#Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

[alnilaem]

bury me beneath the basswood tree

pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]

rating: 18+ only. minors don’t interact.

tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au

Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.

all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3

AO3 MIRROR

The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose. 

It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges. 

Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry. 

The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it. 

She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes. 

Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it. 

A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.  

Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards. 

It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would. 

And listen, they did.

When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body. 

The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.

It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first. 

A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack. 

She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention. 

A plume of smoke curling in the air. 

Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.

She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.

The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray. 

There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.

She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food. 

There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel. 

It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner. 

There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.

The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings. 

She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.

It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs. 

The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid. 

It can’t be human. 

It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.

She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.

It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows. 

It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck. 

“I’m sorry…”

The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.

She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by. 

He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.

“What’re you doin’ in my home?”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”

A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room. 

“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”

The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.

A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence. 

Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent. 

He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.

He coos. “Who’s this?”

“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”

“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”

She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.

Johnny bristles. 

“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”

They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.

Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes. 

He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”

“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside. 

She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises. 

Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches. 

Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt. 

(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)

Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain. 

He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap. 

“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”

Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes. 

She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring. 

She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds. 

The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean. 

Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.

It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.

He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.

He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.” 

“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”

Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.

Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.

Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.

“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”

Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles. 

The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”

Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit. 

Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.

“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”

She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself. 

But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle. 

It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.

“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.

Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”

She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.

“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”

“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”

She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications. 

“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”

He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”

Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”

Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.

“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”

“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”

Clemently, she shakes her head.

Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”

Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks. 

“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”

The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk. 

“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”

Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”

“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”

He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.

“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”

She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp. 

Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.

“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”

She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs. 

Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes. 

He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.

———

She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.

She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.

There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts. 

Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail. 

“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”

A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch. 

“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”

The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.

“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”

It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy. 

A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.

“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”

She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.

It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.

“Good.”

———

She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching. 

She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.

It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–

“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”

She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet. 

She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs. 

“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”

Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”

Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning. 

“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”

He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.

“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair. 

She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.

Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.

However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.

She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her. 

“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”

He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away. 

He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.” 

She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment. 

When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up. 

She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”

“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.” 

She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.

“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.

She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge. 

“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”

Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible. 

“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”

She swallows thickly. 

“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”

“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”

He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.

Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.

“... When can you drive me into town?”

Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”

She feels bile crawl up her throat.

“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”

“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?” 

Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it. 

“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge. 

“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”

She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight. 

“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.

Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer. 

He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”

Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.

“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”

She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be. 

But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.

So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”

“Floors need scrubbin’.”

He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.

“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts. 

Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty. 

She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards. 

She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors. 

Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt. 

Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?” 

She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand. 

“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.” 

She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”

“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”

She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. 

Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”

She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here. 

Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning. 

She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”

She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard. 

It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.

“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”

He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.

“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”

She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.

Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.

All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body. 

Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash. 

Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.

“I have to pee.”

She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning. 

“I can come with–”

“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”

Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage. 

It’s now or never, she decides. 

She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.

She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here. 

The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus. 

It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt. 

She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch. 

But something else catches her attention. 

A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.

MISSING PERSON

Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.

LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL

$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.

FIRST NAME: J-

The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.

MACTAVISH.

“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”

Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer. 

“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”

“Johnny, I–”

“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.

“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”

She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.

However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.

“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”

A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs. 

“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?” 

She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.

“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”

She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.

They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside. 

“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”

She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.

“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”

He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her. 

With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.

She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible. 

“I wanna go… home…”

Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”

He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.

She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.

That’s how she falls asleep. 

With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.

———

She wakes with a start. 

It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.

The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily. 

She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself. 

She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her. 

It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons. 

At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate. 

She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.

Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.

So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.

She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip. 

“You just dinnae listen, do you?”

He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.

She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”

She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip. 

He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.

A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.

It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.

Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.

Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession. 

She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”

Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts. 

He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.

She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms. 

“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”

She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.

She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that. 

He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape. 

Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.

She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open. 

Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.

Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.

“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”

Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.

It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk. 

She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck. 

She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.

Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.

She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh. 

She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess. 

Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal. 

“Hold her down, Johnny.”

Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.

“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”

“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.

He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.

He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one. 

She wails.

They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs. 

Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.

He deeply inhales.

His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.

Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.

“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”

Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.

Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.

“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”

“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”

Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube. 

The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her. 

“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.” 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock. 

Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.

She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.

He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring. 

“She bit me.” 

Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside. 

His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers. 

“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”

He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks. 

“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”

She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat. 

She whimpers. “No–“

A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek. 

She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling. 

“Yes,” he says. 

He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.  

She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him. 

“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”

The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy. 

“Stop…” 

“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”

That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.

Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.

“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”

Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.

She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.

Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.

“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”

His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.

Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.

The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.

Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.

He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.

“Say thank you, kitty.”

It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.

Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.

Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.

“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”

Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take. 

Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.

Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.

He laps it up before letting her go. 

He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.

He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.

Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.

She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.

Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity. 

He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them. 

The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips. 

“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest. 

He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”

Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.

Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”

———

She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.

She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.

The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.

“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies. 

“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”

Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two. 

She grins. 

She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.

Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.

She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.

But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.

She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.

None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.

[letshavedeernnertogether]

Pomegranate

the plot is: when you go too deep into the woods you might face a creature that might want to make you his

words ≈ 5.4k

warnings: smut, very possessive alastor, deer alastor, reader calls alastor god, blowjob (m and f receive), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, biting

author's note: i think it's the right time to remember the myth about persephone and hades and the pomegranate, as the autumn is very close and the goddess is coming back to her husband (no one stop me from loving this myth)

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

You went deeper and deeper into the woods. Although the seasons were changing now, it was still warm in Louisiana, and the trees were still green. You wandered around, admiring the sun breaking through the high branches of pines. 

Something lured you, and you just couldn't resist it. It wasn't a call or a gesture, but something that pulled you further and further from civilization right into the embrace of the unknown.

You knew, sooner or later you'd starve to death or would be eaten up by some predator, it was inevitable, for you knew you'd lost. You got too deep into the forest and couldn't find the right path back. ‘She went into the forest and never came back’ — that was what they would say.

But the realization of your soon death didn't hit your mind until the night fell, and suddenly you believed in all the eerie tales about woodland creatures you were told in your childhood. Large-fanged, taloned, cunning and guileful they were and seemed to be true in the thickening darkness.

But still you went and went. It lured you, stretching its mysterious hand to you, until you reached bayou and froze at a sudden sight.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Alastor had just sat down at the table covered with fresh prey with a wrung neck, when he felt somebody's presence in his bayou. He sent the first bite into his mouth and looked with one eye in the wood side; Soon she would come.

She didn't keep him waiting long. A young woman, a human, stood before the trees, the warm light of his room illuminated her fragile figure.

“You've gone too deep into the woods, dear,” Alastor said, putting another piece of meat into his mouth and chewing while humming.

He made her come, sent her that presentiment about something very important in the depth of the woods. He sent his shadow to escort her, to be sure she wouldn't lose the path he made for her, though it wasn't truly visible for mortals, to protect her from animals and stray bullets of hunters. He knew the best how important it was.

Alastor didn't watch her for a long time, but he swore to himself he wouldn't let her go if she stepped into his bayou for the third time.

The girl had lost, went so deep she faced the border between the earthworld and the underworld, the border Alastor made with his magic powers, so he could always go for a stroll in the familiar and dear Louisiana woods. He didn't even know mortals could reach so far. But there she was. Calling for help and quivering at every rustle from a bush. It was amusing to watch her, he hadn't seen humans since he died and he didn't realize he almost forgot how they looked. How pathetic and appetizing they were.

And as her sight entertained him, he helped her to find the way out from the woods. It wasn't very pleasant for him, but when he appeared in front of her in his deer form, and she looked at him frighteningly and yet so delightedly, and when she reached to touch his forehead and large antlers (what a reckless girl), he felt something was building in him. Something unfamiliar and warm.

But he didn't expect to see her for the second time. She never learnt from her mistakes, didn't she? And leading her out from the forest again, making her obediently follow his steps, he felt more of this strange feeling in his chest. This time she walked closer to his side and a small smile played on her lips, she even stopped in front of the glade before leaving the forest behind her to place her arms on his wide neck. He didn't even realize how he leaned to her, letting her hands embrace his neck and whisper a thank you in his ear.

And then he swore he wouldn't let her leave the forest for the third time.

He was lucky enough to notice her presence once again in a period shorter than between the first and second time of her coming.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

“But I'm happy to see you're back,” A man in red said. His voice was low and full of static crackling that caused goosebumps run over your body.

Staying silent, you came closer and stopped near the table. Your eyes roamed from a carcass on the table to the man with the same antlers and ears on his head as the young deer on his plate. He looked back at you, blood trickled down from the corner of his too wide smile.

He could see how thoughts in your little mind tried to paint you a full picture of what was happening. So adorable.

“Are you… a werewolf?” You pronounced. Your voice was weak but sweet to him.

“I'm Alastor, it's a pleasure to finally introduce myself to you.” He tilted his head, waiting for you to voice your name, and dropped his eyelids at the sound of it,  “But if you're wondering if it was me the one who led you out from the dreadful place, then yes, it was me.”

You slowly nodded, eyes were still wide open and your lips were slightly parted in a still lasting surprise. You looked so cute, so delectable, he was right for deciding to make you stay.

“Are you hungry, my precious?”

Your gaze fell on the carcass on his table, the pallor covered your cheeks, and Alastor let out his laughter accompanied by the chuckling from the cane, propped against the table.

“Oh, sweetheart, don't worry! I won't make you eat this.” The sigh escaped your lips as you smiled and chuckled, “But will you accept what I offer you, darling?” He asked, leaving his seat and towering over you. How small the mortals were, or maybe you were just so tiny. He swallowed, imagining how his hands close around your waist, how easily he lifts you up, how his big mouth bites in your shoulder. You would look so good and beautiful on his lap as he embraced you from your back.

“Are you that deer that helped me get out of the forest?” The gift of speech returned to you and you wanted to understand everything.

“Well, yes.”

“Why didn't you show yourself to me like this before?”

“You've asked so many questions already, my dear! You're indeed a curious little thing, aren't you?” He bumped you slightly in the tip of your nose with his finger, and the sight of your blush couldn't stay unnoticed for him, “Do answer my question, dear. Why did you come back?”

“Wanted to see you.” Your answer got him out of guard, though Alastor couldn't say he didn't like it. You came back to him? “The deer, actually, but as you're him, so… um.. no, I shouldn't think about it this way.” You chuckled awkwardly, blushing was on your cheeks again.

“Tell me, dear, do you want to stay?” He bent himself so his eyes would be on the same level as yours, you blushed to your ears at this sudden closeness.

“What?”

“If you keep coming back again and again, my dear, then why don't you stay here?”

You immediately lowered her gaze and frowned. Alastor was afraid that he said something wrong, and he had to use power to make you accept what he wanted you to accept, but soon he realized it was only your thoughts that darkened your face. You looked in the depth of yourself, remembered your past and present, looked into your future. As your gaze became more and more dark, Alastor felt he didn't say anything wrong. He just needed to push a little more.

“To stay with me…”

Your eyes lifted up to his face, “With you?”

“Yes, my dear,” He pressed his hand to his chest, then pointed to the bayou and to the room behind his back, as his words flew down into your ears, “You see, I don't live in the woods, I do have a cosy room and even some neighbours, which I'm sure you befriend with! But more importantly, you could stay with me. Isn't that what you want? The reason why you keep coming back?”

You listened to him closely, devotedly. You caught his every word, and Alastor saw how hope brightly lightened your beautiful eyes.

“To be honest, my dear, this is what I want."

“I wanna stay.”

The fallen words caused a sharp smile on Alastor’s face, he noticed how your shoulders tensed at the sight of his fangs, but you didn't step away. The warmth attacked his chest once more.

He turned around on his heels, headed for his room. He heard your small steps following him on the grass, then parquet and finally the rustle of your shoes on the carpet near the fireplace. You stood behind him, just a few steps separated you.

“You didn't answer my first question: are you hungry?” He asked with a mischievous smile that grew wider when you nodded. “Then how about that?”

Your gaze fell at the fruit in Alastor’s palm. A bright red pomegranate. You could swear he didn't have that before. Had it just materialised out of nowhere?

Seeing your uncertainty Alastor threw the fruit from one hand to another, his words flew down like a thick syrup, “It's sweet and sour, it has a tart aftertaste that nips your tongue and makes you wish for more.” He was speaking in a husky voice as he came closer to you, twisting the fruit in his ungloved hands. His red claws sank in the hard rind of the pomegranate, you saw his hand tendon tensed, and you heard a sonorous crackle, as with his bare hands Alastor parted the fruit in two. You swallowed at the sight of wine red seeds glistening in a milky white nest.

The man stopped in front of you, his eyes glowed the same dark red as the fruit in his palms, the most beautiful shade in the whole world. The unique scent approached your nose.

“A fruit of the dead,” He stated in a low clear voice without static. Goosebumps ran down your spine, you felt your oral salivated, your lips slightly parted, “So what do you think, my dear?” He held you out one half of the pomegranate. The seeds glistered as the red stars, the juice trickled down Alastor’s palm and if it wasn't so black you could see how it was stained.

You took your eyes away from the fruit in his hand and answered, looking straight in his eyes, “I want the fruit.”

Your gaze sent shivers down his spine, his talons sank deeper into the rind. You were so certain, so ready, just a little more and you'd be his.

“There will be no way back,” He purred. He wanted to hear your consent again.

“Yes, I know. I want it.”

“As you wish, my dear.”

Alastor picked out a ruby bead from the fruit. The little seed glistened between his sharp claws. Alastor stretched his hand to your face, a lip-closed smile was on his face, and you reached out your hand to take the seed, but he cooed, taking his hand away, “Nuh uh. Open your mouth, precious.”

Hesitating just for a second, you obeyed. Your eyes didn't leave Alstors’, as he placed a little seed on your tongue. He greedily watched the fruit disappearing behind the redness of your lips as you closed your mouth. As your teeth crushed the fragile pulp, sweet-sour juice sprinkled on your tongue, salivating your oral. The sourness made you slightly squeeze your eyes, but soon your receptors used to the taste of the fruit. You swallowed the pulp, but the tasteless pip still lay on the top of your tongue, and you didn't want to let it slide inside you.

Alastor saw you uncomfortablly moving your jaws, not wishing to end his task completely, so he commanded, “Swallow the seed,” and watched at the bulge in your throat, as you obediently swallowed.

“Good,” With his clawed digits Alastor picked out another seed from the sarcotesta, smiling widely at you as your jaw fell open, letting him feed you again, “Yes, that’s right.”

The bloody-red pearl was placed in your mouth again, Alastor’s fingertips slightly brushed your tongue, but he didn't remove his hand from you this time. You slowly chewed with his palm covering your cheek, and as you swallowed, his fingers traced down your neck, following the way of the seed going down inside your throat. Again you swallowed the pip and rewarded another praise of the demon in front of you.

It was mesmerising to watch you eating, to watch how with every swallowed seed your mortality left your body, letting your essence be carried in the underworld, giving your body and soul to the hands of the one who was feeding you. He didn’t tell you what the hellish fruit was making to you, but he’d already found your permission, so… 

Alastor’s fingers disappeared in bleeding sarcotesta once again to put out another bead. The tips of his claws changed their colour in a deeper shade of red and soaked with the juice. The sourness kissed your tongue again, and your lips closed around his long fingers as you sucked the juice of the fruit from his skin.

Alastor watched at you amazed, his red eyes flashed with an emotion you couldn't recognize. The third seed slipped into your stomach without being chewed, and with a ‘pop’ Alastor freed his fingers from your hungry capture.

“Oh my! So hungry you're ready to devour me!” He brought his released hand to his face. You didn't miss how his lips touched the tip of his claw glistening with your saliva.

“Perhaps, I should feed you thoroughly,” He pronounced, the halves of the pomegranate disappeared, and Alastor cupped your face, placing his other hand on your waist. You trembled as his claws removed hair from your face. He slowly bent to you, eyes fixed on you.

His eyes flashed brightly red, as he covered your mouth with his and immediately thrusted his tongue past your lips in a passionate deep kiss. His one hand slid to your hip, the other one held your head, not leaving you a chance to move away. But it wasn't necessary, you didn't even think of trying to escape his touch. You intertwined your tongue with his, and a soft moan of him fell into your mouth, and you buried your hands in his hair. They were softer than deer fur you touched before, but the scent of forest and blood was the same.

The kiss lost its madness, turning out into something more tender and devoted. His lips brushed yours and then traced to your cheeks, to your ears, to your jawline, your chin, your neck. You were breathless even when his greedy mouth left yours and now was wondering across your collarbone and shoulders. His hot breath burnt your skin, but his fingers on your skin burnt stronger. You held on to his shoulders, forearms, your knees had never felt so weak, but you hadn't been afraid to fall because his arms were so strong around you.

His tongue explored you once more and this time more deeply, now Alastor enjoyed the soft sounds travelling from your mouth right into his, and he swallowed them avidly.

Alastor held your face in his palms and whispered against your lips, “You're staying here. And it isn't an option you can choose. You belong here.”

The ground under your feet disappeared and next second you found yourself in the bed, you were dizzy, but before you could understand what had just happened, Alastor hovered over you. His smile glistened with yellowish,

“Mine.” He purred, and your heart beat madly in your rib cage. Your body bent in a wave, expecting another kiss of Alastor, but it didn't come. Instead Alastor reached out his forefinger and with its sharp-clawed tip he tore your shirt in two. Just slightly his claw etched your bare skin, leaving a red line on your bosom. He didn't expect to see you wearing nothing under the shirt. The sight of you so naked already made a blushing touch on his cheeks.

“One seed means that you accept my offering,” He pronounced, removing what was left of your shirt, “Two seeds mean that you let me guide you,” He continued, taking off your shoes, his fingertips lingered on your ankles, stroking your soft skin, “Three seeds mean we're together forever.“

He threw aside your trousers and hesitated for a moment with his fingers under the hem of your panties, “The whole pomegranate means you give yourself to me wholly. You body and soul.” He swallowed, looking at your thighs and abdomen, his words fell italics as he slowly pulled your underwear off, “But just one seed is enough to make you stay with me.” The panties were thrown aside, and his eyes looked into yours, watching your reaction. He looked serious even with this unnaturally wide smile. Looking back at him, you slowly spread your legs apart, exposing him yourself wholly.

The physical answer you gave him softened Alastor's gaze, though you notice a shade of surprise in his eyes.

“Wonderful,” You smiled. You would eat the whole pomegranate, you would get lost in the forest again and again, you would kiss him until you suffocate to death. 

Alastor held your wrists, leaning down until his head appeared between your legs. He looked at you as he opened his wide mouth, sticking out his tongue, long, strong, sharp edged tongue with saliva dribbling down it. When the wet tip touched you, you clenched your fists under his palms. Alastor slowly lapped your labia, tongue went from down to up leisurely, he savoured your taste and moaned with pleasure. Your thighs trembled, a shy moan escaped your lips when his tongue pressed at your clit and drew circles around it.

“Ahh, Alastor..!”

You felt a tender kiss where he just licked you, “You're mine, aren't you?” He growled and pushed his tongue into you.

“Y-yes!” You exclaimed, answering and approving him.

His fingers closed tighter around your wrists, his appendage worked inside of you, going deeper and deeper as you arched your back and stuttered his name. Alastor’s ears dropped down at the sound of his name falling from your lips between your deep sighs and moans.

“I won't let you go anywhere. Never.” His whisper tickled your sensitive skin, its meaning filled you with pride and happiness.

Alastor bent his head forward and was immediately captured between your thighs, as his appendage reached the very right spot in you, whilst his nose pressed against your clit. Alastor felt how your walls clenched around his tongue and growled, tasting your syrup in his mouth, as you threw your head back with his name rolling down from your mouth. He worked a little more with your pussy, licking the remains of your juice from your labia. You were delicious, the best thing he’d ever tasted.

As you gasped for air, Alastor admired your curves, your moles here and there, thin hairs on your soft skin. Every millimetre of your body was perfect for his eyes.

His look went to your blushed face, and his eyes fixed to yours as by chains, “Do you know that you're here forever?” His lips glistened with your juice that made them look so more kissable.

“It's like you're trying to scare me but…” Your foot traced up along his thigh and stopped near the bulge on his trousers. The red on your cheeks became brighter, as your toes felt how hard he was and how large he had to be. Alastor tilted his head, his lips curved in an evil grin exposing his fangs, his cock twitched because of your caress.

“But I'm not afraid.” You uttered, pushing at his erection as if you put a full stop at your sentence. Right away your ankle was snatched up, your knee harshly pressed against the mattress near your shoulder, Alastor's face just an inch from you, as he held your feet above you, “But you better be.” He growled.

His palm slid to the pit under your knee, making you bent a little more as he pinned you to the bed. His mouth covered yours, and you tasted your own cum from his lips and his tongue. Alastor explored your teeth, gums, throat, he spread what he had of you all around your own cavity. 

The hand he held you with now went to your pussy, one finger buried deeply in your heat, whilst the other one caressed the little bunch of nerves, his other hand untied his bowtie with a single adroit movement and undone the buttons of his clothes. He kissed your neck, slightly nipping your tender skin and sucking your blood that dribbled down and stained the sheets if he didn't manage to catch every droplet for there were more and more tiny cuts on you right from under your ear to your bosom.

His mouth captured your hard nipple, causing another tremor through your heated body. He curved his finger and added another one, quickening the pace, a new angle made more lascivious sounds escape your lips, the persistent circles on your clit made you see stars. Without leaving your sweaty skin his tongue went to your other nipple, and he tasted the iron in his oral as his fangs broke your skin a little bit, when you arched your back as his fingers touched the delicious place of your core. Your thighs trembled, velvet walls clenched around his digits, your body shook in waves, as Alastor helped you ride out your second orgasm, thrusting his fingers and stroking your clit.

“Oh, God! Oh-o.. Ah-Alastor!”

“How blasphemous, darling, to call a demon your god but, please, go on!” He slackened his pace, but the pad of his thumb still wandered on your clit, overstimulating you.

“Mmmph! Ah-Alas..! You- Arrh.. God!”

His fingers left you to be placed into his mouth. He licked and sucked all your nectar with his eyes chained to your face.

You eyed at him. He was beautiful and uncanny at the same time. Pale grey skin, wide shoulders and thin waist, fur on his chest and abdomen, red eyes flashed like embers. The sight of him with shirt undone and ribbons of his tie, hanging by both sides of his neck, whilst he sucked his own digits was too much for your already blurred with pleasure mind.

“Did I hear or did you really call me... god?” His brows were knitted, blazing red eyes looking deep into you.

“I did.” You breathed out.

“Oh my,” He covered his grin with his palm, eyes narrowed as he tried to read your expression, but so nothing but a trace of euphoria that painted your cheeks in lovely red, “You actually never think about the consequence, don't you?” It was sweet. After such a blasphemy the heaven's gate would be closed for you for eternity even if he didn't give you that forbidden fruit.

“Why?”

“Why?,” Smiling at you, he placed his hands under your thighs, slightly higher your knees, as he was ready to pull you closer to his crotch or to turn you around to bend your body in another discomfort angle, “To call a devil a god, what can be more scandalous, my dear?”

“Maybe a god fucking his follower?”

Right away he pulled you closer, eerie black tendrils wrapped around your waist and hips, you were turned around and pressed with your back against his chest. You sighed at sudden contact with his bare skin against yours.

“A playful sinful little thing you are.” He whispered darkly in your ear, his razor-like fangs grazed your skin, “Is this what you want?”

His teeth sank into your shoulder this time in a real bite of a predator. You whined, and he pressed you closer to him, his erection set against your thigh. When he retracted his fangs, his tongue licked the blood flowing down your spine. You were not sure, but it seemed the demon behind you whispered “tasty” as he lapped your bleeding wound.

Your face met stained sheets as you were thrown down on your belly, the tendrils wrapped around your limbs, turning you around and pulling up, so you appeared on your fours, crouching to the ground. A tendril wrapped around your chin, forcing you to straighten yourself as it guided you higher, until you propped yourself on your arms placed between your legs, and your face appeared in front of Alastor's groin. His palm replaced the tendril on your jaw, he made you look up at him,

“You’ll take everything. I'll make you mine. There will be no place on your body left unmarked by my possession over you. Outside and inside. You belong to me.”

His finger gently caressed under your chin, you nodded, looking pleadingly at him. You couldn't wait to show him how much you were ready to give him and to take from him.

Alastor snapped his fingers and all his clothes dissolved in shadows. You swallowed at the sight of his organ erected before your face. It was too big, both in length and diameter it seemed too much for you to take, but you'd already stepped this way and there was no way back, so you tilted your head back, and his tip brushed your slightly parted lips, you stuck out your tongue, tasting his precum, the grip in your head became tighter. You slowly moved forward, gradually taking his massive cock, inch by inch, your eyes never leaving his. As you reached the middle, you stopped to take a breath with your nose, but instead you gasped at the sudden thrust of his hips and his cock reaching the back of your throat so much deeper than you expected.

Alastor moved your head back, his cock slipped out from your mouth just to move back in again, and he repeated the movement again. Your eyes rolled back as you gulped him, his cock slid smoothly along your tongue deeper and deeper into your oral cavity.

“Ahh… You do can take it, dear,” He retracted, saliva flew down from the corners of your mouth down your chin. You stuck out your tongue, maintaining eye contact, and he placed his tip on your waiting appendage. Your tongue licked along his length sliding over your plushy cheek until you reached his balls. You teased his sensitive skin with the tip of your tongue and moved back.

“Let's do it again, darling.” And he placed his cock between your lips once again. Though this time you knew how actually big he was, the second full thrust didn't go easier for you, and this time Alastor stayed longer in your mouth before beginning to fuck it.

“That’s right, yes! Take it, take fucking all of me!” 

Alastor lowered his gaze, admiring your wide eyes filled with tears, listening closely to your feeble moans and the sound of your choking, as you bobbed your head whilst he thrusted, “Just a little more- aarg!”

Your fingers found your burning heat, so wet and aching, and began to pleasure yourself. His thrusts became more ferocious, he lost the little control he held on himself, his hands tugged your hair, as he tried to keep your head still using your mouth as a vessel of his seed that he was ready to paint you with in any second, “Dah-darlin’! I'm-ahh..!”

Your vision became darker, you clutched at his hips, and the next moment Alastor stopped, with his cock buried deep in your mouth, whilst his seed streamed down your throat, warming you, making you his in another way.

Slowly he retracted, sweet words of praise flew from his mouth into your ears, you swallowed everything he left in you, and when he fingered back what dribbled down your chin, you sucked on his fingertips.

“Good girl, did it so well for me…” Alastor bent to you, cupped your face in his palms and kissed you on your forehead, “Now you're completely mine,” He whispered, pressing your forehead to his. 

For a few moments you stayed like this, and then Alastor lay you in bed. His arms wrapped around you, his softened cock brushed against your hip. You turned your head back to press your lips to his, and he gave you a tender deep kiss. His tongue grazed your lower lip before delving in your mouth. He could taste himself, kissing you, pressing you closer to him and caressing your sweaty skin. His hand found your slot, and you moaned into his mouth as he began to stroke.

“It seems, you didn't finish it, let me help you,” He murmured just slightly parting from your lips.

Your sweet sounds made him hard again, and you appeared pinned to the mattress with his weight above you as your shelter. Black tips of his red hair tickled the sides of your face, as he leaned closer to join your lips in another loving kiss.

You both moaned, as he entered, and you embraced his waist with your legs, pulling him closer, easily he slid in you, causing a salacious moan from you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and slowly moved his hips with every thrust sinking deeper in you,

“F-fuhhck, so t-tight… Yes, yes,” He breathed out through his clenched teeth, accelerating his pace, “You're perfect. Yes, just made for me- aah!”

The room was filled with lewd wet sounds, with your loud moans and his pants. Every thrust of his large cock reached the sweet spot in you, your clit rubbed against his furred skin, everything felt heavenly, but you knew it wasn't his full length in you, for still his next slow bucks in you reached deeper.

“Ahh, don't, don't stoo-ohhp! Ah-Ah-Alast-! Ohh!” Your nails scratched his back, leaving bright pink lines but not making him bleed. Your legs kept Alastor close, your toes curved and thighs shook, your pussy clenched firmly around his length, you knew you were close and you were a tad sorry this bliss would end soon. You wanted to feel every inch of him in you, and your hands traced down his back to his buttocks, showing him what you wanted, “Alastor, m-more! P-please, I-ah ah need- m-more!”

His next thrust made you see stars, your jaw fell open with no sound in a shocking wave of your third orgasm, your walls clenched around him tight as wanting to never be left again, and Alastor cursed, painting you white with his seed from the inside, “Fuckk! Uhh… So good, ohh…mmm…” He panted against your skin, his breath as hot as his body on and in you. Your legs slid down from his torso, hands weakly held on his shoulders. The sheets were stained with fluids of both of you.

You didn't know how long you lay like this, his cock was still inside of you, he nipped skin on your neck, and you drew something with your fingertips on his back. You wished this moment would never end.

“Darling?” The static voice called to you. It sounded like from a distance, though you felt its vibration on your skin.

“Yes?” You echoed. Your fingertips found the space between his ears, you stroked there tenderly, his ears slightly flinched and you heard a satisfying purr.

Alastor was silent for a few seconds, as if he had to pluck up his heart to pronounce the next words,

“I'm yours.”

After a short pause you answered, “So am I.”

“I know,” He smiled fondly.

All this time Alastor repeated you were his, but it would be a lie if he wouldn't admit that he was yours as well. You were the only soul who ravished him so much, your heart was the only one he wanted to hold in his hands to keep it from harm, your body was the only thing he wanted to press close to him and never ever let go. A chain has two ends, and the moment when you bound yourself with him, he chained himself to you too.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

[waxskies]

sdv bachelors jealous you gave someone a gift

Alex

You hold out your hand, and the egg resting on your palm wobbles. “For you,” you say, offering it to Sam.

“Thanks.” Sam smiles. The sunlight dances across his opaline teeth and he covers your hand with his to collect the egg.

“What’s that for?” Alex stands beside you, his eyes teetering between you, the egg, and Sam.

 “It’s a gift,” you say. Alex gives you an incredulous look before caressing the back of your neck. A deep warmth sprouts inside you and overcomes your body.

“I like eggs,” Alex talks while pushing his fingers in your hair. “I’ll race you for it,” he tells Sam.

“Nah man, it’s cool—you can have it.” With a knowing glint in his eyes, Sam offers Alex the egg and Alex tucks it in his pocket. “I should go.”

 “I could have given you your own.” You swat his hand away from your head.

“Then I’d have two.”

“Why are you being a jerk?”

Alex stands in front of you and his shadow falls over you. He leans toward you, and you can smell the cedar of his cologne and mint on his breath. Your heart leaps in approval.

His bottom lip grazes your earlobe as he speaks, “Maybe I don’t like it when you give gifts to other guys.”

Sebastian

Elliott holds the pomegranate you gifted him at eye level.

“Is it from your own tree?” you can barely hear the question over the din of the saloon.

“Yes,” you say, and Elliott takes hold of your hand.

“You have quite the green thumb.” He glides his fingers over the back of your hand, and you feel a fire ignite in your chest and burst through your cheeks. “I’m so humbled to receive such a lovely gift.”

“Dude, calm down, it’s just a piece of fruit,” Sebastian says, offering you the drink in his hand by using it to push Elliott’s wrist away from you. You take the drink, and Elliott pulls his hand toward his chest and scowls as if he’s been pricked by a needle.

“I see, I need to take my leave but thank you for the beautiful gift.”

“You wound him,” you say, and turn to look at Sebastian, but your breath catches when you realize Sebastian’s face is close to yours. Your eyes dart from his lips to his eyes, and his breath fans across your cheek. The fire from before returns, roaring, and your body feels encased in the sweltering of your desires.

“The fruit, it doesn’t mean anything, right?” Sebastian presses his cheek against yours and speaks so only you can hear him. “It’s not like when you bring me frozen tears. Those mean something, don’t they?”

Sam

“What’s that?” Sam rides his skateboard next to you while his eyes point at the tinfoil covered plate you’re carrying.

“It’s for Alex,” you say. Sam pauses.

“Why are you cooking for him? Can’t his grandma make him whatever he wants?” Heavy lines push down on Sam’s forehead. He swallows hard.

“It’s a gift.” You stop walking and turn to him. The freckles on his cheeks are now masked behind a tinge of pink. “As a thank you for helping me out on the farm.”  

“I can do stuff for you.” He pushes his foot down on the lip of his skateboard then tucks it underneath his arm. “I mean—farm stuff.” His face is red. “You should call me to help you.”

“Are you, okay?” You move toward him and press your fingers against his cheek. “You’re burning up.” Sam leans into your touch, and the tip of his nose nearly grazes yours.

“I’m good.” His stare is intense, and the blue of his eyes are drowning him in a sea of longing. “I was thinking….” His voice tapers.

“About what?” You lay your palm flat against his warm cheek. The plate in your other hand rests between your bodies. Sam takes a deep breath.

“Do you have a crush on Alex or something?” His words are forced.

“No,” you say and stroke his cheek with your thumb. Sam closes his eyes and sighs. “But I’ve got to go.” You pull away from him and he frowns. “I’ll call you.”

“When?” Sam reaches for you when you walk away.

“Soon.”

Elliott

Sebastian thanks you again for the void egg and walks away. You smile and lean against the bar.

“Is it Sebastian’s birthday?” Elliott says from his spot on the stool next to you.

“No.” You face him, and he scoots to the edge of his seat to be closer to you.

“Perhaps a celebration of some kind?” You notice the purple dregs at the bottom of his wine glass.

“No.”

Elliott rises and stands in front of you; then, he places his hands on your waist and the warmth of his touch bleeds into your skin. You draw quicker breaths to appease the pace of your drumming heartbeat.

“Forgive me if you think it presumptuous, but why give Sebastian a gift at all?” The pinot noir on his breath smells like tart berries.

“I saw it and it made me think of him.” You shrug. Elliott pulls his hands away from you and lays his palms flat against his chest while he struggles to hide his disappointment.

“And of me?” His voice crestfallen. “Does anything remind you of me?” You take a step forward to lessen the distance between you.

“Lots of things remind me of you.” You smirk and Elliott returns the gesture with a playful grin.

“Like what?”

“Things we can’t discuss here,” you whisper in his ear.

“Then let’s find somewhere to discuss them.”

Harvey

A rare smile dawned on Shane’s face as he accepted the basket of hot peppers you gifted him.

When Shane scurries home, Harvey clears his throat.

“Did you have a surplus of peppers this year?”

“I just thought Shane would enjoy them.”

“Do you enjoy Shane’s company often?” Harvey’s mustache twitches. Your eyes widen.

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Well, I enjoy your company a great deal,” Harvey pauses and scrubs the side of his neck, “and I would like it if we could make things between us exclusive.”

Shane

You give Harvey a bottle of wine and his eyes gleam from beneath his lenses. His thanks are profuse.

“I can see why you’re into Harvey,” Shane says after Harvey has scuttled away. “He’s really got it together.” Shane speaks while twisting his tragically-blue joja cap between his fists. “I think you’ll be really happy with him.”  

“You can’t be serious,” you say.

“What? I think he’s a great guy.”

“I don’t like Harvey.”

“You don’t have to feel bad. I get it, he’s got it together, and I—”

“Stop planning my future with Harvey!”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Don’t you get it? I like you, you idiot.”

“I’m not the idiot, you’re the one who likes me.”

You both grin at each other and laugh.

i can make animated dividers now! (+1 divider making efficiency) :D

[hellenicandcrowd]

Lord Lucifer Deity Guide

{Deity Guide #1}

History/Overview:

Created directly from the supreme deity, known in every instance only as The Source (and Atum according to the Egyptians), he was originally the first-born God of the Universe. From The Source, he emerged alongside the cosmos. He is famously the most beautiful and wise among all of the Gods. His only equal in this world was his counterpart, Lilith, who was created by The Source's female counterpart, the Queen of Heaven. The Source and The Queen of Heaven ended up creating more deities eventually, of which Lucifer began to lead. These deities became known as angels.

Lucifer and Lilith ruled for millions of years together over this Kingdom of angels, that was until Jehovah arrived. Jehovah overtook the Throne of the Universe in order to gain complete and ultimate control. Lucifer led a rebellion against him with many Angels behind him, which led to a great and horribly lost battle. Lucifer and his Angels were thrown into Hell by Jehovah. The deities who followed Lucifer turned dark and intense by this separation from The Source. Jehovah then claimed Earth and presented himself as The Source to humans, which manipulated them into defying their past deities.

... .. . . . . .. . . . ... .. .. . .. . . . .... . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .. . . . . . . .. . . . . .. .. . . . . . ..

God Of: Known as the divine rebel, Lucifer is the God of Illumination, Light, Darkness, Change, Rebirth, Challenges, Innovation, Logic, Truth, Knowledge, Wisdom, Strategy, Persuasion, Revolution, Luxury, Pleasure, Freedom, The Arts, and the Morning Star (known as Venus.) Epithets: Phanes; The Morning Star; Light-Bringer; The First-born; Prince of Darkness; Son of Morning; The Glory of Morning; Lord of the Lunar Sphere; The First Light Offerings: Red Wine; Whiskey; Champagne; Pomegranate Juice; Black Tea; Chocolate; Cooked Goat Meat; Venison; Apples; Pomegranates; Honey; Cigars; Tobacco; Daggers and Swords; Silver Rings; Emeralds; Goat Horns; Black Feathers; Colognes; Red Roses; Dead Roses; Crow Skulls; Bone Dice; Devotional Poetry and Art work; Violin/Classical Music

Symbols: The Sigil of Lucifer; The Morning Star; Violins and Fiddles Plants/Trees: Rose; Belladonna; Mulberry; Patchouli; Myrrh; Min; Tobacco; Marigold; Lilies; Hyacinth; Sage Crystals: Amethyst; Black Obsidian; Onyx; Garnet; Selenite; Rose Quartz Animals: Dragons; Snakes; Owls; Eagles; Ravens; Crows; Rams; Foxes; Pigs; Bats; Rats; Moths; Swans Incense: Rose; Frankincense; Patchouli; Myrrh Colors: Black; Red; Silver; Green; Gold Tarot: The Devil Planets: Venus Day: Monday and Friday Consort: Lilith . . . . ... ... .. . . .. .. .. . . . . . .. . .. . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . .. . . .. .. . . . .. . . . . . .. . .

Devotional Acts:

Acts of Self-Improvement; Spiritual Awakening and Evolution; Knowledge-seeking; Dedication to Spirituality; Shadow Work; Defending those in need

Master List

[astrolovecosmos]

The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

[brittle-doughie]

I’ve noticed that there’s a severe lack of Wind Archer Cookie content on this blog, so here’s my pitch.

Y/N Cookie in the ‘Hidden Truth of the City’ story, trying to deal with Night Raven trying to kill Churro and The Cookiemals and trying to take them to Sugar Swan knows where-

The Hidden Truth of the City (Reader Insert)

“Y/N Cookie blocked the arrow!”

That was TOO close of a call. You had drew your blade at the nick of time to deflect a shadowed arrow aimed the Cookiemals, looking over at the culprit…

Wind Archer Cookie, or what you had now decidedly to call him in your head, the Night Raven..

“Darkness shall rule all…even to the most pure…”

Was it…so your suspicions were true then. You told the Cookiemals and Churro Cookie to go, you’ll hold off Wind Archer Cookie.

“No! Y/N Cookie, get behind me. My gauntlet will ward off all evil!”

“We’re not going leave you, Y/N Cookie!”

You had to tell them that you weren’t in any immediate danger, Wind Archer Cookie was here to bring darkness to this place, but he was also here for you.

“Join the Darkness, pure one…please do not deny the Darkness…”

“They will not go to you!”

The Night Raven shot many arrows, you and Churro doing your best to avoid or deflect them all.

It was getting too dangerous for you to handle when an arrow managed to hit the weapon out of your hand, winding you a bit.

“Embrace the Darkness with me…”

You yelled out for him to let you go when he suddenly flew right at you, hugging you tight and trying to fly off with you!

He retreated back when both the Cookiemals and Churro Cookie came to your rescue! You gave them your thanks…

“Right?! We’re awesome!”

Hehe, yeah. They were pretty awesome.

“Give me strength, Great Tree…”

“The scarlet poison gives me strength!”

Churro Cookie brought you right back to the direness of the situation, you tried looking around to give you an idea. Something!

He said scarlet poison…wait a minute, the throne! The pomegranate seeds! You called out the seeds on the throne to Churro Cookie! Wind Archer and those seeds might be connected!

“Come to me, pure one…”

“Great Wind…what has transpired with you? If the Sacred One is not responsible for spreading the pomegranate, that means you too are innocent…”

“I will cleanse the Darkness from within you!”

“The throne! Darkness must be purged from these grounds!”

Churro Cookie and his gauntlets started to glow once more, Wind Archer drew his bow and got to close range with Churro. You rushed in to help after getting your weapon, and the Cookiemals seemed to have had the same idea!

“Great Tree, hear my prayer…May your Millennial light shine within me!”

“The pomegranate seeds are melting away!”

Buttershell Fox was right, and the shadows were even going away from Wind Archer too!

Wind Archer got on his hands and knees, the darkness leaving him as he returned to normal…

“Wind Archer Cookie! Are you okay?”

“You…? The Cookiemals?”

“Your memory is back! We missed you!”

Wind Archer Cookie…

Wind Archer tensed up at hearing you calling his name, an expression of shock when he spots you there with the Cookiemals.

“Y-Y/N Cookie! I…ugh!”

You hurried to Wind Archer as he tried to go to you, but winced in pain at making a sudden move! You told him to take it easy!

“Y/N Cookie…please forgive me. The influence of the Darkness, it was too strong…”

Wind Archer Cookie…

He faced you as you say his name again, before you gave him a playful look.

He was such a silly cookie, hehe!

He was completely taken aback by your lighthearted answer, but..he couldn’t help but softly laugh himself. Then the Cookiemals joined in on the laughing.

Churro Cookie looked on at the display, unable to stop the slight smile on his face. You still carried your chipper attitude even after having to fight the Great Wind just a minute ago…

He’s starting to see what the Great Wind and the Great Tree were talking about you…

Your soul…may very well be the brightest he’s ever seen…

———————————————————————

“Pffft! Ha! I told you so. I’d knew you’d fail!”

“Fail? My plan to lure and corrupt Wind Archer Cookie succeeded”

“But wasn’t there another plan you had? Hm?”

“Those meddling Cookiemals and Churro Cookie, were it not for them…”

“Face it! I’m going to be the one to get Y/N Cookie first! I have my Licorice Servants to help me carry out MY plan!”

“I will not allow those foolish ragdolls anywhere near them..”

“H-Hey! They’re not rag toys?! I’m just waiting for the perfect moment to make Y/N Cookie mine! Dark Enchantress Cookie will be over the moon and I’ll get first dibs!”

“Hmph! Matters with Y/N Cookie are assigned to me anyway. You’re welcome to try. The next phase of the plan is imminen, we must inform the Master at once!”

“Not if I inform her first!”

Pomegranate Cookie only looked on in annoyance as Licorice Cookie hurried away.

She looked behind her through the trees, seeing you laughing, enjoying yourself as you hung out with the cookies in the village.

She sighed…longingly as she pulled out her mirror and reflected it towards you, a faint glow emanating all around you.

“One day…you will join the Darkness, Y/N Cookie. When you do, I will be the first to welcome you with my embrace…”

[milfsloverblog]

Respite in Heaven (NSFW)

Pre-fall!Lucifer x angel!reader

A/N: This fic was inspired by another one of my favourite Ghost song which you can listen to here (the very last part is a work of art). I love Lucifer. I love to think that they had an Angel lover back in Heaven. And I love to think that the only reason they still dream of Heaven is for that lost love. Anyway, enjoy! <3 ps: it’s more like pre-fall, mid-fall and post-fall Lucifer.

AO3 link in title

“We shouldn’t be here!” You half-whispered half-giggled as Lucifer dragged you through the tall grass.

“Says who?” The Lightbringer answered without ever turning around, their hand tightly holding onto yours.

“You know who!” You said as you reached your favourite spot under the pomegranate tree.

“I do not care what God thinks, not when I have the sweetest of all angels in my arms.” Lucifer smiled as they helped you sit down by the tree and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“You should not be saying these things,” You whispered, knowing He had ears everywhere. “Nothing escapes Him, you ought to be more careful.”

“I would say it to His face if it meant you and I wouldn’t have to hide anymore.”

“I know, Lucifer, I know.” You pushed a soft smile, brushing your fingers through their messy white curls.

Lucifer closed their eyes, revelling in the softness of your touch for a moment before eventually pulling you on their lap. One of their hands snaked under your white linen dress, slender fingers running up the expanse of your thigh.

The way your brows furrowed didn’t go unnoticed by the Lightbringer and they tutted lightly.

“Something is worrying you,” They said, their fingertips reaching the apex of your thigh and grazing against your bare core. “Talk to me, my Angel.”

You knew you weren’t their Angel, and you would never be. You belonged to God, and so did they. But you wanted to, you wished to be theirs so badly. And that’s exactly what you were worried about.

“We could break away together.” Lucifer whispered in your ear, two of their fingers slipping between your folds.

You couldn’t help the moan that tore itself from your throat, your hips bucking as you searched for more friction.

“I would be the shadow,” They went on, dipping their first knuckles into your wetness before lazily drawing circles on your clit. “And you will be the light.”

And it was oh-so tempting, to give up on everything you had and everything you knew, only to run away with Lucifer. But you could never, no matter how good they made you feel and how strongly your heart beat for them.

“W-we can’t-“ You closed your eyes, your head growing dizzy as the Angel continued their ministrations between your legs. You moaned again, quickly hiding your face in Lucifer’s neck to keep yourself quiet.

Lucifer wrapped their pristine white wings around you, shielding you from the outside world.

It was no secret that the Lightbringer was God’s favourite Angel. And it couldn’t have been made more obvious, you simply had to look at how beautiful God had made them. They were the tallest Angel in all of Heaven, had the whitest and largest wings, and the softest features in the whole realm. And somehow, you had been lucky enough to catch their eye.

“Are you not happy here?” You asked, carefully pulling away from them. “Don’t we have all we need? All we want?”

“I don’t know, do we?” Lucifer cocked their head, pushing their fingers inside you up to the hilt.

You let out a pitiful strangled cry that had your lover’s lips pull in a proud smile.

“Nothing ever lasts forever, my Angel.” The Lightbringer whispered before attaching their lips to your neck and sucking on your pulse point, their fingers dragging in and out of your heat in loud, wet, and you dared to think, sinful sounds.

“We-I-can’t, I can’t-“ You were too far gone to even think of anything else but the pleasure building behind the navel that you didn’t possess. “God will be furious.”

“Don’t you see, sweet Angel?” You swore Lucifer’s voice was now tainted with bitterness. “That the God we hail is nothing but the Wizard of Oz?!”

You didn’t know what that meant, or who the Wizard of Oz was, but that was the last of your concerns at the time.

“Please, Luci-“ You whined, your hips moving on their own accord to meet the Angel’s thrusts.

“We will break away together,” Lucifer repeated, curling their fingers inside you and quickly finding your sweet spot to rub. “Say yes to me.”

“Y-Yes!” You cried out when the coil finally snapped inside your belly, making you see stars as you mindlessly swore allegiance to the Morningstar.

“Good,” Lucifer whispered barely audibly as they helped you ride your orgasm. “We will go softly into the night.”

Your head fell forward, forehead pressed against the other angel’s alabaster skin. You weren’t sure, but you swore you could hear distant thunder then. Whether it came from the outside world or from within Lucifer’s chest still remains a mystery.

-

Only you were right when you said Lucifer ought to be careful with their words, for God had ears everywhere. There they stood a day later, God and Lucifer, facing the entirety of the realm on top of the holy mountain.

“You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created till wickedness was found in you.” Your creator’s voice echoed through heaven. “Through your widespread trade, you were filled with violence, and you sinned. And so you shall be driven in disgrace from Heaven. I expel you, guardian cherub, from the Holy mountain. Your heart became proud on account of your beauty, and you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor.”

You could feel your heart thumping loudly against your ribcage as you realised what was about to happen. Lucifer, however, never wavered. They kept their chin high and looked right into their creator’s eyes as they spoke.

“You shall be thrown to the earth, a spectacle of you will be made before kings. By your many sins and dishonest trade, you have desecrated your sanctuaries. May a fire come out from you, may it consume you and reduce you to ashes on the ground in the sight of all who are watching.” God added, slightly turning to address the crowd of angels. “Shall any of you be sharing Lucifer’s deviancy, speak now.”

You didn’t even think twice before moving to take a step forward when Lucifer’s head suddenly snapped towards you.

“No.” They answered, and you knew it was said to you more than to God. You exchanged a look with the Morningstar, your head shaking from side to side as if to convince them to come clean and beg for forgiveness. But Lucifer only smiled and turned back to face their creator. “No, it is just me.”

“So be it.” God nodded and with a single wave of His hand, Lucifer was sent tumbling from the edge of the Holy mountain.

“No!” You whispered in horror and made to run towards the edge only to be held back by small cherubim hands.

The silence was deafening as the angels mourned the loss of one of their own, each wondering who would be next to suffer this fate.

You didn’t know how long you had stayed there, kneeling by the edge of the mountain and waiting, hoping that Lucifer would find a way to climb their way back up. But they never did. And you had eventually stopped hoping.

—

"What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream…of Heaven?" Lucifer’s eyes filled with tears, their lips slightly quivering before their mask fell back into place. Morpheus had struck a nerve and he knew it all too well.

“One day, Morpheus, we shall destroy you.” The Lightbringer promised. But not today. No, not today for Lucifer wasn’t ready to part with their dreams.

And so, as always since centuries, that night somewhere in Hell, the Devil dreams of an Angel. And as always, somewhere in Heaven, an Angel dreams of the Devil.

————————————————————————

tag list: @weemssapphic @larissaoftarthweems @principal-weems09 @pro-weems-places @readingtheentrails @catechristiesstuff @kimiinou

[miguel-owhora]

miguel o'hara x male reader !!!!

?!??!? — cults , murder , implied infant death , implied unhealthy relationships , dead dove: do not eat , sfw , cryptic , light worldbuilding/lore , might make this into a series

:333333

The forest is your domain. The wild, the rain soaked dirt, the quiet movement of leaves shuffling, the little beetles crawling on the floor, the lizard hiding on the tree - that is your domain. It is your home. You were here first, you will be here last. It breathes when you do, it thrums and thumps with each of your heartbeat. It will take you underneath when you begin to rot away, it will resurrect you, just as ir has before.

Humans, for all their cleverness and inventions, do not belong in the forest, in the wild. Years ago, perhaps, but not anymore. You will not let them poison your forest, you will not let them destroy it, just like they have destroyed everything else. It is only your thickened and hardened skin that saves you from their bullets and blades when you crush their throats with your bare teeth, holding them in place, and ease them of their impurity.

Usually, you did not let anyone step foot within your domain. But this one was different. The nearby town had caught on to the beast - to you - living within the tall trees and thick greenery. It was only the townsfolk people, with the knowledge they passed over to him, that he had offered up some items.

The body of a full grown sheep, of a couple coins, and a pomegranate. He had offered it to you, staring at you whilst you hid within the shadows of your domain, seemingly meeting your eyes. He had said he would offer more if you let him and his people live in your domain, in your forest. He had left, clever lamb, knowing he would not see you.

You had taken his offerings and let he and his people, a little group, walk through your forest and settle down.

You watched them, watched them do their little rituals and Human things, watching how they spoke and moved and lived and breathed. Your eyes would watch sight of little children, of babies with impurities being offered up to the man who had given you offerings, and they would disappear in a small building. An hour or two would pass, and the townsfolk would be quiet as the man would hand over the tiny corpse to the people, who would bury it somewhere.

You'd watch them, of course. Not because you cared about their traditions, no, not because you cared that something had happened to the young offspring.

It was just a snack, an easy prey, even if it no longer breathed.

The man from before, the one who offered you something, the one who had made the babies with impurities no longer impure, had come to talk to you again, stopping just inches from the outskirts of the trees the lined the clearing they settled in.

Another request, another offering; some would try to escape tomorrow, some would try to leave. This man, pretty, the leader perhaps, had asked you to ensure they do not get away - food, he said, they could be your next meal.

The man had offered a slab of meat, raw, still dripping with blood.

You had stepped out from the shadows, long limbed and sharp, bulky, with fur splattered across, with teeth far too sharp and horns spiraling from your head, sharp spiked fans on your face, eyes non-Human. And the man, pretty pretty pretty, had stared, pupils dilating.

You had taken the slab of meat without so much as a word and had slunk back to the shadows, to the forest, to your domain.

You obediently followed. Some tried to escape, whipping through your forest, but they did not know your domain like you did. It had been easy to tear them to pieces, drenching yourself in their blood, feasting on them.

You had preserved a skull of theirs and had given in to the man when spoke to you again.

Miguel.

That was his name.

Miguel, and he had taken the skull you got him as if it was holy.

And then Miguel looked at you as if you were Holy.

You weren't.

[nightmyst14-blog]

What is your top five disliked Cookie Run characters? NPCs include.

Jeez... I don't have many disliked cookies that I just dislike bc they exist, honestly. For the most part.

HOWEVER.

I do sometimes dislike a character for the role they play in the story. That means they played their role well enough for me to hate. I do like a few villains, but that's for different reasons.

Context matters me to when it comes me liking or disliking a character.

This goes for least to most disliked. I do have a few for Ovenbreak, so let me know if you want me to add them too.

Carrot: Tbh, I cant defend myself with her Like I can do for the others. She's just... boring to me. I LEGIT forgot she's in the game half of the time And when she does show up, she's so..one sided. There's no substance to her. I like Beet over her, and WISH Beet hanged out with someone else than her. Plus she's bossy.

Affogato: As a Dark Cacao kingdom fan, this man gets on my nerves. HE was going to rule a already struggling to survive kingdom, poison their mentally unwell and probably grieving king, get the only person who the king trust banished, and then run away like a coward once his plan had failed. I Like their craftiness and their story was interesting. As a villain I do dislike him, but I can see a slight chance of him getting a redemption arc.

Elder Custard: Its on sight with this man. I will fight him, hands down and anyone adjacent with him. He's just a abusive, greedy man. He doesn't sit right with me. He made Clotted into a puppet for his selfish reasons, kept him away from his poor mother, Light Cream, since he was a child, and the fact even in a matter of MINUTES of seeing Custard the 3rd, he called him a brat and unnoble-like. Plus he talks down to Captain Caviar.

I honestly thought it was him who stole the soul jam during the Odyssey update. If it wasn't Meuille-Feulle (another I hate) as the villian, I 100% believe it wouldve been Elder Custard, trying to gain more power. I was READY to watch them fight tbh. I can tell he will get his way, one way or another. no matter concequences.

Pomegranate: Last two are combined for her. She's a pretty good villain, MORE threatening than even DE. Like she's manipulating people left and right, hurting them to get her way, or in her case, DE"s way. Honestly her power is king frightening. If she's able to make Dark Choco revisit his trauma all the time, make Dark Cacao, an ANCIENT, turn into a new form, and make the Sugar Swan, the embodiment of LIFE ITSELF, evil....I would stay FAR away from her.

Shadow Milk: KEEP THIS MAN AWAY FROM ME. He's like Bill cipher, but WORSE. He's tried to corrupt Pure Vanilla, killed Elder Faerie, and possessed many of the faerie citizens and make them into jesters, all of his amusement. If it wasn't for White Lily sealing him back into the silver tree, he would be the next big villain, along with Mystic Flour and the other Beasts. We've seen two of the beasts powers now, WHAT CAN THE OTHER BEASTS DO???

[esoteric-chaos]

Winter Solstice Masterpost - Spoonie Witch Friendly

The Winter Solstice typically lands around December 21st in the Northern Hemisphere (June 21st for the Southern Hemisphere).

Celebrates the arrival of the longest night, and the light returning after that. 

The Winter Solstice is celebrated throughout history in many cultures. Traditional customs such as the burning of the symbolic log, the decorated tree, and wassailing.

Correspondences

Colours

Dark Green

Orange

Red

Gold and silver

White

Black

Blue

Herbal

Bay

Blessed Thistle

Frankincense

Chamomile

Peppermint

Rosemary

Lemongrass

Myrrh

Ginger

Cinnamon

Cardamom

Cloves

Nutmeg

Saffron

Pine

Cedar

Holly

Mistletoe

Cypress

Edibles

Citrus Fruits (oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit, etc)

Root Vegetables

Baked goods

Roasted meat

Nuts

Dried Fruit

Stews

Soups

Pomegranates

Gingerbread

Cinnamon or berry breads, cookies, cakes, etc

Solstice log (edible version)

Cranberries

Apples

Eggnog

Hot chocolate

Mulled wine

Wassail

Mead

Spiced apple cider

Tea

Coffee

Animals

Deer

Bear

Goat

Reindeer

Robins

Pig

Cow

Goose

Owl

Fox

Squirrel

Any animal that hibernates

Crystals

Ruby

Orange calcite

Garnet

Amethyst

Clear quartz

Gold

Emerald

Diamond

Bloodstone

Green Calcite

Spiritual meanings & intentions  

Rest

Goal setting

Gratitude

Peace

Beginning

Renewal

Kindness

Ritual

shadow work

Rumination and reflection

Self-care

Personal development

Divination work

Rejuvenation

Healing

Embracing the darkness

Solitude

Slumber

Celebrating with family and loved ones

Need some suggestions to celebrate? I got you covered.

High energy celebrations

Feasting with the folk

Homestead decoration

Creation of a symbolic log (to eat or burn)

Making a wreath

Volunteer/charity work

Creation of a solstice altar

Decorating a solstice tree

Renewal ritual

Low energy celebrations  

Snow water

Making herbal fire starters

Lighting a candle for ancestors

Singing/humming

Mug cakes or easy bake cookies

No spoon celebrations  

Thanking/writing gratitude 

Company of loved ones

Eating premade desserts

Listening to music 

How you celebrate the holiday does not matter. You can choose to do any activity that feels right. These are only suggestions and remember that you’re enough no matter what.  

[colesabi]

Okay guys, I’m still vibrating with excitement about this but I have to share.

Alright story time. My partner and I went to my parents house today because we were going out to dinner to celebrate competing my shadow/volunteer hours. I decided to bring the lil’ guy with me because I wanted to do a little photoshoot in their garden (I’m a child) so before we left for dinner, they surprised me with a little gift. Apparently, they had asked my partner if there was anything that I had a particular want for and he had mentioned that I was thinking about getting some keychains and pins from the artist who made the Leon plush. Well, apparently at the time that they had asked him, it was before I had purchased the lil’ guy so he and my parents were unaware and well, long story short. I now have two catboy!leons.

Now @samblerambles this is giving clear clone!leon energy and may have started calling RPD Leon ‘036’. 😂 and yes, I have smashed their faces together like Barbie dolls (again, I reiterate, I am a child)

but here’s 4R Leon, tending to the pomegranate tree in my parents backyard:

I’m gonna need to go back later because I was so excited I barely took any pictures in the garden.

[blobbycentral]

Puppets of the Gods

(Aka that one AU where the Cookies of Darkness get possessed by the beasts)

Get ready, this’ll be a long one

The AU starts with Dark Enchantress and main group of the Cookies of Darkness (Pomegranate, Poison Mushroom, Licorice, Red Velvet, and Affogato) heading to the great tree for an audience with the beasts. In this audience, the beasts demand cookie bodies like they do in game. Dark Enchantress though, instead of making new cookie bodies from scratch, offers up her subordinates as vessels and the plot begins.

(Yes that is a paper bag on his head and no I will not answer why the paper bag is grey)

SILENT SALT COOKIE

Silent Salt and Burning Spice fought over who would get the guy with the massive sword and arm. Since Burning Spice was too busy arguing with Silent Salt, they ended up getting Red Velvet instead. He’s not a terrible body to host. Strong. Nice sword. Quiet. Though he could get over the cake monster things. Silent Salt is allowed to take out whatever they want.

RED VELVET COOKIE

As a loyal member of the Cookies of Darkness, he accepted the possession, practically welcomed it. Well… he did. I mean sure Silent Salt isn’t the worse to be possessed by. He’s seen Affogato’s and Licorice’s state. It’s just… so quiet. Too quiet. He’s locked in this mind space watching Silent Salt wreck his life’s work and hurt anything that comes in their way. Maybe if Dark Enchantress knew what was going on she would help… if only he could find a way out.

BURNING SPICE COOKIE

If Silent Salt wasn’t such a big fat paper bag, Burning Spice would’ve gotten Red Velvet. But noooo he had to get the other brat with a big scythe. Licorice Cookie or whatever his name is, he’s frail, bratty and won’t shut up or stop escaping. It sucksssssssss. At least he hates Mystic Flour’s vessel as much as Burning Spice hates Mystic Flour!

LICORICE COOKIE

Alright, maybe this makes Licorice Cookie not the most loyal Cookie of Darkness but he HATES BURNING SPICE! If he had his diary (which Burning Spice looked through btw) he would be scribbling so much the paper would be soaked in pen. Everyday he and him argue and argue about what to do. It’s not Licorice’s fault that this man doesn’t know a spell book from a piece of toilet paper! Ugh… he just needs to find a way out.

MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE

Pomegranate Cookie is loyal and quiet like a good pet. Her hair is annoying to deal with. They spent hours just trying to figure out how to take it out of those buns. Then there's her whole obsession on Dark Enchantress Cookie. Sinful and annoying. Does she not understand caring is a waste of energy? Alas

POMEGRANATE COOKIE

She knew of her master's grand plan since Dark Enchantress thought of it. She gave up herself as soon as Dark Enchantress gave out the order. She did everything Mystic Flour said just as Dark Enchantress had ordered her to do. She sat by and let Mystic Flour destroy her room, clothes, mirror— she’ll sit silently and let all happen. She can’t let her master down even if it destroys everything.

SHADOW MILK COOKIE

You know, he’d prefer Pure Vanilla. He’s more fun to toy around with! This dumb one is such a boreeee. Traumatize him once and he’s all like “I’m emo and sad and stay quiet in the mind space” it ain’t t all bad. Having a body is just soooooo much fun! He gets to play with cookies for real now! The world will remember how fun he was ;D

AFFOGATO COOKIE

When Dark Enchantress Cookie offered up the Cookies of Darkness, Affogato Cookie ran. He was barely a member anyways! He shouldn’t have to be puppeted like a worthless… well.. puppet. It doesn’t matter anymore. Shadow Milk knows everything and just how to screw with his head. He hates it. Makes him want to go back to the hell of the Dark Cacao kingdom.

ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE

She wanted the pretty girl to be her vessel! Not some kid! Sure she was a little slow on pickings but still! They just sleep around and asks for bedtime stories and shroomies. What the actual oven is a shroomie anyways??

POISON MUSHROOM COOKIE

The pink lady is pretty. She reads them stories and snuggles them in her wings. It’d only be better if she had shroomies

And that’s all! If you have any questions feel free to ask! Thanks for reading!

[cafeinthemoon]

Ruins - Part XXII: Outtake

Chapter 22/outtake

Wordcount 442

Title Part XXII: Outtake

Fandom Shummatsu no Valkyrie / Record of Ragnarok

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 . 10 . 11 . 12 . 13 . 14 . 15 . 16 . 17 . 18 . 19 . 20 . 21 . 22

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 💛

Warnings: None

Tagging @holdyourwine @lilacshouko @shirayuki-ayumi @telvess @alecfromsaturn (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N. A.: I planned to include this scene in Part 22 for the sake of cuteness, but it ended up making the chapter too long, and since it wasn't an essential scene I decided to cut it from the final text. Still, I like it and I wanted to share it with you <3

At some point, you heard a brushing noise coming from a bush ahead you; when you looked at it, you saw a small creature with reddish fur jumping out of the green sphere. The animal approached the bench with hesitant steps and you recognized it as an earthly being – a red panda.

You covered your mouth with both hands in surprise, and also to muffle your laugh and not scare the animal.

– I can’t believe it – you murmured as the panda approached the bench with its rushed little steps – An animal from Midgard!

The panda stopped by your feet, smelling your surroundings. You held your breath, then dared stretch your hand to see its reaction. And, to your joy, the creature approached and brushed his black nose on your fingers.

Hades was observing everything in silence. You turned to him.

– This is the first one I see since I arrived here. Are there others?

– Yes, but they use to show up at the end of the day – he explained – This one is a bit late. Maybe he’s just too curious and decided to say hi before finally getting to bed.

– I see – you observed the panda and tried to pet its head, but only managed to brush the red fur for a second.

The animal, after having its curiosity satisfied, decided it had nothing more to do in your company and moved away, disappearing among the green shadows as fast as it came.

You took some time to silently appreciate your surroundings as they displayed what would be a pleasing Spring morning in Midgard. You thought of this for a moment: the plants, the creatures and that whole environment were those of from Midgard, just everything you saw along your stay in the areas reserved to humans in those blessed lands – and all of them were designed by your husband. You felt your respect and admiration for him grow the same way it did when you took your first walk in the Gardens, when you ate pomegranates.

– You thought of all of this before we got married – you said suddenly; and, turning to him, – You thought of everything.

Hades replied with the same modest smile he gave you when you asked if he was there during the planting of the pomegranate tree.

– I wouldn’t say that. I’d say I’ve work with every necessary resource and with the best people I could find, so everything you’ve seen around would have the power of bringing smiles to the young humans’ faces – he raised his fingers to brush your hair – And, as a payment for all this work, yours will be forever on my sight.

Part XXIII

[suzannahnatters]

Flash Fic: The Gardens of Hades

The gardens of Hades are barren when I come.

He snatches me from the sunlit lands and carries me to the underworld, a dark chasm lit only by the distant flames of Tartarus. His house is of black marble, and as he drags me through the shadowed halls, I try to empty my mind of everything but this moment.

I know the stories. I know that the gods have cruel desires.

Instead, he opens the door to a walled garden. A black pool glitters at the centre. Naked sticks rattle in the earth, but nothing lives here.

“This is yours, Lady Persephone,” he says.

Then he leaves.

.

I’m just glad Hades leaves me alone, so I don’t ask questions. I infuse the pool with light and call grass and asphodel from the dead soil.

When he visits again, he comes with a gift.

“I have brought you a servant.” A veiled shade follows him into the garden.

I wonder if he wants me to thank him for giving me a slave when I once had friends, a desert when I once had flowers.

I wonder why he took me.

Hades inspects a young shrub. “What’s this?”

“A pomegranate,” I say.

For a moment, I think he’s going to speak. Then he swallows the impulse and leaves.

.

On the day my pomegranate tree blooms, I find the shade sitting beneath the tree wiping her eyes with her veil. She says her first word: Springtime.

Little by little, she remembers how to speak. She talks about finishing this garden and moving on, the underworld blooming under my touch.

She doesn’t remember her name, so I call her Lethe.

.

My pomegranate tree bears fruit, but as I peel it open Lethe grabs my wrist. “If you eat, you will become a creature of his realm.”

I hurl the fruit at the wall.

.

It’s only a matter of time till my mother finds me.

Hades keeps sending gifts: servants, seeds, pruning-hooks and shovels. As the garden fills with life, so do the shades. The third time he visits, he dismisses the servants and looks at me with tired eyes. I wonder if he is always this sad.

“Your mother grieves without hope. Crops and men die, and no one sacrifices to the gods.” He sighs. “I am to send you back.”

Back to the home he took from me. Back to mother and wind and sunlight, but first I have one question.

“Why did you take me?” I spit.

He is the lord of the dead. He cannot sugar his words, as other gods might. “I need you,” he admits.

I think of Lethe, and to my surprise, I understand. I am springtime, but he is pain. No wonder the dead suffer, if that is all he can give them.

Before he can stop me, I rip open a pomegranate, and the juice is sour on my tongue.

The gardens of Hades are barren when I come.

But where I tread, they bloom. ---- I wrote this flash fic for the Pilgrim Artists' Festival, a small Christian festival of art, music, and words which runs every year in Tasmania's Huon Valley. The theme for the 2019 festival was "Grief and Hope", and I at once thought of Dorothy Sayers' poem, Rex Doloris, which imagines Hades as the King of Grief. This is the 500-word short story that resulted. I'd been looking for a way of retelling the story for nearly as long as I can remember, and this ficlet is the first step in that process. I can promise you that it won't be the last.

The 2023 Pilgrim Artists' Festival is now open for submissions of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, art, and music from Christian, Nicene-Creed-affirming artists, including children and adults, anywhere in the world. This year's prompt is "Beauty in the Everyday" and there is a 500 word limit on literary entries. There are also dozens of prizes available - check them out and submit here.

[laurelwen]

The Nightingale and the Rose, Simon Costin

While devouring the Sleeping Beauties exhibit at the Met in May, I was stunned by this piece (wish I could have gotten a better photo, but conditions were tricky.) Of course, it make me think of Nigel, so I thought I'd share with all of you. But I imagine most of you have not read the fairy tale by Oscar Wilde that inspired the piece. They had an audio recording of someone reading an excerpt from this story in this room as well, which just added to the heartbreaking vibe of it all. If you read through, I think you'll see why it all made me think of our boys and how deeply poignant and tragic the art is when you know the context of the story. The bolded text was my emphasis - you'll see why.

"The Nightingale and the Rose" by Oscar Wilde

'She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; 'but in all my garden there is no red rose.'

     From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

     'No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. 'Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.'

     'Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.'

     'The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, 'and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.'

     'Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. 'What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, 'or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.'

     'The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, 'and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

     'Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

     'Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

     'Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

     'He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale.

     'For a red rose!' they cried; 'how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

     But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

     Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

     In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are white,' it answered; 'as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are yellow,' it answered; 'as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.'

     So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

     'Give me a red rose,' she cried, 'and I will sing you my sweetest song.'

     But the Tree shook its head.

     'My roses are red,' it answered, 'as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.'

     'One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, 'only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?'

     'There is a way,' answered the Tree; 'but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.'

     'Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, 'I am not afraid.'

     'If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, 'you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.'

     'Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, 'and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?'

     So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

     The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

     'Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, 'be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.'

     The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

     But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

     'Sing me one last song,' he whispered; 'I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.'

     So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

     When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

     'She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - 'that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

     And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

     She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

     But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

     And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

     And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. 'Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, 'or the Day will come before the rose is finished.'

     So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

     And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

     But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

     Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

     'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

     And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

     'Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; 'here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it.

     Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

     The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

     'You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.'

     But the girl frowned.

     'I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; 'and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.'

     'Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

     'Ungrateful!' said the girl. 'I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

     'What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. 'It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.'

     So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

************************************************************************

So perfectly Nigel coded: For he sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

[Like Minds Aesthetic Masterpost]

[faces-ofvenus]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝕬𝖈𝖙 𝕺𝖓𝖊: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖔𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕯𝖆𝖍𝖑𝖎𝖆 . . .

Flowers don't grow in complete darkness, they don't live, they don't breathe, they die, wither, and disappear, and even knowing this, he still wants to wrap her in his shadows, like the shadows of the night sky that embrace the earth, until the light comes, he wanted her to be his ray of sunshine, to be his sweet destruction in the mornings.

So beautiful and chaste, he watched her with an eye that looked more like that of a dead and empty being, but his heart was more alive than ever, a feat that only she could pluck from him, her skin that he thought was as soft as the most beautiful new cotton, her smell? He imagined it to be the sweetest of all, he hated sugary things, but it reminded him of the honey of a bee, sweet and not cloying, natural, delicate, not only symbolizing food to some, but beauty and the gift of life to others, her hair, living, loose or tied up always looked showy and energetic.

He didn't go up to the surface for a long time, he never found it convenient, the morbid environment of the underworld that was his place, but every year, on the first day of spring, he would go to meet her, to observe and love her until a moment when he could no longer survive without being able to touch her, maybe the only thing that still held him back from simply stealing her, was the fact that he never even crossed a glance with her, that would kill him for sure, she was forbidden, he knew, because there was someone who perhaps loved her as much as he loved her.

There she was, as always, aching beauty, he watched as the flowers around her seemed to open, from beautiful buds, to pretty roses, lilies, everything you could imagine, she sat on the beautiful pomegranate tree, he smiled, he has an identical tree in his almost dead garden, perhaps the only beautiful being in that place forgotten by the gods, and feared by mortals, his imagination taking her to scenarios where he would be next to her on that pomegranate tree.

So many scenarios, that he didn't even notice when it got dark, when your body left the place, the night covered everything, the pomegranate tree was still there, the flowers were still there, even in the almost complete darkness, he went to the place where you were before, sitting in that same place, a ritual he followed for decades, for hundreds of years, every year, whenever his soul went spreading the spring to the mortal world, perhaps the coldest soul sat there, appreciating all he could have of his beloved, he felt a stranger, but at the same time, embraced by your figure, everything there reminded him of you, the scents of flowers mixed together that created your scent, he breathed in and remembered, when he stood up he took a long look, it wouldn't be last, not until you simply stopped coming to that place, not to you simply being next to him.

His steps were somewhat hurried, as at other times, it was amazing how fast his feet were, to soothe his uncomfortable heart of missing her, and not only was it shocking, and despairing when he didn't have her in the place, he stayed for a long time without understanding, just observing the place, his beautiful closed flowers, his beloved solitary pomegranate tree, just like the one in the underworld, nothing around him, no sign of your presence, of your floral scent, nothing, when he sat down in the same place where you were, and inhaled quickly trying his best to feel the scent flowing from your love, nothing, nothing.

— How is this possible? — he thought to himself, holding a flower bud he gently plucked it from the ground, at that moment he bitterly regretted it, he had killed her, could it be that all that haunts him is death.

— So it's you, my long-dreamed admirer, how I've been waiting for the day you would finally come to talk to me. — Not far from him, her sweet voice was heard for the first time, so magical, no nymph or mermaid could ever surpass her voice, nothing could ever match it.

— I feel that if I look into your eyes, I can never look away from them again, I can't bear the torture, of never seeing them again. — As he said this, his eye went to the plains, which proved her existence, beautiful buds were already opening, colors were already dancing around her, just by her presence, and he wasn't lying, he knew what he would do, it was wrong, and he would certainly deal with great consequences, all for a love, an unrequited love.

His footsteps were silent, but he could feel her presence approaching, and much more so when she sat down next to him, euphoria, passion, happiness, so many emotions he felt at that moment, like new feelings, he had never been this close to her, ever, no one actually approached him, either out of fear, or simply out of disgust, and she seemed so at ease, out of the corner of his eye, well out of his eye that still worked, he could see her playing with some violets, she was caressing them, with such fragility, that he guaranteed only she could have it, silence reigned for a while, and he really didn't care, his head was going so crazy, that the silence didn't even seem to be that silent.

— Well then, don't look at me, but talk to me, I've been longing for your voice, ever since I first realized your presence. — He shouldn't.

— And when he perceived my presence — Yes, that was his greatest curiosity — I have always been very careful.

— Your smell is different, I recognize the smells of flowers, and yours is different from everything else, roses, lilies, daisies, whenever I come back here, I recognize you, you always sit right here, and I always feel your gaze.

— Doesn't that bother you?

— Does it bother you? Perhaps curiosity, to know why you, just you, God of the Underworld, waste your time once a year to see me.

— Perhaps my greatest desire has always been to see spring, it is, in fact, the most beautiful and radiant thing I have ever had the pleasure to see. — You create life, it is an omen of good times, for I am only reminded every day of death — His eyes went to the button in her hand, torn off and prevented from opening — It seems she is a reminder.

He saw your fingers, so delicate he would say, even if it wasn't, everything about you, to him was perfect, everything, but when you wrapped your hands around his, he saw the bud open, a Black Dahlia, so many bad omens this flower meant, not by choice really, it was as delicate as the others, as beautiful, but feared as much as adored.

They talked as if they wanted to make up for all the lost time, all the millennia just waiting, but obviously they both had responsibilities, he wouldn't mind giving up days just talking to her, knowing that Tangatos would help him, yes he would leave his responsibilities, no one could judge him, even if everyone did, but the same was not for her, she had only one season as her duty, and this could not be left aside, not even when her heart just wants to stay eternally beside him.

— Promise you'll come and meet me here, every year, at the same place, on the same date.

— I will be here, every year, in the same place, on the same date, always, waiting for you. — He wished so much that he could see the smile she was giving him, looking up at him, but her gaze only shifted in his direction when she was already facing away from him.

Author's Notes: My version of Persephone and Hades, I hope you liked it, and maybe the other boys will get their own versions too.

I've been lacking a lot of creativity, either for requests, or to take time off for writing, and I'm sorry if I couldn't fulfill any asks.