#vines without roots

[bunchofavatars]

It's 6 pm on a Friday, and everyone else in the accounting department has already gone home to their families.

The lonely shine of a single lamp illuminates a figure in a neat black suit.

Valerien is still sitting at his desk, determined to finish his task, even if it takes him all night. He's so focused he has practically forgotten the office room around him.

((@the-cameo-blog))

Morrison grinned as xir watched the man. A challenge. Those too busy to even notice they were in a room could either be really easy or hard. The amount of people that thought the office was normal despite the changes could be alarming to some.

Still, xe changed the room, subtle at first. A bookshelf to peak out from, a picture bit to the left, the picture itself changed, a second window.

[the-cameo-blog]

After Valerien comes back to his desk during his usual late afternoon-early evening work,he finds someone sitting in front of it. What's even worse,the... person? Has layed their head on the papers,black curls sprawled everywhere.

He stifles a sigh. First one of his coworkers absolutely wants to tell him about how well her son is doing in school, and he has to appear interested - and now this? Who even is this?

"Um... Excuse me? Mx?"

[the-cameo-blog]

Valerien stops mumbling an incantation unter his breath when he notices her. It actually worked, doing all this reseach was worth it! Although... this isn't what he thought a demon would look like.

"Are you Duke Bune, commander of 35 legions of spirits?"

He asks this in the same practiced professional tone he uses with work associates.

Laertes is seized by the feeling of someone yanking aggressively on a rope on the back of his head, and she stumbles backwards to find-

They're in a dark room. Either there are no windows or all the shutters have been drawn. Laertes stands in the center of a chalk-drawn circle, still glowing dimly. They can make out a few rune and symbol-looking things on the thing's border, and beneath his feet is...a pentagram?

As her eyes adjust, she can make out a figure in a black hood, holding some creepy-looking candle, but there might be others. He can't tell, it's too dark in here.

...Is that iron in the air? Can he smell blood?

[patema-introverted]

Not caught up on Malevolent yet but goddamn nobody does “My Love Is Sick” quite like these bitches do. Jarthur really said “You’re an infection I am keeping no matter the sepsis”

[nereidprinc3ss]

like real people do

in which spencer gets home from a case and fem!reader is feeling extra clingy

fluff (18+ for nudity) warnings/tags: reader referred to as a girl, non-sexual nudity/intimacy (again....??...), if you have daddy issues you'll prob like it, i should try therapy, technically suggestive, not even one whiff of plot, just cute shit a/n: wrote about a heatwave because winter makes me crave death. kisses!

It was hot in LA, and it’s a different, muggier kind of hot back at Spencer’s apartment when he gets home at four in the morning. The plan is to take a quick shower without waking you and then pass out for ten hours, but as soon as he opens the bedroom door, plans change. 

Even the sheer sleep-deprivation he’s experiencing can’t hamper the smile that forms when he sees you face down on the bed, fan on the highest setting and pointed straight at you, and conspicuously lacking a shirt. He drops his bag and folded suit jacket to the floor, trudging to the bed before practically falling upon you, pressing a trail of kisses up your spine.

A little sleepy grumble from you notifies him that his plans of keeping you asleep have failed, but he can’t find it within himself to be too broken up about it. 

“Spence!” you murmur, voice so quiet and scratchy with sleep but still drenched in pure adoration and joy. 

“Hi, baby,” he says, lifting his weight off of you just enough for you to turn over before he collapses on top of you again. He slips his arms underneath you and around your waist just as you wrap your arms around him. 

“You’re home.”

“I am,” he agrees, burying his face in your neck with a sigh. “And I missed you so much, pretty girl.”

He laughs when you kick the blanket away, attempting to wrap your legs around him like a koala bear. 

“Did you kiss any movie stars while you were gone?”

“Not a one,” he assures you, pressing his lips to your jaw like an offering. 

“Are you sure?”

“I am positively sure. Did you give up on clothing yourself while I was gone?”

“You don’t know how hot it was earlier when I was trying to fall asleep. There was no other option.”

He hums, his face still slotted under your jaw like pieces of a puzzle. 

“You should go back to sleep. I’m just going to take a shower and then I’m coming to bed.”

Your hands weaves through his hair gently, which doesn’t make him feel any less like passing out where he is. 

“Can I come?”

“To the shower?” He chuckles, rousing slightly. “You’re welcome to, but it’s not going to be very exciting. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s okay,” you assure him. “There will be no funny business whatsoever.”

“Okay. Come on, lovebug.”

He rolls off the bed, pulling you to your feet with just a little bit too much force. The momentum send you stumbling into him, but he catches you gratefully and captures your lips in a sweet kiss. 

“Wait,” you order when he tries to pull away. “Not done yet.”

“Oh, you’re not?” He laughs against you between kisses, but slowly the humor fades and he loops his arms around your waist, gently rocking the two of you back and forth for a very long moment. “You are in rare form tonight, sweet girl,” he murmurs, finally pulling away from the kiss for good. 

“I’m not all the way awake yet,” you admit. “What’s that called, again?”

“Hypnagogia.” He presses a kiss to your temple, loosening his hold on you. “I am also rapidly losing consciousness so we need to make this shower super quick, okay?”

“I know, I know! I said I would behave!”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says dryly, tugging you toward the adjoining bathroom. You pout.

“Your lack of faith in me hurts."

Despite his hesitations, the shower remains PG-13. You cling to him pretty much the entire time like a flowering vine, but no untoward advances are made. 

“Okay, you’re going to have to let go of me long enough so I can put some clothing on.”

Spencer says it lightheartedly, but you huff dramatically anyway, sitting on the edge of the bed as he roots through drawers in search of pajamas. When he produces a shirt for himself, your favorite of his, you object. 

“Wait, I wanna wear that one.”

“Oh? I thought you don’t do shirts anymore,” he teases, tossing it to you before finding another for himself. You pull it over your head, getting up again to search for a pair of shorts as he gets dressed. 

“Well, since you’re so concerned that I’m a sex-crazed harlot, I figure I’d better wear some clothes.”

“I never said that,” he reprimands gently, pulling you backward by your waist. “If you decided to forgo clothing completely, I would respect that decision.”

“You think you’re so funny.”

The two of you land on the bed, a tangle of limbs as he pulls you close as humanly possible. 

“I think I’m delirious,” he admits. With a start you realize the room is lit with the very early beginnings of dawn—you don’t even want to know how long he’s been awake. Suddenly you feel very guilty. 

“Oh—I’m really sorry for keeping you up, Spence.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I’m comfortable with my choices.” His hand finds the small of your back, rubbing small comforting circles over the bare skin. “Now, go to sleep.”

“Okay,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Love you.”

“I love you,” Spencer sighs dreamily. “So much.”

And the warmth you feel then has nothing to do with the heatwave. 

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

a long drag of a cigarette. 

smoke floods his lungs, in sticky streams, glides into his throat and burns the back of it with a scorpion's sting. nicotine kisses his gums. he exhales, watches as the toxins form a cloud of gray, polluting the air. keeps the cigarette poised between his fingers as the bottom end crumbles to ash. the orange spark left by his lighter has all but faded, he can’t taste anything but slow, sweet decay — tender rot in his lungs.

suguru watches you, out of the corner of his eye.

it’s rare for him to have company, at this time of day. with such awful weather, to boot. that’s why his eyes can’t help but wander, to your figure, your vacant expression. the sight of it makes his bones twitch. you’ve been sitting there since he arrived, barely moving. you look young, scrawny, clothes too big for your body. there’s mud on your shoes and the cuffs of your jeans; their edges frayed and damaged, like you’ve been walking down concrete and puddles all day. your skin glistens with leftover dewdrops.

the air smells of rain. he likes it, despite his frizzy black locks, likes the contrast between the sting of the smoke and the life in the air, a summer soon to pass him by. he tastes it when he parts his lips and allows himself a tender inhale, earth and leaves and ripened clusters of honeydew being split into halves. when he looks down at the ground, he finds his own reflection; a silhouette in the puddle at his feet, ripples tearing his face in half. he looks weary. lilac smudges underneath his eyes, hair raised into an unkempt bun, the silver sliver of piercings on his bottom lip and helix catching the dim light of the lamp overhead. they gleam, in the humid air.

(he got them on a whim. a tattoo would be the next step, but he has no idea what design to choose.

mostly, he just wants to feel the sting.)

a choked out sound. it snaps him back into reality, plants roots and vines around his feet. suguru watches you, with eyes of burning cedar, tastes the visage of your image on his teeth and on his tongue.

for a moment, your gaze overlaps with his own. fickle eyes. you’re covering your mouth, staring at the cigarette only centimeters from their mark —

and he understands the issue. can see your eyes water from the smoke. it’s only you and him here, no one else who can complain or chew him out, just you and him outside the tiny konbini, by an alley littered with trash bags and hungry strays; cats, ravens.

you.

”… sorry,” he hums, vocal cords roughed up, lacking their usual luster. he doesn’t like the way it sounds. ”i’ll put it out.”

he crushes the cigarette under his boot. it falls on the concrete without making any noise, pliant as he makes it crumble apart, dissolve into black soot. dirty rainwater swallows what remains.

with a rustle of fabric, he digs through the plastic bag hanging off his arm — searching for a bottle of water to moisten his dry throat, uncapping the lid and relishing as it flows against tender flesh. it feels nice, to have this routine. to come here every day, and have himself a silent smoke. suguru enjoys the structure. enjoys what little semblance of control he can get, after leaving his old life behind.

(after crushing his potential under the heel of his boot. his ears still ring with gunshots at night, but the silent death has strayed its course.

buddha, he thinks, lips twitching with a withheld smile. look at what a spectacle i’ve become.)

no words from you grace his ears. you duck your head, as if scared of the sudden attention, of his voice. he belatedly regrets his lack of consideration — wishes he had twisted it into a softer shape for the fickle creature to his left. but you aren’t coughing anymore, only sitting there with your legs dangling off the edge of the bench. with those lifeless eyes, a fish about to be gutted, just as weary as his.

like you’re about to fade into slumber. fade out of existence. 

even after all these years, even without sorcery — suguru can sense death. his instincts are forever honed. what he smells on you is decay, the same as the ache in his rotting lungs. you look famished, trembling fingers finding purchase in your lap, picking at a piece of lint on your jeans.

the sight makes his heart ache. breaks it apart, like an unripened fruit, splits and tears down the middle. you look so small, so weak. so very, very vulnerable.

a moment’s hesitation. 

suguru’s hand slips back into the bag, ghosts against a styrofoam cup and pack of wakaba cigarettes, before his fingers finally settle and curl around a soft, triangular object. wrapped up in neat sheets of plastic, still slightly warm to the touch. perfect.

he gives you a glance, and finds you’re already looking at him. eyes droopy with fatigue, but moving down his fingers, almost curiously. watching him pull out the cheap onigiri and cradle it in his palm. 

ah, now you’re looking away. skittish — he tastes the word on his tongue, allows his eyes to run from the bridge of your nose to the tips of your fingers. you’re coiled in on yourself, almost as if waiting for a blow. and oh, it hurts him, even though he isn’t sure why. even though he can’t recall the last time his heart felt this wet with pity. he feeds the cats around here, sometimes, but they never look so sad. 

”are you hungry?”

the words have left his mouth long before he can regret them. and suguru is pleased, to notice his voice has peeled itself of the rasp, invited smooth, silky vowels. he sounds kind, he thinks. hopes.

but you still look uncomfortable. he must appear intimidating, to you. tall, pierced, long hair and sleepless eyes. a handsome face does no good when you don’t even have the courage to look at it properly. you shift in your seat, not meeting his eyes. 

no response.

that’s just fine. 

”here.” he takes a seat on the bench, at the very edge, careful not to come too close. you jolt, but stay, as he unfurls his palm. ”you can have it.”

cautious eyes meet his own. still just for a moment, a flicker of light when you tip your head a certain way. then it’s gone, and your eyes are just lifeless again. he’s seen it before, in mirrors. he’s all too familiar with the act of drowning on land.

”go on.”

he tries his hand at a smile. voice a low lull, coaxing you forward, still patiently holding out the onigiri. 

a growl of your stomach. it’s barely audible, but he picks up on it, watches the way you clutch at your abdomen as if to muffle the noise. ducking your head, again, a bit of colour blooming in your cheeks. 

finally, a feeble hand reaches for his own. 

so you do have it in you.

”… thank you,” comes a murmur, a little scratchy. but soft, just rusty. how polite. he watches as your shaky fingers curl around the plastic, bring it to your lap.

suguru takes notice of your body language. still skittish, your shoe tapping at the concrete as if restless, eager to get away. but you’re more relaxed than when he first spoke to you. it feels good.

feels right.

(feels like something he’d forgotten.)

”how old are you?” he asks, uncapping the lid of his water bottle, just to place it next to you. hand reaching into his pocket, to pull out his lighter, her lighter, worn with age. ”if you don’t mind me asking.”

no response. you fumble with the plastic wrapping, having difficulty getting it off. the nori tears, he can tell from the way you mouth a wince. without thinking, he’s taking it from off your hands — practiced, as he unfurls it, peels the plastic and fishes out the rice ball. while he does, you finally speak, in a voice just barely raised above a whisper. 

”… ’m in college.”

a quirk of his brow. ”… are you?”

you nod. suguru gives back the snack, watches as you take a bite, listens to the crunch of seaweed and the quiet hum you let out as you chew. softly, slowly, as if savouring the taste. he isn’t sure whether to believe you or not. you’re younger than him, that much he’s certain of. ”… sure you’re not a runaway?”

it’s half a joke, half a question. he’s smiling, but your brows furrow together, face set into tense lines.

”… i just don’t have anywhere to go, right now.” 

another bite. crunch, chew, swallow. he watches your throat bob, waits for the quiet gulp. 

”that’s all.”

…

”i see.” he taps his fingers against the hood of the lighter, snaps it open and shut, a gaping mousetrap. ”that’s unfortunate. and your college can’t help?”

this time, he gets no response. you must already feel uncomfortable, sharing your troubles with a stranger. he understands, but an itch still gnaws at his bones. 

trust is a fickle thing. 

suguru watches you eat, and tries to calm the rising desire in his chest. warmth spreads throughout his stomach, at the sight, creeps into his veins. a coo on the tip of his tongue that he has to swallow down. he feels no need to have anything of his own, no real desire to fill his empty stomach. he only wants to watch, watch, watch, as you feast on what he brings you. he wants to watch you eat forever. it’s a sudden thought; his stomach twists with ill-content. 

a deep, aching pit. 

sometimes, he can still feel them. wriggling around in his womb, fighting for space as they crawl up his esophagus. all the curses they had him vomit up. 

he thinks he must have lost something, back then. thrown up more than he should have. a lung, maybe. his heart, his human heart.

no running soothes the longing. it’s a losing battle, to struggle against it, to not be swallowed underwater when he keeps his eyes shut for too long and finds he no longer remembers how to suffocate the urge. when he realizes life still feels like dragging mud into whatever house will keep him. there is a burning hole inside him, something left it there, a hollow space that only ever deepens, sinks a blade into his chest. 

what could fill it? 

who could fill it? 

(you, you, you, his gut supplies.

you, and your fragile bones.)

a shiver travels down his spine. it’s gone as soon as it came, because now you’re licking the grains of rice from off your fingers, like a cat lapping at the white bones of a grilled fish. he thinks it’s cute, thinks you look perfect after a little meal. eating so well for him, out of his hand. you look less fatigued, less droopy, and suguru feels more alive than he can remember.

for a moment, ill-chosen, he pictures you in his home. seated at his kitchen table, legs dangling underneath it, your fingers guiding warm stew and freshly made bread into your waiting mouth. pictures you soaking in his bathtub, napping on the couch while the tv flickers on and off, wrapped up in blankets and resting on silken sheets, waiting for him… he plays with the idea, for a while. isn’t sure where it came from, just knows he wants it. 

and god, how long has it been since he felt desire?

”was it good?” he asks, suddenly, a smile playing at his lips, branches blooming with wisteria. ”tasty?”

a nod. he takes what he can get; dares not be greedy, when you’re already letting him so close. he wants you to trust him more than anything, right now, in this moment, more than he wants to breathe. more than he wants to ruin himself. you’re small, unsteady on your feet, all alone in the world. and you just happened to end up at the konbini he frequents.

suguru geto does not believe in fate.

he does believe in meaning. 

(the word sears a burning gap into his tongue.)

”i’m glad,” he says, the hum of a buzzing dragonfly, slipping the lighter back into his pocket. he stands up, to his full height, breathes in the humid summer air and lets it stifle his lungs. he ponders, ponders, ponders. figures he can let himself be a little selfish, after all the years he spent eating himself alive. the gift of a bleeding heart left on the counter to cool.

just this once, suguru doesn’t look to the rotting innards in his stomach for guidance — he takes. 

and the rainy day surrenders to the longing in his lungs.

”i know this is sudden, but would you like to come with me?”

his voice is silky, clusters of jasmine buds and honey, deep and warm and rumbling through his chest. you look up at him with big eyes. surprise, he wonders, or just caution? it’s good to be on edge, either way. 

just not with him. 

”i’m a social worker, of sorts,” a little white lie, just to get your guard down, just to soften the lining. ”if you have nowhere to go, you could come with me. just until you get back on your feet. of course, i don’t expect you to trust a man you just met, but…”

he eyes your clothes, your face, the decay sticking itself to your soul. 

(it seems to me like you’re out of safe choices.)

”i’d like to help you, if possible.”

suguru tilts his head. you meet his low-lidded eyes — a look of bewilderment crossing your features. eyeing him, warily, as if expecting him to pull the rug from under your feet, pull a dagger out of his coat. his bangs sway like dying ravens hung out to dry.

trust is a fickle thing. he doesn’t mind. it’ll take you some time to adjust to his presence, he’s well aware. 

”… what do you get out of it?”

your voice cuts into the air, the sharp edge of a blade. something like a hiss, but not quite; he senses the fear there, the trepidation. you’re guarded, that’s all.

it’s a good question.

company. duty. something to fill the pit in his chest.

meaning, meaning, meaning. 

”… like i said,” he exhales, wearing a smile, eyes narrowed into slits. ”i just want to help. that’s all.”

and it’s true. he does want to help. wants to water your roots, watch you flourish before him. how long has it been since he felt responsible for anything other than himself? he remembers satoru and shoko and a myriad of dying plants. he wants to keep you tucked under his wing, safe and secure, where he can make sure no more harm befalls you. the world has already run you ragged — he knows, he can tell, you’re one and the same. the world has soiled you too. he knows, he knows, but you’re safe now.

ask a dying man what he wants, and you will get only one answer. but suguru has always been greedy.

he wants to make breakfast for two, and sleep with his chest to your back. but can’t tell you that. has to coax you into it, slowly, treat you with the caution you’d use to bandage a fawn’s broken leg. he thinks you’d feel right at home, with him. his apartment is on the smaller side, but he could adjust to your needs. he has more blood money than he knows what to do with. as long as you feel welcomed.

”i don’t need anything in return.”

tobacco lingers in the air, melts into the heavy scent of wet asphalt and rain, hugs his skin. suguru watches you, watches you, watches you. from the twitch of your pinkie to the tap of your shoe against concrete to the flicker in your eyes when you realize he’s being serious, when you fall into the half-truth. 

trust is a fickle thing. it sweeps you in when your guard is down. leaves just as quickly. 

(but a human being at their lowest will always want a hand to guide them.)

”… where do you work?”

suguru eyes ripen. a smile tugs his lips into a crescent moon, a silent victory.

”i’ll tell you.” he reaches his hand out, hungry for contact, lets his open palm hang in the air. ”but first… what would you say to a warm dinner?”

he watches your pupils waver. ripples along water, a dirty puddle in the street. he can almost see his own silhouette, a looming figure, gazing down at you with piercing golden eyes. he could fit you in his pocket, he thinks. you’d feel right at home in his lap. 

ugly, ugly thoughts. the phantom curses in his stomach twist with glee, and suguru ignores their taunting. he thinks of neither god nor buddha.

(free of rot, but just as filthy.) 

a smaller hand approaches his. 

[the-cameo-blog]

Will the demon do my work for me if I take them?

(I work in accounting, in case that's important)

I need an exorcist

One soul refuses to move on, and I don't know if I can handle another sleepless night because THEY had insomnia when they were alive, and they think it's okay to just.. torture me with it???

Highest bidder gets a fucking demon latched to them.

[starfinss]

𝘉𝘢𝘥 𝘐𝘥𝘦𝘢 — 𝘚𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 "𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵" 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Call of Duty

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Simon "Ghost" Riley + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2,789

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: It's a bad idea to want him like you do, and it's even worse when he wants you just as bad.

This is a bad idea.

The collision of mouths, shared breaths, and grasping hands fills the gaps between you like a spill of ink. His mask is bunched up over his nose, headset discarded as he crowds you against the wall, mouth crushed to yours. 

Teeth knock together, the taste of his tongue is heady on your lips, in your mouth, past your teeth, in your blood. Your hands grasp at the back of his head, nails digging into the fabric of his balaclava, and he growls into your mouth. 

This is such a bad idea, but neither of you care. Now that the line you’ve both been so carefully avoiding has been crossed, neither of you have any interest in going back. Desire, lust, and love blend together into a heady concoction that scrambles any of your rational thought, scrambled further by those rough, almost gritty breaths he gives every time he breaks away, only to rejoin your mouths in another devouring kiss.

He’s using the difference in your sizes to his advantage here, one large hand on the curve of your waist, iron firm, his opposite arm braced above your head. Ghost has never been a small man, and it’s as arousing as it is evident as you lose any remaining inhibitions you may have had in the taste of his mouth.

This has been a long time coming. Tension taught as a bowstring, brought from a rivalry turned friendship, one that the others loved to poke fun at, even as the flower bulbs of feelings took root, their vines coiling thick and thorny around your heart. Ensnared, entangled. Fuck. Soap and Gaz were going to have a field day, because from the way Simon’s mouth was moving against your own with an almost breathless need, nothing could prove them more right.

His knee slips between your thighs, and you gasp into his mouth at the friction. You feel his lips curl into a whisper of a smile as he flexes the muscle, making your hips jerk, hands scrambling for grip at the back of his neck. This is going somewhere very fast, but neither of you care to even attempt to slow it down, let alone stop it.

“Last chance,” he rasps, and the low sound of his voice makes aching heat gather between your thighs. 

“Huh?” You breathe, and the way he forces out a short laugh makes your head spin.

“Last chance to back out.”

You lift your head, eyes meeting his. Long lashes, the color of gold, frame his dark eyes, the coffee brown irises swallowed by the dark of his pupils. His mouth, kiss bruised, and his jaw, lightly dusted with stubble, are the only things visible, apart from those eyes, revealed by his carelessly rucked up mask. He looks as disheveled as you feel, and for some reason, that only makes it hotter.

“I’m not backing out,” you say, voice coming out much breathier than you thought it would, but you hardly have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about that.

That’s all it takes. All bets are off as he kisses you again, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hands find your ass, squeezing, before he’s boosting your legs up around his hips, long legs eating up the distance as he walks to his bed, away from the door you’d been crowded up against.

Your clothes don’t last long, your uniform top quickly removed, sports bra shoved above your tits as his mouth encloses a nipple, making you gasp, hands grasping at his shirt.

Then, without so much as a second thought, when the fabric falls and gets in the way of his mouth, he growls in annoyance and pulls off his mask. You’ve never seen his face without it, only Price has, you think, but apart from your captain, Ghost’s face has remained a mystery to the rest of the company. To you, that mystery isn’t so mysterious anymore.

“Your mask–” you gasp, unable to squirrel away your shock to process later, but he merely grunts in response.

“Forget it,” he says dismissively, “it was getting in the way.”

Your hands card through newly revealed honey blonde hair, still messy from being covered by the balaclava, his face still smudged with eye black as he gazes down at you with dark, hooded eyes. You take a brief moment to admire him, because aside from a scar at the corner of his mouth, his face is unblemished and handsome, a far cry from the horrible disfigurement Soap has previously joked that Simon must be hiding under the skull patterned fabric.

His mouth returns to your breast, unhindered by the fabric of the mask, and you can’t help the soft little keen that leaves you, both at the caress of his tongue and the feel of his stubble against your tender flesh. He mouths at your body, only separating to yank his shirt over his head, his hand covering your breast as he kisses you again.

Grasping hands find your hips, sliding down to your thighs, and you moan openly as he slots his hips between your parted legs, the hard ridge of his cock rubbing so perfectly against your clothed cunt. Your noise of pleasure matches his, and he repeats the action with a roll of his hips that has your eyes squeezing shut in bliss.

“Simon,” you whisper as he draws back from the kiss, though his mouth remains a whisper away, “Simon, please.”

“Fuck,” he curses, lust drunk, mouthing at your throat, “you’re gonna look so pretty on my cock.”

Those words alone make your insides twist into pleasant knots, and you squirm under him. His hand slides down your stomach, unfastening your pants and pushing them down your legs, your boots kicked off along with them. The compression shorts you wear under your pants come next, and you barely register that he’s clearly impatient to get you naked as he pulls your bra the rest of the way off.

He sits back on his knees above you, looming over you, looking down through pale lashes. The sight of him, hard muscle and heated gaze, it makes you ache. You sit up on your elbows to press kisses against his chest, his abs, making him tense and shudder, one of his hands lifting to cup the back of your head. Your tongue traces patterns against his pale flesh, and you can feel him through his slacks, hard against your stomach, twitching as your tongue swipes across one of his nipples.

That’s about all the control he’ll allow you, clearly, as he pushes you down, caging you in with his arms. His mouth is on your throat again, your collarbone, down your body, and you’re helpless as he makes a path towards where he wants to be. His hands find the underside of your thighs, pushing them apart to accommodate himself as he lays them over his shoulders. His eyes flick up to yours, and when you don’t protest or try to stop him (not that you wanted to), he keeps that eye contact as his tongue drags across your pussy.

His eyes flutter closed, brows pinching a little as he gives another pass of his tongue, blunt nails digging into the plush of your thighs as he groans. The vibrations of the noise make your hips jump, but he stills you with a tug as he wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you flush against his mouth.

Your head feels empty as he begins eating, the sounds his mouth is making utterly obscene, wet and messy but so fucking perfect that you can’t help but arch. Your ability to even so much as squirm is inhibited by his iron grip around your body, his fingers digging into your flesh to hold you where he wants you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he breathes, and when his lips close around your clit, you cry out his name in an almost pathetic whine.

This is such a bad idea, but fuck if it doesn’t feel incredible. 

Your lieutenant is eating you out, and from the way he’s holding you there as his tongue plunges into you, making you quake against him, all you can do is lay there and take it. Price can’t know, but he isn’t stupid, and this is definitely not the last time you’ll be doing this.

“Simon,” you gasp, and he gives a harsh suck to your clit in response, making you choke on air.

One of his arms moves, releasing your leg, but he doesn’t waste any time in using that free hand to spread you open even further for him, palm against your tender inner thigh, then he’s pushing two fingers into you. Stars burst across your vision as he crooks them up, and fuck, your orgasm is coming way too fast. You sob with bliss, back lifting from the sheets as he works his fingers into you, hitting all the places that your own can’t reach, and you can barely make out the way he’s whispering hushed praise into your skin as he keeps working his tongue over your throbbing clit.

You can barely warn him as he all but pulls your orgasm out of you, the only sound you’re able to give him a strangled sob as your climax slams into you, making you buck and squirm against his mouth, vision hazy as he keeps going, working you through your climax without slowing down. 

You curse, babbling his name, and he groans as you pulse around his fingers, body arching and spasming. All you can say is that it’s too sensitive, and you’re halfway to another orgasm before he finally slows, pulling back with uneven breaths.

No time is wasted as he crawls up your body, mouth on yours, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin. You’re so achingly empty, and when you reach down to palm Simon through the pants he’s still wearing, the sound he makes is one you commit to memory.

“Fuck me,” you breathe against his mouth, “Simon, fuck me.”

He grasps one of your breasts, squeezing gently, and you squirm again.

“Gladly.”

He sits back, and you get to watch as he unfastens his pants, pushing them down just far enough to free his erection, and fuck, you understand why he’d been fingering you because there’s no way you’d be able to take that without any prep. He’s big, but that goes without saying. He’s thick. Your head is too scrambled to estimate just how big he is, but your head is spinning just thinking about the stretch.

He wraps his hand around himself, fisting his cock before he’s moving over you. He rubs the drooling tip against your cunt.

“Don’t have a condom,” he breathes, and you shake your head.

“I have the implant.”

That’s all he needs. He pushes fingers into you, stretching you with manual motions before he’s breathing out a warning.

“Tell me if it hurts. I know I’m…”

“Big?” You supply, and he breathes out what may be a laugh.

“I was going to say above average. We’ll go slow.”

Then, his hips rock forward, and you feel him start to enter you.

You grit your teeth. Even the tip is a stretch, and you feel the burn of it as he murmurs comforts, kissing your jaw, your throat. 

“Alright?”

You force yourself to nod, and he pushes in further.

Oh, the sound he makes. A low, debauched groan, drawn out between gritted teeth. It makes you whimper in response, and his teeth sink into your shoulder as his hips push forward again.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, “good girl, almost takin’ it all.”

You whimper, your legs lifting to wind around his hips, urging him forward, and you watch as his teeth grit, followed by a sharp jerk of his hips, burying himself the rest of the way inside of you.

He curses, and you feel him twitch inside of you, feel the flex of his hips, the tense of his muscles in the press of his body to yours. 

“Fuck,” he growls, “like a fuckin’ dream. Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

The rasp of his words against your ear makes you tremble. The way his accent has grown thicker is so needlessly sexy, the mancunian drawl you’ve only ever observed when he’s angry or tired showing itself in his strained voice.

He draws back, just a fraction of an inch, testing the waters, before he’s pushing back in, and the stretch of him is making your head spin. You claw at the sheets as he repeats the motion, again and again and again. He gradually picks up speed, finding a pace that has both of you gasping for air.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans, “takin’ my cock so well.”

His hand flattens against the mattress above your head, supporting his weight as he works his hips against yours in firm, deep thrusts. His other hand grasps your hip, holding you in place for him.

“That’s it, take it,” he pants, voice rough with pleasure, and you can’t stop moaning, your body rolling and bucking under his.

He whispers praise against your throat as his hand goes from your hip to rub at your clit with his thumb, making you squeeze around him with a helpless whimper, something that makes him curse, hips thrusting forward more roughly. It’s so good, so fucking perfect, and if you’d known how good this would be, you’d have considered acting on bad ideas far earlier.

Your climax is approaching embarrassingly quickly, and you pull him down into a kiss, one he returns without hesitation. The pressure on your clit increases, making you squeeze around him harder.

“Fuck, I ain’t gonna last,” he rumbles, and you feel his pace pick up, the hand above your head curling into the sheets, and the way he’s groaning into your ear in blissed out ecstacy is what finally does it.

Your orgasm hits hard, and he slows, working you through it with deep, rolling thrusts of his hips. He’s delaying his own orgasm, you can tell from the way his jaw tenses, the way his muscles tighten. 

You whimper as he keeps pressing your clit, rubbing in firm circles under his thumb, and you can only whimper in overstimulation as he revels in the way it makes you squeeze around him.

“Like fuckin’ velvet,” he breathes, and then he’s moving again.

Your mouth falls open in bliss as he bottoms out inside you and grinds, and the fullness combined with the way the base of his dick is rubbing against your clit is almost too much for your already fried brain to handle. You can only lay there and take it as he hikes your legs up, over his hips, pinning you in place as he chases after his own orgasm.

You kiss him, and he groans, hand knotting in your hair. He thrusts hard, once, twice, and then he’s gone, groaning raggedly as he spills into you. His hips jerk as he rides out his climax, and you shudder against him, hands sliding from the back of his head to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

He goes slack, and you gather him into your arms, a gesture he doesn’t even hesitate to return. The room is quiet, save for uneven breaths as he holds you against him. Finally, he pulls back, pulling out of you, then he’s standing and disappearing into the small bathroom connected to the room. He returns with a warm washcloth, which he uses to wipe your inner thighs clean, and then he’s crawling into the bed beside you, gathering your body into his arms.

You never took him to be a cuddler, and you open your mouth to make a note of this, but the way he looks at you shuts you up.

“Sleep here or don’t,” he says, but from the way he’s holding you, you don’t think the latter is an option.

Few words are exchanged as you let him pull the blankets up, tucking you against him. There’s something so perfectly lovely about the feel of bare skin on skin, and you revel in it, heart heavy with adoration as you kiss his shoulder, and he rests his chin atop your head.

“Next time,” he says, and you hum in response, “you can be on top.”

It’s a bad idea. Such a bad idea. But when he kisses your forehead, so tender it makes your heartbeat flutter like butterfly wings, you really can’t bring yourself to care. Your eyes close.

“Okay,” you say, “next time.”

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Plant Monsters

There’s something so sinister about Plant Monsters. Whether it’s those of the carnivorous variety or more of the spiritual protector kind–plant monsters are meant to be feared, and respected. As the most sentient of Mother Nature’s creations, they are nothing to scoff at whether you’re a mere villager or a royal knight set to travel through their territory. Even more so when they have no intentions on harming a hair on your head.

Somehow it’s just expected that the Dryad is going to be troublesome. Maybe in the beginning they were set to kill you but something about you has them holding back their violent instinct to protect the forest. These types are weirdly enough pretty disconnected from the forest. Not that they don’t feel the very seasons within their roots kind of disconnected. The kind of disconnected that allows them to easily abandon their place in the ecosystem–allowed them to become the predator or prey they’d like to be. 

It’s a compelling role for Dryads. Meaning, that Flower Type Dryads are free to leave the forest to follow you into the village. They’ll stand out sure but in the end, they’re free to follow you without restriction. They might annoy you into letting them in with their bright-colored petals and their soft small statures. They could get muscles to woo you but what would be the point when you’re already protecting them as your self-proclaimed fragile flower? You won’t refuse them when they offer to put their piston in your stamen and it doesn’t matter if you have a stamen or not they don’t care. All they care about is that you’ll always be right beside them so that you both can bloom together. Of course, there are plenty of predators that would try to stomp on the blossom of your love but you didn’t think the petals were just meant to look pretty, did you? Mother Nature is a strong believer in letting the most gorgeous of flowers have something to defend themselves with. Whether that’s a fruit they can make, a thorn they can unsheathe, or a small secretion meant to paralyze if consumed, Flower Type Dryads are demure and sweet and believe they deserve a life with you even if it means ending another’s if need be.

As cute and soft as the Flower Type may be, it’d be folly to forget the Carnivorous Type Dryads. Those who prefer not to leave the forest, choose the predator option within the forest. Luring their prey into their clutches to feast on the flesh and blood of whoever was foolish enough to fall into their trap. With their roots deeply into the ground, the carnivorous type isn’t usually one to move, which makes their desire for you all the more agonizing. Having to catch a glimpse of you through the foliage just out of their range is the closest they’ll get to you. There’s no guarantee for them that you’ll stay when they plea for help or that you’ll come to the sweet voice calling out to you. Just out of their range, you may be safe from the reaching vines and barbed arms they are dying to wrap around you. They have to rely on your compassion and wavering skepticism to get you like they want. Such great communicators they may very well be honest with you about not planning to eat you or perhaps they might prefer to threaten you with the lives of passersby on the path your family takes. There’s always a desperate sense of complete abandon to get you to drink their addictive nectar or to take their…seeds and be the perfect extension. There’s no question that without you transporting them in a giant pot they are forced to lure obstacles of their love…or they’ve begun to expand and evolve so that they can devour all who get in their way. Not including you of course! Don’t be scared. They’d hate to have to stick you with their own paralyzing agent. 

Speaking of sticking, the Plant Monsters that are less easy to spot because they are small or almost as human-like as you are the Faes and Fairies. Faes are only as different as they want you to see; masters of illusion and trickery all they need is your name before they can truly have all of you. They get close to you, hinging on the allure of the forest and fauna to be a mysterious traveler bound to be more. They don’t mind if you’re steadfast about not sharing your name they’re just happy to lend their magic to make you smile. To make you swoon because they’re conveniently everything you can hope for in a person of interest. Agreeing with all the topics you spoke about in confidence to your animal companion, they’re just so perfect! They don’t even mind that you won’t tell them your name they’re more than happy to keep calling you  Celtic nicknames of endearment. And they figure if you won’t give them your name they’ll give you theirs so that your souls are bound together for all eternity. They are ancient beings full of wisdom, and sage thoughts that will allow them to chain you to them lovingly aid you in whatever you hope to do in life. Not to forget the centuries devoted to weaponry and building immunity to various medical ailments, which will come in handy when they have to defend their dearest love! The Fae, though madly in love with you, is far beyond your comprehension and somehow is intertwined with the forest. You will never fully grasp how deep their connection is even when you are bound to their side for the rest of your newly immortal life.

Another with a mystifying connection to the forest is Fairies. Similar to their cousins they are known for their love for mischief and trickery. But instead of goading you for your name they’ll invite you into a fairy circle. Mythically crafted dimension full of partying and endless fun; all you have to do is eat the food and the deed is done. Everyone can never tell exactly what happens after you’ve eaten their delicacies. Some say you become a hypnotized servant, others claim you’ll be trapped within their circle for the rest of your days. Even if you befriend the flittering fiend, they’d never tell! Giggling behind their little hands and their round cheeks as they enjoy your puzzled expression. If you are wise enough not to fall into the circle a fairy won’t be deterred, more than willing to deploy an arsenal of different tactics to get your affections. Whether they rely on their charisma or the destitute life you live—a devoted fairy will not give up. Shrinking, tripping, cursing, inflicting all sorts of harrowing spells to leave you weak in the knees and perfect for the taking. Unlike their human-disguising cousins, they won’t bother to lie about their actions, proudly puffing their chest as you cry over a forward companion. The Fairy isn’t afraid to laugh as your words slur after eating a treat they’d made for you. They don’t even think for once that there’s such a thing as right or wrong, considering this is their nature. It’s right because they're doing it and it’s useless to protest with a silly notion of logic.

While Fairies may be devoid of logic the Druid is not. Likely a human or elf or even a misplaced ogre. They are truly the connection between humans and Mother Nature it’s a beautiful bond, a sacred pact that outshines everything in their life. Everything except you that is. They may worry that your presence would compromise this relationship with Nature because you consumed them. Eating away at the sanity they had left to think only of you. Even more frightening they’ve already used their power to strangle someone that dared to compliment you. It’s getting worse. The Druid knows it’s madness–their need to protect overreaching inexplicably past normal boundaries. They can’t see parallels in the mating lives of animals, no (pure) example crafted by Mother Nature does what they do. But they reason that Mother Nature in some roundabout way must approve, for they replay how you regarded them with such affection when they first met you. Not when they first joined your troupe at the guild but when they transformed into a helpless feline that was hesitant of your touch. Suddenly they are leaning into the marvelous sensation of your compassionate pets. The Druid, despite being the liaison of Nature and intelligence are helpless in the wake of their feelings for you. 

I guess the most sinister thing about Yandere Plant-Related Creatures is that there’s something inherently right in whatever they decide to do. After all for as long as humanity has existed and even long before that nature and animals have thrived following only the bare instincts they’re born with. And what part of that doesn’t include doing whatever it takes to get what they want?

[heliosunny]

hii!! i love your lucky egg series sooo much 💓 maybe if u consider can you make it luocha x reader too? thank you if you make it, if don't it's okaay 💓

THE BLOOMING THORN

Yandere!Luocha x Reader

In the heart of a land known as Velisol ruled a king unlike any other. Crowned in gold thorns and draped in robes the color of dried petals, Luocha was as beautiful as he was feared. And he was searching desperately for love.

Every week, new petitioners and nobles were summoned from across the continent, invited to his palace under the guise of diplomacy or favor. But instead of politics, he met them with strange, haunting questions:

"Do you love me?" "Are you the one meant for me?" "What can you do to prove your devotion?"

If they faltered, if their answers stank of pretense or greed or fear—he’d smile.

Then the vines would slither out, creeping from under the marble throne like shadows made of root and rot, slipping into their mouths and eyes and ears.

Hope began to rot in Velisol.

Until one day, whispers stirred among the guards: a visitor from another land had arrived.

When Luocha heard the news, he ordered:

"Prepare the throne room. I wish to see this outsider... for a test."

He wanted to know—Would you tremble like the rest? Or would you bloom under pressure?

The great doors creaked open, and you were led inside. The guards kept a fearful distance. On his throne of vines and dying roses, Luocha smiled when he saw you—and for the first time in many seasons, the vines at his feet curled with interest.

"Tell me," he said, "do you believe in fate?"

You stood before the king of Velisol, a man cloaked in myth and misery.

“I believe fate brings people together,” you said, “but what they choose to do with it is what makes it real.”

The vines writhed around his throne like snakes, tasting your presence.

But they didn’t come for you.

“…Interesting,” he murmured. “You may stay.”

And just like that, you were spared.

No one dared speak to you. The servants avoided your eyes. The air was heavy with the stench of fear, and behind every curtained hall, you could feel the pull of vines, twitching as if dreaming of flesh.

But Luocha never harmed you.

He would summon you occasionally. His voice was calm. Yet beneath it all, he carried a sorrow so profound you could feel it bleeding through every corner of the palace.

He was terribly lonely.

So one afternoon, when the skies over Velisol bled their usual crimson, you wandered into the royal garden—a place whispered about, never visited by others. There, the flowers were unlike any you had seen. Some bloomed with eyes. Others opened and closed like mouths. But a few… were strangely beautiful.

You gathered a handful.

That night, in your chambers, you wove them together carefully—an art you’d learned long ago in your homeland. Twisting the stems into a circlet, you shaped them into a delicate crown of gold-veined leaves and dark blossoms.

You left it outside his throne room door, without a note.

The next day, you were summoned again.

But this time, Luocha wasn’t seated on his throne. He stood in front of it, wearing the floral crown you made.

“Did you craft this?”

You nodded.

His hand lifted to touch the crown gently.

“No one’s ever… made something for me before.”

“You are… difficult,” he whispered. “Difficult to predict. Difficult to understand.”

Then, he reached forward and cupped your face in one gloved hand.

“Don’t leave.”

You agreed to stay.

------

The palace halls, once cold and hollow, felt different now—alive with your presence, like the way vines reach for sunlight.

Luocha named you his "companion," a title with no formal power but one that placed you by his side during court, meals, and council. You smiled, greeted nobles with kindness, and never sought to outshine anyone.

But kindness, in royal courts, is often mistaken for weakness.

More than once, you passed by Luocha’s throne and saw a noble standing beside him—speaking sweetly, flattering him with sugared words. You’d greet them politely, as always. But some would only glance at you, nose lifted in subtle disdain. Others would speak to you with clipped courtesy, their eyes sliding past as though you were a mere servant he kept too close.

You noticed, of course. But what could you do?

You weren’t born of noble blood. You were a foreigner, a guest in a strange kingdom. So you smiled. Endured. And told yourself this peace was enough.

But Luocha noticed, too.

He saw the way you lowered your eyes to hide the sting. How your shoulders tensed just slightly when another courtier dismissed you. You never complained—not once—but that only made the ache in his chest worse.

To him, you were perfect. You were the bloom he had waited for in his garden of rot.

So why did they treat you like wilted leaves?

He held a party.

A grand affair. He invited every noble in Velisol, each one dressed in their finest, eager to win his attention. You stood by his side as always.

They laughed. Toasted. Danced.

And one by one, he made sure they drank.

Each goblet filled from bottles he personally gifted—wine laced with tiny, near-invisible seeds. Seeds that would hatch slowly, curling deep within the body like unseen roots.

They wouldn’t notice at first.

Not until the vines began to sprout from their mouths, their eyes, their veins—screaming in terror as Luocha’s garden bloomed inside them.

He watched their agony with a serene smile.

“They looked down on you,” he murmured. “So I gave them something to look up at.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

------

One afternoon, in the quiet breath between dusk and moonrise, he went searching for you.

He told no one.

He followed the distant scent of sweet soil and blooming roots—his garden always betrayed you. It welcomed you, more than it did him.

When he finally stepped past the arching vines of the eastern greenhouse, his gaze fell upon you.

You were kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled, hands gently pressing a flowering bulb into its bed. Beside you stood a young gardener.

The gardener said something. You laughed—a sound Luocha rarely heard so freely. You nudged the man with a playful smile, unaware of the quiet footsteps behind the tall hedge of blood-red lilies.

Vines stirred at his feet instinctively, but he did not command them.

He turned away.

That night, as the wind howled through the twisted towers of Velisol, you returned to your chambers.

You shut it. Bolted the lock. Turned—

And found Luocha already sitting in your chair, his green eyes glowing softly beneath the moonlight.

“Your Majesty—”

“Luocha,” he said, “When it is just us.”

“…Luocha,” you corrected gently. “You surprised me. Is something wrong?”

His gaze lingered on the faint dirt under your fingernails, the leaves still caught in your hair.

“You were in the garden today.”

“I was. I wanted to repot the grief blooms before they withered.” You smiled. “I think they’re finally responding to the soil here.”

He stood slowly.

“And the man?”

“The gardener?” you blinked. “He was just helping me carry compost. I asked for help.”

“I see.”

“I trust you,” he murmured. “But trust is a brittle thing, isn't it?”

You frowned. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the floor. “That’s what frightens me.”

“Frightens you?”

“If I don’t claim what’s mine,” he whispered, “someone else eventually will.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers brushed your cheek, the scent of damp earth clinging to him like perfume.

“I’ve been patient. Gentle. But I am not a man known for either of those things, am I?”

“I will not lose you to the world outside. Tell me now—do you want me, or do you want to leave?”

The vines on the walls held their breath. So did the wind.

He was giving you a choice. But he didn’t hide the fact that one answer would end with roots in your throat, and the other in his arms.

You hadn’t answered yet. The words were there, trembling on your tongue—when a knock echoed at the door.

“Your Grace?” a servant called from outside. “Is everything alright? Shall I prepare your bath?”

Your heart skipped. Luocha’s eyes narrowed, the vines behind him coiling with agitation. You moved—grabbing his wrist and pulling him aside, pushing him gently behind a curtain.

“Shh,” you whispered, and then, on impulse, you pressed your hand to his mouth.

You turned toward the door. “I’m alright! I… I just want to rest early tonight!”

“Understood, Your Grace. Sleep well.”

You sighed and turned—only to find Luocha still staring at you, your palm ghosting away from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “That was rude of me. I just didn’t want anyone to see you here and—”

You didn’t finish.

He stepped forward, swiftly, the way a storm rolls in over calm water—and then, he kissed you.

The air left your lungs.

You stumbled back, and he followed. The vines crept along the walls like eager witnesses, curling around the posts of your bed, blooming silently with blood-red petals.

You whispered his name once, maybe twice. But he didn’t stop. And when you didn’t resist—when you tangled your fingers in his robe, when you whispered for him to stay—he knew.

You were his.

The next morning, sunlight flooded Velisol with a warmth it hadn’t seen in years.

Birdsong returned to the towers. Flowers bloomed across the once-dull courtyards. The air was rich with the scent of new growth, and green vines danced down marble columns like threads of life weaving the kingdom whole again.

The king was late.

But no one dared speak.

And when Luocha finally arrived, dressed in white and gold, a subtle mark on his throat, and a calm too satisfied to be explained—no one said a word.

They only bowed.

The only change anyone could name aloud… Was that the kingdom itself had started to bloom.

[the-cameo-blog]

Because the northern hemisphere isn't tilted towards the sun anymore.

Why does it have to be so damn cold???

[flwrkid14]

Ok, you did amazing with the addams family au. Now is it possible to have the batfamily and/or the justice league react to them? Sorry for asking immediately after the last one. Please take your time and no pressure.

tysm anon!! i hope this lives up to ur expectations ! <3

The first time Bruce meets them, he almost doesn't knock.

He stands on the doorstep of the old manor, surrounded by creeping vines and statues that seem to blink when you’re not looking. There’s fog rolling in across the garden, and somewhere deep in the house, something howls.

He’s faced gods. Aliens. The end of the world—twice. But this? This is different.

Because when the door opens, Tim is standing there. Serene. Dressed in black silk and silver rings, with his hair pinned back like a prince preparing for war. He smiles like secrets. He speaks in low tones, carefully enunciated, like every syllable is chosen.

Danny’s behind him, radiant and grinning and barefoot. There's moonlight in his hair and shadow under his nails. He looks like a wish granted wrong and made beautiful anyway. His arm curls around Tim’s waist without thought, possessive and devoted in equal measure.

"Welcome," Tim says. "Please, come in. The house is very excited to meet you."

And that’s not a metaphor. The house creaks in greeting.

---

The children are... something else.

Bart phases in and out of rooms muttering to ghosts only he can hear. Cassie and Anita speak to each other in tongues no one else knows. Kon and Dani keep dueling with enchanted broadswords.

They leave offerings on the windowsills before bed. No one quite knows for who or what. They duel for fun. Their bedtime stories are legends of ancient monsters with names no one else can pronounce. Their laughter sometimes echoes for too long.

“They’re harmless,” Tim says pleasantly, as Dani levitates three feet off the floor, eyes glowing.

Bruce, halfway to calling Zatanna, just nods tightly.

---

The batfamily handles it exactly how you'd expect.

Dick brings muffins and accidentally participates in a blood pact. Jason keeps joking about it—until he finds himself buried up to his neck in rich soil while Dani solemnly explains “we’re helping your roots, Uncle Jason.” Steph loves the vibes. Duke is side-eyeing the ghost in the hallway mirror that only he can see. Cass takes one look at the kids and says, “They fight well,” like it’s the highest compliment.

Damian disappears for two days and returns with a pet spider the size of a basketball and a cryptic smile.

Alfred and Danny become fast friends. They discuss herbal tonics, rare poisons, and long-lost techniques of preservation. “You steep your mandrake root first?” “Only if I want them to remember the dream.”

---

When the Justice League visits, things escalate.

Clark walks in and instantly gets hugged by a disembodied hand. Diana is enchanted. She’s utterly delighted by Tim’s gothic elegance and Danny's over-the-top adoration. She brings a cursed sword as a hostess gift. They keep it in the foyer.

J’onn enjoys the vibes. He sits with Cassie and Bart as they summon something from the other realm. J’onn helps. They succeed. Nobody talks about it afterward.

Hal is terrified. He doesn’t know why. He won’t go near the punch. Barry trips over a summoning circle and ends up in a mirror dimension for twelve minutes. No one is concerned.

---

It feels like an odd arrangement.

And yet.

No one can deny how much Tim smiles now. How still his hands are when Danny touches them. How soft his voice goes when he says, “They’re our children.”

The house may creak. The shadows may whisper. The candles may flicker without wind.

But it’s warm here.

Safe. Loved. A little terrifying.

Very them.

[the-cameo-blog]

Hiiii!! <3

I'm Laska, and I've decided to make a blog together with the 2 most important people in my life: my girlfriend Azari and my best friend Valen!! Introductions will be under the cut.

For some reason, tumblr keeps glitching and showing 2 other people's posts on this account too, but ignore that.

Can't wait to get to know people!!

Soo, here's a pic of me, Laska!! She/her, btw. I'm currently studying to become a nurse. And, in case you couldn't tell, I love the others on this blog very much <3

I'll be tagging my posts with #the loveless flame, after my favorite Death Omen song!!

I'm Valerien Sartorius, pleasure to meet you. I'm afraid I won't be very active on this account, as I have more important things to take care of, like my job. I'm an accountant, for those who wish to know. My pronouns are he and him.

Apparently I need to choose a "tag"... Fine, it will be #vines without roots.

Hey freaks of the internet! Call me Azari. She/they or I'll find out where you live and I'll cover every inch of your home in bright red paint. Now that that's out of the way, who wants to hang out tonight?

Oh, and I've decided my tag will be #because I can #I've been ghosting. Wha- hey! Why can't I change it back? What the actual fuck...

[Error 888: connected from new device]

My name is Narcisse, I go by they/ve/she, and I have plans for these three. Just sit back and watch the story unfold...

You'll recognize me by my tag #ascensionisms.

Hey! I'm Pat, and I'm just happy to be here. Technically a mailman, but my other job is much more important, to me at least. It's honestly the best job I could ever imagine. Also I'm slowly rotting from the inside out lol, don't mind that. Please use he/him unless you're Narcisse!

My tag will be #the loyal acolyte, if I ever get to make a post.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

OOC:

Hello, @crowfromfoggyforest here! Tackling a big project with this one - aka a tma au of 2 fantasy-ish projects of mine mashed together. So yeah, unlike on my other rp blogs, there will actually be a plot! Whohoo!

The blog is called the cameo blog because i originally only wanted these characters to appear as cameos on another blog, and also because i might play around with tma versions of other ocs here sooner or later. And also just because cameo is a neat word.

Half of the tags (and also the blog title) are song/lyric references, whoever gets all of them gets a virtual forehead kiss ^-^

Do send asks and interact with my babies! ^-^

[jamilynfx]

Stuck Again

Summary: You're stuck between your boyfriends in what seems to be the hottest night of the year.

Pairings: Logan Howlett x Wade Wilson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Inspired by this post made by @dorkszn 💖

Warnings: implied sexual content, mentions of stabbing and biting, FLUFF ALL OVER

Part 2

It’s hot.

You don’t mean the usual, July kind of hot in New York when everything seems to melt like a neglected ice-cream cone. You also don’t mean yourself or your companions, even though they have a lot of hot qualities going on.

It’s the place that you’ve found yourself in, or, more accurately, a nest that one of your boyfriends insists on creating each night, no matter the high temperatures outside. With the AC unit barely working and a half-damaged fan, which was almost destroyed on purpose by Logan during one of his daily fights with Wade, tonight’s heat is unbearable.

And it’s not that you don’t like being warm. You’re more of a summer girl, enjoying extreme heat and the sun kissing your skin, your wardrobe full of dresses and skirts to catch a light breeze when outside, always the first one on a lounge chair to sunbathe and bask in the heavenly white heat of long, summer days. Your worst nightmare is deep winter, with agonizingly cold temperatures and activities like ice-skating or building a snowman, hands half-frozen and teeth clattering uncontrollably.

But tonight?

Tonight everything is too much, even for you. The heat is overwhelming and unpleasant, surrounding you from every possible angle.

The fan sounds as if it’s its last night on earth, definitely working overtime and below its paygrade. You can’t see Mary but her light snores fill the room accompanying Logan’s casual growling, deep and insistent in your ear. Wade is silent for once, his breath steadily brushing the skin of your upper arm and neck, the constant sleep talking temporarily simmered down.

It’s your usual sleep arrangement, Logan comfortably situated behind you, your naked back flush with his bare chest, his arms hooped around your belly and mid-section like a vine, his large hands on your waist, leaving you literally no space to move or escape without waking him up. Wade is glued to the front of your body, your legs tangled together like roots of a crazy tree, your head resting on his shoulder with your face hidden in the crook of his neck, and Wade’s other arm slung over you and Logan, to have you both within an arm’s reach.

Logan isn’t a fan of Wade stealing you all for himself, especially if he does it in that obnoxious, you won’t do shit about it, peanut way, which causes low, unamused grumbling on better days and scratching or outright stabbing Wade on not so good ones. It’s more of expressing difficult feelings through violence than real hatred but Logan wouldn’t be caught dead saying out loud that he secretly enjoys when Wade hugs you both the way he’s doing it now.

Sure, there are nights where Wade is the one to squish you from behind like a sponge but, most of the time, he prefers to be in front, chest to chest or tits to tits,if you were to quote the man himself, leaving your behind to Logan’s exclusive use. Too bad Wade ain’t ever really tits to tits, it’s more of his head resting on your shoulder or right between your cleavage, which dangerously overlaps with him drooling all over your breasts every other time. It isn’t that unpleasant but you fake-complain in the mornings when it happens, just to see Wade be slightly embarrassed for once. Your legs always end up entangled, little Mary resting somewhere in between the three of you.

And while having two private heaters is heavenly during the cold, winter months of the year, now it seems to be a not-so-funny joke. Both Wade and Logan love to sleep naked or with just one item of clothing on them, Wade sometimes choosing to sleep only in Logan’s t-shirt. Yes, it doesn’t cover anything, and on days like this you’re grateful that Al is actually blind. Sleeping naked isn’t a downside per se, but now it makes you feel oven-hot, the heat that radiates from everyone suddenly too overwhelming to enjoy it.  

To make matters worse, you’re sticky. Sticky with multiple layers of sweat, droplets of it actively trickling down your side and back, your hair plastered all over your neck and forehead making you even hotter, especially with Logan’s beard buried in the crook of your neck. The place where Wade’s arm rests on yours is soaking wet, little beads of sweat running down to drip, drip, drip right onto your hip and sheets. On the top of it all, you’re sticky like that, too, a mixture of bodily fluids splashed all over your thighs, lower belly, and chest, a rather messy testament to your before-bedtime activities, which made you delirious with pleasure and forced you to fall asleep right after Logan’s hushed ‘night, princess.

You’re stuck.

You try to focus on falling back to sleep but it doesn’t work. There’s no way you’re not going to wake up Logan if you start moving but you can’t stay like that, feeling like a lobster being thrown into boiling water. The final straw is Mary, who changes her position mid-sleep and covers your feet with her little body, making your temperature skyrocket.

You grunt, wiggling carefully to free yourself of Logan’s arms. Wade is still asleep when he slightly turns away from you both, leaving you a bit shocked that he dressed into his Hello Kitty boxers for once.

You’re in the middle of sliding down Logan’s chest, his arms level with your tits, when Logan’s hoarse voice makes you stop all your abrupt movements.

“What is it that you’re doing, bub?”

Fuck.

“It’s too hot in here. I need out,” you whisper quickly, your hands coming to rest on his huge arms. You’d think he’d let you go but it’s not that easy. Logan slightly loosens his grip on you, only to slide you back up and hide his face in your sweaty hair. You manage to twist your body towards his face. “I’m serious, Lo. I need a cold shower, right now.”

The urgency in your tone gets his attention. He lets you go with an unhappy growl that makes Mary perk up.  

“Want me to go wit’ ya?”

You kiss him on the lips, just a little peck but that seems to do the trick.

“No, I’ll be quick. Sorry about waking you up.”

His only answer is another low growl but the crease between Logan’s brows straightens, then completely disappears, right when you’re kissing Wade’s sweaty forehead.

Your visit to the bathroom is quick but Mary follows you anyway. She sits right in front of the shower curtain, yawning a total of six times before you finish showering. The water is cold on your skin, a bit of a shock after being surrounded with extreme warmth, all stickiness and hotness going down the drain in a matter of minutes. Dry and ready to go, you pick the dog up with one hand, placing her under your left arm.

“Look at you, standing guard and all,” you whisper words of praise as you go back into your small, stuffy room, Mary wagging her tail happily.

Ten minutes are enough for Wade to force himself into Logan’s personal space, now that you’re not their buffer. His hello kitty cladded hips are perfectly aligned with Logan’s naked ones, his hand fondling Logan’s tits, his face halfway in Logan’s hair.

“Come quick, baby girl, and save me,” squeaks Wade when you put Mary down on the edge of the bed. That’s when you see it, Logan’s teeth buried in Wade’s arm, the same one which Wade used to feel Logan up. It’s nothing serious if there’s no blood, so you lie down in between them, forcing Logan to let go of Wade’s flesh.

“Gods’sake, behave, both of you.”

You put your head on Wade’s chest, finding your way back into a comfortable position, Logan’s hands immediately on your hips. Wade makes a big stretch, “accidentally” extending his arm to embrace you both.

“Thought he’d bite it off but I’m safe when you’re here.”

Logan buries his nose in your neck, growling lowly behind your ear, probably something about slicing Wade’s arm off, but it’s too incoherent to know for sure. He doesn’t move away from Wade’s embrace, though, which is enough for you to smile happily, watching as Mary finds her spot in between Logan’s feet.

Stuck again.

Exactly the way it should be.

[syoddeye]

xylaria polymorpha

You pick him. He picks you back. cw: entomophobia, earachnophobia, vomit mention (not depicted), mild body horror, abduction, buried alive (sort of), nonconsensual kiss a/n: AO3

The woods, no matter where you roam, have always felt like a refuge. An escape from your day job and your cramped flat. Far from emails and bills.

The air is cool, laced with the scent of wildflowers and damp earth. As you walk, you name the flora around you, half-whispering, half-thinking. Dog's mercury. Lesser celandine. Bursts of foxglove.

The woods are loud in a quiet way. Alive. Wood pigeons cooing, squirrels chittering, a fox slipping through the brush in a blur. You take it all in, breathe it in deeply.

This peace is why you come here. Or part of it, anyway.

Your foraging bag swings at your side, weighted with what you've already found. Oyster mushrooms, chicken of the woods, a single giant puffball. Two dryad's saddles stacked atop one another. Your parents taught you how to hunt and how to identify your finds. You were barely knee-high the first time they took you, holding your hand as you nervously poked at leaves and logs. It's a valuable skill, one you're grateful to have honed. The shelves in your kitchen are full because of it, and on weekends, you sell the excess at the market.

The trees grow taller as you walk, their trunks thick and gnarled. It's darker and colder here, the light barely piercing the canopy. You don't mind, and merely zip your jacket to your chin. The good stuff's always further in.

A few hedgehogs and puffballs later, you see them.

They rise from around the body of a rotting log, black and knotted, their shape unmistakable. You kneel, your heart fluttering with the discovery. You've read about them in books, seen photos online: xylaria polymorpha. Dead man's fingers.

They're inedible, nor are they particularly pleasant to look at, but you reach for your notebook anyway. A sketch and then a picture on your phone. Something to send the parents. But your gaze catches on something else.

In the rear of the cluster, there are five paler growths, different from the others. They stand out, almost glowing against the dark soil. You've never seen anything like them. A mutation, perhaps. Or some kind of bacteria or mold. You edge closer, leaning in, fascinated, and without thinking, you reach out to touch one.

The moment your fingers brush the surface, it moves. And it doesn't just twitch or shift—it grabs.

A cold, wet pressure wraps around your hand. It knocks a violent gasp from your throat, and immediately, you try to pull back, but the grip tightens. Your bag falls, spilling as you twist and yank. The mushrooms clinging to your hands aren't mushrooms anymore. They're fingers—long, sinewy fingers. Pale and filthy, their nails cracked and dark with soil.

You freeze, a scream catching in your chest as the fingers pull harder, dragging your hand downward. Then you see it. The arm. Rising from the earth, covered in moss and mud, thick and muscular. Panic surges up from your belly, burning your throat with its acid. Stomach churning your breakfast as the rest of it emerges. Piece by piece as though being assembled by the woods themselves.

A man. 

And from your knees, he looks enormous.

The body is tall, broad-shouldered, with skin that appears almost translucent in places under the layers of muck and decay. The chest is scarred, torn up, and sewn back together with thin vines and stems. Pocked with keloids and other protrusions that look less natural. Dozens of insects crawl over his skin, falling to the ground or disappearing into the folds of moss that cling to bits of him. One of his ears is a swollen, misshapen thing, his hair shoddily cropped, bits of it stringy and wet, but his eyes lock onto yours—dark, intense, and unblinking.

You can't move. His hand wraps around yours like a root. He towers over you, filling your view, banishing whatever notion of peace you had.

"A woman." He rasps through cracked lips, hoarse. "Were you gonna pick me?"

You try to speak, to say anything, but the words won't come. You're not even sure this is actually happening.

He tilts his head, studying. He squeezes a little, hinting at how he could crush your hand without a thought. Crack you open like a walnut.

The image snaps you back to yourself, your mind clearing with a rush of instinct. You pull, but before you can make any progress, he yanks you forward, then up, like it's nothing. He holds your hand high above your head, and you watch, transfixed, as a spider squeezes itself through the mess of his ear.

You finally find your voice, though you swallow some sick to free it. "What…What are you?"

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drifts down, then back up again, slow, deliberate. He looks at the overturned bag, his brow twitching just slightly, then returns to your eyes. His free hand lifts, and as it moves, a sludgy drip of mud falls, plopping softly onto the ground. You flinch as he drags two fingers over the curve of your cheek, smearing the mud over your skin.

"These woods belong to me. Everything you've stolen? Mine." His fingers graze you again, feeling the hammering pulse at your neck. "You followin'?"

"I didn't mean to—"

"But you did." His mouth curves slightly. "You touched me. You chose. You thought you were gonna carry me off."

The once-familiar sounds of the forest warp. The birdsong sounds wrong. Off-key and more frantic. The forest closes in. Shadows stretch longer in the periphery.

His hold is what keeps you from collapsing in shock when the ground starts to give way. Slowly, beneath your boots, the earth begins to eat you. Your toes, your ankles, your calves. You pull at his arm, desperate to break his grip, to push yourself free, but he's unmoving, rooted. Then you realize he's sinking with you.

His other hand touches your chin, rough fingers tilting your face toward him. You flinch as his thumb brushes your lower lip, leaving behind the tang of damp soil. The taste makes you gag, and you twist harder, but his hold is unrelenting.

"This is 'ow it works," There is no malice. He speaks as though this is fact. "You don't take without givin' back. Not 'ere, not from me."

The ground rises faster, the earth climbing your thighs. Your breath catches, panic surging. You try to wrest free, but no amount of struggling helps. You're sinking, and he's sinking with you.

"You picked me. This. Made your choice." He repeats, softer this time. 

It's up to your chest. Dozens of tiny legs move beneath the surface, exploring your skin, inspecting you. Welcoming you. Tears blur your vision and slip down your face.

He lets go of your arm now that you're trapped, immobile, and holds either side of your face. He tips your head back up, and just as the world swallows you whole, he plants his mouth over yours.

A week later, the authorities will find your foraging bag beside the log. Its treasures withered to black. They'll call your name and search until dusk, but they won't find you.

You'll be far below them by then, cradled in roots and arms as thick as tree branches, breathing in the forest in a different way. Far beyond their reach, but alive. Thriving. Growing.

[queensparklekitten]

anyways after that minecraft movie trailer i'm tempted to change my skin back to that one based on crimson/warped duality out of spite

they called the nether "a place with no joy or creativity at all" like just tell me you're too scared to go there and thus haven't experienced

-joining in on a group of piglins hunting a hoglin, letting them keep the loot, trading with them afterwards, i find that this temporarily cures the loneliness of singleplayer

-the dance they do afterwards sometimes literally just the piglin dance, hitting shift repeatedly with them

-literally just the nether music at all

-that CRESCENDO in rubedo

-that brief minor key reprise of sweden in dead voxel hhhhhhhhhhhh

-occasional crimson roots in a soul sand valley like oh there's still some life here

-wither skull hunting and recruiting piglins to help you by luring them to the fortress with gold (+ giving them gold helmets so they don't put on the skulls) i love the ways this game lets me fight alongside piglins if i want to

-the subtle animated texture of crimson and warped stems like they feel so ALIVE with that one small detail

-seeing a nether tree growing through another one

-and an extremely tall nether tree amidst the normal height ones

-and weeping vines hanging from the ceiling

-passing by a piglin that's wearing enchanted iron boots and immediately knowing you've met and traded with this one before

-parkour challenge basalt delta

-also the particles in that biome look like snow if you turn down your render distance

-STRIDERS. Literally just striders. They're like bonded creatures to me, honorary tameable mobs, you put a saddle on the one mob in the nether that would never hurt you and then go on a journey together across the deadly lava ocean avoiding ghasts together and you can't remove the saddle now unless you kill it which you can't do because it's your ride back to the portal, once that strider is saddled it is Your strider and even if you release it into the wild you will immediately recognize it by the saddle if you see it again and in such a dangerous world you have found a companion you can always trust and idk bout you but i always bond so hard with them

-and also they're kind of cute, esp with the little waddle walk

-seeing a baby strider on top of an adult one

-literally just the fact that nether biomes have all this constant looping ambience and particles in the air that makes them feel so immersive and so alive, each biome has its own unique soundscape and ambience, can you imagine soul sand valleys without the wind and the whispers and wails

-aside note the particle effects are like the animated stems in that they're such a subtle detail but they add so much, i never really noticed them until i was netherite mining and started using them to tell which biome i'm under

-the nether was doing ambience and immersion 5 years before the Spring Drop allowed the overworld to finally catch up to it

-the adorableness of baby piglins

-esp when they ride on top of baby hoglins

-PIGSTEP. FUCKING PIGSTEP. the piglins have music and it's SUCH A BANGER i've thrown ingame parties with this music disc

-seeing warped fungus in a crimson forest or crimson fungus in a warped forest

-biome borders between the two that have all this warped foliage in the crimson forest and vice versa as they blend into each other

-nyooming across a soul sand valley with soul speed 3 boots, laughing at the skeletons and ghasts who can't land a hit on you, bonus if you add a speed potion to the mix

-doing this and realizing the subtitle says "soul escapes" and you're surrounded by blue particles and realizing you're freeing them from their imprisonment (and presumably the piglins who made this enchantment are doing the same when they use it)

-the rib and snout armor trims

-gilded blackstone it's so pretty and nice and a great building block (and you can't craft it only the piglins know how to do that)

-bastions have chiseled blackstone

-and their own exclusive banner pattern

-some of them have that gold-and-quartz decorative thing that looks like some kinda statue

-apparently part of the Bridge type of bastion is designed to resemble a piglin head with the mouth as the entrance

-getting lost in the lore implications, noticing the huge fossils and the implications of the name "warped forest" as well as the names of some of its ambience sounds and the fact that basalt comes from rapidly cooling lava irl and next thing you know you've got a whole red string theory going that edges closer and closer to cosmic horror

-ik the fossils look like ribs but one time i wondered if they might be the fingers of something unfathomably huge

-the time i encountered a baby piglin running from a zombified one so i pushed the zombified piglin off the fortress and then gave the baby piglin a gold nugget

but hey what do i know i'm just a nether enthusiast on the "romanticizing and finding beauty in the horrifying and the forsaken" website huh