#Tend To A Plant With Poison

[dootznbootz]

Got my mom into the Apothecary Diaries last night >:3 Very happy and excited!

[kheprriverse]

Malon likes to spoil Ballad with jewelry because his silly kokiri brain is easily impressed by shiny rocks and she likes to see his reaction whenever she finds a new piece for him.

I'm sure she'd be able to easily get Ko'jin on the train as well. Especially after he first saw Ballad's good eye light up when he gifted him the moonstone earrings he wears just about everywhere.

[deer-with-a-stick]

Fantasy necromancer with black rose motifs? boring.

Fantasy necromancer with red spider lily motifs? count me in

[charliemwrites]

Unfamiliar Nobody

You are a witch preparing for winter. Luckily, you have an extra set of hands - if they'd ever help.

Content: Possessive behavior, Semi-Safe/Semi-Sane/Consensual Intimacy, implied (pseudo) cannibalism, Violence and Death, Unhealthy but Happy Relationship

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

Souls are tricky things, somewhere on that rickety fence between the Seen and Unseen, a bit of practical magic so common that people don’t think much of it.

Souls are like stones or plants. Abundant, but varied. Some are rare and precious, some are beautiful, some are poison. One soul does not weigh the same as another, and the beings that deal in their collection and sale value them differently. Souls aren’t rare and only some of them are powerful.

It’s a narcissistic misconception of humans - even the ones that can perceive beyond the physical world. That a soul is considered precious and coveted and powerful by all things of heaven, hell, and beyond.

Not so.

That said, like a bit of gold or a well-woven blanket, a soul can be commodified. Reshaped and displayed, butchered for parts, sold…

The selling of a soul has its merits, though not many. High risk, high reward sort of gamble. Tempting for clever witches - or desperate ones.

You were neither when you built the summoning circle that night.

You weren’t looking to forge any contracts or make deals beneath that moon. Didn’t expect to invoke any infernal beings or heavenly apparitions with the stars.

Well, best laid plans and all that - not that it had been an especially well laid plan anyway.

Baring your soul that deep into midnight had not yielded the results you intended. Or maybe it had and your expectations were just skewed. Souls are tricky things.

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

You always rouse as the sun begins to set. Late afternoon at the earliest, when most everyone else is finishing their suppers.

You can manage stark daylight, but poorly. It hurts your eyes and prickles your skin. A deep hood and long sleeves does the trick when required, but you don’t make a habit of it if you can help it, if only for the teeth that bury in your throat when you return.

Tend the garden in the dying rays, light the shop candles before night nestles in. Say your blessings, leave your offerings, wriggle out from beneath clingy weight to secure any provisions or materials from the town.

As the temperature cools and the shadows deepen, you settle into your work.

The shop once belonged to an apothecarist. Died in a plague some four decades ago, or so you’ve been told. No one of any skill or natural talent replaced them afterwards. Too frightened, perhaps, of what could be lingering within.

It wasn’t haunted until you (and your shadow) occupied it.

You’ve stocked it up quite nicely now. Herbs and spices, vegetables and fruits, roots and seeds. Thistles hang from the ceiling and bones rattle in the drawers. Mortars and pestles line a wall, weights and measures beneath the counter. Not a single thing labeled or organized, the latter of which disconcerts your… companion.

Fickle is not the word for him, but it’s the one you use.

(And he is a he, at least according to the long, thick cock he crams into you every chance he makes for himself. Though you suppose such trifles as gender are superfluous to nonhumans. A categorical fallacy for your own ease of reference.)

You told him once, that if he did not like the disarray of the shop, he was welcome to rearrange as he saw fit. In response, he left teeth rings around the base of each of your fingers, telling you how easy it would be to bite them off. He didn’t, of course - wouldn’t - but you spent a good portion of that evening updating the inventory logs (sat on that long, thick cock.)

The shop was never reorganized.

Tonight you wake to his tongue, a dark and wicked thing, improbably dexterous, lapping at your thighs.

“Winter comes,” he drawls into your skin. His voice is dredged up from the deepest pit in his chest, scrapes against his throat before nuzzling into your ears.

“I thought so,” you sigh, sleep laden and languorous. “Felt it on the wind yesterday.”

He hums. Or maybe it’s a growl. It’s hard to say when he’s sinking his teeth into the plush of your thigh, though he does it without hurry. 

For a creature without definite expiration, there is little need to be hasty.

You click your tongue when he threatens to break skin. His jaw locks like that, just on the verge of taking without being asked. This is his price for greeting the evening with you - or so he claims.

“We’ll have to begin preparations,” you muse to the inky ceiling. “I’ll make a list over tea. You’ll help, won’t you? What kind of winter will it be?”

He relaxes his bite, laps at the iridescent fluid left on your skin. His saliva, or what passes for it in this vaguely human form.

“Long,” he drawls. An unseen thumb rubs circles into your calf. “And frigid.”

You hum, can already see it in your mind. Howling winds and a silent earth. Still and peaceful, little creatures huddled down and hibernating. It was a good, warm, lush summer that promises a sweet, abundant harvest.

“A lot of snow?” you ask, fingers buried in something almost too coarse to be hair. 

He unseals his mouth from a fresh, livid mark on your hip. “Da. Snow.”

Your fingertips trail over the gnarled, raised topography of long-healed wounds. Marks that go beyond flesh, wounds of essence. No matter his appearance, he will always be scarred - disfigured, even.

Sometimes you fancy that he was some fearsome fae king or warlord of hell before retiring to become yours.

Sensing the direction of your thoughts, he nips at the meat of your thumb. Draws blood the time. You hook your index finger around a too-sharp canine and shake a bit. He grunts and slides his tongue over the pinprick of blood.

“Any storms?” you ask.

“Two,” he rumbles around your finger. “Maybe three.”

You didn’t used to love winter so. But this will be your third with him. As the climate chills and the nights lengthen, he comes into his patron season. It’s helpful to have a thing of the cold and dark when times are lean and everything (even people) lose their pretty foliage.

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

You balked the first time he brought (more) death to your door. Thought him cruel and ruthless. Perhaps he is without you to metamorphose the slaughter into necessity.

Furs for warmth, meat for food, bones for your work. Nothing gone to waste under your care.

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

You trace your thumb over the bridge of his crooked nose, press between his brows when he tries to tilt his head into the warm apex of your thighs. He bares his teeth against your wrist but cannot defy you.

“Tea for that drop of blood,” you bargain.

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

Before slithering from your blankets, though, he buries his nose against your pubic mound and takes a deep, noisy inhale.

“Nikto!”

A village girl comes a little after the sun has fully set.

You finished your tea (and bread, for the price of a wet, filthy kiss) while making a list of preparatory chores. Have started grinding up rosemary to replenish your stock.

Nikto senses her before you do, pthalo eyes flicking up. She hesitates at the closed door, poised to knock, then decides against it and simply pushes in.

You pretend as if you’ve just glanced up from your mortar, an easy smile at your visitor.

“Good evening,” you call.

“E-evening,” she replies, lingering in the door.

While you’ve taken measures to keep the air of the shopfront clean and light, it’s something of a fruitless endeavor when Nikto’s made his den here. (Or more accurately, in the room behind the shopfront, where you dwell.)

Still, she only wavers another moment, finding nothing immediately alarming or perilous. She can’t see him lounging on the back counter like a lazy cat.

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

Your easy, friendly tone loosens her shoulders, coaxes her from the doorway.

“I’m here for something for my grandmother?” she says.

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

“You have her eyes,” you lie. “I have her medication just over here. One moment.”

You turn away to collect the little parcels that make up Anna’s bi-weekly order. Brews for her tea, ointment for her joints. You’ll mix extra as the chill sets in, fewer trips while seeing her through the harsh season.

“Usually Alexei comes to collect these things,” you say.

She rocks back and forth on her heels, a more curious eye trailing over your wares now.

“Mama and I have come to take care of nana. She’s getting older, you know. And this town has better prospects than our old village.”

You hum in agreement, neatly bundling all the items in a cloth and tieing a length of twine to secure it.

“Uncle Alexei is away with papa to finish sorting matters back there.”

“So you and your mother have come ahead, then,” you summarize.

“Mhmm!”

“Well, Anna is lucky to have you. She speaks fondly of you and your mother,” you say.

The girl lights up, cheeks rosy with pride. You slide her grandmother’s order across the counter.

“Anything else?” you ask.

“No, thank you!” she replies, dropping coins into your palm.

You glance at them (overpaid as usual, oh Anna) and sigh fondly.

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

You pass her a little jar sealed in wax. She accepts it with a bemused smile.

“What is it?”

“For travel sores, when your father and Alexei return.”

She absolutely beams. Any apprehension she had when entering your shop is long melted away.

“Thank you, Miss!” she chirps, waving, and sweeps out the door.

Niko pounces in an instant, arms so tight around your waist that you don’t even stumble from the force.

“What’s gotten into you this time?” you ask.

“You were thinking of those men,” he grumbles. You’d call it childish if he wasn’t damn near mauling your neck.

“They’re well-paying customers,” you scoff, “and more good will is never remiss.”

He snarls, but moves on quickly. “You were so kind to that little girl. She had stars in her eyes.”

You hum in question, surprised.

“Makes me think of you with little ones. Younger ones.” He’s near rambling, drool soaking into the collar of your dress. “My brood. Clinging to your skirts and your hips. Getting sticky hands in the beeswax.”

You huff out a startled laugh. “You’re thinking of babies?”

He moans into your ear, pressed tight to your back. Broad palms knead at your lower abdomen.

“Little voices calling ‘mama’. They would all adore you, want to be just like you. Mother is god in the hearts of children.”

“All?” you repeat, twisting to stare owlishly. “How many is ‘all’?”

“As many as you will let me breed into you.”

Another laugh escapes you, a bit bewildered. He’s never spoken like this before, never seemed interested at all by the women (or their husbands) that come to the shop to ease their pregnancies or births.

“You couldn’t stand to share my attention,” you scoff. Which is to say nothing of it even being a possibility. You’re not sure that you and he could produce viable offspring.

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

It’s not just the change in your natural sleep rhythms. You crave the iron of raw meat and inhale deep the burn of black smoke. Sometimes, you’re too preoccupied with the spill of ink on parchment, or the length and depth of shadows.

Subtle things, perhaps. A change beneath the skin, in the dark parts of your eyes.

You used to ask your questions in the sun, and look for the answers in the bloom of flowers or swirls of clouds. Now you whisper into abyssal shadows and they whisper back with a man’s rasp.

Not everyone can see it, the unusual glint in your eyes or the sharp edge to your smile. For those that do, it’s something of an open secret - that you provide more than helpful tonic and tinctures for common ailments.

A serum against pregnancy. A syrup for unkind spouses. Cut cords for bad friends and bent coins for poor business partners.

Tonight it’s the smith’s daughter. She’s just come into adulthood this past spring. A crown of youth on her brow, vitality draped around her shoulders. Darkened, this eve, by deals made with her as the currency. You see it beneath the sweep of her skirt, a chain of her father’s own making, a key in the hand of the mayor’s son. It drags her step in your doorway, rattling along the wood floors.

“Irina,” you greet.

She doesn’t admit it right away, demuring to purchase her father’s usual burn salve. You don’t pry, instead taking your time to spoon the thick, cloudy mixture into a small jar.

“You’ve…”

You tilt your head to show your attention, expression open. She clears her throat, smooths her skirt, tries again.

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

She blurts it like the words escaped between the gaps in her teeth, looks shocked in their wake You flick Nikto a reproachful glance.

“Is that so?” you reply mildly, as neutral as you can manage.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, as though it is a shameful secret. But there is little shame to be found in your presence, and when your expression only reflects polite interest, she repeats herself, stronger. “I don’t want to. Boris is a coward and his father is…”

Mean. Lascivious. A bastard with a heavy hand and wine for blood, kind only to coin.

You don’t make her say it all aloud, you’ve heard it just fine.

“Is it an ear you’re after?” you ask. “I’ll listen.”

You do not offer more. It is something she must request of her own will. For your sake as much as hers.

It only takes another breath for her to gather the courage.

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

You don’t jump as Nikto pours himself over your shoulders, teeth already scraping the nape of your neck. He’s hard and insistent against your spine, where scars of his teeth have begun to blossom. You sense that you’ll have a new notch for the collection soon, already feel slick and achy with the promise of his maw.

“What will it cost?” Irina asks, fidgety.

Your cunt three times over. Your blood on my tongue. Your juices down my throat.

“That will depend on our solution,” you say over Nikto’s sibilant entreaties.

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

“Maybe coin,” you correct. “Do you want any of these three men dead?”

She startles, pales. Nikto groans in your ear, hips jerking hard, cock catching on the laces of your corset. Irina mistakes the sound for your shop settling, eyes flicking nervously around as if either of you will be caught.

“N-no!” she answers. “No, that’s too - I just want papa to change his mind. O-or for Boris to… to wed someone else. Is that wicked of me?”

You shake your head, soften your smile to ease her conscience. Once upon a time, you stood on the other side of the counter like she is now.

“Then coin won’t be necessary. I have a different price.”

Her shoulders lower, just a bit, curiosity where she should be wary. Coin is a paltry payment in comparison to things a creature like you could request instead. 

“What is it?”

“Scrap from your father’s forge, as much as you can manage, and whatever Boris gave you for your hand. Bring them to me tomorrow night.”

You fish a shirt button from beneath the counter. Prick your thumb on a needle and press the droplet of blood that wells into the smooth surface.

“This is a contract of my services,” you explain as it dries in the open air. Nikto inhales deep and ravenous, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear.

“If you take this, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Irina hesitates; she’s always been a smart girl. That’s why she knew to come to you.

“What happens if I don’t come back with the payment?”

You flick a glance at Nikto, but he’s too busy toying with the ribbon around your throat. Patience fraying with each beat of your heart.

“Even I don’t know, but I’d rather neither of us find out, yes?”

“Alright. I understand.”

She accepts the bloodied button and drops it into the pocket of her frock.

“Tomorrow,” she promises, and steals out into the night.

Nikto bends you over the counter, heavy body flattening you to the polished wood. It’s unnaturally warm beneath your cheek. You suck in as much air as you can while he paws at the hidden parts in your skirts. He growls to find you wet and willing (always, regardless of what your mouth says) between your thighs. 

“Tithe,” he rasps, sinking to his knees.

Massive arms snake around your thighs as he finds his home between them. Buries his nose in the soft crop of curls so that his tongue and lips and teeth can partake in the sweet offerings below.

“All this for a severed tether?” you gasp, hips twitching in a bid to escape the too much, too fast, too good of it all.

His grip does not relent. On the contrary, it only tightens, dragging you down to smother himself in your cunt.

“Yes,” he hisses.

He takes and takes and takes. Sucks your clit until it’s throbbing at the slightest touch. Licks at the rim of your cunt, forcing his tongue deeper and deeper. Impossibly deep, until you feel the tip of it curl against the hard wall of your cervix, the root of it as thick as two of his fingers.

Your knees have long given out, your voice but a weak trill in your throat. It’s only when he hears you sniffling that he wrenches himself away.

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

Laves that slick, black, inhuman tongue up your jaw, over your cheek. Doubles back to swipe at half-dried tears that dripped down your neck and onto your hands. He makes an obscene sound when the salt mixes with the dried blood on the pad of your thumb.

“I want to eat you,” he snarls, baring his teeth against the tender veins of your wrist.

“Maybe one day,” you pant, “when I’ve passed on. You can have my corpse.”

His eyes snap open, a manic rage burning so hot it feels cold. 

“Never,” he snarls, cruel fingers plunging into your tender cunt.

You cry out and grip onto his shoulders, fresh tears sliding down your hot cheeks. There is no mercy in Nikto, not even for you. He strokes and pets your walls relentlessly, abusing all the sensitive places he’s long mapped out. Brutal as the muscles in his arm bunch and jump with the pace and force of it.

“Never,” he repeats. Teeth in your throat but you can still hear his voice. It’s so loud and rough that glass rattles. “Just like this. You stay just like this for me. Mine, all mine. Always. My little witch.”

He makes you cum on his fingers, then jerks his angry cock using your release to ease the way. Spends himself in burning, sticky ropes directly onto your clit. As you drag in ragged breaths, he draws his sigil inside your cunt with your mixed fluids.

The bond has long been formed, there is no need to renew it. Your soul is no more or less his than before. You still shiver with the memory, an echo of the sublime sensation of your soul taking new shape. Making room for something else to lace through it.

“S-someone is coming,” you whimper, weak in every sense.

“Dmitiri,” Nikto answers. You knew who it was, of course, but you don’t think he would abide you saying any other name right now.

“Leave his order on the counter and make sure he pays,” you sigh, limping away in search of water.

Nikto may be a bastard, but he manages to follow your orders most of the time.

Irina returns the next evening with all that you asked. A bucket of metal scraps and shavings. In a little velvet pouch, a simple gold engagement ring.

“The button too,” you request.

Nikto, raven-shaped this evening, swoops in to snatch it from her fingers. She yelps, moon-eyed as he perches on a tall shelf and swallows the button down his scarred gullet.

“Should… should it eat that?” she asks.

You don’t even glance at him. “Too late now, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look amused so you laugh softly and assure her, “He’ll be alright. He’s done it before.”

You turn away, scooping up the items for the spell.

“Now then, take this pin. Carve your name into one candle, and Boris’s name into the other,” you instruct.

“Which one is which?” she asks, a green candle in one hand.

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

When she’s done as you ask, you tie a piece of twine between the two, about halfway down. Set them on a metal plate facing each other and light first Irina’s, then Boris’s.

“Pull up that stool. Watch the candles burn down to the wick.”

It takes nearly an hour. You keep half an eye on it. Watch the candle meant to represent Boris start to eat at the twine, a slow encroachment towards the midpoint. Only for Irina’s flame to latch onto its end of the tie and scorch through the knot, the remaining length falling away.

Irina gasps softly, glances up to find you already watching. Studiously turns back to observe the remainder of the melt.

In the meantime, you continue forming the other half of your spell. Irina has been too preoccupied to notice the raven’s disappearance. Nikto is behind you again, guiding your hands to carve the woodblock in neat little peels. His fingers are threaded between yours, dripping raw power that you shape with intent. If Irina were to look, it would just seem that the candlelight casts strange shadows down your forearms.

When the candles have burned down to nothing, and Irina turns to you expectantly, you press a finger to your lips.

“Do not speak again until sunrise. When you get home, throw this into the hearth, as deep as you can get it. No trace of it will remain, rest assured.”

You press the carved wooden key into her palm. Her eyes trace the unfamiliar runes in wonder, but she keeps her silence and takes her leave with one final, grateful nod.

It is only just past midnight, but you yawn. The connection between Irina and Boris was not a strong one, but severing the covetous teeth of the mayor’s greed was tedious.

He has a weakness for fair hair and light eyes - both qualities passed down to Irina in lovely spades. Qualities his own wife doesn’t possess, but he would gladly see in his son’s if he had his way.

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

You tsk at him, shove his face away when he tries to steal a kiss.

“Finish the spell and then you will be rewarded,” you huff, waving him off. “Useless thing.”

He moans softly, eyes burning into you. “Useless,” he agrees, sharp teeth grazing your cheek. “Worthless.”

“Out with you. We’ve not all night,” you chastise.

He sinks slowly into the shadows; his eyes are the last to disappear.

Winter preparations are well under way.

A small mountain of firewood is steadily accumulating in the backyard, stacking higher and wider by the day. You’ve already finished harvesting the last of the garden, drying, preserving, and pickling by the jar. Have knitted half a dozen more shawls and socks with thick wool yarn.

Cough medicines, warming tinctures, lotions and ointments. You’re accumulating your winter remedies along the back wall and in crates beneath the counter, well-stocked for the town and smaller surrounding villages that frequent your shop.

Thus far, Nikto has brought you two pelts, and promised two more before the season truly sets in. A new pillow has also been added to your nest bed, a puffy, heavy thing of feathered down and cotton.

You like it so much that you bounce on Nikto’s cock until morning when he brings it to you, spitting into his mouth whenever he opens it in supplication. You drop lavender buds into the casing and breathe it deep as he lays you down after daybreak. It makes an excellent throne for your pelvis when you’re too worn (or over-pleasured) to hold yourself up any longer.

Still, as promising as your preparations are, you need items unavailable even in town. The journey to the nearest city is one day's (or night’s) walk there, and another back. Well worth the trouble.

Nikto has no particular affection for any dwelling, so long as it’s yours. He’s just as eager to travel as you are.

Before nightfall, you drop off any orders expected in your absence, and receive well wishes from your customers. No one asks why you are traveling alone at night. No one warns you that it would be too dangerous.

Nikto accompanies you along the well-trod road, a hooded figure more likely to be mistaken for the grim reaper than your familiar. He’s human enough if you don’t look at him for too long. A tall man thick with muscle, broad-shouldered, built for labor. Likely malformed beneath the scarf hiding his features below those blue eyes - or perhaps just shy.

Just don’t try to peer into the depths of that hood, or ponder that mysterious scarf for too long. The moon acts as a strange prism, waters down the light into eerie refractions. One might start to imagine sharp teeth peeking through ripped lips. Or glimpse poorly sewn hills of flesh, nothing but dark, empty space between the seams.

Luckily, there are no travelers on the road this late into the night. Any errant gaze is that of night creatures, and those know well to avoid the shadow at your side - and you by extension.

The trip into the city is no great adventure, but you weren’t looking for one. Nikto, you sense, is something almost like disappointed. You arrive in the small hours of the morning, just as the earliest risers have begun their day.

The innkeeper seems surprised by such an early (or late) guest, but is happy enough to welcome you in. Bread has yet to be bought from the baker, but there’s stew that’s been simmering overnight. It’s warm and hearty and thick. You eat two bowls with a cup of peach wine, pay for food and board for the next two days, and retire to the second story of rooms.

The bed is not nearly as comfortable as yours. The blankets are thin and woven, though they are layered enough to be warm. The mattress and pillow are both straw - comfortable by most standards, but a poor substitute for your cotton and wool and furs and down.

You make due on Nikto’s rumbling chest (prideful that you miss what he has so diligently provided) and let yourself drift into slumber.

At midday, you wake. City merchants aren’t accustomed to your odd hours, and you don’t want anything to be out of stock - you’re not the only one that’s made the journey for winter.

Luckily, it’s an overcast day and the sun isn’t too obnoxious when you venture out. You get a sweet bun from the bakery to tide your hunger while you shop. Follow Nikto’s whispering for directions, or to pick the best items of any selection. Spoil yourself a bit on honey from abroad and a new grimoire.

Return to the inn at the brightest part of the day for a nap. Rouse again in the late afternoon for more exploring and shopping, as well as a drink at one of the alehouses.

You’ve no friends in the city - or anywhere, really, for that matter. But being surrounded by good spirits and bright noise provides an unusual source of energy. There’s a band to watch and strong drink, some gambling that you amuse yourself meddling in from afar.

There are eyes on you, but there always are in such a busy place. You tend to attract very few gazes, but the ones you do will return time and time again, musing at the lone figure by the wall. None are brave enough to approach - especially not when it grows dark enough for Nikto to reveal himself.

Even he is in unusual form, telling you stories of a bygone time. A time when perhaps he was more finite than he is now. He uses names you’ve heard before, in passing, and chuckles at exploits more mortal than he deigns to participate in now. You like to hear it, like to provide him with the excess buzzing in your veins.

When the crowd begins to thin, you take your leave. He stays at your side (always too close, nearly underfoot) all the way to the inn, and is waiting in your room when you come up with the meal. He manhandles you into his lap and feeds you with his fingers, pours water into your mouth from his.

You stave him off until your food settles, and then he’s taking you into his lap. Has you twice before you doze off. Wakes you three hours later with his tongue lapping at your swollen folds. Has you twice more before you settle in properly until dawn.

The second day passes in much the same fashion as the first. Your indulgence this time is a pretty, slender knife, a length of ribbon, and a simple burgundy frock. The combination has Nikto salivating by the time you return to your room to rest. Not that there’s much to be had with you splayed out over your new garment, his hands and mouth and cock working you over until a puddle of slick and cum forms beneath your writhing bodies.

You send him to wash the stains in annoyance, and it’s returned seemingly pristine - though he gloats that the scent of your coupling remains. At least to him.

Nasty creature.

“If I get tired, you will be carrying me,” you huff on the road home.

He nuzzles his nose into your temple, a silent assurance that you need only say the word.

Halfway there, a band of highwaymen makes the fatal mistake of trying to ambush the two of you. Aware that anyone coming from the city will be laden with coins or goods, they would be correct if you were anyone else.

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

“Kill anyone that’s taken an innocent,” you call over your shoulder.

“Mistress,” Nikto churrs into the air, breath so cold it sinks in the chilly air.

An unnatural growl reverberates off the trees. You don’t spare a glance behind you, steps easy and light, crunching over dead leaves and dry twigs.

A hand lands on your shoulder - heavy… and then not. Heat splatters and soaks into your sleeve, dripping down towards your wrist. The severed arm falls with a wet, fleshy thump.

Always so messy.

You tilt your head, veer off the road and follow your intuition until you find a stream. Humming, you shed your clothes and saunter into the gentle current. It’s frigid, only just unfrozen. You sigh, minding your step for slippery rocks as you wade deeper. The water rises past your scratched calves, over bitten thighs, soothes your well-used cunt and the bruises on your hips. Tingles over the silvery flesh of your scarred back until it’s nearly to your breasts.

Only then does the water darken around you.

Nikto’s hand closes around your wrist, draws your arm back until he can lick away the smears of a stranger’s blood.

Feast before the season’s famine.

You moan softly at the drag of his serpentine tongue along your skin. The ball of your shoulder, the curve of your tricep and bicep. Tickling the bend of your elbow… up your forearm… and wrist. Twisting between each digit. You lean into the sturdy pillar of his body until his other arm curls around your waist. You stand with him in the water like that, cradled by shadow and bathed in moonlight.

He is never hasty, but tonight he’s unusually slow. Almost lazy.

Wait, no. Not lazy. 

Deliberate.

Each flick of his tongue, scrape of teeth, brush of lips is applied with the same care and reverence afforded to an altar.

You tilt your head to rest against his shoulder, bare your throat. Peer through lidded eyes at the thick fingers twining with yours.

It’s as if he plunged his hands into a fireplace and didn’t care to dust away the charcoal and ash afterwards. It fades at the forearm into alabaster. In the crease of his elbow, it looks like he has ink for blood. You know from experience that it tastes of almonds and tannins, heavy on the tongue like thick wine.

You let him lay you down on the bank, dry and clean. He pampers you on his cock with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Grinds deep, pulls out only halfway to massage the head into that sweet spot over and over until you’re shuddering apart with a deep, heavy moan. He finishes on your stomach and thighs, drawing symbols into your skin before rubbing it in.

“Nikto,” you croon, thumb drawing a line down the left side of his face. From forehead, over his eye, down to the corner of his mouth where there’s an unnatural split. He lets you scrape your nail against the big canine, amusing yourself on the sharper bicuspid just beside it. “My Nikto.”

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

There is a possibility of a second part. Maybe. If that's something people want.

[amongemeraldclouds]

love blooms in strange places

When Mattheo was assigned to help you tend to the greenhouse as punishment, he never expected detention could be so pleasant.

Mattheo Riddle x f!Reader | Based on this request

Warning: fluff, one use of y/n, used my creative license to come up with plant lore and magic to serve the plot.

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party | 1.7k words

When Mattheo Riddle started his day, the greenhouse was the last place he expected he would be. Yet that’s exactly where he was headed, kicking up dirt as he went.

Snape’s words haunted him as he slowed to the door. “Mr. Riddle, you had been in detention several times just this month alone. If you will not learn by reflection, you will learn by deed. As punishment, you will have to help y/n cultivate plants for a week.”

Before Mattheo could open his mouth, Snape raised his hand. “Any protests and we will make it a month.” He knew better than to talk.

He shook his head as he opened the door, eager to get it over with. He took in pots and plants of various shades of green, color sprouting sporadically where flowers and fruits blossomed. Then there was you.

You saw the curly haired boy approach, Mattheo Riddle, you recalled. Everything about him spelled trouble from the frown fixed on his face, to his askew tie, and the way he strut as if the entire world bent to his will.

You smiled and introduced yourself politely. Your mum after all had raised you to give others a chance. To look beyond first impressions.

Still, it didn’t surprise you when his frown stayed glued to his face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he just stated by way of introduction. “Here’s how this will work. I’m going to stay here,” he said, grabbing a chair at the side of the greenhouse and taking a seat. “I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. When the time is over, I’ll walk away. Nice and simple.”

“So you’ll just let me do all the work?” You huffed, your fists clenched by your side.

“Glad you’re catching on, darling. Go on. Some would say it’s a privilege to be around me but it’s okay if you don’t see that yet.” He flashed you a shit eating grin and propped his legs up the table across him. Such a shame. He’d probably be handsome if his personality weren’t so rotten.

You caught yourself and your expression turned livid. “No, being around you is punishment. I don’t know what I did to Snape to deserve this,” you mumbled to yourself.

Your mum may have raised you to be polite, but she also taught you to stand up against bullies. You strode over to the arrogant boy, plucking a bearded iris on your way. You crushed it beneath your fingers, muttering an incantation.

When you were close enough, you hurled the crushed petals at his feet. Upon impact, sparks burst. Bright searing sprays of light was accompanied by a loud bang.

Mattheo dodged it, losing his balance. His chair tipped backwards. He crashed to the floor.

The bearded iris was otherwise called the firebreather iris. He should have known better than to challenge you.

You towered over him. “You will help me as Snape intended. It’s bad enough I have to spend time with you. You will make yourself useful or that,” you pointed at the ashes of the firebreather iris, “is just the beginning of what I can do. There are poisonous plants around here like nightshade. I will not hesitate to use them and make it look like an accident.”

He looked at you as if he saw you for the first time. The fire was brighter in your eyes than the spark you had thrown. He was silent for a beat as he recalled what Theo warned him about nice girls. You never wanted to see them mad. They were always more clever and therefore more dangerous.

As much as he loved danger, he very much preferred to stay alive. Besides, things just got more interesting. He schooled his face to a bored expression. “Fine,” he said standing back up and dusting the dirt from his clothes and hair. “If you teach me that cool trick, I’ll help out.”

“Stick around and I’ll teach you a few things,” you nodded, satisfied. You tossed him a pair of gloves. “We’ll start here, plant boy.” He suppressed the smile that threatened to break across his features. It was fascinating how you snapped quickly back to your good natured self, as if you weren’t just threatening him moments earlier. If there was anything Mattheo loved, it was a challenge.

As he put on the gloves, he felt detention wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Threatened by the poison and lured in by the idea of learning plant magic, Mattheo had surprisingly been a helpful herbology partner.

Yes, he was stubborn and annoying. But at the end of the day, he was quick to pick up the steps, memorizing which fertilizer to use for what plant, and how much water each plant needed.

The weeks quickly passed and you found a comfortable rhythm. You just had to put up with those terrible lines.

“Are you a flower bed?” Mattheo asked, his face streaked with dirt as he hauled another bag of soil.

“What is it this time?” You rolled your eyes. You found it impossibly adorable and ridiculous how he managed to get dirt all over his face despite wearing gloves and other gardening gear.

“Let’s pretend you asked me why. ‘Cause I want to lay you down and get dirty,” Mattheo said with his signature smirk.

You tried not to laugh, but you couldn’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Mattheo considered it a win. “That seriously works for you?” You pointed in his general direction. “I’d rather choke on a cactus,” you beamed.

Mattheo chuckled, “then I want to be a cactus.”

“Oh why, because you’re a prick?” You retorted, shoveling more soil to the new pot.

“No, you can’t use these lines against me,” he said, narrowing his eyes, grabbing a handful of soil.

“Don’t be such a weeping willow about it,” you quipped. “And I swear if you throw that lump of soil, you’ll have to clean it up.”

“Why don’t we go straight to the cleaning part?” He teased instead, returning the soil. He grabbed the water hose nearby and turned it on, aiming it directly at you.

Before you could react, you felt a steady stream of water hit you, the cold shocking your entire system. “You really did it,” you muttered uselessly, releasing a string of curses as you gathered your wits about you.

You ran after him, but he was quick to deflect, running off the opposite direction, taking the hose with him. Five steps in, you slipped on the mud and landed on your back. The wind rushed out your lungs and you laid there recovering your breath.

“Salazar! Are you ok?” He asked, running towards you.

“Come here,” you spoke softly and he leaned in to hear you.

“My name is not Salazar,” you declared when he was close enough. “It’s an expressio—“ he tried to explain but in one swift motion, you grabbed the collar of his shirt. The surprise was enough to send him down the floor. He slipped in the mud and joined you. You grabbed the hose from him and sprayed him with water.

He flailed for a few seconds before he caught purchase and rolled over you, yanking the hose away and then switching it off. You both found yourselves in hysterics, bodies shaking from the cold and laughter.

“I can’t believe it. You really laid me down and got me dirty,” you managed to say in between laughter.

“This is not what I meant. But if you want to know what I mean,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. But he was rendered speechless, the words and laughter faded in his throat.

He didn’t think it was possible. But up close, you were even more beautiful with your captivating eyes and kissable lips.

His intense gaze stole the laughter and breath from your lungs. You felt his heartbeat drum against yours, your breaths mingled with one another.

It sunk in then that he was on top of you, gazing at you like he wanted to do a hundred and one sinful things to you. He had a forest full of desires and you wanted to explore every corner of it. To go on an adventure with him. So you did.

You weren’t sure who started it, but the next second you found yourselves kissing each other. It was better than any euphoria plants could induce. His lips felt surprisingly soft and he started off tentative, seeing if you were okay with it. You just needed more and he quickly matched your pace, taking in as much of you as he could.

He was no longer gentle and he ran his hand through your mud streaked hair, holding you just where he needed you, deepening the kiss. You tugged on his hair in return and he rewarded you with a groan, his chest rumbling against you. He licked your lower lip, prompting you to open your mouth as his tongue darted in, exploring until you both needed to come up for air. Panting against each other.

“Why are you looking at me like I just kicked a puppy?” He asked.

You shook your head. “You’re just a boy trying to get through detention,” you stated.

“Darling, my detention was only a week long,” he admitted.

Your eyes widened. “But this is your third week helping me.”

“You still haven’t taught me how to make fire with flowers yet,” he said, kissing you on the nose.

“You’re not afraid I’d poison you?” You narrowed your eyes, recalling your threat.

“I looked it up. The nightshade you mentioned that first week isn’t even poisonous. You never meant to poison me, dear.”

“But you fell for it, that’s what mattered,” you insisted.

“Maybe it’s you I’ve pollen for,” he quipped.

“You’re never gonna stop with the plant puns, aren’t you?”

“No, because you’re ivy and you’ve fully crept in my thoughts. Next, you can creep in my—” you kissed him then to shut him up. He didn’t seem to mind at all. You really had had enough of his silly plant puns, even though you couldn’t get enough of him.

✿ Masterlist | Event Masterlist | Tea Party

[vmlnrzmp4]

𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.

no cw, just domestic bliss<3 for reference, she's making kheer: a famous south asian dessert. you can call it a pudding. this is me y'all. i think the "banned from kitchen" girlies deserve representation. without further ado, enjoy<3

itoshi sae

"it stings...!" you mumble a complain as sae applies the burn-cream to your thumb and index finger. he calls you a dumbass for even stepping into the kitchen.

"sae," you call softly trying to gain his attention. he ignores, too busy tending your wounds. "sae," you call again. and after a long pause, he hums.

"what?"

"can you atleast taste what i made?"

he looks up at you, blowing air from his mouth to your booboo, the coolness easing the pain a little. "you sure it's not poison?"

"no promises."

he stares at you for a moment. sighing, he reaches for the spoon, taking a bit—just a little bite, "what did you put in this?" he asks, "is this supposed to be salty?"

oh the horror! "what?"

"it's salty."

you take the spoon from him, tasting it too, gagging at the bitterness. "i may or may not have added salt instead of sugar."

"you," he snaps his finger at you, "stay out of the kitchen."

itoshi rin

"hot hot hot!" you say, the burning spoonful of kheer still in your mouth.

"here," rin quickly passes you a bottle of cold water as you wash it down, "don't choke on it." his brows furrow, "is this supposed to be that watery and oily?"

"it's not oil. i used ghee," you say, showing him the container, "it's butter. but fancier." he examines it in his hand, reading the label and notes. you take another gulp of the cold water, "my tongue feels numb now."

he takes a spoonful, seeing how it runs down from the sides like water, "what were you trying to do?"

you sigh. big big sigh as you ramble, "i tried making this. i know i shouldn't even step into the kitchen but, i just felt like yes i can do it like it's the easiest thing i can make cause my cousin made it back in india and she sent me a picture of it and it looked so simple and i—"

"it's fine," he cuts you off, "leave it to me next time."

isagi yoichi

"here you go," you say, placing the bowl in front of him, along with a spoon and a forced smile.

he chuckles nervously, taking the spoon from you, "is this...soup?"

"no!" you correct, "it's kheer, even fancier!"

he hums, taking in a spoonful while you wait expectantly.

he coughs. loudly.

looking up at you he sees the horror in your eyes—he feels guilty as he sees the messy apron, hair that was messily put up in a bun and a little something on your cheek too—you worked hard on it.

"it's...not bad."

you let out the most heart wrenching sigh, "it's ok yo-chan," you plop yourself beside him, your forehead bangs on the table, "you don't need to lie."

"oh y/n..." he reaches for you, soothing your forehead that you just abused on the table, "it's not bad, really. it's just...a little too sweet for my liking. maybe we can fix it together?"

you look at him with puppy-dog eyes, yet fully of hope, "together?"

"together."

michael kaiser

the first thing kaiser does is plant a sweet peck on your cheek as he enters the kitchen, pointing at the apron you wore that says kiss the chef.

"what's cooking?"

you simply point at the cook-book that was open. he raises an eyebrow, then adjusts the glasses resting on his forehead, pushing them down to eye level as he inspects the recipe.

"aaaand all done!" you say happily. but the horror in kaiser's eyes when you were pouring the kheer into a bowl—it was like you were a maniac mixing chemicals to feed the lab rats.

"here," you hand him the spoon, "mihya, i want you to be the first one to try it."

he gulps in fear, "if that's what you want angel..."

aftermath.

he wouldn't stop laughing at you and your poor attempt to stealing a chef's job.

"i'm sorry—" he laughs, "—i'm sorry," more laugher.

"i get it. i can't cook. and i apologize for even thinking i would get appreciated. even if it's a little."

his laughter dies down slowly—still smirking as he hugs you from behind, "hey, i appreciate you loads. even if you made the most disastrous dish imaginable," he pecks your temple, "it's the thought that matters."

[2-dsimp]

•:•.•:•.••:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:

The Gardener who became the Keeper of the yandere Plantweed Pt.1

•:•.•:•.••:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:

You were a gardener working at a humble witches flower shop. And today the Madam witch decided to fully welcome her trustees into her dwelling. Allowing everyone to freely choose a plant being to take special care of as it’ll grow to be their faithful companion. Or so the witch told her employees.

There was a vast selection full of beautiful and unique variations to choose from. Each of the flower beings had their own unique charms chittering and humming tunes to attract their select Keepers.

But at the sight of a plant weed many of your fellow colleagues voiced their concern and utter contempt for the baby weed being that was huddled inside its pot his one big eye peeking out from his shrubbery of leaves as if ashamed to fully show itself.

“Plantweeds are so vile! Why would Madam even have it in selection?”

“Shh! Don’t say such things out loud you idiot! just ignore it and hope it’ll die off on its own”

“Yeah it’s not like anyone sane here would ever think to take care of an ugly weed like that.”

Well it appears that everyone but you were sane. As You believed that even weeds should get the chance to grow. So of course assigned yourself as the plant weeds Keeper. Despite the constant backlash you received for doing such an inconceivable thing.

You found yourself naming the poor thing Ganja, finding it endearing how shy it was. Often times you’d have to gently coax it into moving himself from his pot to another. Just so you could seed some nutrients into his cracked up soil within his original plot.

That was obviously left unattended for so long it amazed you how resilient he was. Cuz despite being a plant weed he should’ve long ago perished from neglect. Since he was half the size of his peers who were already waist up from the pot.

Which was why said plant weed found it nerve wracking to suddenly have someone take care of him. As if he was meant to be cherished just like his other plant brethren (the flowers) who were being catered to.

At first he was wary, thinking you’d just abandon him after seeing how hard it was to take care of him. Having to frequently switch the type of tending methods you’d use as his caretaker.

Due to the amalgamation of weeds ranging from poisonous to hallucinogenic to harmless all growing rampant within his cryptic vessel. That each call for a specific itinerary in mind to tame them. So it wouldn’t cause the greenhouse to become overrun with Ganja’s overgrowth.

But seeing how dedicated you were to genuinely caring for him. Day by day, Ganja became less skittish and more open to gaining every bit of affection you sought to pour into him. You even taught him how to express himself by using colors that would give you insight into how he’s feeling.

“Yellow. Keeper…story?”

Ganja the plantweed chittered one day, practicing on speaking more after a couple months pass by. While his other peers were like chatter boxes in the first few weeks after selection. He held a book you gave him in hand shyly poking at the passage where it discussed the feelings of love.

“Hey there Gan, I’m glad you’re happy to see me! So this is what you want me to read to you for today?”

The plantweed nodded frantically his eyes squeezed shut as he timidly bowed his head. Pleading to hear your voice read him such a concept he found himself drawn to like a moth to a flame. You chuckled and lightly patted his leafy head with a gloved hand.

Like a cautious cat he leaned into your touch, being slightly startled when you carried his pot. To bring it between your legs so you could read it to him while having the pages fully out for him to read alongside with you.

The feeling he had in his cluster of cells within his chest resembled that of a beating heart. As he continued losing himself in your melodic voice the more he began to realize that the love passage. Clearly reflected what he’d grown to feel for you over the ample time you two have spent together.

“And here’s the famous old saying ‘if you love someone, let them go’ Which means that—!”

You couldn’t finish your sentence, as the page you were reading from. Was abruptly ripped from the book by a branched out prickly vine. That ripped the offensive writing to shreds, in a speed so fast and precise that you couldn’t register it happening at all.

“Lies… Don’t like. Hate. Red.”

His voice, sounded like it doubled in three different pitches almost like a glitch. And you were abruptly enshrouded within an enclave of vines that fully encompassed your body and his from the outside world. You’ve never seen him this distraught and furious. Not even when your colleagues would come and pick on him when you weren’t around.

“Red? Gan you’re angry? It’s okay it’s just an interpretation! You don’t have to take it to heart.”

Ganja’s neck did a 360 to fully lock his eyes on you. His expression now unreadable due to the shrubbery covering his features. The space he trapped y’all within was dark save from the light glowing from his eyes.

“Love… No letting go?”

“Yup you can love someone without needing to let go Gan.”

“…Yellow”

You exhaled a sigh of relief knowing that he was now happy. A major upgrade from being in the dangerous color mark. But Little did you know that your answer would seal your fate. As he’d just been affirmed that it was still considered love. Even if he should never let you go. No matter how much you begged.

This plantweed was growing up to be your faithful companion alright. He’d make sure that he’d be the only one you’d ever need.

———————————

A/n: And this is how you meet your plant husband lmao. Let me know if I should make more parts XD kinda debating on leaving it as a one shot.

[disorganizedkitten]

All Eight Works Currently on My Ao3 that have Fay Tagged

Tend To A Plant With Poison:

Blaise had always known, at some level, that he was going to be caught. His mother’s everlasting freedom was a testament to her subtlety - and perhaps, her beauty, as jurors often let her off on technicalities - neither of which Blaise inherited. All he had was a bloodlust that served him poorly and the intimate knowledge of how to wipe a crime scene. He had expected to be caught over a murder he actually committed, though.

Alternatively: Serial Killer Blaise Zabini is framed for murder. Forensic Technician Fay Dunbar is going to prove his innocence. Or something.

Wizard of the hills:

“Hi, I’m Fae,” the creature says, smiling with too sharp teeth and too kind eyes. “I’m human,” Blaise returns, uncomfortably. And- the faerie bursts into laughter.

In All The Different What Ifs and Maybes:

In every one you shine. You're gonna make this family proud)

September first to June fourth. Nine months and three days. That’s how long Rabastan has to convince his son to defect, or to do so himself. With threats around every corner of the castle, will he manage to keep his son safe? And can Neville win a battle he doesn’t know he’s fighting?

Family Science:

Single dad Adrian Dunbar teaches his daughter makeup. His methods are… unconventional.

Taught Me Well, Now Watch Me Win:

Mafia heir Blaise Zabini and his childhood accomplice take on the world.

We'll Take Our World By Storm:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has educated more than seventy percent of the last three centuries’ historical figures. Foster siblings Harry Potter and Fay Dunbar-Black are beginning their first year there this fall, and they have plans. They’re not the only ones, though, and it seems like all plans have one kink in common - Harry’s twin brother, Connor; known for not dying when he should’ve. [or at least, known for being caught not dying.] Connor would like to go on record saying he’d love to stay out of this too. Between suspicious teachers, learning magic, the castle trying to murder their Ravenclaws, and Harry’s biological family trying to reconnect after ten years, everyone is busy. At least one thing hasn’t changed: the Wizarding World won’t know what hit them.

And We Will Have Our Happy Ending:

Winning a war before graduating secondary school screws a bit with your head. But the war has been over for years, and the peace they fought for is theirs.

Emotional Support Cookies:

"I thought cookies were for celebrations," Fay said unsteadily. Harry shrugged. "They work for when your life falls apart, too." She slammed into him for a hug, sobbing.

[spinfins]

Rook is worried about everyone’s safety, you guys.

It’s not easy being the captain of this ragtag team of distracted, traumatized professionals.

They’ve been taking a lot of hits lately.

They need additional training.

Lucanis emerges from the pantry, eyes still closed from a rare deep sleep, scratching his beard. He shuffles to the coffee counter and boils some water. He takes his time preparing just the right selection, the right roast. He slowly wakes as he makes his coffee. When it is ready he raises it to his lips—

“POISON!” Rook barks beside his elbow, and then vanishes as the cup goes flying and Lucanis makes a noise so high that only Assan can register it.

Taash takes off most of their gear and sets it aside to do their workout routine. They settle easily into the rhythm, enjoying the stretch and burn of muscles, the flow of mind and body working in perfect sync—

“ARCHERS!” Rook bellows from their doorway and pelts them with bean bags for a good minute as Taash sputters, covers their face, then recovers enough to charge at the door as Rook runs.

Harding and Emmrich are chatting as they tend to her plants, enjoying the calm of the greenhouse, the soft light filtered through green things, the smell of wet earth under their fingers. Harding laughs softly at something the necromancer said and he smiles easily—

“MELEEEEEEE!” Rook screams and tackles them bodily into Harding’s pile of cushions. Emmrich’s beanpole frame, and Harding’s small body offer little resistance. They make sure to get a few whacks with a pillow in to really drive the point home. Then they bolt out of the room before either one can swim free of the cushions. Harding is incapacitated for another ten minutes at the sight of Emmrich’s wild hair.

Rook is satisfied. They stand looking out at the Rivain sea, arms folded. Everyone has been much more diligent in their missions lately. Emmrich only set three bones last time—

“DRAGON!” Neve screams as the entire team rushes at Rook from behind, and as one pushes them over the little cliff and into the deep, clear water below. There is a satisfying scream and a splash. And they all have a good laugh as Rook dramatically and comically pretends they are drowning. What a good sport.

“Shouldn’t they have come up by now?” Bellara asks.

“Oh shit!” Davrin says and dives into the water, followed immediately by Assan.

[spicycinnabun]

There's a sugar daddy au??!!!

Also let me be greedy and request my fave 🐺 🤭🤭🤭

there is!

have some werewolf courtship 🐺❤️

Buck set the heavy bag on his dining room table. It was filled with tomatoes, carrots, eggplant and zucchini, bits of dirt still clinging to the stems and leaves. There were also plump strawberries and a bundle of thyme. The aromas were strong under Buck’s sensitive nose. 

He had discovered it outside his door and wondered if someone had accidentally delivered their groceries to the wrong address—until he saw a note peeking out between some colorful bell peppers. It had familiar handwriting.

Buck picked it up and read it.

I have more than I know what to do with. Figured you could probably find a good use for them.

- Tommy

A trio of sunflowers were hanging over the side of the bag. Buck found a vase for them and gave them some water to drink. 

Nobody had ever given him flowers before. 

And nobody was around to see him stick his face in them like a lovesick dummy wolf. 

His emotions were being goofy. He was probably making a bigger deal over this than he should’ve. 

Everything was from Tommy’s garden, though. He had planted, tended, and hand-picked it all. They were the literal fruits of his labor, and he was giving them to Buck, of all people.

What did it mean?

Buck picked up his phone, opting for something silly instead of serious. 

This is a pretty big🍆

They had established a routine of texting each other. Tommy never left him hanging; he always seemed willing to talk. Not once had Buck ever felt brushed off. Tommy was witty as hell. His sarcastic remarks were sharp, but often offset by something sweet and genuine in the next minute. 

Buck was overdoing it—he knew he was, and the Alpha would eventually get sick of him—but he couldn’t help himself. He was just so interested. 

It didn’t take long for Tommy to answer. 

Thanks. Intimidated? 

Buck laughed. Nope. I like a challenge. Can already think of a whole bunch of fun things I wanna do with it. 

He sent a photo of himself holding the eggplant, quirking an eyebrow impishly.

Evan. We’re talking about cooking, right?

Of course. What else? :)

You’re a menace.

Buck laughed again. Wasn’t the first time he’d been called that. Thank you, by the way. 

You’re welcome. If you want more, just let me know. 

Buck bit his lip. We’re still talking about vegetables, right?

Tommy didn’t immediately bubble him, and Buck worried he’d pushed too far. It was a few minutes before his phone lit up.

What else? 

So, the ball was officially in his court. 

Buck swallowed, bouncing on his feet a few times to gear himself up. (Contrary to what Chim claimed, doing that wasn’t tippy tappies.) 

Maybe I want more of you?

The lack of bubbles that time was deafening. Buck smacked his forehead, then nearly dropped his phone as it started ringing. 

Tommy was FaceTiming him.

“Oh!”

Buck hastily ran fingers through his curls and propped his phone up against the fruit bowl on the island, accepting the call.

Tommy appeared on his screen. He was in his turnouts, rows of lockers behind him. His face was sooty, his eyes tired, but he looked content to see Buck.

“Hey,” Buck said, smiling. 

“Evan.”

Something about Tommy’s soft gaze and his tone, warm and low, made Buck’s belly squirm happily. “Just got back from a call?”

“Yeah. I’m about to clean up and have some dinner.” 

Buck put his chin in his palm. “What’s on the menu?” 

Tommy gave him an unreadable look, then smiled back. “Some jerky. Probably something on Wonder Bread. Hopefully, not Freddie’s chicken salad.” 

Some of them had contracted food poisoning from that in the past, Tommy had said. Tommy’s was brief, thanks to his fast healing. Still, Buck groaned in sympathy, a near whine hitting the edge of it. “Tommy, that hurts my culinary soul.”

Tommy chuckled. “It hurts my stomach more, I promise.” He sighed. Buck wanted to press his thumb against Tommy’s cleft and kiss him through the screen. He tried to dispel the thought. “I’ll admit, I miss Bobby’s meals.”

Buck had learned that the 217’s idea of crew dinner was abysmal at best. They rarely ate together, and the only time they had somewhat healthy food was when one of the guys’ wives brought something in.

Buck wondered if Tommy would like his cooking as much as Bobby’s. He was almost as good of a chef as Bobby now, though he excelled a bit more at baking. 

“You’re wearing my clothes again.” 

Tommy’s observation pulled Buck back to the conversation quickly. 

It had become a habit for him to wear the hoodie at home. Embarrassing that Tommy had caught him.

“Yeah. It—it—it’s comfortable.” It was more than that. Buck tugged on the strings, fighting a blush and losing. He attempted more playful banter. “I don’t think I’m going to give it back. In fact, the next time I see you, I’m going to steal another.”

Did werewolves share clothes? Buck didn’t have any other furry friendships to compare this to. He was probably way out of line.

A few of his old girlfriends had liked wearing his stuff. He’d always thought it was cute seeing them dwarfed in his baggy sweaters. He was starting to understand the appeal from the other side. 

But Tommy wasn't his boyfriend, and he bet it was only okay to share within a wolf pack, and he was acting like a total clingy weirdo, and Tommy was probably super skeeved out, and—

“I don’t want it back,” Tommy said. His eyes had darkened, zeroing in on Buck. “It’s yours.”

Buck swore he could hear—feel—Tommy’s heartbeat thudding powerfully in sync with his own. He had an insane and confusing desire to drop to his knees and offer up his bite mark like the Alpha was in the room with him.

You’re mine, Buck heard.

The fire bell ringing on Tommy’s end interrupted them, and whatever spell they were under broke.

Buck straightened up. His legs felt unsteady.

“Guess dinner will have to wait.”

…Why did Buck feel like he was dinner?

“Y-yeah.” 

Tommy smirked. “Talk to you later. Be good.”

Buck made a noise.

The call ended. 

⏾

Buck went to the grocery store. He loaded his cart, checked out without looking too hard at the total, and hauled his stand mixer out of the cupboard as soon as he returned. His kitchen soon became a disaster zone.

Tommy had fed him so well when he’d been bane sick. Though he’d said all he could really do was roast, grill, and dehydrate, it had been more than enough. 

It was Buck’s turn to take care of the Alpha. Not repayment, just appreciation. It wouldn’t be as good as a fresh kill, but Buck hoped Tommy would enjoy the transformation his produce had undergone. 

And Freddie’s chicken salmonella salad could be tossed in the trash where it belonged.

Buck wanted Tommy to feel his gratitude. Buck could fill his stomach and satisfy him. Win him over. 

It could make the Alpha see Buck as a potential mate.

…That was his wolf butting in again, of course.

Buck made spiced carrot cake, thyme and honey focaccia, a massive meaty lasagna with rich tomato sauce, and a ratatouille he spent an excessive amount of time making beautifully layered. 

The last thing he popped in the oven was a batch of strawberry muffins stuffed with homemade strawberry jam. Only the center muffin he decorated with vanilla buttercream and red sprinkles. He left a note in his chicken scratch on top of the tupperware.

The special one is for you. Don’t let anyone else have it.

- Evan

It was almost three AM when he finally shut the refrigerator doors and collapsed into bed with a grin on his face. 

⏾

The following day, Buck carefully loaded everything into an empty box he’d saved from a past delivery and stuck it in the back seat of his Jeep. (Maddie teased him for his millennial urge to save every box he acquired, but she couldn’t deny they were useful.)

Then, Buck set off for the harbor station. 

⏾

tag list: @justahumblecabbagemerchant @loulou-land @harmonic-intervention @sweaters-and-silly @theallyandhisbeast @brassm-tagged @scuderiadebauchery @chococara25 @darkqueen458 @cinderellarhea @setmeatopthepyre @buffaluff @eliotwaughdeservesbetter @figuringitoutaloud @cannibalhellhound @i-dont-even-know-anymore976 @ambernotember @the-omniscient-narrator @zeraparker @cometconnector @fenrirscarsback @moonydanny @espressopatronum454

previous parts

[huge-jacked-man-is-bae]

Late night

In which you wait for Old Man Logan to come home after a job

Warning(s): conflicts, swearing, feelings (is that even a warning??), stubborn Logan

Pairing: Old Man Logan x Reader

(no use of Y/N)

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You were there...as always. Taking care of Charles when needed. Cleaning up and keeping him company. You loved to hear his stories, but Charles knew that you wanted to know Logan's stories. So he endulged in the stories of the now Old man Logan, and you just listened to Charles with a smile on your face. You knew if you wanted to ask Logan about his past, he'd just shrug it off and leave you the heck alone, as usual.

Charles....the old tricky man he is, often brings you up to Logan, he wanted to know if there was more to that hate towards us, or it was just simply cause he didn't like you, just tolerated you. But Logan is as stubborn as a kid, he refuses to show any emotion when they talk about you. Even if you're around Logan, he just waves you off or just grunts, as that's how he is communicating most of the time. He is tired, and you can see it, heck even Caliban is worried about him, the Adamantium poisoning is slowly taking its toll on Logan. But as a fool he is, he refuses to ask for help, what a stubborn old man!

You always make sure to wash his clothes, make him food and tend to his injuries if it's necessary, even if he pushes you away. And the worst part is, that you slowly start to fall in love with that stubborn old man. Every time you were around him, the butterflies in your stomach started to slowly fill up your stomach, he often side eyed you for your reaction, he could see the pinkness on your cheeks, but he brushed it off.

"Another client?" You ask as you made your way into the kitchen, seeing Logan by the kitchen table, sitting there, sipping on some already cold coffee. "But it's almost midnight.."

"Well, they don't care about time, bub. And someone has to earn money.." he said rather grumpily. Didn't even look up at him. Like you never existed.

"I am worried about you Logan..." That's it. You finally said it. A flash of surprise plastered on his face, but he shook his head and drank from his cup.

"No need to be worried about me, bub. You should focus on taking care of Charles and to the housework." Jesus he's such a pain in the ass.

"And I am doing it every day."

"Good, only concentrate on that and stop pushing your nose into my business, bub.." he said angrily and put down his cup, it was now empty. You jumped a little bit at his sudden movement but he didn't care about it, just adjusted his dress shirt and put on his jacket, and put his reading glasses into the inside pocket of the jacket. Phone in his hand.

"I am not trying to—" you started to explain.

"Enough, bub!! I'm tired of your constant nagging and caring! I don't need this! I didn't ask for it! Keep your fucken distance and leave me alone!! I'll be home late." With that, Logan grabbed the limo's keys and walked out of the smelting power plant. You were taken aback by his harsh words, like he never ever talked to you like this. Why now? Maybe there was something bothering him? Or you really believed that the problem was actually yourself. You heart ached as you thought about it, the possibility of being the source of his misery, his anger, his annoyance.

After three hours... Three hours passed ever since Logan had left to drive a client. As usual, he was exhausted, the money was great as he got a huge tip and all, but...he was still sad and miserable, but.... something in his heart ached as he saw you on the couch in the little living room he made himself. Tried to make the smelting power plant more home-y, ever since you lived there too. He didn't understand why, but he knew that if he'll act upon these feelings he is buried deep down. He didn't even want to acknowledge it at all, especially after that happened in his life, how he lost everyone he held most dear. How Jean's death still shook him till this day. He promised himself that he'll never feel things like this after her death... But there you were.... Making his heart skip a beat.

He looked down at you, as you slept. His eyes widened as soon as he realized that you were cuddling one of his jackets, his heart....that stupid heart he decided to freeze...started to melt again. Beating faster by the minute he was staring down at you, looked at how your chest fell and rose, how your hair sprawled out on the cushion of the couch. You were perfect, in every way. But he was still stubborn to realize...or at least accept it. He was reluctant to give into the feeling... Jesus he didn't even know what to do now.. So. Out of instinct, held you up in his arms bridal style, your head rested on his chest as he made his way towards your bedroom, his heart was about to burst out of his chest.

He kicked the door open lightly and walked inside of the bedroom and approached your bed, gently laying you down on it. And all he could do was....just stare.... Stare at your sleeping form, how beautiful you looked, how your hair was framing your face, he involuntarily moved his hand and tucked a stray hair behind your ear, your skin was smooth and warm, unlike his ruggedy face and skin. He thought back to the times when you laughed at a bad joke Charles was cracking, the way you took care of both him and Charles. Your heart, your soul... everything was perfect about you. but he was afraid... Afraid of screwing up, afraid of hurting you. But he couldn't resist the temptation. Often imagined what would it be to be together with you, to wake up next to you every morning, to sleep next to you every night, to kiss you, hold you, fuck you. He shook his head, pushing these thoughts aside but sat down on the edge of your bed. He was reluctant to get away, to leave you, especially when he knew that you were on the couch cause you waited for him to come home, every fucken time.

"The things I wanna do to you, bub.." he sighed and stood up from the bed, took one last glance at you and he did it... He couldn't resist. Logan leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was slow and sweet, his heart....his poor heart was accelerating fast, almost giving him a heart attack. He felt so weak...but so right. "Sweet dreams" he murmured and pulled the covers over your body, making sure to tuck you in well cause he knew that you can get cold easily. Then he left, to put some food into his stomach, as he'd never miss your cooking. His thoughts were occupied by you, as always. Waiting for the perfect moment to finally snap and make a move. But when was the perfect moment? He didn't fucken know.

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Part 2?

[ramshacklerumble]

“What? It’s just bone meal.”

(i was minding my own business when this au appeared and grabbed me by the hair. thanks @quartztwst for this incredibly fun au. i love the energy of hunting azul ashengrotto for sport.)

i really liked the idea of ny!gia being an npc that isn’t for or against the happenings around ashengrotto, however quartz is able to unlock new murder and/or disposal options through them depending on how she interacts with gia. generally speaking, gia won’t sound an alarm if they catch something suspicious— however they will remember and this can affect their decisions. be wary though, it’s possible to create a negative dynamic with gia in which they will betray or actively become an enemy.

ITEMS:

Phone + Earbuds: Gia loves music and striking up a conversation about varying genres can help open up Gia— if correct dialogue choices are made, anyway. Oh, you listen to Napalm Jam Revengance? Name three songs.

Trowel: Gia spends much of their time tending to plants and so a trowel is often seen on their person. It’s oddly sharp.

Experimental Phials: Depending on what ingredients are brought to Gia, the rapport made with them, and if their interest has been piqued— Gia can be convinced to create varying substances to aid (or harm) Quartz. Gia appreciates a guinea pig. Willing or not.

Berries: You can eat these. Once.

Notebook: Gia’s notes on all plants and procedures they work on, as well as other secret journal entries. This notebook can be stolen by either Quartz or other characters— Quartz can choose to return the notebook, use it to create poisons herself (with a higher possibility of failure), or use it as blackmail to get Gia to work for her. Many different possibilities, though Gia assures there are far easier ways to die.

TRIVA:

Has a strange, volatile dynamic with Ashengrotto’s left hand man. No one is quite sure what it is, but they sure do interact.

A top ranking student

If Gia is befriended, they will actively cover for any suspicious activity or make up alibis instead of completely minding their own business

They can be convinced to use their experiments on others themself, although it’s easier to convince them to hand over what they made while they turn a blind eye to any following consequences.

Likes cute, kitsch items. Especially clown themed.

tag list:

@cyanide-latte @inmateofthemind @tixdixl @winterweary @thehollowwriter @jovieinramshackle

@theleechyskrunkly @skriblee-ksk @boopshoops @the-trinket-witch @twistedwonderlandshenanigans @kimikitti

@s-t-y-x @nightwingshero @water-writings @beneathsakurashade @oya-oya-okay @scint1llat3 (dm to be added)

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

Superpowers: a recap

You know, I often tend to skip superpowers under the rug when I write my snippets- which is kind of a problem in a Hero/Villain setting.

So this is a recap to help me remember the possibilities, in case it can help anyone else:

LIST OF POWERS

Classical set

Super strength

Super endurance

Super speed

Telekinesis

Teleportation

Forcefields

Laser eyes (classical because of Superman, but I still think this is bonkers)

Immune to superpowers/elements/illness/etc

Flight

Healing (themself or others)

Can speak to animals/plants

Hypnotism

Immortality

Wish-granting

Astral projection

Miscellaneous

Can steal power from others (forever or it’s temporary)

Has non-human animal anatomy (reptilian scales, horns, produces poison, etc)

Can break into parts and reassemble

Can make clone(s) of themself

Immune to gravity (the fall doesn’t kill you, can jump as high as you like, can crawl on walls, etc)

Super instinct (can sense when something’s wrong, when someone is lying)

Can control fibers/clothes

Can create portals to anywhere else

Control of one single type of object (doors, trains, cars, paper, etc)

Control anything made by humans

Music powers

Can force everyone to dance

Can control voices/can take voices away

Can control volume of any sound

Charm people when they play an instrument/sing

Can summon music whenever they like

They get an upgrade (super strength, etc) every time there’s music

Elemental/Nature powers

Can control fire/ashes

Can control electricity

Can control water/ice

Can control plasma

Can control air/wind/gazes

Can control earth/magma

Can control metal

Can control light/shadows/colors

Can walk on water/wind/lava/rainbows

Can breathe underwater/in space

Can burrow into earth

Can control temperature

Can control the weather

Control of life forms

Can control humans

Can control beasts

Can control plants

Can control...mushrooms, I guess ?

Can control viruses and bacteria

Can control blood

Everything they touch die

Everything they touch come back to life

Can accelerate/slow down aging

=> is the life form conscious while under control ? Can they fight back? Do they have to be okay with it?

Sense powers

(Reminder: human senses are hearing, vision, touch, taste, smell, vestibular)

Better senses (better sight, better hearing, etc)

X-ray vision

Can see every place they like or eavesdrop everywhere

Can manipulate the senses of others (can heighten them or cancel them)

Can inflict pain

Emotions

Their sheer presence induces an emotion (fear, love, etc)

Can force to feel an emotion/heighten or dull emotions

Can project their own emotions into others

Empathy (they feel the emotions of others)

Shapeshifter

Can reduce/aggrandize their size

Can seem much older or younger

Intangibility

Invisibility

Strechability

Can take the form of another thing/person

Can take the form of any human

Can take the form of anything (animal/plant/object/liquid/gas/etc)

Reverse Shapeshifter: can transform others into an animal/stone/plant/anything

Mindpower

telepathy

illusions

possession/mind control

can mess with memory

can mess with dreams

Time powers

Can time travel (future/past)

Can froze time

Can predict the future/see the past

Oh now that's just cheating

Reality wrapper

Luck

Everything they create becomes real

Can choose any superpower they want according to the situation

GENERAL QUESTIONS

Is the character okay with their power ?

they hate it it’s a curse to them

they wish it were different (stronger, another power altogether, etc)

they don’t mind

they really enjoy it

it’s their whole identity

Etc.

If they hate it, is it because:

it hurts

it could hurt someone/something else

it’s useless/ it’s not offensive

it goes against their personality

people hate it too

it makes people treating them as a tool

Can they control it?

they’re a walking disaster

using it makes them sick

perfect control, natural or learned

they don’t even need to think about it

etc

How powerful it is?

(Ex control of fire: can barely light a match versus can set in fire the whole country)

Characters with weak powers my beloveds. It's about them fighting when they know they will lose, putting everything they have in the fight, keeping their head high when people sneer at them. It's about them enjoying their power without having it to be useful, or forcing them to be creative and smart about/around it.

Overpowered characters my beloveds. It's not about them winning the fight because the answer is obvious, it's about them dealing with too much power in a fragile world, the gap between them and the others, how it impacts their relationships, their morality - never hesitate to make a character like this. It can be terrifying, it can be hilarious, it can be great. No trope is bad, it all depends on how it's used.

What is the source of their power ?

failed experiment?

successful experiment?

got them from a supernatural being?

got them from their family?

got them from a magical object?

When did they get it ?

when born?

during childhood ? Teen years ?

grown-up ?

Was it expected or not?

Is getting this power a one time thing or do they need to renew it ?

(via sacrifice, offering, a special food/medicine, a good/bad deed, etc)

Can they give it to someone else?

Can it go away/fade?

Does it grow stronger/weaker with age?

Is it affected by the health of the character ?

(Is the power weaker when the character is sick, or is it stronger as a defense measure ? Does it become unpredictable?)

Does it hurt using it/not using it?

(Because it takes too much on the body/because it forces to repress an important part of the self)

Does the power change their personality in a good/bad way?

(Does it corrupt them, does it force them to see the world in a new light, etc)

Can their power combine with someone else’s ?

Do they have a weakness/something that cancels their abilities?

Do they have special needs because of it ?

(Do they need glasses, headphones, medicine, a special diet, etc)

Are they immune to their own power or do they take damage ?

(Ex : is your character able to control fire is fireproof or not?)

How much do they rely on it?

they use them for everything

they use them often

they could do without

it’s barely an afterthought to them

they never use it

etc

How do they use it ?

Raising their hand

With their eyes

With some object

They don’t have to do anything

Etc

How does this power is perceived by the others?

This makes them a god

This makes them a star

This makes them totally mundane

This makes them look really stupid

This makes them a nuisance

This makes them someone to be killed at all costs

Etc.

About the suit

Is that for protection ?

Is it an uniform ?

Is it here for the vibe ?

Does it strengthen their abilities?

Does it have gadgets ?

How (im)practical is it ?

[uncharismatic-fauna]

Rainbow Grasshopper (Dactylotum bicolor)

Habitat & Distribution

Mainly found in prairies and agricultural areas

Local to the Great Plains and southwestern United States

Physical Description

Weight: 0.01 oz (0.28 g) on average

Length: 20 mm to 35 mm (0.8 to 1.4 in)

Both sexes have a black base and brightly colored markings over their head and body; these markings can be red, orange, yellow, green, or blue

The rainbow grasshopper does not have wings, and moves only by hopping

Behaviour

Adults feed on a variety of plants, primarily grasses and young shoots

Though not formally social, they tend to congregate in groups for foraging

Predators include possums, raccoons, shrews, foxes, and bats

Key Advantages

Like other grasshoppers, the rainbow grasshopper has a powerful jump

The bright coloration may warn away potential predators, as they mimic other insects which are poisonous

Photo by Jay Iwasaki

[uhzuku]

╰─▸ ❝ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄! ❞ ──── 𝐟𝐭. 𝐋. 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him with a raised eyebrow while your lips quirk up into a smile.

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: hazbin hotel | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: lucifer morningstar/f!reader | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 2.57k.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fem reader, dom reader, dom fem reader, sub lucifer, bottom lucifer, manipulative reader ( i have awoken an obsession in writing them i’m afraid ), reader is longtime friends with alastor, mentions of alastor, reader is ‘the seamstress’ overlord, lucifer crawls across the floor like once? maybe twice, oral ( fem receiving ), begging, brief master kink, whining, some degradation, praise kink, lucifer is 100% being a Good Boy, leg humping, self-inflicted overstimulation, and he WHIMPERS, crying, lucifer’s just a needy lil guy tbh.

𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐬: i have fallen into a rabbit hole </3 | 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃!— @mrskreideprinz. @p-ersus. @herohibiscus. @vampcubus.

— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!

Breathy whines and whimpers echo through the dimly lit room, the flickering flame of candles catching on the deep red wine in the glass you’re holding with your non-dominant hand. The other is currently being lavished with needy, borderline worshipful kisses, your wrist tightly gripped by the man you’d had wrapped around your pinkie finger for the last five or so years. After being abandoned by his beloved wife and his sweet little daughter, he had been a mess — a mess a long-standing overlord like yourself had been quick to clean up and turn into something else, something more. Playing the concerned friend with ‘hidden feelings’ had been more than easy ( whether or not those falsified feelings had festered into something real was for you to know, and for you to know only ), and you’d had him eating out of your hand faster than even you had expected. After only two years he’d removed Lilith’s ring, and a month after that he’d begged for yours, which of course you’d accepted. You’d helped run the kingdom in his name ever since while he lavished you with attention and tended to his silly little hobbies. Your empire had expanded from a simple series of shops in every Ring that clothed the upper class to a behind-the-scenes Queen of the nation; typically you’d have celebrated with your oldest friend, but he’d disappeared after a tie-up with the Media Demon, and you’d not heard from or of him since. Briefly you’d worried he’d succumbed to his injuries, but then waved them away; little could injure Alastor, and no mobilized television screen would be able to kill him. Once he needed your services as his only tailor again he’d return, and you could demand and receive answers from him then. Until that time, your time was split between all of Hell, the whims of Rosie, and of course the dim-witted desperate King you called your own. 

Alastor would be proud, if not envious, of the web you’d weaved across Pride, if you did say so yourself. 

With one leg you push Lucifer away, planting the ball of one of your feet against his bare chest and making him fall back onto his calves, kneeling before you just as he belonged. He whines at the loss of skin contact when you withdraw your foot, but you ignore him, pondering; honestly he’d been far too easy to shape, so much so that it was almost disappointing at first, but his resolve and desperation to please had been more than entertaining. Every moment he kept by your side made your power grow, and considering the abandonment issues that ran rampant like poison beneath his skin, eating away at his brain and filling him with anxiety, that meant you were never alone for more than a few hours. If you weren’t steadily growing stronger, you’d have questioned if the clinginess were at all worth it. 

“Please — Please, let me… Please…” The soft whimpers from the floor in front of you catch your attention instantly, and you gaze down at the mess of a man before you. His hair — typically so well-managed — hangs messily over his eyes, and his wings flare out behind him, the massive feathered limbs twitching every now and then as he holds himself back from touching you without permission; the kissing had been reward enough for the necklace he’d surprised you with at breakfast, even if he wanted more. To get more, he had to earn it. 

“Do you know any words other than ‘please’?” you ask, amused by the sight of the puddle of an angel before you as well as his vastly shrunken vocabulary. He’s on his knees before you, eyes wanting and voice thick as he begs, and it does nothing but feed the raging warmth in your lower abdomen. In control though you may be, the King of Hell would get what he wanted before the night was through; after all, how could you deny someone who was being such a good boy?

“I know whatever words you want me to say,” he promises in a whine, “What do you want me to say? To ask? I’ll do it, I promise.” You know he will; when has he ever not done what you ask? Never. 

“You’ll be good?” You ask, raising an eyebrow as you sip your wine, and he whimpers and nods, hands fisting and unfisting around nothing as he continues fighting the urges to grip at you like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. You fight off the urge to laugh; he was just so pathetic, you couldn’t help but feel fond of him. There was just something about sorry men on their knees that did it for you every time, and the King of Hell was no exception.

“S-So good,” he moans shakily, his pupils dilating as you crook a finger in his direction as the smallest invitation. He crawls on all fours closer to you before leaning his head against the warm skin of the inside of your thigh, nuzzling against you before hiding his eyes against it. “I will, I — I…” Fuck, he couldn’t even think — exactly how you liked him. His breathing is picking up, getting heavier than before — he’s getting all worked up, and you haven’t even properly touched him yet. 

You cross your legs tightly, displacing him, and a questioning noise falls from his lips. “Mmm… Ask me for permission,” you purr, and you watch his pupils slowly dilate and his eyes fill with a fresh surge of want. 

“F-Fuck, okay — C-Can I? Please, can I?” he asks, a pleading tone in his voice that has you clenching around nothing. 

“Can you what?” you ask, turning to study your fingernails lazily after taking your last drink of wine, putting the glass on the table next to where you were sitting. He lets out a noise of complaint, demanding your attention be put back on him, and you acquiesce easily; you could certainly give in to one or two of his requests, wordless or otherwise, considering he’d be begging to bury himself in your cunt before the night was out. 

He trembles, barely holding himself back from descending upon you like a starved man would a meal. “Can I touch you? I want to taste you, wanna make you feel good, please—“

You narrow your eyes and fight off the smile making the corners of your lips twitch; you can’t smile yet, it would ruin all the fun. “Who are you asking, Lucifer?” 

“Fuck. Fuck. Master, I’m-!” he whimpers, and you raise an eyebrow in silence, watching as he bites down hard on his bottom lip before asking, “Please, Master, can I lick your pussy?”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Hmmm…” you squint slowly at him, as if pondering the thought for the sole sake of teasing him, and he plants a gentle kiss on the inside of your knee before looking up at you, asking silently for the permission he felt he needed. 

“Please?” he begs again, and you smile finally, watching the way his ruby eyes light up with barely-contained excitement. 

“It’s alright with me,” you purr softly, uncrossing and spreading your legs for him. He lunges forward, curling his forearms under the backs of your thighs and burying his face in your cunt immediately. He’s sloppy as he eats you out, drooling from the taste and excitement, and you sigh happily as you relax into the couch cushions. The man was ever-so-talented with his tongue, you’d discovered years ago, and his favorite hobby was to lie between your legs as often and long as you would let him — and oh, would you let him. All he wanted to do was please you, to ensure your comfort and make sure you never wanted to leave him, and a while your pity for him turned into a soft fondness that urged you to acquiesce to some of his more romanticized fancies, which was why the two of you had had a lovely dinner tonight before you’d led him by his red tie to your shared bedroom. 

“Fuck,” you groan, letting your head fall back at the same time as you close your eyes and bury your free hand in his feather-soft hair, drawing him deeper into your core and coaxing a moan from him at the sensation of his hair being pulled a little. “That’s it, sweet boy — more tongue, just a little more… What a good boy you are…” 

Your hips roll up into his learned tongue at the same time that you catch your own bottom lip between your teeth and grab at one of your breasts lazily, kneading it in time with each swirl of his tongue against you. A shaky string of words into your cunt that you faintly recognize as whiny pleas for you to love him and stay with him forever only stimulate you more, the vibrations making your hips jump up. A small bump against your leg goes ignored the first time, as well as the second, but the third catches your attention and you open your eyes and look down to see him grinding against your leg like a dog. Bullying him crosses your mind, and you are nothing but a slave to your own whims in the bedroom, so you do. 

“What a pathetic fucking man!” you laugh, startling him out of his focus on your cunt and cumming against your leg, and he blinks up at you with wide eyes. He never stops lapping at your cunt, and you scoff meanly. “Humping my leg like some mutt, how unfitting of a king. You’re so desperate to get off that you can’t even wait for the opportunity to use my cunt like a real man — but at least you’re good with your tongue, aren’t you?”

Lucifer whines out a moan into you as he nods an affirmative, and you laugh again, this time more breathily. “You like that, don’t you?” you ask mockingly, tugging at his messy hair just enough for it to sting a little. He whimpers into your core, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes. “The mockery, the harsh words, me being mean — and the praise. Can’t make up your mind on what you want more can you?” A shrill whine is your only response as he nips at your swollen clit, and your hips buck up into his face as you moan, “Mmm, you just want to get cunt-drunk, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh!” he agrees, thrusting hard against you and lapping up every drop of slick you had to offer him. He was talented when it came to slipping back and forth between focusing on smothering your clit with attention and dipping his tongue into your wanting hole, and it took all your inner strength not to lose face and wrap your thighs around his head. 

“Please,” he says, voice slurred with desire, “Please, more — Love more, let me have more, I want more-!”

“More?” you ask mockingly, clenching around nothing as his long tongue circles your clit, and he moans into you desperately enough that the vibrations nearly force a whimper of your own from you lips.  “G-Go ahead and ride my leg,” you say shakily, grinning down at him patronizingly as he immediately starts grinding down on you hard. “And cum whenever you want — after all, you’re just my dumb little pussy-whipped pretty boy~”

He lets out a shrill cry, thrusting against your leg hard as he bites and sucks at your cunt and cums all over your calf, moaning and crying with tears running down his face. Shrill cries fall from your lips as you stop bothering to hold them back; he was already getting sloppy in the ways you liked him best, him hearing you call out for him would only further your shared desire. 

“What do we say?” you ask, keening as he sucks at you greedily, and he lets out a stilted cry of his own. 

“Thank you!” he gasps, continuing to roll his cock against you and hiccuping through tears at the overstimulation he’s forcing upon himself as smaller spurts of cum rush from his cock and coat your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you..!”

“Good boy,” you murmur, moving your hand from his hair to gently caress his face, and he lets out a shaky sob as he nuzzles into your hand. You lay your head back, content to doze as he comes down from his own particular high while clinging to you. 

“Love you,” he whispers quietly, and you hum softly back at him in response, wordlessly sharing the feeling. “So much. So, so much, more than anyone…” You let him babble mindlessly, knowing how fond he was of doing so, and listen in silence while watching him with a deep fondness sparkling in your eyes. After about a half hour or so he slows his chatter to a stop, beginning to play with your fingers and nibble at his lips, clearly wanting something. 

“What is it, Lucifer?” you ask lazily, petting his head gently, and he lets out wordless whine that makes you raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

He’s quiet for a moment, for some reason unsure of himself, before he finally voices his desire. “More…?” he whispers quietly, clinging to you desperately, and you look down at him smugly while your lips quirk up into a smile. 

“More?” you ask mockingly, then scoff and cross your legs, cutting him off from what he desired most, a surprised unintentional chirp falling from his lips. “Mmm, I don’t know if you deserve it…” And so begin the waterworks.

Lucifer bursts into tears, overstimulated and wanting and needy, all while being denied of the only thing he wants. He was a man lost in a vast desert and you were the small spring he stumbled upon after days — after tasting you the first time all those years ago, once in a night was never enough. You’re just being mean to bully him like you always do now, and he knows it. 

Your cum glistens on his lips and chin, and his tongue darts out to lick it up without thinking, sending a surge of heat rushing through your core. “But — But I was good!” he argues shakily through his tears, “Please, I just want — want to make you feel good, ‘nd I wanna feel good too…”

You gaze down at him, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and biting down on it harshly to ground yourself; God, he’s fucking cute. So needy and desperate, his face coated in your cum… 

You smile and spread your legs again, fighting off the urge to laugh at the way his feathers fluff up and he starts trembling in excitement. He’s always been an insatiable little thing, and you should have known better than to start to doze off after he’d achieved just his first orgasm — besides, you can handle him! This was your King after all, and you know him like you know your own mind. What’s a half dozen or more orgasms before the night is out? You could always sleep past noon if you really wanted, and it wasn’t as if he’d be leaving you anytime soon. 

“Then go ahead, Your Majesty,” you purr softly, watching the way his pupils nearly swallow up his irises entirely at the rumble in your voice. “I’m all yours.”

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

[witchofthesouls]

Bots going throught strong food confusion probably hear the kids strong opinions daily considering three of them different countries and stuff

Jack: I mean we can eat anything but the big question is Should you thought?

Miko: Sounds like someone with food allergies would say

Jack: You maybe can eat raw fish without consequences but i rathet not risk salmonella or listeriosis

Raf: *probably has abuelita cooking lots of good food*Food is food

Funnily enough, Jack fusses over that because of fast-food experience and horror stories by restaurants and hospitals. Plus, he picked up on some of June's wellness habits, especially since Jack tended to get sick all the time as a young child. He warned Miko that botulism cases in the US usually come from improperly stored home canned food or the gas station nacho cheese sauce.

Miko came from Japan, so she had several culture shocks to jump, especially with food. American dining portions are huge since they're a very big (pun intended) on leftovers. Taking food home to eat later is deeply ingrained. It's common for Americans to eat out, but Japan is the opposite. Another thing that annoyed her was the advertising, but now she jokes that the pictures are tastier than the true product. And the amount of meat! It astounded her how much fucking red meat Americans like to eat. She deeply misses having a konbini because the American equivalent isn't the same, especially since the safety standards are different.

Raf can only be trusted with boiling water and ready meals since the girls and women in the Esquivel family shoo him out. He's familiar with ground pits since barbacoa is on the menu with family gatherings. Raf has excellent swiping skills as his siblings and cousins have the strength to shove him. He teams up with his sister as she does distractions, and he snatches away the good stuff.

So yeah, along with the 'Can you eat that?' game, the Autobots play '20 Questions' on preparation, ingredient acquisition, and cooking.

Supermarkets and farms are a Twilight Zone to them. There's food with different names to differentiate sizes, parts, and colors. (Arcee had thought the kids were messing her with broccoli and cauliflower.) Earth's varied languages add more to the confusion. Humans can eat rocks, poisons, and mold. There are perishable and non-perishable foods. Food that eats other food. Food that improves soil composition. Food that plays niche ecological roles. Food that's only about status. And choices, so many choices. A ridiculous number of choices in an American supermarket. Oh, and humans have a passionate love affair with cabbages and nightshade. Or with just plants in general.

Arcee started it as a joke, but now all the Autobots ask the resident humans if they did their "cabbage runs" and "picked up their posions" (aka grocery shopping with a play on the English idiom: "pick your poison." Yes, they have been told the meaning. No, they don't care because it makes so much more sense to them, especially with the nightshade and spices consumption).