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shadowedstardust · 1 month

Text

the antichrist, [redacted]

pairing - none. sabrina spellman-centric.

summary - Maiden says, “As the sun becomes the moon.” Mother says, “And the daughter is ravaged by the Earth.” Crone says, “The powers of Satan’s progeny will awaken.”

warnings - multiple references to christianity

word count - 758 (tried not to make it too long, made it way too short)

Hecate gained a devout worshiper in Sabrina when her Aunt Hilda’s hand burst forth from the Cain Pit. Hecate settled into her soul when her reverence became clear and filled it with acceptance.

And Sabrina didn’t have much of that these days.

She was always too… something. Too wild, too tame, too unknown, too powerful.

Hecate knew all of these things and more and accepted her. That was all Sabrina needed.

She prayed to Hecate every morning, noon, and night. Leaving offerings at her altar that disappeared the second they left her sight.

A feeling of warmth always rested in her soul after her prayers. She feels better worshiping Hecate for a month than the Dark Lord for over a decade.

And she feels this is why Hecate bestows the information on her.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone stand before her.

And Sabrina drops her knees.

Maiden says, “As the sun becomes the moon.”

Mother says, “And the daughter is ravaged by the Earth.”

Crone says, “The powers of Satan’s progeny will awaken.”

“1st John, 2:18,” they say together. “Dear children, this is the last hour; and as you have heard the Antichrist is coming…”

Sabrina wakes with a gasp. A cold sweat on her body… but a warmth lingers in her soul.

It takes her a week but she decodes the prophecy. Ambrose would’ve helped if she asked, but she didn’t want him to know.

She didn’t want anyone to know.

As the sun becomes the moon. Her sunny blonde hair became platinum white after signing the Book of the Beast. And the daughter is ravaged by the Earth. She winced thinking of the Sabrina encased in stone, rotting there while she lived. The powers of Satan’s progeny will awaken.

Sabrina looks over to her father standing beside her throne and rolls her eyes. She didn’t see what fathers were all cracked up to be so far.

“Why must you roll your eyes? I’m simply standing here.” Lucifer complains.

“We agreed you wouldn’t talk today”

She sees Lucifer roll his eyes in her peripheral. It’s the same way she rolls her own.

After her coronation, she fashioned an agreement with her father. She comes down to Hell twice a week for a couple of hours to learn more about the workings of Hell and spend time with her father. It’s not the best but it's not the worst either.

Sabrina hops off her throne and brushes her hair out of her face. She’s been forgoing her headband lately. New prophecy, new hairstyle. “Can we go to the library?” She’s never been but it was on her map of the castle.

“Together?” Lucifer asks.

“That's what we means.” She can’t let him get a big head. She’s still way too awesome to be his daughter.

“So, what are we here for, daughter?”

They’re walking through the halls of the castle’s library. It’s vast and the books are placed on golden stacks, she assumes they’re actual gold. The floor is covered in a painting that reminds her of the Sistine Chapel except this features more shades of red. The glass ceiling provides a wonderful view of Hell’s red sun and grey clouds.

(Ambrose would love this, she thinks.)

Beside her, Lucifer brags that it’s the largest collection of books in the Infernal Realm, holding books from the Library of Alexandria and unfinished manuscripts stolen from the Mortal Realm.

Sabrina raises an eyebrow. Lucifer continues. “Mortals may be below us but they are masters of the arts.” She follows him through more stacks until he stops and gestures to a wall. “Here we are… the Wall of Records.”

Thousands of small metal drawers cover the wall, all a wonderful gold. She’s beginning to see a theme here. A ladder rolls along the wall, not gold but silver.

“Hold your hand out,” he instructs. Sabrina does. “Now, say what you want in your royal voice.”

She doesn’t take a deep breath, though she wants to, but it would tremble. “The Antichrist,” she says in a strong, loud, and clear voice. They had spent an hour perfecting it while her handmaidens dressed her for her coronation.

A card flies out and only one book is on it.

An Encyclopedia of the Antichrist by Lucius Meyer.

Two days later, Sabrina returns the book to the library. Lucifer asks, “How was it?”

“Enlightening.”

The Antichrist has no strict fate to destroy the world or be smitten by Jesus Christ upon his return. The Antichrist could destroy the world or not… no one truly knows.

shadow spiels!

sabrina is one of my top tier characters. i love her above all others. the potential she had was insane. anyway, i saw the antichrist theory in an article or on reddit and ran with it. not very far though.

4/17/2024

masterlist

#chilling adventures of sabrina #sabrina spellman #caos fanfic

0 notes

shadowedstardust · 4 months

Text

bitch, [redacted]

pairing - tory nichols x eli "hawk" moskowitz

summary - hawk can't fucking stand tory nichols

warnings - lust disguised as hatred, frequent use of bitch, some fights, a broken nose (nothing serious)

word count - 1,830

Tory Nichols appears like a earthquake, shaking his foundation and rupturing the wall he keeps Eli behind. Tears at his persona with her perfect, red-painted nails just by appearing.

He smirks when she challenges Miguel. While Miguel was hesitant to hit girls he wasn’t going to let his top spot go without a fight.

Tory establishes dominance, landing a strong punch to his face after a misdirect toward his abdomen. Every punch and kick she lands knocks Miguel’s standing down more and more, destroying it when he falls onto the ground unconscious.

Tory, not even out of breath, looks at the Sensei’s and asks, “Do you do knockouts here?” The Sensei’s are clearly interested and Eli feels like the ground is crumbling beneath his feet.

She shows the next day dressed in a Cobra Kai gi, gym bag on shoulder and Hawk represses the urge to cover up his scar with his hand, making fists instead.

Her hands are wrapped in what looks like gauze and her hair is braided back is an elegant fishtail. Hawk just wants to cut the thing off, watch her scramble for her hair on the ground.

After warm-ups, Sensei Lawrence pairs her up with Miguel again and demands, “don’t let her beat you again, Diaz. Take her down.” Miguel mutters something under his breath in Spanish.

Tory huffs out a laugh and, shockingly, replies to him in Spanish. Miguel doesn’t allow it to knock him off balance and Hawk claps for him mentally. Then the fight begins and Tory attacks with a barrage of well-aimed hits. She gets Miguel in position, crouches below him, then tosses him over her like a ragdoll and punches him square in the face. A nasty crack is heard throughout the room along with Miguel’s groan of pain.

Tory hops up and takes a few steps away from him, blood coming from his nose like a faucet.

Sensei Kreese smells blood in the water and lunges, “Don’t like blood, Miss Nichols.”

She looks up from inspecting her hand, the wrap stained with a bit of blood. “Don’t like STDs,” she corrects and hops off the mat at Sensei Lawrence’s behest. Sensei Kreese’s eyes follow her as she sits back onto the ground beside the mat. Sensei Kreese doesn't show up the next day and a few days later Sensei Lawrence announces he won’t be returning.

Tory’s placed in all of his classes. He sees her every class with her perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect fucking stance. He hates it, hates her.

He’s done with letting basic, blond bitches destroy his life with their vicious words and beautiful smiles, so he does research. When Tory bullies him, he wants to be prepared to destroy her. Knock her down to the bottom of the ladder, where he spent his first sixteen years of life.

When he gets home, Hawk searches. Tory Nichols. He wastes three hours looking through pages of information finding nothing. Then he searches, Victoria Nichols. Maybe she goes by a nickname? Again, he finds nothing. No social media, no embarrassing articles, nothing. There’s not a single piece of information about her on the internet.

She’s nowhere to be found yet she always in his fucking face.

Tory and Doug are friends.

Hawk watches the friendship develop from a distance as does Miguel. Miguel talks to her in Spanish before their fights. They exchange around thirty seconds of conversation before Tory slaughters him like a pig at the farm. It’s the only place he’s confident enough to do so.

But Doug isn’t like them, he was mildly popular because of his swimmer status at school and knew how to associate with people like Tory. Doug was never made fun of by people like her because of shit he couldn’t control that made him want to slice his fucking face off.

He hears when Doug gives her his number, she doesn’t write it down. Yet, a week later, Doug tells Sensei Lawrence, “Tory won’t be in class today, she’s has a personal issue.”

“How do you know that, Rickenberger?” Sensei Lawrence asks.

All Doug says is “she texted” and Hawk wants to rip his face to shreds.

His hate for Tory isn’t reasonable. Hawk knows this but she’s haunting him. Her voice leaves Yasmine’s mouth, insult after insult assaults him and the cotton of his sweater creates hives on his skin.

He pulls them from the back of his closet and tosses them when he wakes up.

The day after her “personal issue” Tory arrives like she nothing happened. Doug greets her with a kiss on her cheek and she smiles brightly. It makes his heart race. Bitch. Her hands are wrapped with black gauze and her gi is loosely tied, exposing a bit of her black sports bra beneath. His ears heat up. Bitch.

She’s tearing him to pieces, ripping up his rough persona with her dangerous hands. The more he sees her, the more Eli begs to be released to cower away from her and shield his lip from her sights. Hawk doesn’t let him.

Class goes the same way, Tory and Miguel speaking in rapid-fire Spanish before she beats him mercilessly. Doug fist bumping her and Miguel stumbling to the bathroom for the first aid kit.

Then, a phone rings. It’s similar enough to the standard ringtone that it could be anyone but there’s something off about it. Tory instantly gets up, retrieves her phone from her duffel bag, and goes outside.

The entire class watches as she speaks on the phone even Sensei Lawrence seeing the difference in her rigid routine. Yet, her body gives nothing away, neither does her face. She’s not tense. She’s not angry. She’s not anything. She’s blank.

Eli bangs on the inside of his head. Let me out, let me out. We’re nothing, she’ll destroy us. Submit.

No, Hawk thinks. Never.

Tory turns to face the window and makes eye contact with Hawk. He narrows his eyes. The only reaction he gets is humor-filled eyes like he’s a toddler eating in front of a adult. She hangs up the phone and steps back into class.

“Everything, okay, Nichols?” Sensei Lawrence asks.

“Fine,” Tory replies, then says, “I have to leave.”

“Why?” Sensei asks. “I won’t except personal issue.”

Tory stands still, unmoving. The air is tense and Eli’s bangs increase. His worries jumbling together in Hawk’s head. Let me out. She’ll break us. Let me out.

“My little brother was with a friend, but I need to take him home,” Tory says.

“Why?” Sensei’s no different from the rest of them. He wants to know more about Tory Nichols but she’s not giving it so he’ll have to take it.

“A personal issue of theirs. Not my business.” Or yours, goes unsaid.

“There’s still an hour left of class. Have them bring your brother here. If you can,” he adds.

She surveys him for a few seconds then replies, “Sure, Sensei,” and walks right back outside.

Her brother arrives ten minutes later and gets out of the car. He’s small, six maybe seven and latches onto Tory like she’s his favorite thing in the world.

Eli quiets.

Brandon walks into the dojo just like his sister but rather the aftershock of an earthquake. Not as dangerous but still destructive. Tory’s at his back following him like a bodyguard. She sits him beside the door and places his bag beside him.

She unzips his jacket and asks, “Did you have fun?” The entire dojo is silent and everyone can hear every single word leaving her mouth.

Brandon tilts his head, similarly to a dog. “Yeah, Luke’s fun. He lets me use the good crayons, but I prefer my pencils.” Brandon allows his sister to move him and pull off his jacket, folding it perfectly and placing it into his bag. “He’s a bit dumb, but doesn’t yell after I take off my aids and some of the smartest people do that.”

“Ignorant people,” Tory corrects and adjusts herself so she can see his left ear. Hawk looks at his right and sees a hearing aid behind his ear. Brandon sticks his hand in the bag beside Tory’s and takes out an Ipad with a blue silicone case and matching over-ear wireless headphones.

Tory presses a kiss to his forehead then stands up and sits between Doug and Bert again.

Class resumes. Brandon’s content with his Ipad by the door. Hawk assumed she wouldn’t cause bodily harm with her little brother sitting right there. He was wrong, she slaughters Miguel all the same. Hawk looks toward Brandon and he doesn’t look at all fazed by her ruthlessness.

In fact, he looks amused.

Hawk wants to rip Tory’s eyes out. Eli’s quiet.

He searches Brandon Nichols when he gets home, wastes more hours, but there’s still nothing.

Invites to Moon’s party goes out and Tory doesn’t get one. Finally, Hawk thinks, the bitch gets knocked down.

All the Cobras are at the party except Tory…and Doug.

He enjoys himself as much as he can with Moon having a new girlfriend but then Demetri gets ahold of the microphone and he finally wants to break someone other than Tory. Eli screams: Don’t, he’s our friend. Not anymore, Hawk thinks. Sirens wail before he gets Demetri in his hold.

At home, Eli watches the Cobras instagram stories, sees the highlights of the party, delighted not to see Tory in any of them. Doug’s story plays on his phone. His face takes up the phone and is flushed with alcohol. Music plays loud in the background and it’s clear he’s in a club. Then, Tory appears, beautiful as always. Hair falling in curls and lips painted red.

He wants to smear it across her face, press his lips to…

Hawk shuts off his phone and tosses it away from him, but the image of Tory lingers in his mind.

And the first time since he saw her Tory does not haunt his dreams, she stains them. Stains him. Her red lips press kisses to his neck, jaw, and chest. Hawk slides his hand into her hair and drags her lips up to his own, pulling them together in a bruising kiss.

Hawk walks into school and goes to his locker, same as the year before, but there’s a new addition. Tory places books into the locker beside his own. He opens his and places his things inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tory stain her lips with that red lipstick from the night before.

Gorgeous, he thinks.

Hawk closes his locker and walks to stand on the other side of her. He can see her in the mirror that takes up the inside of her locker door. “Hi,” he says. A few seconds pass, Eli’s worries bleed into his veins and Hawk begins to sweat.

Tory smirks, “Hello. Finally realized have we?”

Hawk laughs, Tory joins, and Eli’s content (for the time being).

shadow spiels!

i love hawk and tory, they have tons of untapped potential. things i need to work on: random, shitty similes and uneeded details/dialogue.

1/28/2024

masterlist

#cobra kai #tory nichols #eli hawk moskowitz #eli moskowitz #tory x hawk

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Note

Can you do fluff with Zoya and Monet De Haan? Maybe an annversity date?

lemon and lavender, zoyet

pairing - monet de haan x zoya lott

summary - a small look into domestic zoyet and their third anniversary

warnings - none, just pure, unadulterated fluff

word count - 1,263

Monet woke up to an empty bed and the smell of a fresh latte on her side table. She could feel sunlight warming her skin through the windows. Sighing, she pulled the mask off her face as she sat up, letting her legs hang on the side of the bed.

She stood up, not one for lollygagging, grabbed the mug from her side table, and switched off the mug warmer it was on. The postcard that rested beside it read, “went to the library early today, you’ll do the same someday. I’ll see you tomorrow night, beautiful.”

Monet smiled, softly, at the rhyming and the small xo next to the nickname she had been rewarded with at the beginning of their relationship. Zoya had been dedicated to writing rhymes to help her side project a short story written completely with rhythmic poetry. The fact that they were untrue wasn’t important to her.

Her handwriting had evolved over the years from the use of different writing utensils. More cursive-like from the prolonged use of fountain pens on parchment to create the love letters she wrote for Monet on random occasions that now inhabited an empty shoebox in the back of her closet.

With a relaxed demeanor, she grabbed the postcard, a rather faded one from the 90s that Zoya had found on some website in a set of 150, and put it into the drawer of her side table along with the other 37… from this set.

Sunlight flooded the couple’s home through the four large windows that took up most of the east wall, except the small floor to ceilings bookshelves bordering them, of their Soho loft. The purple drapes that covered them through the night were open and cluttered against the sides of them.

Scattered across the coffee table in the parlor was Monet’s late-night endeavor. While Zoya woke early, Monet stayed up late and the same could be said for the night before. She had spent hours pouring over fashion magazines looking at their flaws, things they exceeded in, and trends while Zoya slept peacefully in their bed.

Their respective ambitions rarely gave them free time together. Even now, Zoya had left before Monet had even awoken to get a jump on her work and that was something Monet could respect, but still, they were in a relationship, and even with two people who had similar work schedules and found it easy to spend time together.

Relationships took work.

Even more work for two people with as much ambition and devotion to their future as Zoya and Monet.

This year Zoya had an internship at the New York Times which mostly considered running errands, getting coffee, and editing the occasional atrociously written article. Monet had heard the lengths of their incompetence during their rarely shared dinner of pasta and wine on the couch (she never thought she could laugh that much). And almost all the spare time she had gone to the creation of her own personal writings.

She was going to make her mark in the world of literature if she had to work herself to the bone to do it. Monet respected that and loved her even more for it.

Monet, on the other hand, was currently interning at Burberry. Her duties were buying textiles, assisting with sewing, pattern making, and helping with brand promotion. Rolls of fabric that she had stumbled through the door with three days ago still stood in a corner of their parlor. Zoya helped her bring it over the threshold with muffled laughter at her disgruntled look and a spoon in her mouth. She was making her rounds in the fashion world and learning the weaknesses of various brands.

While Monet had fallen in love that didn’t change her mentality. She would one day be at the top. Editor-in-chief of her own magazine running the fashion world… with Zoya by her side making her mark in literature.

But, even with their demanding ambitions, the two managed to make time for each other, if only, by scheduling weeks in advance.

While Zoya showed she still loved and cared for her with a morning latte and postcards and love letters. Monet showed her with lunch sent to her job for her coworkers because “connections are needed, sunflower,” and “I love you.”

Fresh bouquets of chocolate cosmos were placed on the parlor room table in the dark of night, clashing with their decor, with a card that only had Monet’s lip print in whatever color she had worn that day, and short stories were read, criticized constructively and as thoroughly as possible as many times as needed for the most impeccable finished product.

But right then, she needed to get to work.

The next morning, Monet awoke to a latte with a heart made in the art on top and a new postcard that simply read, “My love for will continue to grow until the day we’re both wrinkled and old. Happy anniversary, beautiful. I’ll see you tonight,” with another xo written.

While Monet had managed to get the day off Zoya didn’t and wouldn’t be home until later that night giving her time to prepare for their anniversary, or rather, receive the deliveries.

Monet smiled and put it into the drawer with the rest before walking down the hallway and into the parlor with her latte in her hand. Scattered all over the coffee table were pages of Zoya’s play all marked with the red pen she edited with and notes in the margins written in black.

The strong smell of lemon and lavender drew her to the kitchen where she found a plate of lemon-lavender scones and a container full of large chocolate chip cookies with more dough than chips just like she liked them.

Her day had just started and Zoya was hitting it out of the park. She would be too when Zoya’s lunch was delivered with her charm bracelet. She had bought a personalized literary charm bracelet with charms of six of her favorite books and one extra of a mock-up cover she created for one of Zoya’s short stories.

Monet sat her latte down on the bar when a knock sounded on the door.

This was shaping up to be a great third anniversary.

When Zoya walked through the door of their home Monet greeted her with a chaste kiss, took the bags from her hands, and immediately shuffled her toward their room for a shower and to put on her leisure wear. The past two anniversaries they had gone out to dinners and specific locales but all Zoya wanted to do this year was to stay in, eat, relax in comfortable clothes, exchange gifts, and spend quality time with her girlfriend.

And Monet granted her request without hesitation.

“I’ve missed you,” Zoya whispered, her head lying in her girlfriend’s lap. Monet’s right hand ran over her hair with a light touch. “So much.”

“I’ve missed you, too, sunflower.”

“What if I don’t want to be loved? Love only exposes you to trouble,” Monet once said with Luna’s comforting presence by her side and neon lights shining down upon her.

But if trouble was a fresh latte in the morning, postcards and love letters written out of nothing but pure adoration and respect, short stories written with a character that always seemed to have something that was distinctly her in them, dinners shared on their couch in the dark of night, the lingering smell of lemon and lavender around their home and in their sheets.

Monet would gladly weather the storm.

shadow spiels!

first time writing zoyet! also, i know i cut the celebration short but i felt like that scene flowed well with the ending.

2/21/2023

masterlist

#gossip girl reboot #monet de haan #zoya lott #monet x zoya

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

cigars after sex, wyler

pairing - wednesday addams x tyler galpin

summary - wednesday enjoys a cigar after sex and tyler is enamoured

warnings - implied burning of skin, blood, smoking

word count - 1,337

Tyler knew Mr. Addams (“call me Gomez”) smoked as well as Mrs. Addams. He had seen her place herself gently into her husband’s lap and delicately take the cigar from his mouth and place it in her own. The smoke swirled around them like some dark and mystic halo.

He knew Pugsley smoked the rare cigar with his father over expensive scotch while they demolished and derailed model trains.

But he didn’t know if Wednesday smoked.

He knew she drank and had a rather sophisticated palate for liquor. One sip of cheap beer at a party, he and Enid begged her to attend, and she spit it out right back into the cup before cursing vehemently in various languages.

The only part he caught was “ridiculous swill, anyone who drinks this shit is...” in rapid-fire French. She switched to German after that.

Smoke from the cigars didn’t bother her, nor did the smoke from cigarettes at the party. But she never smelled like her family’s fancy Cuban cigars.

But then, the hug experiment came to be and the cigars were pushed to the back of his mind.

The sheets on Wednesday’s bed were crumpled beneath them. Wednesday laid still on her back with her arms crossed over her chest which was dressed in his hoodie. It was a dark brown, the darkest one owned and went down to just above her knees.

Tyler lay on his side, two feet away, his head propped up on his right hand while his left was running through Wednesday’s hair, occasionally stopping at tangles. Her hair was down and laid around her as if it was a halo surrounding a mistress of death. There was a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead and tendrils of hair were stuck to it before Tyler brushed them away.

The comforter that had been on Wednesday’s bed was in a pile on the floor and their clothes were thrown on the floor in a path toward the bed. Tyler was only covered from the waist down with a sheet that has surprisingly survived intact. Well, intact but visibly stained with blood.

Wednesday’s and his own.

There were multiple bite marks on both sides of Tyler’s neck. The blood had slowed and was now only falling in slow streams pooling in the dips in his collarbones.

Wednesday had a set of shallow claw marks on the back of both of her thighs and a bite on her ribs. He had bit hard enough that her ribs had bruised not just her skin. He had gotten rather carried away after the fourth bite on his neck.

But Wednesday said he had performed “better than normal” which meant she enjoyed herself more than usual and that was all that mattered.

A groan burst from Tyler’s throat when Wednesday moved from her spot beside him and sat up on the side of the bed, pulling her hair over her shoulder and running her fingers through it.

Tyler rested his hand on her shoulder running his thumb back and forth on her back. He knew if he let his claws out and pressed them into her skin she would lay back down.

But he had already done enough considering the amount of her blood that stained her bedsheets, so instead he let his hand fall back to the bed when she stood up and walked over to her dresser.

She combed out her hair and braided it into a single French plait before walking over to her desk, opening a drawer, and pulling out an elegant, black, wooden box with, what looked like, rose thorns carved into it.

She opened the box and pulled out a cigar.

It was comically large in her small hands but she handled it in a way that showed her experience. She grabbed a cigar cutter from the box and cut straight through a side of the cigar.

Wednesday walked back over to the bed after putting away the box with the cigar cutter inside and sat beside Tyler while striking a match, that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, on the side of her cigar and lit it.

Her jaw tensed and moved as she rolled the foot of the cigar in the flame taking gentle puffs with each rotation. She extinguished the match by placing it onto one hand and clapping her hands together.

He knew where the miniscule scars on her palm came from now.

The sight of smoke was familiar but the smell was different from her father's like lime mixed with burnt wood and hemlock while Mr. Addams’ were more cherry mixed with pecans and poison ivy.

After around ten seconds Wednesday blew the smoke out of her mouth in a ring and held the cigar in front of Tyler asking, “do you want some?”

“No, thank you, petite mort,” Tyler rejected with a small smile.

If Wednesday wasn’t as dignified as she was he felt she would have shrugged but instead she blinked, grabbed a catalog from her desk, and placed the cigar back into her mouth.

Tyler watched her for a few minutes as she smoked letting the cigar smoke fill and linger in her mouth before exhaling. She was focused on the catalog in front of her making items on pages with sticky notes, that he had bought her, and writing notes on them. It was specifically filled with expensive, black-market, military-grade weapons. A gift sent to her from her father as a “just because” gift.

He got one too in the form of a 100% wool trench coat from an expensive French brand. He could feel the wealth when he ran his hand over it but it felt amazing when he tried it on and it was now stored in his closet in a garment bag waiting for a special occasion.

“So,” Tyler started, moving his hand from where it lay on the bed to under the hoodie she wore and across the skin of her back. “You smoke?”

“Yes,” Wednesday answered, simply. Her eyes never moved from the catalog.

“Since when?” Tyler laid his head on his arm and let his fingers drift across Wednesday’s skin.

Wednesday exhaled the smoke in her mouth, “Since I was ten. One of my presents was a box of cigars.” She held up the cigar she held in between her fingers. “Not these though. I started out with cheaper ones.”

“Which ones?” Tyler’s voice was soft and quiet.

Wednesday wrote a few notes on her newest sticky note. “They were called Gurkha Black Dragons. They came in a box of 20.”

“How much did they cost?”

“According to my father, it was 20,000 dollars for the box.”

The wealth of the Addams family would never cease to astound him.

“How much were those?”

“A total of 45,000. I had ten and it was 4,500 for each cigar.” Wednesday continued, as she wrote. “On special occasions, Father buys the Gurka Royal Courtesans. The filters of those cigars are watered by filtered water infused with black pearls.”

Tyler hummed, his tiredness the only thing keeping him from choking in shock. He didn't want to know the cost of those. “So cigars are an important part of your family traditions?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Wednesday agreed.

“Guess I should learn how to smoke then.”

“If you want to, mi monstruo.”

“I do.”

“Sit up,” Wednesday instructed, finally turning her head to look at him. “You can’t smoke laying down.”

Tyler shook his head and held his hand up. “No, I don’t want to waste it. I’ll just order some of the cheap ones online.”

“Nonsense, I’ll have Father send some of the ones I started with.”

“Wednesday, I was talking about the 70-dollar ones on the internet.”

Her eyes widened. She was appalled. “Never, mi monstruo. If they’re 70 dollars, they’re clearly not of good quality and quality is important.”

Tyler let his claws free and lightly pressed them into her back. “Of course, it is, petite mort.”

shadow spiels!

this was originally going to end with wednesday burning tyler on the arm with her cigar before stubbing it out but then i read you're not supposed to stub out cigars. i don't smoke and the amount of research i did on cigars is sort of crazy. wednesday striking her match on the side of the cigar was something i got from gomez in the 60s sitcom (i've been watching it).

2/16/2023

masterlist

#wyler #wednesday x tyler #tyler x wednesday #wednsday addams #tyler galpin #weyler

39 notes · View notes

shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

trial: unsuccessful, wyler

pairing - wednesday addams x tyler galpin

summary - wednesday hates hugs and tyler adores them so he begins experimenting to find a hug she will accept

warnings - suffocation, mentions of erotic asphyxiation

word count - 981

Wednesday hated hugs… loathed them with her entire being and after the first time she sliced Tyler’s arm down to the bone, when he went in for a hug, he had moved on to different ways to show his affection.

A chaste kiss, one of her least favorites, a shallow bite on her neck or ribs (“weakling, there isn’t even any blood”), or a piece of jewelry made from some hyde’s claws, one of Wednesday’s favorites.

There was still a phantom pain in his neck from the six deep bites she had given him in return after he gave her a necklace made of hyde’s claws.

(“The pain must have been tortuous, mi monstruo,” she said, a manic grin, much too sharp to be a smile, on her face and wide eyes.)

But some days, he just wanted a hug from his girlfriend. He wanted to feel her cold skin pressed against his in a delicate but intimate embrace. Wednesday was a lot of things and delicate wasn’t one of them but when she reluctantly let him hug her she seemed more tense than usual and he instantly released her.

It wasn’t a comfort if she found it uncomfortable.

Thus, the hunt began for a hug Wednesday Addams could enjoy.

To begin, Tyler started off with a simple hug from behind, his hands lightly wrapped around her waist. Wednesday instantly threw him over her shoulder and stomped on his throat with her heavy, steel-toed boot.

Safe to say, that was out.

Deciding to experiment slower, Tyler went with a simple side hug. He wrapped his arm around her torso and smiled when she didn’t immediately tense up or hit him.

“Unless you plan on clawing me open. Remove your hand from my side at once.”

That was more or less successful. He escaped with no injuries or threats of bodily harm.

“Do that again and I will cut your hands off.”

Correction. No injuries.

Wednesday didn’t give him the bite full of love and affection, that he had gotten used to, that night when he dropped her off outside of Nevermore. So, he snuck in that night and made it up to her. To say Enid was appalled by the shallow, yet still deeper than normal, claw marks on her ribs would be an understatement.

A few days later, they were standing in his kitchen, his dad was out of the house for the week so they had it to themselves, and he went in to give her another hug from behind around her shoulders but she slipped out of his impending grasp with a step forward and turned around quickly.

“Why do you keep hugging me,” Wednesday asked, the word hugging rolled off her tongue so sharply, it could be wielded as a knife. “Do you enjoy my threats and more frequent bodily harm? I can do those things without the incessant hugging.”

Tyler dropped his arms. “I know you can, petite mort, but… I want to hug you, it’s a form of comfort, intimacy.”

“Are my marks,” Wednesday pointed to the large bite she left on his neck that was still bleeding a bit. He could feel the blood falling down his neck. “Not intimate enough?”

The thought of Wednesday bites of pure emotion being anything but intimate was humorous. “No, that’s intimate but a different… stronger intimacy. Sometimes, I just want a simple hug.”

“You can simply hug me, mi monstruo. The torture will become pleasant in time.”

“I don’t want the hug to be torture for you, Wednesday. I want you to be able to accept my hugs without tensing.” Tyler let out a sigh before continuing, “The hugs are an experiment.”

Wednesday blinked, before asking, “what is the purpose of your experiment?” The intellectual side of her brain easily made sense of his terminology.

“You can’t know the purpose of my experiment because you are a variable.”

“Controlled or independent?”

“Independent.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes at him before giving him a stiff nod. “Understood.” She rested her hand on the back of his neck and pulled his lips to hers.

Tyler closed his eyes and relished in the feeling of her cold lips against his. She didn’t give him kisses like this often and he had yet to figure out the trend of when she did.

(Maybe that could be his next experiment.)

The next day, Tyler organized his research.

Purpose: find a hug that Wednesday wouldn’t find tortuous in a bad way.

Trial 1: Unsuccessful

Simple hug from behind resulted in bodily harm.

Trial 2: Unsuccessful

Simple side hug resulted in a threat.

Trial 3: ?

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to experience?” Tyler asked Wednesday. His eyes were on her from where she stood in his bathroom brushing out her unbraided hair.

Wednesday turned to him and stared for a bit before turning back to the mirror. A few seconds passed before she answered, “suffocation. Not erotic asphyxiation, just pure suffocation.” The tone in her voice was the same that little kids have when talking about Santa. “I would be smothered until my vision blurs, my lungs burn, and my eyes roll back.”

Wednesday set her hairbrush on his dresser before sitting on his bed beside his legs. “Erotic asphyxiation is an appetizer, our carnal activities being the main course. Pure suffocation is just suffocation. It’s the main course.”

The next morning, Wednesday walked out of his bathroom after her shower, cold, of course, and there Tyler stood in front of her an excited smile on his face.

Tyler grabbed her in his arms and wrapped one of his arms around her head while the other was around her torso. He pressed her into him.

Hard.

So hard that she couldn’t breathe.

And to Tyler’s delight, she finally relaxed.

(Trial 3: Successful)

It may be considered suffocation to others… but to them it was love.

shadow spiels!

suffocation makes for the perfect hugs.

2/7/2023

masterlist

#wyler #tyler x wednesday #wednesday x tyler #tyler galpin #wednesday addams

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

cannibalism is the new sex, wyler

pairing - wednesday addams x tyler galpin

summary - tyler didn't understand wednesday's reasons for biting him... until he finally did (title credit - @prettyhatemachinegf)

warnings - not really cannibalism but something like it, second in a row.

word count - 868

Tyler awoke to an empty bed and a sharp pain on the right side of his neck paired with the tight, uncomfortable sensation on his skin left from a sugar-rich liquid drying on it. Weird, considering the night before he had gone to sleep with Wednesday beside him, her arms crossed over her chest and hair loose and surrounding her like a black maw of death.

The sharp pain on the other hand… was not so weird.

Getting out of his bed, Tyler walked to his bathroom, turning on the light when he stepped through the doorway. Signs of his girlfriend’s presence were scattered across the bathroom and her familiar scent of ash, black licorice, charcoal, and expresso still lingered in the air. Things he never thought would go together nor that he would adore so much.

Tyler turned and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, angling the right side of his neck so it was more exposed. “Harsher than normal, petite mort,” Tyler whispered to himself, the French accent naturally draping his voice.

On his neck, there was a large bite mark tinted with rose red from the blood rising to the surface. Minor bruising had begun to form around it — a rather faint tint of midnight blue around the inscriptions of her incisors and canines, Venetian red shaded her premolars, and a faint plum draped her molars.

(Wednesday loathed color but she didn’t mind it much when it was on him. In this form, that is.)

Tyler hissed when he pressed his finger to the skin around it. Based on the colors, and time it was now, she had left between the hours of five and six in the morning by climbing out the window. Her scent was freshest there.

After leaving the bathroom, he walked over to his closet and began to look through the clothes for something to wear leaving hoodies that Wednesday had slept in, and still smelled like her, alone. He was pulling a stripped tee off a hanger when he felt the sensation of a marker writing on his hand.

He raised up his hand and watched the writing appear, it simply read, “have a dreadful morning, mi monstruo.” He smiled at her gorgeous handwriting on his hand. Her handwriting was like her personality: strong, and elegant, but there was something dark like invitations to a masquerade ball written by the vampires in dark fiction novels. There was the occasional connecting of letters, but only the vowels because Wednesday was nothing if not consistent, and the way the letters curved and looped like they were always on the borderline of being cursive.

She had previously carved her morning greetings into her arm with a knife. He had woken up with a lightly bleeding arm as a wake-up call multiple times until he simply asked her to use a marker. She called him weak and bit him lightly on the shoulder but used a marker the next morning.

Tyler grabbed a towel from the top of his closet before hissing in pain and clasping a hand to the left side of his neck. He uncovered it slowly and hissed when the air hit it. Carved into the other side of his neck was a skull. The same skull he created in her latte art every morning.

Oh, she was amazing.

“Here’s your quad, petite mort,” Tyler said, setting her cup down on the table. He was three hours into his shift at the Weathervane and Wednesday had been sitting there for six minutes waiting for her quad. “Sorry, about the wait.”

The Weathervane was unusually crowded that morning.

She simply grabbed her drink and took a sip and sat it back down before looking at him… or more specifically his throat. He was showcasing the marks, the brands on his throat leaving them open for everyone to see.

Wednesday grabbed his wrist and bit… hard. Her teeth embedded themselves in his skin, and it took all he had to prevent his claws from coming out and slicing her neck open. But he understood what she was feeling: love-desire-power-affection and an inkling of hatred, when she ground her teeth in his fresh wound, for the emotions that she never thought she would feel or was even capable of.

When she first bit him as a goodbye in front of the gates of Nevermore after their second date. He was so focused on the delightful pain that rocked through his body that he didn’t even feel the underlying emotions.

But the next day, in the privacy of his bedroom, when she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and then bit the junction between his neck and shoulder slowly and let her tongue rest against his unblemished skin he felt it.

Pure desire.

Wednesday never said thank you, I love you, I need you, or anything remotely relating to a single emotion, she labeled as insignificant. The closest she got was the wake-up calls she gave him, but the bites… the bites were her way of saying, thank you, I love you, I need you.

Traditionally, emotions were spoken through people’s teeth. He shouldn’t be surprised that hers lingered in her teeth.

shadow spiels!

tyler calling wednesday petite mort "little death" just kills me. i love it! the colors of tyler's bruises are the same color as the "treats" in "cyanide candy hearts," but this is where i got the colors from in the first place.

2/6/2023

masterlist

#wyler #wednesday x tyler #weyler #wednesday addams #tyler galpin

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

request rules

i have the right to refuse of disregard any requests that make me feel uneasy, uncomfortable, and/or do not follow the rules/regulations listed below

I. SMUT

i do not write smut. i will have suggestive sexual content in metaphors, descriptions, aftermaths, etc, but no full-force smut. this rule naturally rules out a ton of things.

II. REAL LIFE

i do not write for real life people. it makes me uncomfortable.

III. MASTERLIST

the fandoms i write are not limited to my masterlist. if the show or character isn't there, let me know/ask. there may be a reason that character or show is not present. (ex. i simply do not like them, in any capacity). also, rare pairings is something i love — finding ways to tie people together who have almost nothing in common... sign me up.

IV. MLM

while i do write it, i do not have any experience with it. i never really dove into it because i didn't think i would be able to write it correctly but how else am i going to learn? i am learning as i go, so if i do make any mistakes, unknowingly, please let me know.

V. BE PATIENT

i have a life and i try to update as much as i can but i do have obligations away from this. if i feel too pressured, i will disappear, fast... but only for a bit... a month a time, max.

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

masterlist

CHILLING ADVENTURES OF SABRINA

COBRA KAI

FATE: THE WINX SAGA

GOSSIP GIRL REBOOT

HARRY POTTER

LEVERAGE

MIRACULOUS LADYBUG

PRETTY LITTLE LIARS

REIGN

RIVERDALE

SCHITT'S CREEK

SHADOWHUNTERS

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES UNIVERSE

TWILIGHT

VICTORIOUS

WEDNESDAY

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shadowedstardust · 1 year

Text

cyanide candy hearts, wyler

pairing - wednesday addams x tyler galpin

summary - tyler gives wednesday candy hearts the only way she would eat them (heavily inspired by coffee and change by itsallbachsfault on ao3, chapter sixteen: february).

warnings - use of blood, bone, cyanide, and other gruesome items in baking

word count - 1,333

“The day I eat one of those chalky, colorful candy hearts with mass-produced sentiments printed on them is the day they start filling them with cyanide.”

So, Tyler did, along with a few other things.

When he started he made two lists: items he needed and the recipe to make the candy hearts. Over weeks, the piece of paper he wrote the original recipe on became wrinkled, creased, and stained with a few drops of his blood as well as a coffee ring or two, and ingredients were crossed out and replaced with more gruesome ones after failed attempts.

(The list of items was thrown out on the twelfth attempt.)

The emergency ritual kit he had gotten from Grandmama was able to supply him with the ingredients needed for his test runs but to make the amount of candy hearts he wanted for every day had known Wednesday he would need more and that’s where Mrs. Addams (“call me Morticia, sweet boy”) came in.

When the words “I’m planning a surprise for Wednesday and I need help left Tyler’s mouth” Morticia instantly agreed and the next day the ingredients he required were on his bed in a steamer trunk with a card on top from Mrs. Addams that she “hopes the surprise goes dreadfully well.”

She was the best.

His dad was out of the house that day and Wednesday was continuing to craft Viper’s gruesome death for a side project so it was the perfect day for him to create her spine-chilling treats. The rain clouds and gloomy atmosphere outside made it even better.

“Okay.” Tyler clapped his hands and rubbed them together in preparation suddenly feeling intimidated by the ingredients in front of him.

The original recipe called for: 2 teaspoons of light corn syrup, ¼ ounce or two teaspoons of unflavored gelatin, ½ cup of water, 2 pounds confectioners’ sugar, plus additional for dusting, a few drops of food coloring, assorted, and a few drops of flavoring extracts, assorted, as well.

Tyler’s recipe called for: 2 teaspoons of his own blood, ¼ or two teaspoons of powdered collagen from a wild boar (“it’s Wednesday’s favorite,” Morticia explained), ½ cup of water, 1 pound of human bone, all ribs, again Wednesday’s favorite, plus additional for dusting, food coloring, midnight blue, Venetian red, plum, and black, and, of course, cyanide.

The difference was very obvious and perfectly tailored for Wednesday’s macabre tastes.

Tyler grabbed the microwave-safe bowl in front of him, poured in his blood, water, and powdered collagen, and mixed the ingredients together before putting it into the microwave for thirty seconds. When he was playing with the recipe he accidentally warmed it for too long and the blood became a jelly-like substance.

He pulled it out when the microwave beeped and poured it into the bowl attached to the large stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. He poured in one cup of human bone and began mixing. He added another cup and mixed until it became a brown sugar/syrup-like substance, continuing with this until the full pound of human bone was added occasionally stopping to scrape down the bottom and the sides of the bowl.

Finished with that step, he turned and dusted the only empty counter with flour and scraped the mixture onto it. He dusted the top of the mixture with more flour before beginning to knead the treat mixture. Folding the dough on top of itself and then using the heel of his hand to press it down before turning it a quarter and repeating. (His hyde strength came in handy here.) Dusting it with flour when it began to stick to his fingers.

After the mixture was finally kneaded to a proper form. He pulled on some gloves and grabbed his food coloring and the cyanide, which was a faint blue.

He began dividing the dough into four portions, one portion for each color. He colored each portion of the dough, a collagen and bone-filled dough with the food colorings that he had chosen to match the colors of the bruises he had seen on his neck a few mornings ago.

He hoped Wednesday would enjoy it.

Tyler grabbed the black portion to start with and flatten it against the counter until it was ¼ of an inch thick like the store-bought candies before taking his special cookie cutters that he had found on some morbid baking website. The cookie cutters were miniature anatomically correct hearts… that were very disturbing. There were no veins of anything just the general shape of the heart with valves.

Periodically, he colored all of the portions, flattened them, and cut them into heart shapes.

Soon enough, he had four different pans, that were lined with parchment paper, of anatomically correct heart treats. He couldn’t call it candy anymore even if Wednesday would find his blood tasty. Each pan had different color treats: midnight blue, plum, Venetian red, and black.

Sadly, he now had to let them dry for twenty-four hours.

He had no idea how he was going to hide them from his dad.

(Wednesday excitedly sedated his dad with a strong sedative to make sure he stayed at the station all night without even asking why.)

Wednesday sat in front of Tyler, across the table in his dining room. Her hands rested in her lap and her stare was on him like she was peeling his skin off, cutting through his muscles and bones to stare directly at his heart.

He didn’t care. She could have it. He would claw and tear it out of his chest in the most gruesome way possible and present it to her but right now all he had was treats.

“These are for you,” Tyler said, presenting a tin to her and sliding it across the wooden table. The metal created a grating sound in the air as the metal moved against the table. “I think you’ll enjoy them.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes at him. While Tyler did have a habit of giving her gifts they were usually in the form of bruises around her neck from attempted strangulation, at her assistance, and claw marks that never went as deep as she wanted.

And she knew this was neither.

Wednesday pulled the tin closer to her, feeling the metal beneath her fingers, and steeled her gaze toward it. She leaned towards it and took a quick sniff before leaning back and narrowing her eyes at Tyler.

The smug look in his eyes made her want to bite his carotid.

(“The tin is scent-proof, dear. She won’t be able to smell anything until it is close to her nose.”)

“You’ve been in touch with mother.”

Tyler knew it wasn’t a question, she was stating a fact.

Wednesday took her time opening the tin and sat the top down beside it, the metal making a soft thud when she placed it on the table. She looked down at the treat that lay inside before looking back up at him, “hearts?”

Now, that was a question.

“And not the immature, incorrect, mainstream kind,” Tyler added, a tentative smile on his lips. “You still have to taste,” he continued. He was glad she couldn’t see the way his leg bounced from nervousness under the table.

Wednesday reached into the tin and pulled out one of the treats turning it around in the air before bringing it up to her mouth and taking a bite.

The crunch made him want to flinch.

Wednesday chewed slowly before her eyes widened.

“Cyanide.”

“And human bone, ribs,” Tyler suddenly spouted out unable to keep the words in anymore. “Wild boar collagen, and-”

“Your blood,” Wednesday interrupted and put the rest of the treat in her mouth and swallowed before continuing, “acceptable.”

Tyler smiled, brightly. She liked them.

“Acceptable” from Wednesday was an off-the-charts rating from anyone else.

“...And creative,” Wednesday continued.

His work had paid off.

“Do you have a glass of your blood to wash them down with?”

shadow spiels!

cannibalism is the new sex (coming tommorow) was suppposed to be the first thing i posted but i read coffee and change was struck by sudden inspiration and this is what was crafted. the official candy recipe is here. find someone who makes you anatomically correct candy hearts.

2/5/2023

masterlist

#wednesday #wyler #wednesday and tyler #weyler #tyler x wednesday #wednesday addams #tyler galpin

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