#folklore oc

Also, I did an attempt on the Tim Burton style.

Part 7 of…

Part 6 | Part 8

Series: 2nd person, extra-canon stories

CW: this part is non-explicit, male satyr x female reader, bondage (technically), more fluff than I originally planned

—

The deal is straightforward: he answers every question truthfully and to the best of his ability, and in future you’ll keep him sexually occupied until his mistress returns to collect him. The two of you metaphorically shake on it (you pat him on the head and he laughs) and that’s that.

You considered not even making it a deal in the first place, but this ensures what he tells you is correct. You think it does, anyway.

The two of you fall into a routine as the weeks pass.

He keeps you company while you clear out generations of debris that has collected in the greenhouse, which you come to greatly appreciate when it becomes clear just how terrible your relatives were at organizing. You wouldn’t be surprised if some of them had never bothered to actually get rid of anything and instead just dumped the results of each attempt at organizing the main house into some room in the greenhouse to be forgotten.

He tells you some of the things the fae folk have gotten up to on the old furniture, and you make a note to make them display only. Or possibly burn them.

Some of the other folk come to visit you, and he takes their curiosity in stride. They find it less strange than you had, but look at you with big eyes when you tell them who had done it. He’s quite the story teller, so you let him have his fun holding court with the lesser fae as you work, muttering insults at the now-dead ancestors who left you with all of this junk.

“Oh, she’s not so bad,” Alder scoffs when a particularly dramatic fairy turns into a will-o’-the-wisp puff of light and floats away from him in alarm at the name. “She just likes the notoriety.”

There’s a gleam in his brown eyes as he says it, though; you know he likes that she scares people. You suppose she can’t be all that bad if she could do this to him without him losing faith in her— but you’re also admittedly not certain he has the best judgement, all things considered.

The wind blows against the greenhouse and whistles through the gaps of the broken window near the front door, which had once been partially covered in cellophane and then subsequently torn open again. An air sylph slips in with it, their diaphanous body shimmering and shifting in the air like mist.

Storm’s coming, it whispers, drifting across the room on the breeze. It passes between you and Alder, and you can still just barely see his amber eyes through its translucent body. It floats towards a gap in a window in the opposing wall and then is sucked through by the air current, vanishing into the overcast afternoon beyond.

“I love a good storm,” you say. “Maybe I’ll bring the lanterns and some blankets from the house, make a night of it out here.”

“I’m sure I can find time in my schedule to host,” he says wryly.

—

An hour later you’ve showered, changed, and carried a wagonful of blankets, pillows, snacks and electric lanterns to the greenhouse beneath a rapidly darkening sky.

You’ve cleaned and cleared the portion of the greenhouse where Alder is stationed, and you make yourself a makeshift camp site near the base of the tree as rain begins to tap against the windows. A quiet rumble sounds in the distance. You leave the front and back doors propped open with bricks so the breeze can flow through the greenhouse.

“I love being outside during storms,” Alder sighed.

“I usually prefer to watch them from inside,” you say, taking a seat. “You don’t have to be afraid of being struck by lightning that way.”

“Storms are far from the scariest thing out there,” he said, staring out through the window with a wistful look on his face.

“What’s the scariest thing in the Wildwood?”

He laughed. “That’s a hard question. There’s a lot in the Wildwood.”

You won’t be deterred. “Fine. What’s the scariest Court in the Wildwood?”

“Probably gotta be Winter,” he says. “I mean, their whole thing is that they can kill you by just being Winter; it’s hard to beat that.”

“Fair.” You offer him a bite of the strawberries you’re eating and he takes it gratefully.

“That’s not to say Summer isn’t scary,” he adds. “Just not ‘freeze you to death and then let wolves eat your corpse’ scary.”

You’re taking notes; he thinks it’s funny. You ignore his smirk when you look back up.

“I’ve seen the storm folk once or twice,” you say. “They were pretty terrifying.”

“They’re not Wildwoods fae,” he tells you.

That’s news to you. “What does that make them, then? Celestials?” You have trouble imagining those things associated with such an ethereal name.

He shrugs. “Sort of neither,” he says. “They’re from the Plane of the Air, which is transitional.”

“Kind of like the Manor.”

He goes back and forth for a minute before hesitantly nodding. “Kind of,” he says. “I’d say it’s comparable to the Shadowling, which is where the Manor technically is. You pass through it to get somewhere else, but most people don’t stay there.”

You write the word ‘Shadowling’ in your notes and underline it; you’ve heard that name before, but you can’t place it. “Alright,” you say. “So there’s a plane that’s just full of constant storms, and the storm folk just… visit us on occasion, too? For fun?”

“They go where storms go,” he says. “Here, the Wildwood, the Plane of the Air; not sure what their relationship to the Celestials is, because I’ve never been. I’m happy being a terrestrial fae, myself.”

You can’t blame him; heights were never your thing. Nor was lightning. Or storm hags, for that matter.

As you think this thunder rumbles outside, low and loud enough to make the windowpanes shiver.

“Gonna have to fix those,” you mutter.

“What?”

“Some of the windows are loose,” you tell him. “This thing isn’t just for storage— it’s been more or less abandoned. It hasn’t been upkept properly in decades.”

He looks at you shrewdly. “Your mother held this place before you did, right?”

You wince internally; the last thing you want to talk about right now is her. “Yeah.”

“What was her name? Jazz something?”

“Jasmina,” you say sourly.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

You shake your head. “She’s not dead,” you say. “Just gone. Took off last year— and good riddance, if I can be honest with you.”

“You weren’t close?”

“Definitely not,” you say through a forced smile. “Motherhood didn’t suit her. Mortality in general didn’t suit her.”

“Well, I’m still sorry. Just for a different reason.”

You change the subject. “What about your mother? Do you know your parents?”

“Sure,” he said. “Haven’t seen them in ages, though. Their band is nomadic through most of Summer, and they just sort of wander around. We’re close when we’re together, though. Same with me and my siblings.”

“How many do you have?”

“Two,” he said. “A younger sister and a younger brother through my mom. Harder to tell with my father; we don’t always track that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You just let the women do all the work?”

“More like not all of the women want to go to the trouble of finding the father and telling him,” he said. “Especially if you’re always moving around. Satyrs are sort of matrilineal when it comes to bloodlines, and since children aren’t super common most troupes are thrilled when one of their women gets pregnant regardless of who the father is. There’s no shortage of help.”

“Huh. Guess that makes sense.” You take a bite of a strawberry. “Does it weird you out to think you might have kids out there that you don’t know about?”

“Not really,” he said. “If their mothers want me to know about them, they’ll tell me, and if they want to find me themselves, they will. It’s nice, actually, to think I might have one or two out there.”

You open your mouth to ask another question, and at the same time a near simultaneous flash of lightning and deafening clap of thunder nearly make you jump out of your skin. Before either of you can say anything, the lights flicker out and plunge the two of you into darkness.

Meet Sable! (THEY/IT) :3

My new tadc oc to celebrate tadc ep 3 and tadc coming to Netflix!!!! XD

I love this silly fella and I’m gonna make like 1000+ arts of them lolololz XP

Some facts and song under cut! :D

This is Kristofferson! They’re born into nothing, no proper home, nothing to call their own, well, except for the tambourine their later father gave them. They dance around with a tambourine as a distraction to pickpocket. They were made to be alone, at least that’s what they say. They are dressed as an unknown Harker, the pages were torn but the Harker was smaller than the other Harkers, with many fox features and one blind eye. Due to a fox’s common reputation, this Harker is often depicted to be a thief.

Despite the belief that owls are wise, it's not entirely true- Percival however is a very intelligent person, despite being incredibly smart and serious, they're knowledge about relationships is foreign to them. They found themselves drawn to Kristofferson, they didn't understand why and it made them feel more curious about the little thief.

Art for the mythology challenge