#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?���

[theminecraftbee]

Tango makes a terrible, terrible face as he walks into Grian's new creation. Bit rude, he thinks that is, but whatever. Grian waves his arms out, getting ready to show Tango more than he'd shown him when the practice room was still in-progress, when Tango says:

"What did you do to it?"

"Huh?"

Tango shudders. He folds his arms over himself and looks at Jellie the ravager. "What did you do to it. To this place. Why is it... warm?"

"I mean, it's not really warm, see it's all white so it actually doesn't retain heat very well, even with the froglamps, so I had to do some work to make sure the temperature was appropriate for heavy physical activity while not risking frostbite the way the actual dungeon does, and..."

Grian trails off.

"The point is that it's mostly just, I don't know, mild temperature? Unnoticeable temperature? The fact you commented on it is weird."

There's a strangely echoing quality to Tango's voice as he steps back again, against the door to the practice room. "It's clean."

"Yeah. I mean, that's the aesthetic, isn't it? Wiped clean of everything but the ravager, the water, and the drowned. None of the distractions. Good for practicing, you know?" Grian squints. "You should like it. You said you'd like it. Wanted people to be able to practice so they'd do better at the dungeon."

Tango shudders again. "You've wiped clean the ravagers, too. I can't... touch her."

"What?" Grian says, baffled.

"What have you done to this place," Tango says.

"Listen, I won't have you insulting my clean room," Grian says. "I cleaned it of all the dungeon bits. It's nice and easy and white and understandable. I won't have you corrupting it."

Hm. Not sure where that one came from, he realizes. Probably a bad sign. He'd certainly guess as much from Tango, who is staring at him with something akin to horror.

In a voice that echoes like a card readout, Tango says: "You won't do this in the dungeon. You'll feed us what's left from this. Or I'll have to ask you to move it."

Grian rolls his eyes. "Geez, yeah, I won't touch the actual dungeon! I already broke the sound test room, I'm not breaking any really important redstone. Now, do you want to see the drowned dodging room or not?"

"I'm horrified to find out what happened to the drowned, if this is your ravager."

Grian looks between Jellie's blank stare and Tango and throws up his hands. "Nothing! I did nothing to her! I have no idea what you're on about!"

"It's like you bleached their insides," mutters Tango. "Bleached everything. It's not natural."

"Not natural? Like you're one to talk!"

"I need to know. Show me," Tango says.

"Right then. Take off your armor first, I don't want Jellie getting thorned or something, then let's practice some dodging and get in there. Then you'll see this is a perfectly normal set of eerie white rooms and leave me alone, right?"

Tango makes a face.

"I don't know why I bother. Honestly. You'd think I'd done something weird," Grian says, and then neither of them talk much, on account of the ravager trying to chew their faces.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Bad Guy 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The men your mother brings home rarely stick around, but her latest catch can't seem to unhook himself from your life.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Note: I'm going to a physio today for the first time.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The house is quiet as you come out of your room. The single floor is just enough room for you and your mom. You’ve never needed much else and all your life, you’ve made do with what you have. It’s just the way it is.

You stretch your arms and arch your spine as you stop in the doorway of the kitchen. You yawn. You fell asleep reading outdated discussions about your most recent syndicated obsession. You should know better by now, that thorn in your neck is only driving deeper. 

You bend at the elbows to rub your neck and drag your feet over the cold tile. Your nipple poke rigidly against your cropped tank top and goosebumps raze up your bare thighs. You open the fridge and pull out the bottle of orange juice, your panties riding up with your movement.  

Before you can stand straight, a sharp strikes snaps against your ass and radiates through your flesh. You yipe and grip the bottle by the neck as you jump and turn to face the culprit. The strange man stares back, his brows twitching. 

“Mm, you’re not Gail,” he mutters. 

“No, I’m not,” you press the juice to your chest, overly aware of your barely covered body.  

You don’t ask who he is. You stopped doing that in middle school. She’s another one of her ‘callers’. You don’t usually see them more than once, if at all. Most leave before you’re awake. 

“Was takin’ a piss, heard you skittering around, thought...” he trails off into a shrug. 

He’s shirtless too. He only wears a pair of briefs as he stands shameless before you. A dark tattoo covers half his chest and extends around his shoulder and down his arm. It’s the typical snake and skull aesthetic sported by men like him. 

“Nope,” you reach for the fridge door and step to the side as you close it.  

He doesn’t move. You go to dip around him and he moves with you. 

“Taking all that with you?” He points at the bottle. You look down and sigh. You push it towards him. “Here.” 

He puts his hand under it and you let go. You skirt around his other side and squeeze through the door behind him. You don’t look back as you flee to your room. You resist the urge to reach back and cover the bottom of your ass, not wanting to draw attention to it if he is watching. 

You shut your bedroom door and cringe. Great. You can’t really complain. Your mother hasn’t kicked you out. Yet. Not like half your friends’ parents. She just asks for half the rent and you can manage that. With the rent around here, you’d be on the street otherwise. 

You cross the room and flop on the bed. You pull out your phone and go back to scrolling the old discussion boards. It’s funny. The more recent posts are totally contrary to the ones when the show aired. You’re not sure who you agree with. 

You roll onto your back and drop your phone to the mattress. You have to work at noon. So much for a relaxing morning. You’ll just be hiding in your room until that man leaves. 

A knock jerks you up and you roll your eyes. You search the floor and pull on the wrinkly pajama bottoms. You go to the door and crack it open an inch. It’s him. 

“Uh, hi?” You utter dully. 

“Got you a glass,” he offers one of the cups in his hands. You squint at it then look him in the face. 

“Thanks?” You go to take it but he doesn’t let go as you wrap your fingers around the cold glass.  

“There a problem?” He asks. 

“Uh, no,” you scrunch your nose. “I said thanks.” 

“I don’t like your tone.” 

You let go of the glass and retract your hand. His eyes flick down and yours do too. The white tank does little for your modesty. You cross your arms. 

“Okay? Well, never mind,” you go to close the door and he steps forward, digging his elbow into the wood as he blocks you with his body. 

“Your mom said you’re a nice girl,” he looks you up and down again. “Coulda fooled me walking around like that.” 

You frown. It’s your house. Why should you worry about what you’re wearing? Besides, if you knew he was there, then you wouldn’t wander around in your panties. 

“Thanks for the orange juice but you should just give it to my mom. That’s why you’re here,” you shrug. 

He scoffs. “Got a smart mouth.” 

“No, I—I didn’t do anything.” 

“There you go again. Disrespectful.” 

“Huh?” You shake your head in confusion. 

“That way you talk. Low and flat, like you don’t give a fuck. Maybe you don’t. Would explain why you’re grown living in your mommy’s house,” he mockingly pouts. 

You blink, “you don’t know me.” 

“I know girls like you. Pretending like they don’t care. You care. We both know you do.” He moves a glass closer, “say thank you. Like you mean it.” 

“I don’t want it,” you insist. 

“Don’t want to waste it. Was it you or mommy who paid for the bottle?” He taunts. 

You grit your teeth. What is his problem? Why won’t he just leave you alone? 

You deflate. You really just want him to go. You look at the ceiling then back to him. He’s the kind of man you would avoid on the street. His blue eyes are as cold as ice and his hair is shaved, but a little longer on top, and he sports a goatee amid the short stubble on his jaw and cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you reach for the glass again. 

“Thank you, sir,” his voice grizzles as he corrects you. 

You steel yourself and your lips slant. You really just want him to tell him to fuck off but like you always do, you don’t say what you think. You keep it inside. Put on that face that keeps you safe. 

“Thank you, sir,” you repeat after him. 

“Now smile,” he demands. 

You flinch and look away. You take a breath. That’s you’re least favourite, when they tell you to smile. It happens often at your job and it always sours your day. 

You force a smile. 

“Come on, you can do better,” he snickers. 

Your cheeks tremble and your smile falls. You tuck your chin down. 

“Can you please just leave me alone?” You mumble. 

“Excuse me, girl? I can’t hear you.” 

“I said...” your throat locks up and your eyes singe. God! When you get angry, you don’t get bold, you just get teary. You hate it. “I said ‘thank you, sir’.” 

You grab the glass so abruptly that it sloshes over the side. You don’t stop, you just spin and throw your weight against the door. He lets it close and it slams. You spill most of the juice down your front. 

You hear the friction of his fingers dragging down the wood. It sends a chill through you. You slowly pull away and put the glass down, juice dripping down your arms and chest. 

He’ll be gone soon, just like the rest. 

💀

Your mom’s still asleep when you leave for work. As you sneak out of your room, you listen for any sign of life.  If the man’s there, he doesn’t make himself known. You step into your shoes and leave through the front door without looking back. 

You head down the street with your earbuds in, a podcast about an old show you watched in high school droning on, as you take the shortcut behind the house at the end of the street. It’s almost four blocks to work but you save money on bus fare. You try to only waste the change after dark. 

The ice cream shop is never very busy outside of the post-soccer game crowds. You take your vigil behind the cold counter and bob along with the radio station’s Top 10 countdown. Miley leans in the corner by the till as she chews gum and scrolls through her phone. 

You’re fidgety to do the same, but you hate just letting your eyes glaze over. You pace a bit back and forth until her shift is up. When she’s gone, you feel a little less on edge. You always prefer being alone, you don’t have to worry about performing. 

Customers come and go. You greet them with the usual ‘how can I help?’ You’ve never been very good at the customer service part but you’re not rude. You just do your job, which it to scoop ice cream and toss some sprinkles around. 

You’re entitled to one cone a shift. You rarely have it. You don’t need the extra sugar or the brain freeze. That day, as you close up, the chocolate peanut butter entices you to go outside your routine. You put the lids on all the canisters except for that flavour and do yourself up a waffle cone before you lock up. 

You lick the softening cream and turn to face the dark plaza, lit only by the overhead marquee. There’s a car idling just by the curb. You ignore it. A few neighbouring businesses close up around the same time. 

The engine revs, and it jolts forward. The horn nearly has you throwing your cone. You fall back into step and keep walking. The Trans Am continues to follow you and honks again. The window rolls down as someone whistles. Only your name stops you. 

You turn and bend to see through the window. What the heck? It’s him. The man that invaded your house and threatened you over orange juice. 

You exhale through your nose and stand up. You turn down the pavement and keep going. The bus will be there any moment. 

“Hey,” he barks, “get back here.” 

You keep going. Why is he there? Because of the orange juice? 

The car door opens and closes. You speed up as you hear him following you. 

“Your mom sent me to pick you up,” he says. 

You snort, “sure she did.” 

“Really,” he says as his footsteps echo yours. 

“She doesn’t even know when I work,” you keep going and he catches your arm, yanking you back. 

You spin to face him and yelp. Your scoop shifts precariously in the cone. You try to pull away but not too hard as you selfishly want to keep your treat intact. 

“Alright. I offered. I heard you leave. Figured you could use a lift.” He squeezes and you whimper. “I can be a nice guy.” 

Can be. 

You wince and flutter your lashes, “can you let me go... please?” 

He opens his fingers sharply and lifts his hand, showing his palm. “Since you said please...” 

You look over your shoulder then back at him. Finally, you glance at your cone. You weigh your options. You’re not a quick runner. 

“I appreciate the ride but--” 

“I appreciate the ride, sir. Like I said, I can be nice, but respect is earned, girl.” 

You swallow tightly, cheeks pinching. 

“Sir, I appreciate the ride but I have money for the bus--” 

He clucks and points over your shoulder, “that bus?” 

You turn and watch the headlights blow by the stop. You flick your eyes to the sky and face him again. “Mmhmm.”” 

“So, is that a ‘thank you, sir’ on your lips?” He challenges. 

You slant your lips back and forth. You fight back a wave of hot frustration. You’re used to feeling powerless but he is suffocating. You nod. 

“Thank you, sir,” you choke out. 

“See, not that hard to be a good girl.” 

He waits until you move. You head back towards his car, and he gets in the driver side. As you claim the passenger seat, he huffs. He looks at you as you try not to acknowledge him. 

“Don’t like food in the car. Try not to get it all over,” he snarls. 

“I can--” 

“Just be careful,” he snips. 

Just be quiet, you tell yourself. You pull the seatbelt down and stare through the windshield. You lick around the cone as the cream threatens to melt onto your fingers. The car idles and you glance over. He watches your tongue as you lap up the trickle.  

You sit back as his eyes cling to your lips. He lifts his chin and turns straight. He grips the wheel and cranks the volume on the stereo. He speeds off and you struggle to keep from doing just what he warned you not to. You’d tell him to slow down but not only will he not listen, but the sooner you’re home, the better. 

[labyrinthofamind]

Now that I've seen your face, I'm haunted by the letters of your name // the stranger . mighty

I pass by a moonlit lake and a cold wind blows and my bones start to shake and I feel I should know this place as the road winds on into a wide-open space // I lie under a starlit sky and the seasons change in a blink of an eye I watch as the planets turn and the old stars die and the young stars burn // lonesome dreams . lonesome dreams

die if I must let my bones turn to dust I'm the lord of the lake and I don't want to leave it, all who sail of the coast ever more will remember the tale of the ghost on the shore // ghost on the shore . lonesome dreams

when you left I was far too young to know you're worth more than the moon and the sun you are still alive when I look to the sky in the night // in the wind . lonesome dreams

when we're dead and gone will the mountains remember? or just carry on moving as slow as the forest grows and turn our bones into dust an untold legend is lighting up // the birds are singing at night . a walk in the woods

I stare into the endless sky and the sorry tale of my life goes by, I drift into the great unknown and I really don't know where I'm going // fool for love . strange trails

I told you not to get lost in the wild I sent you omens and all kinds of signs I taught you melodies, poems, and rhymes // the yawning grave . strange trails

It'd been a long time gone, living out on the coast it's a long way back from the edge of the cosmos truth once known never come unknown I learned that lesson lives ago // secret of life . vide noir

I hear the river say your name by the stars above I know we were in love // when the night is over . vide noir

send me to the mountains let me go free forever I'll be running through the forest dancing in the fields like this // long lost . long lost

lonely days fall like drops in the lake of our love I just want it to be like it was and I want you to be as you were long ago // drops in the lake . long lost

If I leave in the night I'll only be running with the weight of the world at the tips of my fingers a long-lost soul in the wilderness alone, all the joy I've known the ways I've grown the loves I've shown my heart to I'm gonna get it together and live forever // what do it mean . long lost

What is lord hurons most prettiest lyrics in your opinion?

[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."

[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

[poppy-metal]

I've had this thought in my head for awhile of down on his luck patrick - maybe he's in a dry spell in his tennis career, and hes really way too fucking stubborn to crawl back to his family. he'd rather be homeless - coming in too contact with recently divorced!reader.

you have way too much money. you probably have a steady job as a ceo or a doctor - something big and important. but your marriage was nasty. your husband resented you for having more money than him, claimed it emasculated him - threw it in your face that you were getting into your forties now and couldn't even give him babies. he tore down your self worth, made you feel like less of a woman - made you think you weren't worth loving. you've been separated for some time now - and you're so lonely. you're horrible at dating - you always screw it up worrying about what their expectations of you will be. if you're feminine enough for them - if you're desirable - you come home to an empty spacious apartment and watch your TV shows and think you hate your life.

meeting patrick because he fell asleep on the bench outside your complex. you almost walked right by him but something - something about him called to you. maybe it was the fact that he looked so young - in his twenties clearly. freckle spotted and pink cheeked in the cool night air. curled up on the bench like a baby, using his hoodie as a pillow. your heart strings tug. you'd like to think this first step comes from the good of your heart and not some need to be needed - not some need to fill the void inside you - but you wake him up. and if you notice how pretty his eyes are you fold that into a little square in your pocket and ignore it. you tell him, "you look like you need some tea."

and patrick needs alot of things. he needs a fucking cigarette. he needs to be able to afford a fucking meal. he needs to get into a tournament and get back into the groove of things before he burns out and does something insane like kill himself because he hates his fucking life. but tea works. he's not one to turn down free shit. especially from pretty older women.

and he probably thinks this is a transaction - he probably isn't thinking of you lustfully at all at first - your little granny aesthetic and walls covered in pictures of woodland creatures dressed in 1800s garb weird him out, if hes being honest - but he moves to pull his shirt off anyway - because he knows what a free place to stay for a night means - and pussy is pussy at the end of the day. he just wont look at your walls when he's inside you.

and when you stop him its not because you dont want him - unlike patrick you think hes nearly ethereal. there's something mousy about him - but masculine too. his hair is wild and he has too big ears and a pointed nose. but his eyes are this gorgeous moss green - his lips pink and plush - his body filled out - you can see the defined lines of his stomach when he tugs his shirt up, the v that dips down into his jeans and then disappeares, the smattering of dark hair that peeks out - a man. you're not unaffected, is the thing. but you stop him because that's not what you invited him up for, really.

"you dont want....?" he trails off. looks at you like you're a strange insect under a microscope and he's wondering what the hell is up with you. like he wants to poke you with a stick. ask, 'you could obviously use some, lady, so what gives?'

"i just want you to.... talk with me. over tea, if that's alright. you can sleep here after if you'd like. i dont mind."

he thinks he gets it then. nodding his head slowly. he can talk. he'll talk your fucking ear off. he thinks you're probably lonely as fuck and yeah, its pathetic, but hell. pot meet kettle. misery loves a hot younger guy to ogle. isn't that how the saying goes? either way, you're both clearly lost in life at the moment. your apartment is too empty. he could use your hospitality.

its kinda a match made in heaven. an unlikely bond. love and sex isn't the plan - but then, does life ever go according to plan? can a lonely woman with a kind heart and a man who's made a shit mess of his life but wants to do better stay just friends? mean nothing to eachother?

[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.

[childofthewolvess]

Ares is a proud dad, I guess?

I was kind of shocked to realize that 80% of Ares’ altar are custom things I’ve made (protection balm, protection oil, offering jar, deity candle, deity oil, altar shaker bottle). Not only most of it curated by me, but it’s relatively minimal compared to Aphrodite’s expensive and elaborate altar right next to his. It’s like he specifically enjoys collecting things I’ve made.

I sat at Ares’ altar tonight and thanked him for his strength today. I was in pain and vastly struggling with my PTSD during a strenuous hike on the clock. But I persevered with Ares’ strength in mind, I pushed until my lungs burned and I felt the fire of determination ache in my legs. I was a leader today, guiding a family back to safety with a medical emergency. I was a protector. Trailing behind my group and carefully watching them while I swallowed my own pain, I was driven by Ares’ fighter spirit. Alongside me was my black wolf familiar spirit, teaching me the importance of why alpha wolves always lead their pack from the end of the line of wolves; to protect and guard most efficiently. Ares enjoys his (familiar) energy, one of a protector and leader, a guardian for me that Ares inherently loves. My familiar’s energy gently held me while I kneeled at Ares’ altar.

I shook his little altar shaker bottle and watched the glitter float around. Strange, I thought, about how glitter doesn’t exactly fit Ares’ aesthetic, but yet I was drawn to put some in his deity oil, protection balm, and shaker bottle. I felt like Ares was incredibly proud of me. He was proud of me like a dad is proud of their kid for doing their best with their crafts and art projects and giving them to their parents as a gift. Ares loves things I made, because I thought of him while I made them, each item receives so much love to be put on his altar.

Ares is like a dad who treasures his kid’s drawing by stapling it to the mostly empty and clean wall in his work cubicle to stare at every day when he feels lonely. It’s out of place, and it’s something that doesn’t fit his aesthetic, but that’s okay, because his kid made it, and that makes it special.

[saintetheldreda]

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...