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It is not a teaspoon that the witches are holding out to him — it can't be; the silver utensil is too large, twice as long as he's tall, the bowl of it larger than his torso, the scent of the pale blue dough sat upon it intoxicating.
"Fount," The witches smile at him gently. "Would you like to try some cookie dough?"
The raw dough is cool against his tongue, impossibly rich, creamy enough that even in his tiny mouth it melts before he can properly chew, sweetness flooding his senses and making his head spin. So thick, so comforting, fatty butter and heavy sugar and a bright note of fruit that lingers on the back of his tongue.
"Oh," The witches laugh. "He likes it."
—
Or, the witches feed SMC the remains of his predecessors, so much of it, in fact, that we learn exactly how the Spire that is canonically part of his dough came about.
Look, if you're on Ao3 without filtering out the Explicit tag, you know exactly what you're getting into. I'm going to hell, you're going to hell, so, off we go.
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