Malevoween Day 9: Gardens & Plants

The garden has been at work on Arthur for quite some time by the time Hastur finds him, twined about in vines with flowers woven through his hair.

“Ahhhh,” Hastur breathes, struck by the loveliness of the tableau.

Arthur’s eyes crack open. They look rather glazed. “Hastur…” His lips move. Hastur thinks he might plead for something, if only he could find the words. Instead he gives it up and simply moans.

He’s bound in bliss, Hastur can see. It holds him captive, knotted about him as tight as the vines that bind him.

The vines creak as he strains against them—not for escape but in delirium. Blooms and buds stroke his bare body. His skin is smeared gold with their pollen and slimed with their nectar—and his own. A thick, gnarled knob of live wood moves half-buried between his legs. Hastur admires the graceful undulation of his hips on it, taking it into himself over and over again, exhausted yet still hungry for more. Ecstasy rises from his skin in ripples like heat waves.

The scent of him…! Hastur runs a finger through the gold-tinged fluids covering him and then licks it from his claws. Delightful.

Arthur, watching through half-lidded eyes, whimpers. His hips judder on the limb inside him, rhythm lost.

“You’ve made the plants so very happy,” Hastur murmurs, drawing shapes over Arthur’s skin till he’s shuddering under his touch. Till his whole body is writhing mindlessly. His wrists, stretched and caught above his head, twist in their restraints till the vines protest. “They seldom get to indulge in the pursuit of fertility in this way.”

“Hastur, please,” Arthur manages this time. His voice is musically low, throbbing with a vibrato of desperation.

“Their pollen has that effect.” A tendril lazily laps at Arthur’s tender-chafed nipples, savoring the mingled floral, sweet-salt flavors of nectar and Arthur—and Arthur’s soft sobs of pleasure. “When it runs thick enough in the blood, it drives you to beg for your own torture.”

He hooks a claw beneath Arthur’s chin to lift his head for a kiss, deep and slow, till he can feel all the fine, straining quivers of Arthur’s body through him. When he sinks a tentacle into him alongside the wood, Arthur cries out into Hastur’s mouth. The sounds of his fresh ecstasy roll sweet as honey across Hastur’s tongue.