creeping branches

Autumn Gothic

It is eighty degrees and you are dying. You are wearing a wool sweater and corduroys. The leaves are red outside your window. They can smell you. You put on a wool coat, a scarf, a hat, a black plastic garbage bag. Anything to put them off your scent.

Everything proudly proclaims its pumpkin spicery. Coffee, tea, bread, deodorant, body wash, toothpaste, dental floss, razor blades, kitchen knives, shotgun shells, cyanide. “Ooh, yummy.”

Uggs are afoot. A gaggle of twelve-year-olds in leggings and tie dyed camp hoodies get shorter by the step as their boots slurp them up like spaghetti. You avert your eyes. It’ll all be over soon.

You have to buy new socks. You have to buy new socks or something bad will happen. You don’t know what, but you know it’s bad. One pair has a toe in it. You put it back on the rack. Something bad will happen.

The days are getting shorter and the nights longer. Streetlamps watch you while you sleep. Sometimes you wake up under them, arms outstretched in the chilly air, like you’re trying to climb up and touch them. Like a moth to a flame. The lamp flickers. Buzz. You run, but the noise never lessens. You’re almost one with them now.

Monsters disguised as children come to your door. Their eyes are wet and bulging. They lick their lips and say, “Trick or treat.” Their bags sway heavily, casting shadows. Oh, no. The jack'o'lanterns aren’t working.

It’s nice out today. The sidewalk is smooth, the sky is blue, and the screaming from last night seems to have stopped. Across the street, someone jumps around a puddle of marrow. The sacrifice must have worked.

It is only a dead branch tapping at your window. It is only a dead branch lifting the sash. It is only a dead branch skittering across the floor. It is only a dead branch creeping under your sheets, touching your leg with its awful bony twigs that are definitely not fingers. Definitely not teeth. It is only a dead branch.

The old cider mill hasn’t closed down like they said they’d have to last year. “Good harvest,” they say. “Good customers. Good cider.” It is good. Warm and sweet and deep, deep red. You buy a gallon to take home with you. It throbs under your arm.

There are kindergarteners going to school for the first time. They say the letters are hard to read and that the snacks taste funny and nap time only makes them more tired. The weak won’t make it to first grade. The strong won’t mourn them.

The acorns blink at you from the trees. It would be funny, but when they fall and hit you, you aren’t there anymore. Just an ancient oak tree that wasn’t there before.

Red and orange and yellow and brown. Everything is red and orange and yellow and brown. You have to blend into it or you’ll be caught. You wish for another color. You miss your best friend’s blue hair. But blue is an anomaly and it must be destroyed. A speck of it in the sky is gobbled up by fire. You can still hear her screaming.

The hand knit sweater your grandma gave you is so tight, it’s choking you. She asks if you like it. You nod. You can’t breathe. It’s stretching over your whole body and squeezing. She made it just for you, to keep you warm. Don’t you like it? Who wouldn’t like it? She smiles, and you can almost see her mandibles. “What big teeth you have…” you wheeze before your lungs collapse. Grandma’s hungry.

Jughead x Reader: Jealousy Is A Killer (Part 1)

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of murder and grotesque descriptions. TW- rape.
Requested: yes
A/N: this is a little different but I really like it and I am very proud of it, I hope you like it too. also, whenever “her” or “she” appears and refers to Jughead’s girlfriend, that is you, reader.

Part 2

*3rd person POV*

It was a Monday morning, 4th period at Riverdale High when Cheryl Blossom was arrested for her brothers murder. Since that day, all of Riverdale were on edge, worrying that the killer would strike again.

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i’m in love with the idea of magical forest boy Adam Parrish.

flowers turning towards him when he walks past. vines bursting from the ground to protect him from danger. a vine curling around his wrist to comfort him when he’s sad. a moss pillow appearing under his head when he falls asleep at his desk. patches of flowers sprouting under his feet when he walks. trees bending down to cover him from view when he wants to hide from someone. waking up with flowers woven into his hair. Adam Parrish with an honest to god flower crown (!!!). after long shifts at the factory and the garage, coming out smelling like freshly cut grass and morning dew instead of sweat and grease. when its been a tough month and he has no money left for food, a branch creeping through his window with a juicy, ripe apple hanging from it.

the trees in Cabeswater whispering to Ronan that Adam likes him. Ronan turning to look at Adam with his eyebrows raised. Adam getting flustered and telling Cabeswater to shut up in latin. after spending his first night with ronan, waking up with rose petals scattered all over his room. Adam and Cabeswater both being completely in love with the Greywaren.

Coomi’s one-of-a-kind, nature-inspired cuff creeps around the wrist, branching out into precious leaves of tumbled fire opals and Ethiopian Welo opals, polished but still in their natural state


we can clutch six
on a hill country highway
watch the fog lights as they
hug the road like Hankooks

I am the lion
for your sheep
I am the branches
shadow creep
this clay sticks to my heels
and dirties the tops
of toenails
we are walking in the fabled
dust of whence we came
where we go

maybe we stay stuck in wet sheets
waiting to be made into Play-Doh
or shotgun pigeons

Sundials are pocket watches
in a land of wall clocks

the deepest of darkness is hop
scotching clock gears
tock ticking across hands
to a door choking light
at the end of the hallway

I hunger for things that will decimate
your flock, you will sell the farm and
your children will succumb to the flu
in the back alleys of meat markets

your cows will become steak for Kings

Let me tell you a secret

You were never safe once you
buckled in.

B.E. Grissom


Rewritten, Chapter 24: The Master Sword

Read this on or Ao3  ➜

The Master Sword was the last thing Link needed before going to take on Ganon. Over the last few days, an incredible momentum had been pushing him forward, and he felt like he was hardly able to keep up with it, like he would be swept off his feet at any moment. The four beasts were done. He had regained his memories. He remembered, finally, and he knew now why the sword was so important and where it would be resting. But then, he also knew that it would not be easy to get.

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a mix for boris pavlikovsky;


creep – erik slater // holy branches – radical face // menulis – alina orlova // stakes – vancouver sleep clinic // skinny love – bon iver // the enemy – mumdord and sons // apres moi – regina spektor // alleyways – the neighborhood // arsonist’s lullabye – hozier // come as you are – nirvana // karma police – radiohead // somebody else’s child – the vaccines

for a minute there I lost myself
I lost myself

I promise I’ll forget about everything
I’ll forget those hugs I would wake up for
I’ll forget how you looked at me
I’ll forget how your tone of voice was with me
I will never remember again how your lips tasted when they were against mine
I’ll lose every thought of you if you promise me
You won’t ever crawl back or try to
That you won’t ever creep your branches around me again
That you won’t ever hold me and make me feel safe because to be completely truthful
I don’t think I will ever heal with you around
I will look for you in crowded rooms to lock with your eyes
I will keep my ears alert for your soft voice
Or just in case I hear you call my name once more
So please don’t ask for me to let go
When you can’t seem to go away
—  It’s unlike me to be such a way.

i really like the idea of model!grantaire

grantaire covered in tattoos and walking the runway at fashion week in all of his unusual beauty and starting a trend of mussed hair and full sleeves among twenty-somethings

grantaire getting told by agent after agent that he’s too punk to do the more delicate lines but winning the spot anyways and looking gorgeous in chiffon layers and angelic hues

grantaire as the face of some cosmetic line, vines and branches creeping up his neck, and dolled up as some forest creature

grantaire becoming the darling of fashion who designers want as a model and who artists want as a muse

grantaire and montparnasse doing a cover together; montparnasse in dark, muted tones that emphasize his hollows and sharpness, grantaire in pastels and artful tears that emphasize his delicate beauty

grantaire being notorious for not understanding what the big fuss is, he thinks he looks normal (ugly, even)

grantaire not understanding his own beauty and laughably referring to himself as hideous, even if he means it wholeheartedly


I’ve broken lances against the whisper of a promise like this. The deceptive sunlight tempting leaves still dusted in frost to steam. Letting go of precious protection: green bays restraining what we need to beat out our rhythms.

It lies in your eyes, guided and guarded, this promise. It lists and listens, navigating the thin film of ice on the river between us. It will shatter like silence. You will carry those lances to the river’s edge and taint the water red with iron.

But I have shipwrecked even the landlocked. I know the temptation you fear. It creeps like frost branches and leaves across your vision. Pale flowers of stealthy desire unfurl. And the deepest breath cannot erase them.