Work Text:
You– Star Anise Cookie– walk out onto the spice-storm covered ground.
Your outfit is definitely not appropriate for this weather, considering, well, you’re wearing something that Burning Spice Cookie himself would never wear.
Oh and the fact you’re wearing white sleeves in effectively a storm of pigment.
But,
Small details y'know?
You wander aimlessly through the vast Land of Spice, eyes lingering on the castle– beautiful hues of reds and oranges, the spice storm painting it in such a dazzling light –for just long enough.
You make a decision.
You head to the castle, cape dragging behind you.
After what felt like an eternity of travel, you reach the castle.
It looks even better up-close.
Intricate carvings from times long past. Times when the Great Destroyer was still,
A virtue.
You hear a noise coming from behind you.
It sounds a mix of a pained huff and an annoyed hiss.
“Star Anise Cookie.” A voice speaks, grabbing your shoulder with a grip that could shatter even the toughest of dough.
“Who is it?” You inquire, not yet picking up on the cookie who has– ever so rudely –grabbed you.
“I think you know /exactly/ who.” The gruff voice responds, laughing with an oh-so-horrible laugh.
And there's a problem.
You /do/ know exactly who.
But by the witches you wish you didn't.
“Burning Spice Cookie..?” You speak apprehensively, like any wrong word could trigger an unspoken rage.
And frankly,
It can.
The voice– sorry, – The Beast laughs again, that horrid, milk curdling laugh.
“Correct.” The harsh voice speaks with a tone so conclusive, so final. That anyone smart would not dare to talk back.
But who the fuck said you were smart?
You turn, looking the much larger man in the eyes. “You gonna take your hand off me or do you want to keep it there, big guy?”
He looks horribly taken aback, hand releasing off you instantly.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”
“Whatever you want it to~.” You spoke like a cookie much less afraid of the literal god standing infront of you than you are.
He looks infuriated.
You laugh, resting a gloved hand on his back– or –as high up his back as someone nearly half his size could.
“Get that fucking hand off me before I rip it off.” He hisses, anger seeping into his voice like a disease.
“Alright alright geez, touchy much?” You remove your hand from his back.