notes: i like that southern gothic juice. let me drink it up & pour me another. i thrive. a toast, y'all.
notes2: this is an anthology in time for halloween, i guess.
disclaimer: don't.
i.
my spirit, bondaged by the body, longs—
…
The Trees speak Latin.
And Celtic, and Olde English, and Bastard. Especially Bastard.
In fact, the Trees never fucking shut up.
They take unexplainable joy in his misery and misfortune, and they never let him alone. One day, he'll burn this whole damn forest to the ground. He rolls the devilish idea around on his tongue. The taste of arson and petty revenge is delicious. It is perfectly suited for someone of his hellish and insatiable palette.
Idly, he leans against the doorframe of the forgotten and ages cottage and wonders what obscure plant she has ground up and sprinkled in her threshold to keep him out. He catches the scent of something warm and sweet wafting through the open doorway, and it makes his mouth water. She always tempts him like this: door left wide open for just about any-fucking-one except him, renowned baked goods just out of the oven, and cozy cottage inviting.
The joke is on him, though, because any human rarely visits her here. And he can't get into the cottage to take a bite of her pies or her. It's cruel, and she knows it. This is why the Trees make him a laughing stock. Because his hunger is insatiable. Because what he wants the most is what he cannot have or touch.
"The Trees are making fun of you, again."
There she is, he grins. It's a feral, hungry thing. He's been waiting for this moment. Something inside him heaves at the sight of her, in all her unabashed glory.
Her eyes are the brightest shade of green he's ever seen in this forest, in this life. Her dark hair is shorter than it had been the last time he had laid eyes on her. Now it barely dusts her exposed shoulders. She is holding a freshly baked peach pie.
"Goddamn," he murmurs, annunciates.
The black cat in the windowsill narrows its eyes at him and hisses.
"I could rip your heart out of your chest," he sighs dreamily.
Buttercup gently sets the pie on the table next to a chaotic mess of indistinguishable herbs, plants, and roots. "If you cross that line, I will fucking kill you."
He knows she will. It's a promise. Or she would try her best, anyway. He doesn't doubt that she would leave a mark. It almost makes him feel as if his heart is beating again. Or that he had a heart to begin with.
The Trees haven't stopped laughing. He lays exquisite plans to slit their exposed roots so that their precious Sap bleeds out of them and onto the hungry ground.
She knows that he cannot cross into her home anyways. Not without an invitation. Not without her removing the damned circle of mistletoe or vervain or whatever witchy concoction she had cooked up and spread around. Her Magic is far too strong. So for now he will bide his time and overage from her doorway until she lets her guard slip. Then he will enter to feast on her heart and her pie.
"Witch," he calls to her.
"Abomination," Buttercup replies, flipping through her grimoire, not even a bit hesitant.
He sucks in a sharp breath, wondering and furious that such a single word like that from her fills him with feeling.
…
tbc
...
and end: what is butch? we just don't Know. anyways i'm tryiNG. i have been out of the game far too long.