#Greenthorn

[edwardos]

[jentrevellan]

He's like all my fave Dragon Age romances combined, I am d o o m e d.

[hearties-circus]

I keep going 'I wonder if they were ever sweet on eachother' about my own miis, like bestie you get to decide that

[thedrawingwolfie]

harvey x farmer doodles because I’m insatiable

September Greenthorne (my farmer) (have i mentioned her on this blog before?) is absolutely WHIPPED for her husband in 4k and plans to wife him up severely. does she also dance to femininomenon??? yes obviously. im REALLY debating making a side blog for writing bc i wanna write her and harvey as well as sdv headcanons and yeah

more doodles that i wasnt as happy with under the cut :33

she’s 5’7” and he is 6’2” 🫶🫶 stupid straight people (kidding!! i headcanon them both as bi)

[batglare101]

41. Greenthorn

look at him. stupid feller.

btw, I'm taking requests! if you want to give me a dc character to warrior cat-ify then please do so in the ask box! I'm planning on doing hawkman and hawkwoman soon

[the-whumpening]

The Pet Tiger, #12 [nsfwhump AU]

Prev | Masterpost | Next

CW: Dehumanization, pet whump, pet training, magic whump, brainwashing/hypnosis, “it” as a demeaning pronoun, reference to previous/future noncon, choking, emotional manipulation, Ozmund is a BULLY

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12: Rules

With a tug of Ash’s leash, Ozmund leads him from his study out into the winding halls of the manor. Ash very nearly stands to walk behind him, but some fuzzy part of his brain thinks better of it, instead allowing his sore hands and knees to scurry along the polished wooden floors. Ozmund tuts affectionately at the sight.

“See? You’re already learning. A pet is below its owner, isn’t it? That’s why you walk on all fours, little tiger cub.” He scratches Ash’s hair, the splinters of ice in his spine mingling with the warmth of the fog filling his head. Please, more! (Please, stop!)

But, to Ash’s surprise, even between the warring needs for praise and control battling in his thoughts, the point sticks: he’s learned his first rule.

I am a pet. Pets are meant to crawl.

As Ozmund leads Ash in a tight heel along the corridors, he continues his explanation. “Like I said before, pet, I am a very busy man. I’m sure you’d imagine the life of an accomplished wizard to be leisurely and glamorous, but truthfully, it can be incredibly boring. I can barely squeeze in time for my own research with all the dilettantes and politicians clamoring for my attention. And that’s where we’re headed now: I have an important meeting to attend to this afternoon, and you are going to accompany me.”

At the hesitant tilt of Ash’s head—me? How could I possibly help?—Ozmund laughs. “Not for your keen intellect, naturally! No, no; you’re coming along for entertainment. Just something pretty to look at.”

Just to look at, not to touch? Ash silently sighs in relief. But as his muscles finally start to unclench, Ozmund continues.

“Of course, pets are always a good tool for making connections with an associate. When they’re distracted playing with a pet, it’s quite easy to sway them to do whatever you like. Even after your disastrous performance last night, I’ve already received correspondence from several influential guests approving my requests—and asking to see you again.”

Ozmund stops short of a doorway, the abrupt change pushing Ash back onto his heels. He bends at the waist to lock his eyes on Ash’s once again.

“Some of my visitors will hurt you. Is that understood? Nod for me, pet.” Ash nods, hiding the lump forming in his throat. “It is not a pet’s job to decide who may touch them or how. A good pet will endure anything I permit my guests to do. As you are still healing from last night, I will not allow anyone to harm you today. Instead, you will stay beside me, and I will tell you what to do. Nod if you understand.”

He nods again. Although he’s grateful for the reprieve, Ash can’t help but wonder why Ozmund even cares at all, given that he had no problem causing the injuries in the first place. Is it somehow . . . guilt? Does even Ozmund have a limit to his cruelty? If he does, Ash can’t begin to fathom exactly where that line lies.

Satisfied with their one-sided talk, Ozmund leads Ash into a comfortable sitting room, where a pair of Weavers are already waiting.

“Ah, there you are, Greenthorn,” one says, raising his teacup in greeting. “And who’s this fellow? May I?” The lanky, bald cultist sets down his tea and reaches a hand out as if beckoning a stray cat.

Ash looks to Ozmund for instruction; just like last night, Ozmund’s expression has solidified into a mask of perfect, placid calm. This guest’s impatience has clearly irked him.

“Apologies for the delay,” Ozmund smoothly replies. “Last night’s events have thrown my schedule into disarray; I’m sure you understand.” He snaps and points to the ground—Ash obediently sits back on his haunches—then places the length of Ash’s leash into his mouth. “Take your leash, pet, and go say hello.”

As Ash shakily crawls towards the man’s open hand, Ozmund continues, “This is my latest acquisition. He’s still in training, so please forgive his . . . imperfect habits. Do be gentle with him; he was used quite thoroughly yesterday.”

Though the memory of the night before makes Ash’s stomach turn, his muddy brain sinks deeper into the docile fog. I am a pet, he reminds himself. My Master decides when, how, and by whom my body is used, even if it hurts.

His knees scrubbed tender from the rug, Ash presents himself for the Weaver. He drops his leash into the man’s outstretched hand and ducks his eyes, murmuring a quiet, “Hello, sir.”

Delighted, the man coos, “Oh, look at that! Aren’t you precious?” He scratches Ash’s hair and rubs his ears—not too rough, just the same as petting a cat.

Through the haze of affection, Ash notices the Weaver’s companion. They seem . . . displeased. Disgusted, even. Something about their glare makes his stomach ache; has he done something wrong?

At the man’s continued praise, his companion finally speaks up. “We don’t have time for you to play with that thing, Valen. I don’t know how you can even stand to touch it.” He shudders. “Honestly, Greenthorn—this whole half-breed business is . . . disturbing. This isn’t where our donations go to, is it?”

Valen rolls his eyes and gives Ash his leash back. With a gentle pat on his backside, he ushers Ash to Ozmund once more. “Go on back to Master, little one.”

As Ash returns to Ozmund’s side, he can feel the tension in the air become thicker and thicker. He bites back a whimper as Ozmund strokes his fingers through Ash’s hair—his nails scratch Ash’s scalp with each pass, as if using Ash to relieve his anger.

Ozmund chuckles, but the darkness never leaves his eyes. “Of course not, Mr. Crane. I am perfectly capable of financing my own personal research. Now”—he leans forward, an intimidating aura emanating off him in waves—“do you wish to continue insulting both my integrity and my property, or would you rather discuss our business civilly? I’m sure your Loomer would love to hear about the outcome of this meeting.”

Valen shoots an anxious glance to Crane, who only sputters and huffs in response. Placing a hand on his companion’s shoulder, Valen answers for him. “Excuse my colleague, Mr. Greenthorn; he sometimes speaks without thinking. What he meant to say is that we’re excited to hear about the progress of our project.”

Satisfied, Ozmund relaxes back into his chair, his hand on Ash blissfully loose and gentle. As they settle back into business talk, it doesn’t take long for Ash to tune out the dull conversation, only listening for potential commands.

I am a pet. My job is to be pretty and sit still and do what my Master tells me to.

The meeting drags on for hours. After being so disoriented all day, Ash is surprised to catch pink rays of sunset through the windows—is it that late in the day already? The fog in his head had slowly lifted over the afternoon, but he still feels out of sorts. However, the loud rumbling in his belly confirms it, and Ozmund chuckles at the sound.

“Hungry, little cat?” He glances to the complex, magical timepiece hanging on the wall. “I’m afraid we’ll have to call this meeting finished, gentlemen. I’ll be sure to have someone send along any documents you need as they show you out.”

Without waiting for a reply, Ozmund sees himself out, dragging Ash alongside. After a brief whispered exchange with a servant, he nudges Ash along into the dining room and takes his place at the head of the table. Ash kneels beside him—anxiety grows in his gut as the fog in his head clears—and Ozmund removes his leash.

“That’s a good boy,” Ozmund murmurs, distracted. “You did well, little cat—though much wasn’t asked of you, to be fair. And with that meeting out of the way, we can get back to your routine.” He smirks and pets Ash’s hair teasingly. “It seems your body already knows when to expect dinner, so that’s good. You’ll be having your evening meals with me every night, though you’ll usually have breakfast with Faye. Typically, I host guests at dinner, so your presence may be required. Ah, here we are—”

A small swarm of servants descend upon the table, artfully depositing gorgeous china plates full of fragrant food in front of Ozmund. Ash averts his gaze; he can’t be sure he’ll be allowed anything at all, and the smells are torture enough. But as he ducks his head, the scent only grows. One of the servants has placed a plate in front of him on the floor—shallow and rimmed, like a bowl one would use to feed a cat. The bowl is overflowing with juicy meat and vegetables, all chopped into fine, bite-sized pieces and swimming in a thick broth.

Is this . . . for me? Am I allowed to eat it? Is this a trick? Ash turns the possibilities over in his mind, disturbed at the ease with which he submitted to Ozmund earlier. Of course he lies; of course he sets traps. Why did I think he wouldn’t?

As most of the servants retreat back into the kitchen, Ash braves a glance in Ozmund’s direction.

“Yes, that’s for you, little cat,” Ozmund confirms, smirking knowingly. “If I provide you food, I expect you to eat it without question. I even had the staff cut it up so nicely for you. Isn’t that thoughtful? I imagine it would be difficult to eat from your bowl otherwise.”

Of course there’s a catch. Ash raises an eyebrow; he knows better than to speak out of turn now, especially with food on the line. Ozmund sighs, placing a hand on top of Ash’s head.

“Pets don’t use forks and knives, do they? That’s just silly. And they don’t use their hands like a person, either. So how does a pet eat, darling?” His hand trails to the back of Ash’s neck, brushing his hair behind his ears along the way. “Show your Master how a good pet eats.”

With one firm motion, Ozmund presses Ash’s head down to the bowl, forcing him down onto his belly with his hips in the air. His face lands squarely in his food dish; he sputters and bucks his neck, desperate for air. When Ozmund finally releases him, Ash can’t restrain the baleful, watery glare in his eyes.

Ozmund only laughs.

“Oh, look at you,” he coos, using the cloth napkin from his lap to clean the mess from Ash’s face. “Poor thing. You’ll get the hang of it, my love. It’s in your nature, after all.” Once Ash is clean, Ozmund kisses his forehead and breathes into him, “Go on and eat, kitten. We still have much to discuss.”

Just as before, Ozmund’s saccharine-sweet breath leaves Ash feeling woozy and confused. He returns to his pet bowl, savoring his meal without complaint or hesitance. Absently, he acknowledges how easy it is to eat with the pieces cut so small. Maybe he should be a little grateful . . .

“Now, today has been quite easy,” Ozmund continues, his plate somehow emptying despite never seeming to lift his fork. “Most days will be quite a bit more busy, and you will be expected to keep up. In the morning, Faye will retrieve you for breakfast and grooming. Then you’ll accompany me as you did today until dinner. After dinner is training and readying you for your nightly duties. Faye will typically handle those as well. You will then be delivered back to my quarters—or wherever I should need you—and I shall return you to your bed when you’re dismissed. Do you have any questions?”

Ash’s foggy brain tries its best to keep up with the deluge of information, but something keeps sticking. He can guess well enough what “nightly duties” are expected of him—as much as he loathes the thought—but what does Ozmund mean by “training?” Wary, he raises his head, but he can’t find the strength to speak. Is he even allowed to?

I am a pet. I do not speak unless prompted.

Chuckling, Ozmund pats Ash’s head sympathetically. “You may speak, pet. But remember your manners.”

As if commanded, Ash’s voice returns to him, albeit shaky and weak. “T-Training, Master?”

Ozmund clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Have you forgotten already, love?” His hand glides down Ash’s neck to the golden chain around his throat. It slowly cinches tighter and tighter under Ozmund’s touch, pressing the sides of Ash’s throat until his vision turns fuzzy. “Have I been going too easy on you? Is even this little rest undoing all our hard work? Think back, darling, to your first days here as my pet. Go on.”

All at once, the heavy cloud over Ash’s thoughts dissipates, and he can think clearly again. The memory rushes back—the heavy iron collar squeezing his throat; the foreign, intrusive plug in his ass; the first time he was brought to his knees before Ozmund; the bitter taste of the word “Master” on his lips. Although that same formal “training” had been halted while Ash recovered from his week locked in his cage, he realizes now that Ozmund had never truly let it go. At every opportunity, he gives Ash the same one-word commands as before, and Ash stupidly follows along each time, always promising himself it’ll be the last.

He’s been tricking me—brainwashing me! Is that why I’ve been out of it all day? Is he using a spell to keep me dumb and tame?

“Y-you . . . You-you—!” Ash sputters, scrambling to pull away from Ozmund’s grasp, though some unseen, untenable force seems to stay latched onto his psyche.

“Me? Me?” Ozmund taunts. “’Me’ what, little cat? Is it me that makes you kneel so beautifully when I say sit?”

Without thinking, Ash falls back on his haunches, his bare ass resting on his heels and his chest pushed up and out. He grinds his jaw in shame. It’s a reflex; it’s just a trick. It doesn’t mean anything.

Ozmund doesn’t let up, though. “No, I didn’t think so. Is it me that forces your plump little lips apart when I say open?”

Again, Ash’s body acts against his will. His jaw drops wide, his tongue lolling wet and lustful above his still-bruised lip. He can feel the dulling in his eyes and the slip of his consciousness—his mind is fighting to be anywhere but here.

“Look at you: dumb and obedient, as you should be. It’s in your nature, pet.” Ozmund’s hand cups his cheek, his thumb pressing into Ash’s drooping mouth. “It’s just domestication, love. All these instincts—they’re ingrained deep within you. Everyone can see it; even Evius knew it.”

No. That can’t be true. And yet, Ash can’t help but recall how wild and undignified he was when he and Evius first met; did Evius see through him even then? Did he only think of Ash as a pet, too? Something to be tamed or coddled—not quite a person at all. It’s not true . . . Is it?

“You just need a little push”—Ozmund forces his thumb further into Ash’s mouth, pressing on his tongue—“to perfect those skills, to hone your nature. But don’t worry, that’s why I’m here. I’ll mold you into exactly who you’re meant to be.”

Ash doesn’t know what to believe. His head is too full of fog and conflicting thoughts; he stumbles blindly down each path as he tries to latch onto something, anything. But all he can manage to grasp is the thorny, painful reality:

I am a pet. No, I’m not! I am. I am . . . just an animal.

-

Taglist: @whumped-by-glitter @lumpofsand @corbytheking @scoundrelwithboba

@tired-human09 @darke-phoenix515

-

A/N: Idk, I'm not in love with this chapter, but I think it's important to still let go and post it even if it's not perfect. There's definitely important stuff here, but I'm just not in love with how it all shook out. I do have plans for this little mini-arc though, so that'll unfold in the next couple chapters.

[crowskullart]

And here we got the rest of the Umbral family. Oleander's parents, Belladonna and Vaiyel. And his brothers, Hemlock and Foxglove

Belladonna is the leader/brains behind Nightshade, a syndicate working to make a resource chain to prepare for the disruption of the planes, and the neverending cycle of war, death, and undeath that will follow.

Vaiyel is her husband, and leader of The Seven, a group of highly skilled and dangerous people assisting in the fruition of Nightshade's goals. He otherwise is a known cartel leader, and does most of the hands-on work for leading Nightshade.

Hemlock is the oldest brother. He fled the Umbral home estate and joined the Greenthorn Coalition, a group working towards stopping Nightshade. Now their leader after the previous was killed in battle.

Finally, Foxglove is the middle brother. He works with their parents in Nightshade. He's been responsible for assisting with various terrible events carried out by Nightshade, such as train derailments and the culling of a town. Despite his loyalty to Nightshade and the Umbral name, Oleander hopes to convince him to join him before it's too late.

[weird-eyes]

Ellie Greenthorn. A depressed 12 year old who’s completely made of magic

[amberdaproto]

All That We Hope To Be - Chapter 3

Mable is tired, and sore all over. She’s been working quite hard, despite her smaller physique she works the fields like the others now. She's tired. Her siblings let her walk behind them, checking their work after they taught her how, instead of pulling or pushing the plow like a proper farmhand should. They even talked to each other and looked back at her alot. She pushes forward though. Wormwood took her sister, Kettle, for no reason. He also took Daisy, another mother. She fears her mom is next, she doesn't know if she could stand another death here. She’s not sure if she could stand at all . . . Ukor is gone again. He’s been gone for a while now. Kiln and Jin are here. A blind frantic knife and sophisticated psychopath are left to watch her. She floats in red water, her tail brushes the bottom, thick slimy mud that she feels throughout her body despite not touching it. Jin is so strange to her. Three sets of eyes stare at her. One red, two yellow. A pale unfiltered yellow, a perfect circle cut and split in half. Two sides of the same coin as someone would say. Her eyes can barely stay open here . . . Jin seems . . . so close now. She’s awakened by a yell. Wormwood Greenthorn of Den Hollow. He’s yelling at someone again. She doesn't listen to his words, she tries not to hear him at all. He’s always yelling at someone for something. It changes and contradicts each other, constantly. 

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you now you ungrateful worm.” WormwoodGreenthorn screeches. “Gile is out in full tonight, there will be no ‘bathing’ in his affectionate attention. Not for you lot.” He’s banning the moons again. Either he thinks the threat alone is enough or doesn't realize the mousefolk have windows. Either is possible. Wormwood Greenthorn of Den Hollow seems to be capable of both narcissistic and idiotic tendencies. “I will, however, enjoy his company in full.” He turns and leaves. `1 Hope this is sufficient motivation for you to do your jobs.” Mable guesses he leaves, she didn't check. He really thinks that anyone wouldn’t at least try to see Gile? He's very nice, a rosary pink in the sky. He shows up so rarely, when he’s fully here and not just a silver. She will try, she doesn't particularly care about Wormwood Greenhorns new rules. She doesn't think she’s ever even questioned Lieutenant Greenthorns of Den Hollows Rules. That Night, she sits on her bed. Staring out at the pale pink color cast over the trees and ground. It’s very peaceful. She feels . . . nothing though. Not even Gile can make her happy now. She awakens again. It’s the middle of the night, the rose color light still shines through her windows. She’s not dreaming. Her sister is standing over her “Mable.” She says, shaking her shoulder lightly, her name was Dandelion. “Mable, get up.” She whispers. She sits up in bed. Her mother was there, along with most of her family. “Mable.” Bell says “I have something very drastic to ask of you. We have been discussing something. Something we have left you out of, for fear of . . . hurting you. But, nothing can hurt us more than we have already been hurt.” Dandelion exits to the kitchen “We have been discussing this plan, and debating on who should go through with it, and we have all decided you have the best chance of accomplishing it. Head to the All moons. Ask Ukor, Jin, and Gile for guidance. You haven't been outside this Farm . . . Den Hollow is a pit. A pit that some will never escape from. It crushes you.” She stands, shakily and puts her hand against her chin “I have seen it crush even you.” Dandelion comes back with a bag “please, Mable, head out. Commune with the celestials, this cannot be what they want us to do.” She sits back down. Everyone’s quiet. Very quiet. They Were looking at her. They think she can do this? She’s only ever heard of the All Moons, she’s never visited a single one. How could she do this?

“Go.” Dandelion says “We have packed you everything you may need, stop by the pond, the other families have agreed. You’re our best hope here.” How could she do this? She cant say yes, she cant. She’ll fail. How would they know if she fails? She can’t come back empty handed . . . who will tell them when she dies?

[warriorcatsrandomnamegenerator]

Green

Greenbank

Greenleaf

Greenfern

Greenflower

Greenpetal

Greenpool

Greenfall

Greenpuddle

Greensplash

Greentail

Greenclaw

Greensong

Greenheart

Greenleap

Greenwhisker

Greenwhisper

Greenbrook

Greenbark

Greenstalk

Greennose

Greenfin

Greenscale

Greenfur

Greengaze

Greenwing

Greenstrike

Greenbush

Greenthorn

Greengrass

Greenreed

Greenfrost

Greenhop

Greenhaze

[edwardos]

Greenthorn, Monty Home, November 2021.

[writevi0n]

I’m gonna be posting writing excerpts and just little writing things mostly from my world-building/writing project that I’ve been unofficially calling “Ingenebris.”

Its a fantasy style story following the main character Violet Hræn/Greenthorne.

there really isn’t any like, “themes” that I can put a finger on I’m just having fun writing. Any criticism is welcome but please don’t just be mean about it, if you have critiques just say them in a nice way.

(all of my writing so far is unfinished drafts and so probably has editing/pacing mistakes)

thats all!

[hearties-circus]

:[ greenthorne team... but now we've got a bus driver and a cabbie and I do love them

[rigbyscar]

First Story post.

Sooooo, here's the prologue for ONE of my stories XD It was based off of a writing prompt, can't find it anymore, and I decided to roll with it. Hope y'all enjoy. :P

The Little Prince and His She-Dragon (377 words) by RigbyScar Chapters: 1/? Fandom: TLPaHSD Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Wolvenheart, Sorren Silverdrake, Elias, Abigale Greenthorne Additional Tags: Dragons, Unicorns, Kingdoms, prince - Freeform, Princess - Freeform, Magic Summary: When a prince refuses to marry, he sets out to find a dragon to "kidnap" him in order to get out of it. This is the tale of a friendly she-dragon and her Little Prince.

[stellarkilop]

The thinking rock wizard101

The distortion of the mind writes history, myth, and legend. Thus, a story can be warped by the individual experiences and imagination of the Conjurer. To understand a story, one must birth it from one’s mind. “History begets legend, and legend begets myth. “Myth is the power of the mind,” reads the dusty tome on the History of Myth Magic in Professor Drake’s classroom. It is no surprise, then, that she was placed into the school of Myth at the Ravenwood School of Magical Arts what could possibly fit a young Wysterian girl- cultivated in the heart of nature’s chaos- better than the chaos of the mind itself? Like many other children, Nora was prone to mischief and trickery, though whatever transgressions thereby caused were swiftly forgiven, as the girl possessed the natural ability to charm her way out of nearly any situation. Nora OgreHead grew up in the earthen, green bramble that is Wysteria. Nora strives to uncover the secrets behind the enigmatic GreenThorn brothers, all the while maintaining grades, making friends, and ultimately finding her place among history's greatest giants. It's not that she is interested in them, really-after all, why would she care about two random teenage boys in her conjuration class? But it is odd that there are rumors of the two being linked to an ancient kingdom of fairies in Avalon, though both have declined to comment on the matter entirely. After settling in, she learns about two wizard brothers who are causing quite a commotion among the first-years: Adam and Finnigan GreenThorn. Bearing this is mind, her parents sent her off to study magic at Ravenwood - both to cultivate her magic skills and to at last find like-minded people she can connect with. But deep in her heart, she longs to make friends with other humans her age. With her books and pet golden ram Zeus, she seems content. Despite her aloof exterior, she is deeply interested in studying ancient history and conjuration magic. Nora OgreHead is a quiet, bookish girl who grew up in the remote Wysterian village of Vengill.

[vikobelo]

A commission for a friend of his ESO bosmer Anya Greenthorn! Loved working with this design, thanks for the commission!

Reference from @senshistock