creepy looking, but what struck you as odd was woman next to him. She looked eerily like you. You brought the photos downstairs to do some research on your computer, but alas, found no information on the man or the woman. The only thing you found out was that there was a fire that had damaged the property all too many years ago. You felt the creepy sensation of being watched again, and called it quits for the night, opting to get some much needed rest.

That night, you saw him.

————————————————————

It’s midnight when he appears in your room, watching your beautiful self slumber. You were so perfect, all those years ago when you left him, and even now. He loves the way the sheets drape your body, but slowly peels them off to reveal that you’re in nothing but a bra and panties. There is a slight sheen of sweat on your skin as your eyebrows furrow cutely in your sleep. 

His angel must be having a nightmare, but he can take care of that. Gently, he trails his cold fingers over your curves. He admires your beauty, so happy to see you once more. He can’t wait another minute.

While you’re still on your side, he unclasps your bra, relishing the way your tits fall free without the support. They look so beautiful and perfect, he can’t even begin to describe how enchanted you make him feel. 

You roll onto your back. He slides your underwear to the side, revealing your pretty cunt to his ghostly eyes. With a delicate touch, he rubs your clit in small circles, playing with you. 

You gasp at the touch and he smirks. Your shuffling does little to deter him from his objective.

He’s on the bed with you, intently staring at your lower half. He admires your folds and moves them open and closed with his fingers, revealing a leaking hole that was your wetness. With a gulp, he slides your underwear off you, wadding it into a ball, burying his face into it as he takes a whiff of your scent. He’d be tasting the real thing soon enough. Once satisfied, he pockets your undies for safe keeping. He tilts his head down to your lower body, shifting into a more comfortable position. With a breath of anticipation, he slithers his cold tongue over your vagina, moaning slightly at the sensation. 

He’s been doing this every night he could manifest, and it never got tiring.

This time, and he doesn’t know why, you wake up, staring down at the mysterious man in terror as he laps you up like a man thirsting in the desert. You mean to run but you can’t move. You feel something cold and wet tying your body to the bed. You try to close your legs from your violator, but his icu hands grip firmly on your thighs, keeping them wide open for him to shove his face between. 

Under the moonlight, the two of you make eye contact but he doesn’t stop, instead opting to send you a wicked smile. “Good morning, love,” he says gently from beneath you. “I missed you so, so much. You know that?”

You’re in a state of shock, words screaming in your head but not quite reaching your vocal chords. The only sound you can make is a whimper as he shoves his tongue further into you, his nose rubbing you causing further pleasurable friction. He sucks, licks, and rolls your clit with his tongue. 

Suddenly, he slides a cold finger into your hole and you gasp, arching your back only to be stuck back down again. “Don’t move, pretty thing,” he scolds you. 

“F-fuck,” you finally manage to whisper, heart racing, “Who are you?”

“Someone who’s been watching you for a very, very long time.” He’s stopped licking you, instead moving to pump another finger into your pretty cunt, thrusting in and out at a moderate pace. His eyes show so much love, desperation, and lust in them that you have no idea what to do or where to go. Then it clicks. The man from the photo. That’s who he was. How could that be possible? Was he an actual ghost?

“I’ve been so lonely without you, princess. When you left me to burn, do you know how heartbroken I was? But now you’re back, and we can finally be together again. I’m not letting you leave me another time.”

He now has three fingers inside of you, picking up the pace. The lewd sound of slick fingers sliding in and out of your cunt drives him wild. His face is back between your thighs again, lapping you up and suckling on you until you’re visibly shaking. 

“Aw, sweet girl. Gonna cum?”

You don’t want to, but you feel something hot and heavy coming.

“Shit. Cum in my mouth, sweetheart. Wanna taste everything you got.” He latches back onto you. 

Your stomach drops and you let go, mind very distressed but body obviously in heaven. Your pussy spazzes out on him and he moans as he licks up the mess you leave behind. With a wipe of his mouth he grins, eying you like a rare prize he had just one at the fair.

He grabs onto you, embracing you in a hug you can’t run away from. Seriously, why can’t you move? He notices your struggles and laughs, snuggling into your chest. 

“Ah ah ah, no running away, love. I’ve waited so long for you. You’re not going anywhere.”

He flips you to where you’re face down, ass up. Your vagina is dripping, juices sliding down your thigh. He licks his lips before biting his lower one, admiring the roundness of your ass and your now puffy and pink pussy. 

“Oh, love. You got no idea what you do to me…”

You feel something cold and hard tap the entrance of your walls, and you freeze. Oh god, was he going to fuck you? His hands are on the sides of your ass, but you feel another set of cold hands grabbing your arms, and even another pulling at your tits. You whimper at the overstimulation.

“Enjoy the hands. They’re all me.”

Before you can reply, he’s sliding his dick through your entrance. Your pussy quivers at the sensation and he laughs. “Did you just come from that, love?”

Once you take all of him, he leans forward to whisper in your ear. “I want to hear you moan, sweetheart. Go on, make some noise for me.”

As he’s taking you from behind, a hand shoves its fingers into your mouth, and you gag on it. The sets of hands on your breasts are now fondling them, pinching and squeezing. You’ve never felt so much at once before, and you eventually yield to the pleasure, moaning as he thrusts into you.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Take it all. You’re fucking mine,” He snarls, and you whine at how hard he’s pounding into you, ferocity now evident in his demeanor. 

You slurp and suck on the fingers, only for it to pop out of your mouth and slide into your ass instead. You cry out at the sensation. A hand is sliding circles around your clit as he fucks you, sending waves of pleasure over your body you’ve never known before. 

“Too much!” You cry, sobbing with pleasure.

He gives you a kiss on the neck. “Almost done, love. Just keep taking it, okay? You’re doing so good for me. God, you’re fucking perfect.” His thrusts became sporadic, and you know he’s close. 

In the end, you come once more, and you feel he does too. When he pulls out, you collapse on the bed, blacking out. Morning eventually comes, and you feel someone is holding you from behind. A set of hands grope your body as you wake up. 

“Morning, love. Ready for round two?”

[ultram0th]

December 02: Wolfe Glick

00 │ 01 │ 02

“Welcome back to my channel,” streamer and PokéTuber Wolfe Glick said as he flashed his audience one of his cute smiles, “tonight we’re gonna do some Tera Raid battles…”

The cute hunk was in his recording room at his house, enjoying the heater blasting and warming up the winter air. He sat in front of his camera with his dual screen system on the desk in front of him— one screen showing Pokémon Violet and the other his chat. Wolfe had won scores of adoring fans due in part to his status as a world champion in Pokémon battling and because of his cute nerdy guy aesthetic. Still, it was obvious that he took care of himself, as was evident by his toned muscles that were barely visible beneath his tight tank top.

Wolfe got the game set up and began to read off the chat, thanking the donations that were starting to come in.  He paused when he saw that a new username, HypnoGuy72, had posted a gif that looked like a spiral that was circling around in a mesmerizing manner into the chat that was continuously scrolling.

The man cocked his eyebrow in confusion as he stared at it, his muscles gradually relaxing as his jaw went slack.

As the rest of the comments popped up, the gif disappeared down the line and Wolfe snapped out of his daze.

“Whoa, um… sorry about that,” Wolfe muttered, shaking his head as he wondered just why he’d spaced out. He blushed a little bit and cleared his throat as he grabbed his pro controller. “Um, let’s go ahead and get started, shall we?”

As he played, Wolfe started to squirm a little in his seat, seemingly unable to stay still for some reason. The presence of his webcam, with its shiny glass eye, weighed heavily on the streamer’s mind unlike ever before, and the more the chat spoke up, the more Wolfe began to feel some sort of giddy excitement.

Obviously, Wolfe loved to stream, which was why he followed down this career path, but he’d never felt his heart race so heavily in his chest before… nor had he ever gotten so rock hard on stream before.

Wolfe flinched when he felt his cock plump up to its full size, thankful that it was hidden underneath his desk. His heart raced even faster, and Wolfe even had to wonder if it was because of embarrassment or excitement.

For some strange reason, the streamer felt a foreign exhilaration at the thought of being hard on stream. He wanted to try his best to ignore it and try to finish the stream, forcing himself to play the game before him.

“Um, so we can go ahead and face this six star raid— Ooohhh.” Wolfe’s eyes widened to the size of saucers as he broke off mid-sentence, bellowing out a low moan. He winced when he finally registered that one hand held his pro controller, while the other thumbed a hard nipple.

Wolfe felt his face turn bright red as he realized that not only had he just played with his nipple on stream for all of his followers to see, but he’d also enjoyed it as was evident by his hard cock.

“What the hell is up with me?” he muttered under his breath before turning back to face the camera full on, again, his heart racing once he was on-screen dead on. “Um, yeah, sorry about that guys…”

He trailed off when he heard the pro controller clatter onto the hard desk. As if they had a mind of their own, both of Wolfe’s hands moved on their own accord up towards his tank top. They roughly yanked on the neck hole to bring it downwards so that his plump pecs were entirely exposed. He didn’t know what was going on, but as soon as his hands latched onto his sensitive nipples for the stream to lust over, all Wolfe could do was moan loudly.

Wolfe tried to tell himself to stop, but the more he saw the chat respond, the less control over his actions he appeared to have.

The stunned hunk felt himself raise one arm, flexing a sizable bicep for the camera. He inwardly screamed as he felt himself lean forward and lick it seductively, moaning loudly for everyone watching. All the while, his other hand still toyed with his nipple.

Wolfe felt as if he were a puppet tied to strings, and someone other than himself was in charge of his actions. He desperately tried to stop feeling himself up on camera, but the more he saw people logging in to watch his stream, the more intense his impromptu show turned.

The bewildered hunk tore his pants and boxers down as he scooted his chair further back to allow his hard cock to bob in the air for everyone to gawk at. Despite his inner panic, Wolfe felt a smirk form on his handsome face. 

With one hand, he reached down and wrapped a fist around his throbbing cock and began to jerk it off on camera. With the other, he reached behind himself, sliding a few fingers between his plump cheeks to play with his tight hole. His face twisted into a visage full of utter pleasure and joy as he pursed his thick lips and let out moan after slutty moan.

As he pleasured himself, Wolfe’s body decided to up the ante as it began to bounce slightly on his intruding fingers. Each movement shoved his invading digits further into his sensitive hole, eliciting more hungry moans from the slutty stud. Each impact caused his pecs to bounce a little and he couldn’t stop the little shimmy he added to his waist that caused his cock to wag tantalizingly in the air. Everything he was doing was for a show, and although he was aware of all that he was doing, Wolfe was powerless to stop any of it.

Deep down, Wolfe begged himself to stop, but he wasn’t in control of his body. Worse was that a growing part of himself was loving showing off in such a sexual manner on camera for his thousands of followers to lust after. There was a growing part of him that was excited to be naked and jerking off like a camboy whore for all to see, and that thought made his cock throb even more.

The chat exploded with donations and cheers from men enjoying the show, many of them subscribing in the hopes that there’d be more to see. Wolfe was too caught up in pleasuring himself that he didn’t see HypnoGuy72’s new comment flash upon the screen: 

That little spiral hypnotized the poor stud into becoming a camwhore. He can’t help but act like a gay slut whenever he’s on camera now!

“Uunghh!” Wolfe squealed as his cock shot out streams of cum that landed all over his chest. He panted as he tried to catch his breath, his pecs heaving with the motion.

The dazed streamer struggled to piece together what had just happened. Deep down, he was humiliated over his seemingly uncontrollable actions, but there also existed a large part of himself that had loved the whole experience. 

He’d loved it so much that, despite having just came, his cock was already rock hard all over again as the naked stud sat in front of the camera.

He smirked again. “Ready for Round Two?” he asked his followers, as he began to thumb his hard nipples again.

[wri0thesley]

I do not know if you still think about Lyney, but I cannot get the idea of Lyney and bondage out of my brain -

i might not POST about lyney very often but . . . oh i THINK abt him.... his celebrity status giving him easy access to whoever he wants, his fatui ties, his tricksy nature . . . he has so much potential i should write about him MORE

He's humming under his breath as he works, and you can feel his breath against your shoulder as one finger carefully tests the tension of the ropes he's currently affixing to your wrists.

"Is this really necessary, Mr Magician?" You ask, in a breathy voice, as one of his fingers slowly trails up the soft skin of your inner arm. Lyney chuckles.

"Incredibly," he assures you. "What kind of magic trick would it be if I didn't ensure that you can't interfere with my workings?"

"You still haven't told me exactly what magic trick you're going to be testing out," you point out, but by now Lyney is pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck and pulling back from you with a flourish. Although you cannot see the rope, you guess that he has just tied it in an ostentatious bow. Always a fan of the aesthetics of the show, this one. "What if it's dangerous?"

"You wound me," he tells you earnestly, coming back around and pressing one hand to his heart. The little costume you'd put on for this bit of roleplay - all matching reds and blacks of Lyney's own outfit, thigh-high stockings and a tiny little frill of a skirt - suddenly seems very warm. "I would never hurt my favourite beautiful assistant! Here. Would a flower convince you of my intentions?"

He does another flourish of his hand, all twisting wrists and clever fingers (you know firsthand just how clever those fingers are) and before you know it, he has produced a Rainbow Rose from seemingly out of nowhere. He gives you one of those smiles he is so well-known for; a flash of fang, the slightest upturn of his pretty mouth.

"Oh," he says, in faux concern. "But with your hands tied . . . Ah, well. It will look just as pretty here." He tucks it deftly behind your ear, and then steps back to admire his handiwork. You manage to turn your head just enough to see that he has indeed tied the ropes (red, naturally) around your wrists in a bow, just like a present. His fingers twitch.

"There," he hums, and before you can say anything else, Lyney has grasped you about the waist and used his surprisingly substantial strength to shift you, so that you're sitting more fully on the chair of the desk in his room. He slides to his knees with a wicked grin on his face, and nuzzles his cheek like a cat into the soft flesh that spills over top of your stockings.

"You still haven't told me what kind of magic trick this is . . ." You huff, but you're feeling a little insensible from where Lyney's face is; from the way he gives a soft kiss to that skin, to the fact you can feel the heated core of you wettening at the puff of his breath over it. The costume you're wearing is flimsy all over; Lyney smiles as he reaches a finger out and slowly draws a line between the plump lips of your labia, where the fabric is tight enough to cling to it.

"It's one specially for you," he promises. "I just need to make sure that your hands are occupied so that you don't rob me of my concentration, my love!" That finger slides up and down the fabric again, a fraction stronger. You whine, shifting on the table, as he presses over the place your clit is pulsing.

"L-Lyney--"

"Mm?" He smiles up at you, and his eyes are wicked, and the sight of him between your thighs makes you dizzy. "Just wait and see!" You hear a strange noise, like a snap, and suddenly there is warm breath directly on your sex with no fabric to separate you and Lyney's mouth. Lyney sighs in pleasure, his tongue pink and quick as a cat's as it darts out to lick his lips. "After all . . . a good magician never reveals his secrets."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Days of Yore

Warnings: some dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: You show up uninvited but are welcomed nonetheless.

Character: Geralt of Rivia

Day Twenty-Five of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt -an unexpected guest at the holiday get together.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Wow,” you gape up at the immaculate array of lights strung across the facade. “This place is amazing. Who’s house is this?” 

“A friend of a friend’s, I don’t know,” Wendy shrugs. 

“A friend... Oh? Are you sure it’s okay we’re here?” You wonder with a furrow between your brows. You now feel a bit foolish for getting all done up when you might not even have been invited. 

“Open invite! Besides, no one will notice,” she assures you. 

“Right,” you mutter doubtfully. 

“Loosen up. What else do you got going on, huh?” She grabs your hand and pulls you through the open iron gates. They accentuate the medieval effect of the house. Now you don’t feel done up enough. 

“Not much, I guess,” you admit. If anything, you’ll get a bit of free food then ditch. It's not the first time you’ve unintentionally party-crashed with your wayward friend. 

“You know Sienna, it will be fine,” she tuts and comes up to the front doors.  

Again, you’re awed by the aesthetic of it all. You notice that the lights aren’t coloured, but only white, and the decor doesn’t bear the typical Santa or candy cane theme. In fact, it all has a historic tint. Traditional in a strange way. Dried oranges hung on long strings and holly twisted into bunches. For a moment, you’re remind of that dusty history degree hidden in the back of your closet. 

Wendy knocks with the heavy iron knocker. She waits and chatters as she wiggles her legs below her short skirt. She didn’t dress for the temperature. She searches the door frame and grumbles. 

“You think someone who could afford this place would have a doorcam or something,” she chuffs out a cloud of steam. 

The door opens and startles you both. You look over as Wendy as good as jumps inside. She seizes the woman who keeps a hand on the door. 

“Kami! You look... nice,” she holds her and gives her an eye up and down, “is this velvet?” She drags her hands down the green fabric. 

“Designer,” Kami pushes away her touch. “You brought a friend.” 

“Yeah, Sienna said so--” 

“Mm, sure, it’s just... whatever. No one will notice,” Kami rolls her eyes. “You have to come. Lucas has the funniest story! I was just dying.” 

Your shoulders fall and you clasp your hands together. You trail after, unwelcome and unacknowledged. Uninvited. You frown and silently configure how you can excuse yourself and leave. If you wait long enough, Wendy will forget about you. It might be easier to sneak out. 

You stop to hang your coat with all the rest and Kami makes a point of telling you to take your boots off. The floors are old wood, polished and well-kept. The entire house is immaculate. An antique on its own. 

You follow them into a high-ceilinged room adorned in strings of threaded popcorn and dried clusters of flowers. The air is fragrant as mulled cider steams in a heated bowl on a table, copper cups waiting to be filled, and dishes of appetizers in a line. The smell makes your stomach churn hungrily. 

“Who the hell owns this place?” Wendy asks the question nibbling on your ears. 

“Oh, he’s a funny guy,” Kami chuckles. “A bit... eccentric. Sienna’s been trying to loosen him up a bit, I mean... look at this house. That’s a good bag.” 

You try not to show your disapproval. You don’t have much luck with men but hearing the way some of your friends talk about them, you don’t know that you’re cut out for it all. It really doesn’t seem that anyone is out for a genuine connection, they just want a good set-up.

Can you really blame them? You’ve been handwashing your clothes since your building hiked up the machine prices. Turns out a couple quarters can really break the bank. 

Your guilt compounds as you realise that you’ve cosigned this entire extortionate affair. This party seems to have been a ploy by a hopeful prize winner. You know Sienna and she’s always sure to show you her Fenti and point out the label, though she can never remember the name of the man who bought it. 

“So what? He gave her full run to do all this? It's not really her... style. I expected more pink,” Wendy scoffs. 

“Nope, he’s a tight ass apparently. They were up for nights making the decorations and the food.” 

“What?” She squeals in surprises as your whispers from your mouth. That’s a lot of work. 

“Very old-fashioned,” Kami remarks. “But he’s not just rich you know, he’s fucking hot.” 

“Ah, jackpot,” Wendy giggles. 

You keep behind them, as good as hiding behind them. You bob and clutch your purse as Lucas excitedly hugs Wendy and Sienna drunkenly echoes him. You know a few of the partygoers standing with them but none of them even look in your direction. It seems Wendy’s already forgotten you. 

This is why you said no at first. This is how it always goes but she begged and begged, guilting you fro making her show up alone. What about you? Why is it okay to ditch you every time? 

You glance around. There are just as many strangers and none of them seem eager to mingle past their trio or pairing. You wish Wendy mentioned the dress code. You don’t think your H&M clearance rack attire is very suiting. 

As an elbow hits your arm, you back up. No apology. You’re a piece of decor to these people. You back up and turn. Well, no one else seems to want to indulge. What a weird party. 

You go to the table and take a cup. It’s times like these that you enjoy being invisible. College was tough, you longed to be noticed, to be like the other girls. Since then, you’ve grown comfortable with just being there. It’s much safer. 

You ladle the cider into a mug and the steam roils from the top. A slice of blood orange and a few cranberries float in the rich amber liquid. You blow over it and retreat. The warmth is a comfort. It makes you feel a little less out-of-place. 

As you turn, you nearly collide with another. You bring your other hand up to steady the cup and barely keep from sloshing the cider all over. You squeak and step back on your heel, your eyes skimming up the large figure in front of you.  

You haven’t seen eyes like those since... 

“Geralt?” You utter dumbly. 

He looks down at you. He looks different but not. He always had his own vibe. The white hair, the bright eyes, he wore his individuality without meaning too. Yet some things are his own doing. 

When you were in Early Modern History or Medieval Weaponry and Warfare together, he always dressed as if the clocks were set back to the Victorian era. Stiff jackets, high collared shirts, even a pocket watch. He was a bit of a dweeb then but too big for anyone to say so. And he was the only person who wanted to talk about history outside the lectures.��

Now he wears a tunic, silver trim on black, slightly less stuffy but just as dated. Half of his hair is twisted back behind his head, the tails of it spilling past his shoulders. 

He says your name and tilts his head, “I didn’t invite you.” 

It’s a statement that makes your heart sink. You peer down at your cup then around the room. “I’m sorry, my friend, she knows Sienna, she--” 

“It’s good to see you,” he interrupts. “It’s been a very long time.” 

You wince and dare to look at him again. “Yes, college was a while ago.” You slanted your lips and press your hands to the hot metal cup. “This is your house? It’s very nice.” 

“It is. I don’t often entertain, so mind the cobwebs,” he intones. He still has that way of speaking; so matter-of-fact. “It wasn’t my idea.” 

“Mm, right,” you nod. 

“Is the cider good? I found the recipe in an old journal from 1764.” 

“Of course you did,” you hold back a laugh. 

“Of course...” he begins to repeat curiously. 

“It’s all very you, is all,” you say. 

“I suppose,” he agrees. 

You smile shakily and swallow. You make yourself try the cider. It’s hot but not scalding. A very spiced. Not in a bad way, you just don’t expect that much. 

“Mm, it’s... heady.” 

“Mulled for days,” he explains. He shifts on his feet and smooths his tunic. “Can I show you something?” 

“Um, sure,” you accept. “It’s not the door, is it?” 

He lets out a small snort, “leave the cider.” 

You peer around and he takes the cup from you. He puts it down on a leather coaster on a tall wooden table and beckons you after him. You peek back as you sense a hush and notice that Sienna and the rest of them are watching. Great, they already don’t care much for you. 

Geralt stops and waits for you to catch up to him. The staircase is wide enough for both of you. Your ascent is quiet, almost torturously so. 

“You did not bring a boyfriend?” He asks. 

You nearly laugh at the abrupt question. You get to the top of the stairs and he gestures you left. 

“Well, I’d bring my cat. He’s the only guy sleeping in my bed,” you kid. 

He hums but doesn’t comment. 

“So, how’d you meet Sienna?” You ask. 

He shrugs and stops to open a door. He pushes it inward and reaches around the frame to turn on the lights. He waits for you to enter first. You do with a gasp at the interior. 

The walls are hung with various weaponry and you can tell at a glance that it’s genuine. It’s like walking into a museum. You traipse forward as you stare and barely notice the door click shut. 

“Wow, how—Geralt, how the heck—what do you do? I mean, how can you afford all this?” 

“I make replicas for TV and stage productions,” he explains. “This is my personal collection.” 

“It’s... wow,” you hug yourself, feeling even smaller than before. 

He’s quiet again. That’s just how he’s always been. He never said more than he needed to. It made studying very easy. 

“You asked about Sienna. She is persistent but we are older now. I don’t see her as viable,” he says. Again, just a fact, nothing emotional. 

“Oh, uh, well, I heard otherwise. Maybe you should tell her that,” you chuckle nervously as you admire the executioner’s sword with its blunt tip. 

“Perhaps,” he agrees as he slowly crosses the room to stand next to you. “I’m... pleased that you showed up. It is a coincidence, isn’t it?” 

“Sure, must be,” you agree. 

You keep your eyes on the groove in the blade as you feel his on you. You sidle along and turn your head away from him. The door is shut. He stays close. 

“Here,” he steps around you, startling you. 

You spin as he goes to a large wooden chest on a table. “The smaller things are in here. Thumb screws, some daggers...” he flips open the lid as you turn and follow, keeping your distance. He holds up a curved blade, possibly a jambiya. “Hm, come,” he waves you around as he reaches in again, “you’ll like this one.” 

You sway before you move, hands clasped to each other. You slowly pace around to him and he moves so quickly you nearly stagger. In a moment, there’s a weight around your wrists. You cry out and raise your manacled arms. 

“Geralt!” You exclaim. 

He laughs. You don’t hear that often. You look at him and tug on the chain. 

“Centuries old but they are strong still, yes?” 

You frown, “please, it’s not funny. I don’t like it.” 

“Aren’t they wonderful?” 

“No, Geralt, please, take them off.” 

“Hm, I’d have to find the key...” 

“Don’t play,” you warn. 

His laughter trickles off and his face returns to its stoic mask. He stares at you. Silence rises and roils around you as the chain clinks in the loops of the cuffs and you fidget. You wait for him to pull out the key and undo them. 

Instead, he hooks a thick finger around the links and tugs until your arms are above you. He holds you like that, trapped and prone. You shudder as you stare up at him, terrified at the glint in his pale eyes. 

“I’m not playing,” he intones. “I’ve been waiting to get you in those. Far too long.” 

[slasherparty]

Jennifer Check headcanons for being best friends with her please?

this is so wholesome anon :’) 💌 here you go!

being best friends with jennifer 💭

she calls you at midnight, every midnight, without fail. not because she has anything in particular to say, but because the night is vast and full of things that whisper, and your voice is the only thing she trusts not to lie to her.

she steals little things from you — your favorite lip balm, a paperback novel you’ve read a hundred times, a threadbare hoodie. she never admits it, but they show up in her room, carelessly tossed onto her bed, like trophies of the fact that she knows you better than anyone else.

she drags you to strange places at strange hours. an abandoned playground at dawn. a forgotten diner on the edge of town where the neon sign flickers like morse code. a clearing in the woods where the air feels heavier, older, as if it remembers something it shouldn’t. she always says it’s “for the aesthetic,” but you think she’s looking for something, or someone.

she knows all your secrets without you having to tell her. she never uses them against you — at least not seriously — but she’ll tease you mercilessly about that crush you swore you got over two years ago or the way you hum when you’re nervous.

when you’re upset, she doesn’t try to fix it. she just sits with you, offering you the kind of quiet solidarity that feels like wrapping yourself in a blanket made of sunlight. sometimes she’ll braid your hair, her hands soft and steady, and you’ll think for a moment that everything might be okay.

she’s fiercely protective of you, even though she pretends not to care. if someone so much as looks at you wrong, her eyes narrow, and her smile sharpens into something wolfish. you’ve learned to let her handle it because she will handle it.

she has a way of making the mundane magical. a trip to the mall becomes an adventure to the “world’s least enchanted castle.” a study session turns into a séance, complete with candlelight and whispered incantations.

she’s always late, but she always shows up. even if it’s two hours past when she said she’d meet you, she arrives in a whirlwind of excuses, charm, and a fun drink she bought to make it up to you.

she teases you constantly but won’t let anyone else do the same. if someone tries, she shuts them down with a single glance, her tone dripping with venom. “Only I get to bully them,” she’ll say, flashing you a grin that’s equal parts affection and possession.

she touches you more than she touches anyone else. a hand on your shoulder, a finger trailing down your arm, a nudge of her knee against yours. it’s casual, easy, but it feels like a spell — a tether tying you to her.

she gives you nicknames no one else is allowed to use. they’re always slightly mocking but weirdly endearing, like “Nerdling” or “My Little Disaster.”

when she smiles at you, it feels like being let in on a secret. the kind of secret that makes the world a little brighter, a little stranger, a little more worth being in.

she always knows what you need, even before you do. a cup of hot chocolate on a bad day. a playlist of songs she swears remind her of you. a sudden, unexpected “You’re not as annoying as everyone else, you know,” muttered into the quiet like a benediction.

she makes you feel like you’re the main character in a story she’s telling. and maybe you are, or maybe she just knows how to make the world feel like a stage. either way, you don’t mind.

thanks for reading!! 💌

you can find more of my writing here on ao3!

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

art history album moodboard – strange trails by lord huron

The Hunter in the Forest – Caspar David Friedrich // Norwegian Landscape with a Waterfall – August Wilhelm Leu // Sawn Oak – Ivan Shishkin // Lake in Fog – August Cappelen // Codex Runicus – unknown author // Forest Interior – Berndt Lindholm // Procession in the Fog – Ernst Ferdinand Oehme // Forest Interior – Berndt Lindholm // Morning Mist in the Mountains – Caspar David Friedrich // Edge of the Forest – Józef Szermentowski // Wolf – Alfred Wierusz-Kowalski // Landscape Study with a Precipice – August Cappelen // Evening in the Woods – Worthington Whittredge // Waft of Mist – Caspar David Friedrich // Forest Road – Albert Zimmermann

[bones-ivy-breath]

The Night We Met by Lord Huron

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 09 - "Obsession"

Ruckmearkha prefered male spiderpaws because he understood the cock, the hunt, the need to hold a weaker creature down and destroy it so no one else could ever have it again. This was the most correct and natural urge. Some female spiderpaws had this too but it was rare, and strange, and somewhat distasteful to the efheby. They were made to be prey. There were sheep that bit too, but no one laid awake at night fearing their teeth.

Regardless, rarely, Ruckmearkha encountered a woman whose fragrance caused his venom glands to swell taut as ripe hedgeapples, and the scent patch across to chest to weep its coffee-coloured ichor. Sometimes… sometimes they excited.

One night, Ruck was so freshly awakened from the ogre caves that the earth still circled the roots of his tentacles, and crusted like sleep in his bleary eyes. Few dreams blossomed in that long, tarry hibernation. It had been an impression of viscera that had stirred him; of intestines uncurling from a slit stomach. He knew the smell of opened bowels, of fecal stink and the stinks of chewed food and acrid bile that progressed towards it. He'd rolled over and wanted to see those colours and smell that aroma again.

Trailing ogre earth still, he'd come across the crime scene too late. She'd been gone. But the victim remained: a young woman gutted beneath a pier, her insides now outside and the little crabs picking through them like finicky crones fingering melons at the market.

Ruck marvelled at the glistening organs all acrawl with arteries, besotted with blood. He found spiderpaws more beautiful beneath their skin. Clever little constructs, their soft flesh tented across sturdy frames, their most important secrets hidden in ivory cages.

Through a moonless night he'd followed the killer's bloody footprints, burning with a desire to win an aesthete, or at least someone whose soul would be heavy with uncommon traumas. Most spiderpaws were the same, he'd found. They wore identities like the most superficial clothing; the bodies beneath were all of too like a kind.

He did not let this body scream. When he tracked the motion of a woman turning towards him, startled, from a black doorway, he shot forward and upon her with all the weight of a god's judgement. Her bloody knife flew off into the night. His great shoulders splintered the door frame as he crushed her squirming panic to the ground, tentacles gone rigid around her smaller head, her torso, her arms, locking her to him. Two inches of fang punched through her neck. His glands pumped once, twice. The ecstasy of an efheby's purpose thrilled through him, jolting from the back of his tongue to the fire now awakened in his loins.

In an efheby, those loins were like a stag's horns. His prick existed to assert dominance. It rose and penetrated to humble a rival.

But no rival here. Only a curiosity. The most helpless and mewling scream gurgled from her, battling in her throat around the liquid intrusion of golden venom and her own coursing blood. With his huge right hand Ruck sought her mouse heart, massaging it through her back. Beat on, beat on, don't quit yet! It obeyed, a second syringe, dominated by the potent poison of his bite to palpitate in an alien rhythm. She grew slack even as she gasped, but it was not a distressed sound. She was happy! And Ruck was happy - as he had always been happy - that the rodents so seemed to worship and enjoy his attention.

Long starved, the efheby gnawed at her neck and could not stop his overfull glands from pumping again and again, swelling her beyond anything she could survive. Her body filled with him. Her skin puffed and lifted away from her bones. Venom seeped like liquid sunlight from her eyes and nostrils. She glowed burning hot in his hands, vibrating with her own pulse. He loved her in that instant more than-- why, more than he'd loved anything in the last few instants, haha!

Around her his bulk knotted, and they became a single amber muscle of feasting and need and adoration. His scent patch gushed, washing her in sticky ownership. She was claimed. She was his. She would never be anyone else's.

He let her soak. The night watched. An owl hooted far away, hearing the successful hunt. Envious? Haha!

Then Ruckmearkha began to drink his mouse.

Captured by the net of his venom, all the murderess' long years and longer soul hissed between his lips and down his abyssal throat. A prize this young he would drink all in one gulp.

Bitter terror of infancy, sweet nectar of childhood. With adolescence came complexity, and this was always Ruckmearkha's favourite. That first bloom of lust in untried parts; always a disappointment when dulled by shame, but no, no shame here. She had kissed a girl and realised she'd found where she belonged.

Ruck shifted his hold on her. The tentacle securing her head to his mouth dug between her lips, down her throat, but she was beyond feeling; beyond caring. A niggling tickle of blood rolled down his temple but was wiped away by the small hand there. Then it stroked her hair and he told her - secretly, wordlessly, in the whisper only he could whisper - that he would protect her forever.

Because the girl she had loved had not. The girl had been beaten by her father, and was too afraid to run away with her lover to some promised land for which she could show no receipts. Ruckmearkha tasted the rage that had risen in her then, and though it was a very familiar flavour, he radiated approval. Yes. The knife had slashed. And it had not slashed only to kill, but to torment, to open the inside to the outside, to splay open to the night what she had wanted for herself but which she would have to steal because it would never be given.

The body still was alive when Ruck swallowed the last of its secrets. To obscure his bite, he instinctively twisted off its head, threw it far away, slithered repulsed from the mess. Would the rodents say the father had killed his daughter and her demonic friend in order to restore his honour? Were they still doing that?

It would not surprise him!

Always little changes, here and there, every time he awoke. But never too changed. Always, in some way, deeply familiar. And may the simpering motherfuckers remain so, if they valued their future.

[princesskenny1998]

One Piece | Eustass Kid x KidPirate!f!softdom!reader ~ Perfect (smut)

The crew of the Victoria Punk was used to being stared at—their reputation preceded them wherever they went, and they were known as some of the fiercest and most ruthless pirates on the sea. Eustass Kid’s name alone sent shivers down the spines of Marines and other pirates alike. However, you always managed to draw just as many stares for an entirely different reason.

The soft pastel pink of your dress swayed gently in the breeze as you strode down the deck, a stark contrast to the dark, punk-rock aesthetic of the Kid Pirates around you. The crew wore leather, chains, and heavy boots, all blacks and reds, while you favored flowing skirts, white lace, and an occasional pastel bow in your hair. Even your weapons—deadly as they were—were tucked neatly into a dainty white leather holster embroidered with pink flowers. Your demeanor was sweet, polite, and friendly to an almost disarming degree.

The regular townsfolk who watched you and the crew dock always looked baffled, some even whispering to themselves, wondering how a woman as gentle-looking as you ended up with a pirate crew like Kid’s. What they didn’t know, what they couldn’t know, was how you had Kid himself wrapped around your little finger—how you held the true power in your relationship with the infamous pirate captain.

It was subtle, of course. Kid still stomped around and bellowed orders in public, his brash and wild nature on full display. He still struck fear into the hearts of anyone who dared to oppose him, his iron fists ready to break any threat to pieces. But when it was just the two of you, behind closed doors, the dynamic was completely different. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and the thrill of knowing that you could command a man like Kid with just a few words or a single look was intoxicating.

You had learned early on how much Kid craved the feeling of power, how much he thrived on control—except when it came to you. With you, he surrendered that control willingly, and you loved every second of it.

The door to the captain’s quarters creaked shut behind you, and Kid’s eyes were already on you, his usual arrogance tempered with something softer, almost expectant. You walked toward him, your boots clicking softly against the wooden floor as you closed the distance, every step deliberate.

“Sit,” you instructed, your voice gentle but commanding, and Kid obeyed immediately, settling back onto the edge of your massive bed. The bed creaked under his weight, but he didn’t break eye contact with you. His broad shoulders, usually held high with authority, seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if he were waiting for you to take the lead.

You stood in front of him, your dress billowing slightly around you, and smiled sweetly as you slowly lifted one foot, showing off the white lace socks that peeked out from your over-the-knee boots. “Take them off,” you said simply, a hint of playful mischief in your eyes. “Now.”

Kid’s eyes darkened at your words, his jaw tightening just a bit, but he didn’t hesitate. He reached forward, his strong hands moving to the buckles of your boots with a strange sort of reverence. He pulled at the leather, loosening the straps and slipping the first boot off with care, his fingers brushing against the delicate lace of your sock. Then he moved to the other boot, following the same routine—every movement slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment.

“Good boy,” you murmured, and you felt a rush of satisfaction when you saw the way his gaze flickered with excitement at the praise, his usual defiance melting away under the weight of your approval.

As he removed the second boot, you balanced your foot on his thigh, the white lace socks soft against him. His fingers trailed up your ankle, pausing at the top of the sock where the lace met your bare thigh, but he didn’t move further—he knew better than to act without permission. You had trained him well.

“Go on,” you said, your voice firm but gentle. “Take them off, too.”

His fingers trembled slightly as he obeyed, carefully peeling the first sock down, rolling it over your calf and foot until it slipped free. You let your foot rest in his hand for a moment, enjoying the way he looked up at you from his seated position, the usual fire in his eyes tempered with something more submissive.

“Other one,” you said, your tone almost casual.

He nodded, quickly moving to the second sock. You watched him work, taking in the way his usually rough and forceful hands were now gentle, careful not to snag the delicate fabric. He slid the sock down slowly, as if dragging out the moment for as long as possible, his attention focused entirely on you.

When both socks were off, he sat back, his hands resting on his knees, waiting for your next instruction. There was no hint of rebellion or arrogance in his posture—only the unspoken promse that he was yours to command, that he would do whatever you asked without question.

You let a slow smile spread across your face, feeling the thrill of power surge through you, and you reached down, running your fingers through his unruly red hair, tugging it lightly. Kid’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low sound of pleasure escaping his lips, and you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him.

“Good boy,” you said again, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your lips. “Now, let’s see how well you can really behave for me.”

Kid’s eyes snapped open, his expression a mix of longing and obedience, and you could see the desire burning there—the need to be everything you wanted, to be the man who would bow to you without losing an ounce of his strength or fire. It was intoxicating, knowing that you held the reins, that you could bring out this side of him whenever you wanted.

“Yes,” he rasped, his voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper. “Whatever you say.”

And in that moment, the fierce, unstoppable pirate captain—the man feared by so many—was completely and utterly yours, caught in the web you had so carefully and intentionally spun.

Kid’s eyes stayed locked on yours, his normally wild and unpredictable nature tamed, held in check by the unspoken promise of your command. You stroked his hair again, feeling the tension in his shoulders melt away as you rewarded him with that simple touch. There was a storm of emotions in his gaze—desire, longing, and a kind of deep, unfathomable trust. It was rare for him to let his guard down like this, but he did it for you, and that was something you never took for granted.

“My good boy,” you repeated, softer this time, your fingers sliding from his hair to his jaw. You tilted his chin up, forcing him to look at you, to focus entirely on you and nothing else. His breathing hitched at your touch, and you saw the shudder that ran through him—so subtle that only you, who knew him so well, would catch it.

He was always like this with you—hungry for your approval, craving the praise that you alone gave him. He lived for these moments, where you were in control, where you set the pace and he willingly followed, letting himself be yours in a way he’d never allow anyone else. It was a secret between you, a hidden side of the fearsome pirate captain that no one else would ever see.

“Get on your knees,” you said, your voice low but commanding. It wasn’t a request, and you could see the way his eyes widened slightly at the order, a spark of excitement igniting in them. He hesitated only for a fraction of a second before obeying, sliding off the edge of the bed and kneeling before you, his broad hands resting on your thighs as he looked up at you with an expression that was almost reverent.

Your pastel dress, a stark contrast to the dark, rugged surroundings of the ship’s cabin, draped around you like a waterfall of soft color. It framed you perfectly, the light fabric highlighting the power you held in this moment—a power you knew Kid adored. You leaned forward, letting your fingers trail down the column of his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse under your touch.

“What do you want, Kid?” you asked, your tone teasing and gentle. You knew exactly what he wanted, of course, but you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted him to tell you how much he craved you, how much he wanted to obey.

His jaw clenched, the roughness of his features betraying the internal struggle—always so proud, so confident, and yet here, with you, he was willing to shed that pride without hesitation. “I want… to please you,” he said, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours. “I want to be good for you.”

A pleased smile curved your lips, and you leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead again, feeling the way he exhaled shakily against you. “You are good for me,” you murmured. “But you can do better, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed, the desperation in his voice barely contained. “I’ll do anything.”

His words sent a thrill down your spine, and you felt your control over him tighten like a leash. There was something intoxicating about having a man like Eustass Kid—the very embodiment of chaos and power—kneeling before you, waiting for your next command with bated breath. You knew he could break anyone who stood in his way, knew how dangerous he was, but here, in this room, he was as tame as a loyal dog.

“Good,” you said simply, stepping back just enough to give him room to move. “Then show me.”

Without hesitation, Kid’s hands moved to the hem of your dress, his calloused fingers careful as he lifted the fabric up and over your hips. He was thorough, his eyes hungry as he drank in every detail of you, his rough exterior barely containing the intensity of his need. His hands trembled slightly as they brushed against the delicate lace of your lingerie, the contrast between the softness of the fabric and the ruggedness of his hands only heightening the tension.

You allowed him this moment, watching as he worked with the kind of patience that didn’t come naturally to him, his hands careful not to tear or damage anything. He looked up at you for approval, a silent question in his eyes, and you nodded, giving him permission to continue. The relief and excitement that flashed across his face made your heart race.

As he moved closer, his breath warm against the inside of your thigh, you felt a rush of power—knowing that you were the only one who could make him like this, make him surrender so completely. You tucked his hair gently, urging him on, and he responded with a fervor that left you gasping. His hands were firm but careful, his movements slow and deliberate, taking his time as if savoring every moment of your approval.

“Good boy,” you whispered again, the words tumbling out as you felt your own control slipping just a fraction. It was a balancing act—the way you kept him on edge, kept him wanting and needing—and you knew he lived for the praise you gave him, the validation that he was enough, that he was doing exactly what you wanted.

His pace quickened at the praise, his grip tightening ever so slightly, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips as he buried himself deeper in the task you’d given him. You let him guide you closer to the edge, your breath coming faster, your fingers tangling in his red hair as you held him to you, feeling his desperate need to please you radiating off of him in waves.

Time seemed to blur as he worked, his focus unwavering, and you felt your control slipping further and further until you couldn’t hold back any longer. The tension coiled tight in your body, building higher and higher until it finally snapped, and you cried out, your grip on him tightening as the pleasure washed over you.

Kid held you through it, his strong hands never wavering as you rode out the waves of your release, his eyes half-lidded and dark with satisfaction as he watched you come undone. You let out a shaky breath, your body relaxing into his touch, and you gave him a slow, appreciative smile as you gently pulled him back, away from you, his chest heaving as he looked up at you with a mixture of pride and longing.

“My perfect boy,” you said, and his eyes lit up with a fierce kind of joy that you knew was reserved only for you. He needed your approval, craved it in a way that no one else ever had, and it made him yours—completely and utterly yours.

“Now,” you said, your voice soft but firm as you reached down to lift his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I want you to remember that you’re mine, Eustass. Understand?”

His expression turned serious, and he nodded, his eyes blazing with determination. “I know,” he said, his voice rough and hoarse. “I’m yours.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his lips, tasting the lingering heat of your release. “Good boy,” you whispered one last time, and you felt the shiver that ran through him at the words, knowing that they were exactly what he wanted—exactly what he needed.

For now, you were content to keep him wrapped around your finger, to let him bask in the moments when he surrendered to you completely. He might be the captain of this ship, one of the most feared pirates on the seas, but when it came down to it, he was yours in every way that mattered.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[saintetheldredablogshorrormovies]

no you dont understand cursed is so so quintessentially lord huron in such a major way. cause lord huron as a whole but i think strange trails in particular is about how the hopeless complexity and messiness and strangeness of the human experience can be transformed into something disarmingly simple, understandable and unexplainably familiar through music. in my eyes thats why the band relies so much on vintage aesthetics (presenting these strange things in a way that somehow seems old and timelessly familiar) and the charming scrappy diy aesthetic of the music videos. why the production of the songs always strives to sound epic and grand but in a way that also feels a little fuzzy and a little rough around the edges

and the premise of strange trails makes this really central to the songs with the idea that these are all songs by different people performed at the same dive bar. because the things that happened in these songs at the time must have been really damn emotional and often quite fucked up. but now theyre just songs in a dive bar. thats what happens to even the craziest things with time (long lost and time's blur anyone?). the stories are gone but the dive bar is left...

and cursed is such a perfection of this vision in my eyes. that lord huron trademark comedy/whimsy mixed with tragedy. the familiar (beautifully familiar and timeless love song cliches threaded all throughout it) mixed with the magical (THERE ARE RUNES ON MY SKIN-). the hoping/dreaming mixed with impossibility, stasis and despair. the wanderlust mixed with confinement. the love mixed with bitter resentment. there is no answer to the paradoxes in this song. they just are.

its all that messy complexity of human emotions in a melody that is resolutely cheerful, easygoing and fun, but kind of resigned. like its too tired to be anything else. what is even left at the end of it all but good music and good times dancing to it with friends in a silly little dive bar. these things seem small and trivial but at the end those are the memories and feelings that outlast all the rest

lord huron at its core has always been about humanising the inconceivable, the frightening, the overawing and the sublime and. and i just love that so much. what a beautiful sentiment to put out as a band in a world that can so often feel overawing, incomprehensible and frightening. and theyre here to just remind us when we start overthinking that no matter what were facing, its all just a matter of simply putting one foot before the other and remembering to live until we die. ugh. i love them...

[zeraaachan]

i wanna be your slave modern au! genshin men x yandere! reader

summary:  in which the reader kidnapped the genshin men, not knowing that they enjoy the chains and the feeling of being their captive. character(s): il dottore, childe, albedo content warning(s): dark content, yandere behavior on both the reader and genshin characters' side, mentions of blood and violence, kidnapping, animal cruelty; they/them pronouns used for reader author's note: got lazy on childe's part. send me some asks plk.

il dottore il dottore is such a strange boy. he sits alone on his corner in the classroom, fiddling with another of his small experiments on his cramped and messy desk. with a crazed grin, he pins different varieties of bugs on his little boards. sometimes it won't even be little bugs. sometimes it will be bigger, a huge mariposa or a particularly large moth. but there are also times where they'll see him pinning something living other than bloodless insects. at times it will be frogs, who'll croak as he pin it alive to one of his flat boards. at days it will be birds, innocent and harmless, yet got their wings clipped by the blue-haired boys maniacal fingers. and at some days, it will be nothing. his board will be empty, void of a poor soul, as his nails rest on his pale palm and he eyes one of their classmates. a mad grin will always settle on the strange kid's half-covered face as his eyes rest on one of their classmates, as his fingers caress his board delicately and murmur something. like a maniac, he look at another human being as if controlling a desire to pin them like one of his poor subjects.

but that is when his eyes are not on them.

il dottore is that strange classmate of them. who wears a mask that covers half of his face and hoods whatever emotion his face displays. they can't even see what color their eyes are.

il dottore is a weird kid, and it's not a personal sentiment that only they have. a lot of their classmates do. what a weird teen that often gets his stomach kicked in the hallways. the blue-hair weirdo who only laughs and shields himself with his arms as some particularly nasty schoolmates assault his body. but strangely enough, the same kids becomes missing the next day if not lose a limb. one even got a hole on their palm as if someone drove a nail on it. huh, strange.

il dottore is a strange kid, a weird classmate, but an interesting one.

when they're feeling particularly intrigued, they'll peek their head over his shoulder as his hands commit crimes against nature. curiously, they'll ask intellectual questions about his pinned subjects and wonder for his purpose on his experiments. does he see it as an aesthetic? is it for a scientific purpose? or does il dottore merely enjoys the sight of a squirming living being, struggling to live and free its bound limbs? more often than not, il dottore doesn't answer… but he murmurs something under his breath, too quiet and even disturbing to be heard by anyone.

once, they felt rather nice, elated by a certain situation that now they forgot. in their good mood, they even decided to interrupt the assault on il dottore's poor body and lend him a hand. ah, he look particularly pretty with that nosebleed. perhaps they should've ignored it for a little more while to see more. but when dottore accepted their hand, his lips contorted into something that is neither a smile or frown, with a line of blood trailing from his nose down to his chin, they thought it was worth it. especially when they saw his crazed eyes on them. it's a beautiful red.

what a lovely addition he is… to their collection of beautiful things.

they're unsure whether the blue-haired boy is simply naïve or careless. he even failed to notice that someone already tampered with his drink. not that they will care if he actually noticed. all that matters is that il dottore is like a butterfly that got caught in their web. now, all for them to take. a blue butterfly for them to pin.

they watched as il dottore slowly wakes up from his unconscious state. as his red eyes takes on his surroundings. a ribbon loosely tied to his neck. more ribbon tied to each of his wrists, binding him to the armchairs of his throne. ah, il dotttore look quite beautiful with mere laces tying him. with easy to be ripped ribbons holding him together, like a present for them. a twisted one.

yes, il dottore looks captivating. but with his mask blocking his face, how can they see his beautiful red eyes?

and so they stepped closer to their lovely subject. they can feel his gaze as they watch them. but whatever emotions brew behind those beautiful ruby eyes of him that hides behind his mask, feels far from a prey. they cannot see it but il dottore's glare feels as if a predator eyeing another predator.

"how pretty." they finally murmured when their hands touch the material of his mask and lifted it from his pale face. how pretty. how beautiful. as the mask that became a part of their weird classmate was finally removed revealing something that is truly worth being displayed underneath. a giddy smiled slowly crawled to their lips as they stand in front of the seated and bound dottore. they watch over him, looking at him in the eye as a pair of ruby stare back at them.

il dottore have that crazed look in his eyes, the same one that glistens when he pins his tiny subjects on their board.

however, this time it is uncertain whether it is them he wants to pin… or it is him that aches to be pinned.

childe childe is dumb, a loud dumbass.

that tall, popular basketball player who is the literal star of the team. who practically shines as he place his hands on his knees to catch his breath as sweat glistens his body. childe, that rich, popular varsity player, who always get the loudest scream when he scores on the court. who sends a playful wink to their direction whenever he successfully made a shot. who more often than not got hit in the face with a ball for being too distracted looking at them. childe, that dumb and loud dumbass, who'll always run to them like a puppy whenever the game ends. who'll present them with a huge happy grin as he takes the bottle of water and towel on their hands.

childe, that loveable but loud dimwit, who'll bend to their height so they can feed him with his favorite snack that they offered.

he's that ginger who'll take a bite from the snack they prepared for him, chew for a moment, before grinning brightly again. as usual, he'll say in his happy-go-lucky tone. "you really know what I like!"

childe, handsome but loud, charming but naïve, popular but dumb. too naïve to even notice the dark look in their eyes and the smirk on their lips as he mindlessly drink the water from the bottle they gave him. too dumb in fact, that he even failed to realize the sinister trap laid for him. what a naïve and dumb ginger.

and since childe is so dumb, they ought to protect him. he's too naïve. innocent. he doesn't know what those flock of girls can do to him. they better protect him… and hide him from everyone.

but where's the naïve and innocent part in the man before them? where's that seemingly carefree ginger on the court? how can the childe they always see at school be the same ginger in front of them, tied with blood trickling down his nose yet he only chuckles. who only laughed louder and more maniacally when they slapped him. who only cooed when they told him that they'll ever let him escape. who now doesn't look at them with innocence and a huge grin but with dazed eyes and a bloody smirk.

where's the naïve and innocent childe? where's that dumb, dumb childe?

but it doesn't really matter, doesn't it? as long as he's theirs. as long as he's tied for them to selfishly play with. as long as he's a captive protected by them.

"i think I'll be keeping you here." they murmured as they straddle his stomach, the leash of the collar on his neck tightly held by them.

but they only got the same reply. a breathy laugh, one that is hard to distinguish between a moan and a chuckle. "you really know what i like." albedo

"how smart are you?"

once, they asked the golden boy, albedo. and it's not an overstatement to call him a 'golden boy'. he practically shines, especially when he sits on the classroom's window, his sketchpad on his knee, as the sound of pencil dancing on paper fills the air. he practically shines when the sunlight grace his light locks and the sun ray kiss his pale, pristine skin. as the wind blows his light hair and he tucks a stray lock behind his ears. ah, albedo, the golden boy. he makes a picturesque scene just by sitting on the window and holding the sun's spotlight.

but albedo is more than just a pretty face. when the heavens rained talent on mortals, albedo is on the cloud, the one  who makes the rain. a talented pretty boy, who's smart enough to advance many grades but strangely enough stayed on their class.

and it made them ask their question. "how smart are you?"

albedo looked at them with his azure eyes, the cunning and beautiful eyes that hides a certain intelligence behind them. not that it is a secret that the man is practically a genius.

"smart enough," he answers them, "to get what I want."

and it made them giddy. albedo is a pretty boy, a smart lad, an interesting kid. and the last matters more than the first two.

that's why albedo shouldn't have found it strange when he felt a hard smack behind his head. the golden boy shouldn't have been surprised when as he walk home on his favorite dark, secluded road, something hard harshly slapped the back of his head. he shouldn't be shocked when he just found himself chained on a chair, in the middle of an unfamiliar room. not that albedo looks shocked in the least. he looks placid, as if he belongs there and is not taken against his will.

and they failed to noticed it.

an euphoric laugh escaped their lips, giddy on the ecstasy of having tevyat academy's golden child in their basement.

"do you want to escape~?" they cooed at albedo, the key to the locks on his chains in their hand. the key, albedo's sole hope to escape, follows their hand movements as they wave it maniacally. "then escape! that is if you're actually smart enough to do so~"

albedo watched them with careful eyes, taking on their high form as they laugh in hysteria. they laugh in triumph as they got him at their mercy, his whole body bound by cold, heavy chains. they laugh in success as finally, they got albedo.

and albedo joined them in their laughter… for this is also his victory.

finally, the days of being interesting paid enough. the many hours of sitting by the window to look particularly captivating, the way he stayed in their class when he could've advanced, the dark, lonely path he takes purposefully to go home… all of it finally paid off.

apparently, albedo is smart enough to get what he wants… chained and a captive of them.