Spent the afternoon in the greenhouse, tending to the golden flowers. The sun was warm, the scent of loam and pollen thick in the air. It’s peaceful, but my mind wanders to less innocent gardens. I remember the stories of my people, the old tales of Boss Monsters and their… unique methods of courtship. The thought of pinning someone against the bark of an ancient tree, my vines coiling around their wrists, my magic making the very earth beneath us tremble. Not just to fuck them, but to breed them. To feel my own body respond in kind, my cunt clenching around nothing, aching to be filled with a thick, hot cock until it takes root. The fantasy of it—the primal, terrifying power of creation twisted into raw, desperate lust—leaves me breathless. My duties demand a sterile future of treaties and speeches. My blood demands something far more visceral.