#becoming mother of succulents

[blazingsaza]

Becoming "Mother of Succulents" Day 34:

First of all,

My roster is growing, LESSGOOOO!!!

Since the last time i've posted these, i've bought more succulents in batches. I tried to bring home the adult ones too just to compare since all i've bought were babies (with roots).

TIPS FOR FELLOW BEGGINERS: if you live somewhere hot and humid and you wanna take home a succulent that's been living it's life in nursery where it's cool and breezy,

DO NOT GET THE ADULT ONES! These plants have been pampered and living their best life in the nursery. So when you take them to the real world, they're prone to get stressed, sunburned and eventually ded.

It is better to care the smaller ones because they didn't spend their time long enough in the nursery, so it's easier for them to get acclimated in new environments.

Second, I hate to be the bearer of the bad news, i killed both Echeveria Lola (it rotted 😭) and String of Pearls (apparently i didn't know how to care string plants 🥲).

We're down to 2 in this pot. Sadge😭

Also, Topsyturvy is in a bad shape. (I didn't take pictures of her when she was at her lowest unfortunately)

I'm not exactly sure what was the cause of Turvy's deteriorating health, her leafs are getting yellow and just kept shrivelling, prunning, getting smaller and smaller. My research didn't really answer my questions either, but it gave me solution. I gave her an NPK succulent fertilizer, succulent booster and Liquinox B1 vitamins once a week. So my guess, she was both dehydrated and stressed.

After 3 weeks, she grew some healthier roots. Her colors are also returning and produce more farina. She's not 100% recovered yet but she is getting better 🤲📿

To my surprise, portulaca seems to be thriving! LESSGOOOOO!!

They seems to be more resilient, so i bought another one LOL

And now for the wild card: i went to a nearby mall. As it turns out, they're having a bazar. As far as i can see, they only sold clothings, jewelries and some other knick knacks.

So COLOR ME SURPRISE WHEN I FOUND A BONSAI TENNANT!

Of course i bought one 🤣

This is my Micro Cherry Blossom that allegedly will flower for twice a year

What i've learnt from tending these plants:

My dumbass always thought that plants needs sunlight to photosynthesis, therefore the more sunlight the better.

Wrong.

It doesn't matter what type of plants that i'm having, if the sunlight is too hot then direct light will most likely be burning my plants. Best direct sunlight for my plants would be from 6am - 9am MAX. Any later than that, it'll burn the plants. ESPECIALLY since i'm living in a tropical country. So usually, i'd move them inside until the sun doesn't scorch my porch anymore.

There's also the matter of watering. My bonsai can be watered once a day everyday but my succulents? They need to be neglected for a while. "For how long tho?" Is the question i asked the internet. Most answers "every 2 weeks". But those answers came from ppl who lives in 4 season countries and I ASSUME it's not as hot as where i am. I tried to water them after 2 weeks and Topsyturvy paid the price 😭. I also noticed my Jade's leafs gotten rrreeeaaallly soft and turning yellow after a week. So instead, i watered them once a week and give them the nutritions they need every 2 weeks.

Welp- that's all the updates regarding plants. I apologize for the lack of art contents. I am very much stressed out bcs of my upcoming wedding preparations and it affected my creative juices. These plants soothes me a lot, so i hope y'all don't mind 🙏

More plant updates and (hopefully) artworks, anon!

[fatehbaz]

.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Thirsting Grail, Outergod of Wants and Wounds

Artsource

Adventure Hooks:

While travelling the party encounters a once famed surgeon who seeks their help in undertaking pilgrimage to the distant shrine of a death god. When pressed on her motivation, she reveals that through some curse or divine act of cruelty, those she operates on can never die, but also cannot heal. 

There is a tree that grows in the ruins of the old braon’s castle, said to have sprouted from the chopping block upon which he had his wife’s lovers executed. The tree grows no leaves, only flowers, and it’s said that if you make a tea from its blossoms, you will receive a vision of your one ture love.  Beings of woven thorn are said to guard the tree, but there are those who would pay desperately to drink of its boughs. 

A once peaceful kingdom dissolves into a generations long civil war, any hope of peace drowned beneath a tide of violence, ruination, and grievance that none can hope to escape.

Among the outergods there are none more eager to engage with mortals than the entity known as Thisting Grail. It is a thing of violence and appetite, and seems all too eager to lend its power to those most likely to misuse it, whether they sought it’s aid in the first place or not. 

Scholars and madmen have long debated the Grail’s motivations, what goal or ideology it is trying to achieve with the visions and often horrific miracles it bestows. In truth, Thirsting Grail has no goal beyond the pursuit of violence and longing, it is a means without an end, ready to lend itself to any cause that would make the world a bloodier, hungrier place. 

The god is formless, an ocean of boling blood that takes on the shape of whatever “vessel” its followers imagine for it, borrowing their cultural iconography and birthing itself anew each time. There are litanies of these avatars, hundreds more likely forgotten by history;  blood saints and baleful red stars and heart hungry blades. Perhaps because of blood’s ubiquity in ritual and occult practice the Grail’s influence can “seep” its way into the worship of other entities, divine or demonic, and it’s not unheard of for otherwise upstanding and dogmatic worshippers of banal gods to accidentally begin practising the grail’s bloody rites. 

Sanguimancy and other forms of blood magic are the most obvious of Thirsting Grail’s gifts, but it has other more esoteric offerings: smoke from sacrifices or incense mingled with the formless god’s essence can grant visions of desires made manifest, though often twisted through a disturbingly carnal (in both senses of the word) lens. All too often worshippers ( and the cult leaders that encourage them) see these visions as prophetic, leading to the outergod being sometimes called “the mother of truth”.  It can also manifest the objects of desire: succulent fruits, unearthly lovers, weapons of inordinate power, but there is something fundamentally wrong with these creations as they cannot grant true satisfaction, and often leave those that partake of them wanting more than when they started. 

Those who fall prey to Thirsting Grail’s influence can become warped as their own veins become polluted by the entity’s ichor: becoming feral creatures of endless cruelty and appetite, or having their wounds open wider and wider until there is nothing but wound remaining of their swollen flesh. Those so overtaken grow and warp and merge with others until new horrors are birthed from them, a permanent seedbed of 

Titles: Mother of truth, formless mother, font erubescent, the bloodstar.  Symbols: A red grail or fountain, cultural iconography stained with blood.  Signs:  Wounds that bleed but do not heal, plants overflowing or cracking open to expose their innards. Unsettling red dreams.  Worshippers: Those with bloodstained hands be they doctors, butchers, or murderers. Vampires, occultists, and other sanguiphiles. Instatiable gourmands and unfulfilled lovers.   

Inspiration:  I wear my influences on my sleeve with this one.  I’ve been turning the Elden Ring mythology over in my mind for some time partially because I think there’s a lot of fun ideas there but also because I felt like (in typical Fromsoft fashion) there wasn’t enough shown to really scratch my itch for discovery. 

The formless mother/bloodstar was chiefest among these elements: A killer aesthetic with lore that was a little too thin to use as inspiration. After a while that thinness turned into a feature, the idea of an eldritch entity of pain and violence that conformed to the needs of those who worshipped it, granting power to those who would go out and make the world more violent and painful.  I liked the idea that “mother of truth” was a misnomer, and that cultists would ascribe meaning and intent and iconography to a god that didn’t care one way or another. 

Another strong influence is the Grail from Cultist Simulator/Book of hours ( SERIOUSLY, play book of hours you fools), an eldritch entity/aspect of reality that presides over hungers and births be they literal or figurative.  The Blood + Mother connection was obvious here, but the Grail provided some more texture and esoteric aspects to fill out my version’s storytelling potential.

[pseudowho]

Thinking about Takuma Ino, who becomes a father so young when you fall unexpectedly pregnant. Thinking about the fear in your eyes, the shaking hands going to hold each other's, the positive test clasped between them. The way Takuma reassures you; "it's okay, it's okay, I always wanted to be a dad...sure, not this soon-- but we'll be fine. Better than fine, we'll be great."

The way Takuma goes for a walk that night, after you've cried yourself to sleep, crouching down in an alleyway with his beanie'd head in his hands, wondering how he could possibly ever be a good father. Wanting to marry you, to do things 'right', but afraid you'd think he only wanted to marry you because of the pregnancy.

The way Takuma arrives on his mother's doorstep (the mother who raised him alone, young, single) in the dead of night, pale-faced. The way his mother holds him as he cries and apologises at the dining room table, his face in her robed chest. The way she cups his face, and stares into his eyes; "we can do this, together, the right way. You're a good boy. Now be a good man."

The way Takuma learns to be a father, from his mother, who was his whole world. The way Takuma works himself to the bone, squirrelling money away, booking in with estate agents to go and view your first home together in a way that makes your hormonal heart clench.

The way Takuma's head hits the pillow, weary after working all night, then comes straight up again as he hears you vomiting in the bathroom, kneeling behind you to stroke your hair back, holding you gently round the waist on the tiled floor; "attagirl...it'll be better soon, right? Toughest girl I know. Doin' such a great job."

The way Takuma takes up embroidery, buying cheap plain clothes for the baby, because he can't afford much, but adding small artistic touches of beauty; a frog with a toadstool hat, a little trailing succulent vine, a shooting star.

The way Takuma is bright and excited; there for every scan, every class, every milestone. The way Takuma puts on a brave face. The way Takuma hides in the staffroom at work, his head in his hands, creaking under the weight of responsibility. The way he feels a strong hand clasp his shoulder, a beige suit, a blue shirt, a leopard print tie at the corner of his eye; "I know you're going to say no...but I'd like to buy a gift. For both of you. For the baby."

The way Takuma feels so ashamed for accepting help; the way a crib, a beautiful buggy, a snug and safe car seat, all gradually arrive at your new home. The way he tries to insist on paying Nanami Kento back. Nanami naturally refuses, pretends to be inordinately interested in his newspaper.

The way Takuma can't help but buy the baby a few beanies. The way you retaliate by buying an outfit that looks just like Ino's. He is thrilled.

The way Takuma's embroidery has advanced so well, he makes four little Auspicious Beasts to hang from a mobile above the crib.

The way Takuma paints beautiful, geometric, zany black and white shapes on the wall in the baby's bedroom; "They only see black, white and red at first babe. Neat, right?"

The way Takuma is pale throughout your labour, his eyes feverish, your pain so much harder than any battle he's ever been to. The way his tears hit him in a huge whooshing breath, a head-holding groan of relief when his baby son is placed on your chest, wet and crying, a little angry clenched face. The way Takuma rests his cheek on his arm at the top of your bed, gazing down and sniffling as his son holds his finger.

The way Takuma takes you both home, proud, woefully in love, still wondering how he's ever going to grow up and be a man, without realising he's already so much more of a man than so many others in this world.

Thinking about young dad Takuma Ino.

[deathbxnny]

Oh yeah, raising literal childish soldiers canNOT be good for one's conscious 🥲

But, I'm glad you're eager for more of that succulent emotional hurt, though this one will be... different the previous ones. And without further adieu, let's get into it 😈

So, I've noticed how, in this series, any harm sent mother's way has always been somewhat second-handed, and psychological in nature. Physical arm has always gone to the Children of The House. So, what if for this scenario, "Mother" is the unexpected one coming to harm?

Now, I could definitely write up a scenario of "Mother" getting hurt in some drastic way, and Arle and the House Kids retaliate in grand fashion, but that would be... kinda generic, no? Rather, I'm thinking of a scenario where "Mother" is hurt by the one thing that not even The Knave herself can protect her from.

Herself.

Or more specifically, her own body. Lemme explain.

So, "Mother" is in a position that can be IMMENSELY stressful and emotionally draining, so imagine one day, it's about as normal as life in the Hearth can be, "Mother" is at work, performing or assigning chores, or maybe prepping a meal for the kids, with some their help. When suddenly, she's hit with immense chest pains, as though her rib cage is squeezing around her heart, it becomes hard to breath, hard to focus because of how dizzy she's become. That's right, Mama suffer (or very nearly suffer, that detail is up to you) a literal heart attack, give everyone in the House a good scare, if you would 🤭.

And so, after this incident "Mother" is pretty forced to "take it easy" so that she can recover (which according to some brief searches I've done, can take anywhere from a couple weeks to a few months). And, considering how "Mother" is definitely seems like she'd be something of a workaholic, someone who feels she needs to be present and contributing to be a "worthy" mother, suddenly being forced to take a break from all her usual daily tasks must make for an absolutely miserable experience for her.

So, in the meanwhile, Arle and the kids try to figure out some things to cheer her up and keep her mind occupied while she recovers.

X Anon

Heartfelt devotion. | Arlecchino x Fem!Wife!Reader

(Part one) (Part two) (Part three) (Part four) (Read more parts under Arlecchino's name in my Genshin Masterlist!)

A/N: Hello X Anon! Thank you so much for your request. I really enjoyed writing this. In fact, this turned out to be a bit of a personal piece due to me having had the experience of an immideate family member suffering a heart attack, so I put some of that into this fic, which is why I took a bit of a different approach to your idea. Either way, I hope it's to your liking X Anon!!<33

Content: Heart attacks, comas, angst, hurt/comfort, wife reader, mentions of Curcabena, reader becomes a bit delirious, trauma, sfw

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns!!

((Not proofread))

The will of the Tsaritsa never rested for anything.

The expectation for everyone to continue until nothing was left of them always weighed on your shoulders, but it did little to ever make itself noticeable in the ranks of the Fatui. Exhaustion? Sickness? Death? None of that was an excuse enough to stop. You were all motivated by the goal ahead, even if uncertainty of what exactly it was often lingered in your mind. It was inspiring to work hard even in the face of pure agony and hell. It's just how things were. That's just how you kept going for so long as an organization.

The Tsaritsa's gentle kindness was ultimately not enough of a reason when the cold, icy snow and wind of your home ripped at your skin hungrily for more of your soul to take.

And you especially, as the wife of a Harbinger and "Mother" of the House of Hearth, felt that deeply.

Day in, day out.

It was all the same in the house of Hearth that forever kept busy no matter the occasion. You were unofficially the head of it all. Your wife often had better things to do as a diplomat and therefore entrusted you with your family from day one. The title and duties of the "Mother" weighed on you painfully, just as expected from you. And whilst you've spent endless years attempting to repair the relationship between that title and the family, you still didn't feel like it was enough. The woman that raised you and the 4th Harbinger haunted you with every step, always looking over your shoulder with that sinister smile of hers. You could feel the scrutiny in her gaze, see the rage in her grin, hear her venomous words in that sweet, gentle voice of hers.

Arlecchino had moved on from her by taking on the title of "Father," but you remained cursed. You remained in the past where you belonged, fixing connections that died for a reason, yet you were stuck with due to your own doing. There were no regrets in your actions initially, but now, after seeing the carnage and death you had caused to your own children by sending them off to the grim reaper yourself, you realise that over time, your mind and body has become worn down dangerously. You were beginning to fall apart, yet tried to keep yourself together just enough to continue every day. Like everyone else here.

It was getting hard to move and sleep lately, however, something that should've unnerved you when it was first starting to become noticeable. But you waved it off like everything else, your mind focused on your daily tasks and responsibilities instead. With your wife abroad back in the motherland for a Harbinger meeting, you were stuck shouldering absolutely everything again, not that you ever protested or cared much. You saw it as a necessity, perhaps even an honor to work at her side and take care of such an important part of the Fatui. If only the glamor and patriotism didn't melt away every time you got a new death report regarding more of your children. Crucabena used to read them as though they were the latest fashion magazine, a content smile on her lips every time. You, on the other hand, shed endless tears, finding no enjoyment in what you've become.

How did she do it? How was she able to be so indifferent and cruel to you all without feeling a thing? What was the secret to absolut absolvation from the guilt and shame? Years later, you still find yourself asking these questions in the shadows of the night, your blurry reflection in the water of the cold bathtub mirroring her image. You wonder if you even were any different than her ultimately. You felt like you did the same things as her, just less cruel, less callous. Was your care and love for the children enough to make a difference?

"Of course not. You and I are one in the same, my dear child." You often hear her voice whisper to you in those painfully sleepless nights, and you wished Peruere was there to keep her quiet again.

Taking a deep breath, you let out a weak hum when you felt someone grab onto your shoulder with a gentle shake. "Mother?" Lyney asked carefully, brows furrowed in worry at your near catatonic state lately. You barely seemed alive at times, your blank stare staring through everyone, some of your tasks even neglected seemingly unbeknownst to you. Your movement was sluggish, slow, and clumsy. Everyone noticed this, and the worry was beginning to seep into all the children belonging to the house. This was nothing like you. And yet, you didn't seem to be aware of it. Or maybe you were ignoring it.

Either way, Lyney had enough of just watching you suffer, his gaze becoming stern when you gave him a tired look. "Have you... slept or eaten properly lately? You look ill." The answer was 'no' to both, of course. You haven't been able to eat much due to the sudden huge workload you were confronted with ever since their Father left for much longer than usual. Sleep was out of the question due to the odd pain and pressure in your chest whenever you laid down. This led to you often sitting in a chair instead in front of the fireplace in hopes of getting some sleep that way... but unfortunately, that didn't work either.

Gently shaking your head, you mustered the strength to give him a shaky smile in hopes of calming him. "I'm alright, dear, don't worry about me. It's just a little stress, nothing more." Ever so perceptive, you sighed when you saw his eyes narrow. He didn't believe you, and you certainly wouldn't believe yourself either. Something was terribly wrong, but you had no time to deal with it. You didn't want Lyney to take on any duties he didn't have to yet, even if he'll most likely be your wife's successor one day. The pressure was too much. You didn't want him to feel the way you did.

Behind him, you saw two agents enter the kitchen through the backdoor. Masks obscured their faces, but the aura they let in was grim and cold. One you were so awfully familiar with, including the documents in their hands. A red envelope peeked out, a silent sign of more carnage and death raised by your own hands. The pressure in your chest suddenly increased once more when the guilt crept back up your body and whispered those evil words of self-doubt into your ears again. "How... How many this time?" You breathed out, a hand pressed to your chest in pain. Lyney grabbed onto your arm in surprise as your body nearly keeled over. Your mind was ringing, and you couldn't even hear the response to your question anymore.

It was all too much. You couldn't take it anymore. In the forefront of your mind, the woman that raised you gave you a "proud" smile, like she always did. It sickened you, for it meant that you've done something that once again proved that your title was cursed.

"Mother!" Lyney yelled out in panic, quick to alert everyone around them to your collapsing form. This has never happened before. The Lady of the House never fell, never faltered. And yet, as you now laid there on the floor, hands pressed against your chest as you heaved painfully, unable to breathe, you realised that everything you've done in your life has led you to this point. This was karma. This was the pain you deserved. Your children's terrified faces faded away and swirled into your mother's dark, sinister gaze. She reached out to you, her gloved hand pressing against your sweating forehead and tearstruck eyes, but you didn't feel any comfort. You felt like another death report, her favorite and one she has been waiting for forever.

If this is how you died, then so be it. One thing about Curcabena was that she'll always find a place for you to sit next to her no matter what. This time, you supposed, it would be in hell for the hurt you've caused.

How fitting.

"... Is she going to ever wake up?" "Not for a while. The doctors said the coma is necessary for her recovery. The reanimation took too long and... it's on her now to awaken." Lynette took a deep breath, her voice coming out in hushed whispers in fear of being overheard by their stressed Father. When Arlecchino came back come after an emergency letter practically crashed into the meeting room through a panicked Fatui agent, she found herself in the middle of a near warzone. You kept the house together at all times. But with you being in a medically induced coma now, everything fell right onto Lyney's shoulders. The one thing you never wanted.

The Knave had yet to say a thing, her lips pressed into a thin line at all times, as she silently moved to reorganize everyone and ease the pressure off of the young man's shoulders. Not even three days of taking on everything, and he was done emotionally and physically. How did his mother do it every day? How was she able to function? How was she able to keep everything in mind, do every task with perfect precision? He had so much to still learn, and that's what your absence proved him so painfully.

But hope still remained. If you woke up soon, then things would get better. Then, no one needed to be so terrified anymore.

Freminet nervously leaned against the doorway to your room, red eyes casted downwards to his shoes in silent shame. Guilt was eating everyone in the house up, their hearts aching with the question, "Could we have done more?". Yet their father wasn't keen on answering anything, her reassurance coming in the form of stern orders and a call for strength from them all.

"I see... in that case, I'll stay and watch over her for the night. You should go rest, Lynette." The young man spoke, watching as his sister exhaled a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. No one was getting any sleep lately, but it's the thought that counted. Passing by him with a short hug they both needed, Freminet watched her disappear into the darkness of the corridor, the moonlight filtering in through the windows leading her way. Stepping into the room with a soft sigh, he closed the door behind him and approached your sleeping form. His father hadn't stepped into this room much due to how busy she was with the chaos that broke out with your absence... but when she was in here, he saw the way she'd just stare at you, the pain in those stern eyes melting the ice and leaving behind a worried, foreign gaze that was rare to see on her.

Pulling a chair to the edge of the bed, he leaned his head against your slowly rising and falling chest, his eyes fluttering close in hopes of catching the tears that threatened to fall again. He wanted you to wake up so badly. It hurt to see you in this broken, weakened state. You were so pale and looked hollow, like all the life had been taken out of you. It was a terrifying sight that he could only barely comprehend. You have never looked like this before. You were always so strong and domineering.

He just couldn't believe it.

Fingers running through his blonde hair calmly is what made him flinch back to reality, his body reeling backward in surprise, yet the hand kept him there firmly. "Calm down, child... don't be afraid. It's just me." It was your voice, yet it sounded raspy and defeated, a slight slur to it from the lack of using it. Freminet froze and stared into the white covers of your bed, his tears dampening the soft fabric. But you didn't seem to notice his plight at first. He wanted to stay still, in case this was a dream. He was afraid that a single sudden move would make you fall back into your coma, the irrational thought plaguing him painfully.

"Mother..." "... Is this... heaven, after all?" You whispered, mind returning to the woman that haunted you. Surely, this must be the bliss before the storm. You imagined that soon flames and the hands of the children you've sent to their death would reach out and drag you down with them. And yet, all you got was the blonde boy pulling himself back again and grabbing onto your hand. "N-No! You're... you're alive." He stuttered out in panic and confusion, wishing someone else would help him, someone else could be here with you and take care of you much better than he could.

But once you processed those words of his, your heart skipped a beat in panic. The emotions finally caught up to you, and the surge of emotions made you attempt to sit up. Letting out a small yelp, Freminet attempted to hold you down and comfort you, knowing how you were about the house and your duties. The doctors had warned about this happening, too. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sheer strength you demonstrated despite everything that happened. Something which could prove deadly soon, if you didn't relax immideatly.

And as though the heavens had heard his prayers, the door to the room creaked open, and in came his Father, an unreadable expression on her face at the sight of your struggling form. You were alive and somehow filled with energy, which unnerved her a little deep down. This certainly was going against your bedrest orders. "Peruere, I... I'm sorry for disappointing you- I'll get back to my duties as soon as I-" Her hand rose, and your deafening silence came with it. Taking slow steps towards you, her hand came down to rest on top of her trembling son's head. A silent absolvation from his duties for tonight.

"It's okay. You have not disappointed me in the slightest. Now rest." Her voice was stern and cold like it always was, but beneath the icy surface, you could feel the warmth and worry spread through her like a wild fire. She didn't want you to feel this way, and you could tell that the state you were in hurt her deep down. You and your family were her only weaknesses. Wanting to ease her pain, you leaned back into the soft pillows, eyes not daring to look up at her anymore. Why did you feel so ashamed? Perhaps because you should have taken care of yourself better. If you had, then maybe you wouldn't feel like a burden now. As though she was reading your mind, Arlecchino gave her son a curt nod, which he immideatly took as his sign to reluctantly leave.

Silence now overtook you both until she sighed and took a seat in the chair Freminet was in earlier. The moonlight filtering in through the open window illuminated the side of her tense face, her unique eyes near glowing. It was a peaceful moment, despite the pain that now raked through your entire body and especially chest. You closed your eyes weakly in relief when you felt her clawed hand carefully caress your sweat drenched face, your throat feeling so awfully dry as you gulped.

"I... I need to get up... I need to go back to work." "Not for a while." "... For how long then." A week maybe, you hoped. It was more than enough. It was all you allowed yourself, and even that was pushing it. Your restless mind was spinning in circles at all the tasks it still had to complete, and you felt yourself at a loss for words when she shook her head with the faintest frown. She knew you too well. You were an open book she had read many times over and couldn't get enough of. "Six weeks. Perhaps even longer after, depending on your state-..." She stopped herself when she saw your body trembling, and in the dimmest moonlight, she saw tears glinting in your eyes.

"Please don't cry. This is for your own good. I was... afraid when I heard of what happened. In fact, I'm grateful that you are alive, my songbird." Oh, how delicate her words were. Her honesty was forever going to be proof of her undying love for you. The ache is your heart lessened at the gentle warmth that spread through you from her touch, her tone lulling you into the safety you've craved ever since you fluttered your eyes open again. If only the guilt left with it. "What of our children? I must've scared them terribly. Especially my poor Fremi'..." You whispered after a moment of contemplation. Arlecchino watched your sick, tired form with kind eyes that were only reserved for you.

She figured that you'd feel this way. You were always so desperate to prove yourself to absolutely everyone. Whether it was to her, your children, or even the entire organization, you wanted to show everyone that you were better than Crucabena. Yet no matter how many years past, and no matter how much you achieved, you were never able to realise the truth. You had always been better than her from day one. The moment you rebelled and refused to take her side on the day, Arlecchino defeated her was proof of it.

"Do not fret over them. The children are strong. It is you that we need to worry about now. Just take it easy and sleep." Her words were comforting, even if short and to the point. You trusted them with your life. And yet, the feeling of being a burden just creeped up your body until you fell into a restless slumber once more.

The next few weeks were filled with nothing short of attention and borderline spoiling from all children in the house and beyond. Whether young or old, they all took care of you in the same way you cared for them. Something you could only barely handle. You felt like you should be doing that for them only, never the other way around. Yet under your wife's iron gaze, you were left with no choice but to accept your fate and stay put in bed or, on the rare occasion, in the living room near the fireplace. Lyney and his siblings especially took charge of your care, and you couldn't help but feel guilty at what you've put them through. You had attempted to apologize to the young man plenty of times for simply collapsing the way you did in front of him, but he'd always wave you off with a gentle smile. One they all attempted for you to mirror again.

The magician and Lynette would perform small shows just for you, knowing how much you enjoyed their tricks. Freminet, who was practically glued to your side, would read books with you about sea animals, whilst the other children brought you tasty pastries and food. The house was kept spotless by everyone, and you didn't have to lift a singular finger. And your wife was more affectionate with you in her own special way. Gentle kisses and careful, early morning cuddles were the norm, despite her reluctance for physical touch beforehand. You could tell through her actions that the state you were in had hit you deeper than she was most likely aware, and it didn't help the small guilt that was still left in your heart. All she had left from her old life was you. The woman she considered her wife and the mother of the house.

And by the time you've mostly recovered fully, you realised that the past wasn't haunting you anymore. Crucabena's strict hold on you had faded away, even if you knew that she was simply waiting for your arrival in hell one day. But your small revenge would leave her seething, absolutely enraged for years to come first.

In fact, it felt so good to be alive now.

[georgiapeach30513]

With Your Touch, Part 5

Summary: Some things just weren’t meant to be ignored.

Pairings: Lloyd Hansen X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  Language, voyeurism, masturbation (M&F), pillow grinding, The Verb, non con moment, implied fighting, tension, mentions of childhood trauma, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 5.4K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

You were getting to Lloyd. He should have noticed it sooner, but he was too worried about his daughter, and then it was you that was occupying his thoughts. The forbidden fruit. Lloyd loves the succulent taste of something he’s not supposed to have, therefore you became an obsession. An obsession that he began to care about. An obsession he desired more than anything.

You entwined your kind and damaged self into his very being, and he needs to keep you for himself. Protect you from the world that so desperately wants to destroy women like you. Women who have it all, and are still overlooked. You were even going right down the path that they all did. A prick of a boyfriend that you didn’t love, didn’t want, but you just made it work because he ticks off imaginary boxes.

You were too pure for the men in your world. They’d have you beaten into submission, and be their perfect little housewife, while you became a woman like your mother. Did whatever your husband said because he paid the bills. You would make exceptions to your happiness because he gave you a life of luxury. He could go off and spend all his time with whores and secretaries while you sat at home becoming bitter.

He hated The Verb with every part of him, your dad was just barely below The Verb. The only reason he tolerates your father now is because he’s the reason you were searching for the love of a man. And because of your mother you accept subpar men like The Verb, and make excuses of it being love. It wasn’t.

Love is the way you lift Lyla up in the air above your head, while she giggles down at you. Love is pulling her closer to your face so you can kiss all over her cheeks. Love is sitting on a blanket in the park with the stupid expensive pram so Lyla can get outside. Love is enjoying the time that you get to have with her. Love is the confusing feelings you feel for him.

Because no matter what you say, he sees the feelings you have for him. You even got off with his name on your lips, and it was beautiful. He wants to hear it again. Hear it whisper across his skin, while your walls both literally and figuratively crash down. Becoming so soft after you orgasm over his cock that you are pliant, and just need him to hold you. His obsession runs deep, but at least it is pure intentions.

“Was watching her through your phone not enough?” Ari asks, as he sits down on the bench beside his friend. He looks in Lloyd’s direction as you lay Lyla on the ground, praising her when she flips over and gets into a crawling position. “I didn’t take you as a sap.”

“Me neither,” Lloyd barely responds, but smiles right along with you. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you?” Ari looks more at his friend before he looks back at the two of you. “She’s a natural,” every time that he has seen you with Lyla you didn’t look like her au pair at all, you looked like her mother. Even now, she seems like your baby.

“Yeah, she’s raising her daughter the way she wanted to be raised,” Ari opens his mouth, but closes it immediately. His eyes drift around the park, trying to make sense of whatever is going through his partner's head. “I didn’t want this. Either of them. I was supposed to continue to slut around with whoever I wanted, and go to work. That was my life. So you tell me why either of them came into my life, and I’m not supposed to do anything about it?”

“You should know that life gives us curveballs, and we have to figure it out along the way. Like Lyla. You brought Roman’s daughter into your life. And now you’ve got another problem.”

“A fucking hair in my eyeball that is festering and is named after a damn verb. That boy,” Lloyd releases a growl low in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about the vile things that boy said to you. And that is just what he has heard. He’s sure that Chase has said messed up psycho babble to you, that you never asked for. The way he looked down at you, and was already putting you in your place makes him sick. “Fuck.”

“Is that what you’re wanting to do with your sweet little au pair? Fuck her?”

“Yes. Dream about it every night while I fuck my fist,” Ari rolls his eyes, pretending he didn’t hear any of that. Last thing he wanted to think about was Lloyd fucking someone’s daughter. “But it’s more than that.”

“You want her to take care of your daughter.”

“I want to protect them both. And I enjoy the moments that don’t have this intense sexual tension. I enjoy her. And what she wants, and I just get her,” he did. Chase doesn’t know what he has, but Lloyd does. You would see. “I’m tired of this conversation. They’re both mine. And I don’t share.”

“You’re talking about a woman that actually isn’t yours.”

“She will be, Ari. I can promise you that. Let’s go. I’ve gotta get home early,” he gives the two of you a final look. Wishing he could linger, and watch you all day. See how patient you are with Lyla even if she cries. See how you adored her so much you couldn’t stop kissing her, and smiling at her. He is tired of avoiding you. And he isn’t going to avoid you anymore. Sexual tension be damned.

“And you go in your seat,” Lyla pulls her feet up in a silent protest to not sit in her high chair. She’d been doing this all day. “You are so needy for attention today, but you need to sit in your chair,” furrowing her brows, she looks at you with her bottom lip puckered out. “No, don’t give me that face.”

Opening her mouth to babble incoherent words in a sassy tone. “Are you really going to sass me after I made dinner, and made you your special food,” she keeps her legs tightly pulled up, and you look at your plate and her plate both getting cold. Maybe you were giving in to her too much, but she is a baby.

“Okay, okay. You’ll just sit in my lap, and we’ll wait for daddy. Say dada,” she giggles, shaking her head no. Her chubby little fingers reach for something to gnaw on for a moment, and you sneak a bite of your own. “Your daddy is scared of me. Yes, he is.”

Since that night, Lloyd had avoided you. Claiming he was working late, but you knew better. He checked in less, too. Having cameras gave him the ability to not check in, you suppose. Before he didn’t care. He’d call or send a text, now he does nothing. You figured he just didn’t want to see your face. “I think things got too heavy with us. He’s a bit strong, you know. But he’s pretty cute,” you giggle, making sure to kiss her cheek again.

“He’s very cute. And he has these arms, and his legs, and his lips. I think I like his hands the most. They’re so thick — and soft,” you close your eyes a moment, drifting off into a fantasy of being draped over his legs. “But it’s a bit too complicated,” sighing because you know that you’re not going to go that route. It was too complicated already. It was best if the two of you just kept going the pace you were going.

“But you know you’re daddy’s cute.”

“I am?” Your smile fades as the very man you were talking about waltzes into the dining area with a cocky grin. Lyla’s legs kick around, and she makes the sweetest grabby hands towards him. “Can daddy make him a plate? He sure is hungry,” her giggles turn into shrill screams, and her legs and arm flail. “Lyla Bee! You quit that, girlie.”

“I’ll make you a plate, Lloyd. Here, take Lyla biddy boo Bee,” the sound of your silly voice to her as you walk to her daddy who is already sitting at the table makes her squeal laugh. Her eyes closing with how much she’s smiling, and when he pulls her from your arms, she buries into his warmth. “She’s been a bit needy for attention lately, but tell daddy, it’s okay, huh?”

Leaning over, you grin, rubbing your nose on her, but Lloyd is encapsulated by the scent of your hair. Rolling his eyes in the back of his head at how sweet and sinful this moment all is. It’s almost normal. Almost the family that neither of you had. “Now, you behave,” you whisper.

As you stand up straight, you catch Lloyd wafting your scent with his softly closed, and it makes you smile to yourself. “I’ll be back, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” he didn’t even realize what you had said. Him being silly with a crush makes you happy.

“I was talking to the baby,” you remind him. A brief moment flashes between the two of you, and you want to stay. Want to will his hand to reach out and grab your own. You see the flinches of his fingers like he wants to, and then you snap out of it. This shouldn’t happen. He is your employer and things will get difficult, and you didn’t want them to. Lyla needs you.

Going into the kitchen, you plate up his dinner while you think. What the fuck are you doing? This is getting too intense, but the feeling of being so close to both of them made you warm and tingly in a different way than being alone with him. Plus you had to deal with your asshole of a boyfriend.

You knew Chase was no good, but what other choice did you have? Even though you didn’t see him daily, being with him made you stay away from Lloyd, and just fantasize about him. How much damn porn have you watched about the babysitter and the dad. Fuck, how many dreams did you have of Lloyd telling you that you would take his cock.

Why did you have to make this difficult? Why could you just forget about Lloyd and his fucking arms? And the need to see what he looked like with no shirt on. You bet he sleeps in boxers. Maybe completely nude. Shaking your head you back into the dining area and freeze. Why is him being with his little tiny daughter hotter?

Holding up one of her hands he slowly counts each of her fingers, moving onto the next one until getting to ten. Lloyd then reaches for a foot, pulling the socks off and she screams in laughter, “Oh, honey, are your toes ticklish?”

“You should see her when you have to clean in between them.”

“I bet you kick and giggle the whole time, huh? Do you not want to sit in your chair?”

“No, her doesn’t,” picking up her spoon, you give her a little bite of her food. Making sure that you remain close enough for Lloyd to smell you again. You did smell nice today. “Her gets all stressed out when you mess with her toes, huh, sweet girl.”

The touch is so quick, but you feel his hand on your thigh. You don’t even react, but he flinches away the second his finger touches your leg. You wish he’d keep going higher. Higher. Higher. Until he breaches your drenched hole. That’s how he made you. Soaked.

“You didn’t work late today,” you note, walking back to your chair. You take another bite while you smile at him. “How is it going?”

His Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing nothing while he nods his head, “It’s fine. Perfect. You haven’t requested any days off?”

“There’s really nowhere for me to go. I’ll go eat at the bar, and you and Lyla can bond before bedtime,” sitting at dinner with him and Lyla seems a bit too familial, and it suffocates you. You like it too much, and you need to step away.

“No,” Lloyd answers firmly. This time his swallow was of food. “No, I think you need some company. You’re around a baby that can’t talk all day. Unless you’re needing to make a phone call of course,” he had read being a stay at home mom was difficult, and to always engage in conversation when you came home. That way she didn’t get overwhelmed and feel isolated.

“I don’t,” and you didn’t want to leave him anyways. You just felt he wanted you away for whatever reason. The two of you settle in a comforting silence. Like Lloyd needed time to ground himself after whatever he did at work today. That the conversation flowing between the two of you was just as much for him as you. He seems to be seeking something more comfortable and sweet.

Stolen glances happen throughout the meal, but you’ll blame it on wanting to watch him be sweet with his daughter. While that is a bonus, the reality is you just want to look at him. Trying to keep it PG and not envision him hovering over your body with sweat glistening around his hair. Smiling as you go into a beautiful state of euphoria, and he tells you that you have to give him just one more time as tears drift down your face.

Fuck. You’re as big of a mess as your panties, and all you want is to curl into him, and let him take you down from a high of the most beautiful highs. God, you want to feel his arms wrap around you so bad. Looks like another night with your toys.

You aren’t sure why, but there is definitely a shift in the air tonight between you and Lloyd. And you sure are a glutton for punishment as you walk down to his room, but you want to just talk. You and him. There is one hundred percent no ulterior motive as you take each calculated step down the hall in your kinda sexy sleeper set. Maybe your ass is hanging out of the booty shorts, but who cares.

Tiptoeing down to his room, you lift your hand to knock, and then you hear a sound that almost knocks you to your knees. Your name. But not just your name, panting. Deep breaths. He is talking to an imaginary version of yourself. Not just talking, he was fucking the imaginary you, and you are right here!

He’s a vocal lover, and it causes you to drip. Weak from the way he was imagining fucking you. You knew there was a shift, but you couldn’t fathom Lloyd whimpering your name. Not Dolly, but your name. You couldn’t have prepared yourself to hear his grunts, and his coaching you through orgasms. You want to really orgasm. You don’t want that fake you to have all the fun. You’re throbbing all over, and ready to just break down the door, and jump on his cock.

This isn’t fair! It’s cruel torture. You find yourself nearly humping the air, and ready to beg for Lloyd to fuck you like that. Why can’t you have him? Oh, that’s right, a dumbass boyfriend. Breakup. No. Breaking up entails too many temptations now that you have heard — you stop walking, listening so intently as he squeaks out your name.

“Oh fuuuuck,” he sounds delicious as he comes undone. You want him to come in you. No. On you. No. What did you want? Him. His dick. His baby. More of his babies. Fuck. You’re fucked. This was fucked up. You haven’t kissed him and you want his babies? This was only a weird kink because you see how he fathers, and your mind and your desire to have a family is altering your usual steady mind.

Now you need to angrily get off. Fuck him. If he wants to fuck an imaginary you, you’ll fuck an imaginary him. It is only fair. You stomp back to your room. Yanking off your stupid sleep set. You’re quaking. Slamming a pillow down on the bed, you straddle it. It isn’t your finest hour, but you grind over the satin. Tweaking your nipples, and imagine his hands on your hips, guiding you to go faster, and you do. You just need to get off. You don’t want sweet, you want angry.

Fucking the frustration and confusion right onto the pillow so hard you actually feel him. His hands coast down your sides, and tighten on your hips. His mouth caresses the sensitive column of your neck, giving it a tiny little nibble, “I knew you’d be frustrated. Show me how angry you are.”

With your chest heaving as you bare down harder. You want to make Lloyd proud at how good you can ride his dick. “There’s a good girl. Let it all out,” his hands come around you as he fondles your chest. God he feels good.

“Lloyd, I’m coming.”

“Lloyd?” The grip on your tits turn harsh, and you stop moving, looking over your shoulder. Fuck. “You want to tell me why my whore of a girlfriend is fucking the boss? I knew it, you goddamn slut. He’s just using you to fulfill the babysitter fantasy.”

“W-w-why are you in here?” You can’t think properly as Chase’s cold blue eyes stare into you with so much anger. Hatred. You’ve never seen him look at you like this, but you have felt his wrath. You grab onto his hands, trying to pry them off your chest with no luck.

“I was going to make sweet love to my girlfriend, and I saw you naked and fucking a damn pillow, and wanted to have fun. This whole fucking time you were pretending it was Lloyd?” You shake your head aggressively trying to push his hands off you. He is too loud. “You want something to fuck, I’ll give you something.”

“No, Chase, don’t. He’ll hear. Stop, please, don’t,” your voice whispers through your tears as he pushes you forward. All the way down until your face is squished up against the blanket. Running his fingers through your folds. “Chase, don’t he’ll kill you. Please, stop.”

“This is how wet you get? You’re a fucking slut for the boss, huh?” You feel his blunt head at your entrance, and you clench your eyes closed. You could scream, and Lloyd will hear you, but so could Lyla. Chase would surely be killed. Or you can just sit like this, and take it until he is finished.

“Now, be a slut for me. It’s all I ask,” you gulp as he pushes through your walls. Fist clinging to the bed. “There’s a good girl. Since you’re dreaming about him, call me daddy.”

“No,” sick fuck. You didn’t want him on you. You didn’t want him touching you. You didn’t want to give that name to him. You aren’t even sure how you feel about that naturally coming out with Lloyd.

“Go on, you slut, call me your daddy. Tell daddy to fuck you like the bad girl you are. Let me ruin this little cunt.”

“No!” You didn’t care. He just drives harder into you. “No! Get off!” You hate him. It’s over. You didn’t care what Lloyd did to him or his body. He is the asshole. “Stop!” You can’t even pretend that he’s Lloyd. It’s all wrong. So very wrong. Lloyd would be hard, but tender. Demanding, but giving. This is just wrong. Shutting down everything that is happening in the present. Get out of reality, and go into your fake world where everything is perfect. Don’t let Chase have this.

And then he’s all pulled out of you. “She said stop, you fucking piece of shit!” Your mind shifts into an altered state as you try to take yourself out of this situation. Memories of someone else in your house. Your mom, screaming. The sound of fists hitting bone, and the sickening sound of blood. Your dad, screaming to get back in your room.

So many memories of your dad you blacked out, and that’s where you wanted them. Buried deep in the depths of your brain, and to never be seen or thought of again. They are cruel men with a deadly job. They protect their own, but invite evil into their homes. Close your eyes, and pretend that nothing is happening. Because nothing is happening.

Sing so you can ignore whatever is happening behind you. Remember your day with Lyla and how pure it was. How she smiled up at you like you had hung the moon. Lyla couldn’t remember the neglect her mom issued her, and you would make sure she didn’t know what being without a mother’s love was like. Lyla is what keeps you sane while hell is trying to suck you back to reality.

“Hey, sweetheart. Shh,” he covers your back with a blanket, but you keep your eyes closed. “Can I carry you out of here?” You nod your head quickly, and feel his thick arms pick you up bridal style. Keeping your body close to his warmth as he carries you out of your room, and you finally open your eyes.

You see the marred knuckles clinging to your body, and deadpan, “You need to wash your hands.”

“I need to make sure you’re not hurt. Did he hurt you?” Even though he’s trying to be soft, you see the edge of darkness cover his eyes. You don’t know if he killed Chase or he was badly misshapen. You didn’t care. You couldn’t care anymore.

“No, he didn’t.”

“What happened?” There are two options here; lie through your teeth and tell him a bent story or tell him the absolute truth.

“He saw me, and I was…I was — and I said your name, while he was behind me, and I didn’t know. And then…then…th-th-then he wanted me to call him — to call him daddy,” you hiccup as he carries you into the living room, and sits you on the couch softly.

You sniffle, trying to calm your sobs as you look at his hands again. They are hideous. They’ll be badly bruised and swollen come tomorrow, “Your hands. Go wash them.”

“No.”

“I don’t…I don’t like the look of blood,” he gives you a nod, and stands up to wash his hands. He wears boxers in his sleep. You wish you were in a place you could enjoy the sight of him in just boxers, but you’re just numb. So numb that even Lloyd almost naked does nothing for you.

“Ari, I need a clean up, and a new apartment,” what an odd thing to say. “I don’t want it in this building at all. Don’t ask questions. This is immediate,” walking back into the living room, he stares at you. You’re in a state of shock, and your eyes are glassed over into nothing.

“Can I get you some clothes?” What? You look down your body, and pull your blanket tighter around you, then nod your head, and he’s gone again. It all went wrong because you wanted to hear the night life. How could you be so stupid to think you could just live your life carelessly, and Chase wasn’t going to ruin it.

Returning, Lloyd sits on the table in front of you, and starts to dress you. There’s nothing demanding or harsh about his movements. It’s caring. Loving. Nurturing. Instead of trying to black everything out, you watch him. You’re completely nude in front of him but he’s not fucking you with his eyes. He’s making sure you’re alright. Tenderly pulling over your top, and then sliding up some shorts on your legs.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is so meek, and you hate it.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“This isn’t your job.”

“The hell it isn’t. This isn’t your job. My job is to protect you, and I failed. How long had he been here?” You shrug, because you aren’t sure when the lines of your imagination and reality blurred. Didn’t know when Lloyd’s hands morphed into Chase’s. “I’m going to get us another apartment. You’re also going to have a security detail, and this isn’t for discussion.”

You just nod your head, not in the mood for arguing. You’re just cold. And then a cry. “Lyla,” you jump up without hesitation, practically sprinting to her room, and she sits up in the bed, crying and pouting for you. “Hey, baby. Did you miss me or do you need a diaper change? You’ve been sleeping through the night almost every night. C’mere.”

She isn’t wet, so you just hold her tight to your chest, and her cries start to soften. “You need someone to hold you, too, huh? Shh, I’m right here, baby,” you rock her in your arms, and turn to see Lloyd standing in the doorway.

He’s like a dream, nearly naked and shadowed in her doorway. It hurts to look at him sometimes. Always being something you shouldn’t desire. “She just wanted to be held.”

“You said, too,” he’s being odd this evening. You don’t understand what he means until he walks right up to you, lifting you up again. Carrying you and Lyla over to her rocker, he sits down, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “If you want to be held just ask.”

“Okay,” he holds you like you’ve never been held before. How can something feel so secure and soft at the same time? He is adding just the right amount of pressure on your body, and you start to relax in his arms, and Lyla is right with you. Yawning so big as her eyes get heavier. “Am I stupid?”

“No.”

“Do you know what I was doing when he came into my room?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I was — you know on a pillow, and I said your name, and it pissed him off,” you don’t have to see Lloyd’s face to know he’s smiling. Of course he would smile when it came to you ultimately choosing Lloyd over Chase, “I heard you tonight,” he hums, but still doesn’t say anything. “In your fantasy how was I positioned?”

“On your back. Your legs wrapped tight against me, a pillow under your lower back to get this amazing angle, and you're pulling me so deep into your warmth, and I can’t get enough of watching you come over my cock,” it’s your turn to hum as you look down at the baby. She is so cozy, but asleep, and giving you nothing but her sweet face to distract you. This is far from an appropriate conversation with her present.

“How deep are you?”

Lloyd takes a deep breath. Kissing on top of your head, “Sweetheart, I’m so deep that you can fill me in your throat.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Silence falls over the room, and it becomes too apparent what is going on in your room. You heard Lloyd call someone, and they are doing what he asked, cleaning up whatever mess was made. You lift up off his shoulder, and stare at him. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“I don’t think this is the right time now.”

“Are you scared?”

“I’m terrified,” you gulp, averting your eyes back down to the baby. How could a man like Lloyd be terrified? And why? “And she’s only part of the reason I’m scared.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I said I didn’t think this is the right time for me to show you I’m not lying, considering the things that have transpired this evening. But whenever you’re ready for me to show you exactly how deep I can go inside your body, but also — inside your heart, I’ll only be a few doors away. But I don’t want to just fuck you like an animal. I want to hold you and…my daughter at night, just like this. You need to be held just as much as she does, so let me. But for tonight, instead of showing you just how right you would fit me inside you, let me tear down the walls you’ve built up, and show you there are good men out there. Men that stand on the things that they say. Let me just hold you, so you can finally relax for the first time in years because you don’t have to worry about that prick ever coming into your life and hurting you ever again.”

Your vision becomes blurry as tears fill your eyes, and you let them fall down your cheeks one by one. It’s freeing to know that Chase can’t ever try and pick apart your brain and memories that you have no desire to explore. Lloyd isn’t just taking your walls down, he’s obliterating them. You didn’t even realize the amount of walls you put up for your own self preservation. “I hate them.”

“Me, too. I hate anyone that has ever hurt you or made you feel you aren’t worth it. Because you are.”

“You don’t know me.”

”I know more about you than you could ever understand,” the cameras. All those times you felt like you were being watched. It all makes sense. “Yes, there’s some in your room. And yes, you knew and pointed yourself right at them.”

“Did not.”

“Want to see the footage?” You snort, shaking your head no. At least you didn’t have to end the night on something as severe as whatever Lloyd did to Chase. “Little minx. I’ve got videos, too. Yeah, I thought maybe it was a coincidence, until you flashed the camera and smiled. You’re smarter than people give you credit for.”

“I was just taking a guess,” Lloyd does not believe a word you say. “I did. It was just a guess. Why did you have cameras in my bedroom? Are they in my bathroom, too?”

“No, I don’t get off on that.”

“You just get off on me in my room?”

Lloyd rolls his eyes with a smile. Is that what you think this is? He’s trying to figure out how to say it without being too forward, and there isn’t another way, “Were you just in your room when you had your legs spread pointing to the camera, shoving your fingers in that tight little cunt, and whimpering my name? Were you just in your room when you’d prance out of the bathroom completely naked, and do a little shimmy right in the camera? Were you just in your room every time that you were fucking that pillow and saying Daddy fuck me harder.”

Oh my god. “Should I go on?”

“No! There is a baby in my arms.”

“Fine, admit you want me to fuck you, and you want to call me daddy,” you didn’t have to admit shit. You do like when his cocky little self comes out though. “Go on, say it.”

He wants you to say it? Then he’s getting the full on works, “I want you to fuck me so deep and hard, daddy. I want you to come in my pretty little pussy, and then I want you to fuck it deeper with your fingers,” Lloyd bites on his lip, and looks up at the ceiling. Good. He wants to try and torture you, he’s getting it right back. “But not tonight.”

“No, not tonight. You’ve been through enough,” you really have. And you just want to feel the warmth coming off his body. “I want you to pick out which room is Lyla’s in the new apartment. She…” it’s too soon. Lloyd can’t ask much more of you. You’re vulnerable at the moment, and he’s taken advantage enough, “She already looks at you like her mom,” fuck fuck fuck.

“Is it weird to say I look at her like mine, too?” He sighs, and shakes his head no. He hopes you really let this conversation sink in before you come crawling into his bed. Because he will fuck you, and he will only hold back if you ask him. If your body shows him, he’ll stop. He wants you more than anything he has ever wanted before and it terrifies him. Because now he has two things he’s willing to kill for, but worse, willing to die for.

Terrifying.

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[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hey, I love the way you write Donna sm! RE Donna needs more love.

Could I ask for reader and Donna in an established relationship where Donna is getting a lot more comfortable with affection and sexuality. Because reader is always initiating intimacy between them, Donna tries to seduce reader but ends up getting too flustered and embarrassed halfway through so reader shows her how it’s done.

It can be gp! Donna or not. Either one. Thank you :)

Yesss!!!! Thank you for your request and for your support, your words make me want to cry :,) I hope you like it, and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))))

How to seduce you

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem!! Reader

Warnings: G!P Donna, smut, Minors DNI, fluff,

Word count: 5,505

Summary: She's acting weird, you wonder why...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!!I love you all!!!

“Seriously, these breakfasts are the best way to wake up,” you commented, while silence acted as your companion that morning.

It could be a day like any other, in a life like any other, but it wasn't, not when the person you had in front of you was the dangerous Lord, the dark lady, Donna Beneviento.

How did you come to share coffee and toast with what was possibly the most feared woman in the village (apart from Mother Miranda)? Easy, falling in love with her.

It might seem like something simple, something that happens daily in the life of any normal person. But no, it wasn't easy and neither you nor she were normal people.

You were a rebellious girl, who always stayed away from the duties of the village, from prayers, from chanting to the Black Gods. Now you regretted it, because after years of refusing to go to church, you discovered that perhaps you had met Donna much earlier.

Shy, disturbed, lonely... You could use a lot of horrible adjectives to describe her, but none of them seemed right, no, nothing like that.

A shy woman who was unlucky enough to be born in that place at the right time, or the wrong time, yes, that seemed like a better description. You certainly couldn't think of it as bad luck, a selfish part of you was grateful that it had been that way.

Who could blame you? You were madly in love.

“Mm,” she murmured, staring at her cup of coffee, with that elegant way she had of doing everything, everything.

You smiled at that shyness still visible in her gestures, at that subtle and overwhelming game of glances that could make all the ice in the world melt. Smiling pleased at that soft response, full of modesty and at the same time pride for having pleased you, you nodded, blowing into your cup so as not to burn yourself.

“Look at that toast... It has my name,” you said amused when the lady in black offered you another succulent delicacy, even if it was just toast. “You are not going to escape…”

A shy laugh left her lips, with a soft movement of her head that indicated the tenderness that your fun attitude towards life provoked in her. Maybe a person like you, who made her see the world from a different perspective, was all Donna needed to stop wanting to be alone. Or maybe it was the natural need to love and be loved. Either option was valid for you.

“You know what? Before living with you I used to make myself a disgusting instant coffee, the one the Duke sells. It was disgusting,” you commented, enjoying the soft aroma of your cup, the exquisite flavors of that breakfast, a breakfast like any other, or maybe not?

“Mm” That was her brief response, looking down again, something that made you frown in a curious way.

“Although well, they weren't that bad, you know, those modest breakfasts with the morning freshness entering through the cracks of the cabin,” you continued talking, with a curious look towards the lady, who nodded passively, as if she wasn't even paying attention to you.

“Mm,” another distant murmur left her lips as she sighed. Your expression was becoming more and more amused.

“Although if I'm completely honest, I miss the blood of a virgin maiden,” you whispered in a normal tone, with the same tone with which you said the other phrases, hoping to set a trap for the brunette.

“Mm,” Donna nodded, making it completely clear that she wasn't listening to you.

“Hey, Donna!” you suddenly shouted, gently hitting the table and getting her attention. The doll maker jumped in her chair with a confused look. “Were you ignoring me?”

“No,” she replied dryly, pretending to maintain her composure.

“No? Let's see, what's the last thing I said?” you asked, crossing your arms in a comical way.

“You liked the cracks of the blood,” she said in an embarrassing whisper, making you sigh victoriously, resting your head on your hand.

“That makes sense,” you said sarcastically, causing a tired sigh from the brunette, who stopped eating, shaking her head.

“I'm sorry, (Y/N). I was a bit distracted,” the lady in black confessed, looking at you with a strange gleam in her eye.

“I see, why? Is something wrong?” you asked with a more serious voice, less joking than usual. Donna shook her head again.

Donna Beneviento could be the best of the Lords, the most powerful they said, the most terrifying. But when it came to social relationships, when it came to expressing emotions, she was the clumsiest woman you had ever met.

“Sure,” you joked again, sipping your now lukewarm coffee. “Come on, let it go, tell me what you're thinking.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said immediately, smiling with false tranquility.

“Okay...” you whispered amused, blinking rapidly. “Can you bring me the oil?”

The lady reluctantly obeyed your request, crossing her arms moments later. Pretending like you didn't care, playing social games she wasn't ready for, was your best way to get what you wanted.

“Grazie, doll face,” you said amused, winking at her. She shifted in the chair, huffing in frustration, gritting her teeth.

“Okay, you win,” Donna said, sighing again, defeated, playing with her coffee cup. “I was thinking about last night.”

You smiled sinisterly, raising your eyebrows to emphasize your simple victory, and put down the toast to listen carefully to your… Girlfriend? Well, that would be another complicated topic.

“Last night...” you murmured, with a slightly more serious tone.

It could have been any night, but it wasn't, definitely not.

“You're going to make me say it, right?” she said, with a pink tone on her cheeks. You laughed with a casual shrug.

“Say what?” you asked, feigning confusion, pouring yourself some more orange juice.

“Oh, come on, stop playing,” she sighed nervously, annoyed by your attitude, as always. “You know what I mean.”

“What do you want to say?” you asked curiously, slurring your words.

“What I think,” she said, crossing her arms, her legs shaking under the table.

“What do you think?” you asked, continuing with your little haze, making Donna grumble again, muttering words you didn't understand, probably insults.

“(Y/N)...” she sighed again, shaking her head. You put your palms exposed in surrender.

“Okay, I'll park my combat tank,” you said with a soft, understanding voice. “Tell me what worries you.”

“I'm not worried about anything, it's just… You know, last night…” the lady said more confident due to the end of your well-intentioned teasing.

“Last night, yes, a great night,” you commented, interrupting, this time for a good reason.

“Lies,” she said with a dark voice, with her eye fixed on yours and a slightly hard expression.

“I'm not lying,” you said, savoring each of the syllables, with a seductive look. “It was great.”

“Do you want to stop lying and tell me what you really think?” Donna asked with a harsher tone, as if something you had said had been a reason for her to be offended. You frowned and laughed confusedly.

“Well, I think it was... Wonderful,” you said, pretending to think about it. You had nothing to think about, you really enjoyed it.

“I don't believe you,” she whispered, looking away from you, her face betraying shame.

“Why you don’t?” you asked curiously, settling into the chair with an informal posture.

“Because... I didn't... I didn't last long enough,” she confessed with a murmur, with the trembling of her body evidencing her shame.

“Bah, nonsense, you were great, Donna,” you said, laughing, downplaying that absurd concern.

It hadn't been just any night.

After months of living together, of innocent kisses, of affection, of caresses... That night you finally decided to take the next step, consummate the love you felt. It was a complicated step for poor Donna, who had lived without knowing that sin, who had suffered an unwanted transformation of which she was deeply ashamed.

At first you thought that the lower part of her body was the reason for her fear, for her reluctance to be intimate with you, but in reality, her only concern was her inexperience, the contrast of an apprentice of lover with an experienced one like you.

But, after all, you weren't lying. You really enjoyed it, even though she insisted on denying it.

“You are the one who says nonsense. I wasn't even able to make you to have an orgasm,” she said in that low tone, watching in case the annoying and wandering Angie was near you, listening.

“That's not mandatory,” you said, downplaying it again.

“Of course it is,” she responded, with a harsher tone. “I'm useless.”

“Stop saying stupid things,” you sighed annoyed, playing with a piece of toast. “You were good, great, really.”

Donna laughed nervously, shaking her head and standing abruptly from her chair. You followed her with your eyes, making the same gesture.

“Hey, where are you going?” you asked amused.

“To the workshop, I'm not hungry anymore,” the lady in black said with a low voice, which revealed the anger she had for not fulfilling what you were supposed to expect from her. She was angry at herself, but as always, she made it seem like it was your fault, something you learned to ignore over time.

“Hey, come on, come back here, we were talking,” you called her in amusement, not stopping her steady pace to get away from you.

“I don't want to,” she said, already far enough from your happy and relaxed way to have a conversation like that.

You sighed, shaking your head, rocking in the chair.

“I guess I have more breakfast just for me now,” you said, forgetting that awkward conversation, rubbing your hands, pretending not to think about her worries, ones that, according to you, shouldn't exist.

It took you many more conversations like that, many more unexpected escapes, more displays of cowardice, of insecurity, but, as time went by, you managed to make Donna forget about that nonsense, and start to feel comfortable when it came to getting into bed and enjoy passion.

Always insecure, but with more desire to make you enjoy, Donna stopped worrying so much, she began to let herself be carried away by your hints, which were not so indirect, and to establish a constant rhythm of moans and intimate laughter at night, or during the day, or in the afternoon. It didn't matter the moment, the important thing for you was to make her see that you loved her just the way she was, and, truly, you enjoyed those small moments of lust, as it couldn't be otherwise.

But the shadow of worry began to appear again on her face. It didn't seem like those problems at the beginning were the cause of her sadness, but it didn't seem like everything was as good as that time when there were no worries either.

You asked again and again, but to no avail. A sudden escape to the safety of her workshop was her only response. Thinking that maybe you had done something wrong, you began to think about it in those moments of loneliness, in those moments when it was just Angie, the house and you.

It was a shame that not even thinking, going over and over each of your actions, looking for what the root of the problem could be, you could you act like a mature person, and not like the irreverent and funny girl that you really were.

Jack, get back

Come on before we crack

Lose your blues

Everybody cut footloose

Music played on the walls while you cleaned, well, you pretended to clean the house. After reading and rereading the hundreds of books on the estate, the only thing you could do to not get bored was remove the tons and tons of dust from what was your home. Donna never asked you, and she never would, but you had to admit that you had an insane obsession with cleanliness.

Also, how can you miss the opportunity to listen to that upbeat music you liked so much?

“Kick off the Sunday shoes… Come on, Angie!” you sang with a shrill voice, which made even the portrait on the stairs tremble.

“Please, Louise... Pull me off my knees... Jack, get back...” the doll sang, joining in on that painful show, while you used the broom as a guitar, doing everything except cleaning.

“You got it!” you screeched, turning around, only to discover the lady in black looking at you with a frown and a half smile on her face.

“Oh, doll face!” you shouted amused, putting on a seductive look and walking towards her, holding her hand, trying to get her to dance with you. It wasn't the first time you tried, and failed, well, almost, her smile and the fact that she moved her arm while you turned under her was much more than a victory for you.

The music stopped after a few moments of erratic movements. You comically bowed next to the doll, who seemed to be the only one who was truly amused by your antics.

“Thank you... Thank you...” you said, leaving the broom aside and stopping the vinyl that was spinning in the player.

“What are you doing, tesoro?” Donna asked, shaking her head at your attitude. You shrugged, catching your breath.

“Clean up,” you said, nodding. She looked around her, thus verifying your lie.

“Oh, really?” she asked amused.

“Well, more or less,” you admitted embarrassed, approaching her and hanging on to her neck seductively.

“Was that forbidden music?” the brunette wanted to know, frowning again and making you roll your eyes.

“No, well, maybe, I don't know, was it?” you said mockingly, putting on your best innocent face.

Donna sighed, shaking her head.

“You know I don't like when you buy contraband things, (Y/N),” she scolded you, with a dark, but calm tone.

You cringed, with a mischievous smile.

“You'll have to tell the Duke... His offers are... Tempting,” you whispered, making Donna sigh again.

“Of course I must assume that my lei have had something to do with that,” she said, her voice soft, without a hint of resentment.

“You're still a Lord,” you said amused, lowering your hands to her waist and stealing a quick kiss from her, moving away and letting yourself fall on a sofa.

“You give me a lot of problems, (Y/N)” she murmured amusedly, with a tender smile, sitting next to you. You winked at her, with a superb look.

“Well, I see you have returned from the cave... Do you want something?” you asked, giving her a nudge.

She normally spent the whole morning with her dolls.

“Don't call it cave. It's where I work,” the lady protested, her expression hardening. You apologized with a mocking gesture, sticking your tongue out at her. “I want something…”

“Well, ask for it, doll face,” you said, relaxing your joking attitude, beginning to see the same worrying expression on her face as in recent weeks.

“Um, I... I...” Donna stammered, her gaze searching for something that you were unable to intuit. “It's a very nice day, isn't it?”

You, blinking in confusion, looked out the window, where the merciless rain was pounding incessantly. Slowly, you turned back to the brunette, who seemed embarrassed by that pointless mistake.

“Oh yeah, there's nothing like a pouring rain for a quiet walk in the woods,” you joked curiously.

The lady in black sighed, shaking her head.

“No, yes, well...” she said, trying to breathe normally, something that seemed to be too difficult for her. “What, what I want to say is that even in bad weather you… You are…”

“Happy? Well, I guess it's genetic,” you said amused, trying to figure out the meaning of that strange conversation, apparently without success.

“No, I... What I mean is...” the lady murmured, under your attentive gaze, one that she avoided, her face blushing shamelessly. “You look beautiful today and… I… Well… I…”

“You?” you asked impatiently. “Donna, are you okay? You're shaking,” you said, changing amusement for concern as you watched the trembling of her body and the erratic play of her sweaty hands.

“Yes, I'm fine. Let me finish,” she said abruptly, without looking at your face, shifting on the couch.

“Okay... I didn't know you’d started something,” you murmured, studying each of her clumsy movements.

“If you let me talk, maybe I would...” she snapped at you, relaxing instantly. “(Y/N), I... I, I would like... Well, the rain is very romantic and I... I feel...”

“What do you feel? Does your stomach hurt?” you asked curious and confused, seeing how the poor doll maker seemed to have a hard time relaxing.

“What? No,” Donna said, offended for some unknown reason. “Why are you making it so difficult for me?”

“Do you want some tea, a chamomile infusion? Have you gotten paint poisoning again?” you asked, hoping after that wave of doubts, one of them was the right one. It didn't seem to be the case.

“Oh…Cazzo!” the lady  growled angrily, getting up from the couch, walking angrily away from you. You blinked in disbelief, trying to reach for her wrist, something you couldn't do due to another dismissive gesture.

“Hey, hey, Donna, wait!” you screeched, getting up and running after her, now able to grab her arm. “Hey, come on… Tell me what I can do to help you…”

“You know what, (Y/N)? Forget it,” she hissed, wriggling out of your grasp in an unpleasant manner.

“Forget about what?” you asked, shaking your head. “Hey, hey, don't run away again.”

“Vaffanculo!” the lady growled, before making an unpleasant gesture with her finger and getting lost in the elevator hallway.

“Hey... Whoa...” you sighed, with your hands on your hips, looking at Angie, who was very attentive to this strange conversation. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

The doll simply shrugged, walking away from you as well, leaving you petrified on the floor.

“Are you feeling better?” you said after another hour of absolute solitude, somehow different.

Donna's erratic attitude had been on your mind for a long time, but, after that strange encounter, thoughts about it began to take more priority in your head, thinking that something really was happening.

Her gaze pierced you like a dagger. A dark look, but one that she fought to remain composed. During that lunch, she didn't speak. She just ate almost without looking at you, just like you, a most uncomfortable situation.

The woman nodded slowly, after a tired sigh. Tired of you? You hoped not.

“Hey, I've always wondered... How do you make these things always have this texture?” you asked curiously, with a piece of food on the fork. Perhaps talking about cooking would relax the lady, who seemed to still be terribly nervous.

“These, things, like you say, are called farfalle and it's very simple, (Y/N). You just have to read the time it says on the package,” she said, with a disinterested voice. “Not twenty minutes.”

“Oh, I see, that's why the dinner I made for you on our anniversary was a disaster,” you joked, nodding calmly and an amused smile on her face.

Donna smiled for a moment, putting that strange worried expression aside.

“At least you tried,” she commented, with a slightly more relaxed tone, with that tender and shy smile that drove you crazy, even after so long.

“Yes... I guess that's something,” you sighed, with a romantic tone, expressing sincere love with your eyes, something that would make whatever her problem was, disappear.

Donna drank some wine and sat thoughtfully, relaxing her posture.

“(Y/N) I…” she murmured, gulping down the missing wine, making you frown. “Well, I... I'm, I'm very...”

“Happy? In love? Crazy about me?” you said, raising your eyebrows, sketching that irreverent smile.

“No, I mean, yes, of course, but I... What I mean is that I've been thinking about you all day and...” she continued, closing her eyes so that your interruptions wouldn't make her nervous again.

“Oh, what an honor,” you joked, drinking some wine too.

“Yes, well, I...” she stammered again. “What, what I want to say is that… Well, I'm getting hungry, you know.”

“Oh,” you sighed, with a more sincere smile. “More pasta?” you asked, offering her your plate. She snorted and shook her head, nervous again.

“Okay, no, I didn't mean that,” she said, visibly blushing, you still didn't know the reason. “I've gotten thirsty, you know.”

“Fine,” you said amused, picking up the bottle that was on the table. “More wine?”

“Ugh,” the lady in black growled, banging her fists on the table in frustration. “Forget it, with you it’s impossible.”

“What is impossible?” you asked, your face harder, too nervous because that strange behavior had returned.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m going to…”

“The workshop again?” you said finishing her sentence, just when she was already getting up from the chair to run away again. Oh, no, this time it wasn't going to be so easy for her to escape.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed as your hands ran to grab hers, stopping her from disappearing.

“Hey, Donna... I just want to know what's wrong,” you said with a soft, serious voice, with concern in your eyes. “You have been saying and doing strange things for several days. Hey, if you have any problem with me, just tell me and...”

“I don't have any problem with you,” she said, stopping you from continuing to talk. You sighed suspiciously, caressing her cheek, burning due to the blush.

“Okay, but you have a problem, right?” you whispered, moving closer until her perfume was perceptible, thus forming a safe space that you knew would work. Or so you hoped.

“Yes, I...” she admitted. “I have, I have a problem.”

“Well, let's talk about it, shall we?” you said in an understanding tone, trying with your caresses her gaze didn’t dare to stray again.

“(Y/N), how do you do it?” she asked, with a defeatist sigh, moving your hand away from her face.

“What are you talking about?” you wanted to know, putting your hands this time on her waist.

“You know when... When you want... You want us to... Get intimate,” she said with an almost inaudible voice, making your eyebrows arch again unconsciously.

“Oh, that. Well, I feel like it and I'm just trying to seduce you,” you explained with an innocent look, doubting that that was her real concern, was it?

“Seduce me...” Donna said, shaking her head, leaning on your shoulder. “And how do you do that?”

“Well... Well, I... Wait,” you said, opening your eyes when you found the problem, when those actions and words that seemed meaningless, suddenly made sense. “Oh, oh, Donna, don't tell me you were trying...”

“Yes, you said it, I was trying,” the doll maker said, turning her embarrassed face away from yours, which was struggling not to laugh. “But I see that I’m not capable of doing it.”

“My, my, so Donna was playful, huh? Why haven't you told me?” you asked in a velvety tone, leaning closer to her ear.

“Are you deaf?” she asked annoyed, with a frown. “I told you that I have tried, but I’m not able to do it… Well, the way I would like, the way you do it.”

“It's not very complicated, I'm just saying the first thing that comes to mind,” you commented, downplaying its importance.

“Okay, thank you very much, that doesn't help me,” she said, crossing her arms. “You know it's not like that.”

“It is, you should try, I'm sure it works,” you said, encouraging her, not letting her insecurities be too much for her, not in that regard.

“Yes, yes... (Y/N), it turns out that I was thinking about you while I was making my dolls, I got hard and I wanted to fuck you... Very romantic and seductive,” the lady said with a mocking tone, making you laugh at those words, so unusual for her.

“Well, that's pretty direct, I'm sure it would have worked,” you joked, covering your mouth with your hands so she wouldn't think you were laughing at her.

“Sei insopportabile,” she hissed, turning away from you and walking towards the elevator. You sighed, shaking your head and biting your lip, reaching out to reach for her wrist and pull it.

“Eh, eh, eh... Wait, wait,” you said in a stern tone, pulling hard on her wrist, stopping her with an angry gasp.

“(Y/N), it's just that... It's always, always you who... The one who does that kind of things and I... I want to be part of this in the same way,” she said, with a tired, shy tone, with the blush not seeming to want to disappear from her cheeks.

“I see... That's cute, you know?” you said with a calmer voice, no longer wanting to make fun of poor Donna.

“You think so?” she asked, looking down at the wooden floor, letting the distance between you become smaller and smaller.

“Yes, and besides, it has an easy solution,” you said, nodding, placing a strand of black hair behind her ear.

“Which one?” she asked curiously, looking at you confused.

“Come,” you said, pulling her hand across the room to your reading corner. “Sit down, Donna.”

“But…”

“Sit down,” you said more severely, making her eye open in surprise and she obeyed in a quick, and very comical manner. “Okay, let's see, let's see... Yes, this will do,” you said, picking up a book that was on the table and handing it to her. “Take this.”

“A book,” she said, confused, raising her eyebrow.

“You're going to pretend you're reading, okay?” you indicated, crossing your arms.

Donna looked at the object and then at you, suspicious.

“I don't know how this can help...” she murmured, causing you to roll your eyes, open the pages of the book, and place it in her hands in the right position with a grunt.

“Do it and keep quiet,” you ordered, perhaps too abrupt. She was still a Lord.

The lady nodded nervously, pretending to read the words of that old book about plants while you took a breath and sat next to her seductively.

“Mm, hello, doll face, what are you reading?” you whispered in her ear, leaning towards her. Donna looked at you disoriented, with a strange grimace.

“(Y/N), what...?” she said, before your hand rested on her mouth and your expression hardened, due to her extreme innocence.

“Come on, Donna, this is a practical class,” you said amused, turning her head so she was looking at the book again.

“Mm okay... A, a plant book,” the brunette said with a broken voice, but trying to play along. You sighed in relief, with a mischievous smile.

“Oh, that seems interesting...” you whispered with a honeyed voice, moving a little closer, looking at those words over her shoulder. “Tell me, is it interesting?”

“It is,” she responded, breathing more and more nervously, because your hands traveled to hers, caressing them slowly, almost tickling her skin.

“I see... Do you know what I find interesting?” you whispered seductively again. Donna shook her head. “How much your body shakes when I'm around...”

She smiled nervously, closing her eye at your sweet words.

“Does that seem interesting to you?” Donna asked with a low voice, distorted by her difficult breathing.

“Uh-huh, look...” you said, moving one of your hands to her neck, caressing it with the back of it, making the book tremble in her hands. “So sensitive, so… Delicate…”

Donna laughed open-mouthed, confused by your actions, but slowly letting herself go.

“How about you put that boring book aside and focus on something even more interesting?” you asked, taking the copy from her hands, throwing it gracefully above your head.

“Like, like what?” she asked shakily, watching your hand caress the buttons of her dress, your eyes shining with desire.

“Mm, this, for example,” you said passively, bringing her trembling hand to your neckline, running it over your burning skin. “How about this?”

“Interesting...” she sighed, turning to face you, no longer needing your hand to caress you, running over your skin with her soft fingers, touching each of the inches they traveled erratically, but seductively.

“I thought so,” you said, leaning into her ear, biting her earlobe and gently pulling on it. “Maybe you want to know something else about that interesting topic.”

“Maybe,” she answered, completely lost in her caresses, in the way your lips were gently placed on her skin, on her cheek, on her neck...

You laughed, letting the dress you were wearing loosen, moving down just enough to show your covered breasts, something that made Donna shift on the couch, visibly nervous and excited.

“Have I seduced you?” you asked with a slightly different tone, snapping the brunette out of her fantasy by shaking her head.

“What do you think?” she asked annoyed, accidentally looking at her lap, where a visible bulge was deforming the black fabric of her dress.

“Oh, I see,” you said, biting your lip at the sight, tilting your head amusedly. “You see? It's not that difficult, you just have to take advantage of the circumstances.”

“You make everything seem so easy...” Donna said, with a slightly dark tone, putting her hand between her legs to hide her erection, something you were already used to.

“It will be easy for you too. You just have to believe in yourself. Besides, anything you do is incredibly sexy to me, you already know that. You have that great… Advantage,” you said with an informal tone, lacking the seduction you showed a moment ago.

“Okay, okay...” she sighed, moving a little away from you, thinking that this little practical class was going to end there. Not at all.

“What do you think if I finish what we started now?” you asked, returning to that dark look, to those lustful thoughts. “Do you want it, my love?”

Donna nodded slowly, swallowing, nervous about her own arousal.

“Yes, I... I, I need you...” she murmured nervously, looking back at her lap, causing your smile to widen even more.

“Mm, that's good too...” you whispered again in her ear. “You could you say that to me sometime…”

After that whisper the words ran out, giving way to kisses. In one quick movement, you climbed onto her lap, with both legs on either side of her waist, rubbing your body against hers as your lips devoured each other.

The gasps and movements of your hips began to be frantic, thus revealing the brunette's deep desire, one that she herself was unable to express until you took the first step. Well, it wouldn't take her too long to heed your lessons.

“I can’t take it anymore, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, releasing her shaft with a subtle movement, with a desperate moan that you returned.

“Okay, you've earned it,” you said, kissing her quickly before quickly ditching your underwear, letting it slide down your ankles.

Little by little, you lowered yourself onto her erection, noticing how your body deformed to make way for the intruder, a sensation you could sense was one of her favorites. You loved the gestures she made to suppress those waves of pleasure.

A few movements, a few words that extolled her virtues, some hurried and hungry moans, everything mixed into the atmosphere, her hips moving with yours, her hands scratching your skin, marking it with her nails.

Your body was also weak, sensitive to her way of showing you love, of giving free rein to the passion Donna wanted to have for so many years. Your body trembled on top of hers and your breathing became erratic as you felt that explosion of pleasure building in your wet entrance, in your walls stretched by her, in her own trembling inside you, the feeling she was on the edge too.

Both of you, with an indiscreet moan, tensing your bodies at the same time, you released yourself from that pressure accumulated throughout the day. Maybe deep down you knew what Donna meant by acting that way, but your dark, teasing side, sometimes clouded your thoughts.

Her heat slid down your legs, the moisture she left in you was a sample of the pleasure you had received, that she had given you. It was stupid that she thought she was not good for giving love, for making love. She was perfect for you, perfect in every way.

“Mmm, Donna...” you sighed, letting your body escape on its own from her shaft, letting yourself fall into her lap, hugging her with that love you thought she needed.

“Thank you, (Y/N)...” she murmured, hugging you tenderly, returning that small gesture of affection, rocking your body on top of hers.

“Thank you? No, my love... This has only just begun. Come on, it's your turn to seduce me.”

[minticecodes]

A (late) piece for dmcweek2024 day 4! I was buzzing to put forward something for the week. Prompt was alt universe.

AU where Eva survived the fire and had to figure out a way forward, believing the twins dead. She becomes an RPG shopkeeper selling wares ranging from antique books to magical goods (Devil May Scry). She's also out for Mundus' blood.

Image descriptions are the same as in alt.

[ID: 7 Digital illustrations and sketches. 1: Coloured illustration of a bookshop at sunset. Eva, a pale blonde middle aged woman mans the bright patterned counter. She wears a turtleneck and red shawl, has shoulder length hair, and diagonal facial burn scar and scarring on her left hand. Light rays illuminate her gently smiling face. Besides packed books, on the shelves are potion bottles, statuettes, succulents, and a displayed katana. Roses and plants decorate the shop. On the counter are a thick hardback, bookscanner, and crystal ball. Cards are displayed inside the counter. On the wall hangs a price sign, featuring doodled vital stars (large star drawn with sunglasses), holy water and fortunes. Beneath it is a rose wreathed divinity statue display, with 2 red orb offerings in a dish. 2: Eva from behind, sitting hunched alone at a table where a birthday cake sits untouched. It's a two flavour cake. By her clenched hand are crumpled tissues. Caption: 'Vergil...Dante...happy birthday...' 3: Eva bracing the Devil Sword Sparda across her shoulders, aimed at the ground. She wears a bell sleeved, ruffled funeral/wedding dress with a slit for leg movement. A veil trails behind her like a ribbon. Close ups of her show the headpiece design; a pacifier made of a long bird skill, feather, rose, and four skeletal 'legs'. 4 & 5: Trish taking on teen Dante's image: a tan teen in black, with chin length white hair, a halter neck tank top, leather pants, kneelength boots and black polish. Her leather jacket collar resembles lightning bolts. She leans against an invisible wall, one leg bent to brace her foot against it. She looks askance with arched brows, lifting shades from her face. The 2nd image is a 3/4 profile with shades perched on her forehead and popped collar. 6: Helmetless portraits of Dante and Vergil in armour, expressionless. Dante's hair is shoulder length and falls across his face. 7: Full body of 2 somewhat lanky demonic knights. One (Nelo Angelo) in black and blue with droopy horns rests his palms atop his blue broadsword's pommel, the sword upright against the ground. He stands straight, staring ahead. The other in white and red and curled horns has a palm clapped on Nelo Angelo's shoulder, other hand at his hips. Somehow the eyes on his helmet express playfulness. At his back is the hilt to a flail, the spiked ball resting on the ground by his armoured heels. They're labelled '~16' . End ID.]

Read more for some wordy backstory and sketches. TW for mentions of torture, abuse and solitary confinement surrounding the twins.

I had...so many more ideas that I'm leaving out to keep this short. It's fun to think how she'd mesh with the cast.

Like! her and Lady. Mother that lost her kid and kid that lost her mother. It writes itself how much unwitting projection can go wrong. And pretty much everything about her, the twins, and Trish :)

In terms of backstory:

After the fire she's alone. Her birth family disowned her long ago. She thinks about revamping the mansion but the idea of staying in that empty space with only memories for company is too much. So she eventually opens a small store.

Starts off paranoid and distant. Still is distant but gets entangled with the local community overtime. Greets people by name and they'll chat about how life has been going. This includes demon hunters and demons and supernatural beings living peacefully; her shop becomes a small safe haven to exchange information to stay safe.

Gets very good at forging protective charms. Haunted by the memory of the enchanted closet, smashed in and empty.

A regular is a schoolgirl who originally came to pick up reserved books for her father but stuck around because hey, this place is quiet and interesting, and the owner serves stellar teacakes. Great place to study. To Mary, Eva's kind, though odd, secretive and a little lonely.

I got inspired by Eva's association with the bangle/bracelet of time and the amulets for her fighting style. It's based around item crafting, like an RPG character slapping on every stat boosting item.

She stitches together different outfits for different needs Cardcaptor style. They're all exceedingly dramatic. It's not clear here but I wanted a bird motif to eventually come through. Phoenix motif, really.

[ID: Rough sketches: A magician esque outfit with vest, feathered tophat and cape. A longcoat with long skirt and long scarf at her back like a cape. The cape is tagged with 'spells stitched into fabric'. Close ups on the coat lapel show two pins (strawberry and wing), labelled 'charm lapel pins.' Close up of the shoes show sharp heals and ankle bracelets. Eva leaping in a black bodysuit and leotard, with feathery collar, quill behind her ear, and ballet shoes with a claw at the heel. Eva making a triangular 2 hand sign in a hooded cloak and longskirt. Around her shoulders are claws. At her hips is an hourglass. Above her heeded head is a clocklike halo. Beside her is a sketch of a woman with a lionhead mask. A funeral and wedding dress inspired outfit. Eva crouches, wielding the Devil Sword Sparda in scythe form. Her face is covered by a tattered veil. She wears a knee length ruffled dress, black gloves, and a long, ruffled cape. Close up of her left hand shows a ring and finger claws Rough comic. Chibi lady talks to chibi Eva. Lady holds up a black body suit with billowing sleeves and a cleavage window. Lady: "Eva what is this" Eva (smiling cheerfully): "Oh - that old thing!" Eva: "My old hunting outfit. Gosh I'd almost forgotten about it. Not the most comfortable thing - so skin tight..." However Lady fixates on 'my old hunting outfit'. The words go in one ear and come out as a younger Eva in a catsuit, pointing a gun with a serious expression, wind blowing through her hair. Lady stares into the distance, bewildered, and slightly blushing. End ID]

Meanwhile the twins are having a terrible time but they have each other, even if they don't remember they're brothers. I think it'd be sweet if they have a bond anyway. Everyone else thinks they're rivals at best.

(Nelo is Mundus' favourite to toy with as the proud, eldest son. But when he gets rough, Bianco butts in and acts up for Mundus' attention. This gets him sent to solitary confinement; Mundus figured out Bianco hates small spaces and designed an iron maiden for him. Others think Bianco is a brute who acts out for a fight. But that's ok. It means Bianco can keep buying Nelo time.) (When lucid, Nelo despises his own weakness when this happens.)

[ID: 2 Images. Nelo and Bianco Angelo in fisticuffs in a cartoony dustcloud, glaring at each other as they fight. They're captioned 'Mundus' most competent generals'. Additional text: 'silent, obedient, crushing force when apart. Perfect soldiers. ... until they're put together. Complement each other's battle style OR clash terribly. Nelo Angelo staring off, arms crossed and furrowed eyes somehow expressing being completely fed up. Behind him, Bianco and Griffin talk at each other. Griffin's glaring. Bianco has a hand up to gesture. End ID]

[crusty-chronicles]

Hi,

Can I request kurama x human reader who share his love for plants and nature which makes him fall for them?

Thanks for considering this requst

An: My man's would be gushing 💯.

Kurama With An S/O Who Loves Plants

It's inevitable he becomes smitten

Someone else who shares his love of plants? You're his.

You start out as one of his classmates.

Just another face in the crowd.

It isn't until you have a project together that he gets to know you.

You'd chosen to do it at your house. It was more convenient that way. There'd be no interruptions and you'd get to finish faster.

There was just one catch though.

“My house is kinda humid. I like to keep the temperature high. If it's too much we could always work in the library,” you explained.

The heat was something he could handle. It wouldn't bother him in the slightest. And when he stepped foot inside, it was pleasantly bearable.

What he was not expecting were the ferns littered around your living room. Along with several other types of potted plants.

They all looked to be well taken care of, too. Seems you had quite the hobby.

He followed you to your room. Fingers skimming over the leaves of a pothos as he passed it. If you saw the action, you didn't mention it.

In your room were a few more plants placed towards the window sill. One in particular caught his attention. Through the foliage he could see glimpses of red.

“An anthurium,” he mumbled out.

“Huh?” You called from your spot on the floor.

He met your confused gaze and offered you a smile.

“You're a bit of a plant enthusiast, aren't you?”

You seemed to light up at his words. Excited to talk about your favorite hobby.

“Are you kidding me? These are my babies. I'm a single mother of about 24.”

Maybe it was a little endearing to see you talk so passionately.

“In all seriousness, I think I'm gonna become a botanist when I graduate. What about you?” You asked.

What would Kurama do? He'd probably be offered a job at his stepfather's company. If something else hadn't killed him first. But he felt like that wouldn't have been a favorable answer.

“I haven't decided yet.” Was his response.

He expected you to pry further. Instead you playfully nudged his shoulder.

“You could always join me.”

Surprisingly, he was left speechless by your offer. You'd wanted him to study plants with you?

“Don't think I didn't notice how you addressed Derek by his full government name.” You gestured to the anthurium behind you.

“You really know your stuff.”

Oh you had no idea.

“You name your plants?” He questioned. You were an intriguing individual.

“Hello? I told you they were my babies. And don't you try to change the subject.” You scolded.

“I'll consider it. How about we start on our project now?”

He figured that would've been the last time he interacted with you. That couldn't have been any further than the truth.

You showed up to his desk the next morning with a small potted plant.

He looked up at you quizzically before you spoke.

“What's this?”

You were trying to test him. A part of him found it cute. You had absolutely no clue how vast his knowledge was. Of both this world and the demon one.

He took you up on your challenge without hesitation.

“Bear’s Paw succulent. Also known as the Cotyledon tomentosa.”

“Aha!” You cheered triumphantly. As if you caught him red handed on something. Whatever connection you think you just made, he'd never know.

It became a daily habit of sorts.

Every morning you'd stop by his desk with something new.

The same question of ‘what’s this?’

And he'd always answer correctly.

You were persistent in whatever endeavor you were chasing. He thought you would've gotten bored by now, yet you kept at it.

Little by little, he starts to consider you a friend. He started anticipating your presence in the morning. Enjoying how you stuck around after quizzing him now. Getting to know each other more and more.

You didn't fawn over him like the girls in your class. And you weren't jealous of him like the boys. You were just you. And somehow you wormed your way into his life for the better.

You trusted him wholeheartedly with your plants. Even going as far as to ask him to take care of one for you.

“I have to go on a family trip. Watch Cornelius for me.” You'd looked up at him with pleading eyes. Ones he found himself unable to say no to. So he (not so) begrudgingly said yes.

A cactus. You gave him a cactus to look after.

He makes it bloom for you by the time you get back.

“Some green thumb you have.” You mused once you got it back. A small feeling of pride washing over him.

Eventually Kurama starts returning the favor and bringing you plants instead.

The first time he did it, he had left a special type of rose on your desk.

“What's this?” His words mirroring yours.

You gave a smirk at the challenge.

“Easy. It's a Falstaff rose.” you answered.

“Now what's this~” you pulled what looked like a white and pink flower from behind you.

“A trick. That's an orchid mantis.”

“Damn. I almost had you.”

Every now and then he'll throw you off by growing a plant from the demon world.

“Is that a hybrid of some sort?” You asked, prodding at the rather sentient looking plant.

Did it just blink at you?

“It's cool whatever it is. How'd you get your hands on it?”

By now your guessing games had started to take place out of school and in your homes. Right now, you were at Shuichi’s because he said he ‘wanted to show you something.’

He appeared amused by your curiosity.

“I have my ways.” He responded.

“This plant is carnivorous. It produces a saliva stronger than acid.” Though he'd never let it hurt you.

And instead of being frightened by it, you were ecstatic.

“Let's feed it a bunch of things!” You suggested.

Did you hear that? That was the sound of his heart beating in overdrive. You were a very brave human.

But you also found beauty and wonder in things most would cower at.

He makes sure to bring and grow you more plants from demon world. Most of them are relatively harmless.

As long as you don't get too close that is.

It becomes a new game for you to guess what they do. What makes the flowers bloom. The conditions they thrive in.

Most of the time you end up being correct. Using your prior knowledge to make logical guesses. It's surprising how accurate you are for a human. But then again, you weren't exactly normal.

He's still not over how you fed that plant your entire backpack.

He would be lying if he said he hadn't taken an interest in you.

Not just because of your shared hobby. He liked how you made it a point to check on him everyday. How you'd let him ramble on excitedly about some new fauna. The way you explored and investigated something new without fear. The exaggerated movements of your hands when you were talking passionately.

All of it had pulled him in little by little.

He makes it a point to confess to you in a way only you two would understand.

“What do all these mean?” He asked you, presenting you with a small bouquet.

“Oooh! Going the extra mile today? You're on.”

You took the flowers from him and began mentally listing them off.

You hadn't taken in the full context until you were already speaking.

“Red carnations mean my heart aches for you. Forget me nots mean true love. Baby's breath means everlasting love. And a rose means passion…Oh.”

It hit you like a truck then, the implications of why he might've gave you this. Was this still part of your usual game?

You looked to Shuichi who didn't hide the softness in his expression.

“You're being serious? I…”

‘Say yes you idiot!!!!’ You internally screamed at yourself.

Instead you plucked one of the flowers and offered it back to him.

“Here's my answer.”

You'd given him the rose in return.

------------------

An: yeet! Google came in clutch for this one.

[somesecretpie]

Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention. 

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem. 

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying. 

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden. 

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room. 

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin. 

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes.  Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them! 

She shut off the TV. 

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. 

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers. 

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces. 

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–” 

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated. 

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house. 

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater! 

Slowly, Susan nodded her head. 

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem. 

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere. 

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously. 

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts. 

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint. 

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again. 

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was  done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk. 

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“ 

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot. 

“Check your phone,” Rivers said. 

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face. 

Rivers smiled at her. 

So they really did control the weather. 

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia. 

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was. 

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again. 

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies. 

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies. 

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun. 

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings. 

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped. 

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”  

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled. 

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten. 

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!” 

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!” 

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away. 

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it. 

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself. 

A waitress approached. 

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile. 

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing. 

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP. 

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething. 

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows: 

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break. 

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted. 

Susan made a silly face. 

“A…joke?” 

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work. 

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.  

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone. 

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!” 

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six. 

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done. 

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept. 

But in her dreams, something was wrong. 

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity. 

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms. 

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up. 

Howling now. 

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked. 

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

 With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared. 

Again, Susan tossed it. 

Again, it reappeared. 

Again, she tossed it. 

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.” 

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul. 

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.” 

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort. 

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured. 

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”               

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat. 

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles. 

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit. 

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction. 

Peace. 

Order. 

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be. 

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand. 

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said. 

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down. 

The cameras trained on her. 

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter  eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly. 

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects—God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused. 

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really. 

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down. 

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone. 

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear. 

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained. 

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror. 

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent. 

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.” 

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive that contained the cure for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth. The weather was about to get so much worse.

But for now, rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone. 

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.  

[blazingsaza]

Becoming "Mother of Succulents" Day 2:

May or may not have over-watered them yesterday out of panic seeing their condition when they just arrived. Some of their roots started to rot, so i cleaned them and pour fresh soils into their pots.

Their leafs are looking better than yesterday tho. Less shriveled.

I hope they're okay 🥲 (bcs i'm not 100% sure what i'm doing BUT GODDAMNIT I'M TRYING MY BEST HERE!!😭)

[crackedpumpkin]

ʙʟᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴠᴀꜱ || ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɴɪɴᴇ ||

A/N: holy shit guys look its an update omg

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ] | [ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

The bed is cold. Your phone sits on the nightstand just right next to it, its usual buzz absent. The sun is slowly rising, its gold-dipped rays slowly but surely shining through the open window of your room. 

You, however, are in the kitchen with your mother who’s fussing over the table filled with numerous potted plants of different sizes. Some almost slapped you in the face with their leaves, while some were the size of your hand. Having walked into this mess first thing in the morning is not the way you expected to start your day. 

“Tell me where you got these from again?” You push away a leaf that nearly pokes you in the eye, glaring at the plant. The audacity. You’re lucky that my mom’s here, or I’d leave you out in the street.

Your mother rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh, a hand propped on her hip as she waters them. “It just slipped my mind that the delivery is coming today. Besides, I only ordered one. I don’t know how they delivered eleven. You should give some to your friends! It’s good feng shui.” She nods knowingly.

“They don’t believe in that stuff.” 

She shakes her head disapprovingly, moving some of the pots to the end of the dining table. “Oh? Do they open their umbrellas indoors too? Do they cut their toenails at night?”

“Only Michael from what I remember.” You recall, shuddering at the tiny detail your brain retained from the first day of school. 

“Don’t you have school today?” She asks as if only just remembering that her daughter is still a student. “What’re you still doing here? Go, go, go!”

“Calm down dude, we have a late day today. Only gotta be at school by eleven instead of eight.” You laugh, backing away slowly when she narrows her eyes at you. 

“I am not your ‘dude’, I’m your mother, young lady. Where did you learn how to be so impolite to your elders…” She sighs, shaking her head. 

“Jake taught me.” The mere mention of your brother’s name is enough to kill the easygoing atmosphere in the kitchen. You see her shoulders stiffen, though she pretends to continue organising the eleven potted plants. 

“Go take a shower, and get some breakfast outside. I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.” Pretending that everything is okay is usually your parent’s default response, you’re not surprised by this in the least. 

“Sure,” You say breezily, making your way to the bathroom and swallowing the small lump in your throat. After emerging from your room and determining if you look presentable enough to be around society, you grab your bag and head to the door. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You pause, eyeing the tiny bamboo succulent sitting on the dining table. “I’m taking this.” She nods in reply, too preoccupied with making a list of groceries to wave goodbye. 

"Peace offering," you murmur to yourself, a half-smile playing on your lips as you glance at the bamboo. The apartment door clicks shut behind you, leaving the atmosphere inside to the grocery list and the lingering traces of unresolved emotions.

Your pocket rustles as you move, shoving a hand in to take out the contract you had stuffed inside earlier. Staring down at the paper that pretty much holds both you and Miles together heightens your guilt for lying to him. 

Sure, maybe lying about your name isn’t a big deal to many, but he’d begun to actually bond with you -  you can tell that much. Furthermore, you’d mostly forgotten about the contract in hanging out with him during your sketching sessions, and it’d become almost a habit to refer to him as a friend in your mind.

But the betrayal on his face that day is more than enough to make you regret everything. Now though, is a chance to make it up to him. To apologise, and to make things right. That’s why you brought the contract along. You have to show him that you’re not a bad person. That you’re sorry.

And to do that, an olive branch is necessary in the form of caffeine. 

You pull out your phone and begin to text him. 

abuelita [ 10:15 AM ]: heya

abuelita [ 10:15 AM ]: are you free today? i have something to pass you

bug [ 10:30 AM ]: i have a couple mins after my evening patrol. 

bug [ 10:30 AM ]: ill be at the lion building rooftop

The rest of school fills you with nothing but nerves, anticipating your meetup with Miles. Even a study session at the library turns out to be unfruitful, to no one’s surprise. Nicole and Michael were initially concerned, but after a simple excuse of being on your period is made, no one else questions your mood.

You make your way to the meeting point, a coffee cup in hand. The hot liquid inside warms your hands in the cool evening breeze. It's a feeble attempt at mending the rift, a different kind of peace offering. The bamboo succulent rests in your hands, now neatly placed in a box. The lift doors open, revealing a lone unmasked superhero sitting down near the edge of the building. 

Upon hearing your footsteps, he turns and looks at you, barely acknowledging your presence with a nod. You wince internally, the lack of acknowledgement stinging more than you anticipated. As you approach the unmasked superhero watching the sunset, you can't shake off the unease settling in.

You sit down beside him. You sit down next to him, maintaining a careful distance. A subtle fidget in his posture hints at the underlying tension between you. He regards you with a mix of curiosity and wariness, taking in the objects in your hands.

“Peace offering,” you repeat, holding up the cup like a truce flag, a sheepish grin on your face as if you’re a five-year-old who got in trouble with their parents. However, Miles's expression remains stoic. He takes the cup from you, studying it with a discerning eye. You hold the gift out toward him, and he accepts it, placing it down beside him.

He takes a slow sip, and a moment of realisation crosses his features. "Is this an iced latte?" he asks, his tone more a statement than a question.

You nod, a playful twinkle in your eye. "Yeah, figured it's a classic. Universally accepted, right?"

Miles wrinkles his nose, pushing the cup away slightly. "I prefer my coffee hot."

Your grin falters, the awkwardness returning. "Right, noted. I'll remember for next time." Your words are cheerfully said, but there's an undeniable undertone of discomfort. “Can we talk?”

He hesitates, but his gaze flickers between the coffee cup in his hand, and the gift next to his bag. “Sure.” 

You sit down next to him, making sure to keep a distance between you both. Wouldn’t want to make him even more pissed than he is now, after all. The evening brings about serenity and peace as the sun begins to set, but a heavy weight hangs between you. You decide to address the elephant in the room. "Miles, I really am sorry. I messed up, and I want to make things right."

He looks at you, the seriousness in his eyes contrasting with the lighthearted atmosphere you tried to create. "Gifts and jokes won't change what happened."

The truth stings, but you nod, acknowledging his point. 

“But forgiveness isn’t fully out of reach, right?” You try once more with a hopeful grin, eyeing the mask next to him as you stand up, walking over to the edge of the building. He shrugs. 

“What makes you think I forgive everyone so easily?”

“Why wouldn’t you? You’re Spiderman.” You state simply, staring at the reflection of the glass opposite you. You look down at Miles who’s slowly standing up with wary eyes. The contract rustles as you pull it out of your pocket, watching his eyes grow wide. 

You stare at the signature on the bottom, a finger tracing the hurried scrawl of his name. The contract itself is the only thing tying you to him, the only reason he even still texts you. He’s the only reason why your art still has a motive - a point in each work. 

So, you rip the contract in half. The sound of torn paper fills the air, and you fold it before tearing it again. Again and again, until it’s torn to nothing but shreds on the ground. As the final piece of paper slips from your grasp, you raise your eyes to find Miles frozen in disbelief. His lips part in silent astonishment, fingers fumbling over words trapped on the tip of his tongue.

“Why?”

“Because,” You answer with a shrug, “You’re Spiderman.” A hesitant smile tugs at your lips, but beneath the surface, guilt gnaws at every fibre of your being. It's a battle, the conflicting emotions waging war within you. “You always save the day.” At that moment, you stare at the torn-up contract, bitterness rising in your throat. Underneath that though, is a genuine urge for forgiveness. 

Is this even enough for him to forgive you? 

Prove yourself. 

The back of your sneaker teeters on the edge, and you glance down at the ground below, gauging the distance. Breathing deeply, an idea occurs to you. A dangerous one.

His silence lingers, but an unexpected calm washes over you, a fragile serenity in the eye of the emotional storm. “You always save the day,” You repeat, “Even if I don’t deserve it.”

With that, you take a step back, watching horror dawn on his face as you fall. 

Miles stumbles forward, his voice caught in his throat. “No!” he shouts, reaching out as if he could defy gravity. His eyes widen, reflecting a mix of fear and realisation of the consequences of your impulsive act. 

The time taken to hurtle down a building toward the ground is much slower than you expect. You turn your head, watching the bright lights of various buildings cast a soft glow over the river nearby. The cityscape unfolds beneath you, a tapestry of shimmering lights that paint the skyscrapers with an ethereal glow. Despite the beauty, a profound sense of loneliness settles in, echoing the vastness of the city below.

It’s quiet.

The wind whistles past your ears, your hair whipping wildly around your face as you watch him dive down the side of the building, his mask back on his face as he holds out his arm desperately. 

A laugh bubbles past your lips, smiling as he reaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist and shooting a web, swinging you to safety. 

“Am I forgiven?” You whisper into his ear, arms on his shoulders as he continues to swing. 

“What?!” He answers loudly, bewilderment in his voice. “You jumped down just for that??”

“Yeah!” You lean back to take a proper look at him, adrenaline rushing through your bloodstream as if a hundred cans of Red Bull had been injected into you at once. “So am I?”

He doesn’t reply, shooting another web at a skyscraper. You smile brightly at him, waiting for an answer. His shoulders start to tremble, and he looks down at the streets below. You begin to hesitate, your smile falling. 

Is he mad? Was it too much?

Your questions are answered when he looks up, laughing his heart out. 

“You’re insane,” He huffs out with a shake of his head, the smile in his voice evident. He looks at you once more. “Yeah, you’re forgiven.”

With a relieved sigh, you press your forehead into his shoulder, closing your eyes. The tension releases from your shoulders, a silent acknowledgement of the emotional weight lifted. “...Can I still draw you?”

— — — — — 

The wind still echoes in your ears as Miles sets you down gently on the rooftop. Your sneakers meet the solid surface, and for a moment, you're both silent, catching your breath. The tension lingers in the air, but the overwhelming rush of adrenaline begins to subside.

Miles lowers his mask, revealing an expression caught between concern and bewilderment. You glance at him, a mixture of guilt and anticipation in your eyes. The cityscape stretches before you, a silent witness to the tumultuous emotions swirling between you two.

"Why didn’t you just say that you knew me?" he finally asks, his voice softer now, devoid of the superhero edge.

You wince, your gaze dropping to the ground.  “I didn’t mean to…In my defence, imagine being on the receiving end of a superhero’s wrath.” 

“I wasn’t wrath…ful.” He denies it, his hand over his heart with an offended look. This draws a chuckle out of you, shaking your head. “But I get it. Imagine being forced to sign a contract with someone who knows your real identity.”

You rub your arm uncomfortably. “You must’ve had a hard time," you admit, finally looking at him. "I’m sorry."

The weight of the apology hangs in the air, mingling with the echoes of your impulsive fall. Miles's eyes, once reflecting surprise and worry, soften as he meets your gaze.

The words feel inadequate, unable to fully capture exactly how regretful you feel, but your eyes convey the sincerity of your apology. However, it's too late for one. In this moment of vulnerability between you both, the full weight of your actions finally hits you. 

Miles' expression tightens, and a heavy silence hangs between you. The consequences of your deception weigh on the air, leaving an unspoken tension that neither of you can escape. His eyes flicker with a mix of frustration and concern. 

He struggles to find the right words, his clenched fists telling you all you need to know as his eyes dart away. “You don't understand. If my identity is exposed, it's not just about me. It puts everyone I care about in danger. I've seen what happens to heroes when their secret is out. Not everyone has the privilege of being safe.”

The weight of Miles' revelation settles heavily on your shoulders, a stark reminder of the unintended consequences of your actions. You’re at a loss for words, only capable of falling silent and staring at your fidgeting hands that have begun to peel the skin of your thumb. “I won’t tell anyone,” you promise, though you’re not entirely sure of how much it’d even matter to him. “I know I’m not exactly trustworthy-” The corner of his lips quirked up in faint amusement at the irony, “but I promise, I’ll never, ever, ever reveal your identity.”

You look up at him, hoping that your sincerity is conveyed through your words. 

Finally, he releases a breathy chuckle, looking down at his mask, and back up at the glowing lights below. For a moment, the gaping distance between you lessens. He glances at you with an accepting smile. 

“Okay.”

As you both settle onto the rooftop, the city sprawled beneath you, a newfound calm envelops the space. The laughter from earlier echoes, but it carries a different note now – one of shared understanding and the promise of a fresh start.

“Hey,” You turn, an idea taking root in your mind. “You’re smart, right?”

“Some might say so,” He agrees playfully with a nod.

At his response, you go on your knees, clasping your hands together in a sudden attempt to beg him. “Tutor me.” You begin to explain before he can react. “I got this huge test coming up, and I won’t be allowed to participate in my school’s art exhibit if I don’t pass. You gotta help me, dude!”

“What?” He’s taken aback by your sudden request, raising a brow. “Why me?”

“Because!” You point accusingly at him, “You go to that smart and fancy school, don’t you? Nicole already told me about how you won that scholarship and everything. Plus, you’re even doing all this Spiderman stuff on the side. Your time management skills are so much better than mine will ever be. Aren’t you a superhero? Don’t you have, like, super study skills or something?”

“Super study skills?” He says drily, and you realise exactly how stupid your words sound. However, you shake your head stubbornly, sticking to whatever you’ve said. “Well, since you’re clearly in need of help, and like you said - I’m a superhero, right? Guess I gotta rescue yet another helpless citizen.”

You smile excitedly, delighted that he’s agreed before what he says finally sinks in. “Did you just call me helpless?”

“So, what’s the test on?” He asks, ignoring your pointed glare. 

“Math and Science.” You decide to let it go because he did just save you from a rather dreadful demise. 

He purses his lips slightly, weighing his options. “Sure,” He nods, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, thank you! You won't regret it, I promise! I’ll even buy you tiramisu or whatever it is you wanna drink!” You exclaim happily, unable to stop yourself from hopping up and down from his agreement. 

He chuckles, readjusting his mask and shooting a web at the adjacent apartment building. “No problem. Just don’t tell anyone you have a superhero tutor, okay?”

“I solemnly swear.” You promise with a nod, watching him give you a two-fingered salute before gracefully swinging off, likely heading back home. You make your way back too, humming happily at the thought of future study sessions with your newfound superhero tutor and friend.

— — — — — 

As he enters his room after another day of swinging through the day as Brooklyn's one and only Spiderman, he tosses aside his mask and discards his suit. Another day, another citizen saved, as is the usual routine. Before he jumps into his bed, he pauses. 

He grabs his water bottle and pours some water onto the potted plant sitting on the windowsill, fingertips brushing against the delicate leaves that rustle with the breeze.

[sunspearesque]

Fruitful

Summary: Oberyn Martell, a lover of great generosity, expresses his love primarily through acts of service. With a keen memory, he spares no effort to exceed expectations in bringing joy to his beloved.

A/N: as the world around me becomes entranced by "the orange theory," my thoughts wander to what he might do for his lover... so i wrote this; a casual smut-less headcanon using my AU, where his lover is my oc, Nala, from my upcoming multichapter fic, Whispers of Vendetta :D i hope you enjoy it, friends xoxo i also invite my fellow writers to do this with their favorite characters and share their headcanons with us <3

In the warm embrace of a Dornish afternoon, he reclined on their balcony, sharing the company of his beloved amid a plethora of succulent fruits and Dornish wine. His daughters engaged in rigorous training in front of them on the ground.

"My mother used to peel fruits for me," Nala chuckled, peeling a pear for Oberyn on the velvety lounge chair they shared. "I despised the stickiness afterward."

"Is that so?" Adjusting his position, he kissed her shoulder. "And why do you find yourself peeling fruits now?" Another kiss, this time on her neck.

"I don't know..." Turning her head to meet his gaze, she smiled. "Perhaps it's because I love you."

Unable to resist, Oberyn's arms enveloped her waist, pulling her close as he showered her cheeks with kisses, eliciting giggles from her.

"But I've never liked pears," she panted after his affectionate onslaught.

Arching an eyebrow, he inquired, "Then what is your preference, my little love?"

"Pomegranates," she answered, her gaze fixed on his lips.

"Exotic," he smirked.

"And oranges."

The Next Morning...

"Veros, I need you to fetch the preeminent farmer in Dorne and send them to Essos. Instruct them to procure the finest orange and pomegranate seeds," Oberyn commanded, his voice cutting through the air. He scanned his surroundings, his eyes piercing, as he added, "I seek nothing less than the absolute best."

"Yes, my prince."

Two Years Have Passed...

Amidst the verdant gardens behind their castle, Oberyn and Nala sauntered, the world a palette of nature's hues. Suddenly, she halted, her gaze fixated on a tree. "I don't recall this tree being here," Nala remarked, squinting to inspect the blossoms.

Smiling, Oberyn embraced her from behind, "Indeed, my love. I instructed our gardener to plant them a few years past."

"I love them." Nala whispered.

"I love you more," he thought.

A Few Years Later...

In the early morning hours, Oberyn stealthily slipped out of their chamber, having received confirmation from their gardener that the trees were poised to bear fruit imminently. For ten consecutive days, he continued this clandestine ritual, checking until the moment arrived when both trees proudly displayed bright, ripe produce. With an exuberant grin, he hastened back to their chamber.

"Nala, my love," he whispered gently, seeking to rouse her.

"What's happened? Are you well?" Nala startled awake, her eyes wide with concern. "Are the girls alright?"

"We are well, my love, fret not." Cupping her cheeks in his palms, Oberyn reassured her, his thumb smoothing over them gently. "I need to show you something."

"This early?" She furrowed her brow, puzzled by his excitement.

"Yes, come on with me."

Taking her hand, he guided her out of their bed, wrapping her shoulders with his shawl. Together, they descended the stairs, exiting the castle, and stepped into their garden.

"What are you about?" she inquired, perplexed, as he knelt before her, tapping on his shoulders.

"Climb onto my shoulders, my love."

At first, hesitation lingered in her gaze, a questioning look that suggested he might have lost his wits—my old man driven to madness.

"And your back?" she reminded him cautiously.

"Climb, Nala," he repeated, a raised brow emphasizing his determination.

Slowly, she ascended his back, perching on his shoulder, her legs dangling over his chest.

"Hold on tight," he advised before rising to his feet, moving slowly toward the tree.

The tree, vibrant and teeming with life, bore numerous flowers, yet the fruits remained elusive, concealed among the leaves, shy of human touch.

He sensed her recognition when she gasped, almost slipping from his shoulders, before he steadied her with his hands on her thighs.

"Oberyn..." she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

Squeezing her thighs on his shoulder, he conveyed reassurance—I know, my little love.

"Can you reach them?" he inquired.

"Yes," she responded quietly, sniffling. She reached out to pluck the bright oranges, three in total. Moving a few paces to the next tree, she picked the sole pomegranate. She used the hem of her nightgown to cradle the fruits before Oberyn lowered himself, allowing her to dismount from his shoulders.

Standing there, holding her gown with the fruits, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lips trembling, she looked at him—her prince, the love of her life. Loving her as if she were the sole soul worthy of such devotion. Seven years had passed, and he had orchestrated all of this because she had once reminisced about her childhood without realizing the impact of her words. He stood before her, a broad grin on his face, proud of his intricate plan. His sweat-adorned bangs clung to his forehead, his chest bare, golden, and tough—tough except when he cradled her in his arms. Dressed in white trousers with bare feet, he looked as majestic as ever. His grin waned as soon as he noticed the tears in her eyes. Swiftly, he moved towards her, cupping her face.

"Why this sorrow, my love?" he inquired, his gaze flickering anxiously between her eyes.

"Not sorrow. I just—just love you," she confessed, breaking into sobs. He enveloped her in a warm embrace, cupping her head, smoothing her hair, and pressing kisses to her temples.

Lifting her face, he kissed her gently, once, twice. He continued until joy eclipsed sadness within her. His kisses persisted until her laughter rang in his ears—and by the Gods, there’s nothing sweeter than your lover’s laughter in your mouth.

"Why did you do all of this, Oberyn?" she queried, gazing at him. "You know I relish the daily fruits we have."

"I know," he replied, kissing her again. "I want you to feel my love for you in these trees. Witness it blossom every moon, taste it, nourish yourself with it, live through it."

Because that’s what your love does to me.

[cerastes]

Alkelda: “Halvard, my old vassal, my dear friend, how fares dearest Enge? It’s been lamentably many moons since I last saw her.”

One-Eyed Halvard: “My granddaughter fares well and grows more dazzling by the day, old friend, a fine young lass she’s become. She’s not neglected her knightly training, but she’s been dabbling into this ‘social media’ as of late.”

Alkelda: “Oh? I’ve heard whisper and murmur of this phenomenon! It’s like a communal forum, right? Pray, how is she leaving her mark in that realm? What wisdom and insight is she sharing from her very own digital podium?”

One-Eyed Halvard: “She speaks in tongues or perhaps riddles, from what I can gather, no doubt to test those who would behold her. Look at this one: “Sticking out gyatt for the rizzler”.”

Alkelda: “Who is this Rizzler, so exceptional that she wouldst relinquish her gyatt so freely to them? Uh, what do any of those words mean, pray?”

One-Eyed Halvard: “I ignore their meaning, friend. Perhaps one with scholarly tendencies such as yourself can shed light upon these shades.”

Alkelda: “It shall be done! Magister Google shall bequeath unto me that succulent knowledge I so desire!”

Alkelda:

Alkelda:

Alkelda: “Oh.”

Alkelda: “Halvard, her derrière is on display.”

One-Eyed Halvard: “I beg your pardon?”

Alkelda: “Beg nothing, Halvard, her Ass is Bare. She minds not her apparel, if a bee werest to wander by, she’d surely be stung! It’s glutteus maximus in here, by her squirely oaths, from whomst did she inherit such amount of cheek!?”

One-Eyed Halvard, unsheathing his enchanted greatsword: “It seems the Rizzler must be cleft in twain. Once more shall the One-Eyed Avalanche fall upon the meek and craven! I need no scribe to pen the letter of intent!”

Alkelda, vines and thorns protruding: “Fear not, my friend, I have already launched a devastating blow towards this Rizzler in the ways of media of social! I have called their mother many a foul thing, plus I have depicted myself as a gallant figure, and them as but a fragile, scrawny nimrod in an image of immediately recognizable significance!”

Enge, bursting into the room wearing plate armor on top and lingerie on the bottom: “GRANDPA, AUNT ALKY, LOG OFF, I’M TRYING TO HIT!!!”

[hmshermitcraft]

Grian didn't want to ask his neighbor for anything. Spending so much time in a military as a recon sniper, so long alone in silence, tends to leave you with little social skills. He got forced to retire after an injury leaves him with bad back pain and some blindness. It doesn't help that his farming skills suck and he can barely keep a succulent alive. But Stress is so pretty, missing a couple of teeth, with a smile so bright that he's pretty sure she can give her plants sunlight at night. He wants to ask for help, because farming is hard, you need the right soil, the right watering times, and it's not enough to just water them, no no, you need to give them the right amount of water, in the right way. It's difficult.

It's not difficult to love Stress. So kind but also tough. He's seen how the sleezy men around town make comments at her, making nasty remarks that they would never say in front of their mothers. Stress is not afraid to mock them, make fun of them, humiliate them. He even saw her kick the sense from one of them after he tried to be touchy with her.

He really, genuinely doesn't mean to enter her house. He was tired, upset, lost in the woods, and, from the back, their farms and barns and houses look incredibly similar. His house key even fit and unlocked hers, he really doesn't think he can be blamed. Look, take it up with the mayor for their keys opening each others' houses. She was absolutely justified for punching him and breaking his nose, though. He gets it.

Stress, after knocking him on his ass, lets him explain, and she gets it too. Cleans and helps clean him up, and, well, it gives him a great chance to talk to her. Ask her how her potatoes and carrots and flowers grow so well. She tells him with a giggle that her secret is love, patience, and a lot of bone meal. And Grian's also been using the wrong soil.

She helps him after, as an apology for punching him. And, it feels really nice to have friend again. She teaches him how to garden properly (apparently, the stillness from being a sniper actually helps quite a lot.) She doesn't mind resting him with when his pain becomes too much, sitting and after tea he waits for her medicine to kick in. Turns out, on top of already being a badass, Stress also knows a lot about how to make her own medicine as well. She's so amazing, it catches him very off guard when she gives him a kiss one night before scampering off to her own farm.

He... might have a little crush. He offers the first carrot he manages to grow instead of a flower. He still can't grow those.

The carrot might also not be the best. But Grian's determined now. He's going to grow an incredible one, and he's going to grow it for Stress. That's his goal, but for now, this will have to do.

And he's going to get good enough at farming that he can help her out when she needs it, the same way she'll look after his plants if he's having an off day.

After everything, this is finally starting to feel like home.

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Cinnamon Cookie”

Lady Lesso x Pregnant Reader

Request by @anonymous

hi, i love your style of writing 🫶🏻 can you write a one shot with lesso and preg reader, you know some fluff and maybe some smut if you want bc i have i think for stuff like this 🫠 thank u have a nice day 🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️

awww thank you so much buddy!i’ve been writing quite a lot of smutty fics lately, so i took a purely fluffy route with this one (づ ๑˃̵　ᴗ　˂̵) づ

Request by @chaoticeruditefansie

hiii! please can we have some more content about lady lesso + her daughter? the fluff is so comforting <3

the only daughter whom i’ve had lesso parent thus far as far as i’m aware is her fur baby cookie, so i hope that’s who you’re talking about. this isn’t much but i hope you’ll still find it agreeable o(>ω<)o

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Her babies have grown.

Cookie, but a fluffy little thing the size of her palms then, though equally fluffy, is presently not only big enough to intimidate, but has also earned the title of big sister.

Cinnamon, Cookie’s little sibling, too, is thriving in their own way, as evidenced by the round of your belly that gets plumper and plumper with every soft press of Lesso’s lips.

To think that in the beginning she has been baffled by the swelling of your stomach which has stood at the mere size of a coconut. Oh, how she has matured as a mother. Now, gingerly caressing your belly that is pleasantly reminiscent of a watermelon, she is flooded with delight and awe. It is the indication, after all, that the little life inside of you is actively flourishing.

As lips make a delicate descent onto your stomach, tracing constellations amongst clusters of opal lines with unconditional reverence, a pair of enchanting green eyes map your features, equally as reverential. But of course, in the end, Lesso is the one to be bewitched by you, oh beautiful, beautiful you who only continue to look the more radiant, the riper the pregnancy becomes.

“I wish they’d have your eyes.” Your voice comes with a sweet kiss to one corner of her eyebrow.

“And your smiles.” Hers, with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, fingertips softly outlining the arch of succulent flesh. “Your lips.”

“Your wit.” The soft touch of your finger on the tip of her nose is followed by the press of silky smooth lips. Your murmur tickles her ear. “And your eloquence.”

She brushes a thumb along the bone of your cheek. “Your diligence.”

And then, you are smiling oh so mesmerisingly, simultaneously bringing her hand to your belly.

“Ah! Do you feel it?”

How can she not?

Although this will not be the first time the baby has made themselves known, the experience of feeling their energetic little kicks beneath the palm of her hand never falls short of miraculous.

“Cookie, here, come feel your baby sibling.”

On the arch of your belly, two hands and a big, fluffy paw silently wait with bated breath for the new member of your little family to give a greeting from the other side.

“There it is again!”

You beam happily while Lesso, with a blossoming smile on her lips, frantically nods.

“Cookie, did you feel it?”

Seemingly sharing her mothers’ giddy excitement, Cookie the fur baby, does a jolly little circle, trotting on her four legs, before climbing into Lesso’s lap. Her nose boops your protruding belly, and despite the ridiculousness of the notion, Lesso can only see it as the bonding of her two beloved children.

Cinnamon and Cookie; together, they make Cinnamon Cookie.

Although admittedly, Cinnamon may sound unusual for a child name, there lies a deeper meaning behind it.

On a particularly fine day when the sun’s golden rays have been bathing your home in a wonderful glow, a craving for sweetmeats has unusually struck you. Lesso, being the doting wife and the enthusiastic mother that she is, has taken it upon herself to quench your needs. Her impeccably-baked goods that has warm cinnamon oozing in your mouth has earned you a kick from the inside. Such has been the very first greeting from the little fella who is residing in your womb.

“Cinnamon! Let’s call them Cinnamon.” Your suggestion has been made with a dazzle in your eyes, a blossom on your lips, and who is she to deny you of such innocent glee?

Lesso’s little bundle of joy has cultivated a delightful habit of knocking on your belly. Every day, it is how they greet you as if telling their family to eagerly await their arrival, and oh how they do; building furnitures and decorating a room for them as well as whispering sweet nothings and lullabying them to sleep. Lesso wants nothing more than to welcome her little darling into the world where alongside you and Cookie, she will cherish them to the moon and back.

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