#dark fae kill code

[sourtomatola]

Finally got this sucker out! 5200 words! Chapter summery:

Dinner time! Can Eclipse be trusted? Can you be trusted? CAN I BE TRUSTED?! Eat up :)

[catcr4ft]

Lucien’s Pokémon team would be mostly comprised of fire types… and a surprising amount of dark types, as well as like (1) fairy (the fairy is tied to her character arc) her ace is def hisuian typlosion, she has a volcarona, a liepard, maybe a small fire or dark type and a glass canon/powerful sweeper pokemon

[peachesofteal]

Which Witch

Painting by Joseph Tomanek Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story. Part 1 - Part 2 here John "Soap" MacTavish/witch!reader 13k words - AO3 You do not need to read Mermaids to enjoy this fic, but it exists in the same world and for the full experience, I do recommend it. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Mature and dark themes. Fae!AU. Brief blink of smut. Blood Magic. Fae Magic. Violence. Killing. Human Sacrifice. Angst. Tenderness. Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny presses the heel of his boot into the cheek of the being on the ground, his eyes glazed with a vacancy he has seen more times than he cares to count, or remember, the bleakness of his irises meaning only one thing: the end of their life.

“Was it worth it to ye?” he spits, and the male shudders beneath his sole, twisting pathetically, a half attempt at getting away. Blood sputters and pools, lamely leaking from his body, drenching the air in an earth rich scent.

It does not matter, there is not where for him to go, nowhere for him to flee. He will be lost to the 141, just as almost every other being is this castle has.

The echo of his brother’s power, Gaz’s light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnny’s spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.

“Where’s Ghost?” Kyle’s voice booms across the distance, and Johnny jerks his head northward, to where Simon is ransacking the library like a madman.

He is a madman, Johnny thinks, shaking his head, didn’t even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books. 

He cannot fault him, his brother is a being possessed, tortured by his own heart, a heart that beats for a creature that does not even know he exists. He is miserable, and brutish, and half the time almost unbearable to be around, and Johnny really, really hopes it all comes to an end soon.

The being beneath Johnny’s heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.

“Mercenaries.” He snarls, and Johnny can feel him trying to pull a sliver of power, a desperate and feeble attempt that fails before he chokes again. “That’s all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.” Gaz rolls his eyes in a dramatic motion, rotating his neck before a dagger born from the shimmer of suns materializes in his hand, and the male on the floor whines in fear.

“Yes, yes.” Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the being’s neck, right below where his pulse hammers. It sears his skin, burning away at the flesh slowly, filling the air between them with putrid smoke, the smell of incinerating sinew stinging in Johnny’s nostrils. “But how are we so different from you, then?”

“I don’t kill for money.” 

“Just for sport.” Johnny follows up drily, and the male has no argument. His fighting rings are known throughout the realm. In the closest town over, one can make a fair amount of profit, or lose their freedom, if you knew where to look.

“As if you’re so appalled by it, MacTavish.” The being hisses, and Johnny stills. His power thrums in his blood, reacting to tense state of his body, churning in his mind, ready to strike. Chaos readies itself, pulsing deep, ready to blow this entire castle to the Netherworlds. “I know where ya’re from. I’ve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with it’s-“ Johnny’s magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the being’s own celestial connections and shredding them to pieces. The magic and rage combined electrifies Johnny, filling him with a heady power that pulses in every pore, every neuron existing in his body, and it’s a well fought effort to shove it down, to not give into the intoxicating feeling of the craze, the lust for battle and blood. He pulls and pulls the threads from the being’s crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until he’s nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.

“Shite.” Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. There’s not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnny’s magic, dark red rivers seeping across the polished stone floor. Gaz chuckles darkly.

A ripple of power echoes towards them, and at the end of it, Price looms, arms crossed, mouth turned down in a huff of irritation.

“Job’s done then?” He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gaz’s dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before it’s swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.

“Simon’s finishing up the last bit.”

The three of them venture towards the library, a massive room with ceilings that stretch towards the moons, and shelves built from top to bottom. There are books of every kind here, books from every realm, even. Grimoires, from the witches in the mortal realm, and lost texts from its human inhabitants. Heavy volumes of history from the Netherworlds, sacred texts from a faraway realm that only Simon has been to. Books bound in human skin, books bound with being skin, books that only appear to those they choose. Books that possess their own spells, even if they’re not inherently magic. Books that contain the ability to give any being a gift, so long as they are willing to receive it. Johnny breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of leather and paper, papyrus, and cloth, holding onto it for as long as possible before his lungs deflate with a whoosh. The taste settles on his tongue, and he tamps down the urge to start pulling volumes towards himself, eager to flick through them and devour what lies between their pages. He craves it, the knowledge, the magic that sits sleeping in this room. The bedlam that swirls in his bloodstream melds with his desire for new puzzles, new knowledge, and it creates a double-edged sword that only his brothers seem to understand. Maybe it’s because of his mum, and the deep, ravenous love of books that she had and instilled in him, the balance of his love for chaos and his love for puzzles lending well to learning, or maybe it’s because he’s lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on. 

This is where they find Simon. He’s got a female sorceress of some kind, the one they were looking for in the first place, kneeling, in the middle of the room, arms pressed down to her sides, her eyes wild with fear. Johnny can smell it from here, the rank stench of her terror, the scent of her dread as the being in front of her walks in a tight circle, his eyes fixed on her quivering form.

“I cannot perform it.” She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like he’s tired, or exasperated. “That magic, it’s not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-“ she sobs, and her desperation tugs at Johnny, just a bit, even though his sympathy is slim for this creature who cries pitifully in front of her soon to be executor.

“Simon.” Price intones from where he stands, a distance away, and her eyes flash to him, relief scrawling across her features as she mistakes John for one who may be kind to her, for a being who may help her.

She doesn’t know, that they know. That they’re fully aware, of the terrible things she’s done for the once ruler of this land, that they know the extent of her cruelty, her thirst for blood and pain.

Price crouches in front of where she sits on her knees, and cups her face between his palms, rubbing a placating thumb across her cheekbone.

“Tell us, love.” He encourages. “Tell us about the song. And perhaps, we’ll let you go.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t know that, and it’s painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.

“It’s blood magic.” She croaks. “The only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.” Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. “There are few who still practice it.”

“Where?” Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.

“In the mortal realm.” Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simon’s power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. “There is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. She’s a witch, that-” She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long they’d been practicing. She gave and gave, until there was nothing left to say, and then she stared up at Price, with wistful hope on her face.

Hope, that dies, as she feels the slipknot of Simon’s power, twisting with torsion around her neck.

“No, no. You said… you said you’d let me go!” She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He can’t help but correct her.

“Is that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That you’d let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?”

“I wa-was only doing what I was told.” She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. “Please!” Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but it’s pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. “Please… plea- please.” She moans, fragments of her life slipping through their fingers as it drains away, her body growing limp and her existence becoming futile by the moment. “I- ‘m sorry.” She tries, but it’s far too late now.

It's far too late.

The tavern is packed. Every one and thing inside gives them a wide berth, their eyes jumping from Simon, who walks in front, dark gaze glaring from behind the skull mask and hood he dons in public, to Price, who casually strolls behind him, hand in one pocket, the other swinging by his side, free and available, should quick intervention be needed. Gaz stands at the bar, flirting with a striking female who is leaning towards him, her lips parting to reveal shiny, sharp golden teeth.

That’s odd. What’s a Harpy doing all the way out ‘ere? If Gaz is taken aback, he hides it well, instead slipping her a note that more than covers the cost of a round, and then points at the table where they’ve settled.

“Bit out o’ place.” Price comments, and Simon grunts.

“It’s curious.” He agrees, and they all track Gaz on his way back, watching him until he plants himself on the bench, casual grimace lining his lips.

Simon shifts restlessly, and they all can feel the hot singe of his power, the frustration lurking in the air. Waiting as he hedges.

“If it’s true-“

“At what cost?” Price cuts him off. They hold a silent conversation with their eyes, arguments and counters flowing back and forth between them. Price is the natural voice of reason; he’ll convince him it’s a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnny’s mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness? 

Johnny was no fool, he’s seen the change in Simon, year after year. His fear and confusion, anger and dread starting to seep from his skin, coloring everything around them, affecting them all in different ways. His Nereid was at the end of her rope, and so was Simon.

“All I want, is a chance, Johnny. A chance to know her, without standing in the shadow, for her to know me. To hold her, to tell her she’s not alone.” He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. “I love her. I cannot give her up, I won’t allow her to die.” 

He had returned to their realm frantic, distress wracking his body, seizing his power and twisting it until it nearly suffocated all of them where they stood. It took hours for Johnny to calm him, to get him to explain what had happened, for him to realize why Simon had been so distraught. His Nereid had nearly failed her task, botched her own hunt, and Simon almost stole her away in a moment of blind panic, without even stopping to consider that she might die as soon as steps foot in Faerie. 

“What you’re asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, it’s-“ 

“I’m not asking. I’d never ask this of you.” He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnny’s head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power. 

“Do ye truly believe we’d leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?” 

“It is not merely a year, Johnny. It could be two, or three, or one hundred. I cannot take her until I know how to sustain her, and we’re still not closer to the answer.” 

“I’m with ye Simon. Just as you’ve been with me through difficult times. I won’t turn my back now.” 

“And neither will I.” Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side. 

“Sign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.” Gaz gives them an impish grin, flourishing a set of light daggers and then lowering himself in a mock bow, an ode to his bloodline and ridiculous family. Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he watches how Simon’s shoulders ease, how he releases the breath he’s been holding, before giving them all a nod. 

“I will go.” Johnny declares, and Simon’s eyes crinkle with relief. The sooner we get this all done, the sooner we can return home for good. Johnny was tired. They had been in the mortal realm for nearly a decade, coming back to Faerie now and then when something needed attending or when Simon had a lead. And now, with Simon desperately searching for the final piece of the puzzle, the end of all this finally felt close enough to taste. The only thing left outstanding was, how to get his blood to sing the Nereid’s song.

“I fancy a field trip myself.” Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. “Could use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.”

“Or Las Almas.” Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.

“I liked Las Almas.”

“You just like Ale and Rudy.” Gaz ribs him, and Johnny laughs full throated. He did a soft spot for the two Vaqueros. They were smart, cunning humans who excelled in battle and cared for their community. Rare traits to find amongst the greedy, swamp like mortals that mostly roam their world. He respected them.

“Aye.” He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.

“Very well. We will go together then.” Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.

“Together.”

“It’s not optional anymore.” Your aunt’s voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. “Your coven is your family.” She prattles on, unaware you’ve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.

“She’s nuts.” You mouth to Jet, who weaves between your legs before hopping up in front of you, rubbing her face against your fingers, seeking a scratch behind her ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.

“You need to spend time with your coven. You can’t spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.” Why not? You don’t say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesn’t understand. You have a deep affection, a pure love for your connection to your power, for your magic, but that love did not extend to your coven, who were mostly still stuck in the darkest ages of time, who’s desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you don’t respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. “You must perform your duties. You’ll be expected on Samhain.”

And then the line goes dead.

You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. You’re not sure. She is your familiar, but you don’t speak her language. You don’t know how she actually feels.

But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do.  

“I know, I know.” You give her another rub of your fingertips under her chin before pulling the stack of books towards you and carrying them through the back to the front of the shop.

Your day passes quietly. Mortals come and go, browsing the books in the front room, some choosing to stay and settle in the armchairs or the nooks with plush cushions, curled up with their selections for hours. There are places to tuck away here, corners between shelves where you could allow yourself to get lost in another world if you wanted, with no one to disturb or bother you, except maybe Jet. The black cat patrols the front room with high scrutiny, jumping to and from different heights while she ensures nothing is amiss in her domain.

You keep yourself busy with your daily tasks, organizing, counting, compiling, all while trying not think too much about the demand of your presence at Samhain.

You don’t want to go.

But you also don’t think you’ll be able to get out of it. You had already managed to dodge Lughnasa, and a fully body shudder rips through you when you recall the efforts of matchmaking that were done on your behalf before the festival had even started.

Not like anyone wanted to be matched with you to begin with. Not when there were effortless beauties by the dozen, witches and warlocks waiting with bated breath to be paired together.

Crazy, evil old hags. Crazier than the full moon herself. 

By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and you’ve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you don’t want the general public to see, ancient books bound with skin, grimoires with spells to summon demons, to kill lovers, to resurrect children. Books with magic of blood and bone, written by ancient witches from your own coven. Stories that come and go as they please. Stories of gods and monsters. Books that could open doors. Books that could trap you beyond those doors, forever. Banned books, by some’s standards.

Books you’re really not supposed to have but can’t help but collect. Your desire to absorb it all, learn it all unyielding, no matter how much information you consume, and it's become more than your livelihood now. The bookstore has become a place where others can come if they need something that their coven cannot provide, a place a witch can find a spell that’s long been forgotten, a place where answers can be found, if you knew where to look.

A safe place, for yourself, and for others.

A dangerous place, to some, and a dangerous place to you, at times. A place that made you known in magical communities, a place where you could be found.

And to your coven, nothing was worse.

Secret practitioners of blood magic, they were extremely closed off to outsiders. They stone walled others, refused friendships in magical society, kept to themselves as much as possible. It was their tradition, the only way they could survive and continue their practice, their devotion to blood, water and bone keeping them alive longer than others, keeping them young and fair when their counterparts aged and withered, kept them practicing for the entirety of their long lives.

And who would want to give that up? 

You hadn’t been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadn’t asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your aunt’s hands at a young age, where you learned all too quickly that your magic was different from other young witches, that you had been blessed with your coven’s ultimate gift.

Blood spinning.

Jet meows, leaping from the floor to the table to sit in front of you on her haunches, jet black fur shining under the dancing light of the candles. There are no lamps in this room, the bulbs too bright or too offensive for the books, some who’s pages don’t even show themselves unless they’re lit by magic.

You keep the flames in here lit by your power, day in and day out. Wax drips onto the mantle that sits over the fireplace, forming sand like castles on the wooden beam as the candles burn, staying in perfect stasis while the flames never go out. 

You cast your magic out, just slightly, enough to straighten a shelf that was haphazardly arranged earlier, and then you wave a finger over a flame, just enough that it lightly heats your skin.

Fucking Samhain. 

You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after today’s conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.

Don’t these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? That’s when the Others get through. 

You shiver.

You’re just about to ask Jet what she wants for dinner before you lock up when you hear a clattering smack, the sound of the broom that always stands so astute by the front door falling to floor, and your blood freezes in your veins.

Jet hisses.

Company’s coming. 

“Hello?” A male voice calls, accent unusual to your ears, ricocheting past the shelves to where you sit in the back, hunched over a dusty tome. “Is anyone here?”

“I am!” You yell, standing up too fast, knocking into the heavy wooden table with your hip and letting out a hiss of air through your lips. Ow. Shit. That’s going to bruise. “I’m here, sorry.” You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.

Oh.

Fuck. 

There is a beautiful man standing in the front of the bookstore. A stunningly gorgeous, perfectly formed human being with crystalline blue eyes and a smile that practically beams. His hair is cut into a mohawk, a unique style that you don’t see too often, and his eyes glimmer with something mischievous, something wild. His bone structure reminiscent of the gods you grew up learning about, his face open, and handsome, watching you from where he stands, bolts of setting sunlight streaming in from the glass door behind him, framing him in the orange and pink goodness of dusk.

Just looking at him sets your body alight.

“H-hello.” Gods.. Get it together. It's just a guy. You've see plenty of mortal men before. His lips quirk, and you try not to look too closely at them, their sweet shape, perfectly pressed together while he cocks his head.

“Hello.” Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a book.” He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.

“Well, this is a good place to do that.” Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you can’t. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesn’t seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.

“It’s well… it’s a rare book.”

“Oh?”

“And I’ve been told, you’re a purveyor of such rare and curious books.” Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.

“I… have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what you’re looking for?”

“It’s a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.” You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?

“I don’t have anything that old here.” The lie slips through your teeth with ease.

“Oh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room an’ everything.” Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.

Magic. There’s magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like it’s waiting for something, waiting to strike.

Is it his?

Like he can sense it, he tenses for a split second before relaxing, and offering you his hand.

“I’m Johnny.” You stare at his waiting gesture, poised on the edge of a decision, uncertainty hanging in the balance.

Something is different here.

 Something is strange. 

But the way he looks at you, like he’s really looking at you, seeing you, noticing you, soothes the wariness in your mind, the strong beating of your heart drowning out your more cautious nature.

Still, you’re not one to give your birth given name to anyone outside the coven, whether they be friend or foe.

You've seen someone learn that lesson first hand. 

“My friends call me Fern.” It’s not a lie, your friends, what little you still had, do call you Fern. Have called you Fern ever since you were all children, when you were more interested in laying on your back in the woods and staring at the clouds through the trees, then you were learning basic spells at anyone’s house. Strange, they used to call you. Odd. Weird. Their parents, bless them, had instructed their children not to be cruel to you, but the nickname had persisted, and then stuck, until it was what you were calling yourself all through Uni and afterwards.

“Fern.” He echoes, a ripple of something you cannot name crossing his face before it smooths, and he releases your hand while giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s lovely to meet you.” The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. You’re staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like you’re in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before he’s clearing his throat and you’re blinking yourself free.

Odd. Your brain warns.

Enchanting. Your heart sings.

“Sorry, I uh. Don’t have your book.”

“It’s alright. Mind if I had a look around?”

“Sure!” you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.

Calm down. He’s not here for you. He’s here for a book. 

You try not to track his every move as he browses, instead staring at the blank computer screen at the front check out desk, clicking the mouse intermittently and shuffling some papers back and forth mindlessly while you sneak a look every now and then.

He’s fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You can’t help but stare when he reaches for a higher shelf, and his shirt rides up to expose a flash of his midriff, honey cream skin on full display that makes your mouth water, just a bit.

Jet meows loudly, and then makes an exaggerated point of licking her paw, pointing it in the direction of the clock that hangs over the door.

Welp. 

“I’m actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-“

“Sorry to keep ye.” He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.

“Oh, you’re not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.” You don’t know why exactly, but it feels like you’re stalling him. Like you don’t want him to leave. Jet jumps from the floor to the shelf behind you, and she growls as the man, Johnny, who takes a step away from the book he’s studying towards you. “Jet!” you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.

“Smart, locking up, cannae be too sure about what’s lurking out there.” He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.

“Uh, I do have some rarities, if that… if that’s something you’d like to come back and see.” What? What did you just say? Did you really just- 

Johnny visibly brightens, like you’ve made his day. Like you’ve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until it’s beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.

He tells you he’ll come back then, that he’d like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.

What the fuck was that? 

Two days later, the bells that hang from the front door jangle and chime to announce his arrival, and the butterflies swirl in your stomach as you walk up front.

“Good evening.” He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. “It’s Foxglove? Or… Sage?” Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. “You’re named after a plant, right?”

“It’s Fern.” You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.

“My apologies, Fern.” He does not hide the way his eyes trace you up and down, from your black boots to where your two times two big, button-down shirt is parted to reveal your clavicle. “Are ye well?” He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.

“Y-yes. Thanks. Yourself?”

“Aye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets you’re keeping.” He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?

“I uh. Yeah, well. Let’s… it’s this way.” You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like you’ve amused him.

You pull your magic under the current of the atmosphere in the hallway to wrap around the lock and spring it free, allowing the door to open before the two of you and step inside. The room itself is a marvel, deep burgundy walls with more floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a giant table in the middle, it’s top carved from an ash tree far older than you. The candles dance in your presence, and you feed the wicks just a small sampling of magic, allowing them to gradually brighten so Johnny can see better. Mortal’s eyes were not known for being so sharp. 

“And these are all…?”

“Varying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.” You laugh, but he doesn’t, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. “I’ve got some… old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.”

Definitely a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“When people thought witches were real?” He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.

“Yeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.” You try to play it off but can’t escape his gaze, can’t escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.

“And you’re usually in the habit of lying to customers?” You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. “I can feel you.” He explains, like it’s normal, or natural. Like you’re both speaking the same language. “Can feel ye from across the street, actually. Didn’t know little plants could hold so much magic.” He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.

“I-“ you start, but abruptly stop when words fail you, and your chest tightens with panic. You internally scream at yourself, the strange feelings from when he first stepped foot in the shop coming back to haunt you, to teach you a lesson.

“Hey, hey.” He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. “It’s alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.” The way he says your nickname feels like a bite, like a mark against your skin, the word singed with some sort of magic, something flavorless that you cannot taste, yet you know it’s there all the same. You realize he’s staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.

“What are you?” you challenge, and his lips twist.

“I’m no threat to ye.”

“Sounds like what someone who is a threat would say.”

“I promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.” A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. It’s an old term, one used to describe those born into magical families without marginal power. Wielding witches or warlocks usually have enough magic in them to cast minimal impact spells, some charms and enchantments, things of little consequence. “I ah, work in the military. I don’t practice.” He admits, and that takes you by surprise.

“The military?”

“Aye.” An impish grin splits across his face. “I like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. We’re on leave right now, but. That’s usually what I’m doing.” That’s different. Magical beings usually stay far away from things like government, or military. Easier to remain undetected that way, and it was fairly known that mortals were left to their own affairs, without magical interference. You find yourself asking the question before you can smack your lips shut.

“But, your family must-“ not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? You’re not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.

“My mum’s gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.” Oh.

“I’m sorry.” Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, happened a long time ago.”

“I shouldn’t have-“

“Fern.” He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. “It’s alright, I promise.” You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before he’s speaking again. “What is this?” He’s pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.

“That’s a grimoire.”

“It looks… old. Like it’s seen better days.”

“It is, and it has.” You don’t elaborate, because you don’t know if you should, or even if you want to.

“Where’s it from?” He pushes.

“Here. It’s uh… from my coven. From a very long time ago.”

“You lot been around a long time?”

“You could say that.” You could say that’s an understatement. There were only a handful of old covens left in the world, ancient powers that slept beneath the skin of their witches, only growing stronger and stronger through their lengthy history and connection to the earth. Dangerous.

He continues on with his inquiries, and you give him as much information as you can, pulling books from their resting places and cracking them wide for his eyes, pointing out little things of interest here and there while he stands in awe, time ticking away until the clock in the hall is chiming for ten pm, and he’s apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.

“You’re not keeping me.” You assure him. “I live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.” You laugh.

“Well, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are… special. I’m grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.” He makes your head spin, with how earnest he is, how easy and honest he confesses such things to you. It makes your knees feel weak, makes your throat feel dry.

“Of course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, I’m here.” You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize he’s going to leave now, the knowledge that he’ll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.

“I ah… was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?” You don’t even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him? 

“Yeah!” you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry so… dinner would be great.”

“Know any good spots around?”

“Uh, yeah there’s a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?”

“Sure.” He agrees, and then steps outside to wait for you while you lock everything up.

Jet complains the entire time, loudly, and you try to shush her multiple times.

“Oh, stop!” you scold over her meows. “It’s just dinner. He’s nice.” She watches you with keen eyes, green spheres that probably know far more than you, before slinking off to the stairs in the back, taking herself up to the flat. “Goodnight then!” You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.

Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.

“I lost my parents too.” You tell him one night, a week later. He’s met you after closing, in a park where you like to walk sometimes, and the two of you slowly stroll along the walking path as you trade questions and answers about one another’s lives. It’s somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green space’s center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. “I uh, didn’t want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.

“Thanks, I was young. There’s not much I remember about it.” Mostly true. You really didn’t know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your mother’s life. The spell that ended your father’s. All buried deep in your heart, untouched. Unvisited. You both lapse into silence, and you fight the awkwardness by posing a question, hoping to change the subject without being too obvious.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“I’ve got one sister, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And then, my brothers, who aren’t mine by blood but by we’ve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. We’re… very bonded.”

“That’s sweet.” His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you. 

“Sweet isn’t what I’d call them, but it’s something.”

“They’re like your family then?”

“Aye. Closest some of us ‘ll ever get.” There’s a pang of something in your heart at that, the idea that Johnny has both blood and love, people who have chosen him, who love him. You’ve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. “Look, there. It's you.” He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. “Little plant.” He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.

“Piss off.” You elbow him playfully, trying to push away, and he grabs you, pulling you into his side with a firm grip, half holding you to him in an embrace as he chuckles and rubs your shoulder affectionately.

“Sorry, little shrub.”

“What are ye doing for Samhain?” He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.

“There’s a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.” You tease.

“Nude?” he smirks, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume you’re shelving.

“No, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.” You don’t mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. “We drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. There’s also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.” He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. “Would you… would you like to come?” Why not? It’s not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. He’s quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like he’s reading it. He’s silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isn’t what you thought it might be. Maybe he’s-

“I would be happy to.”

“Be watchful of the féth fíada.” The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. “Something else is in these woods tonight.” You give your beverage to Johnny and then take the second mug from her, before leading him away, down the hill and closer to the fires.

“What’s the féth fíada?”

“It’s the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises but…” You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. “We, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.” You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.

“The Others?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. That’s what we call them. The Fae.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Thought the Fae were a myth.” You laugh and turn to face him.

“I assure you, they’re very real.”

“Oh? Have ye encountered one then?” You shudder, like you’re cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.

“Once. When I was a child.” He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like he’s looking for something. Like he’s seeing.

“Were ye hurt, Fern?” Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your mother’s screams ring in between your ears.

“No.” Someone lights a new pyre a second after your denial, orange embers leaping into the night sky with grace, and it draws your attention enough to distract the both of you. “Come on.” You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. “Dance with me?” You ask him breathlessly, emboldened by the sniff of fire whiskey that sits in your cup and he smiles before draping an around your waist and pulling you close to his body.

“I’d like nothing more.”

Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didn’t know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches.  

“You’re beautiful, little witch.” He whispers against your ear, words soft and saccharine, floating on the warm air around you as you sway together in time to the music. His hand cups your jaw gently, tilting your chin upwards until you’re both looking at one another, his blue eyes alight with the reflection of the bonfire behind you, lovely and bright, burning down into your soul like a love spell. “I’d like to kiss ye, Fern.” He murmurs, voice strained and tinged with an accent you cannot place, and you blink while your heart rockets off at superspeed, sending blood buzzing with excited magic through your veins.

“Okay.” You murmur, and he smiles at you like you’re the most stunning creature he’s ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.

It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be. You’ve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. There’s an explosion inside of you when his mouth meets yours, the gentle coaxing of the way he holds you melting you into a boneless heap while you breathe him in, his scent practically transporting you to another world, a mossy, emerald-green wood with lush plant life and giant ferns that blanket the forest floor. The feel of him, of whatever this is, mixed with your magic and the magic in the air is a powerful elixir, one that seems to make the world tilt where you stand, gravity disappearing and your body pressing into his as a result. The closer you get, the more you can feel something in him, something strong, something powerful, lurking in the shadow of this moment, waiting. Watching. He tastes like oak and dew dropped grass, earthy and rich and magical, everything wrapping up into one as you practically go limp in his arms when he parts your lips with his tongue and sweeps inside.

When he pulls away he’s still holding you steady, while you stare at him wordlessly, smile tugging at your lips. The world feels quiet, like everything has all but died down, like mostly everyone has left except for you, and him. A second stretches on for a minute, for an hour, and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, your magic arcing wildly through the night sky, snapping and hissing with the overflow of your emotions. You never want this to end. You want this to last forever... you want him in more ways than you've ever known. You want-

"Fern! Fern!" Someone's calling you, over the noise of the night, and you reluctantly step back, realizing it’s your aunt’s voice carrying over the music and revelry.

“I… I have to…” You nod in her direction, where she stands beyond the pyre, at the seam of the forest, sealed mason jar of something in her hands.  

“Of course.” He answers immediately, and takes your hand in his, folding his fingers between yours and petting his thumb over your knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, carding his lips over your skin with a gentle kiss, before giving your hand a squeeze and relaxing his grip. “I’ll see ye soon?”

“Y-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?” Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but don’t release him, and it’s not until he’s asking you if you’re alright that you realize you’re clutching to him too tightly. Like he’s a lifeline. Like he could save you from this. His free hand moves into your line of sight, and then he strokes a finger across your cheek, eyes worried, face creased with concern. “Fern? What is it?” 

“Nothing. I… I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday.” He opens his mouth to speak but you’re already pulling away, releasing him and bringing the cowl of your hood up over your hair, slipping into the crowd without another word.

You stumble around the dancing and celebrating until you break through and reach the tree line, your aunt and another standing in their ceremonial black robes. You swallow a gasp when you see the jar, it’s clear liquid a tell-tale sign of what’s to come.

Divination.

Your aunt’s lips purse when she sees you.

“Are you ready?” No. No, no. Please don’t make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, you’re not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you don’t want this. You don’t want to do this. This is not what you were meant for, you know it in your heart. You do not want to hurt; you were not meant for harm. “Fern.” Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.

“Yes.”

You lay still for days, after. Unable to sleep, your eyes never close, your mind never settles, the adrenaline crystalizing in your bones as you drag yourself back and forth from your bathroom to bed, over and over.

You wash hands hundreds of times, but you still see the blood stains on your palms, under your nails, splattered up to your elbows.

Your power burns throughout you, magic heating the air with fervor and thrall, chanting voices culminating around you as you seek the vessels in his body and pull, drawing each drop through him and into yourself, ruby ichor spouting from his mouth like a furious volcano, blood dripping from his lips like the hallowed tears of the old gods. It’s everywhere, on your hands, your arms, your face, your neck, the earth. You imbue it with power, pushing your connections with the roots beneath the soil upwards, into the blood while the breeze sizzles and shatters, mist gathering around your ankles like shackles meant to drag you below. 

 You close your eyes thousands of times, but you still see the face of the man, still see his fear, still hear his pleas, his screams, his cries for mercy as you bleed him dry, scrying for the future with the litres of his blood.

The visions come quickly, splintering through your head with a sharpness that hurts, and you cry out amidst the pain, your mind being ripped into pieces as you scream. There are hands on you, arms cloaked in dark robes, holding you up, holding you steady while your magic vibrates through the ground and into your bones, filling your sight with the future. Clips of death, birth, tragedy echo behind your closed lids, the mineral scent of blood filling your nostrils until you think it will be burned there permanently. 

Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face. 

Your cries join the reprise of the man who sits dying at your feet, the force of his life draining through your magic, bending and weaving with the power from the earth and your own blood until he’s nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it. 

The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days. 

The elders extract the ones that pertain to them from your mind through their own spell, the process nearly as painful as the Divining itself. They hold you down to the ground to get what they want, pinning your shoulders with a bruising grip, cutting your skin to smear their fingers in your blood, holding your head still as you thrash. Their hands hurt. You will wear their marks for weeks. 

Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises. 

No one calls. No one comes. 

You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that you’ll never know. Places you’ll only ever read about in books Places that you’ll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams. 

Your brain fractures into tiny little pieces. Your own understanding becomes non sensical.

You become lost between planes. Lost in your own mind. Lost to the Divination. 

Jet never leaves your side. The shop stays shuttered, as it does every year after Samhain, no one coming or going, your lone employee enjoying her annual week after Halloween vacation.

Eventually your eyes close. You sleep fitfully. You dream of the visions, the screams, the sacrifice.

Finally, you regain enough strength to weave a weak spell that helps quiet your mind, and then you truly rest, for the first time in days. You rest, and you sleep until Thursday afternoon, when there’s a rapping against your door.

Johnny.

“Hey little sprout, what’s-“ the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. “Fern.” He whispers.

“Hi.” You know how you appear. Strung out, most likely. Battered. Exhausted. Bruised. You try to fix the top of the knit shawl that you have draped over your shoulders, but it’s far too late. He’s already seen.

“What… what’s happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” You try to play it off but it’s pointless now.

“Who did this?” The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looks… different, something primordial reflecting in his gaze, something ominous etched in the lines of his face. The question holds a promise of violence, of punishment, and being so close to him in this moment makes your head spin. It makes you feel like the very fabric of this world is tearing apart, ripping to pieces around you as he stands there, an otherworldly feeling swirling in the air between your two bodies. It suffocates you, pushes you into the dark depths of waters that feel all too familiar, like the leftover scars on your mind from the Divination are being ripped wide open and plunging you back between celestial planes. 

“Johnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "it’s fine, I- I’m okay. It’s just… the aftermath. Of Samhain.” Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something that’s out of your control, tears caught in your throat. He stares at you, bewildered, a hand raised midair before it falls to his side in a fist, and he turns away. “Johnny?” He doesn’t respond, and you watch the smooth skin of his jaw flex and harden. He stares into the distance, across the street, into the sky.

Looking anywhere but you.

It’s because he can’t stand to see you. 

You look awful. 

You look monstrous. 

You are monstrous. 

“No one should ever touch ye like this.” He bites out, his knuckles tensing against the door frame. His eyes are angry, and wild, burning a hole into your clavicle, where your skin sits exposed, healing from a gash. You shift, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and then he snaps his gaze up to yours, face immediately softening, lips parting, expression rife with unease. With worry. “Are ye… are ye okay?”

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“If it’s too much, to have dinner-“

“No! N-no, no. I want… to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?” He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.

“I could go get a takeaway?” Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Alright.” He steps just a little closer, close enough for you to get a deep inhale of him, that woodsy, mossy, magical scent, and swoops down to land a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling your hand into his and bringing it to his lips, eyes slipping closed with a shuddering breath when he presses a kiss to your palm. “I’ll be right back. You'll be alright?”

“Yeah, 'm fine.”

He feeds you until you cannot eat anymore. He plies you with noodles of too many kinds, different cartons that overflow spread out on the coffee table, in front of where you sit curled up on the couch. You’re still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, you’re sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. It’s warm, and comforting, and you swear you can feel little zings of magic moving inside you, lulling you into a peaceful rest, cocooning you in hazy feelings of softness and safety.

Hours later, in the dark, lips press to your forehead. Your body curls against something warm, face flush against the steady thump of a heartbeat. Someone whispers in your ear.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

“Tell me about your magic.” He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when you’re finally back to your normal self, spending most of your time getting caught up on everything you let slip during your post Samhain recovery period.

Having Johnny around has seemed to help, somehow. He’s been here, every day since, like he’s unwilling to let you out of his sight, showing up in the mornings before you open the shop with a coffee and sweet, a baked treat that two of you usually split as you go about tidying things around the front room. He hovers, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin often, grasping your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm reverently throughout the day. You’re not sure how, or why, but it seems your magic and mind have taken to having him around, and you feel better, more well than you normally would during the Divination healing process, your head clear and wounds mostly mended.

“What about it?”

“There were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didn’t feel anyone quite like ye.” A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound… less insane.

“There aren’t any witches like me anymore, really.” You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. You’re both sitting on your flat’s back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. “I’m a blood spinner.” He gives you a confused look.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like… a special kind of witch, in my coven. We aren’t exactly… the most orthodox of our kind.”

“What do ye mean?” Ah, fuck. You chew on the inside of your cheek, hesitant to break your oath, to betray the promises you made to protect the secrets that rule your existence.

But it’s Johnny. 

And you trust him. 

“My coven… we’re blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and… such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. It’s generally taboo, now. There aren’t any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.”

“And what is a blood spinner?” At the same time as he poses his question, he taps his thigh meaningfully, and you rise from the chair that you were sitting in to lower yourself into his lap, edge of your dress sliding down your thigh when he tucks his arm under your knees. His palm skates up and down the back of your leg, and goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

“Every few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone who’s… connected.”

“Connected?”

“We rely heavily on our connection to the earth, and most of my coven cannot pull on those connections without casting some sort of spell. I can do it… naturally.” You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “I feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like they’re a part of me. During our walk the other week? I could feel the trees, breathing. Could feel the grass growing. Could hear the rapid heartbeats of the ducks in the pond. All without using a single spell. Using my magic is not something I have to cast for, like most others. I can just… do it.”

“I’m still not following.” Of course he’s not. Because you sound insane. 

“Right, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. It’s how they organize and harness their power, pushing the chaotic force of it into something that can contain it, regulate it, give it a purpose.”

“But not you.”

“No. If a witch in my coven wanted to, let’s say, cast a love spell, they’d need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but they’d still need one. They’d write it themselves or get it from someone else if they weren’t confident in their spell making. But I… could just do it. Could just manipulate the blood, enchant it with my own power. Straight from the source. No words. No chanting.”

“Just your power.”

“Yes.” You hesitate. Might as well, while you’re at it. “And, I can use blood to see the future.” He stiffens.

“Divination?” You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, “I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.” Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean? 

“They can’t. We’re not mortal.” His eyes narrow. 

“What?”

“My coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. “Not me, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m still my natural age.” You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.

“Well, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?” He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.

“Ye never have to ask.” He answers, and then seals his lips to yours, stealing your breath while his hand sinks into your hip, your body heating under his ministrations, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. He shifts you in one movement, so you’re straddling him, and you can feel the outline of his cock in his jeans beneath you, can feel the heaviness that sits there. You sink down, just slightly, enough that your clothed cunt barely rubs over him, the contact sending little electric shocks through your body, and you whimper into his mouth. “Fern.” He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece he’s willing to give. He groans, and your hands drift to his waist, a thumb tucking beneath his skin and the button of his jeans, desperate to touch, to feel, to have him… when his fingers encircle your wrist and pull you away. “We canna’ dove. It’s late.” He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.

Why doesn’t he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?   

He brings your palm to his lips, kissing you tenderly, and some of the bitterness leeches from your soul, your heart gentling it's disappointment, your dejection ebbing away on silken spun clouds. 

“Right. Of course.”

He sighs, like he’s bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.

“I’m sorry, sweet Fern. It’s not you, ah just… it’s late.” 

“That’s alright, I understand.” You hoist yourself off his lap, and he scratches his head, more so in a way that seems to be a nervous tic than a necessary action, and you shrug. He stands, body held in stasis halfway to you, arm extended like he wants to touch you, grab you, but he’s holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.

“Of course.” He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.

“Goodnight.” You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.

“You’ve mentioned… you ‘ave books about mermaids?” His fork digs through the container of noodles, lifting a perfect mouthful to his lips after the question, and you nod with your own mouth full of pad see ew.

“Sort of. They’re not really… mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.” You’re sitting opposite him upstairs, in the kitchen of your flat, with a window open, cool breeze flowing through your curtains. Your mind wanders to the ancient Greek text that sits on one of the shelves, it’s writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. “They’re different.”

“The Nereids.” He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. “The ones who lure mortals to their deaths?”

“You know of the Nereids?” He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues. 

“My mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.” You sigh into your wine glass. His fingers snake across the table and then up your forearm, tracing featherlight touches on the inside of your wrist.

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“No?”

“No.” You scoff. “Their magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. They’re naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.”

“So, it could be anyone.” He muses, and you shrug.

“Yeah. I’m sure it’s pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals… they’ve no idea. It’s not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.” Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost don’t catch it. “You didn’t know?” It wouldn’t surprise you. Not much is known about the Nereids. You only hold this knowledge because your coven is well informed, due to the length of their lives, and because you possess one of the few texts left that references them in such detail. Both you and your coven hold the truth of what lurks in the sea close to your hearts. Another secret to keep, another truth never to be borne.

But the wine has made your tongue loose and well, you can’t help but give him everything he wants, anything he’s asked. His eyes flash, and he cradles your hand in his, stroking across your palm with his thumb.

Your words flow so easily, so uninhabited.

It feels so free, so right.

“No. Had no idea.” He watches you carefully, dancing candlelight spinning shadows along the walls and across his face. He looks handsome as usual, but something in the way he regards you now feels different. Dangerous. Thrilling. Your thighs press together almost subconsciously, low whirring of need humming inside your body, and your fingers tighten on the stem of you glass as you continue.

“Yeah, they need them… to live. It’s very… complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.” You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. “It’s pretty sad. They fall in love with their victims for a night, and then harvest the organ and eat it before the sun comes up. It’s what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.” You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. “It all comes from the heart, you know?” You tap your own for reference, finger padding at the skin over your breastbone, over top where your heart beats just a little faster than normal.

“Aye, I guess it does.” He murmurs, fingertips light against your skin. His attention is focused on you, unwaveringly so, and you fidget under the scrutiny. He looks so… ethereal, in the dim candlelight, so otherworldly that you have to blink a few times to make sure you’re not seeing things.

You’re not.

He’s just really so, so beautiful.

It’s late when Johnny poses another question, clearing his throat over the low volume of a movie playing in the background. He lays behind you on the couch, the curve of your ass pressed into his hips, his arm slung over your belly, palm pressed to space above your navel. His breath fawns over your cheek, and he presses soft kisses to your temple in quick succession before you feel the vibration in his chest.

“I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“What if… it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereid’s song. Could you save them somehow?” It’s an interesting question, and you pause for a moment. His fingers stroke the back of your hand, before wrapping around your wrist and bringing your palm towards his mouth, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your skin before pulling you tighter into his embrace. 

“I don’t know. I suppose you could, extract the song. You’d have to call it forth because it’s naturally occurring. You couldn’t just… cast a spell. You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then you’d be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I don’t think I could make that choice.” His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.

“I don’t think I could either.”

“That’s not what I meant!” You shriek with laughter, chest expanding as you rock backwards, leaning away from him and his devilish smile. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you close to him, fingers playing across your clavicle while you giggle.

“Aye but it’s what ye said.” He’s been taunting you relentlessly about last night, when you fell asleep on the couch and then proceeded to talk for a few hours, all while you were blissfully tucked away in a dream somewhere. 

“Nooo Johnny.” You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though it’s the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when you’re around him. It swamps you in glee, exuberance oozing from every one of your pores. Your power feels sweeter, feels lighter, feels more peaceful now than it ever has before.

You know it’s because of him.

You dread that it’s because of him.

Four days later, you’re cataloguing some new arrivals when the front door of the shop bangs open, smacking against the wall, nearly shaking the building, the sound alone bringing you to your feet in a panic.

Your aunt stands in the doorframe, body thrumming with spells just barely contained, anger flooding the space between the two of you.

“What have you done?” She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.

“I don’t... what’s going on?”  

“What’s going on?” She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. “You’ve always been such a foolish child.”

“I don’t understand…”

That male you brought to Samhain wasn’t a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.”

“Johnny? No, he’s… he’s not. He’s-“ He’s not. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Have you not heard? What’s happened?” she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right. 

“Heard what?”

“A Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.” You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.

“No, that’s not possible.” Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that even… 

The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naïve, how you’re lucky you’re the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive.  

But you cannot focus on any of it.

All you can hear, all you can picture, is the horrid replays of those conversations with Johnny.

All you can think about, is how easily your lips spilled those secrets. How free it all felt. How right.

“You know of the Nereids?”

“I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.”

“I suppose you could, extract the song…”

“They don’t use blood spells.” 

“You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself…”

“It all comes from the heart, you know?”

“Oh, gods.” You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.

“You’re dead to us. You’ll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, you’re to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.” She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. “The jury’s still out, on whether you’ll be tried and burned.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know… I didn’t do it intentionally.” You don’t even know why you’re trying to explain yourself, why you’re bothering. She won’t listen. No one will care. You broke your oath. You betrayed the thing you were supposed to protect. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as the walls narrow in on where you stand.

All for some stupid attention. All because some guy, someone you thought was just a harmless mortal with a tinge of power, smiled at you and kissed you sweetly. Because he told you were beautiful, and held your hand, and went on walks with you in the park. Because he kissed you like you meant something, like you mattered.

Your aunt stops at the door, casting a parting remark over her shoulder as she leaves.

“Your poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what you’ve done.”

It doesn’t take long, to find him. You thread your power through the city, scrying your magic through every drop on blood on every street, every corner, ever floor of every building until you locate him, sitting at a two top table outside of a pub, a handsome male across from him. They’re speaking in hushed tones as you turn the corner, and you stop for a moment to take them in.

How could you not have seen this? 

Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing. 

This male is not a man at all, but Fae. 

You stomp down the rest of the block, urging mortals away, using your magic to push them, to send them scurrying in other directions, just as the one sitting opposite Johnny spots you, mouth dropping into an o of surprise before he’s speaking, lips moving rapidly.

Johnny swivels in his chair, but it’s too late. You’re already upon them.

Your rage, your shame overshadows your hurt, the fear that threatens to drown you, as you stand in front of him spitting mad, your magic swirling around you in violent hues of red and purple while he stares, dumbfounded.

“You tricked me, you Fae bastard.” He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.

“Fern-“ He tries, but you steamroll him. He’s Fae. Don’t listen to a word he says.

“You used me!” You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.

“No, listen-“ The other one, like him, is standing off to his left, watching you warily while you yell, tears wet on your cheeks. He steps closer, coming to stand nearly behind Johnny’s shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.

“No! You listen! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as he’s hurt you, betray him as he’s betrayed you. Your feelings and thoughts and magic all swirl together, weaving and bending into a chaotic mass of pain and sorrow and anger, surging forward, and then your finger extends, pointing right at him. 

In the blink of an eye the air shifts and he drops his glamour, exposing the true strength of his power, the tips of his ears, the mighty weight of the magic he carries in his veins. 

Your words die on your tongue. 

His hand darts forward, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you close, close enough that he can incline his head above your ear, voice razor sharp, lethal and cold when he whispers in an accent you've never heard before:

“Did ye just point at me, little witch?” You’re stunned for a moment, terror galloping through your heart before your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you wrench your arm away, stepping back as quickly as you can.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. Johnny hasn’t reverted back to how you know him, with the soft angles and rounded ears, his glamoured state, you now realize, and staring him down is a feat in its own. It hurts, to look at him, and you know it’s intentional, you know it’s the way they operate. They aim to sow fear. To scare. Their blinding beauty is just another means to an end, just another tool for them to use.

Something shifts, and Johnny’s eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.

He looks… upset.

No. No he doesn’t. He’s not remorseful. He doesn’t care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you. 

You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but it’s too late, you’re too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.

“Fern, wait!”

[descendantsramblings]

Just a short cute thing where Fem! Reader and Maleficent are dating and Mal just loves teasing her gf by turning into her dragon form in small

Pure fluff, thank u :>

“Short cute” is speaking my language rn. So glad to be back to writing long stuff but between these and writing a layout for a Dead Boy Detectives fic I needed a good head canon or Drabble 🖤

Also I wrote and edited this whole thing while on the clock at work so forgive me if something is a little odd, I HATE typing on mobile because it’s easier to get typos.

Play

Maleficent x Reader

Pronouns used: she/her/hers

Summary: watching her girlfriend study can get just so boring

Warnings: descriptions of Maleficent turning into a dragon but it’s really nothing (at least as a horror and body horror fan it’s absolutely nothing but I’ll warn you just in case), fluff

Word Count: 1.1K

Pic because finding gifs of my girl (who’s almost always background or literally on Hades lol) is so hard

She can’t say no one warned her. Of course, Maleficent thought her girlfriend hung the sun, she was humanities own light source. All aglow when she was excited and warm enough that the dark fae was constantly convinced she had a fever. She was obsessed with her, but that doesn’t mean the rest of her friends lied when they said dating a hero kid could get so boring. Not that (Y/n) in general was boring, it was actually pretty easy to get her running around with the villains, but when she felt like being good? She could get obnoxiously good. Like straight As helping out in soup kitchens type of good. Which if the pixie was honest, she found that side of her girlfriend extremely endearing. Sometimes she even wonders if that sweet half of her is what saw Maleficent as worthy for her. Not that she’d ever admit to that out loud, it would wreck her image. If the fact that she could watch the girl complete mundane tasks in complete infatuation didn’t already kill her image. Or at least she normally could watch her like that.

The girl had been studying for an hour, rewriting her notes in a decorative and color coded way that she swore made it easier for her to study. “Rewriting it makes me think about it harder, Mali. Engraves it into my memory.” It sounded like an excuse to her, seemed to her that the girl just liked to look at pretty things. Not that she minded, whatever she wanted to do was fine by her, (Y/n) was her own woman. And Maleficent loved to be the pretty thing she was looking at, so who was she to complain about other ones? But Mali was starting to wonder if she and Tinkerbell had something in common. If she didn’t get her girlfriend’s attention soon she was sure she’d just fall over and just die. She was growing weaker by the second, she was positive of that. And getting the girl’s attention away from swirling pretty calligraphy into a notebook was proving to be impossible.

Every nuzzle to her neck was met with a playful push. Kissing her face just earned the pixie a “Mali, doll, I’m working.” It was infuriating. Why let her in if (Y/n) only planned on ignoring her? Her pale arms make their way around the princess’ waist, face falling against the girl’s back with a dramatic sigh. “I’m almost done, Doll. Just two more pages.” Two more? That won’t do, she needs more attention now. “Come on,” she drags the word out pulling away from her girlfriend with a whine. “Since when are you so good?” “I’ve always been good, Doll. You’re the villain between us, remember?” She uncaps a different pen, readjusting the notebook before her. “You don’t seem so good when you’re out running around with me and the other VKs. You ask how high when Uliana says just just like Morgie does.” It gets her a hum, pen tapping against the page in the speedy pattern. “Yeah well, if I make Uli happy she’ll do my hair. No one else here can braid like she can.” Mali laughs, “Fine, then if we can’t cuddle, let’s go see if she’ll do your hair. Give me something.” “I’ll be done soon.” She scoffs, lightly smacking the back of the girl’s shoulder, “You said you were doing homework.” (Y/n)’s eyes roll, sparing the girl a look over her shoulder, “Studying is homework, Mali.” Now her eyes roll, throwing herself back on the bed, “This isn’t studying. Studying is reading over notes, this is some other thing.” She hums, “Maybe that’s why my grades are higher than yours.” It’s a playful remark, the girl poking her tongue out at the pixie before turning back to her work.

She wants to play? Okay, they can play. She cuts a look to the girl, a pen cap held loosely in her mouth as she delicately drags a pen brush across a page. She was distracted enough. Turning into a large dragon took far too much energy from her, but a small one? One that could fit right in the girl’s lap? That was easy. Maleficent could barely feel it as her bones gave way. Shoulder blades and vertebrae stretching out to form the structure of wings. Purple scales forcing their way through pale skin, tearing their way into veins to beseen. She hasn’t let wings of any kind come out in so long, it felt heavenly. The stretch making her suppress a whimper. She desperately needed to do this more, instead of just when she felt the need to harass her way into getting what she wants.

Slowly, careful not to make too much noise, she flaps her wings, once, twice. By the third time, when she realized the sound wasn’t alerting (Y/n), she knew she could take flight. Fluttering through the dorm, she lands on the girl’s dresser, blowing a small puff of flames onto a candle then settling beside it. Waiting, glowing green eyes trained on the girl who had playfully become her prey. The smell of smoke would alert her, it always did. Lilac and smoke slowly and softly fill the air, making the princess look up, worried eyes glancing around the room before landing on her dresser. “Really? You’re that desperate for me?” Desperate? No, she was anything but that. While her eyes are away from the page, Maleficent takes flight again, swooping up the pens the girl was using before fluttering over her head.

“Mali, you’re just prolonging how long it will be before I can lay back and cuddle with you. You know that, right?” Her hand shoots up for her pens and the dragon flies closer to the ceiling. “This is ridiculous, you are being ridiculous.” Pens clatter into the wastebasket by the girl’s desk, the dragon swooping in to fill the girl’s lap before she can get up to retrieve them. “Are all fae this needy or just you?” The question is met with a nuzzle against her stomach, the dragon refusing to get too close to her skin in case she’d scratch the delicate stretch of flesh.

Sighing, the girl closes her two notebooks, pushing them to the side before she lays back. “If I take a little study break will you let me finish my work without whining?” The dragon crawls up her stomach, tilting her head to the side. Sweeten the deal. “If we cuddle?” Letting out a sigh, Mali curls up on the girl’s chest, her head laying just so close to her heart she feels as if she’s hearing the lubb-Dubb of it in her own head. “You’re not gonna turn back into a girl for me? Made you wait so long that I only deserve scales?” It’s not a complaint, not a real one at least. Her nails digging into the space between two wings, a glorious scratching sensation that makes Maleficent’s eyes lull closed. She was never above playing if the Royal wanted to play. She was always the winner of the girl’s long games.

[boolger]

I’m dangerous ☆ chapter 7 ☆ COD fanfic

Originally posted on my AO3, where I post all my stuff. Always read the tags of my fanfics. MDNI

[Chapter 1] ☆ [chapter 2] ☆ [chapter 3] ☆ [chapter 4] ☆ [chapter 5] [chapter 6] ☆ [Chapter 7] ☆ [chapter 8]

☆ fem!reader x Kate Laswell ☆ explicit. MDNI. ☆ 7/10 ☆ 2,936 words

☆ Summary: You were a hacker and had been a thorn in the side of the 141 gang for a while, in particular as you tried to find out who the famous leader, Watcher, was. But they refuse to be blackmailed and won’t pay you.

So, to prove that you weren’t just bluffing, but were a serious threat to them, you kidnapped a random woman that you saw coming out from one of their meetings, figuring she was a secretary or girlfriend or something.

Oh, how wrong you were.

☆ Tags: au mob, gang, kidnapping, blackmailing, dub-con, angst, smut, death, grief/mourning, hacking, non-con drug use, bondage, spanking, kissing, rough sex, inaccurate portrayal of mob, suicidal thoughts, mention of blood, violence, more will be added

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The man who walked in was staring at Kate. He was 5’8, with an athletic build and short hair - the details were getting muddled in the darkness. There was only very little light from the hallway, shining in, illuminating the back of the man.

As he pulled his gun and it came into view, your mind felt like it was going to explode.

He was here to kill Kate.

He was here to kill Kate.

He -

Kate.

“Finally I have you, Watcher-“ the main whispered, making panic rise, watching him unlock the safety on the gun, “finally I can—“

You moved out of panic.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t see the temptation of just letting him shoot Kate, step backwards into the bathroom and let him take care of it. You wouldn’t be involved in it, whoever this psycho was. 

Yet, you still moved.

This time you didn’t have a taser, you didn’t have any drugs, hell you barely had a plan. The plan you had was so vague that you were impressed it worked in the seconds it took you to complete it.

Romeo and Juliet was a classic. It had been reinterpreted and recreated over and over again, in so many different ways and in many different mediums, but you had always been fond of the written versions.

In a way you wished you could remember one of the more iconic lines from it, but despite reading it at least once a year, your mind had been poisoned by the years of coding and hacking, from the stress of the last couple of days.

You threw the hardcover book directly at the man who barely managed to say anything before it collided with his face, all the dramatic scenes inside it making him stumble, falling over your laptop abandoned on the floor - and for that moment and that moment only, you felt dangerous.

With a couple of fast steps and quick hands, you pulled the gun out of his hand, flinching as it got off - but you threw it away and picked up what you could always trust.

Your book.

Written words printed on paper couldn't be hacked or changed, not like when it was on the screen.

There was movement around you and you felt pain as the man beneath you struggled, screaming bloody murder as you sat on his chest and just repeatedly slammed your book into his face, feeling his nose crunch one of the times. You might as well have hit him with your fear of emotional attachment.

Light turned on, voices, gunshots, yelling, screaming. 

You were hurting someone, you realised in terror, not to kidnap or in self defence - but because he threatened a mob boss you had somehow found yourself close to.

Violence was never the answer yet you didn’t give a shit, as you slammed Romeo and Juliet onto his face once more, full force.

You were the one screaming you realised, in anger and panic at the same time, as a pair of strong hands pulled you off the intruder, the book ripped from your hand, blood smeared onto the pages. Bleeding into the already tragic words of the story.

“Hey hey hey - It’s alright, Fae,” Gaz’s hands were on your cheeks, the man you had found annoying mere hours before, were suddenly like a beacon in the dark, grounding you and ripping you from the odd nightmare of your mind, “it’s okay, we got him.”

Everything went blurry for a moment, then unblurry - and then you saw Ghost and Price pull out the man you had attacked, pissed themselves, but clearly not at you. They disappeared out of the room and you blinked, Gaz in front of your face again.

“Fae what happened?” He asked, still holding onto your cheeks, maybe to calm you, maybe to make you stop shaking. You weren’t sure, but you felt out of air, just like when you ran away. 

Fear rushing through you for what you had just done.

“Fae - c’mon, speak tae us, lassie,” Soap was there too, brows furrowed, “it’s over now.”

“He - he - I went to the bathroom - and he was there - with a gun - pointed at Ka-Kate oh god is Kate okay, is Kate—“ tears were welling up in your eyes without your permission, fear rushing through you once more at the thought of Kate being killed before you could do anything; it made you want to throw up and you might as well just kill your—

“Sssh, pretty girl,” it was the voice of an Angel, the voice of a goddess, wearing nightclothes and with messy hair, whose pretty fingers pushed away Gaz’ hands, taking their place, “did he say anything, Fae?”

“He - he said finally I have you watcher - and then he aimed the gun at you and I panicked and I threw the book and and—“ 

Kate shushed you gently, leaning forward to rest her forehead against yours.

“Such a good girl,” she whispered and the world stopped spinning while she caressed your cheek, “such a good girl for saving me, thank you.”

Nothing but a whimper was able to leave you, words dying on your tongue, tears welling up once again. You wondered if you looked pathetic, if you should be embarrassed that Soap and Gaz saw this, and heard Kate calling you a good girl.

But you were a good girl once more - even though you didn’t feel particularly good, as you looked down at your bloody hands. Stained, just like all the people around you.

The man turned out to be one Phillip Graves. Another gang leader if you weren’t wrong and you speculated that he was one of the senders of the email interactions. You didn’t want to watch the security footage of him entering the room, even when offered. Your hands still felt dirty, despite having washed them several times. Besides, that still left the mole to be found - but Kate was safe at least. Two guards had died, which you presumed to have been the bump sounds you had heard earlier.

They left you, told you to sleep. To close your eyes and forget everything that just happened.

You didn’t get much sleep that night, despite several people telling you that you were safe.

They all went to deal with Graves and get rid of the bodies of two of his men too, while you laid in Kate’s bed, watching the door.

Waiting for Graves to walk in again..

Constantly hearing the sound of the book connecting with his face. You had broken his nose, split his lip and potentially ruined one of his eyes, they told you. As if you should be proud. The thought made you gag.

Dangerous. You had been dangerous, like you had wanted to seem to Kate at first. But you had never wanted to actually be dangerous, had you? The mere thought of Alice knowing what had happened, made you want to cry.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

It was early morning when Kate reappeared, instantly noticing that you weren’t asleep. Her face softened.

She was dressed differently than earlier, fully in black, hair that had been loose during the night, now pulled back away from her face. You didn’t say anything, your gaze resting on her - she winked at you, barely visible in the dimly lit room, making you huff - then she undressed.

For just a mere moment, you dreamt yourself away into a reality where Kate Laswell weren’t a mobster, merely a business woman or something - that she was your actual partner, coming home from a long shift, to hold you so that the two of you could sleep all night.

Yet, she wasn’t. You watched her walk into the bathroom, only in her bra and panties, turning on the light and hearing her rinse her face - you dared to believe that she wasn’t cleaning off blood. She reappeared just a moment later, hair framing her face, body backlit by the bathroom light. 

The light disappeared before she stepped closer, walking to you in the bed. Her hand was a little cold from the water, but you didn’t mind, leaning into the touch.

“Have you slept at all, Fae?” She asked gently. You shook your head. She climbed the bed, pushing you onto your back and settling in your lap before you could do anything. Kate Laswell was dangerous - you knew,, yet as she straddled you, you wanted to do anything for her. You wanted so badly to be good for her.

One hand rested on the mattress next to your head and the other on your cheek, as she leant over your - your lips meeting, a soft sound leaving you. Was this just… a reward? For having saved her life? You didn’t know, but even if it was, you didn’t mind.

Kissing her was like being dominated. Soft lips and tongue, sharp teeth to remind you who was in control. It sent burning sensations all through you, a whine escaping as her tongue played with yours, your fingers itching to touch her.

“Please,” you managed, as she finally let you breathe, chasing her lips for a moment, finally daring to touch, almost ready to beg her to do something.

“You don’t have to beg, Fae,” she whispered, a dark tone to her voice, “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

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You were crying and squirming, twisting in the handcuffs that made it impossible for you to touch. Legs cramping a little, toes curling as she grabbed your plush thighs even harder, making escape from her warm, clever tongue out of the question.

She had made you come on her tongue and fingers two times already, trying to coach your oversensitive pussy to give you a third orgasm. Switching between fucking your hole with her tongue, sucking and licking your clit.

“Kate, Kateekatekate–” you were pretty sure your moans had stopped making sense after the first orgasm, but the older woman didn’t seem to mind; grinning into your cunt, as if she had found her new favourite thing to do.

Once again she pulled you to the edge of pleasure, teasing your body by offering it to reach the euphoria it earned for - and you were ready for it, so ready that it hurt. Your body tensed once more, a whimper leaving you and and and and –

Kate pulled back. 

A distressed sound left you as you were denied the high, eyes flying open as you moved your head to look down at her, almost coming at the mere sight of her.

Big, dangerous Kate Laswell, the unknown mob boss of the 141 gang, covered in spit and your slick, red in the face, her lips a little swollen - grinning, like a predator that had just been fed and offered extras, resting her head against your thigh.

The sound that escaped you was embarrassing, an almost pornographic, desperate moan at the sight, only making her laugh.

“So sweet, my little hacker,” she crooned darkly, “do you want more, darling?”

“Yesyesmore, please, Kate, miss, please,” the words almost stumbled out of your mouth without any pause, eyelids fluttering shortly as she kissed your thigh for a moment - then further up, towards your exposed, puffy and dripping cunt, the kissing turning into licking. Her tongue traced your stretch marks, a pleased hum leaving her as you continued your desperate words. 

A kiss to your pussy and then… nothing. Kate pulled back, almost making you ready to cry.

“Patience, Fae,” she cooed teasingly at you as you all but hiccuped with despair, “I have more for you.”

Said more, was a strap on with an almost 6 inches long dildo, that was currently bullying its way into you, making you twist and gasp as it stretched you. Despite already being loose from her fingers and mouth, it was different to be filled like this.

“Like this, hm?” she asked darkly, “dirty little thing, hm?”

You nodded, past feeling shameful if it meant she wouldn’t stop.

“Kate,” you gasped, a chuckle leaving her as she finally stilled, fully inside of you.

“I love when you moan my name,” she whispered darkly, grinding even deeper into you, making you wail. It had been a while since you had anything inside you, especially of this size, but Kate was clearly eating up every reaction raw, as if she could survive, only from this.

She fucked you stupid. It was rude words, but you were unable to describe it in any other way, unable to do anything but babble in pleasure, moaning and twisting in the handcuffs binding you to the bed.

Her fingers, all over you, digging into the fat of your thighs or stomach, her lips against yours or licking at your nipples.

Somehow, she made you come twice again. 

When she wanted you to sleep afterwards however, you refused. You might be out of energy, but you suddenly found your tongue, begging her to let you get her off, in any way she wanted. To do you the honour of using you.

She rode your face and you were sure you were in heaven between her strong thighs. Licking, sucking, whatever she demanded you to do. Kate’s fingers buried in your hair, gripping it and using you as if you were nothing but a toy to her.

If you could spend the rest of your life somewhere, it would be between the legs of this woman, worshipping her endlessly, offering Kate as many orgasms as she wanted, bringing her over the edge again and again. You would die happily with your face in her cunt, tasting her juices, letting her soak your face.

You could sleep afterwards, better than you had in a while.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Confusion overwhelmed your mind for a moment. Your gaze shifted from hers, then to the open gate.

“What?” You were sure you hadn’t heard her correctly, sure that it was some sort of test, to see if you would behave. 

You could see some of the others in the background, but they were like blurry silhouettes too you, the only one who mattered right now was the older woman who looked cold. 

“I told you to leave.” She repeated calmly. She was in one of her suits, looking beautiful and ready for the day. She had gotten you dressed up too, in new clothes, even with shoes on your feet. Which made more sense now.

“Is… Is this a test?” You were unable to hold back the confusion in your tone of voice, brows furrowing as you looked at her. Her eyes somehow seemed more blue today. 

Annoyance flashed on her face. Anger.

“Go home, Fae.” She repeated, slower and darker, almost degradingly, “leave, go home, fuck off. Out.”

Your eyes flickered to the men behind her, but they made no movement, merely watching the two of you. You looked back at Kate, in her sharp suit, hair pulled up, arms crossed and with an emotionless smile. 

“Are you serious?”

There was no hint of glee in your voice. Leave. Fuck off. Out. Did you do something to upset her, you wondered, did you not do well enough with Graves?

Kate nodded, not even bothering to answer your question verbally.

“I-” you wanted so badly to ask about what happened last night, if it was because you were inexperienced, if it was because she hadn’t been able to find the mole - if it was something anything that you could do better, “No - Kate, I don’t - I don’t want to–”

“How many times do I have to say it?” her voice darker, angrier, raising in volume too, “Get the fuck off my property, Fae. Go. Home. I don’t want you, don’t need you. You’ve paid back what you needed to.”

The words made you want to vomit. From anger, sadness, surprise - shame. Was this… all nothing for her? Had this been a payment kind of thing, had she not meant anything? Every sweet word that had dripped from her tongue like honey, every praise and secret, the moments you had laid next to each other in bed, like an odd comfort? 

This wasn’t Kate Laswell. This was Watcher.

You turned around on your heel, walking towards the open gate, wanting to scream, to yell profanities at her, say something mean, something you would regret. You wanted to hit her, merely in the hopes that it meant you could stay, even if it meant punishment.

When did you begin to feel like this?

You stopped, almost out the gate, almost touching the pavement that your feet had touched at your escape attempt, that felt like aeons ago by now. For just a moment, you considered turning around. Letting those words escape you, mean, rude, awful words, just to get a different reaction. Yet your tongue felt limp in your mouth and you knew you would cry.

You wanted to turn, to take a last look at her. 

Instead you took a deep breath. Then you bolted, already knowing the way towards a populated street.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

There was money in one pocket of the jacket you had been given. Your phone in the other.

The busride home was long and bumpy, but you didn’t care, merely staring out in the air, not even bothering to look at your phone.

Your house was empty, things having been put back to their places after they rummaged around. You just dropped the jacket, picking up mail - abandoning it on the table, ready to go lay down on the mattress you had kept Kate on, for such a short while.

Only to notice the sender of one of the letters.

The hospital.

[shadowqueenjude]

me and sjm are about to have a world building problem because she's killing me she obviously takes inspiration from ancient civilizations and geographical names around the Mediterranean, like the greeks (Eris, Helios, etruscans (literally their goddess of dawn is named thesan). Tarquin the last king of rome (and ironically the opposite of acotar Tarquin). Adriata should then come from the Adriatic sea and their architecture seems greco-roman. But then she mixes it up and gives the court fae brown skin (by the way, what kind of brown, this tells me nothing, i don't need like pantone, but slight more description) For the night court, she's just weird with it. the clothes Feyre is initially given by Rhysand kind of read to me like what you find when you search up 'sexy belly dancer'). Same with all of the clothes she wears when visiting Hewn City. I feel like she was trying to incorporate some more "exotic" things but it doesn't match the rest of the court. It seems like there's a couple different groups with completely different aesthetics that are completely separate from one another. Both Illyria and the court of nightmares seem like vassal states to Velaris and aside from Illyrians having tan skin and being called something around the lines of savages (very POC-coded), there is little to no evidence of any aesthetics that could be considered non-European. Not architecture-wise, name-wise, or (for the most part) fashion-wise. Now, it is a free country, SJM can write however and about whatever she wants. But I feel like there is just such a loss there. No matter where in the world you go, there is evidence of different cultures. Rich cultures which someone could easily take inspiration from!! I just wish she took the time to go down some of the rabbit holes fic writers go down, learning a multitude about what ends up being a small part of your story. Right now, her POC characters feel like an afterthought where she had her story written and then just inserted the word dark/tan on a couple characters. (Also I had no idea Amren was east asian until someone said she was on here and I do have to ask, where is the east asian exotica? Normally if you have one you have the other.) Also her in-universe world building is so convoluted and i hate it and nothing makes sense. I love magical objects as much as the next person, but some of these are one-and-done objects that you definitely could have had more use over. I think she has a vague plan and is just doing whatever she thinks of first to get to each plot point. (me in essays) Also, someone should make an anti-inner circle timeline with all the fucked things they've done so we don't forget. (And hope in the next book, sjm writes about a war crime tribunal for the past... century) thanks for listening to my rant, I've just been struggling to figure out how characters and courts play out and getting more frustrated as I continue.

Anon, you summed up all my frustrations perfectly!

Sjm writes her worldbuilding and tropes like she’s still writing fanfiction. I try to write fanfiction of her stories and I realize I know nothing about the places we’re supposed to be exploring.

Sjm takes inspiration from many many things but then she doesn’t commit to anything. She cherry picks shit to utilize based on vibes and together it doesn’t make sense. It’s really annoying when you see inspiration from your culture that could’ve been used so much better.

As for the IC, they’ve committed so many crimes it would require a thorough reread of all the books to note down all of them.

[nami-moittli]

Diasomnia time!

Yes, Lilia is a cheater. Anyway-

Noivern is just a given, and I’m not entirely sure what Gliscor is, I’m sure that it’s obvious, but it’s bat-like enough for me and suits him better than something Crowbat or smth. Grimmsnarl is both a dark type and fairy type, plus it does fit him well so yea. Both Tinkaton and Bewear are cute yet could easily kill you. Also I saw a cute fanart of Lilia with a Tinkaton once, so I had to give him one. Kangaskhan bc Lilia is also a parent and Sneasler bc I wanted to give Lilia a Hisuan pkmn and I thought Sneasler fit him

Thoughts: electric and fairy pkmn. Along with normal and fighting types bc of the half-human thing and him being a guard for Malleus. Zebstrika bc equestrian club (and also that fanart of Sebek calling his Zebstrika a Unovian Rapidash?? I love him and that fanart) Manectric bc electric plus it just suited him. Mawile bc I wanted a fairy type and idk. Just wanted to give him another fairy type. Granbull bc it’s a fairy type that doesn’t look like one and I thought that it just reminded me of him!! Gallade, like I said, is bc of the fact that Sebek is one of Mal’s guards, and finally he has an Eevee that still hasn’t evolved yet. It just doesn’t want to choose!

Some pretty easy picks for him. Musharna and Shiinotic due to his narcolepsy, Galarian Rapidash bc of equestrian club, Aegislash bc just like Sebek, Silver’s one of Mal’s guards (plus Silv is partially based on the sword that kills Maleficent, or at least, is theorized to be) and Floette bc fairy type and it gives me his vibes. I will say that I’d want it to have a purple flower (though I do not think those exist in canon pkmn) bc I associate three different twst characters with the same flower, and so each of them has to have a different coloration of the flower, and Silver gets the purple poppy. Driftloon is there bc I’ve seen people give him one and I think it’s a funny idea, so I gave him one too

Malleus actually hates us/j

But fr, I once saw someone give him 12 pkmn, and, yeah. Mal would be the kind to do that. I did only give him 11 tho! So, not as bad! (Unless he pulls a Volo and has Giratina pull out it’s original form, then yeah, 12 pkmn, but oh well-)

My thoughts: d r a g o n & legendaries. + Porygon bc of his tomodatchi. Oh and Florges bc of Maleficent’s thorn + queen stuff. And I like to associate Mal with black poppies, but again, I don’t think that coloration exists in pkmn? Just imagine, okay? (Maybe I should’ve given Ortho a white Flebebe lol) Cresselia Does Not want to be on Mal’s team I feel. Maybe if this AU had an actual plot line then I’d be able to say that during Malleus’s rampage, Cresselia changes teams. The only other thing I have to say is that I chose Zekrom bc 1) lightning and 2) Zekrom’s theme is ideals. So, yeah. Plus color coding! How wonderful it worked out that way!

As a bonus, I did give everyone else a legendary too, for again, hypothetical plot line reasons

Yuu would have Reshiram, representing truth and inversing Malleus’s Zekrom, Lilia has Lunala bc of the fae of the night thing, it suits him, and I once saw someone give him one. Zacian for Silver bc 1) again, he’s probably based on the sword and 2) he matches with Sebek’s Zamazenta. Also, I once saw someone say that they hc Sebek to be partially based off of the shield, and I Love That?? So yeah. (This is also why I didn’t give Cresselia to Silver instead of Malleus)

Anyway, yeah.

[acourtofthought]

Heyy, good morning!

I read several of your posts (which are divine) and, as I love your analysis, I would like to know two things:

1; What do you think of the theories (from what I've seen of the Ewriels) about Gwyn being a lightsinger?

And it is believed that the following excerpt, present in acosf in the scene in which the priestesses sing, has some “deep” meaning or clues for the future;

"The music took form behind Nesta’s eyes as the priestesses sang lyrics in languages so old, no one voiced them anymore. She saw what the song spoke of: mossy earth and golden sun, clear rivers and the deep shadows of an ancient forest."

Sorry if something seemed confusing, my English isn't very good...

Thank you very much!!! And I have to say, I really love the color coding you added into your message, my eyes are enjoying how it was all presented (and your English was excellent so no worries).

1. I think the way E/riels view the lightsinger theory is their method to eliminate Gwyn as a possible love interest for Az and that is something I completely disagree with. A way to make Gwyn evil and an excuse to explain away any draw Az might feel to her.

Could Gwyn have some sort of lightsinger heritage? I don't think it's a complete impossibility. We know that she's a quarter river nymph. We know that her grandmother seduced a High Fae male. Not that Gwyn is out there trying to seduce anyone, the sins of our elders are not the sins of our own.

But there is something in her grandmothers background to suggest that maybe she was out to "lure" the man she seduced (though we don't have enough information to know whether it was truly born from sinister intent or not) and we're told that lightsingers do lure their victims to them.

SJM did use language to describe Gwyn's song, as if it were beckoning and summoning those listening to her. It put Nesta into a bit of a trance like state which led her to the Harp.

That language could be SJM hinting at there being a power there or SJM simply telling us people get lost in the music in their world as they do ours.

Nesta tells us there's something about Gwyn she can't quite figure out just as lightsingers appear one way but end up another but again again, that could just be her setting up for Gwyn's secret father reveal

So it's not like there isn't a case to be made for her having some lightsinger in her background (though it would be a small percent) but those that claim she's be evil for it are being ignorant to literally every other power that exists in the IC.

SJM decided to give us the Valkyrie storyline in SF and Rhys tells Elain that while they could be lovely, the second they stepped into the battlefield they became bloodthirsty.

Mor is described as being bloodthirsty.

Rhys killed people at Amarantha's request.

Feyre used her powers to trick Tamlin into believe she was getting a bit too friendly with Lucien.

Feyre slipped into Lucien's mind without his knowledge.

Azriel tortures people in what Cassian tells us is a symphony of pain. He attacked Eris in a High Lord meeting when all Eris did was make a inappropriate comment.

Rhys and Feyre both used their powers to attack Ianthe for her inappropriate behaviors towards men.

Would it really matter if Gwyn was part lightsinger and could use her powers to manipulate their enemies?

How is that any worse than what the rest of the IC has done?

Just because someone has a dark power doesn't mean they'll use it on innocent people and even when some of the IC have used their powers against innocent people (like Feyre allowing Spring to fall despite what it meant for the innocent and Rhys allowing Claire to be taken by Amarantha despite knowing she was not Feyre), they are still considered the good guys regardless.

Honestly, I don't think E/riels realize that the lighsinger theory actually builds up the compatibility for Gwyn and Az considering Az struggles with the dark things he's done and Gwyn having a matching darkness would be a way they could help one another accept both the good and the bad within them.

You know, I don't know if this excerpt:

"The music took form behind Nesta’s eyes as the priestesses sang lyrics in languages so old, no one voiced them anymore. She saw what the song spoke of: mossy earth and golden sun, clear rivers and the deep shadows of an ancient forest."

Is supposed to have a deeper meaning in regards to ships but what I think it does is show us the way SJMs mind works. She has decided that "mossy earth and golden sun" are complimentary things and that is Elain and Lucien. She has decided that "clear rivers and deep shadows" pair well and Gwyn's clear eyes are described as bodies of water and deep shadows is clearly a reference to Az.

[badassbutterfly1987]

Black Sun Rising ch. 15 live read

This is a long chapter with a lot to say so next few chapters will get their own post.

before we get to the fun stuff, the chapter starts with a teen on a magic drug trip. he's having a great time until something attacks his mind/soul? and he's unable to return to his body in a legitimately unsettling scene.

trio arrive in a dae (town?) called Briand to shelter for the night. Damien notes that there are protective sigils on the gates, some of them designed by Ciani who is no longer able to recognize it, which can keep out lesser monsters.

interesting to note that Damien also has an insecurity that he manages well: he is someone that needs to be active and feel needed, an aspect of himself that he's funneled into service of the Church and helping people.

note that he realizes the innkeeper at the place they're staying is upset about something, suspects it's a family matter, and immediately offers to help (you know how characters are sometimes compared to specific animals? he's a sheepdog to me). turns out she's the mother of the teen at the beginning of the chapter who is now in a coma. Damien examines him but can't identify the cause and his Knowing is actively prevented from reading the state of his soul and brain activity.

with how quickly he's gotten attached to Ciani, I really want to know his previous dating history. is this a pattern for him? is he one of those guys that starts contemplating marriage within a half year of dating? oh, he's going to pair delightfully with Tarrant!

Tarrant finally enters the scene and it's wonderful. Damien is quick to describe how attractive he is. "attractive to women", sure Damien, that qualifier definitely makes it less gay.

worldbuilding: most people don't carry guns (which I did not expect to exist in this world) because technology plus fear of failure or in general can either cause it to fail or outright explode. That Tarrant carries an UnWorked pistol (does a vampire really need a pistol?) marks him either as incredibly reckless or an Adept.

Possible favorite moment of the chapter: Damian tries to perform a subtle Knowing on him, is immediately blocked by a Shield, Tarrant notices and Damien realizes he's been noticed, and Tarrant is implied to get a better read on him and is just kinda amused

I can just imagine Tarrant thinking: "oh this is the priest Karril mentioned? this is going to be fun". Love the Vibes here.

Ciani decides to get to know him the old-fashioned way (by straight-forward conversation) and Senzei makes a dumb comment like "women, am I right?" which marks the second time a remark about women inherently being a certain way (in contrast to men) which I'm willing to be lenient on because it was the 90s.

interesting to note that despite Tarrant acknowledging he knew Ciani and wanted to help her, he doesn't acknowledge that her and Ciani doesn't recognize him. Either they hadn't met in person and only knew each other by association/communicated through letters, or Ciani's forgotten him and he's playing coy for now

the group chats but everyone is evasive (especially Tarrant) about what they're doing and why. progress is only made when the topic of the coma teen comes up and Tarrant offers to help.

to speedrun: Tarrant identifies the problem very quickly and Damien is both unsettled and intrigued by everything about him. The boy's mind/soul/sense of self was permanently separated from his body and is functionally dead. Tarrant misleads the mother into thinking it was an overdose from illegal drugs while admitting to the Damian it was something using dark fae, which he confirms is similar to what happened to Ciani though he doesn't specify that to Tarrant. Then Tarrant goes full "eh, he's practically dead anyway, might as well speed along the body's death" which Damien objects to on the grounds he doesn't want to kill an innocent life.

here's the thing: I get what the author is setting up; Damien's firmly set in his moral code while Tarrant has ruthlessly tossed that aside and their dynamic will include that contrast.

but Damian's trained as a healer, he has to know when someone is too far gone to be saved. This is the equivalent of a coma patient without brain activity on life support; instead of Tarrant deciding to take care of things himself, wouldn't it be interesting to have Damien talk to the boy's mother and get permission before doing it, essentially taking the responsibility for it? It would establish him as someone willing to make the difficult choice while still retaining his empathy (which he'll probably develop into but still) and since I skimmed the next couple chapters, I know Damien is going to be second guessing this scene and wondering if Tarrant was manipulating his perception; how much better (or worse for him) if Damien worried he'd been manipulated into killing an innocent that could have been saved?

they part ways after this point because while they're both heading north, Tarrant only travels at night and Damian's a bit too weirded out to bring him into the group.

[starlightshadowsworld]

I love the idea of the Roman demigods possessing different abilities and domains than their Greek counterparts.

Helps to differ between them and is just cool.

Like Hazel and Nico. One has power over riches and the other the dead.

With that in mind, I like to imagine Jason having abilities linked to hospitality and justice.

As among many other things they are two of Zeus/Jupiter's titles.

Hospitality is such an important thing in Greco-Roman myths.

I mean breaking it got Tantalus sent to Tartarus.

Depending on which iteration you read, he either stole from the God's or he killed his son and served him to them.

Yikes.

And it just... makes sense with who he is, Jason is a fair person who's fatal flaw is to hear both sides before making a decision.

Before passing judgement.

As well as his role as Praetor who while a strong hero would also need to be a good diplomatic and dealing with issues at camp.

Jason also has a strong moral code and tries to follow the rules and keep his promises to the best of his ability.

Only breaking them when they conflict with his moral code.

Such as speaking out against his father infront of the Olympian council when he deemed his decisions unwise.

Also, I absolutely believe Lupa blessed Jason. Because he was a toddler when she nabbed him, had to make sure he'd survive.

Making him of the wild and connected to the earth.

I think his powers would be similiar to that of a fae.

Being able to make an unclaimed area into his own and those around him bound by the laws of hospitality.

Aka be a damn good house guest.

And once they break those rules, he can go absolutely feral.

Names are important in this universe and I can see Jason using that to his advantage.

Perhaps being able to control someone once they (while boasting) give him their names.

And with Lupas blessing, be physically stronger than normal, heightened senses etc.

The limitations being that because of his rather unique abilities, Jason can't lie at least not directly.

He can't make a decision unless he's heard and weighed all the outcomes.

And his powers aren't exactly the best thing in a fight.

Having the urge to howl at the moon.

But Jason is a strategiest and was trained by Lupa and raised by Camp Jupiter.

He was able to beat the Titan Krios with his powers yes but also his swordsmanship.

His abilities are part of the reason his father doesn't like him.

As King, Jupiter is basically the head of the household, and Jason speaking out against him, to Jupiter feels like a threat against him and his position.

That and the whole theme of father's overthrowing their sons. And Jupiter just... Doesn't like him.

Jason wouldn't overthrow anyone. He just wants a family and friends to love and look after.

👏🏼Let 👏🏼 Hestia 👏🏼 train 👏🏼 him 👏🏼

What makes Jason so scary is that despite his parentage he seems so unassuming.

When Percy smiles you know troubles coming. Thalia's eyes flash in warning, Nico is shrouded in darkness.

Jason smiles, invitingly and kindly. And you realise far too late that you've fallen into his trap.

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

One Hundred Thousand Wisdoms for Dealings With the Fae [an ACOTAR reimagining]

Three sisters, three journeys, and three fickle fae lords share one fate. (Read it here.)

The Wicklighter girls count three: gentle Aislin, brave Eire, and cunning Niamh. Like other mortals - ever since the ancient war that sent faekind into hiding and cleft the land in two - the sisters have always dreaded and hated the Fair Folk, whom mortal legend calls both fearsome and deadly. When Eire kills a fae wearing the guise of a bloodthirsty wolf, Niamh gives herself up to the Folk as a bride, hoping that they then might not take her sister’s life in revenge. Spirited away, Niamh meets with an unexpectedly alluring face of the beastly fae. So do her two sisters, who each cross the fae through their own struggles to mend what’s left of the Wicklighter family. Having learned new truths about the nature of the struggle between faeries and mortaldom, they must ask themselves: Can they trust age-old enemies of mankind whom they’ve come to love - and risk the safety of kingdoms for their sake - or do these wild, strange roses conceal only a bounty of thorns?

“Is this an ACOTAR fanfic?” Yes and no. It’s a ground-up rewrite that ended up deviating quite a bit from the source. You’ll find obvious analogs to the Archeron sisters (Feyre, Elain, and Nesta are reimagined as Eire, Aislin, and Niamh respectively; Feyre’s now the middle sister, Elain the youngest), and some broad plot points and narrative thrusts are maintained (the story still begins with Eire felling a wolf who is really a fae in disguise, for whose death the fae demand the exchange of a mortal life in turn; there is a magic wall that keeps mortal and fae lands apart following a now-ancient war between the two; there are fae courts ruled by lords of great and wild power, though the particular courts and lords differ greatly from those in the source). If you loved ACOTAR as is, you may or may not like this story. If you liked the broad aesthetics of ACOTAR (fae, wild magic, and romance between plucky mortal women and powerful, melancholy faerie guys) but were disappointed with the specifics of its execution, you might like this more.

“How long is this going to be?” Honestly, I don’t know. Long, probably. I have a lot planned.

“Is this a romance? Will there be sex scenes? Is this OK for younger readers?” Yes (though it’s not only romance); yes (eventually - we have a lot of plot to cover before that happens); probably not, but I’m not your mother.

“What makes this different from ACOTAR?” Well, aside from like, everything, I’m consciously trying to make this a much more diverse story (e.g., ⅔ of the non-female romantic leads are planned to be unambiguously non-White - one has extremely dark skin with vitiligo, the other is East Asian-coded; one non-female romantic lead is planned to be genderfluid, and another is bisexual, both with on-page representation of this). I’m also trying to walk more of a line where dynamics and behaviors may not always be healthy but, in cases where they are not, they are acknowledged as such and the narrative appropriately and satisfyingly shows development away from those dynamics and behaviors (or does not present characters perpetrating them as “good” or broadly admirable characters if they do not develop out of said dynamics and behaviors). You can find a longer (non-exhaustive) list of stuff I’m trying to achieve with this fic here.

“Why?” Well, because I like doing this. It’s fun.

“Where’s the credit for your cover art?” That’d be me. I mocked this up from scratch in Krita at like 1 AM with my own puny mortal hands (no AI, promise - I do not trust the robots). I am not a professional artist, so you get what you get.

“Who are you?” Here’s the answer.

Enjoy! (Or don’t. Again, I’m not your mom.)

[sourtomatola]

This is probably the last chapter!

[aoibhinnslater04]

SOC x ACOTAR

Chapter 6: Let it all burn

Word count: 2524

OK so I know it's been a while again, but this is a long chapter so hopefully ye enjoy!

I wanted a bit of dark Rhys, so...

Trigger warnings: mind control, talks of su!c!de, self h@rm, talk of t0rture

Cassian was ready to kill someone. This wasn’t just an attack on Az, who was still sitting with a face of stone in front of Mor as she tried to gently peel away the duct tape from his wings. He hadn’t said a word since they got back home, and no one seemed to know how to comfort him. It wasn’t an attack just on Rhys or Feyre either, the latter on her knees, the ingredients for strong explosives in front of her as she mindlessly kept mixing. She was so torn up about where Nyx was it was all Rhys could do to keep her from storming out there and attacking the Crow Club without a plan.

Cass was already wishing he had never heard about Ketterdam, and he suspected most of his family felt the same. It was all too much. This gang was made up of kids, for fucks sake! And somehow they were still running rings around Rhys, despite all of his careful planning with Amren, who was still glaring at the floor. She had been the one who convinced Rhys that they didn’t need a load of guards to watch two kids, and so they lost their leverage. They still haven’t found out how Brekker got in, let alone how he found Nyx, and he knew Feyre and Rhys were ripping themselves apart with guilt. 

He had never seen Rhys look so…defeated…before. He had tried to get into Jesper and Inejs’ heads before they escaped, but there seemed to be something blocking him out, not mental shields, as there were never any Fae before in Ketterdam, no one needed shields before. But something was making Rhys weaker.

And as he gazed around at his shell of a family, he realised that someone needed to say something, someone needed to be a voice of reason. So Cassian cleared his throat, and said “First order of business. We need to find out what’s affecting Rhys’ powers. And then?” He forced himself to step forward, to speak, as heads turned towards him and he tried to pretend he wasn’t every bit as broken as the rest of them. “We bring the party to Brekker. Game on is right! He’ll regret taking Nyx and Az”.

And as every pair of fierce eyes nodded, he tried not to feel worse.

~~~~~

Inej sat on her favourite ledge, gazing forward as the sun set over the rippling waves in the harbour, and cursed silently as she realised that Rhysand had even made her feel unsafe there. She didn’t feel good about what they had done to the winged male with scars, it was the equivalent to what it would feel like for her. But when people saw Kaz, they knew that his Wraith wasn’t far behind him. They knew they should feel fear. With Rhysand… Well, they SHOULD be afraid of him. With his beauty, she knew that he would be pleasing for strangers on the street to look at. They wouldn’t see the shadow behind him until it was too late. This way, at least they knew he was associated with a gang. It was up to them now to decide how scared they should be. 

She had sent a letter to Queen Zoya, coded, of course, to see if she knew about anyone with his kind of powers and how to defend herself against him, but it would likely be a while until she heard back. While she did have Zoya’s number, and Nikolai’s for that matter, she worried that Rhysand had a hacker on his side. At least the letter was likely to reach Zoya, as she had entrusted it to Tamar and Tolya, who she knew had been nearby. Now all she could do was wait.

She turned quickly at the sound of soft footsteps, drawing her knives as she rose to her feet. Wylan’s hands rose quickly in a gesture of peace as she slowly lowered them again, turning to watch as the red sky faded to night. She knew Wylan was either coming to tell her about Jesper needing her or about a job Kaz needed done. She didn’t move as Wylan lowered himself beside her. He was hurting too, she knew. It’s always hard when you don’t know how to help those you love. 

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, before he cleared his throat. 

“Inej…I’m sorry. Kaz needs you back on the streets again.”

Inej just nodded, even though tears were filling her eyes. Wylan’s hands brushed against hers, a soft steadying touch as she cleared her throat and stood up. He jumped up with her, wobbling slightly as she grabbed his arm to steady him. He breathed out slightly, his face seeming just slightly paler, before blurting out,”I want to help. Can you tell me again what you can remember about these people? No detail is too small!” 

She brushed away a tear still glistening on her cheek and nodded. She could trust Wylan. Although… If Rhysand could control anyone’s mind, how could she trust anyone? She tried to ignore that thought, her heart sinking, as she casually stepped further from the roof ledge, letting Wylan’s arm go.

~~~~~

Feyre didn’t know how to go on. The first night after Nyx was taken, she had found herself in Nesta’s room with Gwyn, Emerie and Elain. They had taken one look at her face before Emerie and Gwyn left silently, Elain pulling her forward towards the bed that Nesta was on. She lay down facing Nesta, who just pulled her forward into her chest and held her. When Elain lay down behind her and started stroking her hair, Feyre broke down. Her sisters held her tightly as she sobbed, struggling to take a breath. Until she felt Rhys enter the room and sent a wave of gentle soothing night over her. She didn’t need to ask had Nyx been found. He wasn’t saying a word, which said more than enough. But she allowed that darkness to wash over her, giving in to the relief of sleep as her sisters kept her safe between their arms.

When she woke up, the only person in the room with her was Cassian, sitting on the edge of the bed. He offered over some wrappings, silently, more silence! Feyre needed noise now, or she would scream. But she snatched them from his hands and grabbed his arm, winnowing them to the training grounds, turning away as she started wrapping up her wrists and fingers. Rhys had left again, to search around town while Az focused on the Crows. She knew the only reason Cassian was still here was look after her, which almost made her angrier, she wasn’t the child, her child was gone-

Cassian almost didn’t have time to duck as she whirled around, swinging at him, red rage hot behind the stinging in her eyes. He grabbed her wrist gently and tapped her left shoulder, but there was no force behind the motion. And maybe that was worse than if she had been shoved to the ground, because she could hardly think as she swung, again, and again, towards Cass, who was being forced to step back every time as her brutal attacks didn’t give him a chance to fight back, just like Nyx couldn’t fight back-

 She faltered slightly, and Cass grabbed her wrist harder this time, twisting her body around and pulling her back against his chest.

“Are we going to play fair now, or are you going to keep trying to punch me with no technique whatsoever?” he hissed into her ear, his heavy breathing warm on her cheek. 

And maybe it was the thought of playing fair, when nothing in this sick world was fair, but she stamped on his foot. As he leapt back with a shout and lifted up his hands, ready to take her punches, Feyre screamed, and screamed. She only stopped when everything around her, bar Cassian,  was burnt to the ground. 

She was breathing heavily too now, and there was a soft roaring filling her head as she staggered forward before falling to the ground. Cassian caught her before her bare knees could land on the still smoking ground, but she found herself wishing that she would take that pain, take all the pain, just so her baby could be safe in her arms again. 

~~~~~

Rhys glared up at the rooftop overlooking the harbour, at the small girl facing a small boy with red hair and freckles. He wasn’t controlling either of their minds currently, but the girl was thinking so loud she might have been screaming her thoughts towards the dying sun. He was almost appeased by fear she had of him; if there was something blocking his powers it definitely wasn’t her doing. But the boy- he had somehow figured out what they were from Inej’s description. All it would take would be some research into figuring out how to cripple him and his family fully, if not kill them altogether. He was almost tempted to go into both of their minds and make them do a nice little walk off the roof. But no- They were children too. Just like his Nyx. And Rhys knew that Nyx was still alive. He could feel his heartbeat. So he wouldn’t do something unforgivable. Not straight away anyway. He still needed to find his boy. And killing Inej and this boy- Wylan- would likely antagonise Brekker enough to kill his child. 

But as he watched Wylan clamber carefully back to the skylight on the roof, and Inej gracefully slide down a pipe on the side of the building, before blending once more into the shadows, he couldn’t help masking himself with shadows too as he followed the Wraith. This girl knew too much. It was time she became useful to him. 

~~~~~

Inej couldn’t help but keep glancing over her shoulder. There was no sight of anyone, but she still felt some kind of presence. Maybe it was her fears taking form in the shadows, or maybe she was right. Either way, she started running. Wylan had told her Kaz’s mission for her, and she glanced down briefly to the address in Kaz’s handwriting. Something about the people in this place had him nervous enough to send her here in the middle of war with another gang. 

Her thoughts were so busy she missed the little gap in the hedges beside her that would get her inside, so she had to backtrack, before running into a hard chest. She gave a small cry as she stumbled back, but the person behind her grabbed her wrists tight, holding her still despite all her struggling. Her heart almost stopped when she dared to look up, hoping to all her Saints that this was the owner of the house, rather than the person she feared it would be. But it seemed like no Saint heard her prayers, as she gazed into the violet eyes above her, and Rhysand purred, “Hello Inej, darling.”

~

He didn’t hold her mind like before, although that wasn’t much comfort. She knew he could at any point, and she couldn’t concentrate on escaping with the terror holding her mind instead. He had teleported them away from the new target, and Inej couldn’t help but curse herself for missing that gap. Rhysand had seemed content to follow until she ran into him, and she could have hid around the vast mass of ash trees she knew lay behind the hedges. But she had, and now she sat before the 3 winged males: Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel, who was glaring at her with such hate she could almost feel a hole being burned into her head. She couldn’t read Cassian’s expression, although she thought she could feel some pity. Rhysand though, he was staring at her, eyes glinting, his head tilted: a predator observing his prey. Inej was remembering her early words to Jesper: ‘let’s become predators again.’ she almost started crying then. How could she ever believe they could be predators? These men in front of her, they were definitely not prey. She couldn’t believe how stupid she was, how stupid all the Crows were, if they thought for a second they could beat Rhysand and his gang. They could never win. They never stood a chance.

~~~~~

Cassian looked at the small girl with pity, as Rhys rooted himself in her mind and pulled forward all her fears without her realising. Tears were rolling down her cheeks once more as she stared blankly ahead at Rhys, who was holding her chin up so she could keep looking forward to him. He wanted to weaken her trust in herself before he used her against Brekker. Cass didn’t think this was torture: at least, Rhys had assured him it wasn’t. But he couldn’t help but wonder if Rhys was the most reliable source right now. Judging from Feyre’s attack this morning, neither of them were in the most stable mindset right now. 

Either way, Inej was here and Nyx was not. So he hardened himself as Rhys let go of the Wraith, who slumped forward as if she couldn’t hold herself up anymore. Poor kid.

 “Well?” he made himself ask.

Rhys stood with a sigh, grabbing a bottle of wine that materialised in front of him, taking a long swig before answering, as Nesta and Feyre walked in too.

“How about I just show you instead?”

Cassian had to force back his own tears once Rhys shared her past with him. Feyre and Nesta couldn’t, as they gazed down at her in horror. Feyre seemed to lose the anger that had been in her earlier, and Nesta stared forward, glaring at the wall. He knew she was thinking about her own past. 

“Do we have to use her like this?” he asked, as he saw the girl straighten, Rhys back in control. He had made sure that Inej would struggle to trust herself, had basically broken her down from the inside out, so that even if he did struggle with his powers, she would obey any kind of gentle whisper in her head. He also made sure she would return every night, so he could do it again and again, as well as discover Brekker’s latest scheme. While she didn’t seem to know where Nyx was currently, she could still be a double agent for them once she found out. 

Rhys nodded, still focused on the girl. He may be being gentle currently, but Cassian had to wonder how far that courtesy would extend to. 

“When does it end, Rhys?” he snapped. “Let’s just use her as a hostage, get Brekker to give Nyx back right now!”

Rhys glanced over at him then. Chills rippled down Cassian at the cruel glint in his eyes, and he knew then Rhys wasn’t planning on letting Inej go for a long time.

“It ends,” Rhys purred, putting his hand on Inej’s head, like a mark of ownership, “When Brekker’s home is torn to the ground. "

"Brick by brick.”

[theoppositequeens]

come on, we can't delay

Fandom: Folk of the Air Rating: M Warnings: Attempted rape/non-con, Canon-typical violence Read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51081748

Written for Folktober Day 9: "My sister, the serial killer." Hosted by @jurdannet and @jurdannetrevels

come on, we can't delay

It's past midmorning when Cardan's tail twitches over her calf in response to a sound outside their door, his way of waking her up quietly and discreetly.

They've been sleeping in after a revel, one of many, and Jude isn't exactly happy about the interruption. She stumbles from bed, grabs a robe and a dagger, and heads to figure out who needs them. Cardan, the opportunistic creature, has already closed his eyes again, with no intention of getting up.

"What is it?" Jude demands of the wide-eyed messenger. She's passed a note, hastily scribbled onto the back of a receipt:

Will you help me build a snowman? Come on, we can't delay. -T

Under that is an address.

Jude snorts. Trust Taryn to use Disney songs and their dark TikTok counterparts to send coded messages. And okay, they've seen that film a dozen times with Taryn's little one and Oak, the adults miming will you help me hide a body... behind the kids' backs. But it's still a gamble.

"What the fuck, Taryn," Jude mutters, and scrambles to put on some clothes.

The address is a nice suburban house in the human world, too nice for what's waiting inside. Taryn's covering her face in one corner, her shirt blood-soaked and torn. The fae guard Jude has ordered to guard her twin sister is standing in the hallway, shame-faced. He's likely responsible for getting the message to Jude, but he doesn't seem to have been of much help.

"What's happened?" Jude demands, her own shadows scattering to search the house. She tosses Taryn the leather jacket she was wearing, watching as her sister pulls it on, covering up red marks which are rapidly becoming bruises.

"Jude," Taryn sighs, weirdly collected and resigned. She isn't in shock or crying, as Jude perhaps expected. She's just resting her forehead against her hand, looking tired.

Taryn gestures a hand towards the living room, and Jude briefly inspects the man who has bled out on the sofa. The tiny dagger she gave Taryn for Christmas lies abandoned on the blood-splattered floor. Jude can assume what happened: the two glasses of wine, the signs of a struggle, Taryn's ripped clothes, the bruises forming on her twin’s wrists and neck.

"He wasn't successful," Taryn calls, and Jude picks up the dagger before she returns, washing it off in the kitchen sink.

"Good," she comments shortly, and then more softly, "Want a hug?"

They're not exactly the hugging type, but Taryn sinks into her arms and trembles lightly, Jude's shadows already at work on the cleanup.

"I don't... He didn't. End of story." Taryn's voice is firm.

"Certainly his end," Jude mutters darkly, and to her surprise Taryn laughs. It's wild and perhaps a bit unhinged, but a laugh.

"You and Madoc taught me well."

"You did good," Jude says into Taryn's hair, softer than she intends to.

"Clearly I have bad taste in men," her twin sighs, and Jude doesn't bother denying that. Taryn wouldn't listen right now, anyway. Instead she says,

"Disney, Taryn? Really?"

"Hey, it worked," Taryn defends, but Jude can hear she's smiling. "Besides, it's not like we ever made up a code for I killed my date who wouldn't listen to the word no and I need help."

"My sister, the serial killer," Jude jokes, though Taryn doesn't exactly fit that definition. Taryn huffs a laugh against her throat. "Best not mess with you."

Taryn hums in agreement.

"Let's get out of here," Jude suggests. "And perhaps shower before you gain the nickname bloody mummy at home."

[ironcladrhett]

(The War Between Brothers)

“And?! We were kids once, little brother. Nobody fuckin’ treated us with kindness, and we’re just fuckin’ humans. Not hurtin’ anyone that wasn’t ready to hurt us first.” He stepped close to Emilio now, getting in his face and jabbing his shoulder roughly with a finger. “You’re askin’ me to leave a monster alone. A beast that’ll only spread its malice out into the world, on unsuspectin’ folk what can’t even defend themselves. I don’t give a flyin’ fuck how old it is, you hear me?” He snarled through gritted teeth.

(Starry-eyed)

“What good will that do ya?” he asked, pacing in the darkness, eyes glinting malevolently with a grin the mare could not see. “Calm down… the lights ain’t gonna kill ya. Probably. Well, that’s what we’re here tah’find out, anyway.” Still he paced, heart beating at an elevated rate, the delight writhing its way up his spine. Nothin’ felt better than watchin’ them fuckers suffer. Nothin’.  “My, ain’t you pretty in the light…” he commented in a voice that sounded both saccharine and venomous at the same time.

(Good Omens)

“It wasn’t fair what he did. But he didn’t give you a choice. He wouldn’t have given you a choice either way, don’t you see that? It was always him or mom.” Ophelia stepped closer again, and Rhett flinched. “He was ruthless. Brutal. He tried to put it away for you, but he couldn’t. And he made you… just like him, didn’t he? When he died, you felt like you had to pick up his mantle?”  “Stop,” Rhett muttered, shifting his weight again and hissing in pain, slumping back against the tree as he’d been when they arrived. Ophelia moved closer, and he remained still.  “No, I won’t stop,” his daughter promised with tears in her eyes, her arm raising as a hand reached for him.  “S-stop, I don’t want—I can’t—” The girl’s hand found his shoulder and he had nowhere to go, helpless against her will as she circled her arms around his torso. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, the insect buzz and scratch of being this close to a fae almost overwhelming him, but there was no escape, so he tried to push it down. Bury it like he’d buried his brother. Bury it like he had the truth of his moralities all this time, overlaid by Desmond’s own. Just as he’d been adopted by that hunter community, so too had he adopted his brother’s code. He loved him fiercely, but Ophelia was right. 

(The Burden)

“Fuck’s sake,” Rhett snarled, shaking his head at the poor bastard of a ranger with fresh holes in his head. He turned on Emilio, jabbing an accusatory finger against his chest. “This is why ya don’t watch ‘em to see if they’re up to no good, little brother. This is why ya don’t spare ‘em. Ya fuckin’ kill ‘em when I god damn tell you to.” With an angry huff, he picked the sword back up and slipped it into its scabbard, then looked at Owen. “Forgive the idjit. He’s been havin’ a morality crisis fer a couple years now.” Maybe this would take care of that, he thought. Rather, he hoped. 

(Do It For Me)

Rhett hated being helped. He hated relying on other people. He was better than that, stronger than that. He was old as hell for a hunter, particularly with one so red a ledger as his own. He was a survivor, and he’d not gotten through it by cowering in fear, by hiding behind others. He hated it, but he was resigned to it for as long as Emilio felt was necessary. And what could he do? Abandon the only family he had left? He needed to, he knew that. He needed to get the fuck away from all of them as soon as possible, to keep his mistakes from bleeding into their lives too. But… he couldn’t. Physically, he couldn’t. He didn’t feel trapped, he was trapped. 

[catspawcreates]

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Ravenous Void: an extreme dark fantasy focusing on Kill Code x Reader. 18+ read all warnings. Updating usually monthly. Taking a small respite to move.

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