#Realme Book leaks
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ok not to owlhousepost randomly despite never talking about it but something i noticed. When compared to the pictures in belos’ mind, the reflection hunter sees of caleb looks more.. sickly? might just be because of the lower quality of the paintings but its still interesting. hm
#the owl house#toh#toh season 3#NOT a leak btw this was from the episode preview#caleb wittebane#hunter#hunter toh#ok rapid fire theory time:#it could mean 1) philip doesnt remember (or doesnt want to) the bad parts#of his old life before the demon realm#or#caleb was alot happier and healthier in the demon realm.#i assume the reflection is based on pre-demon realm caleb since thats the only reference hunter would have#in the books.
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Red Yummy
Based on the post by @spacedace. Basically it's a joke that Red Robin (the restaurant with the little jingle: Reeed Robin: Yummm.) Isn't a thing in the DC world but is one in the Phantom world.
The rip in the multiverse was an issue the Justice League was not at all prepared for. Sure they had incidents where visitors from an alternate universe have crossed over to their side or they have gone to one. There are times when they meet doubles of themselves, both as allies and as enemies.
They have been to different Earths, with different histories, different countries, and that one particular time, even different beings that ruled the planet.
It's always been an adventure where at the end of it, the doorway to both worlds is sealed shut, with little or no chance of it opening again. The friends they made. The sights they saw. All gone. Fine. Over.
That was, until a villain from a different world, attempted to attack Clockwork's Tower. The Justice League was not aware of Clockwork- Master of Time, Weaver of Realms, The Concept of Between- but they noticed that he had been attacked when other worlds started spilling into theirs.
People were falling through glowing green portals, stumbling into buildings that weren't there before. People who were just going out for walks would be zapped away and replaced with their confused counterparts.
Parts of the sky glitch into others, replacing the soft blue with brown or black, little patches scattering around the world. Cities vanish for a few hours, sometimes replaced by others sometimes not, and animals never before seen running amok.
It was a mess.
The League did everything it could to help, but it was hard to stretch their reach to the help then world when all reality was being thrown into a mixer and set on chaos.
A lot like busted pipes, the Leaugers would run to cover a leaking pipe only to have the water build up in another and burst there and then scramble to cover that one before the rising water drowned them all.
Thankfully the Justice League Dark was able to use magic and find the source of the leak. The Infinite Realms known as the web that linked all universes, are usually only accessible by the dead, or in Constantine's case having friends in high places.
"Ghost Writer owes me a favor," Constantine said while the rest of the Leauge watched a flouting green book descend from the sky. It flipped open, expanding into a gateway. The smoke of the book curled into little missy hearts.
"Ghost Writer?" Zatanna gawked "How did you get such a powerful, and notoriously recluse, being to owe you anything?"
"Let's just say, we both appreciate the finer things in life and that ghost has a rather fine ass" Constantine leered. No one had asked for any more detail, although Zatanna had the expression of someone who had bitten something sour the whole time.
Ghost Writer had given Constantine a warning that his power would only be able to protect five living souls. Any more would be at the mercy of the Infinite Realms'.
Humans that wandered into the Realms were more often than not driven into madness, became hopelessly lost, or had their souls swindled by beings that dwelled there. Not that it wasn't surprising.
After all, the living did not belong there, so of course they were a danger to the Realms' structure. Hell, there were rumors that a living being could produce fresh uncorrupted ectoplasm when killed or even kept like livestock.
Constantine did not want to find out if the rumors had any truth to them.
To be able to travel safely they had to fall under a powerful ghost's protection and Ghost Writers let them know to pick their five best.
It was decided that Constantine would go as their expert, Batman as their strategist, Wonder Woman as their diplomat and protection, Superman as second protection, and Zatanna as another magic user that could combat the dead.
The rest of the league remained, doing their best to hold their universe together as the team of five rushed off to put everything to right. It was agonizing not knowing what was happening or how the mission was going but they did what they could and placed their trust in the five.
Many of the Justice League didn't say it, but it was the remaining Bats that sort of kept everything afloat in their father's absence. Each one leads a group of young heroes, easily countering and controlling their self-appointed sectors of the world.
Nightwing and Titians.
Red Robin and Young Justice.
Red Hood and the Outlaws.
Oracle and the Birds of Prey
Robin and the Blades.
All five groups agree to use the Watch Tower as a central base to coordinate their defenses against the world falling apart. Trading information with each other quickly and efficiently, and using this new information to prepare for more ripples of universes, showcasing that Batman had taught them well.
Following their example, the rest of the Justice League did what they could to minimize the damage. It was on the second day of constant relief efforts that everything was snapped back to normal.
A giant wave of sound- the noise sounding a lot like a grandfather clock strick repeating over and over again- as things that were not meant to be in their world vanished and their own people and things returned.
The shy's patches were removed and the right color returned.
Even property damages that were caused by the incident were reversed as if reality falling apart was nothing but a dream. No wreckages to clean up, no people had gone missing, and best of all, no casualties had been taken.
The Leauge gathered around Ghost Writer's book watching it open as the five returned, cheering and screaming, giving them the proper hero's welcome. Then right behind their teammates, a second group followed through.
Three glowing figures, all dressed in the same black and white outfits, and a ship carrying four humans. Batman introduced them as the allies who helped defend Clockwork's Tower and keep the multi-universe from collapsing.
He did admit that just because it was no longer falling apart, it did not mean that the rip had been closed. In fact, it was the only thing left to do but it was proving to be difficult due to Clockwork himself not understanding why their world wasn't healing.
Clockwork couldn't leave the Realms for too long- if no one was there to keep Time running the same thing would happen all over again- but he did give them equipment that could in theory patch things up on their side.
They just needed someone who understood the equipment.
Team Phantom, led by Danny Phantom, one of the flowing figures was happy to volunteer. They would be staying for three years, to strengthen and rebuild their Universe structure.
Team Phantom consisted of Dan Phantom, Danielle Phantom, Jasmin Fenton, Tucker Foley, Samantha Manson, and Westley Weston. All young, kind, strong- Batman vouched for the non-powered members claiming they could go toe to toe with his kids- and all much to the joy of many young heroes- attractive. They played an essential role on the team, doing whatever their people and kind did to help Clockwork, staying out of the League's way.
They all seemed happy to live as close to civilians as possible and despite their strength and combat training, Team Phantom was more like a research party instead of a hero.
Since they would be there for three years- more depending on the Speed Force's effect on the timeline grumbles Tucker- the seven had chosen to set down some roots within their dimension.
The three Phantoms needed Ectoplasim to live- a rare substance in the Justice League's universe- so they chose Gotham as their new home. Batman was more than willing to allow them into his city, as long as they knew not to interfere with his work.
Things settled, The Justice League moved on to other missions and other issues while Team Phantom ran tests, gathered information, and worked on the timeline.
The only real issue Bruce had with Team Phantom, was that a majority of his kids were romanticly interested in them.
Dick's love-struck sigh, whenever Dan wandered by, would often lead to useless backflips in an ill-fated attempt to impress him.
Jason would conventionally be lifting weights shirtless whenever Jazz came by with an update report. Then he would mention some novel or other that had the girl's attention far better than his abs.
Steph had taken a very large interest in gardening and at the same time, started wearing shorter shorts and tighter tops because Sam seemed to adore flowers.
Cass meanwhile found every excuse there was to be dressed in the prettiest dresses she owned whenever Wes was anywhere near her. She even wore light makeup- a real sign of how much she was interested in the conspiracy theorist.
Duke seemed over the moon whenever Tucker asked for his personal help on anything technical-related. It did his son wonders that someone thought of him first when it came to tech- Duke has always been a bit self-conscious of his place among geniuses- would be all but speaking in poems to the bemused teenager.
Damian's crush on Ellie did melt Bruce's heart a little. It was his baby's first after all, but he wasn't sure if Damian's approach was doing anything. Put him on the battlefield and Damian could lead to victory. Put him next to a pretty young girl and all his son was capable of doing was stare and babble.
The only one that didn't seem to have a crush on Team Phantom was Tim. Which should have given him reassurance except for the small little detail.
"Red Robin" Danny sings upon Tim's arrival at the cave. Officially tonight they are all going over the results of the latest tests on the universe's structure. Unofficially Team Phantom had been invited over for dinner by Alfred and they were looking over the Batcave as their butler finished preparing the main course.
At once every member of Team Phantom raises their head, turning away from his love-struck children to his flustered son and singing "Yum" with wide smiles.
Tim's face goes bright red.
Apparently, Tim was their universe version of Adonis and Team Phantom had no issue with expressing how yummy they found Tim. Now Bruce isn't saying that he would be against Tim having more than one romantic partner- he has made sure to look up proper healthy poly relationships and given Tim a PowerPoint version of it.
It's just that he isn't sure how he's going to handle supporting one of his children while breaking the heart of another. Tim seems unsure how to handle so much romantic attention- he's had plenty of relationships before- but said attention is picking him before any of his siblings is a first.
Bruce knows that deep down Tim still struggles with thinking he's not as good as the others. That he really is just a placeholder in the long run.
Then there is the fact he isn't sure how their culture works. Is the singing like a mating call? Was there a chance they would earn the irk of Clockwork himself if Tim accidentally accepted their advances? Why was it always Red Robin and not just Tim himself that made Team Phantom go yummmm?
"Hi guys" Tim greets at least and Danny grins wider.
"Reeeeed Robbbbbin" " The ghost boy says throwing an arm over Tim's shoulders. Sam and Tucker surround them, making their voices sound strange as all three start singing, rocking Tim back and forth in a strange little dance.
"Yummmmm!"
From the corner of his eyes, Bruce makes out Dick's protective Older Brother's face, as his eldest starts marching towards the group with the intent of breaking them apart. He's been very vocal about putting an end to Team Phantom's flirtations if he saw so much as a hint of Tim's unease.
Except that Tim looked utterly bliss being pressed up against Danny. Maybe he should rethink Tim's disinterest in Team Phantom. The rest of his children looked murderous as more members of Team Phantom gathered around Tim also singing.
Bruce had to deal with this for three whole years. He can physically feel his hair turning greyer.
#dcxdpdabbles#dc x dp crossover#Red Yummy#In which Team Phantom is just singing a commercial#And the DC world think they all romantically like Tim#Tim is in fact into Danny#None of Team Phantom is aware of their admirers#None of them are exactlly socially popular back home they just think the Waynes are nice#Yes it was Vlad's fault#Bruce's pov#I JUST HAD TO WRITE IT#IT'S SO FUNNY
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About Lore.fm
I was talking with a writer friend earlier today and they told me about an app that aim to be ‘Audible for ao3’ except that they don’t seem to understand how Audible works so allow me to clarify a few things for them.
Audible pays for the rights of every book on their platform, meaning they asked for permission for it!
Audible do not use AI to read those books, but real people.
Audible respect copyright law and protects the works on their platform.
None of those points seems to be concern of the people behind Lore.fm.
It’s text to speech and it’s up to the user of the app, and not the writer, to put the work on the app, by simply copy pasting the url of the story.
As for the protection of the data on their app here are some points of concerns I found in their Privacy Policy that I found on the Apple Store:
“When you sign up for or use our Services, you voluntarily give us certain Personal Data, including:
• Your automatically generated username.
We collect this information as you use the App, Software, and/or Services to operate, but none of it is publicly available to anyone else who utilizes the services:
• User Content. This consists of all text, documents, or other content or information uploaded, entered, or otherwise transmitted by you in connection with your use of the Services and/or Software.”
So they will be keeping the works you upload on them into their database. They do say that the user information will not be accessed or sell to any third party, they should know better than anyone else that not everyone bother with things like asking for permission. If they found it to be trivial than others will too. And users usage information will be seen by third parties for analysis purposes.
“Usage information. This is information about the lore.fm, Software, and/or Services you use and how you use them. We may also obtain data from our third-party partners and service providers to analyze how users use our App, Software, and/or Services. For example, we will know how many users access a specific page on the App and which links they clicked on. We use this aggregated information to better understand and optimize the App.”
So there will be third parties involved (not specified who exactly, which is oh so reassuring!) but they shouldn’t access the content of the stories. Hopefully, but that’s not good enough for me. Especially when they finish off with this gem :
“Information submitted to lore.fm will be transferred to, processed, and stored in the United States. When you use the Software on your computing device, User Content you save will be stored locally on that device and synced with our servers. If you post or transfer any Information to or through our App, Software, and/or Services, you are agreeing to such Information, including Personal Data and User Content, being hosted and accessed in the United States.
Please note that the laws of the United States may be different from the privacy laws applicable to the place where you are resident. lore.fm is committed to protecting the security of your Information and takes reasonable precautions to protect it. However, internet data transmissions, whether wired or wireless, cannot be guaranteed to be 100% secure, and as a result, we cannot ensure the security of Information you transmit to us, including Personal Data and User Consent; accordingly, you acknowledge that you do so at your own risk.”
This, omg, this is making me so mad! Basically if a breach do happen and works are leaked and stolen by, for exemple, other AI mining for material to create stories, they decline all responsibility. Too bad, so sad it’s up to the app user and the original writer is left with no recourse. And the audio files won’t just be on your phone but on their servers, another sign that they store the contents and if there’s text to speech, then them using speech to text later on isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
So how do I, a writer can protect myself in this situation? Well I can put my work on private and only allow fellow members to use it since apparently locked worked should not be compatible with it. Or I could use a special font so that their AI can’t read my work. However I do not want to do that! I want my work to be accessible to non members and I want to people with reading impediments to not struggle with comic sans!
And I get that for people that struggle with blindness this app could be nice but, the thing is I want people to interact with my works on the website I put my work in. If Lore.fm was just a plug-in and that people wouldn’t leave ao3 to hear it I wouldn’t give a shit about this. But it’s not a plug-in and it means that my work and the works of other writers are going to end up on an app that we do not know and do not trust and we would have no control over what happens to it there.
You can send a mail to opt out to have your work on there, and I did so, I’ll put my mail and their answer bellow. However the fact that they act on blanket consent is distasteful, to put it nicely. The problem is you can’t opt out of something you don’t know exist and if it weren’t for my friend I would have no idea this app was a thing. It’s already on the App Store and Google store and I first heard of it today! It’s still on beta but still, us writer should have been made aware of it! And apparently since they’re not violating ao3 terms of use they can’t stop them either.
Then there’s the podfic community and honestly I feel bad for them the most as this is completely trampling what they do! You have those lovely people showing proper etiquette to the writers of stories they liked by asking them for permission to records their work, they do editing, some even add ambiance music, they work really hard on it and you have Lore.fm that come in and says fuck that, we won’t be doing any of those things. This is not okay.
So yeah, I’m angry, sad and infuriated by this situation. I can’t dictate anyone to not use the app but you really shouldn’t. What I can ask you however if that if you like what I write, don’t put it on that app.
I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK ON LORE.FM OR ANY SIMILAR APP.
You can see below my email and will post a screenshot of their response when I’ll get it. I intend of documenting all of my interactions with them on this blog. I’m sorry if this isn’t a fun post but sometimes you need to speak out. Especially since some of my work on ao3 were requested for TWST Charity. I absolutely cannot allow those to be misplaced on the internet as they were meant to help raise money for charity.
Edit: some people have raised the concern that they may use phishing so if you wish to opt out use a burner email account. Their email is [email protected]
#ao3#ai#boycott ai#lore.fm#I do NOT consent#leave my work alone#blanket consent is bullshit#i’m angry#I won’t be pushed around
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A leaked list of some of the exciting upcoming content from The Book of Bill:
The pyramids of Giza ranked from most to least sexy.
Winning lottery numbers. He does not say which game they're for.
Three pages of Bill practicing blackletter calligraphy so that he can write the fancy-looking "The Book of Bill" on the cover. (Meant to tear those pages out before submitting book to publisher.)
A section where he implies that all your headcanons about him are stupid. Yes, your headcanons specifically. If you compare your copy of the book to a friend's, these sections will have different text. He insults all headcanons equally, even the ones that contradict each other.
A long, rambling story about a funny thing that he saw at a party in the Nightmare Realm, but he keeps getting distracted gossiping about the embarrassing love affairs and crimes against reality the partygoers have committed. Not a single one of these characters has ever been mentioned before or ever will be again. He gets so distracted he never finishes the original funny story. He was clearly drunk when he wrote this section.
A pet care sheet on how to keep a pet axolotl. All of the information is extremely wrong.
Some of the other dimensions he's tried and failed to conquer. He keeps insisting that all the failures were somebody else's fault. It's extremely obvious that they're his fault.
A photograph of a vivisected elephant, for some reason.
A phone number written on a cocktail napkin that Bill insists would be really funny for all the readers to prank call. It leads to the desk phone of the director of the CIA.
Bill claims he definitely totally knew that Stan was disguised as Ford the whole time, he only played along to trick the Pines back, and then he quickly changes the topic.
A page of Bill's original poetry. It's all unintelligible symbols. It will take 27 years for somebody to crack the code. They're all gory but juvenile limericks.
A cocktail recipe. It will kill you.
Bill's original version of the portal blueprints that he copied to give Ford, with Bill's handwritten annotations. One part of the blueprints is labeled "component that will accidentally destroy the universe. REMEMBER NOT TO INCLUDE THIS COMPONENT IN SIXER'S COPY!!" He underlined this twice. If this page is compared to the portal blueprints in Journal 3, it's clear that Bill included that component in Ford's copy.
A personality quiz to help you meet your ideal sleep paralysis demon.
Bill's baby pictures. He looks exactly the same, except his bow tie and top hat are too big.
Bill reveals that he thought the llama symbol on the zodiac wheel referred to that farmer guy on the edge of town, and he was super confused to see Pacifica there.
Multiple pages scattered through the book about Bill's amazing powers, his brilliant and fun plans for our dimension, and all the cool favors he's willing and able to do for his friends and followers. All these pages end with a passive-aggressive aside about how somebody would have to be REALLY stupid to turn down an invitation to join Bill's crew, Stanford Pines—
A page labeled "My loyal servants and slaves!" filled with several hideous, oozing, nightmare-inducing Lovecraftian monsters, and one Mickey Mouse.
A self-portrait depicting Bill riding a rocket ship playing an electric guitar while rainbow lightning flashes all around him and money rains down from the sky.
A cynical, sneering tirade about how love is evolution's idiotic way of tricking primitive species into reproducing and how only simple-minded mortals who can't separate their true thoughts from their hormones fall for it. In the margins he's drawn a heart around the words "Bill Cipher +" a scribbled-out blot. The blot is completely unreadable. Despite this, the fandom will spend years debating the name underneath based on the size of the blot.
Extremely stupid "explanations" about various unsolved mysteries and crimes. In six years the world will discover one of them is accidentally correct and Alex Hirsch will get investigated by the FBI.
The book will be divided into four sections. Each section will begin with a big illuminated letter. In order, the four illuminated letters spell "F" "U" "C" "K".
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A DC X DP IDEA #25
New Year, New Me?
Imagine dis…
We all know that when Danny died, he changed. From his black hair and blue-eyed kid to a white-haired and green-eyed ghost kid. We also know that ghosts were once humans just misunderstood, had unfinished business, or were just out for the injustice they have faced in the face of death.
But what if Danny is just a baby ghost in every sense and now, he is getting more powerful and more tuned in with his ghostly side that he began to change?
…
Danny knew that there was something wrong with him, not just the fact that he had died and came back alive and well that’s a whole other story. The fact that there is something wrong with his ghostly side, that to the point it began affecting his human side. His jaw began to ache and when he looked into the mirror he saw some of his teeth beginning to sharpen like a canine would, his hair looked like it wasn’t held by gravity as his parents had chalked it up with him using a different type of conditioner to make it more fluffy, his skin began having these weird spams in the middle of the day as well his uncanny need to stay in a cold room Mr. Lancer swore 10 book titles under his breath when he saw him taking a nap inside the cafeteria fridge.
But the worst of it came when he fought Skulker, it was another normal Thursday for the Halfa but as he was fighting off Skulker who was already spewing out his usual rant about mounting his pelt he saw another figure. Behind Skulker is another figure that looked like him more shadowy yet bloodied, covered in rusty metal that he swore he heard it creaking as if two metals were grinding to each other, with each move that Skulker made. Seeing he was distracted Skulker made a lucky hit to him as if he was back in his first year as a ghost. Danny shook his head and immediately souped the ghost and tried to forget the more horrific and unsettling version of Shulker.
Danny tried to hide it but when his friends and sister began noticing his changes, they made him visit the Far Frozen.
Frostbite was confused and worried at his changes and explained to Danny in great detail that what he was going through was a ghostly equivalent to puberty.
Since he had recently died his ghostly side had registered him being a baby despite being in his teens in his human. Normally ghost children would not transition after 5 centuries as they have not only been deemed absorbed enough ectoplasm but also have been mature enough a good example would be Box Lunch who was barely 146 years old while Youngblood was nearing his transition.
Frostbite offered a conclusion that it may be a fact that he slept on top of the active portal which leaks massive ectoplasm radiation and when he fought off ghosts who are centuries older and more experienced than him made his ghostly side mature faster, like how children were forced to mature faster when incompetent parents are around. Now that he has not only become more attuned or in one with his ghostly side, but his ghostly side is also slowly forming his eldritch abomination kinda like human symptoms of puberty like broadening of shoulder, pitch voice…etc, Frostbite explained.
Danny asked about his sight when Skulker visited him as well he felt that time. Danny was still distraught when he went home but when he had the time to process what he saw, instead of feeling scared or deep panic at what he saw instead felt a deep relief at the image.
Frostbite told Danny since he is transitioning to becoming a young adult, what he is seeing is the true form of ghosts.
The citizens of the Infinite Realms are naturally terrifying, gruesome, ghastly, ghoulish…etc for years there had been no problem with their appearance but when the first Ancients went to visit a mortal plane for an official Realm duty, they were horrified to see that not only humans scream with pure unaltered fear but also went brain dead the moment they laid their eyes on the said Ancients as their minds cannot comprehend the sheer true form of the said Ancients. As the said Ancients felt guilty for what they had caused the humans went in a vegetable state and began practicing into shifting into a more humane form, something more modest as to when they visit another mortal world in case of another duty. As the practice was only practiced in a small island that the Ancients ruled it soon spread out to the entire Realms. It spread so far that even other Ancients began copying it and it didn’t take too long for it to become a norm.
So when the Fenton portal as well as Vlad’s portal opened it became instinctive for the ghosts to pass through to where their more “humane” side and only show their real appearance in their haunt or when they have a mate or to their respective fight mates.
Frostbite gave him something for the pain and offered to help Danny with his transition, which Danny gratefully thanked the yeti and flew off.
Since then he slowly yet surely became accustomed to the changes to himself as he felt more him. His friends and sister tried to hide it from the Fenton couple despite being oblivious that they would surely notice the changes. Fake teeth and make-up did their thing as Sam may not enjoy the pinkish/feminine side of her make-up collection courtesy of her parents but sure damn well those foundations are of good quality.
His ghostly companions that came for their weekly brawl began noticing the large shadow behind their local halfa, some were horrified as they thought they were fighting a baby all this time and were just in their transition but others had congratulated Danny for basically growing up. Maturing? Transitioning? They don’t know the right word but hell yeah they are proud.
Add to the fact that he just became the Ghost King, which means that his ghostly side will be more horrific, gory, and ghastly than a usual ghost as their real form reflects their strength.
…
Danny didn’t know but for some reason, Amnity’s CPS launched an investigation into the Fenton couple. Had found out that having a house? Structure? Home? Full of weapons is not a viable home for a teenage boy like himself and was promptly removed from their custody and the premises. Of course, the Fenton couple tried to fight off the verdict, heck even Vlad tried to help the two for the sake of Maddie and even tried to have Danny placed with him.
In the end, Danny is relocated to a far place away from his parents as well as his godfather one of the CPS workers pointed out that Danny has bruises every time, he visits Vlad which puts him under the scrutiny of a different kind of investigation as well.
Jazz was considered out of the hostile environment as she had just moved from their home to her dorm and had just been given a protection order that said that her parents including Vlad were to stay away from her as well as have no contact with the said individuals as it may affect the proceedings.
Danny bounced from one foster to another up until he ended up with the foster parent who had the greatest record, Bruce Wayne himself.
At first, Danny tries every trick he can think of in the book to be removed as well as isolating himself within his room in the manor to be transferred as the moment he went ghost to look at his surroundings and saw the secret basement as well the Wayne family being the glorified furry brigade he wants out! He is not sharing a roof with a fruit loop thank you very much, but as the days went by he began getting used to the Waynes and thought that he may have grown to the Waynes.
Though how come Duke smiled too tight whenever he saw him?
…
Duke knew there was something wrong with the new kid. Don’t get him wrong black hair, and blue eyes alongside a so, so situation with his parents made him the prime adoption bait for the family. They were just waiting for him to discover the cave on his own to be officially introduced to the family. But there is something so wrong with Danny.
Sure, his diet tends to have his meat lean more on the medium rare side or even to the bloody side, and chalked it up to growing up not learning how to properly cook and brushing it off.
Sure he is too quiet to the point he is scaring and surprising highly trained vigilantes which has multiple people being trained by the best in the world.
Sure he tends to go to places which is cold, too cold for his liking, Alfred nearly had a heart attack seeing Danny sleeping in the large freezer which contained the meat and other perishable items that needed to be frozen to preserve.
But the biggest thing that made Duke uneasy was the shadow looming over Danny. It was huge to the point it reached the manor ceilings. Its very green toxic eyes seemed to lock on him every time he entered the room. Duke accidentally made eye contact when he is hanging out with Dick, Tim, and Danny. It practically swallowed him whole with the way it looked at him, it made all of his hair straighten up. Dick who noticed him froze up and asked him what was wrong, he excised himself and ran to the farthest corner of the manor and proceeded to throw up his lunch due to the unspeakable things that things showed to him.
(In reality, Danny’s ghostly side is trying to show Duke what would he do to his enemies as well as to whomever harmed them)
Duke is now contemplating what to tell the rest of the Batclan how Danny is cursed. Haunted? and have them call Zatanna or Constantine to get rid of whatever it is.
…
PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.
PPS: As you can see I cannot write horror to save my life so please pardon me, I tried my best…:-P
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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!”
#peaches writes#fae!johnny#john mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish#fae!au#john mactavish#magic!au#john soap mctavish x you#fae!soap#call of duty#cod mw2#soap mw2#soap x reader#soap cod#johnny soap mctavish x reader#john soap mctavish x reader#soap mactavish#cod x reader#female reader#witch!reader#which witch#which witch 
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OM! Headcanons I think about at like 3 am
Simeon talks in his sleep. Like, almost every night. The topics range from spoilers for his next TSL book (Levi found that the hard way) to how Michael terrifies him. Solomon has a video of his late-night rambles, and it’s honestly endearing to see the angel babble away in his sleep.
Lilith used to bring lots of souvenirs from the Human Realm for all of her brothers, and each one cherishes whatever she brought for them. For Lucifer, it was a book, Mammon was given a wooden bead bracelet that she threaded herself, Levi got a set of paints made from seashells, Asmo was given the hand mirror that he always keeps on himself. Beel and Belphie have the most amount of gifts from Lilith.
The brothers learnt not to steal from Mammon the hard way. Once Levi, fed up with his brother’s stealing and selling of his items decided to take revenge on him by selling a wooden bead bracelet he found in the second-born’s bedroom, not knowing that it was the one given to him by Lilith after one of her Human Realm visits. It was one of the very few times that Mammon transformed into his demon form in rage and had to be held back by both Lucifer and Beel.
Dia adores butterflies ever since Barbatos took him to a butterfly garden in the Human Realm. The young prince did try to recreate it, but unfortunately, the Devildom butterflies were a little too cannibalistic for his taste.
Barbatos doesn’t really like people in his kitchen when he’s cooking or baking. The only exceptions to this particular thing are MC, Diavolo and Luke.
MC gets hounded by demons to make pacts with them after it is leaked that their magic is stronger than even Solomon. Now, based on their personality they either revel in the attention or shy away from it, but this makes Lucifer put in ‘security measures’. And by that I mean he had at least one of his brothers around MC or in their vicinity at all times. All of them are extremely territorial and do not appreciate lower demons coming up to MC to make pacts with them.
Satan and Lucifer are surprisingly more cuddly and loving with each other when they are drunk. Asmo has a video of a drunk Lucifer and Satan holding each other and crying with watching a compilation of kittens being cute. He has been sworn to secrecy by both brothers.
Belphie has an old elephant plushie that was given to him by Lucifer when he was young and wouldn’t go to sleep. It’s stashed between piles of clothes in his closet, but on especially bad nights, when his thoughts and self-doubts keep him up, he cuddles it to sleep.
#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me writing#omswd#om#om hcs#obey me headcanons#obey me lucifer#obey me mammon#obey me leviathan#obey me satan#obey me asmodeus#obey me beelzebub#obey me belphegor#obey me diavolo#obey me barbatos#obey me simeon#obey me solomon#obey me luke#lucifer#mammon#leviathan#satan#asmo#beel#belphie#diavolo#barbatos#simeon#luke
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Kepa
Paring: Daemon Targaryen x reader, Harwin Strong x reader, Criston Cole x reader
Warnings: Swearing, oral sex, fingering, handjobs, p in v, Daemon being a dickhead
1.01
“What does the winner get?” You ask, a smirk pulling on your lips.
Harwin's lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “Whatever they want.”
“Fuck, Harwin!”
Harwin adds another finger to pump inside you while he uses his mouth to suck on your clit. He won the silly game you played while sneakily drinking in a tavern together in the street of silk while being dressed in a disguise, and what he wanted was to hear his princess beg, and beg you would.
“Please let me cum.”
Just as you’re about to reach your peak, Harwin removes his fingers. Chuckling to himself, seeing the frown on your face, he says, “You can do better than that.”
Not wanting to give in so easily since he refused you, you roll your eyes at his comment and lower your hand to attend to your own needs, but Harwin quickly snatches both your wrists and holds them above your head, one of his large hands holding them together with ease. He uses his free hand to rub his leaking cocks against you, slitting them over your clit and sending a tingling sensation through you.
A small gasp leaves your mouth. You want to beg, but chew on your lower lip instead.
Harwin leaves gentle kisses over your face. “My stubborn little princess, I know what you want, and I’ll give you what you want as soon as you say, please.”
His lips trail down your neck to your breast. He takes one of your hard nipples into his mouth and gently bites down on it, causing you to moan. Between the mixture of pain and pleasure, it causes you to loudly plead with him, “Please, please, please!”
“Please what?” Harwin asks before gently biting on your lower lip.
“Please fuck me!”
“Anything my princess wants, she gets,” he says before sliding inside you. He buries his face into the crook of your neck as he finds a steady rhythm as he thrusts inside.
What would all the ladies and the lords of the realm think if they knew the beloved second daughter of King Viserys and sister to the heir to the throne was being fucked by her sworn protector? Although it sounded completely scandalous, your husband, Prince Daemon, knew what was going on. Once your betrothal was announced, you and Daemon came to an agreement. You would do your duty by continuing your family’s bloodline, but you would also have lovers on the side.
You did love Daemon and were glad he would one day be the father of your children. But Harwin made your heart feel warm in a way you’ve never felt before.”
“Gods,” you squeal when Harwin pinches your clit. “I’m so close!”
“Cum for me. I want to feel you soak me.”
Doing as you’re told, you soak Harwin’s cock, which triggers his own orgasm when he feels you clench around him.
Harwin pulls out of your swollen pussy, watching as his cum slowly dribbles out. He reaches for a damp cloth and gently cleans you up before pressing a kiss on your soft lips. “Do you want to stay for a while?”
You look outside, then let out a deep sigh. “I do, but I should be heading back.”
“I understand,” he says, kissing your forehead before standing to redress. “I’ll make sure you get back to your bedchambers safely before turning in for the night.”
—
Your legs dangle over the edge of the table you’re sitting on as you flick through the delicate pages of the book in your hand. You were waiting for your lady-in-waiting to return; she had gone to fetch you moon tea from the maester before you bathed.
You jump when the door to the bedroom suddenly slams shut. You lift your head to see your husband storming into the room. You could see the fury burning beneath his eyes.
“Daemon, is everything okay?”
He snaps his head in your direction and stares at you for a moment. His fingers twitch by his side, and his jaw is clenched slightly. You gulped down; it made you nervous, not knowing what had made him so angry.
He stands in front of you, his strong hands gripping your hips as he pulls you closer to the edge of the table and begins kissing your jawline. You wanted to embrace Daemon, knowing that touch, sexual or not, was one of the things he craved most, but it felt wrong when you still smelled of Harwin.
When you feel his hands traveling to the bottoms of your skirt, you mumble, “Valzrys... I still need to bathe.” You push his hand away while feeling his gaze burning into you.
Incoherent words pass his lips; his anger has shifted in your direction, and eventually you understand what he’s saying. “Is it too much to wish that I come to my wife at night and she’s not full of another man’s seed like a common wh-”
He cuts himself off before finishing the sentence.
“That’s not fair; you fucked your way through half of the streets of silk, and I’ve never once said anything. I’ve only ever had one lover, and it doesn’t make me a common whore when it’s more than a physical connection. Harwin cares about me.”
He snorts out a cruel laugh. “Yes, I’m sure he cares about Rhaenyra in the same way.”
Your lips begin to tremble. The rumors of Harwin and your sister having an affair had hurt you deeply, since Rhaenyra knew everything. To you, it would be a betrayal you could never come back from; it would break your heart, and Daemon knew this more than ever. You clear your throat. “You’re just saying that to hurt me. Rhaenyra wouldn’t do that.”
“Perhaps there is some truth in the rumors circling the keep, and you’re the only one who doesn’t believe it.”
You jump down from the table, your bare feet hitting against the ground. “Unless you wish to share what is wrong with you, I suggest you stop talking.”
You knew of Daemon’s harsh nature, but not once had he tried to hurt you before. His words had left you feeling conflicted; he was being unnecessarily mean, but something must have happened for him to be lashing out so badly.
“Maybe I’ll visit Rhaenyra’s bedchambers as well, then me and the sworn protector can discuss who’s a better fuck.”
You slap him hard across the face and say, “Don't ever speak of my sister like that again!”
Daemon steps back; regret spreads across his features, but he says nothing. What if he was right? What if you were just a fool who couldn’t see what was going on? Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry, you storm out of your bedchamber, ignoring your husband as he calls after you.
—
The walk you had gone on intended to clear your head had done the exact opposite of calming you; it had completely shattered you. You had gone to her sister to seek her comfort and saw Harwin leaving her bedchamber, and you couldn’t think of a reason aside from them fucking for him to be there. You didn’t know what hurt worse—being betrayed by two people who meant the world to you or the fact that Daemon knew and let you become a laughing stock. If he had any respect for you, he would have told you as soon as he found out. An anger you’ve never felt before burns beneath your skin. All you wanted to do was lash out and set the world ablaze.
Soon as the door opens in front of you, you barge past the knight and enter his private room.
It was clear your knocking had startled him, which is why he was clutching his sword so tightly. Criston narrows his eyes and says, “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“No, I shouldn’t.” You pull him into a feverish kiss. He grips your shoulder with his free hand before coming to his senses and pushing you back.
“Get out.”
You lean against the wall, waiting to see how serious he is. If the knight tosses you from his room, then so be it; you would just find another way to get back at your sister and husband.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” he says sternly.
When you don’t move, Ser Criston steps into the hallway to see if anyone is watching. He comes back in and closes the door behind him. He tosses his sword to the side. “What is it you want, princess?”
It was no secret the knight hated most, if not all, of the Targaryens, as his loyalty was with the Greens, but he was still just a man, and you were sure he wouldn’t refuse your offer. “It appears my husband’s made a fool of me.”
“And you want me to help get back at him?”
“Yes,” you say, taking Criston’s hand in yours and placing it over your breast. When he gives it a tight squeeze, you lift your dress, then move his other hand up towards your already wet cunny, but when he doesn’t do anything, you plunge two fingers into your tight hole. “If you want me to stop, I will. Just tell me, and I will.”
He lets go of your breast and cups your face gently for a moment. “Oh princess.” His grip suddenly becomes tight. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to destroy your spoiled little cunt.” You withdraw your fingers as he quickly spins you around so your face is pressed up against the wall. “And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
He spreads your thighs open with his knee and pulls your skirts up so your ass is almost on display. He rips your small cloth off and tosses it to the side. He pulls down his trousers enough so his cock springs free, then roughly pushes inside of you. He was much larger than you expected, and you whimper at the stretching sensation. Criston pounds into you without mercy until he spills his load inside you.
“You feel amazing,” he whispers in your ear before pulling out.
You use the fabric of the inside of your skirt to clean the seed off your sensitive cunny and the inside of your thighs. Feeling awkward, you say, “Thank you, Ser Criston; you’ve been most helpful.”
He grips your jaw. “Next time you wish to come here to act like a whore, I’ll not be so gentle with you.”
—
You’re surprised to see Daemon still awake when you enter your shared bedchambers. He still seems as flustered as before. You keep your head low and avoid his gaze, so he can’t see that you’ve been crying.
“Where the hell have you been?” He asks. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I’ve been looking for you all night.”
“Is that so?" you say. You walk to your side of the bed and begin to remove your clothing, which makes you feel nothing but disgust. You thought sleeping with Criston would have brought you some satisfaction, but it didn't; it only made you feel worse.
“When I couldn’t find you, I sent Ser Harwin along with some other knights out to look for you. They are searching for you at this very moment. I only came back on the off chance that you might return. I’ll need to send word to Rhaenyra, who had gone to Dragonpit looking for you; she will be relieved to know you are safe.”
You say, "She's the last person I want to see.”
“What?”
You toss the last article of your clothing to the side, pull the covers back of your bed, climb into it, and face the window so you don’t need to look at your husband, whose gaze you could feel on you. “When I left here, I went to see my sister and saw Harwin leaving her room.”
A few moments of silence pass, and then you feel the dip in the bed as Daemon gets in beside you. “I’m vaoreznuni. Harwin swore to me that there was no truth to it.”
“You asked him about it?”
He presses a kiss on your bare shoulder. “We may not have a conventional marriage, but you are my wife, my dragon, and I didn’t want you to get hurt. However, I shall feed him to Caraxes first thing in the morning.”
You chuckle at his words. He was saying it in a joking manner, but you knew Daemon would do that if you actually wanted him to. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Besides, it wouldn’t make a difference. Dead or not, I’d still be second best to him.”
You both remain silent as Daemon repositions himself so he’s curled up beside you, his bare skin pressing against your own, which causes tears of guilt to spill from your eyes.
“I did something I regret,” you whisper.
He places a kiss on the side of your head, “as did I. I took my anger at learning that the lady Laena was betrothed out on you, my beautiful, gentle-hearted wife.”
“Is that why you were so upset earlier?”
“She refused me when I insisted our affair didn’t need to end when she got married, but she said it does.”
Daemon craved acceptance from those he loved and most likely took your rejection as a sign you didn’t love him anymore, and with his ego already bruised, you could see what triggered his anger.
“Forgive me?”
“I will. Will you forgive me if I tell you what I did?”
“Dōna ābrazȳrys, I don’t wish to know what you did.”
His hand that was resting on your stomach moves to cup your breast. He pinches your nipple while kissing and sucking on the back of your neck, his hard cock pressing into your ass cheek.
“…Daemon…”
"Don't; I do not wish to know. I just want to feel close to you.”
His breath hitches slightly when you remove his hand from your breast, but Daemon smirks when you place his hand in your warm core. Immediately, he begins fingering you while using his thumb to rub at your clit.
You lick your palm before leaning your arm back to stroke his cock. You lean your head back to capture his lips with yours. After a few moments, Daemon slides inside you while maintaining his rubbing motions on your abused little pearl. It doesn’t take you long to reach your peak, with Daemon reaching his own shortly after you do.
Instead of pulling out of you, he holds you closely and kisses the side of your face. “I will never talk to you as I did tonight again, I promise.”
“I do love him, but I love you in a completely different way, Daemon. You’re never going to lose me; I will always remain by your side.”
I’m sorry - I’m vaoreznuni
Sweet wife - Dōna ābrazȳrys
Husband - Valzȳrys
#house of the dragon#daemon targaryen x reader#Daemon Targaryen x you#Daemon Targaryen#Daemon Targaryen smut#house of the dragon fanfiction#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon x reader#ser harwin strong x reader#house of the dragon smut#prince daemon targaryen#Criston Cole smut#criston cole x reader#Criston Cole#hariwn strong#ser harwin strong fanfic#harwin strong smut#criston cole/reader#criston cole x you#ser criston cole#ser criston cole x reader#daemon targaryen fanfic#harwin strong fanfic#ser harwin breakbones#ser harwin x reader#Ser Criston Cole smut#ser harwin strong x you#ser harwin strong fanfiction#ser harwin strong#Ser Harwin smut
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Or: Once upon a time, a man turned himself into a demon for the sake of his husband's soul.
It's been a long time since then.
-
Demons don't really need to sleep, but Roier likes to do it, anyway. It's relaxing, and it reminds him of better times back when he was human and his husband wasn't... well.
Well.
Jaiden doesn't get it, but that's because she's never known what dreams are. Because demons don't sleep and, unlike Roier, she was born a demon. Her and Bobby both were, leaving Roier as the odd one out.
...That's fine! Their loss! Because sleep? Great. Dreams? Even better.
Because, in Roier's dreams, he sees him.
-
(They're in bed, because that was Roier's favorite place to be. He's on his back with his husband laying next to him tracing patterns into his shirt with one finger. Rain patters on the ceiling, and some leaks through into the kitchen and lands in a pot placed conspicuously in the middle of the floor. Their blankets are warm, and so are their hearts.)
-
Roier has been married for almost 500 years. His husband has been dead for 499 of those years, give or take a few months.
They were never legally married; that just wasn't something you did back then. Didn't matter, though, because they wouldn't have been able to afford a wedding even if they could get married.
They were farmers- well, Roier was a farmer. His husband just liked sitting and watching Roier work shirtless in the fields. He'd sit with a pitcher of water waiting by his side should Roier need it, and he'd watch shamelessly for hours at a time, and he was horrible.
And now he's dead.
-
But, see, the first thing Roier asked when arriving in Hell was whether or not the Devil was cool with gay marriage.
"Uh," said Jaiden- and this was their first real conversation post-demoning, okay? So she obviously wasn't as cool as she is now. "Maybe? I don't know. I'd have to ask?"
"Could you?" Roier had asked, freshly deceased and still bleeding from the temples where his horns had just finished growing in. "I'm expecting my husband."
"Right," Jaiden tensely replied. "Your husband."
"Yeah," Roier said, and he tried saying his husband's name, but it just. Wouldn't... what was it again?
-
But that's fine, being a demon is a pretty sweet gig. All Roier has to do is go up to the Mortal Realm and do a few jobs for a few witches, corrupt a few souls. In return, he gets badass magical abilities and immortality.
More importantly, he gets his husband's soul. As soon as he reincarnates back in the Mortal Realm, and as soon as he dies again, he goes to Hell with all of the memories from his previous life with Roier intact, and they finally get their happily ever after.
It's what he would've wanted. Hell might sound terrible, but it's no worse than the Mortal Realm, and its public transportation is actually better, somehow. The busses all run on time, and the subway is free.
More importantly, Roier's husband was the one collecting all those books on summoning demons and making deals with demons and communing with the Devil. Roier just... completed his work for him.
It's the least he could've done, and it was his last chance at seeing him again.
-
Fuck, but what was his name?
-
(They're in the fields, because that was Roier's husband's favorite place to be. Roier is shirtless and bent over a row of seeds that are going to grow up to be corn in a few months, and his husband is on the ground under the apple tree watching him shamelessly. It's sunny out, and there's the smell of smoke in the air.)
-
It's been 500 years since Roier's husband died, and Roier has spent that time trying to remember the name of his husband's killer.
Because, once upon a time, there was a farmer, and there was a witch. Ah, but witches were illegal, you see. They communed with the Devil, and they brought chaos into a world of order.
All Roier remembers is that the person who tied his husband to that pole was in all-white. Not a priest, just someone boring.
That same person was the one who lit the straw at Roier's husband's feet on fire. And they smiled doing so even as Roier dove towards the flames as if he could put them out with his bare hands.
It didn't work. Big surprise there.
-
"So the Devil's fine with you two getting married," Jaiden said after a few days of dealing with demonic bureaucracy, "but I have some bad news for you."
Roier, for the first time since Jaiden slit his throat and converted him, felt fear.
"What is it?" he asked.
She let out a breath, slow, and said, eventually, "Your husband's soul isn't here. He isn't in Heaven, either. Or in any of the other gods' realms."
Roier blinked. "What."
It was not a question.
She threw up her hands. "I don't know! It's like he just... disappeared!"
"Is that why I can't remember his name?" Roier asked. "His soul is fucking gone?"
His hands shook. Jaiden reached out and took them.
"We'll find him," she promised, kind despite her whole 'Is A Demon' thing. "Even if it takes five hundred years."
"Yeah, well, it won't," he scoffed. "I'm going to find him. He promised me a wedding."
-
Souls don't just die. They go to someplace that Roier has only ever heard of: Purgatory.
Once in Purgatory, souls get judged by the Eye of Justice. He asks them questions about their life, and they have to answer truthfully, or he'll feed them to his children.
There are a few options for what comes next.
One: they pass the Eye of Justice's judgement and are allowed to move on to whatever afterlife they believe in.
Two: they pass the Eye of Justice's judgement and are allowed to reincarnate into another life.
Three: they fail the Eye of Justice's judgement and are forcibly sent to reincarnate into the life of a bug or a blade of grass or something else boring and tortuous.
Roier got to skip out on Purgatory entirely because he took the direct line to Hell. But maybe, just maybe, if he had died regularly, he could have seen his husband in Purgatory, and they could have reincarnated together.
...Ugh. Hindsight is a bitch.
-
(Roier is visiting his grandfather when the church bells ring.
"A witch!" he hears a woman scream, and his stomach fell right into his shoes.)
-
It's been 500 years, and Roier has gotten a bit of a reputation among modern witches for being one of the easier demons to work with. He'll help with their problems in exchange for information on a certain lost soul: if they hear from his husband's soul, they summon Roier. Or he'll help in exchange for some book recommendations for his son; Hell has many things, but it does not have a public library.
He isn't a particularly strong demon despite what his only angel friend, Etoiles, might say. Etoiles is just a silly little guy, don't listen to him!
-
(He never even got to say goodbye. They locked eyes as the flames rose, and Roier screamed his name one last time, and he hasn't been able to feel anything since.)
-
Jaiden was the first demon that Roier had ever met.
He was on the floor surrounded by the ashes that used to be his home. His husband's books were in charred tatters around him, but one managed to survive the fire. It was almost supernatural, but, like, yeah. Demon book, of course it was fireproof.
He was bleeding. He had offered his blood, and his soul, to the demon in exchange for his husband's life back.
She sat on the floor with him.
"I can't do that," she gently told him. "Demons can do a lot of things, but we can't perform miracles."
Roier's throat burned: smoke inhalation and grief.
"Oh," he said, small-sounding.
"But I can get his soul to Hell," she offered. "In exchange... you have to go to Hell."
His answer was immediate: "Yes."
She blinked. "I wasn't finished?"
"The answer is still 'Yes'. As long as I'm with him again, I don't care what happens to me."
"You'll have to turn your life over to Satan. You can't just go to Hell. That isn't how it works."
Roier shrugged. "That's fine."
Jaiden gawked for a moment before nodding and standing and extending her hand.
He took it.
And then he died.
-
But it's been 500 fucking years, and now Roier is being summoned by another witch for another deal. He'll probably have to help supply additional magic for some big important spell, that's basically all he's used for these days. He's more than a battery, thanks! He's a demon, he should be out, like, stealing souls and shit.
He goes, anyway, because he has to. If he doesn't, his contract is void, and he won't get to see his husband because he himself will be sent to Purgatory to be judged and, really, he does not want to deal with that. (The Eye of Judgement is fucking creepy, okay?)
There's the familiar pull at Roier's core, and the familiar blinding burst of light as he's yanked into the Mortal Realm, and the familiar smell of brimstone and evil that follows him wherever he goes outside of Hell.
The room is filled with blood red smoke as he appears- his trademark.
(The most important thing to a demon these days isn't evil, it's marketability.)
The witch in front of him, nothing more than a shadow hidden behind the smoke, coughs and wheezes and fans their hand in front of their face.
They're kneeled on the ground in front of a pentagram drawn in... what the fuck is this, strawberry jam?
Roier crouches and sticks a finger into one of the circle's markings. Careful not to break the circle, he pulls his finger out and licks the red stuff on it.
Shocked, he looks at the witch, and he asks, "Dude, what the fuck? Is this blood?"
What happened to chalk!?
The witch coughs at him indignantly. "I needed to make sure I got someone powerful."
Roier rolls his eyes and plops fully onto the ground, criss-cross applesauce. He wipes his blood-covered fingertip on his jeans. Newbies...
"Well, you got me," he says, humble to the core. (He may be a super evil demon now, but he isn't a dick.) "So... what's up? What do you need?"
The smoke in the room slowly starts dissipating, revealing the witch to be a man in what have to be the previous day's clothes. His head is still ducked, and his face is still hidden in his elbow as he coughs, but Roier could almost call him objectively handsome. Shame Roier's married, this guy would be fun to mess around with.
"I need to- fuck-"
The witch coughs one last time before finally managing to get a lungful of clean air. He raises his head, and Roier finally gets a look at his face, and-
"I need your help," the witch says, voice rough and rugged and absolutely heartbreaking. "I need to kill someone, and I need your help to do it."
"Okay," Roier agrees. He doesn't have a choice, being a summoned demon and all, but he doesn't think he could turn this witch down at all, because...
-
("Cellbit!" Roier screams.
He can see his face in his husband's glassy eyes, and then he sees nothing but the flames as they rise over Cellbit's head and drown him whole.)
-
The man with his husband's face frowns, suspicious.
"What," he asks, "just like that?"
Roier grins, fangs and all. "Just like that."
After all, he doesn't think he'll need any payment for this one.
He's finally found what he's been looking for.
#a.d.'s fics i suppose#a.d.'s fics i suppose.#spiderbit#guapoduo#bit of a weird format going on here but it felt like it worked okay?#real sporadic but so are this dude's thoughts
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Found this deep in my drafts. I know we’re all trying to avoid spoilers rn so here’s some lighthearted silly human realm huntlow to distract us from leaks and such. There’s no plot, just Willow after dentist ✌️
———
“All right Willow, sweet heart, you’re gonna sit out here with Hunter while Amity has her turn, okay?” Camila said as she guided Willow to a seat beside Hunter in the waiting room. The night before, Luz had shown the girls what rock candy was and while she was at school, certain incidents had taken place resulting in an emergency trip to the dentist.
Hunter had offered to accompany them, hearing the word ‘emergency’ and shifting into solider mood. Camila assured him there was nothing to worry about, but she realized that after the visit she may need help keeping the girls intact as they may feel rather... loopy.
“How was your trip to the human tooth healer?” Hunter asked, extending his hand to help guide Willow to her seat.
“It was... bright,” she stumbled a bit before plopping on the couch beside him, staring at the ceiling as though she was hypnotized. “Woah.”
“Are you feeling okay, Captain?” Hunter asked, following her eyes but seeing nothing to warrant a reaction. He had peeked into the room where they had taken her and where Amity was now and saw a collection of small weapons lined the table. He trusted Camila and knew she would never put any of them in harm’s way, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly concerned, given Willow’s current state.
“They needed to look at my teeth closer because of reasons and I think they thought I was gonna bite them so they gave me a potion to make me not bite,” she explained, barely understanding what they had done even when she wasn’t under the affects of anesthesia. “But I can still bite, see?” She demonstrated by moving her mouth and biting the air.
“What kind of potion did they give you?” Hunter asked.
“I dunno but I felt this way the last time, the felt last time I- Ugh,” Willow tried to compose the sentence. “The last time I felt like this, Amity had set my mind on fire.” She finally managed to say calmly, despite Hunter’s immediate reaction to the subject matter.
“What?” Hunter exclaimed, closing his book. “Why would she do that?”
“Secrets,” Willow whispered, pointing to her temple. “To hide the secrets hiding in mah mind.”
“Well that’s not what’s happening now is it?” asked Hunter, worried and having little knowledge about what a dentist actually did .
“I don’t think so...” said Willow, placing her hands on her ears seeing if she felt the heat she had felt then. “Oh no, what if my secrets all fell out? What if I lost them?!”
“Well, can you remember them still?” Asked Hunter, feeling as though the situation was dire, scanning the floor for fallen secrets (whatever those were supposed to look like).
“Are you trying to find out my secrets Hunter?” She said, squinting her eyes at him and growing more loopy as she slowly swayed side to side in her seat.
“What? No of course not, I-.”
“You think I have secrets about you,” she giggled, twirling her finger in his face before gently booping his nose, then adding in a hushed dramatic whisper. “Because I doooo.”
“Y-you do?”
“Yup,” she she said, popping the ‘p’ and making herself laugh even harder. “Yup yup yup.”
“Well if you can remember them then that means they’re-.”
“When you came to Hexside, remember that?” Willow asked, her tone calm once again as she traced the pattern on the chair with the tip of her finger. “When we first met the first time? Remember?”
“Yeah, I do.” he said with a laugh, feeling confident her ailment wasn’t as dire. Willow suddenly was hit with a fit of bubbly laughter that she tried to suppress and Hunter found himself joining her, the laughter contagious. She motioned for him to come closer and he cautiously obliged as she leaned over and rested her chin on his shoulder and sighed.
“I thought you were cute,” she whispered her secret directly in his ear, cupping her hands around it so it couldn’t escape.
“Oh? R-really?”Hunter stammered, clearing his throat. “Are you sure you-?”
“Oh, wait wait oooh,I love it when you do that!” She squealed, placing her hands on his cheeks and squeezing his face.
“Do... what?” Hunter said the best he could, his mouth squished.
“When your face turns all red like that!” She said as though she was marveling at some great stunt. “And it reaches your ears. It is veeeery cute.”
“You... notice that?” Hunter asked nervously, hoping the obviousness has been all in his head, knowing this happened often around her .
Willow nodded vigorously, so quickly she made herself dizzy. “Woah, why is the room spinning? Hooty what did you do?”
“You did say the potion they gave you was pretty strong maybe you should take it easy,” said Hunter, his concern for her outweighing his embarrassment. “Are you in pain at all?”
“Nope,” she said shaking her head, but once she started it was like she couldn’t stop and she shook her head even faster. Hunter reached out to stop her, worried she’d make herself dizzy all over again.
Successful in his efforts, he suddenly realized his hands were on her face. She stopped and looked at him with bright eyes as though this has been an attempt to gain her focus. If his face was red before, he could only imagine how it looked now.
“Um, do you want me to get you anything?” He asked as he went to remove his hands, but before he could she placed hers over his to keep them there.
“Do you wanna know another secret?” she whispered dramatically, and Hunter swore her eyes were sparking.
“Um, maybe now isn’t the best time,” he chuckled nervously. “I think this might be the potion making you say all these things and I don’t want you to feel embarrassed when it wears off.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” she insisted. “It’s about you.”
“Okaaaaay ha ha,” said Hunter, quickly removing his hands from her face and placing them at his sides. Had she found about the grimwalker thing? A nasty rumor from his Golden guard days? Did she think his haircut didn’t actually look good? “What about if we watch something on the television box?”
“No, no you were reading and then you stopped cause I came in,” said Willow dramatically. “You should read again. I’ll be quiet.”
“Did you... um... I can read to you if you want?” Hunter offered bashfully, thankful she has seemed to dropped her desire to discuss her secret about him. “It’s just a book about wolves, so if you don’t want to-.”
“Oh please please please,” said Willow excitedly, placing her head back on his shoulder. “I can turn the pages for you.”
“Are you sure? I know my voice isn’t-.”
“I know how to turn pages, Hunter.” She said, playfully rolling her eyes and making herself more comfortable beside him. “Tell me the secrets of wolves.”
“Okay, well let me go back to the first chapter,” said Hunter, trying to downplay his excitement that can out whenever wolves were involved. “There are some really cute pictures of baby wolves, look!” He turned the book towards her so she could see. When he went to observe her reaction, he found her eyes were not on the book but were locked back on him. He held her gaze for a moment before turning his attention back to the book. He could feel her eyes still on him, but he pressed on to begin reading.
“I still think you’re cute,” she whispered, loudly enough where it was clear that she wanted him to hear but softly enough that he could pretend he didn’t hear her, just in case it truly was just the potion talking.
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Astro Observations <3
My best friend has Gemini over her 12th house, and I’m a Gemini Venus. I always said to her that her spirit guides know me, and in fact they talk to me to get messages to her. It makes sense given our shared 12th house placement. She has Saturn over her 12th house and found it difficult to communicate with the spirit realm. But through me, it’s like I’m the gateway to her receiving the messages she needs to hear. Straight up, spirit talks through me like a normal person. Our connections runs deep and its easy for us to communicate spiritually. Likewise, she has dreams that are related to me and she gives me warnings of anything I need to know :)
Having sun in the 10th house composite of a relationship, the breakup/ending/issues can be public against the couples will. Be careful, people will want to leak personal information to the public even if they aren’t meant to do so. Also, major power couple vibes. People strive to copy this couple and may send evil eye their way. This couple embodies Pinterest 😤 a walking pinterest board
Pluto in the 10th and having an emotional reactive father figure. Hi 🤗✨ and then equally arguing with their father if the native has fire/earth placements. Ya’ll got facts to spit ☕️ but also thats because you guys hold in everything you want to say, so at some point it bubbles out.
Pluto in the 4th house and having an emotionally turbulent mother. Hi :) maybe she was diagnosed with BPD as well. Any moon-Pluto aspect can indicate the mother having BPD, or narcissistic tendencies.
Jupiter in Leo women will not settle for less than they deserve. They are fierce in what they want in a partner.
Jupiter in virgo indicates marrying a spiritual partner. Someone who will share spiritual awakenings with you.
Virgo’s tend to grow spiritually as they get older, and they are great at manifesting abundance/ spiritual help. They have a whole team of ancestors by their side 😤 the type to call on their ancestors after someone drops a petty comment
Also, women with jupiter in virgo are incredibly detailed when it comes to their partner and who they will date. They want a partner who will represent them, not just anyone. Even with males this can be true. Women with jupiter in virgo knows they worked hard to get to where they are at, so they want a partner who will be on their level. They know that their partner is a reflection of their healing. A reflection of them as a whole. So just like jupiter in leo, jupiter in virgo women will not settle for less than they deserve
P.S Jupiter in virgo women come up with the most funniest roasts for men they don’t like 🤡💅🏻 they’re real quick and sassy with it & blunt. Same with Jupiter in leo women.
Gemini venus, when ya’ll get your nails done just KNOW abundance is coming your way. Caring for your hands/using them to create/ scripting with them is how you manifest. You don’t absolutely need to get your nails done if you’re not a baddie like that (and thats fine ☺️) you’re still a baddie using your words to make anything come true. If you have a taurus degree on your venus, buying necklaces, rings, will also attract abundance to you 💅🏻 even getting a tattoo on your neck/hands can help greatly
Thank ya’ll so much for reading, hope you guys found it resonated and found it funny ☺️💗 its meant to be a great time reading these posts but also informative! I appreciate all the support send my way 🌀✨☕️
Book a reading with me here 🤍
#devi post#astrology#tarotcommunity#divination#astrology community#tarot#tarot deck#witchcraft#tarot reading#tarot community#astrology observations#astro posts#astrology notes#astro notes
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lazy sundays | azriel
summary; you and azriel spend a lazy sunday together.
word count; 3507
notes; just a cute little thing. like, sickeningly fluffy, you will absolutely need a dentist appointment after reading this. based on this little dash conversation between me and @acourtofwhatthefuck last sunday
Stretching your arm out to the other side of the bed as you woke, your sleep-muddled brain could still process the coolness of your mate's side of the sheets. Long abandoned, not surprising. He was always such an early riser, even on the days that he called a lie-in. By the warmth of the sunlight and the placement of the rays across the room leaking in from the crack in the blinds, you’d guess it was early afternoon.
Just how you liked your Sundays.
There were tendrils of smoky shadows twisting around your body, skittering upwards toward your face as they realised you were awake. One coiled happily around your wrist, swirling up your forearm, another brushing lightly over your cheek before moving away, and you stared up at the ceiling. Children were playing outside in the streets, soaking up the cold winter sun, trudging through snow and relishing in the freedom of childhood. Maybe one day, your own children would do the same.
Rolling from the sheets without bothering to straighten them, the air in the house was warm, no doubt Azriel’s doing, the cracking of the fireplace from the living room evident as you padded out of the hallway, tugging one of Azriel’s baggy, wing-accommodating hoodies over your head to cover your nightgown.
You found Azriel in the living room, exactly where you expected him to be, sprawled out on the deep couch, wings drooping behind him, brushing the cold tiles of the floor as he focused on his book. Your favourite pair of his sweatpants sat low on his hips, pale grey and practically threadbare after all these years, leaving every lean muscle and taut line of his chest on display for you. You bit your lower lip, and he chuckled, never looking up from his book.
“Are you going to just stand there, staring, all day?”
Finally, shining hazel eyes left the pages of the book and moved up to meet your gaze, filled with love behind those thick frames, and the amusement in them was evident when you shrugged. “You look like a piece of art, how can I not?”
“Well, luckily for you, my love, you get to touch the art on display,” He raised his brows, just a fraction, something halfway between a smirk and a smile on his lips. He parted his arms, moving one hand with his book, the other patting his chest softly. “Come here, lay with me.”
Your feet were moving before you even needed to command them to do so, the shadows swirling around you both growing closer and closer, until the small swarm he’d sent to watch over you once he’d left the bed was finally reunited with the pack as your knees bumped the edge of the couch. Settling down between his parted legs, his arms closed around you as your cheek met his bare skin, heart thudding slow and steady beneath it, lulling you into a tranquil relaxation the way it always did, the way he knew it did.
“Do you want me to read to you?” He mumbled, lips brushing the crown of your head as his free hand wove into your hair, letting you twist and turn until you were truly comfortable.
“What are you reading?”
“A book that Nesta gave to me.” That sent a spike of amusement through you, an equal one coming surging down the bond to meet it, lighting your chest up from the inside out.
“You’re reading a smutty novel?” You chuckled, feeling the rumble of his laughter meet it underneath your cheek, and the hand that wasn’t holding the book continued to rub at your scalp, fingertips pressing and kneading in a way that made you sigh.
“Not quite. This is a spy book, something she said she’d once read in the human realms, before any of this, and when she saw it again, she said it reminded her of me. I figured the least I could do was actually read it.” He huffed a little, using the thumb holding the book open to try and turn the page single-handedly, and after watching him struggle for a moment, you took one side of it, holding it and turning the page, before letting him take it again.
“Is it any good?”
“It’s… something.” His avoidance of the question made you grin, silently waiting for him to finish his chapter, a finger tracing over the hard and defined lines on his chest, making him twitch and shudder every so often when your nail would scrape. Goosebumps were sometimes left in your wake, and when he finally untangled his hand from your hair and marked the book to put it down, his hands returned only a moment later, skating up your sides lightly. “You make it extremely hard to concentrate, do you know that?”
“I wasn’t doing anything!” He raised a single brow, smirk forming on his lips as his hands hovered over your sides.
“Oh, really? So, you weren't tickling me, on purpose?” His fingers game down, skittering along your flesh in ways that made you squirm and giggle against him, twisting in his grasp as he mercilessly teased you the way you had him, until you breathless, cheeks warm, curling back into him, now with your back to his chest instead. “Are you hungry?”
“For what?” You muse, twisting your head up to kiss at the underside of his jaw, his cheek, anywhere you could reach. Azriel merely hums, arms tightening a little around you in a warning to behave. “I’m craving something sweet. Maybe some cookies?”
“With dark chocolate chips?” There was a note of excitement to his voice as he spoke, and you realised that it wasn’t you who was craving something sweet, but in fact, merely a feeling being blasted down the bond to you since you’d woken up. “And those little caramel chunks mixed in?”
“Of course, would I ever make them any other way?”
You received a kiss to your temple in agreement, before the arms were unwrapping from around you, Azriel shifting below you, prompting you to stand as he followed. He was barely a step behind you on the way to the kitchen, falling into a quick and simple routine as he began pulling familiar ingredients from the cabinets as you sourced equipment, laying them all out in the order he knew you’d need them.
As you began to cook, he leaned back against the counter behind you, watching you work while slowly humming a song, one you’d only recently heard, played by a band along the Sidra when you’d been walking home from dinner only a few nights ago.
Cool fingers swept gently over your skin, brushing hair back from each side of your neck until it fell down your back, one finger twirling around it all to keep it out of your face, a loose ponytail held together only by his touch. Warmth pressed up along your back, soft lips skimming your neck, and you titled your head to grant him further access.
Those featherlight brushes became delicate kisses, placed along your neck and shoulder, chaste affection in the quiet of the kitchen; only occasionally interrupted by the rustle of ingredient bags, the clinking of the mixing spoon on the bowl, or the slightly louder screams of in joy of the children playing in the streets below your apartment. Wrapping his other arm around your waist, you were held securely to his front, that humming reverberating through your entire body as you slowly scooped out the mixture, placing dollops of it onto a baking tray, trying to ensure all portions were equal.
“I love you.” The words came as a whisper, and you smiled, continuing your work, using the edge of your finger to wipe clumps of batter off of the spoon and onto the tray.
“You’re just saying that because I’m making you your favourite cookies.”
“Maybe..” He teased, but he gave a light tug to the hair he was holding back out of your face, a bite left on your covered shoulder, just enough pressure to make you shudder, laughing against him at the act. “Do you remember why these are my favourites, though?”
“Of course, how could I possibly forget that moment?” You finished scraping the batter out, using as much as you could, before using your hips to nudge Azriel back and away from you, a groan falling from him at the press of your ass against him through those sinfully thin sweatpants, and you chuckled, leaving his embrace. “Don’t you start that, you’re the one who wanted cookies.”
“Hush.” He scowled, taking the tray that you pressed into his hands, and wandering away to the oven he’d already pre-heated, setting the tray inside carefully. You hopped up onto the counter, licking the excess batter from your finger, and watching the shift of his back muscles, the twitches of his wings, as he moved, dreamy sigh unstoppable as it left you. “Are you staring at my ass again?”
“Oh, because you're so innocent of that one.”
When the oven gloves were stacked neatly back on the counter, bowls and dishes cleared away to the sink, he finally turned to face you, a wicked glint in his eye. “We have twenty minutes to kill.”
“We do indeed, what could we ever get done in that time?” He rolled his eyes at you, stepping forwards, hips sitting snugly between your parted legs as your arms looped around his neck, playing lightly with the grown-out curls at the base. “You need a haircut.”
“I thought you liked my hair when it was longer?” Warm, calloused hands were smoothing up along your thighs, before finding a resting home on your hips, his forehead coming down to rest on your own as your noses bumped together.
“I do, but this is getting a little bit too long. I feel like I'm kissing Cassian.” He bit your lower lip, a soft growl coming out when you gasped, and you squeezed him in a little tighter to you.
You leaned forward, trying to catch his lips, but he pulled back, making sure he was barely a centimetre from you, but not close enough. “Point taken, hair cut tomorrow, then.” His hands squeezed at your waist, smirk on his lips, before he was finally closing the space. “Kissing Cassian, don’t even think it.” He mumbled, before his lips were pressing against your own feverishly. Your body sparked alight, the intensity of his kiss sent you reeling.
Love and passion and tension, all pouring through his lips, through his heart into your chest, enough of a feeling to make your head spin and you grasped onto him. Fingers pressing into his skin, his hands bunching into the material of his own hoodie as it lay over your body, beginning to make you feel overwhelmingly hot underneath.
He sensed it, as he always did, cooling his kisses just a fraction, pulling back and using his nose to nudge your chin up, pressing sweet kisses along your jaw, until he was nuzzling into your neck, tickling you once again, until giggles were spewing from your lips in a way only he’d ever been able to make you do.
“I wish all of our days could be like this.” It was a deeper confession than you’d expected, the fingers tangled in his hair loosening to free one hand, slipping it to his cheek, pulling him back from your neck to catch your eye.
“Az..”
“I just miss you so much when I’m away, I want nothing more than to be here with you every day, like this, living in this little bubble with you.” His head twisted, fleeting kiss left on your palm, and your fingers twitched against his face in response.
“Not every day can be a Sunday, Az.” His brows furrowed a little, and you pulled him closer, dipping pecks to his lips which he reciprocated happily, sinking into your affections once again. “Some days, are Mondays. The days when I know you’re going away, that feeling of a brand new week beginning, knowing how long until the weekend comes, when I have to pack you up and send you off with a kiss on the balcony.”
“I don’t get weekends like that.”
“It’s a metaphor, Azriel.” You tutted at him, your lips barely brushing as you spoke now, whispered words to only ever be shared between the two of you. “There’s Tuesdays and Thursdays, the middle days, where everything just feels numb, you get on with your jobs but nothing feels special. That’s what it's like when you’re away from me. The days where I get up and go to work, everything is quiet, and it kind of feels like the end is never in sight.”
His hands flexed, an apology echoing down the bond.
“There are Wednesdays, halfway through the week, when you know you’ve made it this far, you’re over the peak and on the descent. Those are the days when you send word to me, that everything is going well, when you tell me you’re okay, you’re coming home soon. The days when you’re away on missions for Rhys, when you finally get that breakthrough, and you know you’ll be home to me soon.”
“And Fridays?”
“Fridays are the days you come home. The days when I can feel you getting closer to me through the bond, when I know you’ve arrived, when I finally see you land on the balcony and step back into my arms.” He hummed, lips puckering in a request you indulged, meeting him in the middle as your mouths fused together once again.
Sun-rays cascaded through the room, warming you from the outside as his love warmed you front he inside, tingling all the way down to your fingertips like it was the first time he’d kissed you, a sensation that had yet to fade, and you hoped it never would. “What does that make Saturdays, then?”
“Saturdays are the busy but fun days, the days when we go for dinner with your family, when we go out for dates and walks around the Sidra, when we babysit Nyx, when we paint with Feyre, when we visit other courts for fun, not work. Saturdays are the days when we go out to Rita’s with more, we dress up and get tipsy and come stumbling home together laughing.” Affection and nostalgia filled you, whether it was from you or him it didn’t matter, it was simply there, shared. “Sundays, are for us. Days for just me and you, just me and you, here, with nothing to do, nobody to see. No responsibilities. But we can’t have Sunday, without all the other days.”
“When did you become so wise, my lovely mate?” Azriel pushed back tendrils of hair to sit behind your ears, gazing at you fondly, and his shadows copied the touch, tracing toward you along his fingertips, swirling lazily between and around you both.
“I’m probably just stealing all my wisdom from you.” Your hands rubbed over his heart, bare skin warmed under your fingertips, he was always so warm. “So, do you want to tell me about your book?”
His eyes rolled at that, shoulders sagging a little in disappointment, and you felt him release the tension, the slight bud of guilt he’d been building, as he got distracted. “It’s.. irritating me.”
“Why, my love?” You gave his own petname back to him, and felt the ripple of a skipped heartbeat from him.
“Because, they’re not good spies!” The words burst from him, bringing a grin to your lips as he frowned., brows dipping together in frustration only a true bookworm could understand. “They’re so obvious! It’s all public fights and big fires and making a scene. That’s not how you spy, these aren’t spies. I should know! It’s terrible, not at all a true representation of the job.” He followed his outburst with a rough exhale.
“Oh, no, my precious spymaster, your reputation will be ruined.” You giggled at the teasing, and he produced a noise somewhere between a scoff and a growl, only making you laugh more at his displeasure. He leaned in, tongue flicking in a lick over your lips before he was silencing you with another fiery kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tangling with your own, and laughter died down into a panted moan instead, swallowed by him as he insistently pressed on.
“Much better, I like you moaning for me than laughing at me.” His words made you shudder, and he pulled you closer to him, ass hanging off the edge of the counter and legs tightening around him, chests pressing together, heaving with desperate breaths sucked in through needy kisses, heart beating frantically against one another’s chests.
The thread in your chest was thrumming, glowing golden behind your closed eyes as his lashes fluttered against your cheeks, your fingers tightening in his hair. Your free hand ran down his arm, slowly, squeezing at the thick and solid muscles as he flexed them, until your fingers were wrapping around his wrist, ready to tug his hand up a little higher than your waist. His fingers loosened in the material of your stolen jumper, ready to follow your lead, before the timer on the over let out a sharp beep.
You jumped apart, his back stiffening slightly at the sudden intrusion, before relaxing, threat gone, shadows darting out in jagged lines to flip the switch off and silence the beeping. He was panting, gasping breaths sucked into his lungs, pink splotched across his tanned cheeks, eyes wide and dark, hair messy. One of your favourite looks on him, truly. His hand did slide up, your fingers slipping from his wrist as it bypassed where you’d intended for it to go, rising to cup your jaw instead.
Running his thumb over your lips, he wiped away the residual slickness there, likely swollen and red still, like his own, and he licked over his lower lip, letting it drag through his teeth for a second. “Always so distracting, my love,” He mumbled, and you pressed a kiss to the pad of his finger before it slipped away to rest on your chin, a gentle smile on his face. “How do you still do this to me, after all these years?”
“You still have quite the effect over me too, shadowsinger.” He smiled, and you pressed in, close enough to feel his heartbeat on your chest once again, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eyes, the wrinkles for his smile deepening when you moved to the other. His hands locked onto your waist, lifting you down so your toes could touch the tiles once again, and you hissed at the cool feeling, surging up your body and clearing your mind of the fog.
He left a final kiss brushed on your head, before retrieving a plate from the cupboards, and you slipped the oven mitts over your hands, securing them before opening the door. Warm air rushed out, coating your front as you pulled the cookies from the oven, resting the tray on top.
Together, you plated them up, letting Azriel carry it, leading you back through to the couch the two of you had abandoned to bake, placing them cookies within reach on the small table, beside his evident failure of a book. Flopping back down happily, his wings rustled behind him for a second, adjusting to a comfortable position, before he was opening his arms for you, letting you settle once again against his chest.
You let out a happy sigh as his arms sealed around you, one hand holding a cookie, taking a bite, and groaning happily at the taste.
“You’re always so warm.” You pressed in as close as you could, revelling in the Illyrian heat running through his veins, designed to keep him warm up in those mountains, and to keep to you warm always.
“You’re cold?” You only hummed, eyes fluttering shut, surrounded by his smell, his heat, his touch, never having felt more at home. He shifted beneath you, arms leaving you and reaching behind for the blanket sitting along the back cushions, flapping it out and securing it around your bodies. “Better?”
“Better.” He seemed happy with that, pride radiating from in him waves at having provided, and you settled in comfortably. “Will you read to me now?”
“Of course, but I warn you, this book is wholly underwhelming.”
“Then we can laugh about it, together.” He picked up the book, opening it to the marked page and cleared his throat a little. Only moments later, the timbre of his voice was echoing around the room, deep and lulling as he read the words, tone painting a perfect picture in your mind. So many times you had also wished you could spend more days like this than you got, but your lives didn’t allow it. However, when lazy Sundays like this came along, it made them feel all the more precious.
#azriel x reader#azriel x you#azriel/reader#azriel/you#acotar x reader#acotar x you#acotar/reader#acotar/you#acotar#azriel#azriel shadowsinger
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Any thoughts on the TOH pitch bible and pilot episode that were leaked? Anything you thought it was better than in the final product, or that the final product improved on?
Here is the pilot episode along with a lot of other Disney shows for those that missed it.
And the pitch bible
There were quite a few things I liked about the pilot better: the biggest being that Luz is actually bullied for her interests instead of pulling dangerous stunts that just make her look bad. Also, there's actual bigotry against humans in the Boiling Isles! Luz has to wear a disguise when sneaking into witch school! Lilith is more of a threat in this pilot than she was in the show! Luz and Eda feel more natural in the pilot; Eda still proclaims herself as the most powerful witch in the isles but it's obviously her ego talking while it's taken more seriously in the show. It feels like it's having more fun with itself instead of having an air of self importance.
A few things the actual show did better: Luz entering the Demon Realm. In the pilot, she just stumbles into it after trying to return Amity's passport (who is still a witch just attending a human high school for some reason). Luz trying to get her book back from Owlbert and being led directly to Eda works better for her character and the themes of the show. Also, in the pilot, Eda could just easily conjure a door to the human realm, which lowers the stakes a bit.
As for the pitch bible, it certainly is ambitious with how its world is set up: beta Belos was called Obron and was a councilor to the real ruler of the world, Emperor Pupa, who is currently in larval form and only its councilor's can understand what it's saying. Naturally, Obron is the real power behind the throne and plans on invading the human realm by possessing the Titan's body and he apparently needs a human soul to do that...
Yeah, I can see why this was simplified in the final version.
I do like some of the designs in the pitch bible better. For example, here's Willow, a.k.a. Paulina:
Here's Tibbles:
And lastly, even though everyone says this is beta Hunter, look me in the eyes and tell me that's not Baby Philip "Kill All Witches" Wittebane:
Come on, red outfit, blue eyes, hatred of witches, really hundreds of years old, the FREAKIN' DAGGER/SWORD.
That's a proto-Philip who was split into 3 characters, he's not simply beta Hunter.
Overall, both the pitch bible and the pilot are a mixed bag; the pitch bible has some overly ambitious ideas that (thankfully) became more grounded, but it also has more interesting character designs. The pilot has a lot going on in a mere 20 minutes but it's more fun to watch imo simply because it's not taking itself too seriously.
Despite all of these what-ifs, a show is only as good as how well it carries out its ideas. Toh has a lot of creativity and compelling concepts but its biggest struggle was always in its execution.
(P.S. any accusations that Disney made Dana add Hexside are now null and void because both the pitch bible and pilot had Lilith as the Headmaster of Amity's magic school)
#the owl house#luz noceda#eda clawthorne#emperor belos#philip wittebane#toh hunter#toh beta#toh william#toh critical#toh criticism#asks
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Things My Partner Knows About The Locked Tomb Through Osmosis
I am an unrepentant and annoying TLT fanboy, to the point where my partner has sworn to never read the books on principle (for this I respect them). However, given that I never shut up about these miserable books, they have picked up quite a bit of knowledge about them purely through my rants. With that in mind, I asked them to describe to me everything they think they know about The Locked Tomb (notes in italics are mine)
There are characters named Gideon, Nona, and… something like… Pacifica Sales Bonecruncher of the West? I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be Harrow's full name and title.
It's a scifi-fantasy world in a necromancy space realm
There's… 10 kingdoms that are all part of an Empire? Or maybe houses? But they're part of a monarchy?
The ruling classes of each of the realms gets summoned by God because they want to play a Hunger Games thing to find their… new God child?
It's not a God child like he's gonna adopt them… it's like rebirthing them into a new god? They will also become God?
Each one of the realms has a special quirk about them, something that's their specialty. Like, one realm are accountants. Shockingly accurate.
Gideon and Pacifica’s realm are like cool goth themed? More goth than the others. Extra-goth.
Oh there's a person named… Electra? They have long blonde hair and kickin curves and they're really hot? Everyone likes them? I'm pretty sure this is a conflation of Alecto and Corona as seen through reblogged fanart.
Personal philosophy aside rant: The whole necromancy-as-center of-an-empire thing… I find it kinda rude? I don't like the idea of people and their remains being used as a resource/tool. Like, I don't like using people as interchangeable cogs in a machine under someone else's control, both in life or in death. It doesn't seem consensual or respectful. In death your obligations should be released.
I think Gideon has a big hero’s death while trying to save Pacifica, and then their… souls mingle? And then after that Pacific has Gideon-flavored intrusive thoughts? And I'm not sure if it actually is Gideon or just, like… the same as if you stare at the sun and get the after image burnt into your cornea. This isn't wrong, but I'm almost certain part of this is actually my ramblings about Baru Cormorant leaking through.
Is reincarnation or resurrection a thing? I feel like it should be in a necromancy setting.
DIRECT QUOTE: “Is there a Jesus allegory in here? I feel like there is. Wait... Is Gideon Jesus?” Folks, upon hearing these words casually spoken out loud by someone with no knowledge of context, I straight up left my body.
God is just a chill dude. He's just a guy making pancakes, and occasionally he'll go “How's that whole Hunger Games thing going? You want a snack? I'm just gonna be over here.”
God was wanted by aliens or something? There's something bigger going on with entropy or heat death or the Discworld auditors and it's a problem for God and that's why he's doing the whole Hunger Games thing.
I think God used to be not a God and that's why he's such a chill dude. And then there was a problem and everything was dying so he did something and necromancied everything and that's why he's God now and also why things are so weird?
One of the groups from the houses was two annoying siblings who split from the party and died really quickly.
Gideon is big and bulky and has short red hair.
#tlt#the locked tomb#gideon the ninth#gtn#technically spoilers#spoilers#mine#harrow the ninth#nona the ninth#gideon nav#harrowhark#htn#gtn spoilers
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It's been a month since Binderary ended but I've still got books to share! This is @worse0mens's (hi!) wonderful Good Omens series, The Blossom Realm, which starts with Omens of Another Kind. This is very much a longtime favorite of mine, an AU with a really compelling combo of worldbuilding and characterization. This is a believable grand romance that's also a court drama and a fairy tale, and it's really long (the full series is about 220k words) so it will keep you reading for a long time. This is one of the fics I learned bookbinding for, and it was the first really long fic that I typeset (and redid once I learned more about typesetting). It's been a long road but it was so worth it.
More photos under the cut!
Couple of photos of the spines. The series doesn't divide easily, with one very long work, one medium-length one, and several shorter pieces. The main story is nearly 200k on its own, the longest single volume I've ever made (about 500 pages), and I was worried about it getting too unwieldy, so I put all the other works into their own volume of about 100 pages. They make a disparate set but I love them. The cover is done in skiver green faux leather from Hollander's; I've never worked with this brand before but I loved it, and one sheet was big enough to do both books. The titles are done in cricut brand gold foil htv. There were some issues with that, as I'd bought a multi-pack with a few different colors and only found out after applying the front cover graphics on both books that one, I didn't have enough to do the backs and spines; two, that the gold in that pack is a totally different color than the gold they sell on its own; and three, that no one in my area stocked it anymore and I had to order it from Europe. Here's what the back looks like:
It's the same graphic as the front but without the title in the center, and it's one of the fanciest backs I've ever done and it took forever to weed all those little cutouts. The graphic was free to use on rawpixel. The font I used on the spines and front is a basic Microsoft font called Harrington that worked incredibly well on the cricut, even at small sizes; a lot of basic fonts are too thin, especially fancy ones, so this was a delightful surprise.
Photo of the top, with ribbon bookmark and handmade double core endbands. The endbands didn't come out as well as I'd have liked; they're a little uneven and the color changes aren't that evenly spaced. Double core ones are harder than I expected and I need more practice. The endpapers are chocolate silk moire, and I chose them because there's a very important massive tree in the fic and I thought they looked like wood grain. I did a little experimenting with the shorter volume that's visible around the edges of the endpaper. I wanted gilded edges but the longer book had to be rounded, and I thought I'd try paint instead of foil since I don't know how to foil a curved edge. But I did my experiments on the smaller volume and I couldn't get good coverage, so the edge had to be trimmed off. The watered-down paint had leaked into the edge of the silk moire too far for me to trim, so it's still there. But it's kind of pretty, so I'm going to call it an aesthetic choice.
The title pages are the same, with free graphics from rawpixel. I got lucky and found a similar set of roses that I used for the chapter headers:
These had to be positioned by hand for each chapter so they'd fit around the text properly. It was a pain but they look so pretty. The final photo contains a story spoiler, so proceed with caution if you don't want that:
The scene break image in both volumes is this tiny snake. This was one of the first aesthetic choices I made for the books. A lot of the plot is centered around a prophecy about a monster snake that everyone thinks will destroy the kingdom, and of course in the manner of Good Omens fic it's a wildly inaccurate misinterpretation and not a threat at all. I wanted something like this because the snake is not only non-threatening but it's been here the entire time and there was never any reason to freak out about it. It was surprisingly difficult to find a snake image that was both simple enough to still be clear at this size and also didn't look dangerous or like a cartoon character. I looked at so many snakes before I found this one, it's ridiculous.
And that's it! I hope the author likes it (and remembers me since I asked to do this almost a year ago). There are three more binderary posts forthcoming, though I don't know how long it'll take me to get to them. It was a busy month.
#bookbinding#fanbinding#snek makes books#good omens#fic rec#everyone look at my books they are so pretty#and then go read the fic it's so good omg
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I've been enjoying the recent Middle Kingdoms works, and was especially taken by the ritual hospitality in "The Landlady". It seemed reminiscent of traditional Irish phrases I've encountered translated into English. If there any influence? To what degree has Ireland leaked into your understanding of the Middle Kingdoms and their cultures?
Re: the Irish influence: there's occasionally some effect on casual idiomatic usages in characters' general conversation, yes. In fact, while doing some editing work on TOTF3: The Librarian just a day or three ago, I caught Freelorn's edgy friend-who-killed-him-that-one-time, Sem, using phrases that unquestionably were not just Irish-originated, but Ulster-originated. :) (And plainly this is @petermorwood's fault. But since the character seems comfortable with the usage, and from where I'm sitting it sounds right for him, I'm not going to mess with it.)
As regards Irish influence on the Kingdoms' formal hospitality-language and culture, though, I'm not seeing much evidence of that. Not that I haven't done a fair amount of reading about Brehon law and other adjacent matters over time as a matter of casual research. But none of that seems to be reflected in any of the notes I made on the Kingdoms' cultures while developing them.
The connection I am pretty sure of is to translations of stock epithets and phrases (and the presence of various general concepts and actions) associated with the practice of formal xenia in ancient Greece, particularly as described in the Odyssey.
In particular, the Kingdoms' worldview seems to share a core concept with the ancient Greek one as regards xenia. This is the idea that personified Deity is walking around in the world, making itself responsible for the protection of people who call on others' hospitality. Both cultures have the idea that people's behavior may be tested by the gods—or God(dess)—to see how well they're obeying the rules set out regarding the welcome properly due to strangers and those in need.*
In the Kingdoms, the concept has had what seemed to me like a more or less logical expansion into the relationship between the heads of organized Houses—what we could equate with local familial lordships, though the actuality in the Realms is a lot less patriarchially hierarchical and more complex—and the people who come to hold land of/from the Houses' heads.
So it made sense to me that there would be basic gestures and phrases that express agreement to various aspects of the contract between a House's head and their holders. Since both writing and literacy died off during that alternate Earth's domination by the Dark, and had to be revived and relearned after its destruction, this contract was for a long time always verbal. Over the centuries, ritualized concrete practices—the exchange of bread and water between Holders and head of House, for example—grew up alongside the spoken content to make it plain that everybody understood the nature and intention of the contract. These, too, I derived from material in the Odyssey and other works of that period: situations, for example, where simply eating something that someone else has given you is itself confirmation that the contract between host and guest is in place and working.
Anyway: thanks for the question. Hope this helps!
*But then readers of the MK books will of course recognize this as the kind of thing the Goddess already does in Her world—not being one of those lurking-and-skulking sorts of deity who leaves you wondering all your life about whether they're real or not. Her basic contract with Her creation already contains the concept that everybody gets to meet Her personally at least once; and—either in Her proper person, or in the form of other people—sometimes more than once. Because yeah, She's busy... but what's the point of being a deity if you don't have the time to sit down with your creation for drinks every now and then...?
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