#sacrifice for them. they are at fault for this yes

[janitorpostman]

some implying that Betty's desire to please Simon automatically make her a victim and Simon an abuser make me go 😑

[llycaons]

'poor heroic tragic saint jiang cheng' is actually my favorite jc misinterpretation it is just so fucking funny. I'll watch the man advocate to abandon a group of political prisoners to state-sanctoined genocide, constantly yell about his issues, threaten his nephew and everyone else around him, and abuse his power to intentionally trigger his traumatized brother bc he's mad at him and I go online and see posts about how he's so strong and noble and a great parent/leader despite suffering so much. LIKE

[ben-the-hyena]

Me, a non-American, always seeing Americans on this god damn website either going "9/11 is the worse tragedy in the world, the war was justified because these Arabs and Muslims deserve it, they all are terrorists, Long Live America" or "the war had no reason to exist, poor people, all because of these fucking 9/11 victims, let's mock them and say they deserved it, they're not innocent, Fuck America" instead of seeing it as a tragical day indeed that got overused as an excuse for war propaganda making innocent victims on both sides, the first being weaponized while everyone would have just wished it never happened at all with no death, once again goverments and terrorists are the ones to blame and yet they win by having civilians choose sides over the death of fucking human beings

[zukoshotleafjuice]

and if i say that aang and katara's romance overshadowed aang and katara's relationship, would that make any sense to anyone other than me?

people are so used to viewing this show solely through a shipping lens (a flaw that is almost entirely the fault of the creators) that it hardly leaves space for examining the frankly incredible katara-aang interpersonal dynamic. like, for katara, aang is almost akin to a god. especially in the beginning, for her he symbolizes hope and love and admiration and he is almost larger-than-life. a child and a god. she will protect him and rely on him because through him suddenly, suddenly there's a chance that maybe her mother's sacrifice wasn't for nothing. maybe if she can help aang, love aang, then kya dying was worth it. and for aang, too, katara is his whole world. sokka too, of course, but katara's are the first eyes he saw when he woke up a hundred years after everyone he loved had vanished. it's her that keeps him grounded when he's overwhelmed with grief that he doesn't even know how to begin to process, because it's almost impossible for a child's mind to comprehend the scale of loss he's experienced. he loses his family, and she becomes his whole world. yes, he is saving the world for the sake of the world, but really he's saving the world for katara.

idk. upon rewatch, it's almost like love isn't really enough to capture what these two have going on. it's sheer devotion. it's a strange amalgamation of worship and adoration and mutual deification. it's fucking fascinating and regardless of whether you ship them romantically personally i don't, really , the relationship is so so profound. the depth of their love for each other is really on another level.

romance is secondary to what katara and aang have. they're each other's person first.

[mariasont]

Please, Don't Prove 'Em Right - A.H

a/n: my girl sabrina can do no wrong and i have been listening to this song on repeat since it came out so i just absolutely needed to write a fic about it

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: aaron hotchner is a busy man and he tends to disappoint you by missing important events

warnings: angst (sorry in advance), aaron is like not a great husband, reader is also an imperfect character, reader is a girl boss though

wc: 1.2k

You were in your best dress. More expensive than you'd ever think about buying for yourself, but it had been a gift from Aaron. You had fought him on it, scolding him for spending so much on a dress you were sure to only wear once. But he had insisted, telling you that this opportunity was once in a lifetime and that it would be a sin for it to not be celebrated with a dress that made you shine like a ruby.

He was right, partly, you were shining--glowing, sparkling, glittering--as you moved through the library. It was beautiful, to say the least--all opulence and history that was almost too much to absorb. The marble floors almost seemed to amplify the conversations around you, the clinking of glasses, the swish of overpriced gowns and tuxedos.

Your eyes settled on the tiered desks fitted with bronze reading lamps, now repurposed as a station for hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The circular arrangement of desks, once centered around knowledge, now facilitated hushed gossip and the discreet laughter of society's finest.

You could almost hear what they were thinking: there she is again without her husband, that poor thing always by herself, and your personal favorite—does he even exist?

You wanted to be angry, to scold their prying eyes, for putting their noses into something that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. But could you really blame them? Every event you attended you told the same story--my husband is a busy man with an important job--a line you had grown tired of repeating. 

And that was all true. He devoted most of his time to saving lives--how could you find fault in that? How could you complain to having a husband whose very essence was self-sacrifice and heroism?

This evening was set to be an exception; he was in New York for a case, and the Pulitzer Prize ceremony was not something he would miss. He had given you his word.

You understood his passion for his job, completely, because you held that same passion for your own. You dedicated years of your life to your journalism, investigating corruption at its highest levels. This is exactly how you ended up here tonight, nominated for a Pulitzer Prize for that very work. A Pulitzer Prize.

The term once seemed like a fantastical concept to you, a lofty accolade reserved for the likes of JFK, Bob Dylan, Robert Frost--icons, not someone as ordinary as you. Yet, against all odds, you find yourself among the select few, a nominee for an honor that has only been won by 1,512 individuals since 1917, a fact Spencer had supplied you with.

Someone was speaking to you, saying your name. Almost without thinking, your hand found a flute of champagne, taking a generous sip before turning to face them.

"You look stunning, and a well-deserved congratulations are in order. Everyone back at the office is cheering for you." It was your boss, her stilettos adding inches to her already imposing frame.

The flattery didn't quite mask her usual coldness, it was all too artificial. She wasn't your biggest fan, and she had made that clear from your first day. Still, you mustered a smile and thanked her anyway, taking another sip of champagne, hoping to drown away her nauseating voice.

"It's too bad your husband couldn't be here," she began, and you had to resist the urge to rip out her extensions. "This is an incredible accomplishment, but he's quite the busy man, as you say."

"Yes, he is busy, but he'll be here tonight," you replied, flashing her your best smile as you smoothed the red fabric that suddenly felt too tight. "He's actually here in New York on a case."

"Oh, how great. I can't wait to put a face to the name." You could tell by the look she shot her own husband that she didn't believe a word from your mouth. "Anyway, I have to go speak with an academy representative, but I'll see you and your husband at the ceremony?"

You responded with a nod, not dignifying her with words as she left, her giggles a bitter sound. You hated her. And you were ready to make her eat her words when your husband, who looked absolutely incredibly in a suit, showed up.

But then it was dinner, and you found yourself alone, surrounded by a table of important people whose names you couldn't remember. The seat beside you was empty and suddenly that omnipotent, cloud-nine feeling you had vanished with the time that passed.

The text you sent piled up, feeling a little juvenile, like you were back in high school again getting stood up at prom.

Let me know when you're close!

Is everything going okay?

Call me if you can.

An onslaught of anxious thoughts skyrocketed around your mind as you mechanically chewed the fancy food that only seemed to upset your stomach further. What if something happened? Was he okay? Did the case go wrong? Did he get in a car accident on the way here?

You were a bundle of nerves, gnawing on the inside of your mouth as your heel tapped up and down against the floor. But this wasn't borne from concern for his well-being; deep down, you were certain he was fine. The truth was simpler and sharper: he wasn't coming.

You should have been prepared, should have braced for this, but you were convinced that this time, this occasion would be an exception.

You name was being called, but this time not by someone wanting to extract prying information or stir speculation, no, this time it was carried across the crowed, wrapped in the microphone's static hum.

Your head snapped up, fingers ceasing their fidgeting as you struggled to mask the shock and avoid the gaping, breathless look of a fish out of water.

You had won.

People were clapped, but it seemed far away as you made your way to the stage, hands coming from all directions to offer pats on the back and handshakes of congratulations.

You had won.

Your feet were carrying you up a small set of stairs. You were trying to remember how to walk--left, right, heel, toe. There was a bright light on you now, prompting a slight squint and you worked to keep a smile on your face as you accepted the award.

You had to be dreaming. Had to be. There was no other explanation.

You were on display now, under the intense stage lights. Your body was on autopilot, stepping behind the podium, words flowing out of your mouth--a speech you had rehearsed over and over again in the slim chance that you would win. And here you are.

But the more you spoke the more you seemed to deviate from the script.

You paused, voice catching as you tried your best not to let the tears fall--your makeup was too pristine for smears.

"But tonight, as I accept this honor, I am reminded that while we may seek comfort in the presence of others, our truest strength comes from within." Your eyes dart around the audience, clinging to the slim chance he's there, that he showed up. "It comes from knowing that when we step into the moment, we step in with conviction, with passion, and sometimes, with a singularity that says we are enough."

The final words of your speech hang in the air, a brittle hope that disappears as quickly as it surfaced. He proved them right, and no amount of applause can drown out the sound of your heart breaking just a little.

part 2

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179

[evielmostdefinitely]

slightly odd request but i’ve LOVED cold tonight and the others in the mini series and i was wondering if you could write something where reader gets into a disagreement with the caption wife of a politician snow HATES and reader does everything correct and is ‘well behaved’ for snow so when he gets her home she sort of breaks down in concern he’ll punish her and she’s worrying he’s mad at her but instead he just comforts her and tells her how good she is etc etc , maybe some praising smut if you fancy ? totally ok if it’s not your cup of tea !!!!

bitter cold |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|

prompt: as requested above :)

contains: alludes to dom/sub themes but not super heavy. possessive, dark snow. reader gets hurt (not by snow). slight smut at the end but not super graphic.

“Mrs. Snow,” The snarl in her tone, you could practically picture the baring teeth, lips pursed in a forced smile that resembled more of a grimace waiting behind you; Cypher Crane. 

You turned, a polite smile on your lips- years of training. These dinners weren’t new to you by any means. You had grown up attending numerous socialite events such as this, only now, you were the President’s wife. 

“Cypher,” You greeted the brunette woman with a clenched grin. “Lovely to see you.” 

“Yes,” She hissed, eyes trailing down your figure, over your outfit with a flare of her nose in disapproval. “I’m sure it is.” 

You winced, sucking in a breath. And so it begins, you thought. Cypher was your age, you’d grown up going to school together, school yard friends even, at one point. Until you married Coriolanus. Since the death of her elder sister, Arachne, the entire Crane family had blamed Coriolanus. It was his idea that they go see the tributes, and therefore his fault she died. It never bothered Corio, he’d roll his eyes and wave it off, “The family is grieving. Let them blame me if it makes them feel better.” He’d scoff. Still, it upset you, their constant provoking. 

You cleared your throat lightly, scanning the room for Coriolanus on the other end, desperate to be away from Cypher, the tension already too much. “If you’ll excuse me, my husband needs me-” 

“-No, I need to have a word with you.” Cypher blocked your step easily, clutching her champagne flute. Your heart hammered, trying to stay calm, cool. 

“About?” You lifted a brow, tone lifting to stay light and casual- unbothered, hoping you would stay the same. 

“The games,” Her eyes narrowed, lips fixing in a tight line. 

Your heart dropped. Corio had made a number of changes to the games. Alongside Dr. Gaul, the two were working to gain more and more viewers. His first games, and he wanted them to be perfect. The changes had been announced to the sponsors council only a few days prior. You were sure that was why Cypher wanted to talk to you.

“Your husband,” Her words drenched in venomous disgust. “Made changes to the games.” You sucked in a breath as she took a step closer to you. “To the tributes.” 

Your eyes darted around. Where were your friends? Where was Corio? Tigris? Anyone to help you. 

“Yes, he has.” You nodded, swallowing the growing lump in your throat. “Dr. Gaul and Coriolanus thought it best that the tributes be welcomed and celebrated for their sacrifices-” 

“-I fucking know what he said.” Cypher snapped, her voice bouncing off the marble of the room, catching the attention of the guests around you- maybe the whole room. You were too scared to look, truthfully. Coriolanus’ icy, curious gaze had found yours, brows furrowed. 

“I was there when this ridiculous idea was presented, and quite frankly I’m surprised at you.” Cypher sneered, finger jabbing dangerously close towards your face. “Your own daily endorsing this-this monstrosity. Treating tributes as heroes? Funding new trains and tearing down the tribute zoo? Giving them this pedestal to parade around on?” 

“Darling,” Coriolanus’ tone was tight, it made your heart skip. You looked at him, eyes rounded in fear, pinned against the wall. Cypher close to you, Coriolanus behind her. “Is everything alright?” You knew he was upset about the commotion, the improperness of it. 

Your words jumbled in your mouth, fumbling over a calm, collected response. Cypher never turned, never moved, kept her furious gaze on you. “You know my sister was killed by one of those tributes?” Cypher sneered. 

The room stilled, Coriolanus’ eyes falling to you. You weren’t sure what to do, uncomfortable and a little frightened. “You do know it, and now you want to reward them? Reward the rebellion? That’s what you’re doing aren’t you?” 

“No.” You shook your head. “No, never, I- we would never-” 

“-Liar!” Cypher roared, lunging at you. She shoved you against the wall, your head smacking the heavy marble, wincing through clenched vision, waiting for the strike. 

Instead, Coriolanus had her, arms wrenched around her shoulders, shoving her with such force to the ground before the Peacekeepers drug her away. “You killed my sister! You did, Snow! And now you’re rewarding the ones who killed her! Her blood is on your hands, you rebels!” 

“Move,” Corio shoved the Avoxes out of the way, eyes scanning over your features furiously. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He whispered, jaw clenched in fear, maybe rage. 

“I-I’m alright.” You took a shaky breath, reaching to the back of your head, rubbing the forming knot. Corio’s grip tightened around you.

“Take her to my lab.” Gaul commanded the guards, bright eye wandering wickedly Coriolanus’ way. He nodded, lips pursed furiously, one arm around you. “Clear everyone out.” He commanded with a sharp jerk of his head. 

“Corio, I-I’m fine.” Your breath shuddered, gripping his arm to steady yourself. “Everyone doesn’t have to leave-” 

“-I’m taking you to be examined.” Coriolanus’ jaw was tight, pulling you down the Capitol’s steps with a fury. 

“I don’t need that, darling, I promise. I-I’m alright.” Your heart beat furiously. You had ruined his event. You knew how important this was, and you let it get out of hand. Now, Corio was furious, and why wouldn’t he be? 

“You need to be examined.” Coriolanus’ tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Instead, his hand wrapped tighter around your bicep, hauling you to the private wing of the Capitol’s mansion- your shared wing. 

You didn’t fight, sure if you opened your mouth, you might be sick. Instead you sat obediently, letting the doctor examine you, avoiding Coriolanus’ intense, watchful gaze on you. Your fate was sealed, you knew it. Knew that he was upset with you- that he’d punish you for such a display.

The doctor checked you, wrote it off as a mild concussion with orders to not sleep. Coriolanus’ response of “I will ensure of it,” in such a cutting, firm tone, made you shiver. 

The room was eerily still when the doctor left, just you and Coriolanus residing in your bedroom, a thick tension in the air. 

“How are you feeling?” You jumped at the sound of his voice, sharper than normal, though his brows were furrowed with something softer. Concern, perhaps? 

“I-I’m ok, Corio.” You swallowed your nerves, clutching the duvet of the bed. “Just an ache.” 

“How bad of an ache? You didn’t tell the doctor this.” Corio huffed, standing quickly, crossing the bedroom with a fury. 

“Corio, don’t. I’m fine.” You shook your head, moving off the edge after him.

 Coriolanus turned around, frowning at you. “You’re not supposed to be up.” He huffed, harsher than he meant to. “Sit down.” 

You flinched, scurrying back obediently. “I’m sorry. I-I just, I’m fine. I promise. I’m ok.” You stuttered, stomach dropping and twisting with fear. 

Corio paused, watching you with careful eyes. He’d written off your skittish behavior as fear from the situation, fear from being hurt. Now, he watched you cower before him, eyes peering at him the way those he executed did, trembling with pure horror. 

An unpleasant heaviness settled in his chest, sinking to his stomach. “My love,” Corio frowned, stepping towards you. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m ok, Corio, I promise. I-I’m just-just…” You looked at him, head turned down, curled into yourself. 

Coriolanus knelt in front of you, between your legs, taking your face into his hands gently, stomach lurching at the way you tensed. “What’s the matter?” He whispered, blue eyes scanning your face for a sign, any indication as to why you were so fearful. 

You hesitated, lip rolling between your teeth. You wanted to stay silent, be obedient and not further him any more. His gentle touches were lulling you, coaxing your own anxieties out of you. 

“Corio, I swear, I-I did not mean for that conversation to get out of hand as it did.” Your eyes met his gaze hesitantly. “I tried to excuse myself. I tried to de-escalate it, and-and move away, but she was so… determined.” 

Coriolanus waited, blinking, still in his own confusion. Your hands twisted in your own clammy grip. “I didn’t mean to ruin your event. I-I was just trying to be polite and-and it got out of hand-” 

“-I know that.” Coriolanus tilted his head gently. “Darling, this isn’t your fault.” 

“She approached me, and-and I should have walked away or-or called you over-” 

“-You did what you should have done.” Coriolanus said firmly, lips pressing together. “I need to know who is with me and who is against me. There are far too many rebels, unscared and ready to strike. Clearly, the Crane family is one and will be dealt with.” You shuddered at the sneer in his tone, the venomous threat ominous of what was to come for the Crane family, what Cypher was already experiencing in Gaul’s lab. 

“I wish that would have been done without her laying a hand on you,” Corio grit, anger flashing through those dazzling, blue eyes that had you swooning when their gaze met yours. “But, I can assure that will not be possible for her to do. Not for much longer.” 

Your grip tightened this time, clutching his hand fiercely, like a lifeline. “You’re not angry with me?” 

“I could never be.” Coriolanus shook his head. “You defended me, I heard you- others heard you.” His lips curled in a soft smile. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better.” 

You beamed under his praise, relaxing into his touch. Corio’s fingers brushed over your knuckles carefully. “Are you feeling ok?” He asked, softer now. A touch of… worry in his tone? 

“Yes,” You nodded, pressing your forehead to his, your noses touching. “It’s just an ache.” 

Coriolanus’ hand tightened in yours. “I should have her whole fucking bloodline removed for that. For putting her hands on you.” 

“Don’t.” You whispered, shaking your head gently. “She’s upset. She lost her sister.” 

“She’ll be losing more than that tonight, my darling, rest assured.” Corio hissed, that cloudy darkness seeping back into his gaze. “I will make sure of it.” 

You didn’t fight him, didn’t try to sway him. You didn’t want to upset him further, there was nothing that could change Cypher’s fate anyways. 

Instead, you let him dote on you. You let Corio’s fingers brush through your hair, parting your scalp, running lightly over the small knot there. His lips were soft, pressing a gentle kiss to the sore area, before replacing it with ice. He even held the ice pack in place when your arm got tired, like a true, doting husband. 

Your eyes would droop, a soft pat to your leg waking you, a stern stare that had you blushing bashfully, thighs pressing together. 

“You have to stay awake, my love.” Corio reminded with a soft grumble, rubbing your scalp gently. 

“So keep me awake.” You purred, pressing up on his chest lightly, body between his legs. Corio grinned, hands cupping your cheeks, pulling you into him, lips hungrily devouring yours. He moved you gently into the goose feather pillows, lips dragging down your cheek, jaw, biting at your neck. He was so sweet to you, fucking you how you liked- on your stomach, his body folded on top of yours, hands intertwined, hot breath grunting and moaning into your ear.

[thetransguard]

okay i knew it was coming but its kind of killing me how obtuse people are being towards toshiro (im not fucking calling him shuro and honestly yall should stop with that too). should he have told laios how he really felt about him, sure, yeah, but im going to go off on a limb here and suggest maybe! maybe! he's been raised in an environment where it's actually like legitimately unheard of and taboo to be very open and straight forward about his feelings. the entire party has been calling him by a name that literally isnt even his own because he is so used to quashing down his own reactions to others. like i think other poc diaspora dunmeshi fans might agree with me here but he just reads like someone whos not bothered enough to correct every microaggression thrown his way. because that shit is exhausting. and after like five hours of laios bugging him about stories of his homeland why would he have a good opinion of him. genuinely. im not saying laios is entirely at fault but neither is toshiro. i love laios too but it is Very Weird that toshiro gets the brunt of their friendship's falling out (ill circle back to this)

also to preface this i am a farcille shipper so im. not pushing for falin/toshiro. but people acting like his affection for falin is somehow not relevant or he has no devotion to falin at all is CRAZY. immediately after being teleported out he threw himself back into that dungeon and didnt eat or sleep properly to rescue her. we literally watch him collapse from it. after multiple episodes emphasizing the importance of nutrition and caring for yourself and your take away from a man willing to toss that away is that he just. doesn't care for falin? why is he in the dungeon then? answer. quickly. granted he's not as onboard with the whole black magic thing but his concerns are literally valid and before we see falin chimera he seems to have been talked down from reporting them all for it. its the proof of his concerns of the use of black magic that he decides to go up and report them at all. his bond with falin isn't nearly as strong as marcille's bond but its also not nothing. ignoring that or minimising his own sacrifices is such a nasty bad faith disservice to his character.

speaking of bonds. toshiro doesn't hate laios. guys. his last act this episode was to give laios and the rest of the party (yes, even black magic user marcille) a way out of the hole that they'd already dug for themselves. fleeing to the east and leaving falin to the elves isnt the best case scenario but it is one that lets the majority of the party survive whatever's coming. its the realistic play. is this the act of a man who hates his former colleagues? is he wishing harm and further misfortune on them? his actions speak for themselves. you guys are being way too hard on toshiro and its really fucking telling. this goes for white viewers especially

[ivys-garden]

Hey let me be negative for a moment

It's starting to annoy me how much the “Pearl is a traitor” idea is popping up in life series posts/stories

Pearl hasn't betrayed her allies once.

Last Life - Pearl never turns on Scott or Cleo. Not once. (Well she and Scott did kill Cleo but that was to get them back as an allie)

Double Life - Pearl has no allies. Scott abandoned her and therefor she can't be a Traitor to him and Cleo since she's not allied with them until the very end. Even then she doesn't attack them, she only goes after Impulse and Bdubs, she only kills Cleo and Martyn when they turn on Scott. (And no its not her fault Scott abandoned her, she couldn't have known that would happen and she was actually searching for her soulmate before going into the nether)

Limited Life - She was literally going to sacrifice herself for Bigb. And she doesn't attack Grian at all when he joins her team. The neighbours did have an alliance with the clockers but the clickers ended it when the neighbours allied with TIES, which again Pearl and Bigb did not know that TIES and clockers were enemies so again that's not their fault and isn't treachery. The closest Pearl comes to betraying someone is when she attacks Etho but at that time TIES and the neighbours had cut ties and Pearl didn't know Etho was allied with Grian (and she stopped attacking when they told her)

Secret Life - Pearl never turns on the mounders, she even fights back against Mumbo wanting to abandon Joel. She never attacks Gem and The Scots until they are literally the final teams left and even then she never actively goes after Gem, only Scott. (And before someone says it, yes I know Cleo told Gem that Pearl was treacherous, 1. They were enemies at the time, 2. Pearl has never gone after Cleo when they were allies and 3. Cleos nickname is gaslight so yeah obviously that was a lie ffs, they were trying to sow distrust. )

Real Life - I don't think Pearl even got one hit on any of the 4Gs soooooo

Am I taking this too seriously? Yeah, But..

[ystrike1]

Doku wo Kurawaba Sara Made - By Tobari Sawa (8/10)

Our protagonist is a father who will do whatever it takes to save his daughter, and himself, from complete ruin. He's trapped inside an Otome Game, so fate will never favor him. As the father of the Villainess he has nothing, so he throws away his pride and he uses seduction. It works too well.

The Kingdom of Parsemis is magically blessed. There is a barbaric tradition.

A holy maiden MUST be sacrificed to the nations patron Dragon every ten years.

It's a political thing.

Andrim realizes he is s fool when he watches his only daughter lose. He treated her like a pawn. A convenient daughter from a dead woman.

He realizes she never had a chance.

He never had a chance.

He's not even the main villain.

He, and his daughter, are both prolouge villains.

The ultimate insult.

The Villainess will be executed!!! Is such a trite ending. Here it's more horrible.

In this scenario Natasha, the protagonist, was destined to be eaten by the dragon.

Julietta, the Villainess, was supposed to wed the prince.

The Prince uses his authority to remove Julietta from power and get rid of her in one fell swoop.

Why is this possible?

Natasha is the destined holy maiden, but Julietta is from a special sage bloodline...so conveniently she can be sacrificed as well.

A loving father would have kept Julietta far away from the Prince.

Natasha, of course, realized she could seduce the Prince and save herself.

Andrim was a total fool.

If he had just protected his daughter a little bit both of them would have survived.

Andrim remains calm. He thinks about what he can do. His daughter is doomed and the Prince clearly wants him gone too.

He tries to use his memories of the game to escape his fate, with his daughter.

He accepts the new engagement, and his daughters new position as sacrifice....gladly.

Yes, he is a dutiful Prime Minister.

He understands that a special girl must be sacrificed for prosperity. He carries her away and he says he will prepare her for that fateful day.

In the original plot he raved like a madman and demanded Natasha's death instead. Even though the Prince had declared otherwise.

He backs away, because he cannot win without power.

He joins hands with a corrupt priest and the ACTUAL DRAGON!

He promises to entertain Karis, the Dragon, because only he knows the special lore.

The Dragon is bored.

Andrim is able to tempt the Dragon with a new kind of entertainment. It's bored of eating women.

Andrim must commit evil to live.

He goes waaaayyyy too far.

The Dragon is not the love interest.

It's Jorga the Commander. The adult figure supporting the youthful otome group.

Andrim uses him completely. Not sure how yet but Jorga commits absolute atrocities for Andrim. He betrays the royal family for Andrim, and the palace is filled with torture.

Jorga is the most useful card on the field, and Andrim uses his beauty to "get" him.

Is it genuine love? No, but Jorga is all about loving acts of service.

The plan rolls into an avalanche slowly.

Andrim gives up his position as Prime Minister. This earns him plenty of sympathy points. He also appoints a young genius on purpose. The boy is not fit to run the government. He uses politics to force the boy into a position he can't handle.

This makes him even more pitiful.

The capable Prime Minister had to abdicate for his daughter, and his replacement is trash...

How awful...

His poor daughter. In the end its not her fault that the Prince's eyes wandered...

Natasha is a cruel moron and that helps. Her otome team constantly has to cover her ass.

She's going to be a terrible Queen.

Julietta would have been perfect.

Andrim plans to take advantage of that.

Julietta is sweet but empty.

Andrim vows to make her happier.....after his dirty deeds bear fruit.

Julietta stays in the palace...with Andrim. He uses an old tradition to stay, where he can garner the most sympathy.

Apparently, the story turns into extremely sadistic revenge porn. If you like obsessive dogs with no morals this is your lucky day!

Andrim is not a merciful man. Even with his Japanese memories his ruthless side always prevails.

[soaringwide]

Pick a Card: What do you need to hear right now?

Hello and welcome back to a new pick a card reading!

Today is a general and open one, where we're going to look at What you need to hear right now.

As always this is a general reading meant for multiple people so it might not resonates 100%. There are only three piles and a shit ton of you. Takes what resonates and leave out the rest.

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PILE 1

Cards: 10 of Cups, King of Swords, 5 of Swords, the Chariot, the Empress, the Hanged Man, Queen of Cups, 4 of Pentacles, the High Priestess, Sweet Oblivion, Acceptance

Right now, you seem very preoccupied, by the idea of happiness and emotional fulfillment. I see you wanting more from life and not wanting to settle for your current circumstances. You are an idealist who wishes to enjoy life to its fullest, and I think that includes multiple areas of you life because you don't want to neglect any aspect of it.

But at the same time, there is this idea that your idea of ultimate happiness is an ideal, and ideals are not reality. Reality is uncertain and mysterious, we never know what's around the corner, and I think you're trying to get a hold of that by using your logic over your heart to try to understand and break down what it is you want from life. Truth is, when we want something, even when we get it, it never quite look like what we imagined, and that's quite a struggle when we want to control outcomes.

And I think you're fully aware of the fact that there are going to be some losses on your path towards this beautiful goal of yours. Perhaps you even have already experienced some. You might be wondering if that was all worth the effort in the end and feeling quite defeated on the inside. There might be frictions with you values and feeling like you have to sacrifice something dear to you.

However, despite these sour feelings, you feel like you have to stay determined to make it work and get out of the realm of what's known and comfortable. With the Chariot paired with the Empress, representing respectively Cancer and Venus, there is this idea of slow but unstoppable movement toward you ideal. It's really hard for you to let give up, unthinkable even. Both characters are crowned in stars, representing the hope for something better and the faith you have for yourself.

What you don't see, however, is that you are currently trapped in your own perspective and struggling to see things in a new angle. You are tied to the emotional baggage of your past and it's like you're trying to run away from the pain but you can't, you're stuck with it because its part of yourself, of your story. And I think to some extent you fail to see how these past emotions are affecting the way you see the situation. You learned to be very protective of your well-being, up to a fault because, right now, this inflexibility is creating struggle and pain where there is no need for it.

I also see that you're so focused on the prize that you're blinding yourself to everything else, which is part of why you are stuck in some way.

You advice regarding this situation is all about accepting that you cannot control everything, nor that you should. As we pointed out things will not always unfold the exact way you want them to, which is not necessarily a bad thing. You don't need to know everything, to see 10 steps ahead. It's okay to not know what you are doing, no one does. Yes you are doing that because you want to feel safe, but that's not how reality works. You can't trick your mind into thinking you have full control over your life, that's a delusion, and you're missing out on the mysterious adventure that is life.

So you need to let go a bit, surrender your desire for control and float through life with peace in your heart. What will be, will be. Some things cannot be changed with force and willpower alone. Some things are out of your control and all you can do is accept and let things unfold naturally. Right now you need to let loose a little and learn to have more faith in life and to trust that sometimes, the detours are exactly what we need to experience.

Key words: crisis of faith, winning at all costs, go big or go home, sunken cost fallacy, if i don't help myself then who will, crawling out of a hole, disillusionment, swimming against the current vs floating with it

PILE 2

Cards: King of Cups, Empress, 7 of Pentacles, the Hermit, the High Priestess, 3 of Swords, Ace of Wands, 7 of Cups, 8 of Pentacles, the Hanged Man, 3 of Cups, 8 of Swords, Rebirth

What you're being asked to look at today, is your emotional balance and the emotional work you've done on yourself to nurture and repair. It seems you've been working at it for quite some time, steadily and patiently. You've been caring for yourself, healing, like a gardener working in his orchards day after day, waiting for the harvest to finally come.

And you did quite well it seems! A lot has been accomplished already. You've done the work and sought inner knowledge; with bravery you looked at every shadow, every past hurt, every trauma, and you've learnt so much from it. You really consciously took the matter into your own hands and were directly acting on your issues. It still hurts at time though and you might be wondering when it will cease to be painful. Truth is, you keep touching the wound so it's probably not helping. I see you quite stuck in waiting for this harvest, the harvest being the point where you feel finally free from all of this ready to seize life again.

You also went through a time of isolation that made you stronger, but I'm also getting that you're struggling to get out of that isolation mode out of comfort and fear mostly. Sometimes when we go through something hard, it makes us feel alienated from others, like it's hard to relate to the everyday problems of people who were lucky enough not to go through something traumatic. It can make you feel envious, or at the very least, a bit disgusted and void of interest to connect with those people, because they just don't get it, and honestly, some people lack the emotional intelligence necessary to handle people who suffered a lot…hence the isolation.

What you don't see, is that you're ruminating your problems and that it's past the point of being helpful. It's like you're going over it again and again and again, trying to see if you can find yet another answer that would end the search once and for all. You're clearly overthinking your feelings and obsessively trying to find a solution to something that has none. What is done is done. Yes you need to mourn, yes you need to let time and introspection sooth the pain, but at some point, the only thing left to do is to move forward again.

The advice regarding this is that you need to drastically change your ways. Flip the way you live on its head. The cards point at getting out of this isolation mode, because the only thing holding you back is yourself in this case. It's like you're scared of going out into the world. You might not feel ready. You might not feel strong enough. You might not feel adequate for this world. But it's not true, it's just another result of overthinking your past hurt. It's time to step out and connect with other people. Celebrate, have fun, laugh, connect with others sincerely and without fear of not being understood. Yes some people won't get it but you'll also be pleasantly surprised by others, and you won't know until you tried.

It's time to leave the old behind, the old being those past hurt you're so familiar with, and this way of being you became so used to contain yourself in. You've spent enough time in the cocoon, now is time to break free from it and spread your wings. It might not be easy in the beginning, you might need to learn to fly again and it will be scary, but it's so, so worth it.

So ask yourself what living your life fully looks like to you. If you were completely free if nothing was holding you back, what would you want to? What would you want to become? Switch the overthinking from the tiny box you stuck yourself in, to the expansiveness of a mind that wants to reach to every corner of the world. The sky is the limit and it's time you look up.

Key words: breaking the shell, chrysalis, rebirth, being stuck in a maze of your own creation, scared to open up, meaningful connections, sunlight, removing the bandage

PILE 3

Cards: 6 of Pentacles, 6 of Swords, 2 of Cups, 2 of Swords, 2 of Pentacles, 10 of Cups, Page of Swords, 3 of Cups, 5 of Swords, 7 of Swords, 10 of Pentacles, 8 of Pentacles, the Great Goddess, Spirit of the Tree

The theme of your reading today is centered around the way you connect to others, be they people or spiritual forces.

More precisely, in the act of service you do for others, with a strong emphasis on keeping the balance in the exchange and the necessity to preserving the harmony between your thoughts and feelings.

With two 6 cards in this position, this highlights reflecting on the way you find the middle point in the way you give and receive your time and energy, but also what it costs you mentally and emotionally. This is a general reading so it's quite nebulous without context, but to some it could point at a specific relationship, or if you're someone who provides service for others, it could point at that, and it could also be relevant for those who do spiritual work.

In any case, what you're clear on in this situation, is that you've reached a point of no return. It's just no possible to keep doing things as you're doing them right now. You've been contemplating this recently and reached the conclusion that you can't make everyone happy at all costs, despite your desire for things to be perfect for all involved. You are sacrificing yourself in the process, to an extent that is not healthy for you. Exchanges between people are never fully balanced and that's just reality, but in the long run you should find some type of balance and not just giving yourself to keep everyone happy but yourself.

What you don't see in this situation is that you're getting the short hand of the stick when it doesn't have to be the case. If every interaction feels like a battle that you have to fight to sourly win, then was it really a win? Others can be here for you as well, for support and enjoyable shared moments. You should be able to all get something from this. If they never give you that, is it truly worth investing yourself in it?

There is a strong need for protecting your boundaries mentally as well. You don't see how letting others step all over you is detrimental to the way you perceive life. It maintains you in your little box where you need to expand your horizon. I think you somewhat lost that side of you. The side that seeks truth, that is strongly rooted in its individuality and critical mind. The you that seeks mental stimulation and adventurous ideas.

For the advice, you need to be honest with yourself because from what I understand, you do see the situation clearly, but for some reason, you're not acting on it. It's like you're lying to yourself a bit. You keep trying to make things work in this very unbalanced state, harming yourself in this task for the sake of others.

You need to look further and think of your abundance and legacy. What will you be remembered for? For what you did to others? It's very noble of you, but what about your enjoyment of life? What about your personal goals? What about what your heart desires?

Think of trees: we now know that despite being fully rooted in themselves and being whole and independent life forms, they do live in community and are able to communicate with each others across species and help each other. The big tree provides shade to the small plants, and the small plants keep the ground moist and fertile. They all benefit from this and create an ecosystem for all to live in.

You are being called to re-balanced things within you and in your life. To get to the root of this blockage you have regarding exchange and service in order to transform yourself. Perhaps what you're doing is actually detrimental to your ultimate goal, and being a bit more focused on yourself, selfish, even, would be the key for more stability.

Key words: giving and receiving, overworking yourself, beneficial selfishness, harmony between extremes, losing yourself in the work, waking up to what matters to you, long term goal, the wisdom of trees, creation and destruction

[churipu]

hello!! can i req megumi dating getos little sister? like, in a au where nothing bad happened between satoru and suguru

MEGUMI + GETO'S LITTLE SISTER

featuring, megumi fushiguro x fem! reader

warnings. none :>

note. anon, i'm sobbing bcs why the hell does gege have to be so allergic to happiness??? gege when i catch u, it's on sight really. but pushing that aside, sorry if this took too long. i just got back from vacation and i hope you like it <;33

ALSO, BIG THANK YOU FOR 600+ FOLLOWERS BYE I'M GOING TO BREAKDOWN A BIT.

geto doesn't realize at first that megumi and you had something going on, until gojo and shoko asks him about it.

"what do you mean they're dating? no they're no—" he looks back and there you were laughing with megumi, sending a small punch of affection to his shoulder.

"they look lovey-dovey to me." gojo sings out, he was so damn happy megumi was finally dating someone.

geto on the other hand, was mortified, "oh my god, they are." he said while covering his mouth, trying to comprehend what was unveiling in front of him.

megumi was in a lot of trouble. from geto. the day geto finds out about megumi dating you, megumi would then be sitting on his knees awkwardly — his fists balled and laid on top of his thighs as geto paced back and forth in front of him; and you were just heaving out sighs after sighs.

"why must you do this, suguru?" you asked him, pinching the bridge of your nose in annoyance.

"why does satoru and ieiri know about you both and i don't?" god. he was so dramatic about this. it was like he was about to send you off in a marriage — and you were VERY embarrassed.

"it's not megumi's fault then?" i asked.

"it is!"

"how?"

megumi chose to be silent as you and geto exchange arguments after arguments, none of them made sense but megumi wasn't in the position to join the argument so he just decided to shut his mouth and listen to you both for at least the next two hours.

megumi after that day, was always tense in front of geto. and geto, will always try his best to ruin your dates. anything that your big brother could do, really. pulling gojo and shoko along with him as an escape plan incase they were caught (he was planning to sacrifice their names for his escape).

"what are you all doing?" you ask, already knowing this was your brother's plan to tail both you and megumi on your date.

shoko and gojo pointed towards geto, but when they looked to where geto was supposed to be — the male had already ran away in a distance.

"so? who's explaining?" you asked.

and gojo had to tell you everything, while shoko was there as his emotional support. megumi though was enjoying gojo having to explain everything nervously.

megumi gets nervous when you ask him if he wants to come over to your house, but he reluctantly accepts. and when he steps inside your house, he is always a little nervous about meeting geto. but pushing that aside, geto never does anything but stare at him in suspicion.

"be right back," you said, standing up and walking away.

if megumi could pull you back, he would. but with geto's eyes glued on his figure, megumi had no choice but to stay seated. clammy hands, shuddering, and he could sense the dark aura surrounding geto's figure.

"suguru, i will poke your eyes with my chopsticks if you don't stop looking at megumi like that." savior.

"you love him more than you love your own big brother?"

"at this rate, yes."

"traitor."

megumi who brings you a bouquet of flowers one time during a visit to your house and geto makes a comment out of it because megumi didn't give him one too. so now, megumi brings two of them. one for you. one for geto.

"huh, to think that my little sister's boyfriend has zero care for me makes me kind of sad," it was supposed to be a simple joke. a simple joke from geto.

"suguru, stop that." you mutter out, defending megumi who just stood there like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do.

geto was surprised the next time megumi brought one for him — and that day, geto finally started warming up to the thought of megumi dating his little sister. you.

megumi who meets geto when he walks down the hallway without you and geto being the first one to invite him over for dinner. not you. geto. and megumi was hesitant, but he accepted the offer nonetheless. (you were not told of this by either side until you come home and see them both talking casually on the couch).

"what the hell?" you breathe out, eyeing megumi who was sitting on the couch beside geto who was holding the television's remote control, their eyes also on you.

"oh, welcome back." geto waved at you casually before turning his attention back to the television.

megumi raised his hand up to wave at you, and you joined them on the couch, sitting in between. nobody spoke of it, and nobody asked about it, you three just casually hung and made it a routine after class ends.

megumi who has to be the reason behind your petty arguments with geto because they both wanted to hang out with you. which you win almost every single time, sometimes you just let megumi go with your brother (you didn't want to admit it, but it was nice seeing your brother finally get along with megumi).

"suguru, he's my boyfriend!"

"yeah? he's your boyfriend!"

"that's what i just said, idiot." you shake your head, sighing out exasperatedly.

"exactly, let me hang out with him. you've been hanging out with him for the past week, let him have a day with his future brother-in-law." you sighed again, but agreed in the end, letting geto have his time with megumi (which will be wasted with them both watching the television, with the rule of no interruptions from you).

megumi who was embarrassed when he got caught kissing your cheek by geto when he was about to go home. the younger boy didn't hear the end of it during their weekly watching television session, you just let geto do his thing.

"so..?" geto started

"don't even mention anything about it." megumi cuts him off, looking away with a light blush coating his cheeks.

"but why? i wanted to know about it."

"i'm leaving."

megumi who doesn't have to endure just geto, but gojo too. the two were like parasite when it comes to making fun of his relationship with you, although they don't do it to make him feel bad, megumi is a pretty private person so he gets annoyed by them (but says nothing), and he'll report it to you so you could be the one to give them a piece of your mind.

"what have you been saying to my boyfriend?" you stood before gojo and geto who were on their knees like they had done something bad.

"y/n, you believe me more than megumi, right?" gojo nervously laughs, "i'm your brother's best friend!"

i rolled my eyes, "exactly. that's the main reason why i don't believe in you," the betrayal. gojo gasps out dramatically and shut his mouth, a little offended by what you said (but he's not angry, he just wanted to be a little dramatic for the effects).

"so? suguru?"

"we were just having fun teasing megumi," he mumbles out, furrowing his brows.

god, it feels like they're your younger brothers at times.

megumi who asks gojo for advices in his relationship. what he has to do during arguments, what he should gift you, what he should say, what he should do. anything. as much as he hates coming to gojo for help, he still does it anyway — because believe it or not, megumi trusts him more than anything.

"so, i can buy her the same thing, right? will she get bored of it though? maybe i should get something else." megumi asks, his voice was calm but he was frantic. and gojo laughs at him.

"megumi, she loves you. she doesn't care about anything but you, give her a rock and i bet you she will keep it." gojo mutters out, flicking megumi's forehead.

megumi who broke down in front of gojo when he feels like he's not good enough for you. and gojo keeping all his tears a secret from everyone else including geto whenever he sees megumi and you the next day (you still don't know about it up to now).

"megumi!" gojo swung his arm around the young boy's shoulder, laughing brightly with geto following behind him, "oh, you're here too suguru's sister." he jokes, shoving his tongue out.

the first time megumi broke down, he was a little afraid gojo was going to tell everyone about it — but no words about him crying ever spread, and megumi was appreciative.

"sensei." megumi grumbles, though he doesn't push gojo away, he could see the proud glint in gojo's eyes behind his specs.

megumi who hates to admit it, but loves spoiling you with everything. you talk about a food and then he gets it for you the next day. you talk about a place and he will bring you there eventually. you talk about wanting to do a certain activity with him, he will do it no matter how much he dislikes it.

"gumi, dance with me!"

megumi shook his head, "i can't dance."

"please, please?"

he sighed out and stood up, grabbing your hand, "how do i do it?"

it didn't and well, but you appreciated megumi for wanting to try out in an activity that he didn't particularly enjoy in. by the way, you have a swollen foot from getting stepped on by him during the process — and he was there to tend to you.

megumi who absolutely hates having arguments with you and will do whatever you tell him to do just to avoid it (unless he thinks it's necessary to be talked about).

"megumi, just shut up already."

and he does. he doesn't say anything else for the next couple of hours until you were ready to speak to him in a casual manner, it's funny, it was a moment of "do and forget" between you both. you apologize and he forgives (most of the time), and you both never speak on it ever again.

you don't know what that's called, but it just happens between you both.

megumi who loves saving every memory he has of you in a form of pictures, videos, voicemails. anything that you send him, he has it saved in a special album just meant for you and his memories.

"gumi, what's this album?"

megumi looks at you, scrolling through his phone and when he realizes about it, it would be too late. you'd find out his album full of your pictures and videos.

starting from random sky pictures that you send him, to you making weird faces. everything is just there.

megumi was shy about it, but when you expressed your happiness for it — he just lets you be, scrolling through the album, talking about every single picture. and he just listens, looking at you with a dreamy look.

megumi who considers you his home.

"gumi, are you okay?"

he laid his head on your shoulder, not moving an inch nor did he say anything back to you. but you let him be, rubbing the back of his head affectionately as he leans into your touch.

megumi just needed to be close to you to feel safe. to feel at home.

© CHURIPU 2023 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE !

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Could you do a Miguel O’Hara x wife!spider reader, when he lost his daughter he lost her too until they meet during the start of spider society, and he’s smitten with her and they have a baby who’s friends with mayday and she calms down Miguel when he starts to get anger at miles and guides miles. Also to see he’s smitten with her and their baby who is Gabriella.

I don’t know if this is what you meant but hopefully it is (:

My Spanish is prolly shitty because I don’t remember junk from Spanish class but I tried 😭 correct me if anything’s wrong cause I only speak fluent English and Hindi

His two sweet girls

He tried to find an answer for years on how you survived but Gabriella didn’t, coming up with nothing. He was happy you were alive, of course he was. But he wished Gabriella was with you both.

“Miggie, I think we should have another child.”

“What..? What if I can’t protect them? What if they die just like Gabriella?” He said, voice shaking slightly.

You flinched at his voice, trying to calm him down.

“It’ll be good for us. I love and miss her too. Every single day. And don’t you remember how she said she always wanted a baby sister or brother? You can protect them, because it’s not your fault she died.”

He stayed silent for a while. After a lot more talking and thinking, he agreed.

And that was last year, your baby now a year old, and your marriage stronger than ever.

Your daughter was also friends with Peter B Parker’s baby, Mayday. She played with her a lot, and had spider like powers. She liked to climb walls and ceilings with mayday, making it a chore to watch them both.

One day, Miguel started yelling and getting pissed off while you were trying to put the baby to sleep.

“Miggie.” You said, everyone turning to you. Miles looked in confusion.

“Ay, Vuelve al apartamento, mi amor.”

(Go back in the apartment, my love.)

“Es ese el niño de 1610?”

(Is that the kid from 1610?)

“Sí, por favor solo entra. Estaré callado.” He grew aggravated.

(Yes, please just go inside. I’ll be quiet.)

You sighed, walking towards him. He cocked an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Quit being so hard on him. He’s a kid.” You handed him your guy’s daughter and he sighed as your baby climbed up on his shoulder, then climbed down and went over to Hobie. Hobie picked her up and started playing with her, which made you laugh quietly.

“Look, Miles, you don’t get it. You can destroy your world if you do this.” He continued.

“You just expect me to let my dad die?”

“I lost my dad. And my daughter. We’ve all lost something, but it makes us who we are. Time heals all wounds.” You said.

He stayed silent for a moment.

“You might feel guilt, but you have to understand that that’s just the sacrifice of being who we are. We all lose somebody, and that’s okay. And you may never get over it, but if you save him, your whole world collapses. Your dad dies, your mom, your friends, the people you care about. They all die because you decided to save him.” You continued, and Miguel silently listened to the whole thing.

“Just.. stay here for two days, kid. Then we’ll let you go.” Miguel said.

He stared at the baby hobie was currently throwing in the air and talking to with admiration and love. He loved his two girls, his two sweet girls, and he wasn’t going to lose them again.

[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!”

[blackopals-world]

Celestial!Yuu: Viper...busy as always I see.

Jamil: Catering to Kalim is a full time job.

Celestial!Yuu: My poor child.

Jamil: With all do respect your radiance, I need no sympathy.

Celestial!Yuu: When will there be time for you? A child who must care for their own needs.

Jamil: I've handled it well so far.

Celestial!Yuu: Yes and your revolt against your master was you handling it well.

Jamil: I'm fine. I've made up with Kalim. I deserved what I got.

Celestial!Yuu: How much is your sanity worth? Can Kalim even begin to pay for the pain his friendship has inflicted on you? Has he tried? His friendliness doesn't erase his callous dismissive nature. Maybe that's why he has no real friends other then you and that's only because you have no choice. How can he survive without you?

Jamil: Don't talk about him that way.

Celestial!Yuu: Admit it, your life would have been better had he never chosen you as his friend. That's undeniable.

Jamil: ...

Celestial!Yuu: Had you never met he would not be the obstacle he is preventing your success. That's not friendship Viper, that's just servitude. Ideally, it would be one of those mythical bonds between master and servant but the truth is no one wants to be the servant. Only the master reaps the rewards.

Jamil: He needs me.

Celestial!Yuu: That isn't your fault nor your responsibility. Tell me what are you doing for him in the long run? Can you serve him forever, infantalizing him until you're sick of it? Leaving him weak and pathetic.

Jamil: You seem to know all. What would you do?

Celestial!Yuu: Even birds know when to kick the chick from the nest whether they can fly or not. Leave your post. Leave him to figure things out. If life at this school proves to be too difficult then send him home.

Jamil: He'll die! There are so many people who want him dead.

Celestial!Yuu: Whose fault is that? Certainly not yours. Nor your problem. Trust him to figure it out. It's a tough world. His family will find another victim to protect him. Let them sacrifice themselves for their son. Why should it be you?

Jamil: I...you're right.

Celestial!Yuu: I know it's tough. Just think about about my words for now. Just know that I cre for you. I care for all my children of the night.

[jillianallen14]

Incredibly proud of Crowley and how strong/brave he is in the finale

This is gonna be really long, so if you’re in a rush, here’s a TLDR: Crowley is hella brave for confessing to Aziraphale even after Aziraphale spoke first, especially given Aziraphale’s track record of rejecting him, and I’m so proud of him. I’m also proud of him for standing his ground and not giving in because he usually always does whatever Aziraphale asks eventually. Crowley needs to learn to truly stand on his own two feet in order to have a successful relationship with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale needs to learn how to choose/put Crowley first just as much as Crowley chooses him and puts him first. Basically, in human terms, Crowley currently has an anxious attachment style and Aziraphale has an avoidant one, and they both need to get to healthy attachment styles in order for them to work.   

See how long that tldr was? That’s what you’re in for if you read this whole thing lol. 

Alright, here we go. 

Disclaimer: I love Aziraphale so much, but I think he has a lot of work to do before he’s ready to “deserve” the kind of love Crowley is offering him. I also think he is 100% going to put in that work, though. 

So Crowley’s tried to advance things forward with Aziraphale many times over their thousands of years together, and usually these advances are rejected, though sometimes Aziraphale does come around. He’s the one who suggests the Arrangement (and sort of gets rejected at first). He’s the one who is constantly pushing the idea that the two of them are on their own team. He makes grand gestures, rescues Aziraphale, and he makes a lot of sacrifices. In the 1960′s, he tells Aziraphale that he’ll take him anywhere he wants to go, just to be told, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” I sort of count this as “run away together” offer #1 because I think that’s what Crowley is subtextually offering here. His second offer of running away together is also rejected during the almost-apocalypse. He suggests Aziraphale stay at his place when Aziraphale’s bookshop burned down and is once again rejected, though not as directly as some of the others. Aziraphale calls their friendship/partnership “fraternizing” in the 1800s. In the bandstand fight scene, Aziraphale tells Crowley, “We’re not friends” and “I don’t even like you.” 

Of course, we as viewers know that Aziraphale says and does most of these things because he’s constantly trying to protect Crowley from Hell’s punishments. We know that Crowley is what Aziraphale loves most in the world, and honestly, Crowley probably knows it, too. But I’m sure that doesn’t stop the constant onslaught of rejection from hurting and from discouraging him from ever really wanting to have The Big Conversation (the “what are we and what do you want us to be” conversation, as it were lol). 

Crowley has been relentlessly chasing Aziraphale for literal thousands of years, and Aziraphale never really gives all of himself to Crowley in return. That’s got to sting, and that’s got to be so disheartening, even though Crowley is definitely aware Aziraphale does love him/care about him. We all give Crowley shit about not communicating properly, but imagine how hard that would be when he gets that kind of a reaction whenever he does try to communicate? It would certainly not make it any easier. 

In addition to the chasing that Crowley does, he is also the one to almost always give in and apologize. We’ve established that Aziraphale says no to many of the requests Crowley makes of him. And yes, often Crowley says no the first time Aziraphale makes requests of him as well, but Crowley usually comes around. And Crowley always apologizes, even when he really shouldn’t have to because Aziraphale was also at fault or, at the very least, they should both be apologizing. We rarely ever see Aziraphale actually apologize for the hurtful shit he says and does to Crowley. Yes, we know from season 2 that Aziraphale has done the apology dance, so we can infer apologies do happen from time to time, but how often do we actually see this? Not often. 

I love Aziraphale to death, but he has a “my way or the highway” mentality, and Crowley gives in like every single time lol. (Because we know Crowley is so in love it’s not even funny and would do pretty much anything to keep Aziraphale around. #Aziraphale fell first but Crowley fell harder (or at least accepted it earlier) #I will die on this hill). 

So now we get to their fight in the finale of season 2. 

Crowley was so ready to confess. Our boy was prepared. He probably sat in that bookshop rehearsing what he was going to say over and over [just thinking about this hurts my heart lol, ouch]. Then Aziraphale comes in and Crowley literally asks Aziraphale if he [Crowley] can talk first, and Aziraphale still interrupts him (lol, Aziraphale, come on). [I really do wonder how that scene would have gone if Aziraphale had let Crowley speak first; fanfic writers, I’m looking at you]

Then Aziraphale proceeds to say Crowley’s worst nightmare lol. We can literally see on Crowley’s face that his heart is already breaking, and I’m sure he knows there’s a good chance he’s about to receive “let’s run off/be together” rejection #3. To be fair, Aziraphale is literally also telling Crowley he wants to be together, but all Crowley seems to be hearing is the “in heaven, as angels” part. So at this point, Crowley can be pretty sure the love of his eternal life is “choosing Heaven” over him once again [we, as viewers, know this isn’t really the case, but Crowley doesn’t]. 

Yet, he interrupts Aziraphale. He makes Aziraphale let him talk, he doesn’t just let himself be talked over or unheard this time, and Crowley proceeds to confess anyway and practically does the Good Omens equivalent of asking Aziraphale to marry him. Like holy shit, y’all. That takes some massive balls. 

Crowley is “rejected” (kinda-sorta; Aziraphale isn’t rejecting Crowley this time, just the “running off” bit, but Crowley sees it as a rejection of him). Fighting ensues. Aziraphale says accidentally hurtful things because he’s just as bad at communicating as Crowley is lol (ie “Nothing lasts forever” instead of saying, “You matter more to me than this bookshop,” which is what he meant). Crowley is literally beyond heartbroken, you can see it all over his face, especially when he puts the sunglasses back on. And yet he still has the courage to kiss Aziraphale? BRO. BROOOOO. I want what Crowley has lol because he’s certifiably insane for having the balls to do that. 

I’ve seen people say that the kiss was the wrong thing for Crowley to do in that moment, but I don’t agree. They were still talking past each other, and Crowley needed to do something to make sure Aziraphale knew exactly what he was offering (marriage). Crowley needed to do that because if he didn’t, there was still going to be ambiguity, which would make their eventual resolution harder in the end. I also think Crowley just wanted to kiss him out of desperation because he thought it would be his last chance and because he wanted to show Aziraphale exactly what he was saying no to, but that’s beside the point. And yes, the kiss broke Aziraphale’s heart, but I truly and genuinely think Aziraphale needed to have his heart broken this time in order for him to grow. 

Then Aziraphale once again says something incredibly hurtful and rejects him again. And what does Crowley do? He doesn’t run away this time, like he usually does. He goes out by the Bentley and stands there and watches Aziraphale. I think he did this partly out of the desire to give Aziraphale one last chance and partly out of a desire to make Aziraphale sit there and look at him as he chooses Heaven again. Balls, man, I tell you. 

And Crowley doesn’t go back to him, and he doesn’t beg him to stay. And he doesn’t give himself up completely to be with this person who can’t accept him as he is. He lets himself be known, and then he holds his ground. He doesn’t let someone fundamentally change him just for love. He doesn’t lose himself to love. 

And this leads me to my next point, which is that this fight needed to happen because both Crowley and Aziraphale have lessons to learn. 

Crowley’s lesson is that he needs to learn how to stand on his own two feet. He needs to learn how to put himself first sometimes so that he doesn’t completely lose himself to Aziraphale. He needs to learn how to say no, to really say no. He needs to learn how to hold his boundaries. He needs to develop an identity outside of Aziraphale and what Aziraphale wants/needs him to be, discover what he wants even when Aziraphale isn’t around. He also needs to learn how to clearly state and ask for what he wants and needs. I think him learning this lesson will also help with his anger issues because the kind of people-pleasing self-effacement that Crowley does for Aziraphale only breeds resentment, which comes out every time they get in an argument. 

And Aziraphale’s lesson is that he needs to learn how to really choose Crowley, not try to change him, not try to pretend he’s something he’s not. He needs to learn how to take Crowley exactly as he is. He needs to learn how to give Crowley as much as Crowley gives him so that their partnership is on more of an equal footing. Essentially, his lesson is the opposite of Crowley’s: where Crowley needs to learn how to not lose himself completely to Aziraphale, Aziraphale needs to learn how to lose himself a little bit to Crowley. I’m not saying Aziraphale is selfish because he’s absolutely not, but I am saying that his sense of individuality is a little too strong and that doesn’t exactly work when you’re trying to have a long-term, committed relationship/partnership with someone because yes, you’re still an individual, but you’re also now part of a unit. And that requires making decisions together and genuinely hearing the other person out. It requires compromising, which Aziraphale is not particularly good at. 

Crowley needs to let go a little bit and Aziraphale needs to hold on a little tighter so that they can meet in the middle. You can see this in almost all of their fights. When things don’t go Aziraphale’s way, he immediately resorts to telling Crowley he can leave. Think of this as the two of them holding on to opposite ends of a taut rope: Crowley pulls a little too hard, and Aziraphale lets the rope loosen, leaving Crowley to fall backwards on his own. Aziraphale needs to learn how to hold onto that rope just a little tighter so that him and Crowley are putting in equal amounts of effort.

And folks, they’re gonna do it. They’re gonna put in the work. They’re gonna learn their lessons. And then they’re going to kiss and make up (preferably with Aziraphale initiating the kissing this time lol, let’s give poor Crowley a rest and let him be chased for once). And then we’re going to get the most beautiful, loving, healthy relationship. But they just have to go through this first. It’ll make their resolution so much more satisfying. 

So Aziraphale, it’s time to do some chasing.  

[doyouevenshipbr0]

examples of atla live action’s attempts to be more feminist and how they actually had the opposite effect and/or hurt the integrity of the show

already talked about katara and pakku. does not make sense that she did not have a master. point blank. just because something sounds empowering (ie katara saying “yes. and ur looking at her.” after zuko asked if she found a master) doesn’t mean it automatically is. there still needs to be logic and katara “being her own master” defies logic imo im sorry!

katara in general. she has no ferocity here which to be very honest i dont think is fully the writers’ fault. some of the blame goes on them but the actress for katara just delivered alllllll of her lines w the same exact mild tone. katara is overly motherly. she is bossy. she is passionate. she is nurturing. she is emotional. THERE IS POWER IN THESE THINGS!!!!! why would we take away her spark?!?!?!

i loved live action suki. however, i LOVE the line in the original when her and sokka part ways and sokka says “i treated u like a girl when i should’ve treated u like a warrior.” and suki says “i am a warrior” *kisses sokka on the cheek* “but im a girl too.” THAT LINE WAS SO PERFECT like lemme say it again there is POWER IN FEMININITY! there is no shame in that!!!!! why does this show wanna take that away so badly. at one point live action suki says something like “im not just a warrior, im a kiyoshi warrior” and before she parts ways w sokka she thanks him for showing her some of the world or something like that. which was fine but i just love the simplicity of the original. a girl can be a warrior and have a crush. why do we have to change that?

this is a small one and it doesnt REALLY matter, but i cant help but think they changed this to be more “feminist” which is just dumb. yue isnt betrothed? well she was but she broke it off? and hahn (her ex) isnt a huge dick? i mean it wasn’t the worst thing and i didnt really mind it but i was just kinda like ?????. feel like yue being betrothed tied into her sense of responsibility and foreshadowed the sacrifices she will make for her people. so. feels rly weird that they changed it. i think it was to show more women agency which is always cool. but in the original, yue finally gets her agency by becoming the moon spirit. that should be the end of her character arc. idk. a weird change that seemed unnecessary.

sokka not being sexist. honestly i think the live action did a good job at omitting this while not REALLY making it feel like something was missing. with that being said, something was still missing lol. once again, its apart of sokka’s character. i feel like everyone has already expressed their hate for this so ill just leave it at that.

i am a TAD indifferent on the women of the northern tribe joining the forces during the fight. on one hand i cant lie i smiled bc obviously i love water bending and i love women so there was definitely apart of me that was happy to see that moment. however. it was kind of giving like in endgame when theres that random shot of all the women superheroes in one frame so the movie could have a “slay queen. we are girlbosses:)” moment. like it just felt a little empty and it wasnt the feminist battlecry they thought it was. these women have been healing their whole lives. why would they be any good on the frontlines of a fight? they never learned combat skills! HOWEVER, when we see them, its mainly just them reinforcing the walls so like. that makes enough sense. im cool w that.

i know im dwelling but as we know i hold atla in the highest regards. it does a lot of things perfectly imo. and one of the things i think it does PERFECTLY is its treatment of female characters. literally the only thing i can think of that i dont like is when team azula beats the kiyoshi warriors and ty lee says something like “u are NOT prettier than us” NDBSKSJDJ like ok that was weird. but anyways. it irritates me how the live action kind of seems to have this pov that says “the original was good, but there were some ideas and plots that were outdated so we changed them to keep with the times” like they’re fixing something that was broken if that makes sense. when in actuality, i think atla’s representation of women is perfect and timeless. it was relevant and powerful in 2005, and it is equally as relevant and powerful in 2024. there was nothing about its feminist themes that needed to be “fixed” or “updated”.