#forest of asphodel

[moriphyte]

some l’manfam + ran sketches from class

like ghosts in old photos

[drowninginaseaoflemurs]

the only thing i can think about while watching the underworld scenes is that hazel’s trapped in asphodel right now

[ceilidho]

in the cauldron boil and bake

prompt: pretty little witch who lives in a cottage in the forest who sometimes eats wayward travellers but Ghost has some kind of magic repulsion aura that doesn’t allow her to use her powers on him. (ON AO3) tags: very nsfw, implied/lightly described violence, dubcon/noncon, noncon spanking, implied cannibalism (just in general, not with the pairing lol); 5.5k

-

He moves at a pace too slow for you to make out with the naked eye, but you feel it creeping through you.

The vision of him appears in a dream first, a premonition. A hulking figure trekking through the woods. You snuggle deeper under the covers and scrunch up your nose in your sleep. In the morning, you go outside to harvest the holly leaves and buttercup and return home dreaming of tender, slow cooked meat. It’s been awhile since you last had a proper meal. When you hang up the laundry to dry, you chew on peppermint cuttings and try not to salivate. 

In the centuries you’ve lived in these woods, travellers have come and gone. You don’t eat every single one that happens to pass by—that would be a surefire way to get your forest branded as bedevilled and a longer route established circumnavigating your grove. You might be hungry, but you’re prudent, careful. Not like some other witches these days, greedy for any morsel that happens to pass in front of them. 

No; you take care of your woods. You have to, if you plan on remaining here for the centuries to come. If a few travellers happen to disappear here and there, that’s simply life. Not everyone can make treacherous journeys. 

You always have a sense of when a traveller is nearby. It’s as though your being is embedded within the forest itself, privy to those who dwell within it. You feel him along the outer regions of the forest, a lone traveller hauling not more than himself and a rucksack filled with the bare essentials. He appears to you in flashes in your dreams, not the full image of him but piecemeal, a shadow obscuring his full face from you. You see only tendons and meat on his bones, a rough hewn strength to his limbs, touch muscle and fat wrapped around his middle.

It makes you giddy to think of him circling ever closer to your spider’s web at the centre of the forest. After him, you won’t be hungry for years. 

Your restless leg acts up the day you know that he’s close enough to approach. All morning, you sit at the little table in your kitchen and rip lavender buds from the stems, black shoes tap-tapping away at the floor. The broom sweeps by itself in the corner, sweeping the dust into a neat pile. When you snap your fingers, it’s brusque, impatient. The broom halts in midair and then clatters against the floorboards. The chair scrapes against the floor as you rise to your feet. 

“Come, come, Asphodel,” you whisper to the black cat curled up on the windowsill, which barely lifts her head enough to blink at you. “No more dallying. Mommy’s hungry.”

In a show of great defiance and disrespect, Asphodel merely meows at you and lays her head back down. Insipid little familiar. 

You go off on your own then, keen to see the travellers with your own eyes. Jowls growing tighter. Robe cinched tight around you and hair pinned back by a thin strand of velvet. The days have just begun to shorten, just begun to exhale frost and rot. The leaves however, by agreement, do not crunch under your feet and give you away. You are a phantom amidst the trees as you flank the lone traveller, following the breadth of him as he traverses past your homestead. 

It’s fortunate that you are not beholden to physics because he is formidable. Broad as a man might be, no less sizable than in your dreams, but much more menacing in the flesh. He too moves quietly in the brush, with a care and precision that you have not seen many humans employ. 

He conceals the lower half of his face with a black piece of fabric, which you had mistaken for shadows. Not so. It is a deliberate concealment, meant to unnerve. Without magic, you might not have approached. 

His size alone isn’t enough to frighten you though. You are two hundred years old and you have eaten men twice his size when you were naught but a babe. 

You step out into the clearing just a few paces from him, halting the man in his tracks. 

“Hello,” you call out tentatively, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “C-can you help me? I think I’ve lost my way.”

At this point in your career, it takes a bit to hide the smile that threatens to break. You are like the spider posing as a fly. The show is half the fun though. 

The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem shocked at your presence, arms loose by his sides. It makes your stomach clench, the script flipped a bit. It should be you, loose and limber, and the wayward traveller tense and nonplussed, then eager to help the lost girl. You wait a moment longer for him to respond, but he remains silent, blue eyes unblinking. 

“Can you help me?” you repeat, taking a step closer. The tendrils of your magic slither out of you, snaking across the forest floor towards him. “I’m lost. Can you help me find my way out?” 

Your magic finds his boots in the dirt like mycelium threads, the pulse of him rich and earthen. It makes the saliva pool in your mouth, hunger gnawing at your guts. He will taste so good. Meaty and huge, enough to last you the winter. You take another step closer despite his continued silence, a tad too eager. You only need a moment though, long enough for your magic to take root, to render him febrile and inert. When he collapses to the ground, you will float his body back and rend him limb from limb by your hearth. 

Another step brings you closer to him when your magic suddenly recoils, unwinds from him. You frown. You try sending it back, but your magic shrinks away, an atavistic fear blooming up in you. It does not want near this man. 

A cold sweat breaks out on your neck. The hairs on your neck and arms stand on end. 

The masked man staring back at you tilts his head, the skin under his eyes crinkling with a smile that you cannot see. Suddenly eldritch, blood-curdling. 

“Now, what are you?” he asks with a rumbling voice, rough from disuse, and takes a step towards you.

You trip over your feet scrambling back. Branches from a nearby tree scoop towards you, catching you before you tumble down into the soft dirt. He advances quickly on you, big hand finding now the hatchet strapped to his side and pulling it out, the thing dwarfed in his massive paw. 

“Stay back—stay back—” you hiss, the branches listening to your fear and dragging you away from the man. “Leave—I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do what?” he asks, taunting. Just a twinge of it, as if he can’t help that he has a predilection to mock.

He catches up to you fast enough, the strides of his long legs enough to eat up the distance. When you whip the branches towards him, they stop mere inches from him, giving him ample time to bat them away. The ones that get close enough meet his hatchet, a single cleave enough to sever them from the tree. You don’t feel the tree’s pain, but where his blade meets your magic—a thin coating along the branches, like extended, ghost limbs of your own—it stings. 

“Stay back!” you shriek, heart pumping away ferociously. Your voice comes out like a caterwaul. He’s too close now though, towering over you, the bitter smell of old sweat and musk. Up close, he does not smell like anything you know. He smells sun bleached, the rust of old blood like the blades in your shed after a long season’s hunt. 

“What sort of girl—” he starts, hand fisting in your hair and wrenching your head back, “—ambushes strange men in forests? Do you have a death wish?”

To have him touch you is singularly terrifying. You haven’t been touched in a hundred years, certainly not by a human. His touch sends you skittering back, but he has you trapped in place. Your shoes dig into the dirt when you try to push yourself away, hands pressed against his chest much to your distress. 

“Men can’t kill me,” you hiss, fingers clawing at the hand holding you in place, scratching at him with the little nails that you never bothered to grow out. 

You can’t see the whole of his face, but his expression is undoubtedly unimpressed. “I could kill you easily, girl.”

“I’m not a girl—I’m a witch.”

“A witch is a girl.”

“I eat girls,” you snap, so angry now that spittle drips from your mouth. You shrink back when he wipes it away with a gloved hand. “I eat men like you too. If you are a man.” 

You say that because the way your magic curls away from him has you on edge. Humans may not scare you, but eldritch, ancient monsters do and they hunt little witches like you. Usually not in your own woods, but stranger things have happened. 

“‘Course I’m a man. Look at me.”

He presses the whole length of his body against yours, dragging you so close to him by your hair that you almost rise up onto your toes. He’s solid all the way through, only a bit of give around his middle. There’s something distinctly hard pressing against your low belly. It leaves you flustered, hot under your collar. An unfamiliar heat in your core, legs clenching on nothing. You give in to the instinctive urge to look down, but pressed so close to him, there’s little to see beyond the wideness of his chest, covered by a brown tunic laced up the front. 

“Means nothing. Plenty of things look like other things. I look like a girl but I am not,” you stutter. 

“Were you trying to eat me then, witch girl?” he breathes, amused. You yelp when he gives you a little shake by the hair. 

You flash your teeth at that, hoping he takes that as a threat. You have chewed off flesh far tougher than his. “Still might, human. If you don’t let me go.” 

He stares down at you, eyes giving nothing away. “It’s not every day that a little girl threatens to eat me. Not very nice, you know. I’ve cut down men twice your size for less.”

“You like bloodshed?”

“I trade in bounties; it’s part of the job. But, yes, girl. I like bloodshed.”

It’s not reassuring to hear that when his hands are fast on you. You wish now you hadn’t dreamed of this strange man immune to your magic and left him to his wandering. There are bears in these woods that could have dealt with him for you. 

“I’m—I’m not going to anymore,” you say, quieter now, hands falling back to his chest, trying to shove yourself just the slightest bit away. You don’t move an inch. “I’ll…I can find something else to eat. Just let me go.”

The man widens his stance, feet bracketing yours. In two hundred years, you haven’t felt small. You’ve felt tremendous, expansive, big as the whole forest; monstrous some days even. The most ferocious predator in the woods, the haunting lurching her way through the trees, belly hungry for iron blood and the ripe taste of fear. 

You feel that fear now in your mouth for the first time, sour.

He smiles behind the mask again. “Maybe later. Need to teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson?” Maybe the fear hasn’t sunk in all the way because you ask that when he lets go of his hold on your hair and drops his hands to your waist, getting a tight hold there. Twisting you around while he walks you back. 

“You all alone in the forest?” he asks instead of answering you. “Is there a house that I missed? Been here for months and haven’t seen one.”

“Of course, I—I live here.” You don’t want to say more than though, lest you reveal too much about yourself. You’re still wondering whether surviving this ordeal will be as simple as getting away. There’s something savage in his gaze now, the mealy taste in your mouth translating that look like the hunter looking upon the hunted. 

There’s a tree stump that he guides you to, shaded under the canopy. When he tips you over the stump, the breath rushes out of you. The edge is rough against your stomach. You don’t even notice him pulling up the back of your dress until a few seconds later. 

“Wait, hold on—that’s my indoor dress!” you cry out, the front of your dress scraping against the stump and sure to tear. “Let me go—stop it!”

Your drawers are next, slid down your hips while you squirm and wail, feet kicking out behind you. 

“Behave.” It’s punctuated by the sudden sting on your cheek, bottom flaming red by his hand. Pain is such a foreign concept to you that it initially leaves you speechless. 

He props you against the stump with little care for how your knees drag in the dirt and whether your underwear gets dirt on them. He keeps you pinned there with a big hand on the centre of your back. Your shimmying gets you nowhere, only planted farther into the dirt; it only scuffs up your knees and pulls wretched little noises from your throat. 

The terror comes when you’re bare to him and he draws his hand back. You gasp at the first smack, shocked; it’s a broken, stupid sound. At the next smack, you react properly, going into a frenzy, twisting left and right to get away, but helpless under just a fraction of his strength. Your magic does no good for once in your long life either. You feel it sit on the periphery, unsure of what to do because it cannot come close to this strange man for some reason. 

You yelp every time his hand comes down on your bottom. Red fills your vision. Tears do as well. 

“I am going to—” you break off on a yowl, back arching, “—I am going to eat the flesh off your bones for this! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

His chuckle is bone-chilling, ices you right over. “You oughta at least know the name of the man you’re going to eat. They call me Ghost.”

“I’ll call you—” The caustic name you were about to call him is ripped from your lips by another well-placed smack on your ass. 

You shriek so loud that the birds flee from their perches within the trees. 

The worst part is the way your thighs flex together with every smack. Belly clenching. You can feel slick gathering where it shouldn’t, a high blush splotched across your cheeks as you pray that he doesn’t notice. It doesn’t happen often, only in the week following your cycle when you feel ravenous and flushed, skin prickly and raw until you go outdoors and roll around in the dirt under the moonlight. Always by yourself, of course, naturally. 

Little panting breaths hiccup out of you, your cheeks overflowing with frustrated tears. After the first minute, you simply go limp. There’s nothing else you can do. Even trying to levitate does you no good, it only props your butt up higher into the air since Ghost’s hand on your upper back keeps your chest pressed to the stump. It only seems to amuse him, judging by the hoarse chuckle he lets out. 

Without your broom, the little bit of levitation is more of a party trick than anything—and you haven’t even been to a party in fifty years, not since your coven’s last autumnal gathering. Not that it matters at a time like this. His hand comes down on your butt again and you wail, shoes digging into the ground and kicking up dirt. Your mind goes blank again, thoughts replaced by the looping ow, ow, ow that also falls from your lips.

“Does it hurt, lovie?” Ghost asks, hand coming to rest on your livid cheek. It makes you hiss, turning your head until your cheek is pressed to the stump’s inner rings. His voice is gentle, but mocking, like the voice you use when hacking into a screaming man, asking him if he’d like his hand back while you dangle it in front of him.

“It’s going to hurt so much worse when I dice you into little pieces,” you hiss. He gives a mocking pat to your butt, making you flinch. 

“Learned your lesson yet?”

You keep your gaze stubbornly off to the side. Somehow, it would be worse to look over your shoulder and make eye contact with the strange beast at your back. “If you leave now, I won't sever your limbs from your body and roast your organs from the inside.”

“I take it you haven’t,” he says, another chuckle rumbling out of him. 

His hand comes off your naked rear. Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of fabric over fabric, wondering if maybe he’s pulling your underwear back up, but you don’t feel anything. What you feel instead is the sudden heaviness pushed between your thighs, nestled right up against your wet core, so unfamiliar that it makes you jump. You stay put though, held down still by his hand. 

“Put that back,” you say severely. 

He holds it against your sex with his free hand and presses forward, coating himself with your slick. “You’re not in a position to make demands, girl.”

“I’m going to slice every bit of skin off your bones.” Your mouth salivates at the thought, thinking of all the thick, iron-rich blood from someone Ghost’s size. 

Those thoughts disperse again like smoke when he ruts forward, the thick length between his legs gliding through your wetness. It makes you break out into a sweat, keen catching between your teeth, just narrowly bitten back. Ghost makes no effort to suppress his groans. They’re loud, a lustful, masculine pleasure that you’ve heard far off in your woods before—unfortunate couples come to copulate before meeting their end at your hands—but never so close. Never right up in your ear.

“It’s not fair,” you sob, emotional suddenly. “You’re just going to—to do that and then kill me.”

He leans his full weight over you, the rough texture of his shirt catching on the back of your dress. You’re sweating so hard now that the lace embroidery around your collar is thoroughly soaked, clinging to your skin. 

“‘M not gonna kill you. What would I do something like that for?”

You sniff. “It’s what I would do.”

He chuckles again, the sound reverberating through you with him all pressed up against you. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for the cock pumping between your thighs. That brings you right back down to earth, mind torn away from the ravens perched in the branches of the tree looming over you, watching you from above. If you were able to pay them any close attention, you’d probably hear them chattering about the position their little witch has found herself in. 

“C’mon now,” Ghost grunts in your ear, hips shifting back. “Be a good little witch and say a little spell—don’t wanna knock you up on the first try.”

You open your mouth to reply and squeal when he rocks back forward, the bulbous tip pressing into you this time. Your toes flex in your shoes, thighs spreading without any prompting from him. You don’t even notice the hand on your upper back travelling to your waist, both of his big hands gripping you there now to hold you in place. There’s no thought of trying to get away, just breathing around the immense stretch from his shaft driving up into you.

“Ooh, no, no—it’s too much,” you squeak, fingers digging into the sides of the stump, the wood cutting into your soft skin. 

It is too much. It doesn’t even feel entirely possible. Even with the wetness leaking from you, his cock only manages to fit a couple inches in you before you’re too tight. 

“You’re doing fine, lovie,” he rasps into your ear, drawing his hips back and then plunging back into you, deeper than before. “See? Not so bad, is it? Gonna take a little more for me, a’right?”

“No—no more,” you slur, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Can you just—just keep it right there?”

“Yeah? That enough for you?”

Your fingers unlatch from the bark of the tree, trembling when you reach down to wipe them off on your dress before dragging the palm of your hand over your clit. It makes you jump and whine. The skin of your palm is a bit textured from gripping onto the stump, but the friction makes your brain leak right out of your ear. Especially when you push your hips back just a little bit, nervously fucking yourself on his cock.

Ghost laughs and lets go of your hip to bat your hand away, then reaches back around to fit a big hand around your jaw.

He holds your jaw in a single hand, palm supporting your chin. “You ever going to do this again, girl? Go up to strange men in the woods?”

You almost don’t hear him over the blood in your ears. A thick cock spears into you for the first time in your life and the man rutting into you expects coherence? Maybe you babble something into the palm of his hand, but it’s lost to the world when he pulls your knee out to make more room for himself and tips your ass up.

He gives your cheek a solid pat. “C’mon, focus on me, lovie. Tell me what you’re gonna do from now on.”

Your breathing picks up, heavier. When you don’t respond again, he abruptly pulls out and stands up, hauling you up to your feet with him. All of the blood rushes from your head, pooling around your pretty black shoes. Leaves crunch under your feet when he turns the two of you around and sits down on the stump where you’d just been spread over. The hands on your waist turn you to face him and that’s when an inkling of struggle works its way back into your veins. 

You hiss and snarl when he lifts you to straddle his thighs, particularly when you see the brutish, ruddy cock jutting out from his trousers. Ghost seems more amused than anything at your little attempts to escape, clutching you closer to him until your chests are pressed tight together, making it all the more intimate. All the more real. 

“Quit fussing.” You jump at the sharp slap he delivers to your ass. 

“Going to curse your whole lineage—” you grit out, wincing when he draws you back down over his length, cunt fluttering at the stretch. You can’t help dropping your forehead to his chest, shoulder hitched with a frustrated cry. 

His groan makes you seize up, a hot flash darting through you. “Don’t be like that, lovie. Might be yours too.”

A haze passes over you when firm hands lift you up off his cock and plop you back down, emptying you of any thoughts like you’d tipped your head and all the water had poured out. 

The worst is the way your body betrays you. Each time he shoves his fat cock into your cunt, a whine rattles out of you, snatched from your chest. Robbed from you. The nearby leaves rustle and swirl up into the air with an artificial wind, magic singing their edges. He reaches so much deeper inside of you like this, splayed on his lap, hands gripping onto his shoulders for dear life because it takes every bit of energy in your body to merely take his cock into you. 

Your knees scrape against the uneven wood every time he drags you back down. They’ll probably be scraped raw by the end of it; you’ll need to tearfully smooth on ointment and wrap thick bandages around them when you get back to the cottage. 

“There we go. Fuckin’ take it—come on,” Ghost grunts, dragging you down onto his length, just using your body how he likes. 

The thick head grinds up against a spot deep inside of you, spongy and sensitive. You feel it all the way up in your throat. Every time his cock rubs against that spot, your nails dig into his shoulders. A violent shudder rips through you because this position also lets him grind your clit down against the root of his cock. 

“Ghost—”

He ducks his covered mouth into the side of your neck. Even through the fabric, you can feel his lips press a firm, closed-mouth kiss there. “Bit more, bit more, love. Better than you thought it’d be, huh? Fuck. Only thing magic about you is this wet pussy. Fuck hiding this from me—gonna ride it twice a day from now on.”

“Never doing this ever again, you beast—”

Ghost bites you through the mask, the pressure dull but real. It says, try keeping it from me.

When you come, it’s sudden and sharp, painful like a cramp in your belly and then a wave of bone-deep pleasure. Ghost wrangles it from you with a thumb on your clit, pumping up into your pussy at the same time. He wrenches it from you like it’s his, like you have no choice but to come for him because he wants it. You press your whole body against him when you come, arms wrapping around his neck like you need him close. Heat unfolding and leaving you limp. No cauldron has ever boiled as hot as your flesh does now. 

He pulls out of you before coming. You watch helplessly as he settles you close enough to keep the heat of your pussy on him and then wraps a firm hand around himself, giving it a few good tugs before a white rope of come spurts from his cock. Right onto your exposed pussy, spilling across your folds. Your mouth drops open on a soft whine as it stripes across your inner thighs and the front of your dress, painting it white. 

His harsh pants ebb into something softer as his cock goes flacid against his thigh. You feel boneless, drained of all your energy. Even your magic only gives a pathetic twitch, the tendrils of it curling back up inside of you where it’s nice and warm. 

Your cunt feels tender, puffy when you reach down and touch it. You flinch when his fingers graze against yours, also feeling around your swollen lips. Ghost knuckles your fingers out of the way and scoops up the mess he left between your thighs, pushing two fingers just past your entrance. You don’t even have the energy to yelp, only wince and mewl.

He shushes you. “Didn’t even come inside. Quit whining.”

His words are belied by the way he scoops more of his come up into you. 

You really don’t like that he follows you home. The march back to your cozy cottage nestled in the middle of the forest feels like a death march, one you might have witnessed in the hundreds of years that you’ve lived here. Worse still because your legs are still wobbly, your sex achy and raw. Still, whenever you pause for a moment or lean against a tree, he nudges you forward with a hand on your back.

“This is unfair,” you snivel, eyes tearing up. “You can’t—this is my forest.”

“The woods don’t belong to anyone, girl,” Ghost counters. 

“Yes, they do. I’ve been…it’s been mine for two hundred years.”

“Of course, lovie.” You can almost hear the roll of his eyes. It makes you grit your teeth. You can’t wait to bury him in the backyard with all the bone mandalas. 

It doesn’t take long for him to settle in, making himself nice and comfortable on your plush couch with the intricate doilies knitted by your grandmother draped along the back. Your poor couch almost collapses under his weight. 

Your cottage is far too small for someone of his size; you built it to accommodate someone of your size, not the behemoth that’s taken up residence in your house. You know that Ghost is more of a man of action than words, but he’s plenty happy to grumble about needing to redo the door to make it big enough for him to come inside without having to duck his head. 

“You aren’t going to touch a single brick of my house.”

“I’ll take apart the whole damned thing if I want.”

You keep trying to lift him up with your magic but it does nothing to him and only tires you out because using magic is exhausting. You’re sweating and panting at the end of your efforts while Ghost just stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest and a single eyebrow raised. It’s humiliating. You used to be a powerful witch. You still are. 

He lets you yell at him until you’re red in the face and then drags you down for a rough fuck. Arguments with Ghost often end that way—you, sore and satiated in your bed, the window opened to let some fresh air in. Him, spread out next to you and dragging you close, playing absentmindedly with a nipple until you pinch his side. That always gets you a meaner pinch, one that leaves you teary-eyed and hot all over again. 

Magic might not work on him, but he’s still mortal, so you try to work with that. Bear traps by the windows and doors. Hemlock in the soap. Poison in his stew. He’s stealthier than you anticipate though and seems to have a sixth sense for death. 

It’s demeaning and humiliating to be punished for your ‘bad behaviour’ but that’s what he calls it when he passes by the kitchen and catches the stew burping out the telltale skull shaped steam. You’re taken off kitchen duty after that, but the worst part is being trapped under him on the bed with your hands pinned over your head, bottom exposed to him yet again. He laughs a little later on when you squirm around on your hard kitchen chairs because you refuse to sit on his lap.

Sometimes when he has you trapped under him when you’re sleeping—because, of course, he commandeers your bed like it was built for someone his size when truthfully he should be in a bed twice as large—he wakes up to you gnawing at his shoulder and he has to hold you jaw in his hand and rumble out “No biting” before going back to sleep. You stare over his shoulder petulantly, not even bothering to fight the pout. The kettle whispers in the kitchen, fueled by your frustration.

Ghost only lets out a dry, husky laugh. It sends a shiver down your spine. 

Asphodel takes to him like a new favourite thing, winding around his legs while you glare from the other room. Damned familiar. 

You only start to lighten up when your senses tingle one day when you’re out picking berries in the woods and you come back to find him ruthlessly butchering a band of raiders that had been trampling through your woods. He slaughters them methodically, almost bored. Almost like he does this every day. 

You can’t help the way it makes your pussy ache. 

He catches the look in your eye. You’ve been alone for far too long in the woods; everything you feel is laid bare, open for anyone to see. Ghost is just always looking. 

He grins under the mask, blood splattered across the front of his shirt. “Go on, lovie. I’ll be inside in just a few.”

Molten slickness drips from between your thighs. You bite your lip before you slip away, blood growing feverish when you glance back down at the mangled bodies bleeding out in the red-orange leaves. There’s a severed eye that’s rolled off to the side and your stomach gurgles. 

You lick your lip and look up at him from under your eyelashes. “Save me some for supper?”

Ghost’s eyes soften, a sharp contrast from the gore and viscera piled around him. “‘Course, lovie.”

The world seems different with the arrival of him. Cranberries beneath the sycamore, the russet moon on harvest's day, the scent of soldering iron, the laughter woven between your many faces. With him, you feel like the cynosure of all eyes. 

In the twilight hours, he presses a hand to your forehead and laves your belly with his tongue like he might push something back in there. The curtains draw shut and the lights flicker off.

[deldaydreams]

Pomegranates

— So here’s a one shot. Beware my English. Not exactly like greek mythology.

Toga: the loose outer garment worn in public by citizens of Ancient Rome.

Warnings: mentions of death, Ancient Greek timeline, God of dead Idia , gn reader , mythological theme…

First he turned right, then left around the corner... A groan came from the blue-haired boy, who was looking for the exit from the walls formed by blue rose bushes.

“Ahh, I think I'm lost!” he groaned.

They say curiosity killed the cat, and Ortho succumbed to his curiosity.

His brother used to come to this garden regularly every day, but no one was allowed to enter the garden except his brother. No matter how much Ortho asked his brother, no matter how much he insisted, his brother would still not let him enter the garden and would not tell him what he was doing in the garden.

Ortho took the opportunity of his brother going to Olympos and secretly entered the garden and got lost.

He had come to a crossroads again. While he was nervously thinking which one he should choose, a voice distracted him.

"Who are you?"

Ortho turned around in panic. He didn't expect to see a soul staring at him with a dull expression.

“Oh, hello.” said Ortho timidly.

He was frightened by the piercing gaze of the person in front of him.

"Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

The spirit approached him.

“Well, I'm Ortho… and I'm actually lost.”

The soul raised an eyebrow.

“Don't you know that you should not enter this labyrinth, child? You're lucky, come with me and let's get you out of here."

The sprit took his hand and they wandered back and forth through the maze of trees and bushes.

The sprit did not speak. So there was an awkward silence. There was only the rustle of the grass they were stepping on.

“Um I guess you know the maze pretty well?”

Ortho asked to lighten the mood. But the spirit did not answer.

“Do you live in this labyrinth? What is your name? How long have you been here? Who are you?.."

He started asking questions repeatedly.

The spirit finally spoke.

“But you turned out to be talkative. Unlike you, he can't even put two words together properly." They said in a whisper.

Finally the spirit stopped. They reached a door. To the entrance of the labyrinth.

"We came. Don't even think about coming here again. You were lucky this time that I found you, but you may not be so lucky next time."

They let go of Ortho's hand. The blue haired boy started walking towards the door. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and turned around.

“Can you at least tell me your name?”

The spirit looked at him expressionlessly.

“What will you do if you know? After all, we won't see each other again. Anyway, my name is Y/n and don't ever come here again.”

This was the first encounter between Ortho and the spirit named Y/n.

–

“Y/N! Where are you !"

Ortho had entered the garden again. He wanted to talk again to the spirit that showed him the way when he got lost during his first entry.

That spirit was different. Normally souls come to the underworld after death. Depending on their life on Earth, they would be sent to Elysium, the Fields of Asphodel, or the Fields of Punishment. However, this soul was in his brother's garden...

He was going around random turns, screaming your name. And in the end, he arrived at a place like a garden, without even knowing how he did it.

“Y/n!”

As soon as he saw you, he ran to you with excitement.

You were lying on a sofa with lots of cushions and pillows. There was a flowing river right next to it, and many flowers and trees around it...This place looked just like the riverside in the forest where the protagonists of Ortho's favorite fairy tale met.

You opened your eyes slightly.

"You again? Didn't I tell you not to come here again?" You scolded Ortho.

“But look, I found you. And this place is beautiful.” Ortho said as he approached you.

"Beautiful? Phew! Is this place beautiful? “You said curtly.

“Yes, look, it's very nice. There are roses, magnolias, grapes… and oh, pomegranates too! I love pomegranates, how about you? “ said the child while plucking the pomegranate from its branch.

“I used to love…” said the soul bitterly.

“Umm, shall I tell you a story?” said Ortho to digress.

The spirit did not answer, but Ortho accepted it as a yes and sat down on the sofa next to the spirit.

Once upon a time, there was a lonely king. This king was smart and strong, but he was also lonely. He had no friends or family... Anyway, one day, the king disguised himself and mingled with people, and a person caught his attention. This person was not very beautiful, very smart or perfect, but something attracted the king to this person. After that, the king started to watch this person constantly. Their daily routine, what they eats, what they likes, what they does...

One day the king could not stand it and went to the forest where that person lived. He wanted to see them closer.

–

You went down to the stream to get water. As you started filling the buckets with water, you felt a pair of eyes watching you. When you looked around, you saw someone with blue hair and a black toga watching you from afar.

“Hey young master, are you lost?” You called out.

The man looked around, frightened and not knowing what to do.

You moved towards him.

“Young master, are you lost?” You asked again.

“Oh um…I-“

You smiled.

“You seem to be a high-ranking person, what is someone like you doing in this forest?” You said.

The blue-haired man was mumbling something, but nothing could be understood.

“I'm Y/n, I live in this forest. Would you like to come to my house? “ You suggested. You haven't had any guests in a long time, in fact you never had.

"O-okey.” The young man said in panic.

"How nice. By the way, what was your name?”

“Idia”

–

From that day on, the king started to visit that person, always hiding his true identity. The king was happy, but his happiness did not last long. One day, a seer came to visit the king.

–

“You are not in that person's destiny, God of the Dead Idia. They have different life cycles in their thread of destiny. However, if you want, I can give you the thread. If you cut the thread, their fate will be like an unclear water. You can shape it the way you want and even be completely you in their destiny. ” said the god of prophecy. And he handed the thread to Idia.

Idia hesitantly took the thread. Could he really cut this thread, which symbolizes the happy future of his beloved, because of his own greed? But if he cut it, he would be the fate of his beloved.

Idia would visit the mortal you every day but that week he didn’t.He locked himself in his room and just thought about what he should do with the thread.

–

And the king finally gave in to his greed and cut the thread.

–

“Oh Idia, where have you been? I was very scared that something bad had happened.” You said while hugging him.

You were very worried when you didn't hear from him for a week.

“I brought pomegranates. From my own garden.” Idia said as he handed you a basket full of pomegranates.

“You are forgiven. I like pomegranates.”

After that, Idia started bringing you pomegranates every time he came. The pomegranate was Delicious, juicy, sweet... but slowly your health began to deteriorate. Headaches, coughing blood, nightmares... You only felt good when you were with Idia.

But how could you know that the pomegranates are from the underworld’s garden? If a god or a spirit eats it, nothing will happen, but if a human eats it... they start to die slowly. First headaches and nightmares, then they begin to see spirits that humans cannot see, and eventually they die.

-

“Agh!” You screamed in pain. Your heart was tightening and it hurt like crazy, like you were being stabbed.

Idia came running to you.He had a dark liquid in his hand. Pomegranate juice.

“Y/n, are you okay, are you having an attack again?” He helped you get up. He placed you on your bed.

“Oh gods,” you groaned.

“Here, drink some. It will make you feel better..” Idia said and handed you pomegranate juice.

“No… no I don't want to.” You said.

“Come on, for your health.” insisted Idia.

“Just one sip.”

Idia helped you drink. It was sour. Then you couldn't breathe and you closed your eyes. You dropped the glass full of pomegranate juice. It was spilled on you.It looked just like blood.

You were dead.

"I am sorry…I'm sorry for loving you. But I had to. I’m sorry, Y/n.” Idia said with a shaky voice and hugged your dead body.

–

“Then they lived happily ever after .” said Ortho and finished the story.

"How was it? It’s good isn’t it? This is my favorite fairy tale. My brother told me.” Said Ortho

But Y/n didn't answer.

“Come on, it's late, let's take you back.” Said the Spirit.

“So early?” The boy whined. He took the spirit's hand and they moved towards the exit under the soul’s leadership.

“Um Y/n I was going to ask you something. Will you come to us tomorrow? I don't know if I'll find you next time.” said Ortho innocently.

“No…I'm sorry Ortho, but I can't leave this garden, but if you want to come again, come with your brother.” Said the Spirit sadly, as if something tying them to this garden.

And they said goodbye again.

-

“So? How was your day?" Idia asked his little brother.

“Good, as I said before, I made a new friend. There I was with them and I told them my favorite story." Ortho explained with excitement.

“Is that so…by the way, what was your friend's name?”

Idia asked.

“It’s Y/n.”

[cecelovegood]

Okay, but thinking of asphodel as a forest.

Imagine 12 year old Hazel, wandering through that forest for 80 years. All alone, watching as the souls around her turn into trees.

Think about when she meets Nico, a person who doesn’t just look right through her. And she has hope.

[khaire-traveler]

Soul

When a tree dies, where does it go?

Does its soul join those in Asphodel or Elysium?

Does Charon bear it, freely and without charge, across the Styx?

Does it dig its roots deeply into the abundant grounds of the Field,

Or lay its roots beside the restful souls of ancient heroes from times past?

Does its final breath intermingle with the breeze?

The same breeze that brushes back your hair,

That carries the melodic sound of your laughter?

Is its soul carried on that breeze,

Far away into distant lands,

That it couldn't explore before?

Does it appear in the forests that Wild Artemis roams,

Housing the squirrels and the birds that she hunts?

Is its soul held in the hands of Lifebearing Demeter,

Cradled sweetly as a mother cradles her child?

Or would its soul bury itself deep within Gaia's soil,

Finding peace and refuge surrounded by her all-loving presence?

When a tree dies, where does it go?

~

|| A poem made by me for the trees ||

[sockssketchingshack]

I'd like to think the afterlife is more like the fields of Asphodel from Greek mythology. Just a nice peaceful field of grass and wildflowers. A place for neutral people to go, ones who haven't committed significant sins or achieve grand heroic feats. That's where I belong. In the field. Laying down on the grass feeling the not too hot sun shine down. The grass doesn't scratch your fingers or get itchy. And the wind is always at the rate you want it and the temperature is always at the degree you prefer it. If it was me I would make a forest area for the souls. Give them fruit trees and other plants that bear food. And of course climbing flowers that grow onto the trees. I'd make butterflies and humming birds to keep the flowers looking lively. And I'd help teach the souls how to make flower crowns as we rest in the grass.

[stalkerofthegods]

Lord Hades deep dive

Herbs • cypress, mint, myrrh, patchouli, bay, pumpkin, yew, wormwood, cinnamon, lavender, willow, oak, marigold, dandelion, rose, lily, daisies, rowan, poppy, daffodils, calendulas, salt and spices, Cypress, white asphodel, mint, narcissus

Animals• Dogs (Cerberus, specifically), black lambs, serpents, screech owls, black sheep, black bulls, moths (reincarnation, cycle of life), 

Zodiac • Autumn (dry becoming cold) – Earth – Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn, Winter (cold becoming wet) – Water – Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces.

Colors • Black, grey, silver, gold

Crystal• hematite, onyx, obsidian, onyx, black tourmaline, jet

Symbols• precious jewels and money, drinking horn, Sceptre, Keys, Helm of darkness, night-time, autumn and winter, caves, mines, forests, crossroads, cemeteries, cornucopia, shovels (digging of graves, digging into dirt)

Jewelry you can wear in their honor• gold, silver, rubies, emeralds, anything metal and expensive due to his wealth and stone aspects. Any stones or metals. you can veil in muted colors in his honor.

Diety of• stones, metals, wealth, the underworld, 'winter; funeral rites.

Patron of• the underworld, stones, gems, crystals.

Offerings• honey, milk, shells or bones of animals, oolong and black tea, bread, and cake, apples, pomegranates, meat, especially lamb meat, he likes oils, like olive oil and such, a drinking horn, Black mirrors, Black cloth, dirt, dirt from commentaries, garlic, baked goods, sharp cheeses, money, family heirlooms, pomegranate mead/rum, black coffee, Statues or art of Cerberus, small fossils, art is drawn or for him, Shredded snakeskin, owl/vulture feathers., sheded dog fur (good origin hair, no stealing/shaving ur dog simply to give it to him), scales (balance scales), cornucopia, coins, 

Devotional•  saving money, spending responsibly, donating to charities for the dead, cleaning graveyards and gravestones (properly, respectfully, with permission for both the dead and the owners of the property), Offerings to the dead, as well as money to the spirits of the dead to let them pass on, collecting expensive jewels and crystals/stones, making an altar to tend dead spirits, Studying other cultures’ burial methods and cemetery rites, do a job for cementary, do mortuary or funeral services as a job (for the summer, or for how long u want in his honor), treat spirits kindly and help them move on, do ancestral worship, worship your land spirits in his honor, growing deathly plants (safely), writing poetry/stories for him, donate to those who can't afford a funeral, help with funerals, donate to suicide prevention organizations (that are trustworthy), donate to dog shelters, walk dogs in his honor, work at a dog shelter or babysitting dogs in his honor, visit caves that let you mine for stones/gems, make a playlist for him and hum/sing it in his honor, start a coin collection, 

Ephithets•  ‘Renowned’, ‘Good Counsellor’, ‘the Beautiful‐haired One’, ‘Of Good Repute’, ‘Leader of the People’, ‘Lord over All’, ‘Receiver of Many’, ‘Host to Many’ and Pluton (‘Wealth’). 

Equivalents (alike but not the same)• Pluto, Dis Pater, Orcus

They are reaching out• seeing dead animals or funeral symbols, seeing his symbols everywhere, smelling pomegranates, getting more job opportunities. He and his wife are usually a package deal.

Vows/omans• taking care of the underworld, marriage vows

Number• 6 (not seeing his wife for 6 months, then seeing her for 6 months), and commonly associated with death

Morals• lawfully neutral

Courting• Lady Persephone

Past lovers/crushes• Leuce, Minthe, Theophile

Personality• Like a working dad hanging up your macaroni on his desk, he is very formal and has a sweet spot.

Home• hades/hadestown (he lives in the underworld but is allowed up to Mount Olympus

Mortal or immortal • immortal

Fact• Due to being a Cathonic god you cannot eat after them, you dispose of offerings into water into the ground, and him and his wife Persephone are usually together.

Curses• being broke, losing money, being unable to pass on, losing your job.

Blessings• more money, getting more job opportunities, getting more money.

Roots• "the unseen" which An extensive section of Plato's dialogue 'Cratylus' is devoted to the etymology of the god's name, the 'unseen one', in which Socrates is arguing for a folk etymology not from "unseen" but from "his knowledge (eidenai) of all noble things", you can see he originated from the greek region.

Friends• Persephone, Zeus, Poseidon, Hestia, hermes, Artemis, Apollo, Athena, Hephaestus, Aphrodite, all the Olympians

Parentage• Cronos, Rhea

Siblings• Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Hera, and Hestia.

Pet• Cerberus, in his chariot four black steeds Orphnaeus (savage and fleet), Aethon (swifter than an arrow), great Nyctaeus (proud glory of Hell's steeds), and Alastor (branded with the mark of Dis).

Children • Macaria, and in some cases Zagreus, Dionysus, and the Erinyes

Appearance in astral or gen• black hair, crown, kings coat, with a beard and with his scepter

Festivals • Halloween, The Chthonia Fertility Rites

Season • fall, winter 

Day •  Saturday, Tuesday, or Monday would be good, but he doesn't have an official day.

Status• King of the underworld, an olympion.

What angers them• disrespect to their family (wife, kids, etc), insulting the dead, messing with graveyards

The music they like• he likes old-timey, death music, I was listening to a playlist and there was a lot of goth music!

Planet• pluto

Tarot cards• death, the devil (and personally the chariot and the emperor)

Reminds me of• hot coca, death, dirt, bones, dead animals on the road, and goths.

Scents/Inscene • Cypress, amber, pomegranate, and winter scents

Prayers• 

1.

Great Hades, master of the dark afterworld, honored host of our beloved dead, husband of fair-haired Persephone, holder of the riches of the deep earth, eldest son of full-hearted Rhea and Cronus of the shining sickle, I praise you. Hades, kind one, unyielding one, gracious granter of respite to the suffering, of welcome to those who have passed from our world, I thank you for your gift of shelter and hospitality.

2.

Noble Hades, lord of the afterworld, upon your head the shining helm that veils the one it crowns in darkness, within your grasp the fearful staff with which you split the world asunder. Hades, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Hades, holder of all the wealth within the world, yours are all the priceless treasures buried in the earth’s deep bones, the silver and the gold, the copper and the iron, the many-colored gems. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Within your realm, O Hades, are treasures too of life and abundance. The precious seeds of fruit and grain, the soft black soil that clings to root and leaf, without these gifts would mankind fail to flourish. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Kindly host of the dead, receiver of all who pass from the earth into your deep, abyssal realm, granter of rest for the weary, sweet reunion for those too long parted by your well-wrought gates. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings. Fair-minded Hades, even-handed one who holds in hand the lot of all whose earthly lives have ended. The greatest of kings, the lowest of beggars, all receive reward or sanction by your will. I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings.

3.

Great Hades, master of the darkened deep, master of the realm beneath our feet who hears the echoes of our steps, who takes the echoes of our lives. Hades, you know the need for an end to life, you know the worth of a well-deserved rest, you know the thanks of men and women weary from long lives of worry and toil, you know the joy of sweet reunion as friends long parted join together once again within your storied land. The dim and misty underworld is yours, O Hades; yours are the Fields of Asphodel, yours the endless pits of Tartarus in which are cast the wicked and the vile. Yours too are the Fortunate Isles, the land of fair Elysium where dwell the righteous and the good. Hades, the receiver of burnt offerings, receiver of the blood of beasts, well-honored god: in the end, all come to you. Hades, I praise you.

4.

Great-hearted Hades, lord of the afterworld, noble husband of gracious Persephone, daughter of the earth who shares your golden throne; advocate of the dead whose wrath falls on those who deny them due burial, or whose dishonor endures beyond the grave. Relentless Hades, agent of vengeance, friend of the Furies, long is your arm, long your memory. Lord of riches, lord of wealth, yours is the abundance of the depths, the cold, unyielding treasure of metal and stone; yours is the black dirt turned by the plow each spring, the sun-warmed soil that hides the seed. Hades, dark-haired son of Kronos, ruler of the world beyond us, inevitable host of men and women and all, I thank you for your care of those who have passed; I praise you, I honor you, I revere your name.

Due to him being a Chthonic deity here are tips for worship• You can do water in the ground, I'd personally light incense in his honor, over dirt, and let the ashes fall into the water in his honor. You can throw offerings into water into a pit in the dirt for him, in front of statues offerings were left at his feet. if you have no backyard, or any place to dispose of dirt, I'd get a bag of dirt and place offerings in it then throw it out (make him aware of it, with respect.), Offerings are often buried, poured down the drain, or into the trash (This is done to ‘complete’ the offering.), please NEVER eat after him or anything associated with him other than Kore (Persephone's overworld name, ONLY her overworld aspect),

I know he was offered blood, but please don't unless you're a devotee of Mimmum of 5 years!! that is offering your source of life and it has to be sterile and everything and is VERY VERY sacred, you're offering your life to him, so please make sure to do research and have someone help you if you do decide to.

Links/websites/sources • https://www.tumblr.com/h-x-d-e-s/190189758200/on-worshipping-hades# https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astrology_and_the_classical_elements#:~:text=Spring%20(wet%20becoming%20hot)%20%E2%80%93,Water%20%E2%80%93%20Cancer%2C%20Scorpio%2C%20Pisces https://www.britannica.com/topic/Hades-Greek-mythology https://www.worldhistory.org/Hades/ https://www.worldhistory.org/Hades/ https://www.oxfordreference.com/display/10.1093/oi/authority.20111010143853768#:~:text=Epithets%20which%20euphemistically%20address%20his,Pluton%20('Wealth'). https://www.reddit.com/r/Hades/comments/17yhisn/offerings_to_hades/?rdt=60435 https://www.tumblr.com/twelfthremedy/625927031204577280/hades-offerings https://asklepiad-apollon.tumblr.com/post/182810115143/historically-accurate-offerings-to-the-theoi-buthttps://www.reddit.com/r/pagan/comments/khc513/it_makes_me_sad_that_hades_doesnt_have_a_festival/ https://greekpagan.com/tag/hades/

I use resources, I do not own the info, and most deep dives have UPG (that I use in my work.) And I only take some information from sources. I am 14, this is my hobby, I am learning but I spent many hours and days on this, and I am always open to criticism. I have been doing worship for 5 years. Please know you can use the info, I do not sue, but I will take action if this work is used without permission and not put as a resource if used in any work. without permisson and not put as a resource if used in any work, for the public.

[jollmaster]

what does the main diet for denizens of each circle of Sheol like? are there any unique crop or livestock there?

hello! all is interesting :D

Asileverse!AU: the main diet in common...

as a rule, the inhabitants of Sheol eat whatever they grow and whatever they catch in the hunt omg unlucky sinner hi! or in the water, because they don't have time to be picky!

natural conditions impose restrictions

the Second Circle has a hard time with moss and mushrooms (succulents are prevalent here, so the locals often live by hunting)

in the Third Circle, locals eat whatever they find and can kill (Beelzebub patronage and crocodile soup, yum!)

the Fourth Circle is well-developed (relatively fertile soil and peat bogs), so hellborns can allow for more diversity; the Fifth Circle is pretty similar

the Sixth Circle is a rural region which lives by growing a variety of crops (more on this later)

the Seventh Circle is strongly connected to the Sixth, but locals also often eat meat (a nearby forest is spread out)

on the Eighth Circle, in the gorges, everything is even worse than on the Second and Third (almost nothing grow naturally)

the Ninth Circle... you know (severe winter 24/7), here one has to live exclusively by hunting

no politics, no drama; just imp couple who are gathering luminiscent moss

...and local crops!

terrestrial plants are less common in Sheol: it can mostly be found in the greenhouses of the firstborn demons who patronize herbolology and botany

one of the common flowering plants is asphodel, the well-known flower from the world of the dead, and females often decorate hair and fur with it for various occasions

of course, hellborns have adapted to growing several crops, such as beans (the most popular crop here!) or potato, but these crops are specific; in particular, they don't require sunlight and grow shorter than in the middle world

the most common plant species are bryophytes and succulents, especially in the Second Circle: most of the lands in the Lust Circle are occupied by steppes and deserts

there are an incredible number of moss species in the underworld, including those that look similar to terrestrial plants

the local inhabitants eat moss and use it to make fiber for clothing

hellborns highly value luminescent moss: the extract from these plants is used as a dye, which is especially useful in agriculture and weaving, and the moss itself is used as a source of light

locals from the Sixth Circle (the most extensive and well-developed rural region) grow and sell almost all the mosses they know

also Sheol is RICH in mushrooms: there are much more mushrooms than plants

mushrooms are used in all areas of life, from food to fiber for weavers

demons and imps literally drink mushroom beer, eat mushroom bread and wear mushroom clothes lol

[bonefall]

Ok, im back with more names. The bog was hard to find, so I’m basing it off of the area of Carrington Moss, which is in the area I think BB takes place if I’m reading the maps right

Also bc we’re talking about Shadowclan

Ok, so the names

First of all: Fen, Bog, Mire, and Peat, all names for this biome. There’s also marls, a rock found in the area

Again, I’ll only be using names I don’t remember being in the series (the obvious one being moss. It’s all moss)

Asphodel (bog asphodel), rosemary (bog rosemary), cranberry, cotton (cotton sedge), blackberry, bluebell, foxglove, iris, a plant called Mad-dog weed, also known as a water-plantain, admiral (red admiral), pipit (meadow pipit), partridge (gray partridge, but very rare) bullfinch, and bunting (reed bunting)

Close but you're a bit off-- Carrington Moss is, confusingly, an example of a moorland!

Specifically it is a lowland peat bog. Upland peat, lowland peat, blanket bog, dune heath, upland heath, lowland heath, maritime heath... all of these biomes are completely different, but all of them are referred to as moorlands.

Also, those names for the biome are not interchangeable. Those all have more specific meanings;

Fen: An alkaline wetland. Fed by fresh groundwater or runoff, these biomes are a lot richer in nutrients and the water is higher in oxygen. Because of this, they often have a much larger diversity of plant and animal species. Fens can sometimes become bogs over time.

Bog: An acidic wetland Thick moss, lots of dead matter, mostly a result of still water building up over many many years. Since the water is low in oxygen, you won't find many fish in these, and generally bogs are home to specialists who can handle the conditions.

Mire: Wet, muddy land that's hard to walk on Only synonymous with "bog" if you're using it in the informal sense of "being bogged down," not in the ecological sense-- a bog is a mire, but not all mires are bogs. You could have a mire made out of glue, tar, or caramel, if you were writing a really cool fantasy series.

Peat: A dark brown material formed from partially decayed plant matter. Essentially what happens when the top layer of moss or grass dies in a really wet place, is quickly grown-over by living plants, and then rots slowly underneath. A VERY important component of a bog, extremely useful as fuel.

For ShadowClan I'm actually modelling wetlands in and around Delamere Forest, specifically, because I ran into the issue you did of the British-English dialect having a lot of "overlap" in region names and scientific terms. If you want to go scouring for cool prefixes to suggest, you can check out Blakemere Moss, Black Lake, Mouldsworth Gap, and Abbots Moss.

Most of the plants you mentioned still grow here, though! Some other fun prefixes I've been thinking of though;

Lime (type of tree, no relation to citrus!)

Linden (another name for lime, which there are two types of)

Sphagnum (Important type of moss)

Snipe (type of bird that picks up its babies and flies away with them)

Coot (funny name bird)

Chaser (type of dragonfly)

Podzol (ashy soil found in places where plant decomposition is inhibited)

Quiver or Quake (Describing the movement of thick moss that has formed over the surface of stillwater, Q is a really rare letter in WC names)

Vetch (Common type of plant with a name I think is really cool)

Nymph (Baby dragonfly)

Skater, Skimmer, or Strider (Bug that hunts by gliding across the surface of water)

[outofangband]

Flowering plants of Nargothrond

The region of Nargothrond contains the grasslands of the Talath Dirnen and the Taur en Faroth, the wooded hills on the western side of the river Narog

As always I included world building at the end so it’s not just a list of species

Flora, fauna, geography and environment of Arda

Fields: Common corncuckle, pyramidal orchid, dyer’s woodruff, silver thistle, white clover, bee orchid, marsh bedstraw, common agrimony, speedwell, cowslip primrose, brown clover, meadow saffron, wild tulip, white asphodel, quaking grass, wood fescue, mat grass

Wood: blue buggle, sword lily, common yarrow, pale orchid (forest edges), white twisted stock, raspberry, evergreen blackberry, black bryony, yellow anemone, common ivy, wood sanicle, red campion

By the streams and river: sneezewort, smooth bedstraw (also in meadows), wintercress, summer snowflake, masterwort, dewberry, wild strawberry, sweet flag, fritillary, herb paris, field rush, great wood rush, velvet bent grass, milk parsley

-Flowers in all parts (leaves, petals, stem, seeds and roots) are used for a variety of medicinal, culinary, and other purposes. Wild strawberries, musk strawberries and meadowsweet were common components in desserts

Like in Menengroth, architectural motifs of Nargothrond utilize many floral and natural designs. Flowering vines are often a homage to Alqualondë but the carvings around the council seats and chairs beside the throne are based on native flora

Many dyes are imported but several species of plants including woodruff, alder bark, and dyer’s woad

Telerin cooking uses a lot of fresh and dried mild herbs and flowers both for flavor and garnishes and the Arafinwëan host of Nargothrond continues these traditions with local flora. White twisted stock for its cucumber flavor and earthy lamb’s quarters are examples

Local flora appears as heraldry for some of Finrod’s lords. The most common motifs involve local flora combined with flora indigenous to Tirion and Alqualondë. Sword lily and agrimony were among the first to be used.

Naturalism and botany are areas of interest to many in Nargothrond including Finrod. There are multiple collections of illustrated volumes on local flora including Sindarin names and names given in Quenya and Telerin. Most were lost during the sacking of Nargothrond though a few were brought to Doriath and one or two survived to Sirion.

Rock stonecrop is used in salads, providing a peppery flavor. It’s also used for thatching for smaller homes south of the fortress of Nargothrond

[moriphyte]

wil and niki, best friends through the years

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: All By Myself and Much More of Severus Snape

Summary: What begins as a simple task for Snape leads the reader into a whirlwind of battles with forest creatures, intruders, and the ghosts of a family’s hidden past.

Author's note: At last, the brewing continues. Hope you guys enjoy reading it.

Pairing: Severus Snape x Fem Reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 and Part 11 here

Cross posted on AO3

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The morning fog still clung to the air as you set off on your mission to find valerian root, Snape’s terse instructions fresh in your mind. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming—"Look for pale pink flowers, thin leaves, and don’t bring me weeds,"—but you were determined to make good on your offer.

The streets of Spinner’s End were dreary as ever, but you ventured further, following a barely visible trail that wound into a small grove of trees at the edge of town. The deeper you went, the more the air seemed to hum with faint magic. A weathered signpost pointing to “Botanical Clearing” caught your eye, and you made your way toward it, stepping over tangled roots and patches of frost.

As you scanned the ground for valerian root, your fingers brushing the stems of unfamiliar plants, a soft rustling sound made you freeze. Slowly, you turned, your wand slipping into your hand. From behind a cluster of bushes, a large, shadowy figure emerged from the trees. It was a Grindylow, its green, spindly limbs slick with moisture, and its glowing yellow eyes fixed hungrily on you.

“Brilliant,” you muttered, fumbling for your wand. Of course, Snape had failed to mention the possibility of running into a water demon during your “simple” errand.

The Grindylow lunged, its webbed claws swiping inches from your face. Instinct took over as you shouted, “Stupefy!” A bolt of red light struck the creature’s chest, sending it staggering back.

But it wasn’t enough to stop it. The Grindylow snarled, circling you as you scrambled to steady your wand. You racked your brain for another spell when a sudden CRACK echoed through the woods. The Grindylow howled, its limbs twitching, before collapsing to the ground.

You turned to see Snape emerging from the shadows, his wand pointed at the now-immobile creature. His black robes seemed to blend into the darkness, and his expression was a mixture of irritation and begrudging concern.

“Did you think to prepare for this outing at all, or were you planning to duel every creature in the forest?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I didn’t know it would be so... lively,” you replied, trying to catch your breath.

Snape’s gaze flickered to the valerian root at your feet. “At least you found it. I suppose that’s worth something.”

Back at the house, you handed Snape the valerian root with a mix of pride and sheepishness. He inspected it closely, nodding once before setting it aside. “It’s a miracle you didn’t bring back dandelions.”

You bit back a retort as he began preparing the potion. The workroom was as precise and methodical as its owner, with shelves of neatly labelled jars and a cauldron already simmering over a low flame.

“Watch closely,” Snape instructed. “If you’re going to waste my time, at least learn something.”

You nodded, eager to prove yourself. He handed you a jar of powdered asphodel. “Add two pinches. No more, no less.”

You carefully measured out the powder, but as you tipped the second pinch into the cauldron, the jar slipped from your fingers. A small avalanche of powder fell into the potion, which immediately hissed and bubbled over.

Snape’s glare could have frozen fire. “Do you delight in chaos, or is it simply your nature?”

“Sorry!” you stammered, stepping back. “I’ll clean it up—”

With a flick of his wand, Snape stabilized the potion, though it now emitted alarming teal-coloured steam. He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “One more mistake and you’ll scrub cauldrons until the next equinox.”

“Sorry!” you said, flushing. “I’m just—new to this.”

He sighed deeply, muttering something about “inept amateurs,” but he allowed you to continue, this time under his watchful eye. Slowly, you got the hang of the rhythm, and to your surprise, he even offered a rare bit of praise.

“Passable,” he said as you added the valerian root to the cauldron. “Barely.”

As the potion simmered, Snape began explaining its purpose—The Draught of Living Peace, a potion designed to calm even the most frayed nerves. His voice softened as he spoke, and you realized this was more than just a routine brew for him.

“Potions,” he said quietly, “require discipline. Patience. A level of control few possess.” He glanced at you. “Qualities you would do well to cultivate.”

For a moment, his usual sharpness faded, and you caught a glimpse of something deeper—an almost wistful pride in his craft.

Just as the potion began to take on its intended lavender hue, a loud crash shattered the calm from near the entrance hallway. Snape froze, his hand hovering over the cauldron before his expression hardened into sharp focus.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. Before you could argue, he stalked toward the door, his wand gripped tightly.

Ignoring his order, you followed at a cautious distance, heart pounding. The source of the disturbance quickly became clear: the sound of muffled voices and hurried footsteps echoed through the house. Someone had broken in.

The intruders—two cloaked figures—were rifling through the sitting room, their wands drawn. One of them, a wiry man with a twisted sneer, was directing the other. “The potions storeroom will be in the basement,” he hissed. “Find it, quickly before that Snape comes.”

Snape emerged from the shadows, his wand aimed directly at the man. “I would suggest,” he said in a voice like ice, “that you reconsider your life choices.”

The wiry man flinched but then sneered, eyes narrowing. “Snape,” he drawled. “Didn’t think we’d run into you so soon. Still playing both sides, are you?”

Snape’s expression didn’t waver. “You assume I’m playing at all.”

The second figure—a younger woman—hesitated, her hand trembling as she pointed her wand toward Snape.

“Expelliarmus!” you shouted, stepping into the room. The spell caught her off guard, her wand flying from her grasp.

Snape shot you a sharp glare. “I told you to stay put,” he snapped, though there was a flicker of approval in his eyes.

The wiry man lunged for his wand, but Snape’s next spell hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him into the wall. The woman scrambled to retreat, but you raised your wand again, your heart racing.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

With the intruders subdued, Snape wasted no time binding them with thick ropes that materialized from the tip of his wand. His expression was unreadable as he stepped closer to the man. “Who sent you?” he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

The man sneered, his lip curling. “You know who,” he spat. “And he hasn’t forgotten.”

Snape’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He exchanged a glance with you, his expression unreadable but tense. She is so naïve.

But during this exchange, the man’s gaze flickered—just for a fraction of a second—to you. His eyes widened, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face. Doubt. Surprise.

Snape saw it.

His grip on his wand tightened instinctively. Damn it.

Before you could notice, Snape moved, pressing his wand to the man’s throat, his voice like venom. “Get out,” he growled, every syllable a deadly promise. “Before I make you regret it.”

The man chuckled but didn’t resist. He hesitated for just a beat longer, his gaze darting toward you once more. Snape didn’t miss the way the man seemed to hesitate, as if piecing something together—something dangerous.

This is bad.

The moment Snape released them, they Disapparated.

Silence crashed down over the room like a storm.

Snape’s gaze lingered on the door, his expression shadowed. “Thieves,” he said finally. “Nothing more.”

Lies. But necessary ones. She can’t know. Not yet.

He turned sharply toward you, his scowl deepening. “And what, exactly, was running through that reckless mind of yours when you barged in here barely knowing any spells to defend yourself?” His voice was sharp, but underneath it—buried deep—was something else. Something unspoken.

She doesn’t even realize what she’s done.

“Thank Merlin the one you knew actually worked,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You weren’t convinced. There was something in his tone that suggested this was far from random.

“Let’s return to the potion,” he said curtly, brushing past you. But as you followed him back to the room, the unease lingered.

Snape clenched his jaw, thoughts racing.

They know about her now.

And worse...

They recognize her.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

The room settled back into a tense rhythm as the potion brewed. To fill the oppressive silence, you found yourself talking, the words spilling out unbidden.

You spoke of your life in the Muggle world, your parents’ decision to leave the wizarding world behind, and your conflicting feelings about returning to a life you barely understood.

“My father always said magic was more trouble than it was worth,” you admitted, stirring the potion as Snape had instructed. “But part of me always wondered what I was missing.”

Snape was silent momentarily, his hands precise as he prepared the valerian root. “Your father was naive,” he finally said, clipped but thoughtful. “Magic is neither good nor evil—it is a tool. How you wield it determines its worth.”

His words resonated deeply, shifting your perspective in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Emboldened, you hesitated before adding, “My mother didn’t agree with him, though. She was... passionate about magic. She said she used to duel at school, that she was good at it.”

Snape’s movements stilled. Slowly, he turned to face you, his expression unreadable. “Your mother’s name?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. “Lyra Carrington,” you said, watching his reaction closely.

"Carrington." The name settled heavily in his mind, stirring memories long buried. He had not heard it in years, but the moment it left your lips, there was no doubt. Lyra Carrington—reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly stubborn. He had crossed paths with her more than once, always on the fringes of a war that had consumed them both. And now, her daughter stood before him, unknowingly stirring ghosts he had long tried to forget.

Snape’s jaw tightened, and his dark eyes flickered with recognition. “Carrington,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She was formidable. A talented duelist, though prone to recklessness. She had a... reputation.”

“Reputation?” you pressed, intrigued.

He didn’t elaborate, instead focusing back on the cauldron. “She was skilled. That much is certain. And a staunch supporter of her beliefs, even when they led her into... dangerous circles.”

You frowned, your mind racing. “Dangerous circles? What do you mean?”

Snape hesitated, his gaze darkening. “Your mother was known to associate with certain individuals during Voldemort’s rise. She was never formally accused of aligning with him, but her choices raised questions.”

The revelation hit you like a jolt. Your mother had always been a fierce, enigmatic figure, but this side of her past was entirely new to you.

“Is that why they left the wizarding world?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“It would explain much,” Snape replied, his tone softer but still guarded. “Perhaps they sought safety—or redemption—in obscurity.”

A heavy silence settled over the room as you grappled with the implications.

Later, as the potion reached completion, you couldn’t help but ask, “Did you know her well?”

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Well enough,” he said shortly, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or an echo of old wounds.

Before you could press further, he set down the stirring rod with a decisive clink. “The potion is complete,” he announced his voice back to its usual clipped precision. “Bottle it, and be careful not to spill a single drop.”

As you carefully filled the vials, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of uncovering the tangled web of your family’s history—and its connection to the man standing beside you.

When you handed Snape the final vial, he regarded you with a rare look of grudging respect. “Not entirely useless,” he remarked dryly.

You smirked, the tension breaking just slightly. “High praise, coming from you.”

Snape gave a faint scoff, but his expression softened almost imperceptibly. For the first time, you wondered if, beneath the harsh exterior, there was someone who understood the struggles of navigating a world fraught with shadows and secrets.

As you left for the night, you turned back at the door. “See you tomorrow?”

Snape didn’t respond immediately, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “If you insist on returning, try not to destroy my house.”

You smiled, noticing his smirk. Perhaps this was the start of an unusual, tentative friendship—or something more.

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[ceilidho]

prompt: pretty little witch who lives in a cottage in the forest who sometimes eats wayward travellers but Ghost has some kind of magic repulsion aura that doesn’t allow her to use her powers on him (part 1)

-

He moves at a pace too slow for you to make out with the naked eye, but you feel it creeping through you.

The vision of him appears in a dream first, a premonition. A hulking figure trekking through the woods. You snuggle deeper under the covers and scrunch up your nose in your sleep. In the morning, you go outside to harvest the holly leaves and buttercup and return home dreaming of tender, slow cooked meat. It’s been awhile since you last had a proper meal. When you hang up the laundry to dry, you chew on peppermint cuttings and try not to salivate. 

In the centuries you’ve lived in these woods, travellers have come and gone. You don’t eat every single one that happens to pass by—that would be a surefire way to get your forest branded as bedevilled and a longer route established circumnavigating your grove. You might be hungry, but you’re prudent, careful. Not like some other witches these days, greedy for any morsel that happens to pass in front of them. 

No; you take care of your woods. You have to, if you plan on remaining here for the centuries to come. If a few travellers happen to disappear here and there, that’s simply life. Not everyone can make treacherous journeys. 

You always have a sense of when a traveller is nearby. It’s as though your being is embedded within the forest itself, privy to those who dwell within it. You feel him along the outer regions of the forest, a lone traveller hauling not more than himself and a rucksack filled with the bare essentials. He appears to you in flashes in your dreams, not the full image of him but piecemeal, a shadow obscuring his full face from you. You see only tendons and meat on his bones, a rough hewn strength to his limbs, touch muscle and fat wrapped around his middle.

It makes you giddy to think of him circling ever closer to your spider’s web at the centre of the forest. After him, you won’t be hungry for years. 

Your restless leg acts up the day you know that he’s close enough to approach. All morning, you sit at the little table in your kitchen and rip lavender buds from the stems, black shoes tap-tapping away at the floor. The broom sweeps by itself in the corner, sweeping the dust into a neat pile. When you snap your fingers, it’s brusque, impatient. The broom halts in midair and then clatters against the floorboards. The chair scrapes against the floor as you rise to your feet. 

“Come, come, Asphodel,” you whisper to the black cat curled up on the windowsill, which barely lifts her head enough to blink at you. “No more dallying. Mommy’s hungry.”

In a show of great defiance and disrespect, Asphodel merely meows at you and lays her head back down. Insipid little familiar. 

You go off on your own then, keen to see the travellers with your own eyes. Jowls growing tighter. Robe cinched tight around you and hair pinned back by a thin strand of velvet. The days have just begun to shorten, just begun to exhale frost and rot. The leaves however, by agreement, do not crunch under your feet and give you away. You are a phantom amidst the trees as you flank the lone traveller, following the breadth of him as he traversed past your homestead. 

It’s fortunate that you are not beholden to physics because he is formidable. Broad as a man might be, no less sizable than in your dreams, but much more menacing in the flesh. He too moves quietly in the brush, with a care and precision that you have not seen many humans employ. 

He conceals the lower half of his face with a black piece of fabric, which you had mistaken for shadows. Not so. It is a deliberate concealment, meant to unnerve. Without magic, you might not have approached. 

His size alone isn’t enough to frighten you though. You are two hundred years old and you have eaten men twice his size when you were naught but a babe. 

You step out into the clearing just a few paces from him, halting the man in his tracks. 

“Hello,” you call out tentatively, raising a hand to shield your eyes. “C-can you help me? I think I’ve lost my way.”

At this point in your career, it takes a bit to hide the smile that threatens to break. You are like the spider posing as a fly. The show is half the fun though. 

The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem shocked at your presence, arms loose by his sides. It makes your stomach clench, the script flipped a bit. It should be you, loose and limber, and the wayward traveller tense and nonplussed, then eager to help the lost girl. You wait a moment longer for him to respond, but he remains silent, blue eyes unblinking. 

“Can you help me?” you repeat, taking a step closer. The tendrils of your magic slither out of you, snaking across the forest floor towards him. “I’m lost. Can you help me find my way out?” 

Your magic finds his boots in the dirt like mycelium threads, the pulse of him rich and earthen. It makes the saliva pool in your mouth, hunger gnawing at your guts. He will taste so good. Meaty and huge, enough to last you the winter. You take another step closer despite his continued silence, a tad too eager. You only need a moment though, long enough for your magic to take root, to render him febrile and inert. When he collapses to the ground, you will float his body back and rend him limb from limb by your hearth. 

Another step brings you closer to him when your magic suddenly recoils, unwinds from him. You frown. You try sending it back, but your magic shrinks away, an atavistic fear blooming up in you. It does not want near this man. 

A cold sweat breaks out on your neck. The hairs on your neck and arms stand on end. 

The hooded man staring back at you tilts his head, the skin under his eyes crinkling with a smile that you cannot see. Suddenly eldritch, blood-curdling. 

“Now, what are you?” he asks with a rumbling voice, rough from disuse, and takes a step towards you.

[wickedwitchofthewesninski]

Why are whimsical aesthetic posts always focused on cottages and forests. Give me Mediterranean whimsical. Give me orange tree blossoms braided on midnight dark hair, like little fragrant stars in the night sky. Give me the shining turquoise of the Mediterranean sea when it dances with the golden sand. Give me ancient ruins covered in flowers, asphodel growing inside old temples. Give me windchimes made of tiny sea shells and tile fragments. Give me church bells as the only way to know the time of the day, as the afternoons grow bold and the sun refuses to stop lighting your way.

Give me Mediterranean whimsical you fucking cowards

[fenanera]

repost and fill in the words you most associate with your character!

animal: wolf, lynx, stag colour(s): dusty green, cool walnut, pewter blue song: w.o.t.h (tamino), the line (twenty-one pilots) plant: genlisea (it looks like his spirit form!), asphodel time of day: civil dawn smell: cold air (like just before snow), eucalyptus, cut wood, bergamot season: early spring, still cold place: the edge of a forest before a dry field. crestwood. candy: ginger candies or something fruit filled. gemstone: dioptase, pyrrhotite, tiger's eye astrological sign: virgo or aquarius (i can never decide) fabric: knitted wool, brocade drink: mead, sweet red wine vice: pride, inflexibility, cunning virtue: diligence, empathy, wisdom

tagged by: @wvlfthorned (thank you!) tagging: whoever wants to!