Scrooge Novels & Stories

The_real_prince_charming GEEZ, I AM SORRY THAT I AM SO AWESOME THAT YOU FIND IT DISTRACTING. Chloe_awesome_scott FOR THE LAST TIME, YOU ANNOYING SOB! I NEED SOB! The_real_prince_charming ... YOU NEED SONS OF BEACHES? Chloe_awesome_scott DAMN, TYPO! I NEED ANSWERS! AND, BTW, IN YOUR CASE SOB MEANS SON OF A BISCUIT! The_real_prince_charming UM...HOW SWEET...I AM NOT SURE WE CAN MAKE MORE SONS OF BISCUIT THOUGH.

Sandra Ashbourne “Empty this entire jug of fire-wine right now, and my pack will cover your daily silver coin f*e,” drawls a greasy older wolf sitting on the stone bench. He is Gage Slater, the second uncle of Sade Wintermere. Every rogue in Myhill CrestHALL knows his foul scent because he is the most disgusting predator in the territory. He is hideous, hated by the goddess, yet he uses his high elder status to bully young females.

“Sir, the opening bid is strictly fixed at ten-” “I know exactly what the opening bid is, lady,” Anthony Scarfo barks, erupting into a loud, mocking laugh that echoes off the gilded ceiling. He gestures carelessly toward the screen. “But that rusty piece of garbage metal isn't worth a dime of that. But hey, since it’s a charity event, I’ll be generous and offer you a hundred bucks for the scrap.”

Scar sits up, realizing her trick failed, she starts bargaining, “Give me a good reason why I have to do it.” “You are giving him two billion dollars, and you don’t even want a thank you from him?” Silco answers with a question. “Nope, I’m THAT generous,” Scar fakes a smile. Silco laughs at her capricious tantrum, teasing: “Well, I’m not. I want my money spent with the beneficiary acknowledging it.” “I’ll acknowledge it!” Scar pleas, “You are doing this for me, no?” “Okay,” Silco complies with her plea, smirking: “So you are saying, it’s YOU who wants to save Sebastian Knight, not me?”

"Didn't know she would murder my parents? Didn't know she would steal my entire legacy? Or didn't know she would humiliate me in front of the world?" Clark was speechless. "Or," I continued, "did you know all along and just chose to look the other way?" "No! I really didn't know—" "Then what about this?" I turned my back to him and unfastened the top of my tunic. A gruesome scar ran from my left shoulder to my right hip. The eclipse curse had turned it a sickly silver-black, and it still seemed to writhe slowly, eating away at my life force. Clark's breath hitched.

This big, burly, viking god of a biker blushes. “Oh, when I saw you, when you were brought in. Your knuckles were scraped and bleeding. I knew you hit back. Hence the name Scrapper. But if you don’t like it, I can …” “Oh no, no, Scrapper is fine. Kind of like a cool nickname.” I say with a giggle. I fucking giggled. What is wrong with me? I never giggle. This man is making me turn into a sap.

“Johnny get your wrinkly self over here, your stupid bell is not working again!” Icahbod frowed. “Is a woman bearing the name Johnny in this century?” “No, why would you ask that?” “You said we were coming to meet a woman.” “Oh yea, he is the one who will bring her to us, she is his daughter but you have to see the father first.” “Oh, ok.” Minutes later, Ichabod could hear a swift movement behind the shelves and out came a short man in a black tail coat and a large hat which made him look like all those wizards you see in movies like Harry Potter.

In this wooden chair, restrained at my neck, hands and ankles I could only squirm at his touch. He leaned in close, his bald head a patina of orange and shadow. His grey suit could not dampen the excitement in his mossy eyes. Austin, the blue of his shirt matching his eyes. Icebergs of venom, shining malevolently with every injury. Silently he picked up the scraper, happy with its white-hot glow, so hot that some sparks fell to the floor. “This is so hot it’s falling apart, the metal is literally going to stick to your face, burning to the bone,” waving the scraper around, slowly emphasising its impending failure. “No wolf can heal that shit. This is your last chance Roxie. Summon the demon.

Reuben Vance stepped across the threshold. They called him "Rooster," though no one was stupid enough to say it to his face unless they wanted a tooth knocked through their lip. He got the name from the jagged scar running from the corner of his left eye down to his collarbone—a violent, angry streak of pale skin that pulled his mouth into a perpetual sneer, like a cock’s comb frozen in mid-snarl. He wore a heavy wool coat soaked through with river mist, smelling of damp dog, black powder, and cheap tobacco. He didn't wipe his feet. He just stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, his yellow-amber eyes sweeping over the quiet room before settling squarely on me.

It was in an open circle in front of a huge tree trunk that was covered in vines shaped like hands reaching out hungrily toward them. Scar tried not to look around at the faces of the goblins gathered there, instead keeping her head high and staring straight ahead. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear or her sadness. The gentle morning breeze carried the scent of flowers, and she breathed it in, trying to keep her heart from running out of her chest.