you and i: nymph

9

I was tagged by @windypenguin​ to make a mood board with only pics on my phone (and dude I have so much stuff on my phone I could make several more of these and they’d all be fantastic)

I’m gonna tag @crunchyxushi​ and @officiallycostco​ (even though you’ve already been tagged), @jeangreyce,@scriptscribbles​, and @alagaesia-overlord​ and @manta-rays-on-gallifrey​ if you wanna

I FINALLY got the motivation to make something. These past 3 days seem to have just not been very nice to my art inspiration and motivation. But thanks to varsyl, rykitsu, and nymphveon I finally got the inspiratio to create a thing.

Btw this is a 6 armed alien bab, the floating had is a ref for me when I actually start to draw them in and he’s got antenna and horns.

9

Les Myths: Rusałka Cosette Moodboard for @incandescent-darkness 

Cosette was splendidly pure; Cosette was a light.

This is knowledge of abandonment.

Goodbye is the second before you lose them.

                                 Draw out a single goodbye with a ballpoint pen.

I know you retrace that same ink trail

that leads to the spot where the map

has been ripped in half.

                              It is muscle memory.

Goodbye is the last moment before everything stops making sense.

               I count goodbye on my fingers, toes, freckles

and spiders I step on but feel guilty for killing.

                  I apologize for knowing that  you and I have said goodbye about 329 times.

I wish I did not have to worry about the perminance of a single word.

I would say to you “goodbye” forever, so long as we refuse to stop spilling ink on our feet and untying our shoelaces

               —.

2

klarolineauweek | day six: Mythical Creatures ♣ Satyr and Nymph

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said she
just once said he)
it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)  ~
E. E. Cummings

The first time he sees her, she’s laughing and dancing with her sisters near a river, surrounded by flowers, tiny rivulets of water dripping from her hair down between her pale breasts. Her Lady’s deer are nearby, quietly grazing on a patch of soft grass, heedless of the humorous noises.

Her companions are quite beautiful, but the satyr doesn’t pay them mind and his eyes don’t leave her for more than a second – his hooves scrape the ground, his ears strained to hear the smallest tinge of her laughter. He wishes to grab her, held her, run his hands through her golden tresses and shedding the flowers wreathed in them. He can almost feel under his palms the softness of her fair skin kissed by the sun; can even smell her perfume.

But watching from afar is not enough – why simply admire her when he can have her?

He follows her for a long time before acting on his desires. The hunt is exciting, but he finds himself hungry for more – he dreams of losing himself in her embrace, letting her cradle his head on her lap while he plays his flute, kissing the laugh from her mouth and breathing the summer in her hair and licking the sweat of fierce embraces from her plump flesh.

He patiently waits for her to be alone: her companions are somewhere else, hunting with their Lady, and she wishes for rest – she lies undisturbed and unaware over an alcove of fragrant flowers, the candid fairness of her skin like a clove of moon over the darkest glade. His hooves are silent while he approaches – his breath barely a whisper in the breeze. His eyes hungrily run through the expanse of her body, his arousal thick in the air, the anticipation leaving his mouth watering.

The excitement of being so close to his prey makes him careless – and his hooves crunch a branch.

That’s all it takes to break the spell – she starts awake and her crystalline eyes shoot open, falling on him. She doesn’t even have the time to scream – he’s on her before she realizes it, a calloused hand over her mouth, his large body covering hers, her breasts finally pressed against his chest.

But he doesn’t touch her more than that. He hears the frantic rhythm of her heart inside the little cage of her chest and tastes her fear, and he finds he doesn’t like it. So he affectionately nuzzles her temples and whispers reassurances, promises, pledges of love. He murmurs how beautiful she is - he admits her light has drawn him in, he swears he means no harm - if she only would give him a chance? 

Hearing his softly muttered words makes her heart surprisingly slow down and her dread recedes - and her legs opens slowly but instinctively to make more room for him.

He watches with awe her lips curling in a soft smile - a smile which is only for him - and he finds he likes it very much.

2

‘THIS SWEET LIFE’ AESTHETICS: POTAMEIDES 

Those nymphs of the river who never stop running, chasing fish and dreams from mountains to the sea; whose fingers are wrinkled and whose mouths are full of water-songs; whose necks are strung with ropes of freshwater pearls.