#t: of thorns and claws

[theunknownmasks]

Billie Eillish - Chihiro (slowed+reverb)

[voidselfshipp]

"Thats it! Thats my girl!. You did great!"

"Thanks mamma!"

《♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡》

->only mutuals allowed to reblog.

->DONT REPOST MY ART.

♡lovely taglist: @tex-treasures @malewifehenrycooldown @mercuryships

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 292

“Oh I am blaming all of this on you T,” one of the beings in the summoning circle groans, burying their corpse-pale head in clawed hands as their white hair flickered. 

“Me? Excuse me, I wasn’t the one to accept the summoning!” another being protested, hood hiding most of their face save for molten-gold eyes and glittering runes or code on dark blue skin. “I was trying to figure out how to convince PK to change our schedule to include more sleeping, so don’t look at me, look at S!” 

“Well I didn’t accept it,” the only girl-sounding one scoffed, her crown of thorns seeming to writhe and bloom in her black hair for a moment. She crossed her arms, narrowing green eyes just a few shades darker than the white-haired one. “Maybe talk to whoever decided to summon us?” 

All of the sudden the cultists and heroes were being peered down at by a trio of… honestly whatever they were, because they didn’t seem to be the “Infinite King” the cult had been attempting to summon. Actually, they kind-of-maybe looked like kids… Which probably meant their parents or caretakers wouldn’t be too pleased. 

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back Pt. 2

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

Whoo! The darling @jackofallrabbits has all my thanks for the continuation of the DCA Hocus Pocus AU! The boys want every piece of the historian reader, and they have no time to lose! The sun is rising, and they must prepare the ceremony, and you realize that your dear friend Michael has arrived at the witches' home. Very poor timing, on his part. Enjoy the flirts and curses!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, heavy touching, injury, disturbing imagery, and fear.

———

The witch carries you across the room, clasping you tightly within a cage of his claws. You’re frozen in his embrace. His towering height and lithe, long limbs make you feel incredibly small, like a mouse before a hungry cat. His extra set of arms disappears into the shadow of his dark cape. How did he summon them so effortlessly? You tilt your head back to gaze up at Eclipse’s face, the eldest brother of the hanged brothers. They should still be dead—they were for almost four hundred years.

His face is inhuman. The markings and color stain his visage in a midnight-red crescent, and a blackened shadow swallows it. His eyes, bright yellow and predatory, glance down at you. A grin splits his lower face with wicked teeth. He runs his tongue over his bone-white fangs.

Your stomach flip-flips within you.

Candlelight flickers ominous over the colonial home as the cauldron continues to bubble in the fireplace. The other two, Sun and Moon, watch you. Their wide eyes gleam in the firelight: one of pale pools of feverish desire and the other glint in scarlet, roiling with appetite.

You cling tighter to Eclipse’s shoulder. A childish desire to bury your face in the crook of his shoulder almost takes hold of you.

“Where are you taking me?” you whisper into Eclipse’s cape.

“To the parlor,” his voice is soft as dusk, and the vibrations through his chest sink into you with a gentle rumble. “The main hall is hardly a place to hold a ceremony.”

Your eyes widen. He strides past the tables with the many candles aflame in a thick, waxy cluster. His claws flex against your shoulder and around your thigh.

“What ceremony?” your voice climbs into a squeaky pitch.

A chuckle echoes behind Eclipse’s shoulder. You turn your head to catch Sun and Moon following behind, and the latter’s lips curl into a sinister smile as his shoulders shake with amusement—as if he finds you utterly adorable.

“Little mouse, there’s nothing to fear,” Moon soothes, almost in a sing-song voice.

“It will be wonderful,” Sun clasps his hands together. Eagerness streaks through his face like falling stars at sunrise. “You’ll see, sunshine.”

A thickness coats your throat. When Eclipse asked you to stay, did you agree to something far more sinister? Do they intend to use your soul or your life to grant them greater power or something else just as nefarious? 

“Wait.” You tremble. “Wait.”

“Little comet, we still need you,” Eclipse says firmly but gently. His yellow eyes narrow in the slightest, glancing at the black ribbons on his wrists. “The bells will ring for us at dawn unless we perform the ceremony. You must be part of it. You must speak the vows.”

Your heart scampers within your rib cage.

“Wait,” you say again, panic slithering up your spine. He continues onward.

Eclipse easily unlatches an almost hidden door in the back of the main hall while balancing you in his arms. Cobwebs tear apart as it swings open and he enters a smaller but no less intricate room. A window overlooks part of the road cutting through the thick forest. A few shelves are covered in dusty bottles of glass and woven baskets. Ancient and dried fronds, stems, thorns, and petals are stored on wooden tables.

In the corner of your vision, the white rabbit darts inside the room. The one that spoke with a woman’s voice. She bounds across the space, knocking into a small stand that topples over a jar of powder. Sun curses, his voice growling demonically. The claws holding you tense as Eclipse glowers. You shiver under sharp talons pricking into your sweater.

Moon leaps forward and cuts the rabbit off in her destructive path. His eyes, glinting with bloodlust, follow her like a hound eager to tear apart a fox. He steps across the room, into her path, and forces her to correct her race. Her hind legs kick out. Her fluffy body arches smoothly through the air but she lands too close to the door and clips her front foreleg. She topples over, sliding across the hard floor and back into the main room. 

With a flick of his wrist and a dark murmur, Moon casts the door shut without laying a finger upon it. It slams close, rattling the walls and causing you to jump in Eclipse’s arms. 

“It’s alright, little comet,” Eclipse purrs. 

“We now have privacy,” Moon declares with a rasp. He eyes the door with a branding glare as if daring the rabbit to intervene again. 

A faint scratching is heard at the bottom of the door.  You clutch your hands into small balls of anxiety.

“I’ll rid us of the little beast after the ceremony,” Sun promises as he steps closer, laying a hand upon your arm. “As for you, my little ray of sunshine, we must get you ready.”

“With haste,” Eclipse speaks, and his brothers listen. You snap your head from one witch to the other. Gently, Eclipse sets you back on your feet. You sway, clutching your chest and twisting your fingers into the knitwork of your sweater.

“This is all happening fast,” you say, breathless. The room spins slightly in your exhilarated state. You start to inch away, back to the door with the soft sound of claws gouging into it.

“We apologize, mouse,” Moon whispers as he steps to a black wood cabinet and pries open one low door. “But necessity calls for it.”

“When we have the luxury of time,” Eclipse speaks while approaching a small table where a stack of books resides. His black claws draw slowly down the spines, “We will have a proper ceremony, with all the decorations you desire and a feast that could gorge a village.”

A shudder falls down your back. The chill sinking into your bones is numbing, and fear creeps deeper into your mind, plucking at every wild and frantic thought. Are they going to cook you up and eat you? Are they going to cast a spell to turn you into a toad? This wasn’t part of the fabled story of their return, was it?

You’re not certain you want to find out any more. Are your questions worth your life? They’re being so cryptid, so rushed.

You shuffle further back, away from the focused witches and their enchantments. What are they capable of? If only you could make them stop for a moment and answer you.

“Sunshine, darling, where are you going?” Hands slip down your arms and over your wrists.

A gasp falls from your mouth, quiet and quick. The hands, pale and yellow, with scarlet ribbons tying golden bells to his wrists, lift your hands into the air. You’re not so different from a little ballerina figurine being posed, forced to dance endlessly in a music box.

“I’m not sure I want to stay,” you breathe, frightened. The rate of your heart picks up in tempo, banging like a drum against your sternum.

He leans over your shoulder. His wicked smile fills the corner of your vision. Eyes, pale and gray like mist, hold you captive.

“There’s so much we can show you,” he says. He trails the tips of his claws down your sleeves, and the layer of separation causes your eyelids to flutter. “There’s so much we can do for you. What would you like, my poppet?”

You’re locked in his spell. Did he cast magic or is it simply his touch? Your arms stay in the air as his hands fall down your sides, rubbing slowly over your ribcage before settling on your waist.

“I want to know.” You stare ahead at Eclipse and Moon as they set a blackwood altar in the center of the room, before the window. “I want to know everything about you and your lives.”

Sun’s teeth graze the curve of your shoulder. His breath is warm against the side of your neck, and the air rattles out of your throat.

“You will have it all,” he answers, and whisks you off your feet in a spin. The room blurs before he stops you, hands holding your own as you’re locked in a dance with the witch. His cape shifts over his shoulder, revealing the deep opening of his flowy, white shirt. Your cheeks burn. Flustered, you jerk your head up, tearing your eyes away, and almost become ablaze as you find his cheeky smile.

“I do mean all,” he winks, coquettish and wicked.

You balk.

He takes your hand and presses it to his chest, right above where his heart would be. His skin is smooth and pale, split into two colors of yellow and off-white down the middle of his torso. You feel a strange hum instead. Not a beat, but a constant buzz of energy. Magic, perhaps.

His footwork guides you around the room in a sweeping circle. As he twirls you, one hand on your waist and the other holding your arm above your head, you catch a glimpse of old and age-stained pages fluttering open. Eclipse sets the book on the altar. He bows over it, his eyes roaming over the archaic writings.

Beside him, Moon holds a silvery veil in his arms. He murmurs something to his elder brother, who dips his head in agreement.

You almost stumble as another shock of fright seizes you.

“What is that?” you ask as Sun reclaims you, pulling you flush against his torso—your middle bubbles at the contact. 

He simpers with a low hum.

His mouth opens but before he can speak, bright headlights cut into the room from the window. The diamond-patterned panes slice the room into shapes of light and shadow, and you inhale sharply. 

A car. Who’s here? The owner of the property? 

“What is that?” Moon hisses, his hood falling deeper over his face as he slinks into an alcove of shadows.

“It’s like the sun.” Eclipse lifts his arm to shield his eyes, peering around the blinding high beams. 

“No.” Sun’s brow narrows. His arms lower around you, tightening around your waist until you gasp. “It’s unnatural.”

You peek over Sun’s shoulder, pushing up on your tiptoes to see a familiar build of the vehicle just behind the lights. Michael’s car.

What is he doing here? Did he suspect you would come here alone, against his advice?

What will the witches do when they realize your friend is here?

Your gut clenches. You have to warn him. He has to stay away before they try to throw him into their cauldron or turn him into a fox.

A shiver falls down your back and down to your toes. You turn your head to find Eclipse’s wide eyes cutting into you, and you freeze. He couldn’t know it’s your friend, could he?

“We have an unwelcome visitor,” Eclipse declares. The corners of his mouth tug downwards and he promptly slaps the book close with a heavy, dusty thud. “Brothers, what shall we do with him?”

“Let’s cast him into a carrot and feed him to the rabbit,” Moon suggests.

“No, no, I was of the mind that we could make a new rug out of his skin,” Sun muses, his fingers stroking the small of your back, much to your terror. 

Michael’s voice rips through the house. Muffled by the door, his shouts turn quick, frantic. You clamp your mouth shut. A horror so cold slips into your veins, and you tremble. He can’t be here. 

Eclipse lifts his hand, a hum filling his throat as he stares down the door. You cry out a soft, “Please, don’t!”

His wide yellow eyes turn back to you, surprised. The next moment, the jarring thud hits the wood of the door and cracks it by the wrought-iron handle. Splinters fly outwards. 

Michael shouts your name, then commands, “Don’t make any vows!”

Your mind turns blank. What?

A snarl rips from Moon’s mouth. You flinch, the sound right at your shoulder as you realize the hooded brother has joined you and Sun. His clawed hand falls to your shoulder, talons almost digging into your collarbone.

“Who is that?” Moon’s scarlet eyes flash in demand. “How does he know?”

Another kick flies into the door. The entire house shudders as the wood buckles and a boot chops through it. Immediately, you watch a familiar hand snake its way inside and throw open the mangled frame of the door. In the threshold stands your friend.

“Michael!” You stare, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes widened upon the scene. His dark jacket catches splinters of wood and his unruly hair is extra ruffled from the effort of breaking the door down. Immediately, a white rabbit darts inside. Michael lands on the witches and their snarling, teeth-bared expressions before finding you. His fists clench at his sides.

“Get away!” He dips a hand into his jacket pocket and hurls a handful of small, dried lavender petals. 

As if struck with a blade or bullet, the witches all recoil as the flowers rain down. Sun’s and Moon’s hands disappear from you. Backing away, Eclipse almost stumbles into the altar before he rights himself. A hiss, furious and demonic, roll off his tongue. You flinch. Lavender flowers litter the floor.

The white rabbit rushes for you, stopping only to stand on her hind legs and press a foot to your shin. Her green eyes shine with desperation. “Stop standing there and run!”

There’s no thought but of terror. You reach down and scoop up the rabbit just as Michael steps towards you. He grabs your arm and half dragging, half guiding you through the witch’s house, the three of you rush for the exit.

“Little comet!” Eclipse cries. His voice tugs on your heart, but you twist and refuse to be pulled back into his orbit.

A growl follows from Moon, and a mumbling of something wicked and furious slips from Sun’s mouth, but you can’t look back. Through the candlelit main room and out the door, Michael races. His grip almost crushes your elbow.

“I told you not to come here! I told you not to come here without me!” Michael boils. You shrink slightly as he reaches for the passenger side door, uncaring for the rabbit you clutch against your sweater.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” you say quietly, defenselessly. 

The rest of your rebuttal doesn’t leave your mouth before a familiar and haunting voice shouts, amplified like a poltergeist screeching into your ear. Michael immediately forces you to duck, pushing your shoulder down until you’re crouched behind the car, him protecting you with his own body. Gravel shifts underneath your shoes.

Michael’s car begins to groan. You lift your head tentatively, then gape. The frame of the vehicle begins to twist and rust, curling at the edges and darkening with burnt-orange marks. You hear a strange, hissing sound, then realize the tire you’re hunched beside is leaking air. As the car withers, glass cracks then pops. You yelp under a shower of shards but Michael’s jacket shields you from the sharp edges. The rabbit in your arms struggles for a moment.

“We have to keep moving! Go to the cemetery,” she demands.

“Right,” Michael mutters. His eyes land on the rabbit you shield in your arms, and his expression only shifts in the slightest at the human voice emerging from the rabbit’s mouth.

Likewise, she stares back at Michael. You pet her fluffy white fur as your fingers tremble. Her hide is soft and her body is warm and comforting.

“You’re an Afton, aren’t you?” she says softly, almost as if she were seeing an old friend.

Your brow furrows. How could she possibly know his last name? Is she a witch too?

“I am.” Michael stares down at her, his grip shifting as he looks forlorn to his car and then back to the house. His mouth twists in a grimace. “I read about you in my ancestor’s journal. You’re Vanessa. I thought… I hoped it wasn’t true.”

“Vanessa?” you echo in your whiplash confusion.

The rabbit’s white ear flops back slightly before she presses a foot to your chest.

“We can’t linger.” Her green eyes flash to you, scathing as she remarks. “The witches want the virgin for their ceremony. We can’t let them complete it.”

Michael’s grip tightens upon you, and you make a sound of discomfort. His nostrils flare, his breath running harsh and heated. You’ve never seen Michael so upset, so close to violence.

“What is going on?” you gasp, clutching Vanessa tighter to your pounding heart.

“I’ll explain later.” Michael moves away, shaking glass from his jacket and jumping to his feet. He surveys the house. You can hear footsteps, curses, and something sweeping the floor. “Follow me. Run as fast as you can.”

“Michael—” you start but he’s already pulling you back to your feet. Vanessa leaps from your arms. She bounds across the road and into the tree line. Michael follows the white rabbit, and you try to catch your breath as the darkness becomes absolute as you try to keep pace.

You have to trust him. He and the talking rabbit. You follow, your feet pounding over pavement and then dirt and leaves. Branches scratch at your sleeves; you’ve long forsaken your poor sweater to being snagged and ruined.

Laughter cracks overhead like black lightning. The echo isn’t too far away, and you shudder at the thought of what spells will allow them to catch you. Witchy howls of both amusement and anger snake through the half-dead canopy of trees. The midnight air hangs heavy. Michael bursts through the treeline to an open field of dead grass with you hot on his heels before you spy what he’s running you toward.

An old wrought fence spans the length of a reclusive cemetery. It’s ancient, by the shape and crumbling aspect of a few of the headstones you spy on within the space. Your mind races to date the burial ground but Michael urges you forward just as a breeze cuts overhead.

You turn your eyes skywards just as Michael finds the corner of the overgrown and neglected corner of the graveyard property. A streak of movement interrupts the constellations of the night sky, and you almost stumble in dawning horror.

Flying just above the near leafless and dark trees are the witches. Brooms, elegantly carved and sleek, carry them effortlessly in the air. Their capes and cloaks billow like black manes to dark beasts behind them, and claws clutch tightly at their flying vessels. Teeth sharp, eyes glinting, their gazes meet yours. Eclipse. Sun. Moon.

Under their harrowing eyes, you feel no more than a mouse running from a cat’s pounce.

“Keep going,” Vanessa urges. Her white form dashes onwards, but she comes to a sharp halt and turns back, ears pricked.

Two stone pillars, cracked and faded from years of standing as sentinels mark the entrance to the burial ground. Michael ushers you into the cemetery. For one desperate moment, you wish you could study the history of this place, find out its name, who lies here, but you are torn from your brief musings.

“I know you.” Eclipse’s voice carries over the field. His black cap settles onto his shoulders as he sinks in the air to hover just above the threshold of the graveyard. “Your kind are all the same, witch hunter.”

Michael stands between you and the witch. His gaze is hard, unyielding. You clutch at his jacket, fearing the lack of barriers.

“What did he call you?” you breathe out. “Michael.”

He huffs at Eclipse as Sun and Moon settle on his flanks. Moon turns his hungry eyes upon you, glinting like blood. Sun strums the staff of his broom. His claws catch on starlight.

Eclipse tilts his head and bares his fangs in a taunting smile. “Do you really think you can keep our lovely little virgin from us?”

You shiver violently. What do they want?

“I’ll watch all three of you return to dust and ashes,” he promises. Vanessa slips against your ankle, pressing close as if she were a guard dog instead of a rabbit.

All three of the witches burst into laughter, wicked and harsh before they rise and fly over the gate, deeper into the cemetery.

Michael pushes you further down an unmarked and overgrown path. “It’s alright. They can’t set foot here. I’ll take care of them.”

“Wait,” you gasp. You stumble as Michael urges you onward. “Wait, don’t hurt them!”

“They’re witches,” he snarls so viciously, it makes you jump. He stops, finding a row of headstones with tall and web-cracked faces. “You have no idea how dangerous they truly are. I will explain everything once they’re gone. Stay here. Vanessa?”

The rabbit hops up beside you. Michael again pushes you down by the shoulders until you curl up in the shadow of a colonial headstone. He stands over you, glancing this way and that to the sky. A few large and overgrown trees cut into the skyline through the burial grounds.

Vanessa noses her way onto your lap. You open your arms and she hops on, her small feet pressing on your jeans. 

“Listen to him,” she speaks sternly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“But—how? Michael? Where are you going?” you call, your voice cracking, but he’s already rushing away from the grave you’re hunkered near. He rushes into a flat, open plot of land filled with weeds and dead grass. Michael looks to the midnight sky.

You peer over the headstone. Vanessa hits your shoulder until you slink back down, but you catch a glimpse of Eclipse emerging from behind a black, dead tree and sailing through the air. He bows low upon his broom, eagerly stalking Michael. Your friend withdraws a cylinder from his jacket pocket. Popping it open, Michael quickly sprinkles something white around him—salt. 

Your heart climbs into your throat. You long to call out, to beg Eclipse to spare him, but Michael whips out what appears to be an old charm made of leather. Upon it are scratched archaic symbols you have never once glimpsed before in your historical studies. A few small bones dangle from where the leather is tied with cord.

Your eyes widen as Michael holds it high. Eclipse stops, leaning back and tilting the broom away until he comes to hover. Then, he laughs. Michael remains unmoved, though his brow furrows in the slightest.

A disgusted sound leaves Vanessa’s voice.

With a point of Eclipse’s finger, the charm ignites into flames. Michael yelps, dropping it to the ground and clutching at his hand, no doubt burned by the spontaneous combustion.

“Little mouse, where are you hiding?” A low voice calls, rasping out like a lover searching through the dark. Moon.

You stiffen. Vanessa’s ears pin flat against her skull. You press your back against the headstone, hiding yourself in its shadow. A soft breeze touches your hair, tugging strands across your face.

“We can play so many games when it’s only us.” Moon’s broom appears just a row down, scanning the fallen leaves and grave markers. He perches low, his shoulders shifting under his cloak like a tiger ready to leap upon prey. “Come on out. Let me take you home.”

Your blood runs cold. The ghost of his hands is still upon you, and you wonder if it would be so terrible to return with them. They would leave Michael and Vanessa alone, wouldn’t they? 

Moon slips slowly through the air, his broom black as night and silent, and his head lifts. He inhales deeply. Under the brim of his hood, his eyelids flutter. 

Then his entire head snaps to where you hide. You squeak in fright.

“There you are.” His jaws split into a ravenous grin as he reaches out a hand, flying over a gravestone just to where you kneel on the ground.

“No!” Michael shouts. “Get back!”

You jerk your head to him and watch as he steps away from the salt he just spilled. 

“Michael, don’t!” Vanessa warns a moment too late.

Eclipse sneers. Extending his hand, he speaks. His voice becomes of tongues, lapping and overtaking, but mostly devilish. The air turns sharp and tangy, and the wind picks up, twisting leaves around Michael’s feet. His eyes widened at his mistake. 

A flash of horror cuts through you just as Eclipse hurls out a curse.

Michael drops to the ground and begins writhing. You can only catch glimpses of him between rocky headstones, his body twisting and his flesh turning dark and rancid. His body convulses. 

A scream tears out of your lungs. You jump to your feet, clutching a hand over your mouth as you witness Michael suffer. Eclipse’s eyes immediately snap at you. Close beside you, a hand brushes your sleeve, cool and blue. Moon. You can’t move.

“Oh, how I’ve yearned to curse your ancestor.” Eclipse leans low, lording over Michael’s writhing form with little more than a delighted glint in his gaze. “He forced my brothers and I upon the gallows. He let us hang slowly. We convulsed and gagged for air, and then we died.”

Eclipse leans closer, hanging over Michael in a taunt. “This is the least I can bestow upon you. Never fear, there is far more punishment to be delivered.”

You’re rooted to the spot. Ice water flows in your veins.

“Come here,” Moon murmurs close beside you. His hand begins to circle your wrist.

“Don’t let him take you!” Vanessa’s voice cuts through the hazy terror fogging your mind, and you jerk back to alertness. You shake off Moon’s hand. His sharp breath of frustration follows as you take off over the graveyard towards Michael.

“Stop it! Whatever you’re doing to him, stop!” you cry out, reaching one hand out. You’re not sure who—Eclipse or Michael. 

Eclipse straightens upon his broom. His expression brightens into a pleased, unholy smile.

“Little comet,” he purrs, opening his arms.

“Eclipse, please—gah!” Arms grab you from behind. You hear Vanessa’s voice calling out, furious and demanding, but your feet leave the ground and in a heartbeat, you’re airborne.

“Sunshine, there you are!” The cheerful voice falls over you. Sun continues, “The wretched rabbit is getting her fur all over you! I never did like her, not even as a vermin.”

Large hands maneuver over you, pulling you onto his lap and balancing you in his hold while the broom rides faster, racing over the cemetery and away from everyone else. You gasp. You immediately twist and cling tightly to his shoulders. His hands surround you. His palms rub slowly along your back.

“I’ve got you now,” he declares. His breath, warm and misty, tickles your cheek. “One would think a person would be lonely and bored watching our home for all of these years, but that was what she did when she was mortal at her master’s request. So really, isn’t our curse just a lovely gift for her?”

“Sun!” You tremble. The wind tears at your clothes. You watch the ground become a blur underneath you, and a sickness stirs. “Please, set me down.”

“Not yet, sunshine.” The air changes, and the broom gains speed, pressing you deeper against his chest. “I want you for only a moment. You can say ‘I do’ can’t you? I’ll do the rest.”

“What—wait, wait,” your fingernails dig into the fabric of his cape hanging over his shoulders. The flight is far too fast and you feel far too vulnerable, seated upon his legs as your only insurance you won’t fall to your death. 

“Although,” Sun’s fingertips slip under your chin and tilt your face up, “it’s not fair that Eclipse kissed you and I haven’t. We can steal one before the ceremony, can’t we?”

Your tongue becomes heavy in your mouth. You can say little, caught in the torrent of the breakneck speed of the broom as well as the Sun’s sultry eyes devouring you whole. He lowers his mouth to your neck. His other hand caresses your thigh, fingertips touching your flesh with reverent want. Heat waterfalls into your middle. He lowers himself to your shoulder and grazes his teeth against your neck.

You inhale, your breath rattling at the touch of a warm and wet tongue dragging over the tips of your collarbones in the hollow of your throat.

“One kiss,” he half pleads, half demands. His lips brush your jawline in their climb upwards. 

“Too fast,” you utter. The world spins and blackness swoops in on your vision.

“I can go slow,” he assures, but when he lifts his head, his smile drops from his lips. “Sunshine!”

The world tilts, and you think of very little as hands grasp at you, but the broom rocks and you slide out of Sun’s hold as a curse rips from his throat. A wretched call rattles your darkening visible, and then, you’re falling.

Your eyelids flutter, and you hardly have a second to scream before a second pair of arms catch you and pull you against a cool chest.

“You buffoon!” Moon snarls right beside your ear. “You dropped our virgin!”

A numbness clings to your limbs. You’re still reeling, slumped in his lap as he rides on his broom at a much safer speed.

“I would not have let death take away our chance at happiness and life and love,” Sun shoots back, not unlike a sibling retort in an argument. 

“Go help Eclipse deal with the vermin!” Moon demands in a low growl. Sun snarls something back, but his voice fades in the distance.

You feel the wind shift, slowing down until you’re left to hover in the air. Eyes closed against Moon’s chest, you breathe rapidly. Your shaking hands press tight to his white shirt.

“I will keep you safe,” he murmurs softly into your air. “Step here, little mouse. This mausoleum wasn’t blessed, and it lies outside of the cemetery's boundaries.”

“Okay,” you murmur listlessly. You lift your head, trying to stop the spinning from within. Your legs shake like a newborn fawn but you feel dead grass underneath your shoes as Moon holds you up on your feet. His broom lowers gently to the ground and falls still as if there were no magic to the black wood staff at all.

“Breathe.” He moves you slowly, carefully pressing your back to the solid brick of a small, gray mausoleum. “Apologies for my brother. He is eager to make you our bride.”

Perhaps it only houses a small family. What is their history? Your brain churns over senselessly while the oxygen returns to your head. 

Did he say bride?

His hands find your shoulders and pin you in place. Chest heaving, you gaze up at the witch now hovering over you. There is no escape. You smell midnight and something herbal and sharp upon him.

“The vows,” he says. His eyes hold you captive. “You can say the vows to marry us.”

“Marry?” You’re breathless, but you ask all the same, “Why am I marrying you?”

“To have us,” he says, low and husky. He presses closer, caging you with his body and holding you hostage against the cool stones at your back. “You will know everything soon. There is so little time—the witch hunter and the rabbit are trying to spoil everything. Little mouse, look at me.”

You try to avert your gaze, turning your cheek, but his command causes you to buckle. 

“I will begin the vows.” Moon presses in closely. His chest is flush with your own, and you fear he can sense the wild fluttering of your heartbeat. You are not cool and suave, and you are still falling, falling, falling. 

“Will you take me to be your husband?”

“Moon,” you whisper. “I… I… I…”

His teeth flash. Then, he leans in, pressing close to your ear. A soft flick of his tongue against your cheek draws out a breath from you, just before he begins nibbling on the soft flesh of your earlobe. You gasp. Your hands find him, clinging tightly as flutters begin in your middle.

He releases your ear from his teeth but his mouth remains pressed close to the shell of it.

“Will you take me, so I will obey, serve, love, honor, and keep you in sickness and in health?” 

Your knees sink deeper but he refuses to let you slip out of his grasp. His claw hooks the collar of your sweater and stretches it, exposing your shoulder to the starlight.

His mouth lowers there. The press of his lips is soft and cool like a stone smoothed by a river. Your stomach burns with a flame you cannot name. He slowly opens his jaws, first licking your sensitive flesh until goosebumps run down your arms, then ever so delicately pressing his teeth into your shoulder. The tease of fang marks. The promise of more. He does not break the skin, but you mewl under his controlled bite.

He releases you. His hand cups your cheek as he straightens. 

“And forsaking all others,” he rasps, “keep you only unto me and my brothers, so long as we both shall live?”

Your bottom lips tremble from emotion. Confusion spins you.

Can you say ‘I do?’ Should you?

Moon softly caresses your cheek with his thumb. His eyes are gentle like pools in the starlight.

“I swear to love and cherish you,” his voice softens.

Your fingers curl around his wrists. He lowers himself to you, and your eyes flutter as his lips brush against yours—

“Get away, witch!”

Your eyes flash open. Moon’s gaze narrows into slits as he turns his head, pressing harder against you and trapping you against the mausoleum until you squirm. 

“Michael?” you gasp, peering over Moon’s shoulder, only to choke on your breath.

Over the slight hill from the true cemetery, a creature shambles. Purple flesh clings to bones, arms extended. Shuffling over the gnarled, dead grass, you watch as flesh splits and hangs by threads across his cheeks, exposing his molars. His nose is little more than a nasal bridge and two dark holes. His hair is dark and greasy, and his eyes are sunken, barely left save for black orbs and a single pinprick of light in each, like a lone flame of candlelight. 

“What did Eclipse do to you?” You feel faint. “No, no, no, change him back! Moon, please!”

“No need,” Moon steps forward to face your zombified friend. You almost drop to the ground when Moon’s hands leave you. A cold fury radiates around the witch’s cloak.

Bounding over the top of the hill, Vanessa appears. Her white fur is now smeared with dirt and her breaths are sharp and quick. She hops over to you. 

“Get up! Michael’s lavenders won’t keep the other two back for long!” Vanessa pushes against your leg, her tiny bunny body doing little to bring strength back to your limbs.

“Michael,” you whisper, clutching your mouth where the witch almost kissed you. “Eclipse has to take away the curse. He has to.”

“He won’t.” Vanessa’s eyes are dark, and hard. “We have to go.”

Your chest is hollow and your head swims. You watch Moon approach Michael in swift, sure steps. Michael’s arms are stiff and crooked, but his rotten fingers curl into a fist. Moon strikes and gouges his claws into Michael’s throat. You watch in muted horror as Moon rips away purple flesh and sinew. A rancid smell spills into the air. You gag, then scream out Michael’s name. The pale, bony column of his throat is exposed.

“You’re interrupting my wedding,” Moon hisses slowly at Michael before lifting his other hand.

Unphased, Michael throws a punch at the witch, and it hits with a burst of lavender petals. A screech drawls out of Moon. He falls backward. You hear the faintest sounds of Moon’s wretched snarls as Michael then awkwardly runs. His leg drags at the shin as if it were broken. You realize it is. Moon howls, clawing at the petals and trying to remove them from his person.

The witch calls out your name. You look back. His red eyes are furious, then desperate as Michael cuts in between the two of you. He brings his good foot down hard on Moon’s broomstick, and it snaps.

Moon screeches and writhes on the dried grass.

“Go,” Michael croaks. You stare at his gaping open neck but he takes you by the arms and hauls you back up to your feet. The scent of death is thick. “Now!”

You stumble, tears filling your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make them change you back.”

“Just run,” Michael huffs, half decayed and struggling. “We have to get to town. We have to lose them. They only have until sunrise.”

Sunrise.

And a ceremony they wish to perform. 

[paceprompting]

paper kiss

written for ‘mistletoe’ wc: 982 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no warnings apply | tags: pre-relationship, pining, fluff, werewolf steve, human eddie

@steddieholidaydrabbles

Steve had a problem.

Call in the troops, all hands on deck, cannot afford to fail level of problem.

Except he couldn’t exactly go around blabbing this issue to the entire party. Dustin alone would blab in five seconds, and he’d never hear the end of it for as long as he lived.

How was he supposed to admit the simultaneously best and worst idea he’d ever had to kiss Eddie for the first time?

Eddie had never the opportunity for the romantic nonsense, even if he rolled his eyes or stuck out his tongue at any sight of it. Eddie’s walls were covered in thorns and bristles from years of needing to bite first what usually came to harm him.

Steve, on the other hand, was highly practiced in romantic nonsense.

So, clearly: Christmas time equaled mistletoe.

Genius in its simplicity.

Idiotic in that it was fatal.

Because now he was basically supernaturally allergic to the stuff.

You get bit by one demodog and you had severe drawbacks, go figure.

It was hard enough trying not to stick his nose in Eddie’s collarbone—scenting, Robin called it. He didn’t want to know what the hell she was reading—and envelop himself in Eddie's forest, smoky scent while leaving his own behind. Even though he was literally the only person in Hawkins who could smell the difference, getting bit had come with all these other weird instincts.

Somehow, dealing with the transformation every full moon was easier than navigating daily life when every slight against the kids, against Robin, against Eddie had his claws and fangs bursting out with an inhuman snarl.

That he needed nearly two and half times more calories than ever just to not feel like he was going to pass out by midday.

When every time he looked at Eddie, he wanted so intensely his jaw hurt until they were close enough Steve could catch his scent. Close enough to always know he was okay because Steve was close enough to get to him.

Steve sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter.

“I’m just going to buy some.”

Robin leaned into his eyeline, a fearsome frown on her face, and jabbed her finger into his chest. “You’ll die, dingus.”

“Only if I directly inhale it.”

She flicked him. “Why is it important?”

Eddie wasn’t at the house, yet. He had chauffeur duty for the impeding Christmas-ification of Steve’s house—tinsel, garlands, lights, the whole nine yards—and the plan had led to Steve’s badly wonderful idea.

The kids would be so distracted decorating/devastating his house, Steve could easily pull Eddie aside for a private moment.

And they had both been too much shit. Eddie was worth more than a plain old kiss.

The kids entered the house in a whirlwind, shouting and laying out boxes and shopping bags to tear into without so much as a hello. Steve chuckled to himself.

He smelled Eddie before he saw him, and raised his head. His dark curls were dotted with melting snow, cheeks pinkened by the cold. Eddie stared intently at them, with something hidden in his hands.

Robin dismissed herself, hissing quietly at him before she darted off, “Just do it.”

Eddie didn’t watch her leave, slowly stepping into the kitchen until Steve met him halfway. Steve still couldn’t see what he was holding, Eddie’s fingers curled around something small.

Steve breathed in his fresh scent—pine forest and smoke—the tension in his shoulders fading.

“Um, I had this, sort of…thing. An idea,” Eddie started quietly.

“Do I get to hear it?”

Eddie started to roll his eyes, and then stopped himself. Like he was trying not to fall into old habits. Strange.

This idea had to be something special.

“So, I really want to kiss you.”

Steve’s heart pounded so loud in his ears, he hardly processed that Eddie had kept speaking, his enclosed hands moving in their usual way. Drew Steve’s attention all the more to what he was hiding.

“I thought, Christmas, mistletoe. Perfect opportunity.” Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling, since Eddie had gone onto the inevitable conclusion. “And then I remembered that would probably kill you before we ever got to enjoy it.”

Steve clicked his tongue. “Yeah.”

“So, instead, I made this.” Eddie opened his hands, and extended out what looked like a small plant with oval leaves and red berries.

Hesitantly, Steve reached for it. Eddie wasn’t about to poison him, but Steve wasn’t sure what to expect as he grabbed with two fingers at the nearest leaf. The thing crinkled as Steve lifted it.

“Paper,” he said with a soft smile.

He held the faux-mistletoe in one hand, examining it with the other. Stems of green oval leaves, tiny red berried and tied together at the top with a white ribbon. It was soft and slightly fuzzy like construction paper, and Steve faintly smelled Eddie’s pine forest all over it.

“And safe,” Eddie said.

All this to overcome Steve’s werewolf allergy. Because they both wanted to kiss.

For some reason, particularly under mistletoe.

Steve looked at Eddie, his eyes wide and waiting. He chuckled. “We have made this so complicated.”

Eddie arched a brow.

“You transform into a hairy beast every full moon and I really want you to hold me down and lick me all over the rest of the month. Let’s just say our lives haven’t been simple for a while.” He stepped close, plucking the mistletoe from Steve’s hand to run it over his lips.

He flicked his eyes toward Steve over the paper leaves, playful and heated. A pleased growl rumbled through Steve’s chest, and Eddie’s eyes just gleamed. They had moved close enough that all one of them had to do was drift that much closer.

“Are you going to kiss the mistletoe?” Steve asked, peering at Eddie’s mouth and imagining the taste of pine and smoke. “Or me?”

[miasmaghoul]

do you have any thoughts about mountains first time? doesnt have to be a whole ass prompt fill lol but who gets big boy?

(anon I regret to inform you that you sent this while i was disastrously high so you get a Weird One - warnings for terato/monsterfucking, mentions of blood (nonsexual), inhuman anatomy, scent kink, agendered character referred to as "it", use of cunt/clit to describe its anatomy, and some lore at the end)

I still have to finish that fic about his first time bottoming, that's with Omega. But his first time in general?

Well, technically...

Mountain was more feral than most when he was summoned, took a long time to settle into his vessel. He cost a number of siblings their lives before the higher ups decided it was a better idea to let him loose in a warded-off section of the forest. Let him work out the more animalistic traits in an environment better suited to his elemental nature.

He wanders the trees completely unglamoured, with furry, back-bent hooved legs and patches of moss, lichen and bark coating his limbs and torso. His antlers, still budding, grow faster like this and the trees in his path bear fresh gouges as a result. He hunts everything he can, tearing in with claws and elongated jaws alike. The scruffy mane of hair he sports lies matted with days worth of blood, sweat and grime, and it's the fourth night before Mountain finds his appetite sated.

Well, one of his appetites at least.

This new hunger is similar, but very different. He knows lust, of course - no being in Hell wouldn't - but ghouls don't have corporeal forms Downstairs. They feel things, sure, but in the way you "feel" and intense thought, or a specific fantasy. Like this, though, anchored to a physical being he's still learning the ins and outs of, the pressure sitting heavy between his thighs feels foreign. Foreign, but also hot and urgent and fuck he needs.

Mountain paws at himself with rough, inexperienced hands until the sheath between his legs starts to swell. The ghoul watches as it grows, chest heaving when the flared head reveals itself. Already slick and throbbing, Mountain's stomach clenches when every inch is finally exposed and the length of it pulses.

It's then that a certain scent makes his nostrils flare, his eyes go wide, and something deep inside Mountain goes achingly tight. It's not the first time he's smelled it since he woke in the forest, naked and groggy, but it's the first time he's felt the urge to find its source. Now that he does, though?

He needs.

Mountain crashes through the trees on instinct alone, panting and drooling down his chin no matter how many times his hooves catch a root or a row of thorns tears at his flesh. The scent grows thicker the deeper he gets into the dense wood; it's something raw, something syrupy sweet yet intoxicatingly bitter. Like burning leaves on a hot autumn day, rich and earthen but undercut with a sharpness that could only mean desire.

The closer he gets, the more he recalls smelling it before. He remembers catching it when he was savoring the spoils of a hunt, one he'd spent melting into the trees to stalk a particularly jumpy buck. Remembers waking up once, in a small clearing he'd thoroughly marked, only to find a second scent joining his own. Not covering his, not a challenge - though Mountain took great pleasure in...reclaiming his territory anyway. More like an invitation, one Mountain had had no interest in following at the time. That wasn't what he had needed.

Now that he's close to drowning in that scent, though, his cock dripping as it wags between his thighs, Mountain has no idea how he's gone so long without it.

He crashes through the branches of an overgrown willow, blood pounding in his ears and groin in equal measure, and the shiver that wracks him is one shared with the source of this intoxicating scent.

It sits in a nest at the base of the willow, one tucked into its roots and flanked by flowering bushes. There are enough gaps in the tree's limbs to let patches of sunlight filter through, dappling the creature before him.

The one currently on all fours, presenting its flushed, swollen cunt and staring over its shoulder and directly into the center of his brain.

It must be another ghoul, something distant tells him. He only has flashes of the time before the forest, but he can faintly recall a pair of...humans, were they called? They shifted before his eyes, one into a being of black fur and unnatural smoke and the other into scales and fins. They spoke the language of the Pit, and that's the only reason Mountain remembers them.

This one, this creature, looks similar to him, he thinks. He only has a few interrupted reflections in brooks and streams to go by, but it's legs are like his. Back-bent, hooved, but the hair coating them is jet black instead of his own sun-stained auburn. Their torsos differ too - where Mountain could blend in with the bark of any tree, it is instead coated in a combination of thicker fur and sleek black feathers that rustle like the leaves above. No antlers atop it's head, but instead a pair of segmented horns that curl against its skull. It's smaller than he is, more angular, and the few facial features Mountain can see are just as sharp as the talons it has dug into the soft earth.

It makes a sound then, a rattling hiss of a thing, and Mountain growls in response. It's automatic, as is the way he drops to all fours for his final approach. It watches his every move, unnatural eyes wide and growing blacker by the second, and Mountain flinches when it tips it's head and a scratchy voice fills his skull.

New, it rasps in a familiar but broken dialect, forked tongue flicking between it's lips. Maybe a ghoul? It's speech is odd. You're new. New smell. Different.

Mountain watches it's cunt pulse, a thick trail of slick dripping from its hole straight down the fat nub of its clit. That shiny length flexes, and Mountain's cock responds in kind. He snarls as he crawls up to the creature, licking his jaws. That incredible scent, so thick he can taste it, would be enough to drive anyone mad.

Could feel you coming. Could...in the roots and stones...

Mountain barely registers the words floating through his head, but he really likes the way they fade into an audible sharp trill when he buries his nose into the source of his torment.

The taste of it is beyond compare, and Mountain can't help but drag his face through its copious slick while he wriggles his long, thick tongue inside. Desperate to coat himself in it, ears filled with the unearthly sounds of the creature offering itself to him on a silver platter. His hips work in useless, uncoordinated humps, cock jabbing at thin air as that tight hole clamps down around his tongue, and the overwhelming desire he feels to be inside the being before him hits him like a punch to the gut.

You....watching me...

Mountain manages the message as he moves to bracket that smaller figure. It nods, shudders when he settles against its back, snuffling at the crook of its neck. Using his snout to nudge its head, force it to expose its throat so he can feel it thrum under his tongue.

Watched...hunt. Watched me...kill...

It gives a chirrup, and Mountain feels its short, raised tail twitching against his stomach. His cock jumps, the broad head smacking against its clit, and Mountain's growl shakes the earth itself. Those same stupid humps take over, and Mountain stretches his jaws to wrap around the back of its neck to force it still. He uses the last of his brainpower to throw a final thought into its mind.

Why...bring me...to you?

Mountain sinks his fangs into its throat just enough to get a taste of what lives beneath its skin, and as his eyes roll back the creature moans.

Different, it whispers back, canting its hips when Mountain mindlessly tries to line himself up. So long...since something was different...

Mountain's grunting like a disobedient dog, every thrust bumping his cock against its thighs, its tail, it's mound. So focused on getting it inside without releasing the creature from the cage of his limbs that the frustration only builds, his snarls becoming more and more bestial until -

The body beneath him arches as best it can, and as Mountain's aching cock finally squeezes between swollen lips to pop inside there's no way to know which of them is louder.

Mountain doesn't remember much after that.

One day, though, he'll learn the story of the feral ghoul who haunts these woods. The product of a botched summoning, it was always destined to become a creature of instinct. Tied to the realm Above only because its summoner still lives, left to its own devices where it won't pose a threat.

One day Mountain will learn the story of what used to be Cowbell, and when he does nothing will keep him from going back to those woods.

[jolalibrary]

i. to fix a porch

joel miller x f!reader | chapter one of honey stained hands

chapter summary: it’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged. and all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you.

wordcount: 3.5k warnings: typical canon-angst. my spelling. joel trying to fit in and be good for ellie. an: i am so nervous about this. i hope you like. huge thanks to @guyfieriii + @thetriumphantpanda for holding both my hands.

The world had gone to shit, but the world hadn’t gone to shit.

It still grew, expanded—and changed.

Just as it once had. The grass didn’t stop turning green. The trees didn’t stop rustling, the flowers didn’t stop pollinating between bones and disintegrating fabric.

Nature, in all its immensity, didn’t bow to the cordyceps that stole minds and whispered destruction along roads and grass. Nature didn’t allow the rot to take the seasons, as it had done with so many other things.

The end of times wasn’t allowed to touch the moon’s schedule. It didn’t have an impact on how the daylight grew shorter and the night span longer. It had no bearing on the way leaves turned golden, the dew appeared on tall grass, or how both danced under amber-rising and lemon-setting suns.

The outbreak took souls, but it didn’t rid the craved scents of stews and freshly baked apples—two aromas that flooded Jackson's roads.

Mostly, even if something else thrummed along the ground, and spoke in claimed lives, it couldn’t try and claim to have any effect on the way frost made the morning path glitter—or how it made the world still feel magical.

Fungus had stolen a lot. Had spread its poison across state lines and once happy towns. But it couldn’t thieve the natural beauty that shifted in three monthly turns.

Joel wakes in a sea of sweat, panic and desperation. Forehead clammy. Salt and pepper hair clinging in thin spider-leg lines against the creases of his frown.

Each morning, since Joel has been here, has followed the same pattern. The shadowy nightmares were still there, ever-present—swirling and twirling, not ready to stop their dance. Even if the sun is blasting through, informing them it’s morning—it’s the time their claws should retract and allow him to experience a new day.

They never really do. They remain, hanging in the edges of his thoughts, his eyes—even as sleeping thoughts diluted into the present day.

Just the same as he did yesterday and the day before, his closed fist rubs in gentle circles against his chest—right over his heart. Where it thumps and beats, hammering quickly. Fingers and palm attempting to soothe it, half-wishing he could weave under milk-white bone and release the guilt-wrapped tendrils around it.

It doesn’t matter what his routine involves, it’s all in vain.

Little to nothing alleviates it. Not the circles of his hand over the bobbled t-shirt he sleeps in or the way he wills himself to breathe, to fill his lungs—advice given against his will.

Joel has attempted a lot of things, but the tightness always remains. The imaginary vines forever constricting, all stemmed with thorns, digging in, tightening their hold as he struggled to gasp, never mind breathe. It’s like a fungus of its own, a thing poisoning him, ruining him, blackening what’s left of his soul.

All because he made a choice—one he’d make a thousand times (if given the chance).

Blinking, he slowly sits. Back aching, body groaning as the honeyed sun coats the place he calls his. It flutters over the set of drawers, the flannel draped over the handle of his closet, and the strings of the guitar, gifted by Tommy to keep him busy and out of trouble.

It’s a good place he’s found himself in. A normal place—one found in the centre of moving on and trying to live life. Something he gives enough of a shit not to let it be torn from him and a thing he worries is being tugged from his grip all the same.

One wrong move.

That’s what he hears, even if no one says it. It never leaves their lips, but instead is etched into the faces of everyone he has been introduced to. It was discernible on his sister-in-law's face when he and Ellie appeared; it was poorly concealed by his brother when he’d handed him the instrument.

So much so, that he’s become worried all of this—the safety, the future for Ellie—will be taken from him if he breathes wrong. If he makes eye contact a little too quickly, a little too sternly, too forcibly and not followed quickly enough by a half-smile.

He tries. Not for him, but for her. The same person he keeps his jeans close by and his t-shirt on for—the one that makes him sleep on the side so his good ear can hear a scream of his name—just in case. The same person who manages to shift off the worry, dusting him down without knowing the impact she has on him—the young person who forms him, shapes him into someone half-decent, who is willing to try, who is willing to do things with his hands that isn’t fighting or shooting.

The only time Ellie has shouted for him since being here, though, is for breakfast.

Now, the house is silent—too silent. A smile almost appearing all on its own. An image bubbling, appearing, blanketing over the nightmares that tried to linger. One of her, in her new bedroom—the one she keeps talking about painting—all asleep, mouth open, catching flies.

Joel snorts, swallowing it back. All of the darkness that is weaved inside of him. Focuses on the little flecks of dust that glitter in the glow of a new day, how they fall absently in the space between light and dark—making a choice, one he makes each day, to be here. To try.

His hand slides from his chest, landing on his wrist. Sighing, he closes his eyes and lets his thumb slide over the broken glass of his watch—the one he never removes—another thing he does daily. Another thing that has become a routine.

He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in.

Joel had expected something more to be requested from him. Almost braced to be told he would be stationed on the other side of the gate—in a more permanent role than others. But, he wasn’t.

If anything, he was given tasks.

Menial things, but tasks all the same.

Little jobs, all reminiscent of a handyman back before things to fungus and rot. Oddities, bits and bobs. Projects half-finished or never begun at all—assigned, handed to him, chosen for him because he’s there and capable. And not, as Tommy explains, is because no one trusts him.

The first had been his own porch. The wood split, cracked, creaking—an accident waiting to happen (a thing he’d muttered to Tommy when he’d first walked up the steps of it), more so as the days became shorter and the nights loomed closer.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find a toolbox placed at his feet the next day. A smug look on his younger brother’s face: think it’s time y’fix y’damn porch, brother. A clap on the back to cement it, a promise silently exchanged—that he could ask more of him when he was done.

And Tommy did, just not how he expected.

His breath mists the same as Tommy’s when he sighs, the weather biting as the two hovered on his newly repaired porch: got something else for you to do.

Maybe he should have said something when the silence filled the air when Joel suggested after. That he’d be good on patrol, that he could help in ways that weren’t repairing porches, front of shops and whatever else he brought to his door. If not for the fact he was grateful for the chance, for her—for the girl who is slowly making friends, who is beginning to smile—he may have done. The old Joel would have. He’d have pointed out that his skin isn’t stained with scarlet, that his hands are worn, but not smeared with the guts of those who’d crossed him. That he’d hung up as much of the former demons as he could.

He suspected, deep down, that Tommy could still see them haunting him. Knew that they kept him awake when the world went silent—that Joel didn’t sleep until the moon was at its highest, and woke with them jeering at him, perched on his shoulders, poking holes into his soul.

Joel also presumed that Tommy could see the way guilt had looped itself inside of him, strangling, making truthfulness harder to spill. Even if Tommy had no idea. Even if Joel hadn’t whispered to even the animals, never mind a person, what happened before he and Ellie had arrived.

So, he doesn’t argue, not as he’s handed another task, and another, then another. Days seep into weeks, weeks ticking into another month. Each time, his jaw grits, and his head nods, all well-versed, practised, as he picks up his toolbox and heads where he’s needed.

Except, today, when he’d finished up the fence that contained the sheep, a request came from someone else—a person he had spotted, but never spoken to. They were weary, guarded—approaching with caution as though bracing for him to snap, to become the callous individual they’ve likely heard through the whispers of gossiped stories.

In time, they approach, asking, burying their hands into their pockets as they do, before they continue with their reasoning for the request—one not for themself, but another person in Jackson.

A person Joel realised was his neighbour.

He’d been a good neighbour once, almost a lifetime ago.

Had hoped that it would come to him when Tommy had introduced him to you the following morning after he and Ellie returned. Your hand in his, smaller, but warm, a smile that was inviting, but slid over to Ellie upon Tommy’s introduction.

You usually rose early, that he had learnt when he’d begun to watch the sunrise before the leaves not just changed, but began to litter the floor in an array of shades. A pattern of habits he had picked up when he’d descended his own staircase, finding you already passing his home or your lights were on, already busy ticking off the hours of your day.

Today, he’d spotted (thankfully) the latter. His coat was thrown on, boots stepped into, toolbox in hand before he closed his door behind him and headed over. Your name on the tip of his tongue, all heavy, thick—an array of unsorted letters he’s hoping will shift into something as he climbs the steps to your front door. The syllables there, desperate to form, but in no order when his hand lifts to knock.

Air is what greets him, as the door rips open before his knuckles can even make contact.

Now, he’s standing in front of you—again. Your eyes land on him, brushing over in thick strokes of warmth, and all he can focus on is how you don’t step back in fright or stand a little taller. If anything, you don’t react, don’t move, as though it’s normal he’s there standing, talking to you.

“Oh, hi? It’s Joel, isn’t it?”

It’s kind, sweet, your tone. Eyes wide in a way that reminds him of a surprised, small animal—except, you’re grinning, not spooked. No sign of fear or question sketched across your features, or into the rest of your face, not as he stands, hovering.

It’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged.

And all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you. Something that has remained, that has weathered the storm of whatever it is, and however you came to be. Your smile rises, sliding into your cheeks, as his brain snaps a Polaroid of it and stores it somewhere less dusty in his mind.

“I just have to nip out, do you need something?”

Your hand sliding a jacket—one he’d just noticed in your hand—around your frame. It buries you, smothering, hiding yourself into it as you pull it around, watching, studying him as he does the same to you.

Shaking his head, he glances at your porch. “No, ma’am. Jus’ here to fix your porch.”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I make one comment and… anyway, I don’t want to trouble you. You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

Looking down, you stare around at the porch. Him waiting, watching. “Guess it’s lucky for you, I wasn’t planning on taking it with me.”

It tugs from him, not forcibly pulled, but rather rolling from his mouth willingly: a laugh. It’s gruff, covered in cobwebs and sheets. It’s different, laughing with an adult compared to a pun book in the hands of a child.

“Well, definitely makes my life a bit easier that you’re not.”

Smirking, you lick your lips—a thing he spots, and finds makes his cheeks burn. “Yeah, guessing that following me around the animal pen wouldn’t be your favourite thing… after the other day.”

His eyes narrow, attempting to follow—until it dawns. Until it slams into him.

“You saw.”

“I did. Roscoe is a very boisterous sheep, though. So, it’s more on him than you.”

Cursing under his breath, he dips his head. Trying to stifle the embarrassment, the one rising in him like a phoenix, swarming up.

“Anyway, do you need any tools…”

That’s when he notices how your voice dies, your smile fading. Your words all fall from existence as the warmth around the two of you suddenly chills, as though he’s been plunged into a snowstorm. Your eyes had dropped, landing on the box in his hand.

It’s long, too long.

Almost prolonged, the quietness shifting into awkwardness until you’re blinking, head lifting, chin rising, determined and full of insolence.

“I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

Nodding, he swallows. Ignoring, for your sake, that your voice cracks before you’re hurrying past him. Watching, and staring until you’re a blip, a little figure in the distance of the cold morning—unable to forget about it, the look, the one that unhooked something in him.

Because it made him question—made him want to ask.

His hand shifts around the handle of the toolbox, staring down at it—the one he suspects belongs to someone you knew, someone you were close to. One that is in the hands of someone you don’t know, someone you live next to, that you know nothing about.

Except stories.

And fuck, Joel knows the stories can’t be good.

Joel had maybe made an assumption that you’d never speak to him again.

Sarah’s voice, barely discernable, wafting around his mind, assumptions make an ass of you and me, dad. He blamed it on being bitter, tired—or grumpy, as Ellie liked to call him. The kind of qualities he’d rather be known for, than the ones he sees reflected in the eyes of the people living here, wondering the kind of man he was to go back out there and then return.

He’d made the assumption based on the way your eyes flicked to the toolbox when you’d eventually returned home—him halfway done, waving away your offer to help. You barely spoke, and skirted around him, only placing a glass of lemonade on the welcome mat as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

He drained the glass, and hated how good it tasted. Keeping in mind to leave the toolbox outside when he rapped his knuckles on your open door to bring the glass back in, inform you that he’s done. You call out to him, eventually coming into view—apron on, doused in flour, cheeks and smile smothered in it.

For a moment, he could almost forget an outbreak had even happened with the way you looked at him—the way you looked in general. Something out of one of those cooking shows that play at ridiculous hours of the night; a thing that’d had a street talking about with sweet you sounded.

“I bake—sometimes,” you announce, hands down your apron, leaving flour-finger strokes against the navy blue.

He could see that. Placing the glass on the side, thanking you—watching you glance around him, likely for that. He almost tells you, informs you it’s outside, left on your porch. But, he waves himself off as a beeping begins, that he’ll get out of your hair, because you’re busy—knowing deep down it’s the right thing to do.

That’s how he left it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His thoughts sliding to you when he saw you talking to others; his mind unable to rid himself of the way you’d looked at the box he’d been given to be a helping hand.

So, it surprised him when he watched you climb the steps of his porch from outside Tommy’s. Something in his chest narrowing—different from the way it does when he wakes up in the morning. Observing how you’re nervously shaking your free hand, moving from one foot to the other—a thin t-shirt covering your frame (no coat or jacket on your arms) as you try to stand still in the chill at his dark doorstep.

It’s only as he nears that he sees what your other hand is holding. A bottle, the contents from appearing amber in shade. The hesitancy woven into your figure is more prominent as he reaches his own boundary, unsure whether to clear his throat—and only doing so when you knock.

“Heard he’s out fixing more porches.”

Turning, he finds you smirking. Spinning around on your heels, slowly taking a step down—still above him—before your hand gestures for him to take the bottle. “A thank you.”

Thank you, he thinks, staring at it. His thumb catches your fingers as he tries to ignore the twist and knot of his stomach when he eyes the label. It used to help, for all the wrong reasons. It’s why he’d tried not to drink since arriving here, still able to remember how it used to scratch an itch, how it smothered over scabs—ones that never healed.

It unlocks that part of him that worries that they’ll become inflamed again. All raw, hot to the touch.

“Y’didnt need to.”

“Well, it was alcohol or baked goods—and you strike me as a drinker over shortbread.”

Snorting, he lifted his head, swallowing. “I do like shortbread.”

Your face lights up—shimmers—under the slowly setting sun. A part of him wishing you’d brought him a tin of those instead.

Because the main reason he hadn’t been to the Tipsy Bison is that he preferred the version of him that didn’t drink. The one from before all of this happened—the one with a clearer mind. One that isn’t trying to run but rather settle and live—the one that comes out when he tastes something akin to what he shared with Tess.

The bottle in his hand demands his attention—a note attached to it that reads the same as your words. Gratitude humming, rolling from you, all in plenty. The entry at being neighbours suddenly ajar, the door taken from the hinges so it can never be closed again.

“Next time, then?”

You say it purposeful, full of genuine nature. And, it makes him roll his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. Palm and fingers still clutching the bottle—unsure if he likes this. The neighbour thing—the pretty neighbour thing. Especially one who looks at him with a sweet smile and who makes lemonade just because.

“I should go, don’t want to interrupt your evening—”

“Well, the only thing you’re interrupting is whether or not I should open this now or wait.”

You stop moving at that, coming to a stop in front of him, smile broadening, almost turning into a smirk. “

Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs. “Got another job in the morning. Be a lot on my own.”

“What problems to have, ay?”

He snorts.

But then, he finds you nodding, licking your lips. “How about this, for the safety of the porches of Jackson, I’ll help you with your problem.”

“And what’s my problem?”

“You don’t wanna drink alone—likely worried about what it means if you do.”

You say it nonchalantly, as though seeing through him was a relatively easy task. Your body is still not moving; the cold either not bothering you, or you are faking it all so well.

“Alright.”

“Alright,” you say, slightly more chipper than him.

CHAPTER TWO ->

[sheydgarden]

goth Jewish apparel now live at Threadless! thank you to everyone who helped with my POD search - i chose this one based on a combination of quality, the company being long-established, pricing & profit margins for artists, & the ability to have a static shop with products available 24/7. nobody hits every single mark at 100% but i'm hoping to be pretty satisfied with this switch. reblogs greatly appreciated!

[ID: left - a grey t-shirt with the WE WILL OUTLIVE THEM anti-fascist Jewish monsters (featuring the Ziz and Leviathan tearing a swastika flag apart under Yiddish text) print in black ink. right - a black t-shirt with the DEATH HAMSA design (a clawed hamsa with a crying eye, thorns, and the Hebrew word for death)]

[f4ggydog]

Sub Doggy/werewolf nat.... Just throwing it out there... And maybe projecting a little -🐶🪓 (taking this if it isnt taken already)

nat’s tail wags instantly when he lays eyes on you. it’s incredibly pathetic, but you’re such a benign individual that you decide not to be cruel right now. just for now. maybe later, you’ll bully the shit out of him because he looks so cute when he’s getting picked on. but, you have to take care of your subs sometimes. don’t want too much of the degradation to get to their heads and discourage them, do you?

nat faces the other way when you sit next to him. nat knows for a fact that he blushes easily, since you’ve 100% pointed it out to him before. it gets him shy when you make those comments. and unfortunately, nat is still unnerved by the idea of removing his tough persona.

he can’t disguise himself for long, though. one poke at his side and he’s already giggling, lightly swatting your hands away and telling you to stop. his wolf teeth look even more adorable when he’s got a smile on his delightful face.

you squeeze both of his cheeks, wanting to completely strangle him with love. you could squeeze for eternity or until you cause him to explode. sometimes you wish you could see his little head pop when you hugged too hard.

“sweet boy,” you coo as nat crawls into your lap. “you smell so good. is that your pheromones or some cologne you bought for me?”

“you know i don’t really fuck with cologne,” nat mumbles, head resting on your legs. “are you saying i don’t smell good?”

“of course not.” you pat nat’s head and scratch behind his ears. he still remains pretty ticklish by that part of his body and he wiggles in response like a little worm.

“t-tickles,” nat whines, pawing at your chest. “baby….”

“are you getting all soft on me?” you speak in a tender voice. “being such a needy baby boy right now.”

you poke nat on the nose and he scrunches it.

“don’t give me that face. you know you would’ve bit me already if anybody else did this to you.”

oh, nat’s been caught red-handed. he’s got a soft spot for you. he feels less of the need to treat you with talons and claws and thorns when you stick by his side. nat’s not a morally corrupt person. he’s just selective with who he believes he can trust. but thankfully, you make it to the top of his list. and you surely take full of advantage of how quick that boy is to drop onto his knees for you.

you drop your hand into nat’s jeans, making him grind against your palm in an instant. your hand slithers around until you can push past his boxers and locate his tdick. and of course it’s already throbbing. what a little slut.

“baby,” nat whines, frowning. “w-what are you doing?”

“don’t worry about it. don’t you want me to take care of you?”

“but baby…”

“natty,” you say more sharply. “remind me again what happens to pups when they go into heat. what becomes my responsibility?”

“y-you can’t tell that im in heat though,” nat pouts, stuck in a massive stage of denial.

“who do you think you’re fooling?” you shake your head, fondling nat’s erect tdick. “you’re not a very good liar, baby boy. don’t play those games with me.”

“n-not trying to play games,” natty mewls. “just want you to take care of me. just need you to h-help me.”

“i knew you did,” you grin pridefully. “now, don’t act so bashful when i call you out. your little submissive nature is our little secret baby, right? unless you want the others at camp to know how it only takes one touch for you to melt into a giant puddle.”

[notbecauseofvictories]

The full list is quite long, so I didn't want to clutter up the last post with it---still, it is impressive to see them all laid out together. So without further ado!

THE 50 MOVIES AND 50ISH BOOKS I WATCHED/READ IN 2024

MOVIES

The Count of Monte Cristo (2024) Emilia Pérez (2024) Wicked (2024) American Psycho (2000) Heavy Trip (2018) La Planète sauvage / Fantastic Planet (1973) The Slipper and the Rose (1973) Bottoms (2023) I Saw the TV Glow (2024) *We’re All Going to the World’s Fair (2021) Oddity (2024) Maxxxine (2024) *The Substance (2024) *The Wicker Man (1973) Housebound (2014) Problemista (2023) Showing Up (2023) *Arsenic and Old Lace (1944) It Comes at Night (2017) The Boy and the Heron (2023) Abigail (2024) Seven Samurai (1954) The Iron Claw (2023) Talk to Me (2023) Bodies Bodies Bodies (2023) Rashomon (1950) *M (1931) Lord of Misrule (2023) The Tale of Princess Kaguya (2013) *Crimes of the Future (2022) Sanctuary (2022) After Yang (2022) **The Florida Project (2017) Pig (2021) The Favourite (2018) Poor Things (2023) Infinity Pool (2023) The Feast (2021) Office Space (1999) *Corsage (2022) Robots (2023) The Deer King (2021) Madame de… (1953) Orphée (1950) Master Gardener (2022) *Something in the Dirt (2022) Black Orpheus (1959) Priscilla (2023) How to Blow Up a Pipeline (2022) *The Lure (2015) To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995)

BOOKS

The Shambling Guide to New York City, Ghost Train to New Orleans, Mur Lafferty What Feasts At Night, T. Kingfisher *Bad Girls, Camila Sosa Villada Don't Fear the Reaper, Stephen Graham Jones *Vintner's Luck, Elizabeth Knox The Barrow Will Send What it May, Margaret Killjoy You Know How the Story Goes, Thomas Olde Heuvelt Bloodchild, Wild Seed, Octavia E. Butler The Angel of Indian Lake, Stephen Graham Jones The Default World, Naomi Kanakia Fantasyland, Mike Bockoven Something is Killing the Children, issues 1-15 The Night Eaters Book 1, Book 2, Marjorie Liu This Wretched Valley, Jenny Kiefer These Deathless Bones, Cassandra Khaw *Dead Inside, Chandler Morrison Mental Diplopia, Julianna Baggott A Human Stain, Kelly Robson The Shape of My Name, Nino Cipri Daughter of Necessity, Marie Brennan The Mist, Stephen King A Skinful of Shadows, Frances Hardinge The Chalk Man, C. J. Tudor *The Rehearsal, Eleanor Catton Come Closer, Sara Gran The Underwater Welder, Jeff Lemire Blink, Christopher Sebela Pulling the Wings Off Angels, KJ Parker Thirteen Ways to Kill Lulabelle Rock, Maud Woolf An Elderly Lady Is Up to No Good, Helene Tursten Thornhedge, T. Kingfisher HEX, Thomas Olde Heuvelt Midnight Rooms, Donyae Coles Aglaeca, Mohnfisch Dr. Limos Plays God, Stevie Barot Home by the Rotting Sea, Otava Heikkila Last Crane, Narsid Sacred Bodies, Ver No Trouble at All, Various Authors (short story collection) *Wylding Hall, Elizabeth Hand Glass House, Paul Jessup Agony's Lodestone, Laura Keating * Big Swiss, Jen Beagin House of Rot, Danger Slater Dreadful, Rebecca Rozakis *Diavola, Jennifer Thorne Lute, Jennifer Thorne Regrettably, I Am About To Cause Trouble, Amie McNee The Rules Upheld by No One, Amie McNee The Sacrifice, Rin Chupeco The Bog Wife, Kay Chronister The Unmothers, Leslie J. Anderson *The Eyes Are the Best Part, Monika Kim Paying for It, Chester Brown Snow, Ronald Malfi Midnight on Beacon Street, Emily Ruth Verona Haunt Sweet Home, Sarah Pinsker The Doll-Master, Joyce Carol Oates The Third Person, Emma Grove The Werewolf at Dusk, David Small It's Lonely At The Centre Of The Earth, Zoe Thorogood Mom's Cancer, Brian Fies Mary Astor's Purple Diary, Edward Sorel Impossible People, Julia Wertz Roaming, Jillian Tamaki

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

Bryaxis asks for a much different boon in its bargain with Feyre. 

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Bryaxis

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Monsterfucking

Chapters: One-shot

[Just so we're clear, I wrote and posted this a while ago. I'm just now getting it posted up here. I am still on hiatus though.]

AO3 Link

•••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••

Wicked Games

What shall you give me?

“What do you want?” Feyre had asked. 

Rhys had gone deathly quiet when she told him later of the bargain she had made. 

I want you to play with me, it had declared. Whenever I ask.

And what else could she have done but agree?

What shall you give me?

“What do you want?” Feyre had asked. 

Rhys had gone deathly quiet when she told him later of the bargain she had made. 

I want you to play with me, it had declared. Whenever I ask.

And what else could she have done but agree?

•••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••••☽☽✶☾☾•••

It called in the bargain only two days later. 

Initially, Rhys had tried reasoning with the creature. She wasn’t entirely sure what he had said to it, but she knew its answer when he had slunk back into the townhouse looking utterly desperate and defeated. 

And now here she was, torch in hand, descending back down into the inky blackness at the bottom of the library. 

Alone. 

Even with her fae eyesight, she couldn’t see anything in the gloom, but she could feel its presence regardless. It was here. 

Waiting. 

“Okay,” she called out. “I’m here.”

You’ve come, that now familiar voice whispered in her ear. 

“Of course,” Feyre said. She would have been offended if she weren’t so scared. She always kept her promises. Even if they were ones made out of desperation. 

I’m so glad. 

She swallowed. 

“You said you wanted to play,” she continued nervously. “What does that entail exactly?”

What did literal nightmare creatures even do for fun? 

Please don’t be torture. 

Who was she kidding? It was probably torture. 

I want to play with you the way the High Lord does. 

The reply was so beyond what Feyre was expecting that she felt her brain go blank. 

“…What?”

I saw you two playing together before. Here in the library. It said, almost eagerly. I want to do that. 

It took a moment for her to catch onto what it meant but the moment she did she felt her face heat. 

“Oh…oh!”

It had seen her fooling around with Rhys on the upper levels. 

“Oh,” she said again, for lack of anything better to say. “Ummm…”

Not knowing what else to do, she reached her mind out to her mate’s and tapped against his impenetrable shields. He let her in almost immediately. 

Are you alright? There was a note of panic and anxiety in his thoughts. Is it hurting you?

No, no, she answered quickly. I’m fine, but…well…

Yes?

She showed him her memory of the last few minutes. Afterwards she felt a flurry of emotions flood across the bond. Horror. Relief. Possessiveness. Jealousy. And then, finally, acceptance. 

Do whatever you have to do. I trust you. 

I love you, she told him. 

And I love you. 

“So…” Feyre said to the darkness after Rhys had gently pushed her out of his mind and back into her own. “You want to…play.”

Oh yes. It said giddily, like a child eager for sweets. 

She took a deep breath. 

“Okay.”

It was like it had been waiting for her acquiescence because suddenly she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as the creature, whatever it was, loomed closer. 

“Do…uh…you have a name?” She asked nervously. If she was going to fuck this thing she couldn’t very well keep calling it ‘that creepy thing at the bottom of the library’. 

I was called Bryaxis for a time. You may use that if you like. 

“Okay…Bryaxis. Do you know what this involves?” 

What a question. Was she seriously going to have sex with this thing? Did it even understand what sex was? Did it even have the necessary body parts to do so in the first place?

Touching. She felt its cool breath on the back of her neck. Something like a claw scraped gently along her arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. 

“Touching is good,” Feyre gulped. The torch in her hand quivered. 

What else? It asked. What else do you do with the High Lord?

For a brief moment, Feyre considered lying. Bryaxis seemed almost like a child to her, sheltered from the world and people in general. A very terrifying child, she amended, thinking of the screams of those two fae it had saved her from. Still, it felt wrong to lie to it. How long had it been cloistered away in the depths of this library? Centuries? Millennia? How many people had it ever had the chance to actually speak to? To touch? Maybe the real reason she was down here with it was because it was just…curious…and lonely. 

She could work with curious and lonely. 

“We kiss,” she told Bryaxis quietly. 

Kiss? That claw stopped its exploration of her arm, as if in confusion. 

“Yes, when two people um…touch their lips together,” Feyre said awkwardly. 

And you like this…kiss?

“Yes,” she said and then, mustering up her courage, added, “Do you…do you want a kiss?”

The silence seemed to stretch on forever as she waited for its reply. She knew it was still there, its breath still ghosting across the back of her neck as its claw continued its slow caress down to her clenched fist. 

Yes. But first…

She felt a rush of air behind her and then her torch guttered and died, plunging them into darkness. Feyre tried not to panic but failed miserably. 

“But I need that to see my way back!” She said, a little desperately. 

I will bring you to the upper levels when we are done. 

A thought suddenly occurred to her through the panic. 

It didn’t want to be seen. Just like before, when it had told her to close her eyes before it had unleashed itself on those intruders. It it’s own strange way, it was protecting her. 

“Ok,” she conceded. 

She felt its claw leave her skin and heard the sound of something large and heavy shuffle around her…until she felt its breath on her face, so close she could taste it. Feyre tried very hard not to immediately tense up. 

She had only enough time to hear it say, I will kiss you now, before she felt the sudden press of something warm (and…scaly?) against her lips. 

Like that? Bryaxis asked, pulling away. The High Lord seemed to do it differently…

Feyre couldn’t help it, she laughed. 

“Rhys is in a league of his own…don’t tell him I said that though. He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

How is the High Lord different?

“He’s…more playful I suppose.”

Playful? Bryaxis seemed most intrigued by that answer. 

“He…” she tried to gather her thoughts, unsure of how to properly describe the way her mate both charmed and infuriated her in equal measure. “He’s a tease. He delights in exasperating me.” She knew this didn’t exactly answer its question though so she went on. “He likes to whisper all the things he wants to do to me when I can’t do anything about it.”

And you like this?

“Oh yes,” Feyre agreed. 

Bryaxis went silent then, as if ruminating over this particular detail. 

Feyre took that moment to screw up her courage again. 

“Can I…touch you too?”

Another pause. Then…

Yes. 

She reached out carefully, fingers bumping against warm flesh and wiry fur, hard scales and something smooth and textured like the carapace of a beetle. Bryaxis felt, for all intents and purposes, like a creature cobbled together according to the whims of some mad, chaotic god. Even its shape was hard to define, with none of the familiar dips and curves of a human or fae body. Limbs seemed to jut out of the oddest places with no sort of symmetry to be found. Feyre could feel something like feathers over its shoulders but no wings. 

She had trouble wrapping her brain around it.

“Do…do you like this?” She swallowed as she smoothed her hand along something especially soft and silky, like kitten fur. 

Yes it seemed to hiss and then suddenly she felt as if she were being wrapped in the coils of a very large snake (or a very large tail?). 

What else? It asked eagerly. What else does the High Lord do?

Whelp. They were bound to get to this point eventually. But say what you would about Feyre, she wasn’t a coward. 

She decided to just skip straight to the finale. 

“Between my legs. He touches me between my legs.”

Bryaxis didn’t even hesitate. 

She felt the slip slide of an unnatural number of fingers delve between her legs and explore curiously and Feyre suddenly found herself very conscious of the fact that she had not put on any underthings before coming here. 

Like this? It said. 

She sucked in hard through her nose, her skin breaking out in gooseflesh as she felt those strange appendages discover the soft flesh of her cunt…and just how wet and slippery it had become in the last few minutes. 

Was there something wrong with her that she was…enjoying this?

“Yes.” Feyre shivered, lust and, yes, a little bit of fear, scrambling her nerves. 

Something soft brushed gently, searchingly, up against her clitoris and Feyre couldn’t help the shocked gasp that escaped her throat. Pleasure dripped like honey down her spine and pooled in her stomach, hot and sweet and demanding. 

Yes, Bryaxis said softly, sweetly, like the darkness itself. You made those same sounds with the High Lord. It was pleased. Very pleased. She could hear the eager curiosity in its voice. The satisfaction of having gotten something right. 

The coils tightened, pressing her closer and enveloping Feyre in a warm, confusing cocoon of scales and feathers and fur. And all the while, those fingers kept brushing along her cunt, zeroing in on her clitoris with a kind of single-minded focus that felt designed to turn her into a babbling mess. 

She groaned. 

Perhaps Rhysand and Bryaxis were more alike than either could’ve ever imagined. 

It didn’t take long to bring her to her peak. 

(Honestly, it was a little embarrassing how quickly it had accomplished the feat.)

Feyre shook and shivered through the pleasure, limbs held fast by those rippling, strange coils. She felt a bit like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck, utterly immobile and at the mercy of its handler as she eventually sagged forward into the soft, queer embrace of this strange, gentle creature. 

Her skin buzzed pleasantly as she tried to gather her thoughts back into some semblance of order. 

He put himself inside you, Bryaxis said suddenly, cutting through her high. The High Lord. 

“Yes,” Feyre felt like her brain was far too scrambled to be answering this question with any sort of seriousness. “That’s…sex.”

Is that something else you enjoy?

She didn’t even try to lie, even knowing exactly where this conversation was leading. 

“Oh yes.”

Where? It asked as she suddenly felt something much larger pressed against the mouth of her cunt. Here?

“Yes,” she sighed, already shivering again. 

And that was all the confirmation it needed before she felt that blunt, strange new appendage press forward and slide home into her body. 

Gods, she thought. 

She felt delirious. With pleasure. With shock. With the sheer overwhelming size of it. Feyre didn’t think she had ever felt so full. 

Something slithered under her dress and along her torso. No, scratch that, several somethings. She felt them ripple along her skin in a peculiar undulating way before circling her breasts and latching onto her nipples. 

Her cunt clenched down. Hard. 

Bryaxis made an animal sound. An eerie grunting groan that was unlike anything she had ever heard before. She felt its cock (because it just had to be a cock) swell and grind hard into that soft, secret part of her that only Rhys had ever managed to find and felt her eyes cross. 

Oh gods, she thought. Oh please. 

As if it could hear her thoughts, another of those sneaky little appendages slipped down to circle and slither over her aching clitoris and suddenly it was Feyre who was moaning like an animal. 

It was too much. 

Too much!

Too much— 

She didn’t even have time to realize what was coming before her climax hit her like battering ram, curling her spine and punching the air from her lungs. 

Feyre felt thoroughly used. Worn out in a way that she wasn’t sure she had ever been before. Distantly, she felt Bryaxis slide out of her body and then settle her against its soft, furry underbelly in an odd sort of embrace. It fussed over her in a way that felt oddly reminiscent of both a parent and a loyal hound. Caring and desperately eager for affirmation in equal measure. 

You liked that? It was clearly a question and yet it didn’t sound like one at all. 

Feyre just nodded, still addled and overwhelmed. 

Its second question was far more hesitant. Did you…have fun? 

She paused. 

Had she had fun?

She didn’t exactly have anything to compare it to. This experience was quite unlike anything else she had ever done. She thought perhaps it was even outside anything anyone in the Inner Circle had done either. Certainly if Cassian had ever fucked a monster she was willing to bet he would’ve been crowing it from the rooftops for the last few centuries. 

Or perhaps not. 

Maybe that was just her. 

Huh…maybe there really was something wrong with her. 

“Yes,” Feyre said finally. “It was…fun.”

I am glad. It sounded…relieved. 

She cleared her throat awkwardly. 

“Was…there anything you wanted to do?”

No, it said. But perhaps…we might play again?

Quite against her will, Feyre smiled. 

“Okay.”

Bryaxis was true to its word then. It guided her through the gloom and back up the staircase towards the light, almost gentlemanly in its courtesy. 

Until next time, High Lady. 

She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps her curiosity had finally gotten the better of her. Or maybe she just wanted to leave her strange companion with a final farewell. Whatever the reason, Feyre found herself looking back as Bryaxis  melted back into the darkness…but not before catching a glimpse of its true form. 

It truly was a nightmare made flesh, with too many eyes and limbs and no rhyme or reason to its construction. 

And yet…for the first time that night she felt no fear. Only a strange sense of affinity with it. 

“Good night Bryaxis. Until next time.”

And then she climbed upstairs and into the light once more. 

[dinums]

Secrets and Broken Hearts

-----------------------------

Chapter 3

Thomas Shelby x (Writer) Reader

Ms. Bennett is a peculiar woman whose motives are always unclear, though, of course, she alone has grace this knowledge upon herself and none of anyone she knows. What happens when an inspector and his spy come to town? Shall she make due and quench her curiosity or finally learn to back down? Who knows, maybe at the end, she'll compromise. A conflicted woman will always be a surprise. You can trust that. It's Ms. Bennett afterall

Ms. Bennet's P.O.V.

...

"This is pointless as it is stupid." I mumbled to myself. Tossing and turning on my shared bed with William. If a national treasure really did get stolen, what treasure would it be?

Minerals? Gold? Jewellery? Some ornaments from the royal family? Placing my arm to cover my face, I groaned in frustration. Surely, these factors I laid out won't be considered. After all, all these can easily be replaced or would have no effect to be a threat to this very constitution. Treasure.

"What's a treasure besides Gold that once in the hands of others you would crumble..." I thought deeply, a world run by men surely limited me to a few other factors.

"My guess is, it's either illegal documents, ledger, guns, some proof blackmailing Churchill himself." Talking to myself aloud, I rolled on my stomach. My face buried in the pillows as I screamed internally.

"Thomas Shelby and Freddie Thorne, one of them might know a thing or two." As if hit with adrenaline, something clicked in my brain, I sat up and thought more clearly.

"Freddie either did or did not know what the national treasure is, nor who stole it. If he knew, he wouldn't have said those words to Thomas... but if he did, was it to catch Thomas with a bluff? What does bluffing get him? Anyway, he knew even if Thomas knew something, he wouldn't tell Freddie... meaning that rules out the second probability"

My thoughts turned to Thomas earlier, I decided that he would be the one I would use as lead.

"How in the world am I to get close to a mobster?" Without realising it, I started to bite my lip while my nails made their way to claw on my thigh. Once I tasted blood, I stopped and lied back down.

The Shelby's were people I was acquainted with, much like half the people in Small Heath. Jon Shelby and I were classmates. He and his brothers would cause mischief here and there before. I then remembered the time they would encourage cigarettes and alcohol to the students in school. That made me laugh, I remember Jon giving me a handful, which caused Arthur to smack him in the head, saying , "Oi! Yer only supposed to give em one of each! Then, after the second time, you rip their money off! It's what Tommy said!" Turns out it was a money laundering little scheme which got me a bit close to the two Shelby brothers. After that, they treated me nicely, Thomas, on the other hand... well, he was just there. Nothing more, nothing less. At least I can speak a bit freely than others would.

"Maybe I can use this closeness with Jon and Arthur to get close to Thomas..."

Looking up at the ceiling, I blinked a few times. If only I knew no bounds, then maybe, maybe I wouldn't want to stick my nose up in other peoples business.

"Morris Dawn"

My penname, a reminder of my other life. I had to write about something soon. If I were to investigate and yet not publish this, what good does it make? I'm risking my life and earning nothing. Must I be damned to be a curious writer by heart? I cursed myself under my breath.

Looking over my side, I see that night has already come. William isn't home yet.

"Make up your mind. You're wasting time." I groaned, talking to myself once more. Standing up, I walked towards the vanity, formulating every plan for every possible outcome already.

By the time William came home, I lay in bed, asleep. Brain fried. Odds and probabilities everywhere.

"Oh, love..." William chuckled, undressing himself down to only his trousers before making his way to bed and underneath the covers.

When I woke up, I was alone in bed. A note to my right that read:

"I had to go to the shop early today, made breakfast for you. Just the way you like it"

-William

I smiled at the note before making my way to freshen up and get ready for the day. Later that morning, I went and ran errands. Going to my usual go-to bakery, i smiled at the familiar woman handling the register.

"Oh, Ms. Bennett! What a lovely surprise"

"Hello, Mrs. Fer. How are you?"

I asked, as then she answered me. We go about our conversation as I picked out some bread and pastries from the older woman.

"Oh? By the way, Ms. Bennett"

"Mhm? What is it? Anything wrong? Maybe I can help, " I said kindly, the bag of food around my arm.

"I heard there's an inspector in town. He came last night... Best be careful, Ms. Bennett. My husband told me to stay quiet about this, but I just worry for you. Thought I ought to let you know that you're like the daughter we never had after all..."

My heart swelled with love for the older woman, reaching out to squeeze her hand to comfort her, I decided to ask more for purposes, of course.

"But Mrs. Fer, what about the inspector? Surely he wouldn't harm innocent people here, right?" The older woman only shook her head and sighed.

"My dear, you're far too nice for this town. Why not move away to somewhere safer with your lover? Get married, have a peaceful life -"

"And leave you behind? I'd rather not Mrs. Fer, I've come to love the people in this town enough to stay." I interrupted her, which made her frown deepen. I only shook my head and gave a soft smile. It was the truth, after all.

"The inspector called for a meeting, all the policemen and some new lackeys. Told my husband and the others that he would be cleaning this town up. Dear, a man like that -" She stopped herself and cupped both of my cheeks before continuing, "a man like that will stop at nothing, so it's best to keep safe, aye?"

I nodded as she released her hands from my face. Bidding goodbye, I walked out of the bakery with my freshly baked goods and onto my next errand. Mrs. Fer, an old lady married to a policeman sure does have its perks, added points that she's quite fond of me as I with her.

Though I did feel guilty using these people, masking and hiding beyond a facade of a sweet young lady. I stopped in my tracks before shaking my head, trying to get physically rid of these thoughts.

"Remember, if what you're doing is for their good... a little harm here and there wouldn't hurt, besides... it isn't like they know any of it"

The day went by smoothly, and I finally had something to work with. From the bakery I found out of the inspector, from the butcher I heard some men talking about what they knew of the said inspector whilst the women talked about someone trying to find the identity of the mysterious Author, Morris Dawn which in turn made me gulped, I had to be careful. lastly, from William's shop, I found out how there had been people, mostly wives gone missing. Feeling lucky, I put the things I bought inside the flat, there had been new things to investigate, so many things to know, getting a few breads I bought before putting them inside a basket. I decided to go to the Garisson, to at least visit Harry, I forgot that I hadn't had the chance to pay for my drink last time, hence the bread.

Walking down the familiar path down Watery Lane, I think of the words to say when suddenly, someone harshly bumped into me. My focus on the bread as I tried to save them, but alas, only one was left safe.

"There goes my luck then... shouldn't have spoken too soon..."

"You're luck, eh?" A familiar gruff voice said, whipping my head from the bread on the ground towards the person. My eyes locked into those blue crystallike eyes of him.

"Yes, my luck. Mr. Shelby. This was for Harry, I ought to give him an apology for not being able to pay for my drink-" realising I was giving out too much of my thoughts to a man who wo t even care, I shut my mouth, blinking a few times, what am I doing.

After an awkward silence, I stepped out of his way, noticing the alchohol bottle he was holding, knowing better than to ask him to pay for the soiled bread. Going inside the pub without another word, I walked to the bar. To my surprise, a young, beautiful, blonde woman came into view, working at the bar, pouring drinks instead of Harry.

"Oh- hello, you are -?" I asked kindly, though it was overshadowed by my surprise and confusion.

"Grace, Grace Burgees. I'm the new Barmaid," She explained, an Irish accent to her. I nodded and smiled.

"Do you know where Harry is? I ought to give him some bread..."

Just in time, Harry came I to view, to my relief. I explained to him why i only had one loaf of bread rather than more. Nonetheless, he accepted it with gratitude. When I gave him money for the drink, though, that was the time he refused. I shook my head and accepted defeat, still talking to Harry as Grace was on the side.

"I'm really sorry to give you a half-hearted apology, Harry. If only I'd look in the way Mr. Shelby -" I was cut off by Harry reassuring me once more that it was fine. After a bit, Grace looked at me, I gave her my name, which she responded with a smile. We talked for a bit, she told me which town she lived in back in Ireland, how life was like there while I told her how I lived my life here in Birmingham, saying words enough to satisfy her curiosity but not enough to give anything away.

"I better get going then. Next time I visit, I'll bring you some bread too!" I said, smiling at her before leaving the bar. She smiled and waved me goodbye.

A woman from the same town as the inspector, someone who came to Small Heath the same time the inspector did. It didn't take much to put two and two together, though that just means they'd do the job for me, correct?

"Maybe I don't have to investigate anything after all..."

Putting this 'treasure' to the side, I went to go look for any leads, common things between these missing wives. If I moved too slowly, either this incompetent policemen would forget about this or have more people killed than needed.

Putting myself with the burden of such heroic secrecy, I walked down Watery Lane. Knocking on the door of one of the husbands of a missing wife.

"Ms. Bennett?" The man asked, surprise he knew who I was.

"Oh- you know who I am?" The man only gave what little smile he could before explaining himself.

"There aren't many people helping around for the good besides that, Pastor." He said, shaking his head.

After a bit of small talk he led me inside, I told him that I wanted to help babysit for their son whilst the coppers try and find his wife since it was well known how he wasn't doing well takinh care of the little critter, that was a mere alibi of course. Though it felt nice to help, my motives were clear to me as the night sky. I am no saint, a mere sham. A lie and a lie I will always become. If a false Saint will be able to keep everyone I could help safe, I'd gladly be one.

[warrior-names]

Edgy Warrior Prefixes & Suffixes

Return to your roots. Make cringe emo cats. etc.

50+ prefixes and 30+ suffixes under the cut!

Prefixes

A

Adder-

B

Bat-

Belladonna-

Black-

Bleeding-

Bone-

Broken-

C

Cold-

Crow-

D

Dark-

Dead-

Dusk-

E

Ebony-

Echo-

Eclipse-

Ember-

F

Fallen-

Fang-

Flea-

Foxglove-

Frozen-

H

Hemlock-

Holly-

Hornet-

I

Ice-

J

Jagged-

L

Lost-

M

Maggot-

Mandrake-

Moon-

N

Nettle-

Night-

Nightshade-

O

Oleander-

P

Poison-

Q

Quiet-

R

Rat-

Raven-

Red-

Rot-

Rotting-

S

Scarlet-

Scorpion-

Shade-

Sharp-

Shattered-

Silent-

Skull-

Snake-

Spider-

T

Tattered-

Thorn-

Torn-

V

Venom-

Viper-

W

Wasp-

Withered-

Y

Yew-

Suffixes

B

bite

bone

burn

C

claw

crush

cry

E

echo

F

fall

fang

frost

G

glare

H

heart

hiss

hope

howl

M

moon

S

scar

scratch

shade

slash

smoke

snap

snarl

spirit

sting

strike

T

tear

thorn

tooth

W

wail

whisper

[busy-bee23]

The demons of Saint Cathedral

You wake up to feeling a cold, wet sucking feeling on your toes. You gasp quietly, pulling back your foot and looking to see who the culprit is. “Frollo!” You gasp, seeing your beloved husband gently suckling on your toes. “Toes are not for sucking on!” You scold him.

Frollo’s face crumples. “But I want the BIDDY!” He shrieks.

You look at him sternly. Where are his manners?! “You want the biddy what?” You coax.

“Want biddy please.” Frollo says, pouting innocently.

“Okay. You can have biddy.” You say, taking off your shirt exposing your pillowy breasts. He stares at your nipples with wide eyes and suddenly howls in excitement.

“AWooooooO!OOOO” He howls, leaping forwards and greedily beginning to suckle on your teat like he has been starved for years. You gasp as his teeth dig in, he can’t get enough of the biddy! “MORE MOMMY, MORE.” He growls, ferociously draining your breast of its sweet nectar. Before switching sides he throws his head back and howls again. “AWOOOOoowoooooOOWWO!!!” And then he sucks your other boob dry.

When he realises he has drank all of the delicious substance his eyes darken. “Me want more biddy.” “T-There’s no more Frollo.” You say fearfully as he starts to convulse and foam at the mouth.

“BIDDY.” “No there’s no-” Before you can finish your sentence Frollo pounces, biting down hard on your nipple. Then… he bites your nipple OFF!! You scream in fear and shove him off the bed, your nipple spurting blood everywhere. Frollo chews on it violently like a piece of pepperoni. “That is very naughty Frollo! GO IN TIME OUT!!!” You yell at him. 

He starts whimpering, knowing he has been a bad Frollo. He starts to go into timeout when you get an idea…

“Actually, I have a better punishment in mind…” You smirk deviously, pulling a box out from behind you. Frollo starts cowering and whimpering like a puppy who has been caught pissing on the floor. (Which he has done before.) You open the box… There’s…. A HOLE…. You then command and shout and scream and yell and whip “Get your dick in that hole NOW!”

You then spank his soft and supple asscheeks, staining them red. Frollo obediently puts his dick inside the box, feeling excruciating pain. “WHAT IS IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN BOX?” He asks.

A dark cloud forms over your face…. “Thorns and crabs…”

“You wouldn’t..” Frollo says. You open the box revealing….

The crabs nibbling at his dick, which is red and bleeding, looking like a pepperami from how much flesh the crabs have consumed. They are performing a blood ritual with his penis blood and the thorns, and they are chanting the lyrics to “Butter” by BTS. Then Frollo realises they are calling to Cthulu….

And then Frollo starts panicking and breathing heavily. “What have you done to me? I thought you loved me?!” He cries.

You then shed your skinsuit and reveal your true form…

Satan.

You attach a collar to his neck and his feet. “You’re my crab now…”

“NOOOO WHY!!!” Frollo screams, but his screams get cut off as he begins to transform into a crab. He then scuttles away into the box. “You were always my favourite, dear Frollo,” You say, and then you look down at your bloodied nipple hole. “But that nipple was my most favourite.” You take a dump into the box and shove it away.

But then Frollo grabs the poo with his claw, beginning to write ‘i love you’ with the rancid turd. You notice and start to cry and cut yourself. You squeeze the blood onto the crabs which transforms Frollo into a human again.. But he is a half crab mutation. He still has his claws.

“I have an idea of where you can put those claws..” You say seductively, spreading your legs.

Frollo winks and polishes his claw with his nearby cumsock. He salivates on it to make sure it is nice and wet, then he shoves it up your pussyhole. He opens and closes his massive girthy claw.

“Pwahhhh, FISHY!” You say through a moan.

“Yum yum yum in my tum!” Frollo says as he takes out his claw and sucks off all your liquids. Then.. Frollo grimaces at a sudden irony taste. “Babe.. I think you are on your period.. You look down and see that he is RIGHT. “Oh dear.” You say. “I have no pads left Frollo, you will have to keep me clean throughout my week of bleeding.”

“This will be the week of your life..” Frollo says, before swirling his tongue in your hole to get ALL of the blood and juicy yummy clots.

[w-a-r-r-i-o-r-s]

The New Prophecy Quest Game & Consult StarClan Prefix/Suffix List

First letter of first name:

A = Hawk

B = Tangle

C = Wild

D = Swift

E = Rain

F = Thorn

G = Fuzzy

H = Mud

I = Loud

J = Bramble

K = Moss

L = Leopard

M = Stealth/Scar*

N = Bright

O = Running

P = Sand

Q = Dawn

R = Ice

S = Spotted

T = Rock

U = Red

V = Mouse

W = Tiger

X = Flower

Y = Claw

Z = Blue

First letter of hometown:

A = fire

B = claw

C = talon

D = eyes

E = fur

F = tail

G = mask

H = face

I = storm

J = foot

K = ears

L = pelt

M = nose

N = heart

O = belly

P = shadow

Q = flower

R = breath

S = path

T = legs

U = sky

V = pool

W = head

X = wish

Y = stalker

Z = sayer

*Stealth- in New Prophecy Quest Game, Scar- in Consult StarClan

[ser3nityst4r]

Ninth Head

The wind blew fiercely as Riddle, the stoic Housewarden of Heartslabyul, stood triumphant, his eyes gleaming with a chilling victory. Ace and Deuce, their faces flushed with defeat, hung their heads, their initial bravado shattered. Yuu, their friend and confidante, watched in disbelief, a fire of righteous anger simmering within.

'Hmph. You didn't even last five seconds. That was all you had, and still you thought to challenge me?' Riddle sneered, his voice laced with disdain. 'You must be utterly humiliated. I guess my mother was right. A man who cannot follow rules is a man who cannot achieve anything.'

Deuce, his anger simmering, retorted, 'Tch... We agree that rules should be followed. But forcing others to follow nonsensical rules like the ones you've enacted is tyranny!'

Yuu, her voice shaking with indignation, chimed in, 'You can't just abuse your rights as a Housewarden to do whatever you please.'

Riddle scoffed, his arrogance unwavering, 'I am the one who decides what is wrong and right! What sort of pitiful education have you received, that you cannot follow such simple rules? Clearly, you were born to parents with no great magical capability. And as a result… You lack even the basic education necessary to attend a school such as this. It's quite sad.” He feigned pity, attempting to provoke the trio.

Deuce, his jaw clenched, his anger reaching its peak at the mention of his parents, snapped, “You little…” 

Before anyone could react, Ace, with lightning-fast reflexes, delivered a sharp jab to Riddle's face, silencing his mocking words. 'Eugh! T-That hurt!' Riddle sputtered, his composure shattered.

Ace, his voice steady and fierce, countered, 'Kids aren't trophies for their parents to flaunt. And the accomplishments of a child aren't determined by the worth of their parents. It's not your parents' fault you became a tyrant - or anyone else's. You've been here a year and haven't even made a friend who will tell you you're outta line. And that's on you. Maybe you had some rigid upbringing from a relentless helicopter-mom. Is that all you are? An extension of her? Can't you think for yourself? You call yourself the 'red sovereign'? You're just a baby who's good at magic.'

Riddle, his face now crimson with fury, screamed, 'Shut up, Shut up! You know nothing about me! My mother is right and that means I'm also right!' Grim snarled “What kinda logic is that?!” Ears flaring with blue flames as his claws came out at the aggravation of the situation.

Crowley, the Headmaster, appeared at the scene, his voice echoing with authority, 'The challenger has been disqualified due to physical violence. If you do not cease your conflict now, I'll have you written up for breaking school rules!'

But Riddle, lost in his own self-righteous fury, ignored Crowley's warning. And then, out of the blue, an egg sailed through the air, striking Riddle squarely on the head. 

'Huh? An egg?' Riddle mumbled, bewildered, until he saw the bright yellow yolk dripping down his face. 'Heh heh... Ah ha ha ha! You say YOU'RE fed up?! I'M the one who's fed up with all of YOU! No matter how strict I am, no matter how many heads I remove, you keep breaking the rules! All any of you care about is doing what YOU want to do! If the guilty party won't come forward, then I'll pass judgment on all of you! Clearly, none of you value your heads!'

Cater and Trey, sensing the escalating danger, rushed to intervene. “Cease this improper behavior now, Mr. Rosehearts,” Crowley commanded. “I expect better from you.” But his words fell on deaf ears.

With a malevolent grin, Riddle unleashed his power, his dark emotions surging through him. Rose bushes erupted from the ground, their thorns twisting and growing, reaching for Yuu, Ace, and Deuce. 'Mighty roses, tear this brute to pieces!' he roared, his voice infused with venomous rage.

The air crackled with wicked magic, engulfing the courtyard in a dark and dangerous aura. The crimson roses, fueled by Riddle’s anger, began to slither and dance, their thorns glowing with an ominous red light. The courtyard was plunged into darkness, and the chilling cries of the roses filled the air, carrying with them a promise of impending doom.