#sweet cyanide

[tekidoll]

Can you draw Christopher x Cakey, Or as I call it

SweetCyanide?

yes 😈😈😈😈

i did this on roblox free draw because i only wanna draw on roblox free draw right now

[hearts4golbach]

help this took so long (tagsss)

[trashcanwithsprinkles]

Did you or will you ever make merch for your fanfics? Like keychain/prints/printed version of these most amazing works?

(I would love to parade with my little Morax and Ajax keychain form cyanide narwhal >:D)

genuinely how would that be different of regular genshin merch. i mean i can think of some ways it could be, but still

also quite frankly it would be such a hassle. like i appreciate the thought but setting up a whole-ass online store??? my guy (gn), that's way too much work. i would be far more inclined to do mockup designs and then y'all can DIY the merch LMAO

[daddy-ul]

heya, i'm jinn, i am a basic and i miss atlas rise! live.

[shooshopath]

11pm saltposting I still cannot fucking believe a man who has a PhD and makes way more money than me mixed together Trizol and bleach then tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal when IM the one who fucking inhaled most of it. How do you not know basic undergrad level chemical safety and then try to make ME second guess myself

[loseyoursouls]

@h3artrot asked : " do you remember your nightmares ? "

remi takes a breath, swirling around the ice in the glass of amber liquid she'd acquired a few moments prior. the question was a loaded one, making her recall certain things about herself that she would rather let slip away into the night sky and forget existed.

but that's the thing - remi remembered.

she remembered everything. from what it felt like to take her last breath, the searing pain of a knife piercing her throat, the sensation of drowning in her own blood as she lay on the floor of that hotel suite. forgetting would be nice, but that doesn't seem to be something that she's been offered.

a breath, slow inhale and exhale, before she responds.

"i don't sleep often," she says, taking a second to sip at the liquid in her glass, trying to ground herself in the moment. "but when i do, all i have are nightmares. sometimes they come during my waking moments as well. images that sear themselves against my eyelids."

she shifts her head slightly to glance over at clara.

"i don't have the privilege of forgetting."

[cyanide-latte]

LEECHY THIS LOOKS AMAZING!!! CONGRATULATIONS ON SUCH AN IMPORTANT MILESTONE! ;w; I'M SO HAPPY TO BE HERE TO SEE IT, TO SEE YOU IMPROVE YOUR ART, AND TO SEE WHERE YOU GO NEXT! TwT YOUR SHOUTOUTS ARE THE SWEETEST AND I'M GONNA WIBBLY-CRY OVER IT THANK YOU. GENUINELY I'M PROUD OF YOU AND GLAD TO HAVE MET YOU!

101 FOLLOWERS!!!!

Guys I genuinely couldn’t be more thankful 🥹 I never thought I’d make it above even 50 followers, so to have reached a milestone of over 100 is just so mind blowing to me. I want to take all of you who have gotten me here, but especially my dearest mutuals, you guys are so amazing 😭🙏

I’d like to give my most special thanks to my irl who introduced me to Tumblr in the first place! @enigmatic-pers seriously THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR INTRODUCING ME TO THIS COMMUNITY PERS, YOURE THE BEST OF THE BEST!!!!

Now on to ALL my mutuals, because you guys are all so fucking amazing I can’t even begin to explain it!

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH @thehollowwriter !!!! YOUR WRITING AND OCS ARE SO AMAZING YOU DONT EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH I ADMIRE YOU 🫵🫵🫵💖💖💖

YOU JUST KEEP GETTING BETTER @xen-blank AND EVEN THOUGH WE DONT TALK MUCH I STILL LOVE SEEING YOU IN MY FEED, APPRECIATE YOU TONS ‼️‼️

YOU ARE GENUINELY ONE OF THE SWEETEST MUTUALS I HAVE @oya-oya-okay WE DONT TALK MUCH BUT I REALLY ENJOY SEEING YOU IN MY FEED AND WATCHING YOUR ART IMPROVE! SENDING SO MUCH LOVE 💕

YOU 🫵🫵🫵 @cyanide-latte YOU AND YOUR SILLIES BRING ME ETERNAL JOY!!! I hope your life is filled with wonderful things and I BEST be seeing more of those silly babies (OCs) of yours 💗💗💗

I EAT UP EVERYTHING YOU POST SO HARD @tixdixl LIKE YOU DONT EVEN KNOW??!?!?!!?! You are like the chill guy (gender neutral) of my mutuals 😭 your energy is so calm and nice to interact with, ADORE YOU AND YOURS OCS 💗💗💗

😈 @distant-velleity you… YOU… YOOUUUUUU GRRRAAAAAAHHHHHH My brother in arms when it comes to OC torture, peak interactions but your taste is questionable Kai 😄 (fishkisser 🫵/neg)

I sense your presence and wish I could marry you (we’ve divorced twice) @elenauaurs your art tips on drawing what I feel like are marvelous, you’re genuinely a very caring person and I LOVE LOVE LOVE you energy. Love you to bits Elena 🫶🫶🫶

We didn’t interact much, but you’re an oddball just like me fr, and for that I like you 😈🫵 @nahelenia

Bro. Bro. That are you made of Aurinelle? Literally my reference for everything. If someone asks about him? I show him that image. You are FUCKING AMAZING!!!!! FOREVER CREDITED YOURE SO FUCKING AWESOME 🔥🔥🔥 @ghostiidasponk

SHOOPYYYYYYY AAAARRRRGHHHHHH @boopshoops YOURE SO COOL AAAAGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! I actually adore your art and the effort you put into your OCs, you’re very cool and one of my favorite twst artists out there. Keep it up 💞💞💞‼️‼️

We haven’t interacted in a while, but your art is honestly so cute and funny!!!! I love your humor and you’re honestly great <3 @saikira999 HOPE YOU GET MORE RECOGNITION FOR YOUR SKILLS IN THE FUTURE <<33

*stares deep into your eyes with my scary brown orbs 👁️👁️* Well, well, well… If it isn’t one of my favorite artists whom I didn’t even realize I was mutuals with for the longest time ever 🙂 @oathofoaks YOU PRICK I DIDNT EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A SECOND BLOG FOR THE LONGEST TIME 👹👹👹 anyways. YOURE SO FUCKING COOL AND AMAZING YOI DONT EVEN KNOW!!!! Def top 3 favorite twst artists, without a doubt! its an honor to be your mutual ☺️☺️💕

MY MOOTHEERRRR!!!! MY ELDER SIBLING!!!!!!! AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN!!!!!!!! @twistedwonderlandshenanigans my top notch cheerleader (and opp because those chanclas hurt 😢😢😢) you have NO IDEA how much I appreciate you being in my life. Your encouragement and sweet words of comfort bring an immeasurable joy to my days, and every time we interact I get EXTREMELY giddy. LOVE YOU TO PIECES V 💞💞💞💓💓💓💓💖💖💖

Literally my other half because who tf is you and who told you you could match my freak 🤨🤨🤨🤨 @lumdays I hope a boulder falls on your head and Jade Juca Leech appears to save you <3 /aff

HIIIIII DARLING 🤪🤪🤪💖💖💖💓💓💓 @amatsuchan-eiliniel literally so lovely, sweet, and amazing 🤩 I want you to know I love you so so much, and you will forever be THE ROOK TO MY VIL <<<333 🏹👑

Another moot who I don’t interact with NEARLY as much as I would like to, but I appreciate you regardless @br3adtoasty your art is MESMERIZING 🤩🤩🤩‼️‼️‼️

HIIII ELLIS HIHIHIHIHI @starry-night-rose my coquette pink girl comrade ALL THE WAY!!! Love love love your sweet kind energy, you’re truly adorable and I hope for great things in your life 💓💓

[king-crane]

[INJURY]

[INJURY]: after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them.

No. No, no, no, fuck-

She's on the edge, and he barely manages to catch her, and to pick her up in his arms. No doubt she would hate this, but he had no choice. "Is there a reason you always do this, you detestable parasite on my heart?" His head snaps on a swivel as he looks for the closest building. Their plan had been airtight, an operation that nobody should have been able to anticipate.

Well. That had failed, and now his dearest friend was losing far too much blood.

Her hands on his face were so cold.

"Stay awake, or I will kill you myself." Lies, still spat with venom. "Mary, you need to conserve your energy. Why are you concerned with me when you're the one bleeding?"

He tears off his sleeve and wraps it around her wound before grabbing a canteen from his jacket and forcing her to drink. Call it the mother in him that refused to sit idly by when a friend was hurt.

"Come now, Mary. You're a strong woman. You'll be okay. You have to be."

[oopsieissmimie]

s w e e t e r 🍭🍬✨

[mosswiind]

minthara baenre may not be everyones cup of cyanide but I love her

especially as a good aligned character

she has so many beautiful soft moments

there's a little monologue she does talking about menzoberranzan and if you play specifically as a lolth sworn drow lady and romance her she has some Big Feelings about never being able to go home and feeling resigned to a life among surfacers - but to be accepted, no, loved, by the physical manifestation of everything that has rejected her? magic. beautiful. delicious. 10/10 romance.

she is so consistently surprised that you are kind. generally, but also to her specifically. not deferential, not respectful of her rank, just... kind. and in turn she has little moments of sweetness with other party members, because she's learning how to do it for the first time.

lae'zel and shadowheart get a lot of leeway for being raised in murder cults. please extend the same courtesy to one of the best companions in the game.

is minthara good in every timeline? obviously not. is she good in my timelines? every. single. time.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hiiii I’ve been interested in your work for so long! Idk if you’re taking requests but if it’s no trouble maybe you could do a situation where a cocky hero is patting down a shy villain and being ✨Spicey✨ about it? Thankyou in advanced 🩶

"For the record," the hero said, as the villain's face went scarlet, "I'd normally ask before putting my hands all over that gorgeous body of yours. Consent is important! But in this case..."

The hero drew out several knives from the set hidden beneath the villain's clothing, tossing them aside.

The villain's hands twitched uselessly in the cuffs, an aborted protest squeaking on their tongue to be careful with those!

"Well," the hero said. "Need must, eh?"

"That's all I've got," the villain said. They felt hyper-aware of the solid heat of the hero's body behind them, pinning them up against the brickwork of the alleyway with one hand, while the other patted them down.

The hero laughed softly.

"What a gorgeous liar you are too. It's as if you think I don't know you." The hero promptly pulled out a second set of knives from the villain's other side, where they lived tucked against against the villain's ribs. The villain shivered at the delicate brush of the hero's fingers - a little cool from the night air. "Turn."

The villain didn't particularly want to turn and let the hero see their face. Disarming compliments aside, nobody needed to know about the way the villain's heartbeat was thumping wildly in their throat. Or about the blush. It was just embarrassing.

"I can make you turn," the hero said. Not particularly unkindly. "How handsy do you want me to get?"

And that question - well. The villain turned so fast it nearly constituted an attack, mostly because their brain still hadn't recovered from the deft way the hero had pressed them up against the wall in the first place. The confidence of it. The fact that no one else had dared lay hands on the villain in a very long time.

The hero raised an eyebrow. Their head tilted. Their gaze roamed, entirely too thoroughly, over the villain's face. As if they could decode every secret there like it was nothing.

The villain cleared their throat and looked down, squeezing their eyes shut.

"Having fun?" the hero asked, like they knew the answer.

"No!" The villain's face burned all the more. They would have covered it with their hands if they could. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

The villain said nothing.

The hero set their hands gently on either side of the villain's ribs, dragging them down. They confiscated the various gizmos and bits of wire from the villain's pockets, before sinking gracefully to their knees.

The villain's breath gave a treacherous hitch.

The hero grinned up at them. A disgusting, cocky, arrogant, beautiful grin. They had the audacity to wink.

The villain bit down hard on their tongue. "Don't mock me," they managed.

"Not mocking you. Spread your legs."

The villain stared at them.

"Gently teasing you, perhaps," the hero allowed. "But not mocking. And certainly not about to underestimate you just because you're feeling shy. As delightful as the reaction is. Would it help if I told you that you have nothing to feel shy about? So."

The villain's stomach flattered molten. They shifted their position, leaning more heavily against the wall.

"Good," the hero all but purred.

"Pretty sure there's, like, a police officer who could do this."

"Yeah, but that would require me to trust that they'd treat a sweet thing like you right."

"...I've never been called sweet before."

"Sweet as cyanide. My favourite kind of sweetness." The hero's clever hands grazed the villain's thighs, easily finding two more sets of weapons and an emergency communication device strapped to their inner thigh. "Like a walking armada, aren't you?"

"I like being prepared."

"And are you?" The hero glanced up again as they smoothed one hand down the villain's leg, then the other.

"What?"

"Are you prepared for me?"

The villain's mouth opened but absolutely nothing came out.

"Guessing not," the hero said. "You've gone all wide eyed."

The villain shut their eyes, but then that was worse, because they could still feel the hero's hands on them. They coughed. They made a valiant attempt at composing themselves.

They failed.

"Shoes off," the hero said. "I'll give you a hand."

The villain's eyes snapped open. "You're not..."

"Strip searching you?" The hero's grin widened, and the villain hadn't known it could do that. "Not in an alleyway. That seems cruel. You'd get chilly."

"R-right."

"But you're right that I probably should be thorough. Doubt I'd manage to catch you again any time soon if you escape."

The villain caught themselves thinking it was a shame, that. Ridiculous. Utter nonsense.

The hero eased off one of their boots, then the other, taking with them the secret compartments in the soles.

It was equally ridiculous to feel somehow vulnerable with only their socks. They had the days of the week on them. Nothing like the sleek black of the rest of the villain's clothes.

The hero's eyes softened a fraction, even as the grin turned to a smirk. They rose to their feet again, the villain just a few inches shorter without the boots.

The hero traced their finger along the villain's jaw, like they might possibly have a secret capsule hidden in their teeth. They did. But that was beside the point. And not findable from simply brushing their cheek, however much it made the villain's breathing go shallow.

"Hotel across the way work for you?" the hero asked.

"W-what?"

"Told you I need to be thorough. Don't think I'd catch you again." The hero nudged their chin up, some of the bravado fading to expose the steely intelligence at the centre of them. Just as dangerous as the villain, in their way. "Not entirely convinced I caught you this time."

"You think I planned this?"

"Wouldn't put it past you, my one person battalion."

The villain's mouth felt very, very dry. Mostly because it was true. They'd planned to get caught. They'd prepared. They just...no they really hadn't prepared for the hero. Had they?

"Not as cocky as you come across, are you?" It came out barely above a breath. They should have been annoyed, furious, but...

The hero simply gave them that grin again. Even brighter and cockier than before. The picture perfect image of a powerful hero who hadn't yet learned what it was like to lose.

The villain swallowed.

"Yeah," they managed. "I suppose the hotel works fine. Do make it a nice room if you're going to get handsy. Some of us have standards."

The hero laughed at that. A full, genuine laugh from the belly. They pressed a kiss to the villain's head and the villain - well. The whole world shifted slightly. Dizzy. Intoxicating. How could the hero do that so easily? Like it was nothing?

"Excellent." The hero spun them, one arm linking them together, to keep the villain gathered close their side. Their lips pressed against the villain's ear, making them shiver anew. "Lead on, gorgeous. For you, I can even get the top security suite."

[brucewaynehater101]

Have a Good(?) Mom Janet AU.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yan-est]

I love love love love loveee your househusband hcs :o UR SUCH A GOOD WRITER LIKE REALLY GOOD! BUT ANYWAYS (UR AMAZING) HOW DID HE GREW UP? WAS HE WEALTHY GROWING UP?

stop im giggling like THANK YOU ANON!! 🤍 UR SO SWEET and bc of that i'm making this a teensy bit longer than it should be

neways, pretty sure he was a loner growing up buuuut at least he had you :) based on the warnings below idk if that should be a good thing or

cw: creep behavior, mentions of stalking and homicide

yan!househusband was filthy rich; total trust fund baby, spoiled kid, deep pockets. he might've looked like he had what he wanted and needed in life, but god, he would kill for a second out of his parents' agonizing, suffocating hold.

to distract himself while growing up in his mother's private estates, he tried everything. doesn't mean he was good at it though, if anything, he was on the mediocre side, but hey, he was a fast learner. that skill comes in handy when he finally met you.

and to be honest, he didn't expect falling this hard. sure, you were nice, and smart, and you had what he didn't have in his childhood— freedom. he could've chosen anyone else, he could've fallen for anyone else, but when he unconsciously drew you on the margins of his textbook one day, oh, that sealed your fate.

you were stuck on his mind, and he preferred to keep you in there.

the doodles started small. first, he drew you looking at the board. then he started drawing your side profile, your hair, then your portrait. then your pencil case, your favorite snack, your shoes, your uniform, your thighs, your house, your bed, and… everything down there.

he had to buy a new textbook. the old one was stained and it reeked of him.

he was obsessed.

you, the epitome of his wishes, his lifelong dream to be free, was within his grasp. after being caged by his mother and ignored by his father for so long, you were the breath of fresh air that he yearned to inhale.

you were everything he ever wanted. and he sure as hell wasn't going to let you get away.

it began with a dinner conversation. high school graduation was in a week, and on the rare occasion where they all gathered together, he and his parents sat around the candle-lit dining table. they were discussing his future, told him to pursue the path they did, and everything was fine!

it's just that… you weren't mentioned in his parents' plans, and that put him off. and as delusional as he may be, he knew the reality of what they'd think of you.

so when they mentioned setting up a good marriage partner for him, he was glad he laced their meals with cyanide beforehand.

the whole dinner blurred by into moments. he doesn't remember much of it, and he has already buried his past along with his parents. what matters is that he pulled some strings, inherited millions, bought you a promise ring, and planned to provide for you.

he has a whole plan in motion, from his career to finances, and one word from you will forever—

oh, um… you want a stay at home partner after college?

good thing yan!househusband looks fuckable in an apron!

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

[emmyrosee]

“I need you to know how unbelievably pissed I am at you.”

You interrupt the peaceful folding and stocking of your clothes at your in-laws house with your threat. Immediately, Shoyo tenses up and whips his head to look at you, eyes wide and dancing over your face, waiting for you to continue your rant and fury.

When you don’t, merely continuing to glare at him, he gives a frantic, “what did I do!”

“Lower. Your damn. Voice,” you grit, and his hands clap over his mouth childishly. You take a deep inhale to calm down, “you told, your sweet and old parents…”

He looks at you expectantly again. You flare your nostrils and hike up your voice in an obnoxious nasal:

“We’re huuuuungry!”

Instantly, at your mocking tone, he breaks down into laughter, trying to stifle them to keep your anger at bay.

“So embarrassing!” You snip.

“Baby, we were! They don’t mind, you know that-“

“THEY STARTED COOKING! FOR US!”

“You know they’d rather eat with us than have us go out to eat!”

“Shoyo,” you snarl, rising to your feet and approaching him; with nervous laughter, he shrinks back. “It is eigHT IN THE EVENING, AND YOUR MOTHER IS MAKING NIKUJAGA!” You grab a pillow and start whacking him with it, ignoring his pleas and sheltering arms. “For the love of the gods, she should be relaxing!”

“She’s fine!”

You stop swinging and look down at him in shock. He makes a grab for the pillow and you whip it away, and he whines around some giggles.

“You do not make that decision for her,” you growl, throwing the pillow to the side and shoving him on his back before quickly crawling on top of him. “I would rather us both starve and rot away, before I tell your sweet, old parents that we’re hungry. ESPECIALLY at 20:14.”

“Baby, it’s fine,” he giggles, his hands settling on your hips. “They’re totally fine; you know my mom lives to make you happy!” You cross your arms over your chest, and he snickers as he raises up on his elbows, “just a quick bite to eat, a few laughs, then we can all go to bed, right?”

You exhale through your nose, and he tucks his lips in nervously.

“You know what?” You begin, relaxing your shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re right. You’re right! They’re just cooking. It’s fine.”

“Exactly! They’re fine.”

With that, you swing your legs off of your husband and scurry to the closet, and before he can ask, you grab a random stack of blankets to throw at his head. He screams at the sudden impact.

“Since they can whip up dinner, you can whip me up a bed on the couch. Since APPARENTLY you are just so okay with spontaneous forces of labor.”

He cackles some more as you mimic his “we’re hungry!” at random volumes, putting your clothes away in the drawers until his sweet old mother calls you both to the kitchen to eat, not too dissimilar from how she did when you were younger.

“I’m going to bury you alive,” you snarl at him, leaning into the arm tossed around your shoulders as you make your way down the hall to eat. “Watch your damn back. I’ll put cyanide in your food tomorrow, try me bitch.”

He merely snickers as you threaten him with the most bizarre forms of torture you can conjure, all while the smell of a hot supper fills the air around the house.

based on this video bc I love Lori and Noah 🥺🩷

[breelandwalker]

Magical Oil Recipes - Buffs and Blessings Edition

For anyone looking to brew up a potion for the purposes of augmentation or blessing, here are some recipes I’ve created that you might find useful.

To prepare them, blend the ingredients in such proportions as feels correct for your purposes (or as supplies allow). Use dried material except where indicated. Place a few spoonfuls in a mason jar with a screwtop lid and fill the jar with a bland oil of your choice. (Vegetable oil of the sort you would buy for cooking works fine.) Screw the lid on tightly and shake well to combine, then leave the jar in a dark dry place for 2-4 weeks to steep.

Once steeped, prepare a clean storage bottle (also with a secure lid) and label with the type of oil and the bottling date. Strain the oil through paper towels or cheesecloth to remove the plant material, then bottle immediately. Store away from sunlight and heat for up to one year. Use for spellwork as you see fit.

(Please note that NONE of these potions are meant to be taken internally by any means. Observe all proper safety measures related to glass, fire, and potentially harmful plants as necessary during preparation.)

*- Ingredient is potentially harmful if inhaled or ingested. **- Ingredient should not be used or handled if you are pregnant or nursing.

All-Purpose Blessing Oil For blessing, purification, and consecration.

Lavender

Sweet Basil

Bay Leaf

Patchouli Note: Use Olive Oil for the base.

Brim With Vim Vitality Oil To restore flagging magical energy and clear post-spell haze.

Tangerine (Satsuma) Peel

Cinnamon Stick

Ginger Root

Vervain

Cauldronkeeper Wisdom Oil To enhance intuition and wisdom.

Hazel (leaves or bark)

Elder (berries or bark)

Sage (any color)

Peach Pit (in master bottle) Note: Peach pits contain a small amount of cyanide, which may be released if the pit is broken down. Exercise caution with the finished oil.

Clear the Way Obstacle Remover Oil For overcoming difficulty and attracting new opportunities.

Dried Sumac Berries

Ginger Root

Sweet Basil

Full Moon Lunar Affinity Oil For augmentation of spells attuned to the lunar cycle.

Willow Bark

Jasmine Flowers

Fennel

Mugwort** Note: Use With Caution.

High Noon Solar Affinity Oil For augmentation of spells attuned to the solar cycle.

Calendula Petals

Chamomile

Bay Leaf

Eyebright Note: Use With Caution.

Golden Fields Prosperity Oil For abundance, good fortune, and general well-being.

Sesame or Pumpkin Seeds

Wheat or Barley Kernels

Orange Peel

Honeysuckle

Get Me Through the Day Endurance Oil For a tiny extra boost on those low-energy days.

Lemon Verbena

White Oak Bark

Rosemary

Echinacea**

Hearthside Home Blessing Oil For a comfortable and harmonious home.

Sweet Basil

Vervain

Pine Needles

Willow Bark

Jack-of-all-Trades Work Enhancement Oil For augmentation of workplace abilities.

Sweet Basil

Meadowsweet**

Borage Flowers

Vanilla Bean

Magical Me Power Boost Oil For augmentation of spellcasting.

Ginger Root

Rosemary

Bergamot

Cedar Tips

Steel Backbone Fortitude Oil For bravery and endurance.

Blue Vervain

Pine Needles

Cedar Tips

Yarrow**

Truthteller Divination Oil For augmentation of divinatory practices.

Evening Primrose**

Hibiscus Flowers

Celery Seeds

Tea Leaves

Watchful Eye Viewing Oil To enhance powers of observation.

Grape Leaf

Lemon Balm

Rosemary

Celery Seed (or dried leaf from stalks) Note: Do not apply to skin around eyes. Do not apply directly to eyeballs either.

Should the reader require supplies, I recommend the following:

Penn Herb Company

Starwest Botanicals

Bulk Apothecary

Mountain Rose Herbs

Specialty Bottle

Image Credit - VeraPetruk

All recipes are © 2017 Bree NicGarran, published in Pestlework: A Book of Magical Powders & Oils. Please check out the book if you would like more recipes.

If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar, tune in to my podcast Hex Positive, or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop.