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The winds nor wolves howl, on the eve when the skies redden and dew collects between Thomasin's muddied, bare toes.
When the very air is charged and molten with lightning-heat. Her skin feels shivery and cool, despite the flames of a monstrous, roaring bonfire licking at the ends of Thomasin's honeysuckle-smelling hair.
Hisses and murmurs arise, shrieking into the treetops. The abandoned wilds of this country has not consumed her. The darkness has not stolen her wits.
Thomasin has reclaimed herself — in the name of her poisoned, deviled Father. She tosses herself among the ring of witches, yelling and chanting along, watching with naked, eager eyes as two woman — one fair, one with scarlet curls — embrace and writhe against the ground, laughing, touching each other's breasts.
A girl as young as Thomasin, with a curtain of dark, filthy hair, takes her hand and leads her into the throes, pressing their mouths together hungrily.
This must be living deliciously, as promised, Thomasin says in her own mind, kissing back with fierce adoration. She rakes her fingernails over the girl's body. A love more primal than family or faith rushes her, dizzying and powerful.
She kneels above the grinning, half-grown witch, unsure of her actions before fingers seize Thomasin's hips, lowering her into a sit. Thomasin gasps aloud, shaking violently when the girl's mouth opens wide against her entrance, suckling, her tongue slick and wet and pushing past the folds of Thomasin's cunt.
Thomasin's gasps and whimpers strengthen into breathless, high laughter. She starts to bounce herself against the girl's face and her wicked, remarkable tongue.
Other members of their coven take notice, encouraging Thomasin to ride faster, kissing her lips and stroking her nipples gently, biting down on her throat, moaning, humming, screeching, yanking Thomasin's hair with impish delight.
She tastes blood and salt and dirt on other woman's mouths, crying out when her belly twists and turns, overheating, pleasure leaking between her thighs.
A thumb-nail scratches Thomasin's ribcage, welling blood. Another young woman leans over, opening her fluid-damp mouth to the wound, ravenously licking and holding onto Thomasin so tightly that she fears for a moment being crushed alive.
The only howling on the eve of the harvest is her sister-witches, bathing in moonlight, feasting on Thomasin — mind, body, and soul.
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The VVITCH isn't is a fantastic horror movie if you are looking for something original and frightening for Halloween! :) This is another prompt fill "The Witch, Thomasin/OFC, I don't fear the dark anymore, 'cause I've become all that" for LADIES LOVING LADIES: a femslash comment ficathon via Dreamwidth! And Kinktober 2017 is still at its peak so I decided on "exhibitionism" and "voyeurism" and "face-sitting/cunniligius" and "blood drinking" for this! Comments/thoughts appreciated!