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dionysianivy · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐧

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘼𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙣 𝙀𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙭 🌾🍎🕯

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What is Mabon?

Mabon, celebrated around September 21 to September 29, marks the autumnal equinox and the second harvest of the year. It’s a time of balance, as the hours of light and dark stand equal, symbolizing the transition between summer and winter. It's a time when witches and practitioners honor the changing seasons, express gratitude for the Earth's abundance, and connect with the energies of balance and transition. The term "Mabon" for this celebration is named after Mabon ap Modron, a character from Welsh mythology. It is often associated with the mythological theme of the abducted and imprisoned child who later becomes a hero, which parallels the changing seasons.

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Who is Mabon Ap Modron?

Mabon ap Modron, also known as Maponus, is a character from Welsh mythology. In some versions of the myth, Mabon is portrayed as a divine hero or a child who was abducted from his mother, Modron, and imprisoned. He is rescued after 3 years and plays a significant role in Welsh mythological tales. The name "Mabon" itself means "son" or "young man" in Welsh, and it is connected to the theme of rebirth and the return of the light.

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Hades × Persephone and the Autumn Equinox

Legend has it that on the last day of summer, Hades, the god of the Underworld, saw Persephone picking flowers in a field. He immediately fell in love with her and abducted her, wanting to keep her by his side as the queen of the dead. Upon discovering the disappearance of her daughter, Demeter, the goddess of harvest, set out to find her. Unable to locate Persephone, Demeter’s sorrow and despair were so overwhelming that the flowers, trees, and all vegetation withered, bringing all growth on Earth to a halt. The gods of Olympus, who were powerless to ignore the prayers of humans, reached a compromise with Hades regarding Persephone’s return. She would spend only six months each year with Hades in the Underworld. To avenge herself, Demeter decreed that during those six months, nature would mourn, and nothing would grow on Earth until Persephone ascended again from the Underworld.

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Magical Correspondences

Planets: Sun, Mercury

Season: Autumn

Element: Water

Time of Day: Dusk

Tarot: The Hermit

Colors: Brown, Maroon, Red, Orange, Purple, Yellow, Gold

Herbs: Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, Chamomile, Cedarwood, Juniper, Mugwort, Dried Apple

Fruits: Grapes, Apples, Pears, Plums, Blackberry, Pomegranates

Vegetables: Carrots, Corn, Onions, Pumpkin, Squash

Runes: Dagaz, Inguz, Eihwaz, Jera

Crystals: Amethyst, Agate, Citrine, Tiger's Eye, Amber, Yellow Topaz

Trees: Apple, Oak, Aspen, Cedar

Goddesses: Pomona, Demeter, Epona, Inanna, Ishtar, Kore, Modron, the Morrigan, Persephone, Banbha, Autumnus, Hestia

Gods: Dionysus, Mabon ap Modron, Hades, Dumuzi, the Green Man, Hermes, Thoth, Cernunnos, Osiris, Freyr

Flowers: Marigold, Chrysanthemum, Aster

Animals: Deer, Dog, Wolf, Blackbird, Squirrel, Salmon, Swan

Magical uses: Abundance, Accomplishment, Agriculture, Balance, Goals, Gratitude, Grounding, Harvest, New Beginnings, Reflection

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Activities to do:

🍎 create your own Cornucopia

🍎 make a special Mabon jar

🍎 bake an autumn recipe

🍎 eat apple pie

🍎 harvest your garden

🍎 light a bonfire and dance or tell stories with your loved ones around it

🍎 do a guided meditation to welcome the new season

🍎 clean your garden

🍎 listen to Mabon music on Youtube or Spotify(there are plenty of playlist you can find!)

🍎 spend time with your deity/deities

🍎 grab some autumn flowers and bring them into your home

🍎 rest and relax♡

🍎 read about Mabon

🍎 clean your house to prepare for the season

🍎 take a walk outside to connect with nature and be grateful for the summer that has passed and warmly welcome the beauty of autumn

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Food and Drinks:

apple pie, apple cider, wine, grapes, root vegetables, apples, cornbread, baked good made from wheat or grains, cakes with cinnamon or nutmeg, roasted meat, pork chops, mashed potatoes, peach jams, fruit tarts, apples in all forms, pumpkin pie

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useful sources: Magie Blanche by Eric Pier Sperandio

gifs credit: Pinterest

Tip jar🍎🌾

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gloomwitchwrites · 27 days ago

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In the Wolf's Maw

Werewolf John Price x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: mild dubcon, knotting, mating bonds, accidental mating, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, breeding, dominance, protectiveness, possessive behavior, werewolf!Price, shifter!Price

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: Requested by @glitterypirateduck for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Werewolf AU)

Walking home on Halloween night, you’re accosted by three strange men. From the dark emerges a stranger, but one that has been haunting your steps for months. He might be your savior, but there is a deeper hunger within him that needs to be satiated, and only you can satisfy it.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Something walks with you amongst the trees.

It is always near—always close—but never enough for you to glimpse it between the towering bark.

When you first felt the strange presence, you believed it to be human. Your senses awakened in expectation of threatening intent, but now, with the passing of the months, you no longer believe it to be so.

Whether for good or ill, a human would have revealed themselves in some capacity. This must be animal. It has to be. Either curious or cautious but it clearly does not see you as a threat. It is always there though. A phantom. A figure. You've never seen who or what but you sense it.

"You should really take the main road. I don't understand why you insist on cutting through the forest."

"It's peaceful," you reply. "Gives me time to think."

Your friend arches an eyebrow. "You know the stories."

"Myths," you correct. "Not stories."

"Myths always carry a bit of truth."

There are wolves in the forest. But they live deeper, away from the human population. Wolf sightings are extremely rare, and those that claim to see them are often known for being terrible gossips and liars.

The myth that walks with them is that the wolves are not wolves at all.

They are cursed men. Shifters. Werewolves.

It's nonsense.

Scientifically impossible.

The wolves are only wolves. Maybe the one that watches you is one of these wolves?

Possible, but unlikely.

For all you know, you're being watched by a curious scurry of squirrels.

The myth is history drenched, from a time when people needed to explain natural phenomena they didn't understand. It is only stories.

Or so you believed.

It's late in October. Halloween night.

You stayed far too late at the local library, browsing shelves and losing track of time until the librarian, Mrs. Dean, came scouting for you in the basement archive. Down there, you went searching for what hadn't been digitized, seeking stories about these wolves.

Most of what you uncovered were old newspaper articles of missing women and mauled men in the forest. The details were few and relatively unhelpful, but like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, there was one consistency in all of them.

The myth, mentioned at the end of every article. Cursed men that shift into wolves. Men in the skin of a predator that hunt women and slaughter their menfolk. You'd think the town had a serial killer, but the articles go back far enough in time that it simply couldn't be the case. Many of the articles cite historical records and reports of the same thing happening over a hundred years ago.

It plagues you on your walk home.

Staying late at the library and taking the path through the forest home takes you away from the roaming families and the angsty teens ready to terrorize anyone who steps in their path. The streets are alive with movement, but you need to collect your thoughts, to consider what you've found and figure out where to look next.

A gentle wind brings a chill with it, sneaking underneath your coat to tease skin. Shivering, you bundle up tighter, the cold bite of air adding a kick to your step. You feel eyes on you, but not your anonymous phantom.

These eyes feel cruel. Malicious.

"What's this?"

Three tall figures in masks emerge from the dark. Like a whisper of wind they appear, skulking toward you, fanning out in a half-moon directly in front of you.

"Cute thing like you shouldn't be out here all on your own." The voice is masculine. Deep. Not one of the local teens. This is someone much older. "There are...wolves about."

The trio saunters forward, the two on the ends splintering off from the man in the middle, slowly boxing you in. There is nowhere to go but behind. Turning tail and running means a chase. You scent their excitement. That is what they're itching for.

"I'm fine. Thank you for the concern," you reply in the blandest voice you can muster.

Don't show fear.

"Need an escort?"

He's not taking the hint, but what did you expect?

Missing women. Dead men.

"No. Thank you."

Squaring your shoulders, you charge forward, intent on walking through the two on the right. In sync, they close ranks, blocking your path.

"Sure about that?"

"We insist."

Your lips part. "I'm—"

A low growl reaches your ears. It is laced with warning, and a sudden surge of energy rushes up to greet you, wrapping around and between your limbs like invisible rope. You know this sensation. It is familiar and unwaveringly comforting.

The two men standing in front of you glance over your shoulder. From behind their masks, their eyes widen with abject terror. Their shoulders tighten with tension, and they freeze like a deer sensing danger.

The growl comes again, and that sensation bleeds into you further, becoming more than just comfort.

It is...ownership.

Possession.

"What the fuck is that?" whispers one of the men.

They're not focused on you anymore. They're looking beyond you. Behind.

"Fucking run, mate. Run!"

The three men stumble backward, becoming small and insignificant before your very eyes. They shove at each other, not for encouragement, but for distraction. If one should fall, it might distract whatever it is that lurks behind you.

At first, you do not turn. You wait for the pounce—for the growl. But there is nothing. Only silence. Yet those invisible ropes still cling to your body. They still hold tight.

With a baffling sense of calm, you slowly swivel.

There is a wolf. Not a normal one you might see in a wilderness documentary. This one is large, nearly as tall as you on all fours. Its fur is a deep brown. It watches you intently, gaze fixated on nothing else. Even as you take a step away, the creature does not waiver.

It's unnerving, at least, it should be. Yet that comforting familiarity shuts out everything else. It chases away fear and doubt. You know that the natural instinct of any animal facing down a larger predator is survival, but there is nothing that beats within your body that suggests your fight or flight response is on.

It is eerily peaceful. Serene even.

If this sensation did not encompass you as completely as it did, you suspect that you'd be like the trio. Afraid. Terrified.

But just because your sense has left you, that doesn't mean your brain has. It is loud and it is talking.

Do not turn your back. Do not break eye contact. Make yourself big. Make noise. Move backward slowly.

You stretch your arms out wide, puffing your chest, attempting to make yourself bigger. Not like you could ever compare to this beast. You step back, breathe in, preparing a yell.

But just as you do, the wolf shifts. It's not showing its fangs or quickening its haunches. It only watches on, alert and curious. Not aggressive.

There is no submission, though. The wolf does not seem intent on simply walking away. That sensation hugging your body brightens, and a flare of possession surges through you, stiffening your muscles as if you've been turned to stone.

The wolf shifts again. Shakes. Takes a step toward you.

As it does, you hear bones pop and snap. Beneath the wolf, its legs twist and bend beneath it, staggering its forward progress. Its nostrils flare and then the neck snaps as if lurched to the side by some invisible force.

"What the fuck," you mutter, that sense of calm slipping.

The connection is still there, but it's slightly weaker than before. A drop of fear creeps in, and the need to escape starts to bloom in your chest. It widens, that familiarity leaking away to bleed into the earth as the broken wolf shakes and twists some more.

It is just a mass of fur and tangled limbs.

And then, from the pile, the fur splits open, and a human arm emergers, the fingers reaching out, tearing at the dirt.

You need to go, to fucking run.

The phantom threads release you, and your feet find their purchase. You launch yourself backward and away, sprinting as fast as you can. The cold, October air bites at your cheeks. Everything burns.

You know this is just adrenaline. It will fade and you will crash.

Boot slipping on dead leaves, you go stumbling forward, the ground coming up fast. You're jerked to a stop. Halted. Face inches away from smashing into a rock. Glancing down your body, you see...arms. Human arms. Wrapped around your torso. They are muscular and marked with protruding veins, with a dusting of hair along the forearms.

Slowly, you are lifted upward and onto your feet, but the arms remain. Warmth greets you, pressing into your back to chase away the October chill. With it comes a honey-laced scent. It is sweet and lulling, seeping into your pores to flood your senses. This is like before—the awareness of familiarity and possession, but there is a difference in its tone. Beneath it is a wicked teasing, a promise of dominance and pleasure. Like the invisible ropes, it overpowers, wrapping around you to hold you like a blanket.

It is enticing. A pull that calls to you. Something within you reverberates its call, answering back.

The arms around you tighten until you're firmly pressed against the man holding you. That is who it is. Not what. The wolf is gone. This is solid flesh.

This is myth made life.

The lulling sensation settles in, calling to you, telling you to submit.

It would be so easy. So simple.

No.

You push at the man's arms, twisting in an attempt to break free. But your savior turned captor holds firm, allowing nothing.

"Let me go."

"No."

The no is a rumble deep in his chest. It vibrates through the pull and into your bones. This is a command, and your body promptly responds, coiling tight.

Glancing over your shoulder, you lock gazes with the man holding you in his arms. You're staring at the face of a man. He is handsome. Older. His skin is lightly coated in sweat and dirt. But the eyes. They are wolf eyes. Completely animal. The rest of him is completely bare. No clothing in sight, and yet he doesn’t appear cold.

His chest heaves slightly, nostrils flaring. This man burst forth from the wolf, but there is still a beastly quality that sings along the pull. This man is somewhere between, lingering between the wolf and humanity.

How you know this isn't entirely clear. There is a link somewhere. A tether. His closeness only makes the awareness grow in strength. Confusion and concern twist together even as the comforting familiarity attempts to soothe your nerves.

"Please," you murmur, not entirely understanding yourself what it is you're trying to say.

The man only sighs. His head dips, and then he inhales deeply as if—

Is he…scenting you?

"What are—"

The question disappears from your lips. Taken from your mouth. The stranger nuzzles your neck, inhaling deeper. One hand descends as the other rises. Along the pull you feel heat, it floods outward from him and into you, going straight to your pussy.

The descending hand slides between your legs, cupping your sex. The other roams up your stomach to your chest, gently learning the curve of a breast through your sweater.

He groans low, and that too reverberates within you. A tingling blooms in your core. There is your own desire, but beside it is another. His.

The stranger's hand slides further between your legs. Back and forth, the pressure building so suddenly and intensely that your pussy clenches.

He inhales again. Growls. "Mine."

That one word is like a slap to the face and a comforting caress. Along the pull, it is a dominating serenity. Outwardly, your freedom rebels, pushing against the idea.

As if sensing the unease, his hold on you releases, but only for a moment. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms, clutching you tightly, strutting forward with purpose in every step. You sense it through the pull, this taut string that has woven its way inside.

"Let me go," you murmur, pressing against his firm chest.

Be calm.

The command comes not from his own throat, but from within your head. It is his voice. Clear and resonate. The moment your brain processes it, all your limbs soften like jelly.

Are you trapped? Have you been possessed?

A part of you firmly clings to this idea while the other part remains completely calm as if this is supposed to happen.

He walks deeper into the forest, and time stretches, the stars through the canopy your only light. The trees thicken, and then the stranger comes to a stop before a group of jagged rocks that juts upward from the ground.

Within the rock, you spy darkness.

An opening. An entrance.

Instinct flares, and the need to escape comes rushing back. Be calm, he says again.

This time, there is no instantaneous softening. Along the pull, something tightens, as if adjusting a belt buckle. A wildness stirs, and the earlier arousal returns, tinged with desperation. Eagerness settles in your chest, but it feels more like his emotions than yours.

The man walks toward the rock. He tilts forward, stepping inside, submerging the two of you in utter darkness. Yet, you do not feel frightened. Each step of his is confident and steady, and as the two of you steadily move forward, a soft white glow begins to appear. It is faint at first. Soft.

Another opening emerges, and before you is an antechamber. In the middle of the rock-laden room is a massive slab of solid, black stone. It stands at waist level, the surface worn from age. Above it is an opening in the cave ceiling. From it, moonlight falls upon the rock slab. An acrid odor fills your nostrils. A brief brush of wind slides against your cheek. Something magical and old stirs. Something primal.

He stops at the rock slab, and then gently brings you down to your feet. Solid ground is comforting. Stable and strong.

The wolf eyes stare back at you. A fire swirls within them. As your gazes’ lock, memory surges down the pull. That familiar feeling returns, and with it, memories of you.

He is the one who has walked with you amongst the trees. He is the one who has been the presence at your back. Keeping you safe. Protected. A sense of duty follows the memory along with a flare of purpose. At the end is dominance and possession. It all slithers around the pull until you feel it in every part of you down to the tips of your fingers.

Maybe all those missing women aren’t missing at all. Maybe they went willingly. Maybe they had wolfish protectors of their own.

You are at ease, your limbs responding of their own accord. You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart. Its beat is strong beneath your palm. He places his hand over yours, gently grasping it. Stepping forward, his head dips, forehead pressing to yours with an intimacy that somehow feels…normal. Like you've known it all your life.

Along the tether, you taste a name.

John.

His name is John.

"John," you breathe, and his hand upon yours tightens.

The distance closes, a radiating heat bursting within your chest as John’s other hand falls upon your hip. It flows outward, warming you down to your toes and into your fingers. John's lips find yours, and it is perfectly blissful. This stranger is not unknown to you. Your soul sings with longing and want.

There is a connection here. Why not seek it?

You return the kiss, grasping the back of his neck, moving in to consume just as he does. John's answer is a deep growl, one that vibrates in his chest. A sharp spike of arousal shoots through the tether, slamming into you at full force.

You gasp. Draw back.

John is partially transformed, fingers morphing into claws. With a groan that is more animal than human, John tugs at your clothes. They surrender under his touch, like a knife through softened bread. There is no ceremony to it. No ritual. You are laid bare before this man. At his mercy. The chilly October air rushes in and then immediately departs, John's body heat chasing it away almost the moment it arrives.

His hands are on your waist, lifting you, planting you atop the stone slab. You want to say something—anything, but all words escape your head and tongue as John spreads your legs wide and places his mouth on your pussy. Sudden surprise becomes languid pleasure.

He is ravenous. Hungry. John leaves no part of you untasted. Your moans echo in the small cave, filling the space with your ecstasy. His tongue delves inside, and then languidly slides upward to swirl and tease your clit. Everything in you tenses, anticipating release.

John's arms hook over your legs, hands splayed wide, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer against his mouth. With your pleasure comes his, rolling across the link in waves. It comes in flashes of images. You glimpse yourself as he sees you, not only in this moment, but in all the moments he's watched you.

Between the desire and need is a hint of loneliness, of an unfilled connection that burrows in his chest and eats away at his heart. This current moment isn't what he intended, but it has all unraveled.

Your grasp for him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging hard as your orgasm burns bright behind your eyelids.

Look at me, comes the command.

You do, and your gazes lock. His nails are still elongated, still claw-like. One pointed tip pierces your skin just as your orgasm bursts. He growls low.

Mine.

The voice. His voice.

Mine.

A sense of ownership and dominance enters your consciousness. You feel as if you're incomplete. only a portion of yourself, yet the end is near. It will all end, and you will be fulfilled.

In the hazy aftermath of your orgasm John's tongue traces up the beads of blooming blood. You shiver, blinking to clear away some of the euphoria. John stands between your legs. His hands are still on your thighs, keeping them wide. In full view is his erect cock. There is a slight curve to it, and at the base is a swollen bulge. John squeezes one thigh and your gaze returns to his face. They are still all wolf.

When the wolf fades, what color might they be? The question pops into your head and then quickly fades. His wolfish features are starting to bleed in again. Nose elongating, fur returning, claws lengthening.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice a tangled snarl.

With a quickness that startles you, John flips you onto your stomach. His hands are everywhere, spreading you wider. You briefly glimpse him between your legs before he lifts himself up and onto the stone slab, settling behind you. Above you, one half-transformed hand presses against the stone just next to your head. His other finds rest against your waist.

While your own body buzzes with anticipation, you sense an excitement along the tether. John's excitement. Of the act itself but also of a sense of peace.

The head of his cock presses at your entrance. You exhale, relaxing your muscles, welcoming him in. You're wet, and your pussy accepts him with only the slightest resistance. He holds himself there for a moment, simply breathing. Like this, you feel entirely full. It's a snug fit, but it feels amazing, like his body was made for yours and yours for his.

Mine.

"Yours."

At your admission, John thrusts in earnest. There is nothing slow and sensual about his movements. It is only primal need and utter hunger. His arm hooks under your stomach, and then you're pressed firmly into the rock by his body. You are trapped beneath him, completely at John's mercy.

Each stroke is perfect. Cleansing.

You pant beneath him, almost in time with his own needy groans. The swell at the base of his cock slaps your pussy with each thrust. It doesn't seek entrance, but deep down, you know it will, but for what purpose is unclear.

John's movements become sharper. More intense. His panting increases, and you feel his mouth at your throat. There is a soft press of his lips, then a gentle tease of his tongue. You cannot see him, but you feel the transformation above you.

John is no longer human as his maw opens wide and holds your throat in it as he ruts. His cock swells in your pussy, stretching. The swell at the base prods, and with a final thrust, it pops in. John holds there, growling. His sharpened teeth pierce your skin. You feel the little rivers of blood trail down your throat. With the bite comes understanding. That tether becomes a solid, unbreakable thing.

Mine. She is mine.

Forever mine.

Mate.

Memories and emotions crash into your skull. You see all of John for who and what he is. A wolf. A shifter. The alpha of his pack.

Within your pussy, you feel a flood of heat. Now you know what the knot is for. His pleasure becomes yours, and you shiver, another orgasm creeping up suddenly and without warning. You clench down on his cock and on his knot. His answer is a pleased growl.

Ever so slowly, the wolf’s massive maw releases your throat. The transformed paw above your head disappears, followed by the weight of him. His cock and knot remain where they are. You feel him shiver. Hear a cracking of bone. You remain perfectly still until the ragged breathing of an animal becomes that of a human.

You turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. Behind you is John. The man, not the wolf. There are no sharp claws. No pointed teeth. The tips of his fingers brush over your skin, becoming full hands that gently caress. There is no harshness. His head tilts up, and for the first time, you're seeing him as he truly is.

Blue eyes. John has blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, exhaling deeply, a nervous flutter to his lashes.

"You're still inside me," you reply softly.

He glances down and groans. "Fucking hell. Forgot about that." He flushes slightly. "It'll be a minute."

"A minute?"

He grimaces. "The knot. Still swollen. It'll hurt you if I pull out now."

"Oh."

There is a stretch of silence. John sighs, his hands gentle tapping a rhythm against your ass. "This is...awkward,” he murmurs.

"Is it?" you ask, arching a single eyebrow.

"John," he says sheepishly, extending his hand in introduction.

"I know your name. I heard it through the—"

"The bond," he finishes. "I know." He drops his hand, and places it on your lower back. Using the position, John tests the knot. You wince. It doesn’t want to budge. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for...this."

"It's fine,” you reply, because it is.

You feel light. Content. This man is a complete stranger and yet not. Between you is the bond. There is strength in it, and a comforting embrace that you’ve always wanted but have never found.

"It's not." He sighs. "It's not how I wanted to do this," he mutters. Gripping your hips, John tests the knot. There is resistance but it’s significantly less than before. "Relax your muscles," he says softly.

You inhale, and on the exhale, John withdraws. You whimper from the brief flare of resistance but it isn't painful.

“I forget myself when I’m changed. You were threatened, and I couldn’t resist the impulse to protect you. For the wolf, that meant stealing you away. Completing the bond. But it’s not an excuse.”

You draw your knees up, suddenly realizing how exposed you are.

“You didn’t harm me. Except—”

You reach up and touch your throat. There is no blood or puncture wounds. Just a couple raised bumps that weren’t there before.

“What is this place?” you ask, glancing around.

John’s gaze scans the room, and then returns to you. “A ceremonial space. It’s been here for thousands of years. The wolf brought you here because it knew it would be safe.” He licks his lips in agitation, and then runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at them in irritation. “Could we begin again? Start over?”

“What did you have in mind?”

He places both hands on the stone slab, leaning in close. “I’ll…take you home.” His muscles bunch with tension when he says it. Along the bond, you sense the wolf’s firm refusal of the idea. “I’ll come to you during the day. We can talk.”

You scoot down the rock slab, moving closer to him. The middle of John’s brow furrows with confusion as he watches you. As you cozy up to him, you sense his calm—the relaxing of his muscles. John’s head dips, nostrils flaring slightly as his eyelids close in pleasure.

“My scent is all over you,” he purrs.

A mix of deep desire and contentment wraps you up in its embrace.

“How do you plan on taking me home? You did shred all my clothes.”

John chuckles. “Discreetly.”

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dietcokegirly12 · 30 days ago

Text

“How Much Did You Eat?”

featuring ranpo edogawa "૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა

⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅

art credit: @hanotanoha

⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ʚ𖦹ɞ ⋅

tags: aphrodisiacs, horny!ranpo, unprotected sex, slight handjob, teasing, masturbation

word count: 1.6k

KINKTOBER OCT. 17 (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

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Ranpo loved snacks, chocolates especially. Everybody in the Detective Agency knew this, you especially, since you'd always had kind of a crush on him.

So nobody questioned anything when he walked in from his lunch break with arms full of various candies, boxes and bags alike.

You also knew better than to ask for any, since he never shared so everyone just left him alone, to nurse his sweet tooth by himself.

It was only when you were passing by his desk to deliver some paperwork to Fukuzawa that you noticed something off.

He was currently indulging in a heart-shaped box of chocolates which was weird, because it was September, not even remotely close to Valentine's Day.

You paused, tilting your head. "Ranpo, what are you eating?"

He turns to you, eyes closed and still chewing, his cheeks full like a squirrel. "Mm.. chofclate."

At first sight, you think maybe it's very expired chocolate from last year, so you quickly take the box from him, eliciting a soft protest.

Turning it over, you squint at the label and it's just then that you notice in small, printed letters the words, Gourmet Sex Chocolate with Herbal Aphrodisiacs.

Ranpo peers over your shoulder. "Huh?"

You whirl around, eyes wide as he stares back at you, unfazed as he continues chewing.

"Ranpo!" You hiss. "Did you read the label before you bought these?"

He looks at you quizzically. "No, why?"

You steer him away from the office, lowering your voice as you say, "Ranpo these are sex chocolates."

You wait for his reaction, expecting him to dramatically spit it out, or gasp, or something, but he simply shrugs, reaching for another. You quickly snatch it out of his hand, throwing the box in the trash.

"Hey!" he complains.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

He laughs. "It's funny how worked up you are over this. You realize those are myths, and a placebo effect at best. They don't actually..."

"How many did you eat?" You interrupt, beginning to get worried.

Distractedly, he reaches for a different box of chocolates. "Huh?"

Snatching it out of his hands, you look down at this one to see a similar packaging. "Ranpo! What kind of candy store did you go to?!"

He lifts one shoulder, unconcerned. "I wanted to try something new, and they had a section in the back I've never seen before with all these expensive chocolates. I thought they were exotic or something."

In a panic, you try to come up with solutions to solve the problem at hand, shaking your head in concern. “Oh no. No. It’s too late. You've already eaten who knows how many."

You turn, wracking your head as you try to figure out what to do. “God! I hope you can’t overdose on those, or you’re going to be in trouble. Ranpo, you have to go home right now, and wait for it to leave your system. I’ll tell Fukuzawa you left early because you felt sick, and have Kunikida clock you out of the system..”

Breaking off when you get no response, sensing something off since Ranpo is never silent, you turn back. “Ranpo?”

He’s looking back at you, cheeks flushed and lips parted. His emerald green eyes are half-lidded and he’s breathing heavily. Looking down, you see he’s sporting an impressive erection, the thick outline of his cock straining against his brown pants.

You lift your gaze, cheeks flushed pink. “Fuck! They work fast! Sorry! I'll leave!"

Quickly, you slam the door behind you, leaning against it heavily as you catch your breath, trying to ignore the arousal pooling between your thighs. This was wrong. He was in a compromising situation, you couldn't take advantage of him when he was like this.

You take a deep breath. You needed to go back to work. You had things to do. And Ranpo... well he could deal with it himself.

After a few moments' hesitation, you get up and walk calmly back to your desk, smoothing your skirt down.

The next half an hour or so passes by, uneventful as you focus. Or, at least, try to. You keep finding your mind wandering to what you think Ranpo might be doing in his office right now. Jerking off, probably.

The thought makes you squirm, but you try to pull yourself together and start working on the graphs for the latest mission at the Agency before Kunikida comes and yells at you.

Suddenly, the door to Ranpo’s office creaks open, and you hear his voice, breathy and slightly ragged. “Can you c’mere?”

You look around, unsure if he’s talking to you but notice you’re the only one in the office at the moment. Everyone’s probably out, running errands.

“Ranpo? Are you..”

“Just come here.” His voice is impatient, but there’s no doubting the unmistakable needy, desperate whine in his tone.

Hesitantly, you walk over, and push the cracked door open.

Nothing can prepare you for the sight you see inside, however.

Ranpo, head lolling back and hair mussed up, his normally closed eyes half-open, and his hand wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously.

You stay completely still, taking in the sight laid out before you. His cock was pretty and long, but most impressive was its girth. He was thick, his shaft pointed like a Cupid’s arrow at the top and sticking up into the air, flushed a pale pink with veins decorating it all the way down.

You don’t move, or make a sound, and impatiently he groans. “Are you just going to stand there?”

You swallow. “You want me to help you?”

“Fuck! Yes, I-I can’t.. it’s n-not working like this, just.. come here.”

You do, shyly, your hands twisting behind your back.

His head tilts back further, his eyebrows furrowing. “Touch me.”

Hesitantly, you come closer, reaching one hand out to take his heavy cock into your hand. It feels like velvet, and pearly precum beads out of the slit.

He shudders as you do, hips desperately thrusting up further.

Instinctively, you slowly pump him, your hand sliding up and down, and his needy whimpers and whines leaving his throat only serve to make your arousal grow.

You break off in a gasp as he suddenly sits up, smashing his lips to yours.

“Ranpo… are you..?” you gasp, as his face nuzzles into your neck, pressing himself to you as he rubs his erection on you, humping into you sloppily.

He breaks away only for a second to ask, “s’ this okay?” and as you give a shocked, affirmative nod, practically shoves you backward into his desk, pinning you down and grinding himself against you as he places messy, open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach.

You instantly squirm, bucking upward to pant and let out soft cries of his name, as your hands find their way to his soft, brown hair, tugging him forward closer.

He’s trying to mold himself to your body as he pushes your legs apart with his knee and quickly nestles himself in between, his hard cock pressing right against your entrance, covered only by the thin layer of panties you're wearing beneath your skirt.

In one harsh tugging motion, Ranpo rips them off, and is back on you in a second. "M' so fucking horny. Could cum just from this." He desperately grinds against your drenched cunt, his cock leaking precum and making a mess all over you, as you squirm, arching under him.

At this point, he's so desperately impatient for you, he can't hold out any longer. With messy, uncalculated movements, he lines himself up against your entrance and sloppily thrusts all the way in, wedging himself deep inside you.

You gasp, trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion as your legs automatically close around him, trapping him.

“Fuck baby.. open your legs. I need..” he pants softly over you, his dick twitching faintly.

You can’t help but want to tease him in this state, keeping them locked firmly around him. “Or… what?”

“Fuck!” He cries out, trying to move. “Please I.. oh fuck don’t clench like that.”

You can’t help it as your pussy convulses and flutters around him at his whiny words, trying to suck him in further.

“Pleaseeee!” His dick throbs inside you, and finally you relent, parting your legs slightly, and he wastes no time, nudging them fully open and holding down your thighs with his hands to expose your dripping cunt stuffed full of his cock, and keep you still.

He begins a relentless pace, thrusting into you so hard the desk is rattling, his dick plunging in and out, filling the room with lewd, squelching sounds.

“R-ranpo..” you gasp, clutching onto him tightly as his eyes shut, adjusting himself to a new angle to hit your sweet spot every time, forcing himself deeper into your tight, warm walls. “S-slow down..”

He grunts. “C-can’t.. fucking aphrodisiacs. Never thought.. ah..”

You can feel your stomach tightening, so close you can practically taste it, and your hands come to grip in his mussed-up hair with a moan, cunt clenching desperately around his veiny girth.

“Fuck.. baby you’re.. mm close?”

Before you can even say anything, you feel your clit twitching as the coil in your tummy snaps, warmth drenching his cock as you tighten and spasm around him, your hips twitching up.

He groans, feeling the warmth of your arousal washing over him as he follows suit close behind, spurting thick, warm ropes of cum into you.

For a moment, you just lay there, still trying to process all the events that had just transpired, and the stickiness between your thighs.

Just as you’re about to get up from his desk, you feel the warmth of his hand pushing you back down.

“Ah ah. The aphrodisiacs haven’t worn off yet.”

tagslist: (ask to be tagged!) @kissesmellow21 @rosebluuod @sakui1 @sayyestoheaven00

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iguanodont · 1 year ago

Text

My gift for @mathpope from a recent discord “secret Santa” art exchange! I give you the great California Condor, king of North American vultures, lording over a megafaunal feast.

Some notes on the border art: the tree branch flourishes up top depict bristlecone trees, another unique Pleistocene holdover that clings to existence in remote parts of California. The insects in the curve of the mammoth tusks are condor lice (Colpocephalum californici), a parasite that fed exclusively on California condors and went extinct when the 22 birds left in existence were captured and de-loused for the breeding program to save their species. The woven art on the sides depicts two indigenous myths about condors, left side as a beneficial entity, saving humanity from a primordial flood (Wiyot), and right side as a bloodthirsty antagonist that gets beheaded by Ground Squirrel (Mono). The bones overhead (mammoth, moose, horse) are all Pleistocene megafauna that the condor would have been specialized in feeding on.

Thanks for another fun trade!

#secret Santa 2023 #art trades #gift art #california condor

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ghcstao3 · 11 months ago

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siren ghost and sailor soap?

sort of inspired by the pirates of the caribbean sirens scene because it’s one of my favourite things of that series. also i got a little carried away

Over the many, many years of traversing the Seven Seas for his life’s work, Soap has become intimately familiar with the abundant myths and legends about the ocean and what lies beneath.

Of course, most of these hold no truth. Most of these are only mere stories to quell the anxieties of sailors, or to provide reasoning to strange occurrences seemingly otherwise unexplainable.

Sirens are, unfortunately, the exception.

Ruthless, ravenous creatures—they’re the worst fear of any sailor who knows the worth of his own life, and like most things that make mortal men afraid, they’ve been transformed into weapons.

Soap only knows that sirens are real because of what happens to many prisoners at sea—from the brig they’re moved to rowboats without paddles, abandoned and forced to sing until the sirens appear to lure them into the water, where flesh would be torn from bone with razor sharp teeth.

It’s a terrifying sight. The creatures are like sharks called to blood with the way they appear, like piranhas with the way they feast.

It’s horrifying. Fascinating. And Soap has vowed to never let himself end up on one of those boats.

But alas. Fate has other plans for him.

Soap had been reluctant to join the crew of Captain Philip Graves when presented with the opportunity, but the pay promised had been good, the work simple, and the destination somewhere he’s never been.

But what Soap hadn’t realized is that Graves likes to take prisoners. He likes to engage in unfair combat with other ships, and operates almost like a pirate, though not explicitly enough to be considered one himself.

Soap realizes his mistake far too late when he wanders down to the brig one night, otherwise unable to sleep. They’re two weeks into their voyage by now, and Soap knows there’s people in the jail—but he hadn’t known the state of them.

Most already without a secure amount of food outside their makeshift cell, they’re emaciated, wasting away in the hull of the vessel. They’re barely responsive when Soap knocks on the bars of the hold and pokes someone’s damp shoulder. Someone weakly latches onto Soap’s sleeve and begs for nothing in particular, and he feels awful for not having known about this sooner.

So he begins sneaking them food, brings them drink. Squirrels away what extra he can without anyone noticing he’s stopped finishing his meals.

Except someone must notice. Because, nearing the end of their journey, Graves is waking him in the dead of night and pulling him into the Captain’s quarters.

Soap swallows the pounding heartbeat in his throat as Graves slowly crosses the room to take a seat at his desk. He’s never liked the man, not one bit—but this just feels unnecessary. Taunting.

“A little bird tells me you’ve been keeping our prisoners fed,” Graves drawls. “Even though, from what I recall, prisoners are the enemy. I don’t suppose you really have been helping them out, have you, MacTavish?”

It’s a trap, Soap knows. Only a fool wouldn’t be able to tell Graves’s question isn’t really a question at all. Graves has his answer, and waits on Soap’s response if only to entertain him with the idea of escape.

Soap knows just as well that there’s hardly a point in trying to lie.

He lifts his chin as he looks straight into Graves’s eyes to tell him, “I have been. They’re still people.”

Graves chuckles lowly, rising from his seat. He rounds the desk, sitting back on its edge with his arms folded across his chest.

It might be intimidating, if Soap were anyone else. If he were a lesser man.

“Well, then—since you like ‘em so much,” Graves says, “surely you won’t mind joining them.”

Soap supplies Graves with no visible reaction. He doesn’t fight as Graves calls for his men to throw Soap in the brig, doesn’t put up any fuss as they try to cajole him.

If Soap has to be imprisoned for doing what’s right, then he at least won’t let Graves have the satisfaction of knowing Soap’s internal panic.

Because Soap knows what Graves plans to do with his prisoners. He’s known all along.

He predicts they’re maybe a day from port when they’re shoved off the ship and ordered into the decaying rowboat, left to drift away—not too far, however, as they’re still tethered to the ship. Because once all prisoners have been drowned, the boat will be reeled back and used again the next time Graves and his crew venture out to terrorize the waters.

No one has the energy to sing, to lure their cruel punishment to them. Soap’s half-convinced some of the others might just jump into the water on their own.

But they have to sing. Especially when a bullet ricochets off the boat and splinters the wood as encouragement.

Despite his time spent out at sea, Soap isn’t overly familiar with many shanties. He just follows along with whatever is mumbled in a weak tune, dreading as the volume builds with a second bullet, and the water below begins to churn. Glancing over the edge, Soap swears he sees the flash of a tail.

The first one appears shortly, singing along to the song like she’s entirely familiar with the melody. Soap feels the pull, though perhaps not as strongly as he imagined he would, if ever he ended up in these circumstances.

He wonders, briefly and distantly, if it has to do with the fact that he’s not really all that into women.

Soap snorts. Wouldn’t that be something.

But as more sirens appear, the pull grows stronger. Soap begins to feel swayed by the song, gone from muttered and off-kilter to something beautiful, hypnotic. The boat bobs with the weight of their new company and the prisoners that rush to the sides to get a better look at the sirens as if they aren’t the dangerous creatures they’re known to be.

Still, though, Soap isn’t completely compelled to join them in the water. He stays put in the centre and grounds his teeth—though he does gasp and reach out when the first prisoner is pulled under, and red soon blossoms across the surface of the water.

Then he appears.

The whole world seems to disappear for just a moment, when Soap looks into big, brown eyes.

The siren’s voice is deeper than the rest, soothing, and though Soap’s hindbrain screams at him that hidden behind the enchanting exterior, the porcelain skin and the straw-blond hair, there lives evil—he can’t help but lean in.

As Soap gets closer, the boat continuing to rock as more prisoners fall victim, the siren’s singing pauses just long enough for him to offer Soap a smile, saccharine, close-lipped. He reaches out an arm to Soap, calloused fingers caressing Soap’s cheek, cupping his jaw.

Soap can’t help but melt into the touch, its simultaneous warmth and coolness, subconsciously chasing it as it retracts, eyes fluttering shut with a short, pleased sigh.

But with the singing fading from the others, Soap’s eyes suddenly snap open. The siren still holds him, still leads Soap with that gentle touch and deceptively kind gaze, but Soap resists. He doesn’t know when he’d gotten to leaning halfway over the edge of the boat, but he scrambles backward to the opposite side, as far as he can get from this siren.

Soap comes to the startling realization that he’s the only one left.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” the siren croons. He props himself up on the edge of the boat, arms thick with corded muscle to show the real power of this creature. He leans forward, the boat tilting with his added weight. “I don’t bite.”

Soap glances nervously about the empty rowboat, gaze accidentally straying the bloodstained waters that surround them.

“I beg to differ,” Soap says weakly.

The siren laughs softly before slowly sinking back into the water. The boat sways. Soap shakes.

Everything goes silent for a suspiciously long moment before there’s a disturbance in the water and the siren appears at the side of the boat where Soap has taken refuge. He’s singing quietly again and Soap feels that pull, so he moves away, screws his eyes shut, and jams his fingers in his ears in an attempt to block it out.

It doesn’t work, not when the singing gets louder, and Soap’s attempt is rendered useless.

“Shut up,” Soap growls. “Please just shut. Up.”

The singing does cease, though only to make way for a deep, full laughter that is somehow tugging on Soap’s conscience with more force than any melody so far.

When Soap blinks his eyes open, the siren is perched on the edge of the boat, arms splayed one on top of the other, his head resting over them. He’s smiling, even once his laughter has died down, a glint of something in his dark eyes—maybe not quite sinister, but certainly mischievous.

“They’re not letting you back on that ship, you know,” the siren says, as if it isn’t obvious. “So you can either come with me—“

“And what? Be drowned? Eaten?” Soap snaps. “Thanks, but I’d rather rot right here.”

“Suit yourself,” the siren hums.

To Soap’s surprise, he actually disappears back into the water. And despite the waves—the ocean seems to have finally calmed.

Maybe Soap did have the tiny, illogical hope that he’d be brought back to the ship. Maybe Soap did have the tiny, logical hope that this siren would just put him out of his misery.

Either way, now he just sits in silence, listening to waves lap up against the hull as the rowboat rocks lazily with the current. Though the peace surely only stretches on for a few minutes, it feels like hours.

Stupidly, Soap goes to inspect the depths. To make certain he’s really been left alone.

Because that’s when he’s pulled in.

Soap barely has time to yell out before his mouth is filled with the overwhelming, stinging taste of salt, unfamiliar arms wrapping securely around his frame so he can’t wriggle free. His shouts are muffled by the water, and he feels the cold soak into his bones as he’s dragged deeper and deeper. The light fades, or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen.

The last thing Soap sees is the siren’s grin, all fangs and malice before everything goes black.

But then, after an unknown amount of time—Soap wakes up to the slow drip, drip, drip of water on a stone floor.

He’s in a cave.

He’s in a cave, and there’s a light source somewhere, and the siren is watching him.

Soap coughs, clearing water from his lungs. He chokes out, “Why… what did you—“

The siren shrugs. “I don’t eat people I like.”

Soap frowns, still coughing. “You…”

“Call me Ghost,” the siren says, then dives into the pool he’d been wading in at the entrance of the cave, and swims away—long, elegant tail flicking behind him as he leaves.

And while many, many thought swirl around Soap’s head as he gradually gathers his bearings about the situation, the clearest of them all is also the simplest; what the hell kind of a name is Ghost?

If only he could guess.

And if only he could know what’s meant to happen to him next.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #alternate universe #writing

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