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charliemwrites · 3 months ago

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Unfamiliar Nobody

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

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

You haven’t been the same since the ritual.

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

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

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

Not so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yours hasn’t been the same since.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The shop was never reorganized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any storms?” you ask.

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

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

“Shall I expect more pelts, then?”

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

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

“Pelts,” he agrees, “skins, down.”

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

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

He sighs deep and vexed. “Mistress.”

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

“Nikto!”

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

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

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

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

“Good evening,” you call.

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

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

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

“Have you need of something?” you ask.

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

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

You tilt your head. “Anna?”

She blinks. “How did you know?”

Because Nikto grumbled it just now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm!”

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

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

“Anything else?” you ask.

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

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

“Hold on,” you call, “here.”

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum in question, surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, nose in your hair, considering.

Finally, he grunts, “Maybe.”

You’d thought so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Irina,” you greet.

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

“You’ve…”

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

“My father designs to wed me to Boris.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you help me?”

“I would.”

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

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

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

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

Irina’s brow furrows. “Not coin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright. I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he hisses.

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

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

“Give me,” he demands, surging up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The button too,” you request.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your choice,” you reply simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nikto.”

“All for a severed tether,” he purrs.

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

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

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

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

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

Winter preparations are well under way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nasty creature.

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

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

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

You click your tongue, steps never faltering.

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

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

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

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

Always so messy.

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

Only then does the water darken around you.

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

Feast before the season’s famine.

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

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

Wait, no. Not lazy.

Deliberate.

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

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

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

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

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

He purrs into your chest, drooling down your sternum.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

You smile, indulgent.

“I belong to Nobody.”

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

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #nikto fic #nikto cod #nikto x reader #witch reader #afab reader #mind the warnings #heavy kink

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najia-cooks · 1 year ago

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[ID: A purplish-grey stew topped with olive oil and garnished with piles of pomegranate seeds. Plates of green peppers, bitter olives, olive oil, taboon bread, green onions, radishes, and za'tar surround the dish. The second image is a close-up of the same stew. End ID]

رمانية / Rummāniyya (Palestinian pomegranate stew)

Rummaniyya (رُمَّانِيَّة; also transliterated "rumaniyya," "rummaniya," and "rummaniyeh") is a Palestinian stew or dip made from lentils, eggplant, and pomegranate seeds, flavored with nutty red tahina and a zesty, spicy دُقَّة (dugga) of dill seeds, garlic, and peppers. A طشة (ṭsha), or tempering, of olive oil and onion or garlic is sometimes added.

"Rummaniyya," roughly "pomegranate-y," comes from رُمَّان‎ ("rumm��n") "pomegranate," plus the abstract noun suffix ـِيَّة ("iyya"); the dish is also known as حبّة رُمَّانَة ("ḥabbat rommāna"), or "pomegranate seeds." It is a seasonal dish that is made at the end of summer and the beginning of fall, when pomegranates are still green, unripe, and sour.

This stew is considered to be one of the most iconic, historic, and beloved of Palestinian dishes by people from Gaza, Yaffa, and Al-Ludd. Pomegranates—their seeds, their juice, and a thick syrup made from reducing the juice down—are integral to Palestinian cuisine and heritage, and images of them abound on ceramics and textiles. Pomegranates and their juice are sold from street carts and cafes in the West Bank and Gaza.

Today, tens of thousands of tons of pomegranates are grown and harvested by Israeli farmers on stolen Palestinian farmland; about half of the crop is exported, mainly to Europe. Meanwhile, Palestinians have a far easier time gaining permits to work on Israeli-owned farms than getting permission from the military to work land that is ostensibly theirs. These restrictions apply within several kilometers of Israel's claimed borders with Gaza and the West Bank, some of the most fertile land in the area; Palestinian farmers working in this zone risk being injured or killed by military fire.

Israel further restricts Palestinians' ability to work their farms and export crops by imposing tariffs, unexpectedly closing borders, shutting down and contaminating water supplies, spraying Palestinian crops with pesticides, bulldozing crops (including eggplant) when they are ready to be harvested, and bombing Palestinian farmland and generators. Though Palestinian goods have local markets, the sale of Palestinian crops to Israel was forbidden from 2007 to 2014 (when Israel accepted shipments of goods including tomato and eggplant).

Gazans have resisted these methods by disregarding orders to avoid the arable land near Israel's claimed borders, continuing to forage native plants, growing new spices and herbs for export, planting hydroponic rooftop gardens, crushing chalk and dried eggplants to produce calcium for plants, using fish excrement as fertilizer, creating water purification systems, and growing plants in saltwater. Resisting Israeli targeting of Palestinian food self-sufficiency has been necessary for practical and economic reasons, but also symbolizes the endurance of Palestinian culture, history, and identity.

Support Palestinian resistance by calling Elbit System's (Israel's primary weapons manufacturer) landlord; donating to Palestine Action's bail fund; and buying an e-Sim for distribution in Gaza.

Serves 6-8.

Ingredients:

For the stew:

1 medium eggplant (370g)

1 cup brown lentils (عدس اسود)

600g pomegranate seeds (to make 3 cups juice)

3 Tbsp all-purpose flour

1/4 cup red tahina

1/2 cup olive oil

Salt, to taste

Citric acid (ملح الليمون / حامِض ليمون) (optional)

Red tahina may be approximated with home cooking tools with the above-linked recipe; you may also toast white tahina in a skillet with a little olive oil, stirring often, until it becomes deeply golden brown.

For the دُقَّة (dugga / crushed condiment):

2 tsp cumin seeds, or ground cumin

1 1/2 Tbsp dill seeds ("locust eye" بذور الشبت / عين جرادة)

5 cloves garlic

1 green sweet pepper (فلفل بارد اخضر)

2 dried red chilis (فلفل شطة احمر)

People use red and green sweet and chili peppers in whatever combination they have on hand for this recipe; e.g. red and green chilis, just green chilis, just red chilis, or just green sweet peppers. Green sweet peppers and red chilis are the most common combination.

For the طشة (Tsha / tempering) (optional):

Olive oil

1 Tbsp minced garlic

Instructions:

1. Rinse and pick over lentils. In a large pot, simmer lentils, covered, in enough water to cover for about 8 minutes, or until half-tender.

2. Meanwhile, make the dugga by combining all ingredients in a mortar and pestle or food processor, and grinding until a coarse mixture forms.

Dugga and components.

3. Cube eggplant. A medium-sized eggplant may be cut in half lengthwise (through the root), each half cut into thirds lengthwise, then cubed widthwise.

Cubed eggplant, red tahina, and pomegranate seeds.

4. Add eggplant to simmering water (there is no need to stir).

5. While the eggplant cooks, blend pomegranate seeds in a blender very thoroughly. Strain to remove any gritty residue. Whisk flour into pomegranate juice.

Pomegranate juice being strained.

6. Taste your pomegranate juice. If it is not sour, add a pinch of citric acid or a splash of lemon juice and stir.

7. Add dagga to the pot with the lentils and eggplant and stir. Continue to simmer until the eggplant is very tender and falling apart.

8. Add pomegranate juice, tahina, and olive oil to the pot, and simmer for another 5 minutes, or until stew is very thick and homogenous.

Bright pink pomegranate juice in stockpot.

9. (Optional) In a small skillet, heat a little olive oil on medium. Fry minced garlic, stirring constantly, until golden brown. Add into the pot and stir.

10. (Optional) Mash the stew with the bowl of a ladle or a bean masher to produce a more homogenous texture.

Serve rummaniyya hot or cold in individual serving bowls. It may be served as an appetizer, or as a main dish alongside flatbread, olives, and fresh vegetables such as radishes, green peppers, green onions, carrots, and romaine lettuce. It may be eaten with a spoon, or by using كماج (kmāj), a flatbread with an internal pocket, to scoop up each bite.

#Palestine #Israel #food #Palestinian #Gazan #eggplant #lentils #pomegranates #red tahina

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tomorrowsgardennc · 5 months ago

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the food of tomorrow is in the seeds of today.

hello. i'm elizabeth. tomorrow's garden is my seed farm that i grow in charlotte, north carolina.

why seeds?

because growing your own food is amazing, delicious, enticing, and fulfilling. but it only helps with the here and now. what about food for later? how can you make sure that no matter what life throws at you, you have food for tomorrow?

i started this farm in 2019 when i came to the realization that no matter what happens, at the end of the day, what matters is that there is food in you and your family's belly. i initially started to grow and sell vegetables and herb plants, and then when shit hit the fan the next year, i realized we need to prepare for the future, too. that's when i started learning how to save seeds. i now grow and sell plants and seeds at the local farmer's market. if you're in the charlotte, north carolina area, then check out my instagram where i post what i'll have at the market every week and come say hi.

one of the ways to make sure your plants succeed year after year is to save seeds. the parent plant takes what it learned from it's term and passes those genetics through their seeds. how crazy is that?! so many people think that they can not grow any food because they either source their plants from big box stores (that rant is for another day) or source their seed from a commercial grower. it's not them, it's captialism that's making growing food so difficult. i highly recommend sourcing from a seed farm as close to you as possible and eventually getting into the habit of saving your own. if you grow in or next to zone 8b, then i do offer my seeds for sale on my website to get you started out.

well, if i'm saving and selling seeds, then why not use that as a good excuse to do my favorite type of art, too? linocut or stamping has always been my favorite medium, even when i was little. the fact that no matter how hard you try, nothing will ever match, and there will be mistakes. a lesson to be reminded of in life, too. i post my artwork - in progress and final - as well as my farmer's market setup on my pinterest profile.

as far as for here on tumblr, i'm not here to sell. i'm here to get inspiration and gain knowledge from other gardeners and to offer the same. this is where i will post my progress as the seasons come and go, what mistakes i made, and what i've learned in the hopes of helping others. my ama is open if you have any questions, especially about seeds or getting a garden nursery business up and running. information shouldn't be behind a paywall, and i never will do so. so let's get growing together.

💚🌱☀️

#gardenblr #garden blog #farm blog #home garden #gardening #food not lawns #nature #homegrown #homesteading #homestead #food #grow food #food gardening #garden #farmers market #farmcore #farm #plants

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firstelevens · 8 days ago

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Sam/Bucky + “catastrophe”

also on AO3

Bucky knows that he fucked up the exact second that he steps through the door. Usually, even with decidedly more significant fuck-ups, it takes at least a few steps before the extent of his mistake is clear. This time, it rushes up to meet him on the porch, the air thick with the smell of baking: butter and burnt sugar and fresh bread.

When he'd caught a whiff of it in the front yard, he'd hoped it was from a neighbor's house, that maybe there was a bake sale or birthday party to justify it, but he'd known even then that that wasn't the case.

He leaves his boots by the door, hanging his jacket up in the hallway closet the way he almost always forgets to do. His backpack and go-bag get tucked away in a corner to be dealt with later, and Bucky tells himself that that's just for convenience and not because he'd have to cross the kitchen to get to the laundry room.

It's an argument that's a little bit undercut when Alpine slinks her way down the hall, immediately winding around his legs and clamoring for his attention, and the first thing that Bucky does is lean over and peek at the kitchen to gauge whether Sam heard either of them. He can't tell from where he's standing, so instead he sits on the ground and lets Alpine perch herself in his lap, butting her head up into his hand until he relents and gives her chin scratches.

"It's bad, huh, baby?" he asks, kissing the top of her head. She lets out a soft noise and noses at his hand again, which Bucky takes for a yes. "Has he been baking all morning?"

He doesn't need an answer from Alpine for that one. From where he's sitting, he's got a line on the dining room, where he can see two pies and a pan of what might be cinnamon rolls cooling on the table.

"Maybe I should've brought home flowers," he muses. "I just didn't want to wait. I skipped the debrief so I could get here faster." Yelena had complained about providing a mission report on her own, but she'd also told him to make his hair less of a catastrophe before Sam broke up with him, which was as close to approval as Bucky was going to get.

There's another soft noise from Alpine, and he's fairly certain that she's about to curl up on his leg, but then the oven timer goes off and she startles, letting out a yowl in protest and scampering away. She gives him a look of betrayal as she slinks up the stairs and Bucky huffs in response.

"What, now you're mad at me, too?" he asks, but she doesn't so much as glance backwards.

Without the excuse of Alpine, Bucky is out of reasons to linger out of sight, but he waits for another moment, listening to Sam move around their kitchen. There's a rhythm to how he opens and closes the cabinets, a familiar music in the clatter of his measuring cups and the way-too-big metal bowl that he finds every excuse to use. No matter how chilly a reception awaits him, just being able to hear Sam makes something slot back into place in Bucky's chest, the remedy to a quiet and persistent ache that he's felt for the better part of six months.

He pushes up off the floor and crosses into the kitchen to find Sam at the stove, peering critically down at something in a saucepan. When he opens his mouth to speak, Sam holds up a hand to stop him without looking away from what he's cooking on the stove.

"Not yet," he says, and Bucky closes his mouth with an audible click. It shouldn't be such a relief, but hearing Sam talk to him at all does wonders to ease some of the tension out of him. Sam doesn't acknowledge him beyond that, swirling the pan a few times before he turns off the burner and slides the pan off the heat.

Bucky distracts himself from the urge to talk by taking in the kitchen. It's reasonably neat, in spite of the evidence of hours of baking. From where he stands, Bucky can see the window boxes that he and Sam talked about, already bursting with herbs. There's a wheelbarrow full of soil in the backyard, waiting beside the raised planting bed that Bucky had only seen in sketches before he left.

He feels Sam's gaze settle on him while his head is turned towards the window, and he does his best not to squirm under the weight of it. Once, when they were still working together in the field, Bucky told Sam that he needed to get better at letting people sweat it out so they would give up information more easily. Sam had argued at the time, rightly pointing out that his friendly chatter usually was much quicker to disarm people, but apparently he's had time to hone those sweating-it-out skills in the months that they've been separated.

Still, Bucky knows a thing or two about patience. He spent the better part of a war lying in wait in a sniper's foxhole, and he spent years watching as his nebulous thing with Sam slowly transformed from acquaintance to friendship to the kind of love that he never thought he'd get to have.

He stays quiet, taking in the changes to the house and the backyard, and when he catches Sam uncrossing his arms and leaning back against the counter, he expects to hear literally anything except for the actual words that come out of Sam's mouth.

"Can you just come here, please?" he asks, and when Bucky looks over at him in shock, his arms are already open.

Bucky doesn't need to be asked twice. He's in Sam's arms in the space of a breath, face buried in Sam's neck as he tries to ignore the sting behind his eyes and the lump in his throat. It's only when he wraps his arms around Sam and feels him slump forward against Bucky that he realizes how tightly Sam was holding himself until now.

"I missed you," Sam croaks, and Bucky's fairly certain that he feels a tear or two soak into the collar of his t-shirt.

"I really thought you'd be more angry at me," says Bucky. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but--"

"Oh, I'm furious," says Sam mildly. "I just also missed you. Like, a lot. Way more than I should have, considering how annoying you are."

"I can work with that," says Bucky, pulling away just enough to chance a look at Sam's face. His dark circles are bad, and Bucky feels retroactively guilty about all the nights that he couldn't soothe Sam back to sleep when the worry woke him up.

"I also just wanted to make sure you weren't injured before I chewed you out," says Sam, and it's only then that Bucky clocks that Sam's wandering hands have been less about copping a feel and more about checking for bruised ribs and dislocated shoulders.

"I'm fine," Bucky says, frowning as he skims his fingers over a mostly-healed cut on Sam's forehead. "What's this?"

"Turns out cherry blossoms are less nice when you're being thrown at them face first," says Sam, waving a hand. "Stop trying to distract me."

(But he tilts his head just slightly towards Bucky anyway, and doesn't protest when Bucky presses a kiss to it.)

"I'm not distracting you," says Bucky. "You can ream me out whenever you want. I won't even interrupt you."

"If you're gonna lie, at least make it believable."

Bucky huffs. "Fine. I won't interrupt you that often."

"Better," says Sam, and Bucky can hear his smile even with his eyes closed.

When Sam doesn't pull away after another long moment, Bucky gives his waist a gentle squeeze. "Am I being subjected to a Sam Wilson lecture or not? Shouldn't there be fire and brimstone by now? I punched a car."

"You did not just punch a car, Bucky; you decided that the best way to deflect a whole ass SUV flying through the air was with your body and one single fist," says Sam, but in spite of the heat in his voice, he doesn't move away. "Your stupidity will keep, and so will my feelings about it. Just...just give me a minute, okay?"

"Okay, sweetheart," murmurs Bucky, bowing his head to kiss Sam's jaw. "Ready when you are."

"Okay," says Sam, and stays exactly where he is.

#sambucky #listen I saw that shot in the trailer and I had THOUGHTS ok #idk if I can officially make this part of the home decor specific fic universe since there's just stray refs to gardening #but spiritually this is a sequel to spring swaps snow for leaves #sambucky fanfiction #sesamestreep #zainab does ask meme things #my fic

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bekkathyst · 5 months ago

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In nicer garden news, our local garden center was having a clearance sale so I was able to get some cute flowers and herbs that I’ve had my eye on! I planted these hydrangeas and then it immediately started thunderstorming so I’ll situate the rest tomorrow.

#original #garden #home

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pampushky · 4 months ago

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Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 3 - 5.3k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

3.) numbing nettle

numbing nettle: a common herb that often can be found even in the most urban settings, growing up through the cracks and gaps in cobblestone. Stepping on even the smallest nettle will cause the skin and muscle around the pricked area to go numb for around an hour. However, when dried, it becomes essentially useless, losing any medical use besides causing a slight tingle to an injured area when ingested.

Things are awkward in the little sitting room that your shop has become. You sip on your tea, still staring down cooly at Bepo, who has finally stopped making the high-pitched whine after Ikkaku kicked him in the side. She looks rather underwhelmed by the current state of the shop and her friends. You just raise an eyebrow at her, when she leans beside you on the counter. You’re…. Not quite friends, but Ikkaku knows what Law had said and done to you, and had personally apologized not on his behalf, but as someone who worked with him and considered him a good friend. According to her, Law had always been touchy whenever you came up in conversation, which fascinated you, considering all that had happened.

It had created an even ground for the two of you, to talk and do business on, even managing to exchange pleasantries besides the sale of your products. Talking quietly over tea about your frustrations, offering alternative treatments for injuries and whatever ailed Law’s patients, or ranting about the guards trying to bribe you into selling poisons for execution.

Perhaps you are friends.

Currently? The poor woman seems more frustrated that Penguin and Shachi are trying to kill the pothos plant that is tugging at their hair, while Law is sitting quietly on the first step that leads upstairs.

“Maybe there’s a reason you both had lifetime bans,” Ikkaku watches as Shachi falls backward against a shelf, and sends a tiny vial of some pre-prepared tea to the ground, shattering upon impact. You look utterly devastated, even if it’s a small thing to break. But she’s seen the effort and practice that goes into even the smallest thing here. You were rather anal about the doses of whatever pre-prepared medicines you sold, and at least one hour of work went into the simplest of combinations, just to make sure you got it perfect.

“...sorry,” Shachi has the decency to look a bit apologetic after he mumbles. You flick your right hand, with your pointer and ring finger extended, and then point your hand down. Gertrude goes still, and you massage your temples. Penguin only continues to grumble, arms folded and looking down at the floor, while you quietly fetch the little broom and dustpan by the door.

“That was worth a silver piece,” You mumble, as you look down at the broken vial and loose petals and leaves strewn about with glass shards interlaced within it, “Roughly eight hours of preparation, meant to provide the consumer about… six hours of pain relief. For chronic pain, mostly.”

“So?” Penguin snaps, “He didn’t mean to break it—- you’re at fault, letting that demon plant whale on us—”

“Don’t, talk about Gertrude that way.”

“I’ll talk however I please while you let that thing hurt my husband!” Penguin jumps to his feet and takes a step towards you. You take a step backward, and even with your control over your loyal plant, Gertrude shakes violently in their pot, the vines wrapped around the top of the cabinets tightening against the wood.

“You have done nothing but insult me since you so rudely pushed yourself into my home and shop,” You’re so, incredibly, tired, gazing at Penguin and Shachi in disbelief, “Forgive me, for having a plant that seeks to defend me, from people that could be seen as a threat!”

Law holds up one of his hands before Penguin can say something to incite even more anger. But the last part of your sentence breaks him a little bit. You… had trained that plant to protect you? It certainly hadn’t been there the last time he had been there, a month after his return. Had Gertrude been created all because you were afraid of him? That you had felt so threatened by the fact that Law had come into your shop that you not only felt the need to have a powerful boundary spell put in place to keep him away but a plant to guard you, in case he had somehow made it past that. Had he truly hurt you that much, all those years ago, enough for you to fear him?

It’s a stupid question, Law knows he has. All of the words that had been spoken to you in the past hour caused you to recoil from him nearly instantly.

The turmoil rattling about inside his mind isn’t audible, though, and you know nothing of what is happening within his mind, as you look at your former friend, and you feel a horror settle in your gut as he lowers his hand, looking from yourself to Penguin. There’s a fury in his eyes that only you recognize, and it sends a shiver down your spine, the last time you had seen that, he had spewed hate and cruelty at you, leaving you in the pouring rain, and curled in a puddle of mud as you tried to reckon with what had just happened, and the sudden heel turn of your childhood friend.

I hope that you find nothing but disaster in your path. I hate you and have always hated you.

The memory of Law’s words ache in your heart. The rage in his eyes. The scowl that creases his face is the same as the one from all those years ago, and you take a step backward with a shuddering breath spilling from your lips. It makes you want to curl into a ball in that same puddle of mud all over again, and it must show, because you feel Ikkaku grab onto your shoulder and squeeze.

The stares of the other townsfolk as you walked back to your family home. Their pitying gazes from when he had returned to the city the year prior. The whispers of rumors. It haunts you still.

“Law,” The woman hisses, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. The look of fury disappears just as quickly as it had appeared. You just dig your hands into your palms and try to steady the rapidity of your heartbeat. You want to throw up.

“Apologize,” Law’s voice is rough. Penguin looks smug for just a second, until Law fixes him with a cold, deeply unhappy stare, and keeps it there. “...you are allowed to be angry, but just as Shachi is your husband…. I will not allow you to taunt and insult my wife, regardless of who she may be or the circumstances of how we got married.”

“Law,” Penguin looks abashed. “You’ve got to be joking—”

“Apologize, Penguin.” There is no room for argument, looking at his friend with such a deep, and utterly furious look that even you’re slightly taken aback, gone still where you stand. The other man utters out a weak apology, looking at you in shock. Shachi and Bepo are silent, though there is a quiet anger in the former’s eyes, the emotion fading the moment he catches your gaze. He doesn’t make eye contact with you for the rest of his visit, and suddenly, in your own home, your own shop, the well-worn wooden floors and brick walls are unfamiliar and unwelcoming. Law has invaded the last space you thought would be possible to make unsafe for you. Nausea makes your head spin, and without any other word, you push yourself past Law on the first step, even when he tries to grab onto your cloak to keep you there.

“Law!” Your voice is so joyful when you see him, despite the rain. You have your hair tied up, and it shimmers, even when it’s soaked through. You flourish, in the forest, surrounded by your element. The earth, the air, and the water make your skin glow, imbuing you with energy and vitality. Your eyes are bright, even as you crash into him with an audible splash, showing not only how soaked his cloak is, but just how long you’d spent outside that day. You’re splattered with mud.

And he laughs, letting you slam into him, knowing that this could be the last time he really gets to see you so happy, grinning at him as you tell him all about the herbs and flowers and roots you’re gathering and learning about. You’ve always looked so ethereal, smiling at Law and Law alone, as he selfishly buries these memories deep into his heart, to keep them safe and to help him reason why he is about to do what he has to do.

Because he can’t have someone hurt you. Not because of him.

Not to have you spend years and years in an ultimately useless cause to try and save his life when he would be dead before he was thirty when the only option he has to survive is through the man who had killed his adoptive father.

He can’t have Donquixote Doflamingo hold you above him as he had with Corazon. The very idea that that monster of a man would be able to get his hands on you makes him feel sick, and Law feels his face wrinkle as he thinks about it.

But you notice the stress in his brow because of course you do. You know him better than he knows himself, joined at his hip for the entire fifteen years of your life. He’s slept in the same bed as you before puberty, and still, often finds himself on the couch in the living room late at night in your family home, the two of you whispering conspiratorially so as to not wake your parents. Your hands touch his face, and you look a bit confused when he brushes them off and turns away from you.

“Law?”

It spirals quickly from there. With you trying to pry out what little details you can from him, refusing to leave him alone until you’re threatening to pull him back to your house for hot chocolate until he talks. The threat then turns to a promise, as you tug on his shoulder. And Law doesn’t think. He’s been protesting this entire time, slowly getting angrier and angrier with you because why do you have to care so much about him?

You still keep trying, even after he says something cruel, targeting the baby fat still on your cheek. Law snaps.

He doesn’t know what gets him to push you. Nor what makes him say such cruel words, words he would never mean in a million years.

But he pushes you, hands on your chest, and towers over you full of anger and sorrow. He’s trying to save you from a lifetime of torment, watching him slowly die. To save you from being used as a toy at the amusement of a psychopathic man who already wants to play god with Law’s life.

That’s why he pushes you, so much harder than he intended to, watching as you tumble into the mud, looking up at him in surprise. There’s mud in your hair, and the vitality in your eyes has faded. Law has rebuked all your attempts to check on him until you recoil from the very sight of him, terrified.

“ I hope that you find nothing but disaster in your path! I hate you and have always hated you!”

You let out a choked, heartbroken sob. But he doesn’t stop— he has to make sure that this gets set in, to save you.

“You are nothing to me. You annoy me, you slow me down— everything you do is worthless.”

You wish you could shove the mud into your ears so you don’t have to listen to him anymore. His words don’t stop. It’s as if he is taking out all his anger on you, making you feel every single ounce of pain he’s ever felt. You sob. You beg for him to stop, promise you’ll leave him alone forever if he does, and nearly thirty minutes later, he does.

He kneels down to look you in the eyes one final time, and his heart breaks when he sees you flinch at the sight of him.

It’s for the better.

It’s for her.

It’s all for her.

“We were never friends. I never loved you.”

Law doesn’t stick around after he says that.

The ship that will take him to his new home, where he will train tirelessly and start the painful healing process, will leave tomorrow. He’s already packed. And even when he hears you let out a heartbroken sob, Law doesn’t look back, even when he starts to cry about a hundred yards away from where you are still curled in a puddle of mud, the only clear skin on your face is the ones your tears have made down your face as you lay lifeless on the ground, wishing it would swallow you up.

Shachi and Penguin leave soon after, with Bepo following cautiously. Ikkaku just stares at Law, arms crossed. You’re still somewhere upstairs, and he flinches every time he thinks he hears what sounds like retching, or a sob. He can’t tell, but Law knows he’s hurt you in trying to defend you yet again. Ikkaku, after growing sick of the silence, walked up the stairs to check on you. He can hear the shuffling steps going to where he knows your bedroom is.

He only knows this because of the childhood he spent here, and the hours the two of you figuring out where exactly everything laid out when compared to the downstairs of the shop, being able to tell based on where you were jumping up and down, and how it made the jars of the countless shelves along the wall shake and clink together.

She’s still in her old room, Law thinks blankly. He doesn’t know why he just assumed you moved into the master bedroom. He can hear the door open, and the footsteps of Ikkaku above him. They stop right above his head, probably next to you. The sobs and retching eventually quiet, and he can hear the quiet murmurs of conversation through the ceiling before more footsteps start again, and another door opens and closes.

He walks cautiously up the stairs, holding the railing tightly. His knuckles turn white as he climbs upwards, hating that with every step, he can hear you start to sob again, and the wet sound of sick hitting the side of a bucket.

Law wonders if he ever should have returned to the continent and stumbles his way to the guest room, passing out on the bed without another thought.

You awaken feeling disgusting around 8 o'clock in the afternoon. There’s a crust around the edge of your mouth from how you’d been getting sick into a bucket, and on the floor of your childhood bedroom turned office. You let out a groan, wondering how badly it smells, and if you’ll have to scrub on your knees to clean it out, which is exactly what you need as you restock on everything sold from the week, and get ready to open the shop on a busy Monday.

No doubt there’ll be more than the usual regulars, looking to see the woman who saved the so-called “Surgeon of Death” at the last possible second. It makes you chuckle, but you stop, recalling the terror you’d felt not even eight hours before. The glare in Law’s eyes, and how his friends had yelled at you, intruding on a place sacred not only to you but your family. Ikkaku had been kind, at least, managing to get you into your actual bedroom and setting you up with a bucket to get sick into.

You look at yourself in the mirror when you manage to stumble into the connecting bathroom, frowning at what you see. Pale crust around your lips, a few spots of acne that had popped up overnight, and slightly greasy hair because you hadn’t showered since Friday, too caught up in the news and planning of how to save Law to really take care of yourself. And for what purpose? You’d not gotten a single thank you. You’d been verbally abused and felt threatened the moment you’d stepped foot into your own home. How entitled that Shachi and Penguin had acted, wanting to force their way into your home.

So, you thank the modern advancements made by the plumbing-focused artificers, and take a much-needed hot shower, scrubbing at your skin until it burns a bit. You force yourself to wash your hair, even doing a hair mask to hopefully make up for the fact that it’s been in a tight bun for the past two days. You look at yourself in the mirror, wince at how exhausted you look, and then get dressed. This was your life, and you had to get through it, regardless of if Law was going to act like a prick about it, or not.

To your utter shock, as you step out of the bedroom, you hear the sound of someone cooking in the kitchen, and audibly hissing at Gertrude, who does not seem very fond of them. Or, him, you realize, when Law lets out a rather pained yelp, most likely due to your loyal little pothos plant.

“I’m trying to be quiet!” Law snaps, and you hear the sound of a slap against skin and another hiss. “You’re making this harder— I haven’t eaten in three days, cut me some slack for my shitty cooking!”

“They didn’t feed you?” You mumble, revealing yourself as you emerge from the hall. Law stands shirtless in the kitchen, with two of Gertrude’s vines wrapped around his left wrist, while his right hand holds protectively to a bowl of rice porridge. He’s… not bad looking. Granted, he still looks like shit, as he had spent two months in a prison cell, and he’s certainly lost a lot of definition on his muscles because of that, but it doesn’t hide that he’s buff. You then screech, realizing that he’s standing shirtless in your kitchen. “Where the fuck is the tunic I gave you?!”

“You didn’t give me a tunic!” Law attempts to hide himself with the bowl of porridge even when it hardly covers a single pec and lets out another yelp when Gertrude manages to dip one of their leaves in the food. Trying to tip the bowl out of his hands. “No– Stop that, you little shit–”

“Gertrude— let him eat, it’s fine,” You turn so that your back is to the kitchen, which is then followed by an angry rustle of leaves, which you sigh at, “Gertrude, please? ”

“It… they stopped,” Law mumbles, watching as the plant releases the grip on his wrist, and seems to slink up to the top of the cabinets, sulking. “... thanks.”

You nod and continue to keep your back to him. “... I’m getting you a shirt.”

“Am I truly that bad looking?”

“You’re not having your tits out in the kitchen.” You hiss and turn to look at him. Law just has a spoon of the porridge in his mouth, the bowl still held to his chest. “Go get a shirt on.”

“They’re not tits, ” Law looks absolutely aghast that you’ve insulted him in such a way. “This is pure muscle, I’ll have you know, I worked hard for this—”

“Did you also work hard for those tattoos and the splotches?” You narrow your eyes, and take a few steps closer, frowning as you look at his torso. “You did not have those when you were seventeen,”

“Doesn’t matter how I got them,” Law finds himself breathless when your fingers brush over the dapple and tattoo on his abs, leading down to the faint trail of hair that leads below the top of his pants, getting thicker and coarser as it goes further. He doesn’t want to address how or why his body has changed so much in the past nine years. “Where’s the shirt?”

“I’ll get it,” you draw your hand away, and Law misses your touch, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it after all he’s put you through.

The tunic you bring him is soft, a simple gray piece of clothing that doesn’t hurt the wounds on his skin. You even bring him a pair of trousers, telling him to put them on, as you don’t want any mud and blood tracked around the house. You look at the clothing he hands you with disgust, dropping them in the hamper in your room, scowling.

“... we’ll get some new clothes made for you, tomorrow. I’ll close the shop for the week, until this,” you gesture to him, your hands moving up and down from his feet to his head, “... gets fixed.”

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“That’s the idea,” you sigh, and rub your cheeks, groaning. “I don’t even know why I thought the shop would open tomorrow, especially with how many people will be making their way over to see you,” you walk over to the window, and peek out of the window, groaning again when you see the small crowd of people that have been walking around the shop, the lanterns turned on as it turns dark outside. Despite everything, Law feels a bit of satisfaction. Be it the few threads that connect you still, and the fact that he had thoroughly enjoyed annoying you when you’d been friends, it appears that he still enjoys it now, letting out a small laugh at your frustration. “This isn’t funny,” you hiss at him and squeeze his nose angrily, “Captain Kizaru will be here to verify this all, you numpty— oh, and when my uncle gets word —”

A solid, angry knock at the door interrupts you, and you go pale mid-sentence. You’d ended up dropping your sending stone in a basin of water before anyone had even gotten the chance to call you. It’d been the first thing you’d done when you had escaped upstairs after dressing Law’s wounds. A preemptive action to stop the damn thing from cracking due to overheating. It’d sat in that basin now for twelve whole hours, and you’d not checked on it once, honestly forgetting it existed. Looking at the basin now, you could see that the water was boiling and that it had boiled off over two-thirds of the water. The stone was glowing a nearly white blue, and shook in the basin, with continuous calls coming in.

“Oh, fuck,” Law muttered, looking down at the basin with you, and then looking down the stairs when the knocking started again, along with a very loud shout of your full legal name, quickly followed by Law’s.

“ —IF YOU ARE NOT DOWN HERE WITHIN THE NEXT THREE SECONDS I WILL BLOW THIS GODS DAMNED DOOR OFF ITS HINGES— ”

You don’t even hesitate and sprint down the stairs, nearly falling, and having Law catch you by your collar at the bottom of the stairs, while Gertrude flings open the door for your uncle. The overpowering smell of sulfur is the first thing that hits you, along with burnt grass that you would guess was once your well-tended front lawn. Former Vice-commander of the guard, now reinstated as the City Commander, is your uncle Sakazuki, his form half that of melted stone. His face is set into a thick scowl, arms crossed, and there’s a burnt mark on your door.

Captain Kizaru stands joyfully beside him, giving you a little wave while your uncle literally cools himself off so he can enter the house.

“You have five seconds before I ring that bastard’s neck, ” Your uncle looks directly at Law, who swallows thickly from his spot on the stairs. Kizaru just steps into the little shop and starts to look at the teas he normally buys. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill him the moment he was thrown in jail, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on him, after that stunt he pulled with you— ”

“It’s great to see you too, Uncle Saka,” you slide in front of his gaze to block Law from view, and your uncle’s glare is nearly identical to yours. Law can see clearly that there are some universal family traits that transcend generations. “Uhm, can we not, threaten my husband—”

“Oh, he is not your husband yet, and won’t be if I can help it—”

“I disagree with that statement!”

“You’re a child! You’re hardly even old enough to be married! I was nearly thirty when I married that dumbass!” Sakazuki screeches, and slams his fist onto the counter, making the jars and bowls on it rattle. Kizaru groans at being called a dumbass. You stand stubbornly in front of him. Arms crossed. The no-nonsense look is the same as his sister’s, almost standing to the millimeter in the same spot she had when they’d argue as children in this very shop.

“I’m twenty-two! I can make my own decisions!” You shout back, and Law feels like he is trapped in a situation he’d really rather not be in. To be completely honest, he’d thought that your uncle had retired by now.

Law feels Sakazuki fix him with a steely gaze again, and he slowly puts his hands up, not wanting to incite any more anger towards him, only to have your uncle launch himself at him, getting an impressive amount of air time with his hands outstretched to wrap around Law’s throat. It takes ten seconds to get the two separated, at which time, Law has managed to cause some of the older man’s arm to shrivel to a near-mummified state.

Now that’s what sends the room into utter chaos. You start screaming, your uncle is looking at his arm in shock, and in an instant, Kizaru has a blade of light held to Law’s throat, eyes wild.

“Fix that, or so help me, the Goddess of the sun won’t be able to recognize you as you go to be reborn,” Kizaru’s voice is deadly calm, and with a small roll of his wrist, Law touches his fingers to the shriveled arm, and it’s healed.

The darkness fades and soaks into Law’s hands, staining the tips of his fingers black, and you suddenly realize what all of Law’s tattoos might be made of. Kizaru lets go, and the knife is gone. Your uncle is silent, and you look between the three men, trying to steady your breathing before you kick at Law’s leg to get him to bow to your uncles.

“I am so sorry about him— but please, please trust me,” You stand over Law, trembling.

“Why shouldn’t I kill him right this second?” Sakazuki sits on the floor, slowly, watching you. His anger is gone, replaced by some form of fearful concern. No one had been able to injure him in such a way, nor so quickly, and then heal it as though it were a minor scratch.

“Because killing him would set this gods forsaken world back centuries,” You don’t budge an inch, even as your other uncle steps forward and looks down at you with an even tone.

“Even with what he did to you?”

The memories of that day make you want to shrivel up and die. The way he had looked at you earlier in the day, the same as how he had looked at you then replayed in your mind on an endless loop. The constant confusion that was being around him.

“.... I won’t be remembered by the history books. But he will. And I don’t want to deprive this world of someone who can help improve it. Not after everything else that’s gone to shit in the last year.”

Your uncles look at each other. Sakazuki pulls you to the side, quietly assuring you that that wasn’t true— that you could find happiness in a marriage that wouldn’t be enforced until Law or yourself died. It’s oddly tender and uncharacteristic of the man that many citizens thought that the commander of the guard was. But you shake your head, repeat the law you have memorized since Bepo brought it to you, and look at Law with empty eyes as Kizaru announces the rules of the marriage. Asking for your reasoning behind it, and sighing when both he and Sakazuki are forced to agree that you are correct.

Killing Law for using a type of magic used widely in every other continent, but was banned here, due to how little it was understood would be an injustice, and could set back the medical community in the empire by centuries. Kizaru pulls out a simple strip of cloth, as tall as he is when fully unrolled, and has both yourself and Law hold out your hands.

Carefully, the cloth is wrapped around your hands as they are placed together.

“Do you, by the laws of the gallows, do so solemnly swear to be your partner’s keeper, to guide him from the wrong to the right, and to live the rest of his or your own days together, only by his side, under the witness of the gods above and below?”

“I do.” You sound tired when you speak. There are bags under your eyes. You’re wearing a long-sleeved tunic that has a hole worn into one of the elbows. This is not what you’d imagined your wedding would be like as a child. Kizaru looks devastated on your behalf when you sigh deeply and turn to Law.

“Do you, by the laws of the gallows, do so solemnly swear to stay loyal to your partner, to follow in her steps, and to learn what is wrong and right, seeking only to better this world, and to live the rest of her or your own days together, only by her side, under the witness of the gods above and below?”

“I do,” Law whispers, and feels something course through his arms that are joined to yours by the cloth. It burns, and he sees tears start to fall down your face as the pain grows greater, and greater, almost enough that he wishes his hands would fall off until it stops. Kizaru pulls the cloth away, while Sakazuki comforts you, whispering apologies and promises into your hair while he hugs you tightly.

Burned onto your ring fingers are swirling, moving tattoos. Law’s is a pale silver, and yours is dark gold. They shift and move like smoke, sometimes forming solid lines, but never moving outside of the first knuckle of the ring finger on his and your left hand.

When Sakazuki grabs Law by the collar and growls out threats of death and pain should Law make any more mistakes with you, or do anything to make you feel as worthless as you had on that day nine years ago, he just nods, and watches them leave. Lets you go up the stairs first without so much as a “Good night,” to him.

Because Law had made a vow when you refused to look him in the eyes during the handfasting that somehow, he would give you the life that you deserve. Even if you never love him the way he so desperately loves you, he will make it up to you what he had done all those years ago. That will be no easy feat, and he knows this. But he does have the rest of his days to try, and to whatever Gods that have insisted the Law keep living rather than letting him die like so many others around him, he is eternally grateful for once.

He swears this on his life, on the complex, runic spells that are his tattoos, on the lunar magic that had saved him, and on the simple fact that hidden over his heart, is your name, spelled out in Lunar runes, and also, the sole thing that had been keeping him alive and healthy for the past nine years.

#series masterlist #trafalgar law #one piece fanfiction #law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #one piece x reader #one piece x you #law x you #law x yn #one piece x y/n #one piece insert #enemies to lovers #friends to enemies to lovers really #ao3 #not actually unrequited love #trafalgar one piece #soulmate au too ig

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revivalrootsnursery · 1 year ago

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10 Easy-to-Grow Vegetables and Herbs for Your Garden

Are you looking to transform your garden into a thriving oasis of fresh produce and fragrant herbs? Our garden-ready plants and herb plants for sale are perfect choices to kickstart your gardening journey. Here, we'll introduce you to 10 easy-to-grow vegetables and herbs that will flourish in your garden.

Tomatoes: Known for their versatility and vibrant flavors, tomatoes are a garden favorite. Plant them in well-drained soil and ensure they receive plenty of sunlight for a bountiful harvest.

Basil: This aromatic herb is a must-have for any garden. Basil thrives in warm weather and can be used to enhance the flavor of various dishes.

Cucumbers: With proper support and consistent watering, cucumbers will reward you with a refreshing addition to salads and pickles.

Mint: Mint plants are hardy and can thrive in various conditions. They're great for teas, cocktails, or adding a refreshing twist to your meals.

Bell Peppers: These colorful vegetables are easy to grow and can be enjoyed raw in salads or cooked in a variety of dishes.

Chives: Chives are low-maintenance herbs that add a mild onion flavor to your recipes. They're perfect for garnishes and culinary creations.

Zucchini: Zucchini plants are prolific producers, and their tender fruits are excellent for grilling, sautéing, or adding to pasta dishes.

Parsley: Rich in nutrients, parsley is a versatile herb that can be used in soups, sauces, and as a garnish for a fresh burst of flavor.

Radishes: Radishes are quick to grow and can be sown in small spaces. They add a satisfying crunch to salads and sandwiches.

Thyme: Thyme is a hardy herb that enhances the taste of roasted meats, vegetables, and stews. It's an excellent addition to your herb garden. At Revival Roots Nursery, we take pride in offering garden ready vegetable plants and herb for sale that are well-suited for both beginners and experienced gardeners. For more information on our garden-ready plants, visit our website at www.revivalrootsnursery.com and discover how we can help you achieve a flourishing garden.

#herb plants for sale

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ladykiller-yt · 4 months ago

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MAGIC STICK

Aziraphale decided to take Crowley to a new Herbalist shop with much reluctance on the demon's part. Walking around the shop they find a table full of aromatic herbs and a very chatty sales assistant.

As:"Aroma therapy, as you surely know, consists of the evaporation of natural oils and essences present in plants which have a beneficial effect on health."

A:"Absolutely interesting, isn't it Crowley?"

C:"If you want a beneficial effect on my health, take me out of here. NOW."

A:"Come on, stop it. What kind do you have?"

As:"We have sandalwood which is in great demand in this period for its aphrodisiac properties."

A:"Oh wow. Very beautiful.”

C:"Angel please, you can't believe that this little stick, if you smell it, can give you those feelings of well-being. I can give you these things."

A:"You are truly incredible."

As:"It also seems that inhalation alone has immediate effects."

A:"Seriously?"

As"It sold like hotcakes, I received a lot of requests."

While Aziraphale and the shop assistant chatted, Crowley began to smell that particular stick and an idea came to him. He placed his hand on the angel's, lowering his glasses down his nose.

A:"Crowley, are you okay? Your expression has changed."

C:"Hey, hello. You were right, this stick is really fantastic. You know that right now I have a crazy desire to make out with you on this table in front of the shop assistant. Come on, come here."

A: "Crowley, be good... stay calm."

C:"Come on, you always tell me that you would like more attention from me. Take advantage of it."

A:"Yes, but you scare me...you excite me but you also scare me a little."

#crowley #good omens #ineffable husbands #love quotes #aziraphale #crowleyxaziraphale #ineffable lovers #crowley x aziraphale #crowley good omens #aziracrow

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littlemourningstarr · 5 months ago

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Lovesick

Astarion always thought flowers a waste of a gift- but maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong about that.

Read on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: fluff, like TOOTH ROTTING fluff, silly little vampire in love

The moment Astarion stepped into Bonecloak’s he was hit with a wave of different scents- all the herbs and flora mingling together in the air. It was different from the way Sekh’s workshop always smelled- his always had an Earthy undertone, a hint of fresh soil as he always had living specimens.

Derryth glanced up from the counter, where she had been jotting something into what appeared to be a large log book. Perhaps doing the numbers for the day’s sales.

She didn’t smile at seeing him, but did quirk her brows in recognition. Astarion moved quickly from the door, letting it shut behind him, the city’s nightlife rising behind him now that the sun had set. “Did your other half send you on a last minute errand?” she asked, voice still gruff but not unkind. Astarion presumed she was just never an overly friendly person.

“Not quite.” He paused at the counter, glancing about at all of the herbs hanging in clumps, quickly thinking he was in over his head- and that this had been a rather stupid idea. “Sekh doesn’t know I’m here.”

She closed her log book then, looking intrigued. After a moment of heavy silence and her unyielding stare, Astarion had to glance away.

“I was hoping you might be able to… guide me. I’d like to get some…” Astarion waved his hand around, “herbs or plants or whatever that he might find useful. And might also… look nice.”

He felt rather silly, as she continued to stare him down. “That look nice?” she repeated.

Yes, this was an incredibly stupid idea.

Astarion cleared his throat. “Something that may compliment a few… flowers.” The last bit was mumbled, and he could feel a bit of color along his cheeks, his ears. Gods how had anyone ever done this? He was right to think flowers were an utter waste of a gift.

Derryth finally cracked a small, bemused smile. The crinkles around her eyes deepened. “Most folk would just get flowers.”

“I’m not most folk,” Astarion retorted, adding, “besides, what use would he have for flowers? They would sit and die on a desk or a shelf. At least something here would be useful.” He gestured around him again. “But hells if I know what exactly.”

She moved around the counter, motioning for Astarion to follow her. He did, further into the shop, swearing he was seeing plants he had never seen before. He didn’t think that was even possible at this point- not with Sekh’s obsession.

“What color flowers were you thinking,” she asked, adding, “and what mayhem has that drow been up to in his lab? Maybe we’ll get lucky and we can compliment the color and his work.”

Astarion continued to feel utterly ridiculous, walking through the city, clutching a mess of herbs and flowers, all tied together in a golden ribbon. Was this what lovesick youths felt like? He couldn’t remember, but it had to be the most daunting feeling. He swore everyone was staring at him.

Most nights that would be fine, but this felt- embarrassing? As if everyone knew exactly what he was up to. As if everyone could read that he was going through some overrated, ridiculous, sappy romance tradition.

It was only worse that Sekh hadn’t gone out to the Elfsong that night for a drink, but had made his way out to Sharess’s Caress. Which, again, any other night Astarion would have been utterly amused by this, would have wondered what trouble the two of them might get up to-

His thoughts all jumped to a screeching halt as he stepped into the brothel, dodging a few already drunk patrons who were chasing about one of the courtesans- a pretty half elf with a long blond braid, who gave Astarion a little smile as he moved past him.

Astarion slipped past the patrons, off into the curtained room where music was giving the air a new life. It took a moment, but he found Sekh across the room, sitting casually with Sorn and Nym as if they were simply sharing a drink in any tavern. Which, he knew, was how Sekh was seeing it. He’d chat up the other drow happily until one of them was pulled away for a patron. There were plenty of nights where patrons tried to employ Sekh, even- drunk enough to notice realize he was in fact just a patron like them.

Astarion had scared off plenty of those types, in the past.

He made his way over, his drow glancing up when he was only a few paces away, the cup he was lifting to his lips pausing and hovering near his mouth. Astarion was far too aware of Nym and Sorn watching, as well, when he finally reached Sekh.

He cleared his throat, offering out the flowers and herbs, all tangled in their gold lace, feeling as if his voice simply didn’t want to work. “These are for you,” he mumbled, adding even softer, “my love.”

Sekh set his glass down, stood up and gently covered Astarion’s hand holding the flowers with his own. His mismatched eyes were dancing. His other hand was gently touching the petals of one of the flowers- a large white bloom that Astarion had no idea the name of. He had just gone on instinct.

He was truly thinking his instincts were broken, in that moment. His pulse was alive despite that he hadn’t fed yet, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, banging against his ribs. Why was he nervous? Why did something so trivial as giving flowers to his lover make him feel like crawling out of his skin? It wasn’t as if he needed to impress Sekh, he knew. They had years together now. And yet-

Sometimes, it all still felt so new.

Sekh’s mouth curved into a soft, sweet smile. He leaned past the flowers, pressed a very gentle kiss to Astarion’s cheek. “You,” he whispered, “are a ridiculously sweet man.” He took the flowers himself, carefully examining them, as Sorn and Nym both gave soft laughs as they watched.

“Flowers? In a brothel?” Nym mused, tracing her finger around the lip of her own wine cup. “You are indeed a strange one, Astarion.”

And while he couldn’t argue that, he also couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the idea had just struck him that day, and if he didn’t go through with it now he would have lost his nerve. Over flowers. Gods what had he become?

“I guess romance is far from dead,” her brother added, as Astarion glared at both of them. They took his annoyance with nothing but more smiles.

“Is this Weavemoss?” Sekh asked suddenly, fingers dancing along the purple wisps. Astarion turned his attention back to his lover, as Sekh added, “and this is Mergrass, and this…” he trailed off, his gaze lifting from the bundle in his hands to Astarion.

The vampire shifted awkwardly. “What good would just flowers be for you? I thought you could… use those…” He waved his hand, before he reached up, covered his own eyes. “I think you should simply stake me now Sekh, it would be less painful.”

Instead of the requested stake, however, Astarion got Sekh’s arms tightly around his neck, his lover embracing him. Astarion was barely able to lower his hand from his eyes in Sekh’s grip, as the drow peppered his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, with kisses. The strange, embarrassing dread was quickly replaced by a sweet soaring feeling, as Astarion drowned in the delighted sound of Sekh’s laugh.

“You said flowers were a waste,” he teased. The way Sekh was looking at him made the world melt away, around them. If Sorn and Nym were still watching, Astarion was oblivious.

“Well they are,” he said, even if he couldn’t bring his heart into the statement. “But perhaps… I thought you might like them.”

“Oh, I love them,” Sekh said, adding, “just like I love you,” before leaning in, giving Astarion a proper kiss. The vampire’s hands drifted to his waist, squeezed gently, as he began to feel dizzy over the warm sensation of Sekh’s mouth, the taste of wine clinging to his lips, his tongue. He felt…surreal.

When Sekh pulled back, he leaned up on his toes, pressed his forehead to Astarion’s for a moment, before he eased back, glanced over at Nym and Sorn.

“I think I’m going to take him out for a little hunt,” Sekh said, “then take him home. Seems only appropriate I get the chance to let him feel… special too.”

Sekh glanced at Astarion, and the vampire’s stomach was up in the most pleasant mess of knots.

“What a bore,” Sorn said, resting his chin on his palm. “Fly away lovebirds. Perhaps you’ll entertain us another night.”

Nym only rolled her eyes at her brother, before she shooed Sekh and Astarion off. The vampire felt Sekh take his hand, tangle their fingers together, as the drow led him quickly through the brothel, back out to the bustling streets. Sekh turned them away from the gates back into the city, his other hand still clutching his flowers and herbs tightly to his chest.

“Let’s find you a little beastie to devour,” Sekh said, “so I can devour you.”

Astarion felt his heart race over the idea. Yet- “I didn’t… darling, you don’t have to-”

Sekh paused, tugging Astarion up against him. The vampire could smell the subtle floral scent, mixing with the herbs- it was oddly soothing. “You didn’t do this just to get me on my back beneath you, I know,” he teased, “you don’t have to even try for that, Starshine. But I think I’d quite like to whisper into your ear all night how much I utterly adore you, if that’s agreeable?”

Astarion swallowed thickly, lost in the scents and the cool night air and Sekh’s dancing eyes. Had he ever felt so utterly a fool and yet a king before, in his life? Had there ever been a time, before this man, where he had actually known what it was like to be so hopelessly in love?

He swore that even if there was, lost in the recesses of his long dead memory, it would still pale in comparison to what he felt now. That giddy, safe feeling, that excitement over just seeing his lover smile.

That feeling that wherever Sekh was present was home- and he was finally safe to think that.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #sekh'met #sekstarion #astarion/tav #astarion x tav

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