#hemlock cookie

[mumble-jumble-gallery]

Hemlock "Cookie"

What was supposed to be a simple outing to scavenge for ingredients turned into a disaster when a Witch brought back something poisonous to bake into a nasty batch. Once the poor plant made contact with the Life Powder enriched dough, it achieved an awareness that brought a brand new life into fruition: thus Hemlock Cookie came to be. Fueled with a bitter grudge that flowed through this newfound body of dough, Hemlock vowed to put an end to the modern age that brought nothing but pollution and decay. How fortunate that she was the first of many to feed his garden

Now then…it's high time for nature to take back what was stolen~

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

-A total toxic binch that everyone is better off not being around for their sake

-Dough rots quickly so he replaces the crumbled parts with fresh new ones from "charitable donors"

-Immensely manipulative and revels in causing despair for cookies through intense horrible experiments

-Puts on a goodie two-shoes act to gain enough trust from cookies and build up a positive campaign as an alias known as "Chervil"

-Can speak to other plants and has a whole garden that he feeds the "scraps" from experiments to

-Cookies and other beings that pollute Earthbread are simply revolting though those who have plants in their recipe see a more genuine kindness from this twisted fellow

-Mansplain. Manipulate. Manslaughter. He. He isn't even a man but it checks out!

-Only cares to put effort into his deception if there is any potential gain that will benefit him

-Has worms in his dough that he can use to control others

-Used the Oven to bake a sibling to gaslight I mean cherish and help him in his dangerous goals for the better of flora; not like the Witch needed it anymore

-The concept of paper money is disgusting and for shame to all who use it. He much rather steal what he feels is necessary

-The worst kind of individual: a politician!

-It is jarring when he's no cap NICE. What happened to the filthy trash fire that is this boi?!

-He's almost done :]

[wyrmofworms]

Magma doodles of a reverse espresso I made on the fly that I decided to clean up.

[wannabesucessful]

Sesame Street Around the World Calendar Pt. 2

[skye-angel-heaven]

New Pictures In My Place.

[januscorner]

It’s Steve not Steven lol

It’s cotton candy garnet

[hemlockpa]

hi tag lurkers !!! hate to be a pain or that of clogging up the tags but i just wondering if there are any admins’ free to assist me on the main? pretty much on my hands and knees begging for some help here as it has been a while since i ran a main. please like this post or dm me, whatever you feel comfortable with. 

[hemlockgraves]

I am so sorry but this is me rn and CR is winning

[paperback-rascal]

Kix is one of my all time favorite clones, so imagine my surprise when I've stumbled upon this post -> [LINK] <- by @warsamongthestars theorizing that Kix's name does not have a cutesy origin, as most of the fandom believe... that Kix is not named named after cookies, a certain cereal brand nor kick-starting people back to life... but being named after a poisonous plant - Hemlock - which apparently was named Kex in old English... with Kix being the alternative spelling.

So now, I can't help but imagine Kix as a self-taught herbalist who brews space!mint tea for troopers with tummy-aches but can also assassinate a separatist spy with some obscure, highly poisonous, untraceable plant.

---

My fanart masterlist -> [LINK] <-

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STAR WARS: The Clone Wars © George Lucas/ Dave Filoni/ LucasFilm/ Disney

[brucewaynehater101]

Have a Good(?) Mom Janet AU.

There is a cookbook in Drake Manor that no one but Tim and Janet are allowed to touch. There is also a shelf full of Spices that only they are allowed to touch. Every time Janet comes home, they both cook each other meals with the book and the spices. Tim makes himself food using the spices while she is gone. Janet makes sure to come home at least once a month so that they can cook together.

This cookbook has been passed down in Tim's family for many, many generations. To be taught from it and eventually gifted the book to add your own recipes to is seen as a sign of love and adoration. If a family has more than one child, a copy of the book is made so each child can have one, and if someone dies without any children to pass the book along to, their will always states for the book to be returned to a Drake. Sometimes branches of the family will get together to trade recipes that the later generations have come up with that aren't in their own books. It has been this way for well over 10 generations.

See, the special thing about this cook book? It doesn't have anything like Chili or Pasta or Candy or Cake or anything like that. No, this is a cookbook detailing things like how to brew a lovely tea made from Nightshade and Foxglove, how to milk a snake and then reduce it's venom down and which Spices to add in so that it can be used to coat a blade, and how to disguise the taste of bitter poison in sweet and savory foods.

It's a Cook Book of Poisons. Just like the shelf is full of things like arsenic, cyanide, dried poison dart frogs, hemlock, and so, so much more. If you can think of a poison, it's on the hidden shelf.

Tim is taught by his mother how to dose those he loves to over time make them immune to things, how to kill someone without leaving a trace, and how to tell poisons apart by taste, smell, and touch. Janet does this because she loves her son, just as Janet's mother did this for her because she loved Janet and on and on back in the family tree. She wants him to be safe and they are very rich and well known. She knows that this attracts Assassins. She can not protect him from Knives or bombs or guns, but she can protect him from this one thing. She will protect him because she loves him dearly.

Tim knows his mother loves him, why else would she always poison him? She explained to him when he was very little what she was doing and why and he believed her. He still does. Frankly, the partial immunity to basically all toxins has been really helpful as Robin. Plus he can use this to help the Bats! He can start micro dosing Bruce and Alfred and Dick right away by baking them cookies with poison! If they detect anything wrong, just tell them it's ok if they don't like the cookies he made while looking sad. They will cave instantly and eat anything he gives them, brushing Tim off as not a very good cook.

Tim also comes clean to his Mother (only her, not Jack. They don't have a bond like he and Janet do) about being Robin and honestly? She sags in relief and says she is so glad that someone is protecting him from the things she can not and teaching him how to defend against what nether can stop. There is a lot of crying and then Janet being Horrified when she finds out that Batman and Nightwing only have Average Gothemite Poison Resistance?? No special training??? Seems very, *very* stupid in their lie of work.

With this AU, Janet would be fine (or at least not dead) when she drinks the water. Jack may or may not have been fine as well (depends on if Janet was also microdosing Jack as well).

So, Tim's parents either die another way or just don't die. Maybe Jack still ends up dead (Boomerang and whatnot), but Janet lives.

Ooh! Feel free to contest, but this would also pave the way for some excellent Talia/Janet interactions (it could start out as enemies to lovers due to two of Talia's sons attacking Janet's son. Yet, Talia can't help but be intrigued by the Drake practice of poisons/venoms/resistance/immunity).

Anyways, Tim and Janet showing their love through cooking is precious. It'd also be hilarious if Janet, insulted by the Bats not being immune, tries to help Tim as well. She just constantly checks up with Tim's progress and offers any advice she needs to.

Damian and Jason probably have some resistance/immunity bulit up, but probably not to the extent the Drakes do in this AU. Cass is aware of what's going on and happily takes Tim's food every time (she can practically feel the love radiating off of the food).

[themilkshanghai]

Mia and Marta's Profile

" When human Mia meets witch Marta, The story of them is began… "

Mia Wynn

Identity Name : Mia Wynn Date of Birth : August 8, 1997 Gender : Female Blood Type : O Blood Status : Muggle-Born Myer Briggs Personality Type : ISTP Ethnicity : American-Thai Nationality : American

Appearance Height : 175 cm Weight : 56 kg Hair : Dark gray, Shoulder length Eyes : Light green Skin : Tan, Scar on the waist

At Hogwarts Hogwarts House : Ravenclaw Wand : Hazel wood, Dragon heartstrings, 12 inches, Flexibility Quidditch : Beater Animagus : Gray Fox Patronus : Whale Boggart : Parents's body Riddikulus : Paper doll Flower : Red Poppy

Misc

Food/Dessert/Beverage : Candy, Chocolate cake, Omelet, Ramen, Donut, Ice cream, Black tea, Hot & Iced cocoa

Hobby : Sports, Singing & Playing music, Photography, Gaming, Traveling

Color : Gray, Black, White, Dark blue, Green, Red, Purple-Violet

Subject : Charms, Transfiguration, DADA, Flying, Astronomy

Mia is Muggle-Born who has talented and live an ordinary life. But when she was 7 years old, there was a fire at her house (America), her parents died in the fire and she was admitted to the hospital for several months. Mia's aunt heard the news and then took her to move to England for new life.

After months later something happened to Mia. The mysterious voices, sounds, Magic?! She felt shocked-excited and interesting that made wanted to learning about Magic.

Marta Waltsher

Identity Name : Marta Waltsher Date of Birth : January 10, 1997 Gender : Female Blood Type : A Blood Status : Half-Blood Myer Briggs Personality Type : INTP Ethnicity : English-Thai Nationality : English

Appearance Height : 170 cm Weight : 50 kg Hair : Black, Long-Straight Eyes : White Skin : Light

At Hogwarts Hogwarts House : Slytherin Wand : Cedar wood, Dragon heartstrings, 10 inches, Pliable Quidditch : Keeper Animagus : White Swan Patronus : Raven Boggart : Thorny Vines Riddikulus : Flower Vines Flower : Poison Hemlock

Misc

Food/Dessert/Beverage : Herbal tea, Cookie, Salad, Vegetable soup, Beef Stew, Hot chocolate, Honey toast

Hobby : Cooking-Baking, Reading, Gardening, Dancing & Playing music

Color : White, Green, Black, Blue, Silver, Pastel

Subject : Charms, Potions, Herbology, Flying

Marta is Half-Blood witch who comes from a wealthy and strict rules family. Her mother disappeared after she was born for some reason, she heard that her father's relatives thinks she lured him with black magic to married.

Now she lives with her father and nursemaid (Younger sister of her mother) in mansion near the cemetery in the valley. Her father taught her about magic until able to use magic without a wand.

[aspiringtrashpanda]

The love of my life, reason to live. I humbly ask you, once again, to indulge me with attentive bf Beel who knows Mc's appetite like the back of his hand. He knows exactly how long to wait before eating off their plate. Thank you in advance, i love you so much❤️

anything for my love, my everything, my personal banner maker.

also wow beel nation, are you okay? first three requests are beel-centric like WHAT?

Characters: Beel x MC, brothers make an appearance Attentive bf Beel, pure fluff with the teensiest bit of spice No warnings apply

It was a normal evening. Satan and Beel had been on dinner duty, Lucifer had been at RAD late, and Levi had been holed up in his room for three whole days. Something about the release of a new horror roguelike. Mammon had tried to sell Asmo on his latest get rich quick scheme, promising that all he would need as an investment was a lock of Asmo’s hair, and well, that wasn’t going to fly. Only one glass of demonus had been spilled across the table - Mammon having lunged towards Asmo to get it himself - and Belphie had fallen asleep mid-sentence a record low of twice. 

A completely normal evening. 

The brothers, however, worried a storm was on the horizon.

“Did ya see that?” Mammon hissed to Levi, the latter grumbling under his breath. Apparently the distraction had sent him back to level 1. 

Lucifer sighed, humming over the lip of his glass. “He’s going to hear about that later.”

“Really, his table manners are going to be the death of him one day,” Asmo lamented, flicking his fork with a flourish. A piece of sautéed hemlock freed itself from the prongs and smacked against Satan’s cheek. He brushed it away with a scoff. 

You paid them no mind, choosing instead to focus on Levi’s handheld console, Beel's chewing a comforting soundtrack to your right.

The screen visible from where you sat, you leaned into Levi's personal bubble, watching his little avatar slash through blob-like monsters. He jolted at your proximity, scowling when a walking skeleton stabbed his character through the heart.

“Not cool!” Levi shimmied his chair away from you. “Everyone needs to stop distracting me!” 

With a shrug, you turned back to your plate, finding it empty. Beel’s jaw moved continuously as he smiled down at you. His indigo eyes glimmered with affection, and you had the impression that he cared not about his brother’s whispers. Only about you. Your heart swelled, the familiar heat spilling through your veins and flooding the tips of your fingers.

You excused yourself from the table. Beel followed you exactly 5 seconds later. 

“You’re not having dessert?” The question slipped out as you looped your arms around his sturdy middle, as you rested your head against his body’s warmth. It was strange for him to leave the dining room so quickly. Usually, he joined you in your room after obliterating whatever sweets Luke had made for him to try. 

“I will be.” His answer vibrated through his frame, buzzing through your skull. 

Your mind went to the gutter, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as he leaned down, as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. His exhale rustled your hair, his hands so strong, so large as they covered your hips. 

A violent blush burning your skin, you managed a flustered squeak, “Oh! I didn’t realize it was that kind of night.”

He paused. Straightened up. Blinked twice. The confusion in his gaze was but a brief flash before it was overtaken by sheer enthusiasm. If he was a dog, you were certain his tail would be wagging. As he pulled you flush against him once more, he laughed, “I meant that I’d have dessert when you’re hungry again in an hour, but I could go for that kind of sweet, if you’re offering.”

As you led him to your bed, the last thing on your mind was whether you’d be peckish within the hour. 

However, at breakfast the next morning, you found yourself realizing that you had ended up munching on one of Luke’s cookies after a healthy dose of debauchery. Beel had raced from your bed to return with a plate of goodies in exactly 96 seconds (you timed him on your stopwatch app - a new record!), and you had curled up in front of your television to watch the latest episode of Barbeque Life before Lucifer came by to ensure that Beel slept in his own bed. 

You smiled. Beelzebub was always so attentive and receptive to your needs. It didn’t surprise you that he understood your stomach’s schedule. 

“Tell me, hon,” Asmo sang the moment Beel left the table to retrieve more hell coffee from the kitchen, “Is everything alright with you and Beel?”

Multiple utensils clattered to their plates, wide eyes swiveling from brother to brother. Mammon looked particularly spooked, while Lucifer simply pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Uh, yeah?” You swallowed your devilbee honey pudding, the sweet treat turning bitter on your tongue. “Why? Did he say something?”

Shoulders relaxed instantly, sighs of relief bouncing back and forth like ping pong balls. The table was an appropriate length for table tennis, you supposed. However, while the brothers laughed off the strange question, your uncertainty only grew. 

Levi pretended to wipe sweat from his brow, an exaggerated gesture you were sure he learned from an anime. “Oh? Okay, phew. We were worried he was in trouble lol.”

Your chest felt warm, your heart pounding. “Why would he be in trouble?”

“Well because he-” Levi started, just to squawk as Mammon swatted his face, “Er, n-no reason!”

A beat of silence. Beel’s heavy footsteps as he returned to the dining room, coffee pot in hand. You were keenly aware of the tightness of your throat, your swallow lodging halfway down your esophagus. As Beel refilled Lucifer’s coffee, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the tension hanging in the air.

It was never fun walking into a silent room, acutely aware that everyone had been talking about you. 

“What’s going on?” Beel asked, settling back into his seat. He accented his words by snagging a muffin from your plate, picking at the hell berries crusting the top. 

Before you could ask him the same question, Asmo shrieked, “He just did it again!”

Satan shook his head slowly, Mammon gawking at the giant demon next to you. Lucifer continued to read the morning paper, refusing to participate in such shenanigans. 

“RIP Beel,” Levi muttered, “It was nice knowing you.”

The confusion escalated tenfold, frustration pricking at the soles of your feet. You threw up your hands, huffing, “Okay, is someone going to tell us what you’re all going on about?”

Beel peered curiously at his brothers as they averted their eyes, as they pretended that their meal hadn’t been interrupted. His fingers brought a piece of your toast to his mouth, his brow creasing as he chewed thoughtfully. 

Belphie raised his head with a yawn. “Beel keeps eating your food.”

“From your plate,” Mammon added.

Satan nodded curtly, “Without permission.”

Your stomach dropped. You weren’t sure if you were disappointed or relieved.

“Oh,” You glanced around the table, noticing at that moment that Beel had moved your plate in front of him. “That’s it?”

Asmo pointed in accusation, protesting, “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No?” This was so absurd. You were used to bonkers conversations at every meal, but their sheer concern was truly comical. “Actually…”

It was Belphie who cut in, propping his chin in his palm. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he drawled, “They’re always done eating. Beel knows when they’re full.”

The looks of disbelief on Mammon and Levi’s faces were so similar, you wondered if they were twins. They spluttered in surprise, the latter exclaiming, “But they hardly ate their breakfast! How could they be full?!”

And Beel - sweet, calm, confident Beel - shrugged. As if it was the most obvious answer in the world, he explained. “They’re sleepy in the morning, and not very hungry. They only eat a little bit. They’ll be hungry in about 2 hours. That’s why I pack the leftovers before we leave for RAD.” 

This time, the brothers weren’t the only ones shocked. Lifting your jaw from the carpeted floor, you gasped, “The leftovers aren’t for yourself?”

A bright vein of pride shone in his eyes, fuschia within the indigo depths. “I mean, I partake, but only after you’ve had your fill.”

“Huh,” was all you managed to respond, your brain too busy flipping through the memories of all the snacks and meals Beel had brought you regardless of request. His fingers curled around your shoulder, amusement brightening his face. 

The gentle squeeze brought you back to reality, just in time to hear Mammon say, “Hey Beel, do ya think you have telepathic abilities outside of you and Belphie?”

“What a stupid question,” Satan scoffed, though you knew he was waiting for Beel’s answer himself. 

Your fingers curled around his, anchored on your shoulder, grounding you in the moment. And what a moment it was, for Beel simply snorted, “Nah, I just pay attention to my partner.”

Why Mammon considered that a declaration of war, you weren’t entirely sure. But two hours later, when Beel passed you a container of carefully wrapped leftovers, you knew that you were the luckiest person in the world. 

*・゜・*:.。.*.。.:*・☆・゜・*:.。.*.。.:*・☆・゜

My requests are open! Find out more HERE. Banner made by @4laurus - have you seen her Beel?

[twinsunstars]

What Ice Cream Flavors I Think Bad Batch Characters Possibly Like:

Hunter: Rocky road, Caramel turtle

Tech: Mint chocolate, Neopolitan

Wrecker: Birthday cake, Cotton candy, Rainbow sherbet

Crosshair: Strawberry, Double chocolate (milk and dark)

Echo: Vanilla bean, Chocolate peanut butter

Omega: Chocolate brownie, S'mores

Emerie: Vanilla, Orange sherbet

Phee: Dulce de leche, Mango

Hemlock: Strawberry cheesecake, Coffee

Rampart: Pistachio almond, Vanilla

Eva: Cookie dough, Chocolate swirl

Jax: Strawberry, Chocolate fudge

Sami: Vanilla and caramel swirl

Baryn: Maybe too little to have ice cream yet or if he has tried any, chocolate strawberry

Mox: Cookies and cream

Stak: Chocolate chip cookie dough

Deke: Orange cream

Scalder: Butter pecan

[wannabesucessful]

Happy Birthday Ernie!

[deicidis]

Withered In The Heavens

Morpheus x Noble!Reader, Edwardian Era

status: Completed One-shot

wordcount: 3.6k

warnings: Blood and Injury, health disease

18+ only, your media consumption is your own responsibilities. Warnings have been given. Do not proceed if these matters upset you.  

  Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall

And lo! the other one:—it is the law.

But there is One who holds this falling

Infinitely softly in His hands.

 —

 The shadow pooling underneath his boots is a thing that brushes on the threshold of something unnatural.  

It is not something entirely garish, your father sitting beside you doesn’t seem to notice it. He is still talking with Lord Morpheus who sits opposite him. But the occlusion underneath his feet is darker than where the foot of the chesterfield sofa meets the carpet, the one where he sits on the brown leather.  

You think you need a nap and your eyes are playing silly tricks. Though naps are getting rather dull on your frail body lately. It’s all you do most afternoons, what the doctor suggests. 

Only soft duvets, no taxing activities. No sports or the likes.

You’d much prefer to spend time with Oscar and your Hemlocks in the yard. Some books, maybe tea. 

On a rare occasion like this, your father insisted on going against what the doctor suggested. That you acquainted yourself with lord Morpheus. You think you know where your father’s inclination comes from, a potential match for a suitor. 

Before Lord Morpheus came your father explained that the lord is not an English noble like you, but a descendant of kings from distant ancient lands. You believed that because he bears a disposition of one, holds a beauty in that archetypal way of being. Addressed with a title of one. A different kind of noble unrecognisable by the state, his wealth speaks louder than the station of his birth. 

Your father tries to entice you with fairy tale like qualities in hopes you would take a fancy.

Still, the purpose of his stay in London remains unknown to you.

With all that entails, his wealth, his beauty, the smooth polish of his boots and the shine of his slicked back short hair, is not so much intriguing as the shadow he bears. You almost don’t want to realise it because nothing should be able to do that.

It erupts you with palm—sweating anxiety, a little dread. A singular demonstration that he is something of an other.

And when you pulled yourself away from it, you caught the flick of his gaze, his silent acknowledgement in those taut shapely lips of his. His eyes gnawing into you. You avert your eyes from him to the windows as you sip your tea, hiding behind the cup. You feel like a child, her hands caught in a cookie jar. 

  —

  The second thing is his hair. It absorbs light in a different way. 

When the sunlight from the window behind him lands upon his back, it does not show the illuminated strands of brown even people with black hair usually do. It is a shade darker than normal. A shade lighter than abnormal. 

And it unsettles you.

Your parents seem unperturbed by it, still talking animatedly with him. Still enjoying the lunch they put together for him. Oysters, Lobsters, Veal cutlets en Papilotte, roasted calf’s heart and beef tongue. Pigeon pie and lamb chops. Trifle, Cherry tart, Blancmange, Apple pie Marmalade with Madeira and Port. 

And he barely touches any of it. 

That very act of deliberate inaction irritates you. And you want to strike this other with the palm of your hand, even if the act would surely harm your frail skin instead of harming him.

"Isn’t that right, (y/n)?" Your mother suddenly ropes you in.

"Pardon?" 

"Oh this girl, lost in her head again. Please forgive her Lord Morpheus."

He merely gives you a polite smile. 

"I’m sorry. What were you saying, mother?" Blush blooms on your cheeks. 

"The Soirée Marquess Cavendish holds is the most extravagant in all of London, isn’t that right, (y/n)?"

The Soirée is extravagant, lavish. But it grows trite very quickly. Lord Cavendish prides himself on his 80 course meal for every event to stuff yourself fat, 30 musicians for the orchestra to dance the night away. Bouquets and bouquets of fresh flowers at every corner of his manor, the gaudiest chandelier high society has ever seen. But there are only so many trends and innovations he can keep up with that it dwindles as time goes by. The same pattern would resurface.

"Yes, mother. The best."

"Come with us, Lord Morpheus. I’ll introduce you to the peerage." your father, proud as always of his noble blood, of his title as Earl, almost preens under his own words. 

"It will be my pleasure." he said, his bright, beguiling eyes finding yours. Your heart races underneath your corset. You feel the blood rushing to your ears, to your neck. A coiling Python. 

A cough rips through your lungs, quickly your plate is layered in blood. Your blood. falling from your nose to your ivory dress and laces. Abrupt, carmine and garish. Rose petals drip richly. 

There’s a commotion you hear, your father apologising profusely to Lord Morpheus as he hurries to your side, the hysteria in your mother’s voice, the coming of her trembling hands. The servants' footsteps rushes to the dining room. 

You must’ve looked dreadful in front of the guest, leaking your blood like that, your hands hanging mid air unsure where to put, your mother grasping one gently. 

You find Lord Morpheus merely watches you, a pair of silver eyes like the necklace dangling on your throat, wringing like the jewellery. Turns you inside out. He’s not supposed to see this vulnerable side of you. 

You can’t stand the pressure of his gaze. His inhuman, beautiful eyes. Addled with something you can’t recognise. Pity? Disdain? fascination?

Your head is too muddled by pain to discern it. 

  —

  Your joints are throbbing annoyingly. Bruises blossom on your skin in a matter of hours. When you look into the mirror, you are met with a familiar sight. Your body in patches of red and blue. You don’t remember when it doesn’t. Your childhood memories are woven from the very same patchwork. 

Your mother would’ve scolded you if you so much as left the bed. But your bedroom with its canopy bed and silk drapes are starting to lose its colour, bleeding grey in your eyes. Dull and monotonous. You feel a little disoriented, restless. The silence of your bedroom and your vehement thoughts would only make you cry. With great effort you slowly course through the hallway of your mansion.

No paintings or plants are out of place, the candles on the golden sconces have been put out by the servants. The moonlight pierces through the windowpanes, lighting your path as usual. 

But the marble floor is unexpectedly colder, pinching your soles like little needles. A peculiar stillness hangs in the air. Deafens your ears with its silence. The painted eyes of your ancestors follow you disapprovingly, taunting you back to the comforts of your bed. The hairs on your neck stretches on end, as if your body is under the watchful gaze of the shadows residing in the ceiling, under the panelling of the walls, behind the tall vases. Waiting to strike you in your state of debility. 

To swallow you whole—your bruises and perpetually unclotted blood. 

Your hand moves to your throat on its own, a phantom of your silver necklace still dangling there. 

You swivel behind you, looking for a sign of life, only to be met with silence and dark vacancy.

  —

  It’s your rows of Hemlocks. Your head tilts to the side when you realise they are slightly—imperceptibly—leaning towards you. But not you precisely, someone behind you. Of course, when you turn, you find him silently standing nearby.

Other people would never be able to notice the change. But these are your Hemlocks. You tend to them almost every single day, children of your own.

And the way they behave is alarming. Plants shouldn’t be able to do that. Or at least that’s what you have always known.

What the fuck is happening?

"Evening my lady." he greets as he stands to your side. A pair of bright eyes searching for your face.

"My lord." you returned. Looking upon him, unmoving from where you sit on the ground. Your gloved hands are drenched in soil. Your dress stained by the dirt. Your tabby cat—Oscar—is by your side, stretching languidly under the cool afternoon sun. 

"I’m afraid my parents are away for the day." you continue. The servants must have let him in.

"I come for you, Lady (y/n)." he clarifies.

"Whatever for, Lord Morpheus?" you pluck the gardening gloves from your hands. 

"It was only yesterday that you were bleeding all over yourself. I think that warrants a visit for your wellbeing."

You swallow thickly. 

"You came for nothing, sir. It is a frequent occurrence of minor nosebleeds. I am perfectly fine."

"It's not Hemophilia then?" he stares pointedly at the bruise on your wrist. You turn it down in response. Opt to fondle Oscar on his stomach instead, as you realise you’re not the only one who notices things. 

If he's always been able to see the bruises peeking from your dresses, you don’t want to dwell upon it. 

Your silence is an answer in it on itself. 

He walks towards your Hemlocks, your plants standing tall towering over him. The shades of the flowers almost match his perfect, unmarred skin. Glows even under the setting sun. A shiver of jealousy washes over you. Yours looks more like the mottled stem. What you would give to—

"Do you tend to them?"  his eyes never leave the flowers shading him. Interrupting your thoughts.

"Every day when i could."

"Your cat could die from these." 

"Oscar is smarter than most cats." did he take you for a fool?

"My apologies. I did not mean to offend." his concession leaves something indescribable within you. 

"You did not." you say as you watch that pooling darkness beneath his soles, slowly entices you. Your heartbeat paces faster by the second as the dusk starts to swallow the light in the sky.

He fingered the white petals of your flower. Sampling its textures between his fingers. The plants are drooping lower, as if his mere presence is a windstorm. Pulling in everything in his path, and you and your flowers are merely the moorlands he would ravage. 

You don’t want to be his victim.

"It’s getting dark, Lord Morpheus." he understands your cue. He helps you to stand as he bids his farewell. 

"I hope we can see each other again soon, my lady." he kisses the back of your hand, his fingers linger briefly on your tender—bruised wrist. You almost wince from the pressure. 

  —

  You’re watching him conversing with your father and his peers from behind your Brise fan. Lord Morpheus looks immaculate in his formal attire. His short hair neatly slicked back, his coat tail hangs elegantly behind him. The white vest, white tie and white gloves complement his skin without flaw. He appears as if he belongs with the English peerage. He could be the king himself. 

The young women are restless. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they hold their fans as if they could fan the temptation away. The giggles they share. Lord Morpheus is someone new to the scene, rich, young, painfully beautiful and desirable. But the older women scorn his presence, along with the older men. You overheard their whispers, that Morpheus only uses your father’s kind nature to climb the upper class. As if he’s merely a parvenu.

The notion is entirely ridiculous.

You barely know the man, but you don’t think it is in his nature to be deceitful. It has always been your father’s way of being kind and welcoming. Naively trustful of others. 

What his nature is… that you don’t know of. 

Hours passed and the boredom is quick to settle in your stifled yawns. Week after week, no matter how grand a ball is, no matter if the lord cavendish is dishing 80 course meal or some other Marchioness or Earls or Viscountess are trying to outdo the other, everything is the same. The ingredients are always the same. The crystal chandelier, the fabrics of dresses the women wore. The same conversation of class and politics, you’ve seen everything. Tasted it all.  Heard all of it. 

And when you return to the comforts of your home after this, it will always be filled with bruises and the same books with the same blood leaking out of your nose. 

The women and men have taken to the dancing floor. You are content by watching the shiny fabrics of the women’s dresses twirl under the chandelier. On your periphery you realise Lord Morpheus is coming your way. 

"My lady, may i have a dance?" he offers his pristine gloved hand. 

"You may." 

You did not know what came over you. You’re not much of a dancer. But his hands beckoned, beguiling. The warmth of his palm that settles on your waist pierces through your corset, flares your skin alive.

The crowd watching is lost to you, the room spins in a blur until there are only his eyes, swallowing you whole. Marbling under the light, lifelike tendrils. You are lost in it for long, His irises seem to grow alive, and it convinces you that you have grown mad. For you can see the stars and moon and the night sky with billions of uncontainable stars within. 

Dazed, you stumbled back. But his grip is strong on your waist and it keeps you upright. 

"Are you alright?" his concern seems that of a farce. Though unfounded it is your irrational suspicion that he knows of your discovery. In which you remove yourself from his grasp and try to put some distance between you. Found solace in one of the dark hallways of Lord Cavendish’s mansion, lit only by moonlight from the rows of windows. 

A solace far from solitude. You feel his presence in the dark ceiling. The shadow settled in the corner. The hairs on your neck stretch upwards. Litters your arms with shivers.

"Come out." you whisper to him, he splits himself from the shadows soundlessly. 

"Are you a vampire?" you finally ask the inevitable. Amused smirk curled his lips.

"A ghost?" you continue, and he merely circles you. Drinking you in. 

"The devil?" you hold your chin high. You try not to show him the traces of fear boiling in your gut. 

He is silent still. His bright eyes pierce you whole. 

From his hand, a stem of Hemlock blossomed. He holds it between you.

"i am a part of you."

You feel impatient over his cryptic words, but you still ponder them.

"You are fear?"

"Not quite."

"Love?" 

"sometimes."

"desire?"

Something flickers in his eyes, but he is silent.

"Are you my dreams?"

His smile confirms your words. 

"The god of Dreams…" it stuns you. His name should have tipped it away. 

"Clever," he said with admiration and a hint of contempt at the same time.

You take the stem from his hand. Twirl the flower between your fingers. It looked so much like yours back home. Smells like one. Mottled with purple and blue. You wonder if you rub the sap on your eyes will it kill you too.

"You’re hounding me." You mutter. 

"You did it first." 

"Only because your human form is fractured at the seams." 

He tilts his head upwards. His smile reaching for the brink of something sinister. 

"Do you want to know what the seams would unfurl?"

Your heart races. You don’t know how to exactly answer that question. All this time what use are your inquisitive eyes if not for this very moment. To know his true nature? 

"I can show you everything." He offers you his gloved hand. Pristine, like the forbidden fruit, tempting you to the core. 

But you swallow your desire deep, deep down to your stomach. You hope it will never resurface again. You turn your heel and leave him in the dark hallway. Crush the flower in your palm until it disintegrates into golden sand.

 —

  A sudden vertigo strikes from the base of your neck, and you lose your footing because of it. You cut yourself with a shard of glass on the pavement after you fell from the carriage, digging through your arm. Cover your fingers with black and blue spots. 

The cut lasted for half an hour, your doctor came and treated your wound at the behest of your father. But the internal bleeding is another matter. Your knee is swollen and painful, hot to the touch. You cry yourself to sleep that night, with your mother’s cool hands gently caressing your feverish forehead. Her eyes are misty. She tries so hard to not let it fall. 

You sigh in relief when morning comes, the swelling has receded, and you smell sickly sweet from the sweat of the fever. The servants help you into the clawfoot tub, and you ask them to leave you alone after they scrubbed you clean and lathered you in citrus scents.

You rest your head on the edge of the tub. Your bruised fingers grip the porcelain as you contemplate the broken capillaries. What you would give for another skin, another body. Hale, beautiful. Perfect and unblemished. Perhaps one like him. 

What drives you to call his name is more an impulse of desire than need, ripping through your lungs after suppressing him all night, ripe fruit bursting. 

It is as if he waits for you to call him that he appears before you even finished mouthing all the syllables of his name. His short black hair neatly pushed back from his beautiful face. Dressed in a black coat with black shirt, the tip of his polished shoes shines bright from the sunlight filtering through the window. The silver pin on his black Ascot winking at you. The very picture of an Edwardian man. 

"Lady (y/n)." he takes a step and perches himself at the edge of the tub. Takes his fill of your skin. 

You ponder his face for a moment. And he seems content to be scrutinised under your watchful gaze. He counts the bruises littering your skin. You see it in the way his eyes ricochet from one to the other. For the first time in a long while you don’t feel self-conscious about your bruises.

"Tell me, is this your doing for rejecting your offer?" your tone is more accusatory than you would have liked.

Even as he looms over you, even if he wields every power in the universe, you’re still unsure whether it is in his nature to desire harm upon you. There is a flash of wounded pride. And his mouth pulls down a little steeper.

"Wounding an ailing woman, what do you take me for?" 

"I don’t know what i should take you for." you feel a little tired. A feeling of tightness in your chest labours your breathing just a little. 

"Take me as i am, as what you found me out."

You snort a laugh.

"Lord Morpheus, what i found out of you is more questions than answers." 

"Then come with me, and you’ll have all the time in the world for the answer." he dips his hand in the tub to find your hand resting on your stomach submerged in the tepid water. 

Your tears gather in your eyes, leaking down your cheeks. The porcelain on which your head rests becomes more uncomfortable, and you find yourself holding tight to his fingers with your bruised ones. 

"I don’t have much time. I am sick and i am very, very tired. I'd die from hemorrhaging the next time I fall from the carriage. What little time I have would be of no use to a god such as you." 

You almost choked over your own words. The words that were merely a fraction of how you truly feel; how utterly terrified you are meeting your end in a premature way, not laying soft from old age on your deathbed. How this illness defines you as a human being for as long as you could remember. How much contempt burrows at home within you every time you see your mother’s misty eyes and your father’s voice struck with paranoia at the slightest mishap falling upon you. 

But if he is truly a god, an embodiment of a dream, he would know of this nightmare.

He tightened his grasp just a little bit more. 

He knows 

"The sun could swallow the earth, the universe could exhale its last breath, but I can make sure Death would pose no problem to you."

He says it with a conviction that could only belong to a god, as if he knows Death so thoroughly he would know how to prevent one. It gives no room for doubt to plant its seed within you. His other hand brushes away your tears.

He helps you on your feet, helps you dry your body and hair with the towel on the shelf. Helps you loop your Chemise over your body. Smooth the fabric with his fingertips. His touch light and gentle. Feathers over your bruises. Soothes your throbbing unclotted blood. Achingly comforting you want to sleep on the palm of his hands. 

"Until you are ready, i will wait. Say it whenever you desire and i shall unfold myself to you." 

He takes your wrist and kisses the back of your hand. Disappear silently in the blink of your eye. Left a single baby Hemlock with its roots at the base of the marble tub. 

The evening after that day, you plant the baby into the soil of your garden with Oscar. Its darker shadow sets it apart from the other Hemlock. But you hope it will grow as tall.

[avampyone]

Hemlocke Reines

Thank you for the tag @shroudkeeper and @houserosaire ! <3

Tagging: @ffxivtribehydrae , @ilbers, @amalthea-felsblood, @drowxiv, @corsair-kovacs, @viiioca, @midnightmagicks or anyone who would like to do so!

—𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒔

Name: Hemlocke Reines (Birth name: Seraphine Desmarais) Nicknames: Hemi or Hems Age: 23-24 (He's lost track in the bustle of life.) Nameday: 13th Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon Race: Vampiric Duskwight Elezen Gender: Cis male Orientation: Pansexual (male lean) Profession: Aide to the Arrzaneth Ossuary, bartender, former scion.

—𝒑𝒉𝒚𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔

Hair: Midnight black hair that began to fade at the ends into a dark red ombre after he was fully turned into a vampire. Eyes: Blood red Skin: Very pale, perfect to an almost unsettling degree. Tattoos/scars: Hemlocke doesn't scar or else he would have many, including a deep one across his right cheek. Tattoo ink would only bleed out of his flesh if he attempted to get one.

—𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

Parents: Ange B'londe - Father (paramour to Olivia, alive but undead), Olivia Desmarais - Mother (deceased) Siblings: Jezebel B'londe - Half sister (Not known to Hemlocke, status unknown) Grandparents: Via Ange: Unnamed Gelmorran maiden (deceased), Father unknown (A certain voidsent, status unknown). Via Olivia: The Le Malheur family, Hemlocke was estranged from his mother's side and not allowed to meet under Gloucent's rules. In-laws and Other: Pierre Beaufort (tutor, father figure to Hemlocke, alive), Gloucent Desmarais (Olivia's husband in an arranged marriage, Hemlocke's guardian father, deceased), Eve B'londe (Ange's wife, deceased) Pets: Bruce, his pet bat and Cookie, the ghost of a great dane.

—𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔

Abilities: Natural affinity for black magic, particularly attuned to fire. The wild magic doesn't always work out in his favor, and he occasionally he casts an entirely different spell than what he intended. Hemlocke can use magic without a staff or soul crystal with no fear of his aether burning away, but it can become easily out of control the more he uses without a focus. He can successfully use the teleportation spell 'Flow', but it takes a lot out of him to do. In perilous moments, Hemlocke's 'shadow' might emerge to assist and amplify his magic. In physical combat, he's best with knives and throwing them at a distance. Hobbies: Hemlocke enjoys reading, dancing, traveling, going out to drink, and gardening. He might sing if he's by himself. He plays piano proficiently, but he's still hesitate to try again with this being tied back to bitter memories.

—𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔

Most Positive Trait: Kind and protective. Most Negative Trait: Reckless and conflicted with guilt.

—𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔

Colors: Red, black, silver. Smells: Lavender, rosehip oil, sandalwood, jasmine, and sage.

Textures: Velvet, hearth, layers, midnight, feathers. Drinks: Chamomile or Doman tea, red wine, gin and tonic.

—𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔

Smokes: No. Drinks: Often. Hemlocke likes gin the best, but he isn't really too picky. Drugs: In the past in Ishgard, Hemlocke would take a crystalline substance of white powder he brought in secret. It's equivalent to amphetamine, but he doesn't take it anymore. Mount Issuance: Nightingale, Hemlocke's easily spooked chocobo and occasionally Rose, a gentle bird mount that assists him at the behest of the Vath. Been Arrested: No, but he's had a few close calls.

[tko-draws]

Thinking of another Cookie oc, Hemlock Cookie, who disguises themselves as another cookie, Queen Anne's Lace...put some fairy politics in here 💪✨