#does anon need to go to a rage room
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arrogant s.o.b
summary: based on this request - grumpy/mean Harry and readers first fight and he says something really harsh/yells and makes her cry? And then feels really bad after like grumpyxsunshine vibes?
warnings: angst
wordcount: 1.6k
a/n: thank you to the anon who sent in this request!! 🥰💖 sorry it took me a while to get around to it. please let me know if this isn’t quite what you wanted, i don’t know if I’m 100% happy with it so im more than willing to tweak and rewrite!!!
my masterlist!! please feel free to send me more requests 💓 happy reading
“I miss you, Harry.”
You knew you were pushing it, he was already working himself to breaking point. But you couldn’t help it, you missed your boyfriend. His break was meant to be about finding time for himself again, spending time with his loved ones. And you thought that meant being with you, not spending every day confined to the four walls of a recording studio.
“I can’t delay my entire album because you miss me.”
“I’m not asking you to delay the entire album. Just take a day off, just once.”
“Why?! For what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Now you were both pissed off. You didn’t understand why Harry couldn’t just slow down. You’d only been able to see him in Italy for a few days, your work schedule unexpectedly busy. Part of you thought he was ‘punishing’ you for that, the sane part of you knew that his summer in Italy was his rest, and now he was back in London he needed to work. Harry’s work ethic was one of the things you admired most about him, and now you were arguing with him over it.
“Clearly it does matter.” He was stood by the door, keys in his hand, a dark scowl printed on his face.
“It’s fine, just go. Have a good day.” The hurt was evident in your voice, but you didn’t even want Harry to stay now with the atmosphere you’d created.
He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to stay and needing to leave. Finally, he sighed and turned to walk out the door without another word. The sound of the door swinging shut behind him echoed through the silent room, leaving you alone in your thoughts.
Tears welled up in your eyes as you sank into the sofa. You’d pushed him away when all you wanted was for him to stay. You knew you’d always come second to his career, he prioritised you over almost everything in his life but his music was so important to him. But once he finished recording, there would be interviews and appearances, then a tour, and then you’d be back here again. It was constant, unrelenting, and if he couldn’t even sacrifice one day for you, how could you expect him to slow down?
—
Harry stood frozen on the other side of the door, still stuck between needing to come back in and wanting to go. It never usually got to this point, one of you would back down before someone got hurt. It wasn’t exactly healthy, but it worked for you. He hated fighting, hated seeing you upset. But he was only now realising that it was usually you that compromised. He knew you well, and for you to actually speak up and ask him to stay despite knowing how important his work is to him? He’d fucked up.
He leaned against the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly as he closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. Guilt washed over him as he replayed the conversation in his mind. He knew he needed to find a balance between his work and his relationship, but it was easier said than done.
His hand fell from the door handle as he turned on his heel, dragging his feet away from the house. If he was going to make it right, he needed to be armed with all of your favourite things.
—
Harry replayed the morning in his head the entire time he was out. You’d woken up to his alarm as always, rolling over in his arms to wake him up with soft kisses. “Why do you set alarms if you know you can’t wake up for them?” you laughed, tapping at his nose as his eyes fluttered open. “Because you wake up and I get morning kisses,” he smiled, pulling you tighter to his chest.
He remembered how the morning light hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your puffy eyes and blushed cheeks. He’d caught himself wishing he could have five more minutes in bed with you, time to savour waking up next to his love. But he’d rolled out of bed in the same way as always, slipping out from under you just as you tried to curl your body around his.
You’d followed him to the bathroom silently, lingering in the doorway as you rubbed your tired eyes. “Wish I got to see you more,” you’d mumbled, eyes following his through the mirror. “You see me every day, kitten,” he’d replied, poking his tongue out when he saw you watching. He’d noticed your face fall slightly, a misty kind of sadness replace the natural glint in your eye. He cringed as he thought back, but he’d purposely ignored it to save himself the trouble.
“I see you when I wake up and just before bed,” you’d pouted, eyes glued to your suddenly fidgety hands. “I cant help that right now, pet. You know I can’t,” he’d tried to reason with you, and looking back, Harry thought maybe he was trying to convince himself. “Just a morning or an afternoon at home would be nice. Not even a full day,” you’d told him, voice cracking as you looked back up at him.
“I can’t have this conversation right now,” he’d muttered, kicking at the door until it swung closed in front of you.
And there he was now, heart struck with guilt at the thought of how badly he had neglected you.
—
As he heard your keys jingle outside the door, Harry finished rearranging his purchases across the bed. He gave one final look to the flowers on your windowsill, the beautiful blush pink roses he knew you loved. It was perfect, he just hoped it would be enough.
“Hi darling,” he smiled sheepishly as he walked down the stairs.
“Hi, H,” you replied, brows knitted as you stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Come,” Harry murmured, reaching out a hand for you to take. You dropped your bag by door and took it, fingers tangling with his as he lead you back to the bedroom.
He stopped outside the bedroom door, pulling you into his arms. “M’sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “Didn’t think about what it’s like for you. I need time with you just as much as you need it w’me.”
“No, I’m sorry,” you told him, cuddling into his chest. “Nothing to be sorry for, pet.”
“Shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” you murmured, eyes closed as you breathed in his musky aftershave.
“Gave me the push I needed. M’not good at taking time off.”
“Don’t have to tell me that,” you laughed, stepping away from him as he turned to open the bedroom door.
“Got you your perfect day,” he smiled, stepping out of the way so you could see his creation.
All your favourite snacks were laid out on the bed, your matching pyjamas folded on the corner. The most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen in your favourite vase on the windowsill, candles lit on your nightstand and a cheesy rom com loaded on the tv.
“You did all of this?” you cooed, a grin spreading across your face as your gaze turned to Harry. He nodded, pulling his t-shirt off.
“Nuh uh,” you swatted his hand away as he reached to pick up the pyjama top. “Only my perfect day if you’re topless,” you smirked, quickly peeling your clothes off to throw the pyjamas on.
You climbed into bed next to Harry, pulling the duvet up to your chin before wrapping your body around his, your head at home on his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, arms wrapped right around you.
“Made a few calls. Gonna start only doing three days at a time in the studio, then three days off,” he whispered, grinning when you immediately whipped round to look at him. “Don’t have to do that for me baby,” you gasped, brows furrowed.
“It’s the right call. Just gonna be longer days but worth it all if it means more time with you,” Harry winked, his hand caressing the curve of your waist.
You shifted upwards, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” you smiled. “And congratulations.”
Harry returned your kiss, his lips lingering just a second longer than yours had. His touch and his kisses felt like home to you, his smile your lifeblood. “To me? For what?”
“To us. For our first fight,” you giggled, holding out a hand to high-five Harry. He grabbed a hold of your hand, using it to pull you even closer to him, until your faces were only centimetres apart.
“Here’s to our first and last fight,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. His teeth latched onto your bottom lip as he went in for another kiss, the rocky waves in your stomach turning to butterflies as his tongue moved around yours.
You pulled away after a minute, settling back into his arms with a smile so bright it could have lit up the room.
“Can’t believe we started the day with you thinking your album is more important than me,” you mumbled, a mischievous sparkle in your eye as you tangled your fingers between Harry’s.
“Millions of adoring fans who’d do anything for me versus one woman? I know who I’m picking,” he teased, laughing as you smacked his thigh with your free hand.
“Maybe they were right,” you whispered, peering up at him.
“Hm?”
“About you being an arrogant son of a bitch.”
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#harry styles fluff#harry styles x reader#harry edward styles#harry styles fic#harry styles fanfic#harry styles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles x y/n#harry styles masterlist#Harry styles angst#harry styles smut#harryslittlefreakk
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What about Monster!AU for prompt 5. Male reader and price please :)
Sure thing anon, made it a mage reader again, was trying to study for a 'lovely' surprise test but inspiration decided to strike me :/. Play the game HERE
Prompt: “My feelings aren’t real and my heart’s a fucking idiot.”
CW:NSFW, switch/power bottom Dragon Price, Male Mage reader, Oral, Anal, shower sex, semi public sex, reader is oblivious for a bit.
Price swears his hair and scales are going to go completely gray because of you.
You've been avoiding him for a week now, and all the base knows why — Price can still hear your desperate voice begging and bargaining with whatever will listen "I'll buy you dinner please-just stay alive- I love you- damn it you slimy bastard don't you dare die on me-" as you try to keep him alive, magic flowing from your arms to heal the gaping hole in his side despite the bullets raining overhead; a valiant knight protecting him like he's a prince instead of a dragon.
And Price can remember the way his heart had fluttered at your words, at the way you had hugged him so firmly to keep him safe as your magic raged all around you like a wild force of nature, at the way you looked at him so tenderly— eyes burning with mana like the gaze of a god he's your most prized possession —right before the blood loss made him black out.
But now that Price was out of the hospital, his side permanently marked with your magic and a hefty load of paperwork on his desk, you were acting like you never said anything. Anytime someone brings it up you just ignore them, ignore him, throwing yourself into training as much as you can. And it's getting on his nerves, his draconic blood making anger and malcontent burn in his bones because you'd looked at him like a mate but now it's like he doesn't exist beyond training and missions.
He knows it's against the rules, knows he shouldn't hope for much when he sets out to find you, but he does. It's not hard; though his sensitive nose easily picks up the stench of magic, it's the lingering mana burrowed into his skin that tugs him in a direction, even the foreign parts of him wanting you. He finds you alone in the training room, the ground around you scorched beyond hell.
"We need ta' talk lad." Price rumbles as he closes the door behind him, the deep thrum of his voice hiding the anxious pressure he feels in his chest.
Your head whips to look at him. Price cherishes the way your eyes soften when you see him like a glittering gem. Then a sea of ice settles over your eyes, and you turn your head back to the target dummy as if looking at Price makes you sick. "Nothing to talk about captain."
"That so?" Price asks like he doesn't believe you, because he doesn't. Ancient instincts tug on his mind and he follows them. You know he knows what's plaguing your mind, both of you are aware of the elephant in the room and Price can see the way your shoulders progressively tense as he draws near. But you're a stubborn fool, you refuse to show how his presence makes your heart beat faster despite how each of his steps rings like a gunshot in your ears.
Your mind fails to conjure up words but you force an "Hmh," out of your throat, trying to ignore how Price is so close to you, the heat of his body radiating into yours. His remaining wing stretches out, scales and leathery membranes barely brushing over your shoulder, but the intent is clear; the claim is clear.
You try to ignore him, ignore yourself, clinging to the sensation of your sharp mana digging into your veins as you summon another bout of magic to shoot at the training dummy, whisps of formless energy quickly forming into your preferred element.
His hand settles on your hip, not enough to make you loose focus just yet. "Because last ah remember," He leans in closer, the smell of black coffee and cigars on his breath. This close he can smell you instead of your magic, his chest rumbling against your back with a happy purr. "you promised me dinner if I lived."
You nearly choke on air, your magic sputtering out like an old car engine. "I-" You whirl around, your noses almost touching from how close you are. "-that's not what I'd meant!"
His heart should break at that, but before it can his sensitive ears pick up how rapidly your heart's pounding in your chest, reptilian eyes noting how you're flushed more than usual, breathing rapidly without even noticing it.
"Really now?" That greedy part in his bones urges him on, begging and pleading for him to just take you. His other hand settles on your shoulder, keeping you in place, close to him just like he wants. "Then ah suppose all that 'bout me bein' a slimy bastard was also not true?"
You want to flinch away but can't, your own body a traitor to you, a deep frown tugging on your lips. "Price, I wasn't-"
"And-" He cuts you off by leaning even closer, his forehead resting against yours and fuck, your head fits perfectly between his horns, like you belong there. "-I must've misheard you when you said you loved me?" He raises an eyebrow, voice both teasing and serious, holding his breath.
Just that small contact of skin on skin has your resolve crumbling like sand, "Listen, just-" You suck in a sharp breath, the situation both bliss and hell for you. “My feelings aren’t real and my heart’s a fucking idiot. Okay? And just-" You try to stammer the same lies you'd tell yourself every time you'd catch yourself thinking of him more than just your captain (which was way too often).
Price's clawed hand grips your chin and manually closes your mouth, his smooth scales cool against your warm body. You forget to breathe, your eyes flickering all over his face as he smirks, voice deep and guttural like the rumble of moving tectonic plates. "Then I'm an idiot too."
The world goes completely silent as he kisses you, holding your head still so he can claim your lips for himself, his deep purr shaking both of your chests when you submit so easily to him, like getting a gulp of fresh air after years of drowning.
You're so lost in his taste and his scent and just him you don't notice when Price roughly pulls you into the showers, tail and wing and arms holding your body; as if your brain could even conjure the thought of leaving. Bursts of awareness assault your mind every time you part for a breath and to displace a piece of clothing, his sharp claws tickling your skin as he can't wait and just cuts through your remaining clothes.
Clawed fingers grip your hair and tilt your head back, exposing your throat to sharp fangs and you submit easily, trusting him not to hurt you too much. Low sounds rumble in your throat as Price marks you, biting one spot until it bleeds your mana rich blood, greedily drinking up the crimson droplets and soothing the wound with his tongue just enough for the sting to become pleasant before biting again. Bite, lick, bite, lick, bite, lick— chest rumbling with satisfaction he pulls away, "Oh, look at you," He growls, your throat turned into a warzone, "So handsome, like a charming knight."
You snort and grip his hips, the water of the shower raining down the two of you. "Yeah?" You ask as you turn him around, pushing his chest against the wall as you drop to your knees. "Gonna let me lay you?" You ask, kissing down his spine, your rough hands groping and fondling his ass.
"Wanker," Price growls and lifts his tail, revealing his hole to you. You almost cum on the spot from the sight of it, looking every bit what you'd imagined he'd look like. But you don't get to look for long before his tail wraps around your throat, soft underbelly scales scraping against your bruised throat as he pulls you closer. "Only, if you prove your worth."
You don't need a formal invitation, pushing your tongue out as you slobber all over his hole, your hands keeping his asscheeks spread so you can worm your tongue into his hole, feeling him clench around your tongue, his moans ringing like angel song in your ears. His claws tangle in your hair, pushing your head even closer to worship him better. And you do, like a pious believer you lick and suck and nibble around his hole, your nose buried in the space between his ass and tail, barely able to breathe but it's a small price to pay.
Finally he grows greedy for more, his tail releases a fraction and he shoves you, making you fall back on your ass, your cock standing like a flagpole. You only manage to rise up on your elbows before Price jumps on you like the beast he is, thigh powerful thighs bracketing your own, his clawed fingers scraping against your skin as they settle on your shoudlers.
"Now then," Price rumbles like an ancient mountain, reptilian eyes hooded with lust. He feels on top of the world with the way you look at him, like a desperate mutt, your cock hard like a rock between his legs. "Stay still, mighty knight, an-" Price lifts himself up, positioning your cockhead at his puckered rim. "-relax."
The running water muffles your combined groans, his walls hot and tight like the fire in his chest. His weight bears down on you, wing stretching out in a show of pleasure, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he pants. "Fuck," Price growls, grinding his hips down into yours. "Feel so good, lad."
You grunt, your hands fitting on his hips like they always belonged there. Magic sparks across your arms as pleasure steadily erases your ability to think, but his thick scales keep him safe, a pleased groan leaving his chest as he starts bouncing on you, chasing his own pleasure. You can do nothing but hang on, your hips rising to meet his downward thrust, Price's lips swallowing your moans. You don't have enough sense in your head left to care if anyone was to come in and see you, your mind fully consumed by him.
You cum way too soon, your orgasm sneaking up to you, lightning rushing down your spine and magic sparking across your arms as your brain leaks out of your ears, shooting cum up into his greedy walls.
"Good- good lad." Price grinds his teeth, never stopping his bouncing, lewd sounds ringing through the showers from the way your cum squelches inside him. He rides you past the sting of overstimulation right back to hardness. His hand grabs yours, placing it over the scars on his abdomen where your magic had stitched him back together, greed and lust fueling his desires. "Protected me so good, yeah?" His hips never cease moving, that draconic endurance coming in handy to absolutely wrecking you. "Let me take care of you,"
And like a proper mate, you let him do as he pleases.
#Gnome's Prompt Game#cod mw2#x reader#gnome correspondence#trinkets from the hoard#male reader#captain john price#top male reader#john price x male reader#john price x reader#cod x male reader#cod smut#cod modern warfare#monster cod au#monster 141 au#mage reader
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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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Could you do Head canons of how 141 + König would react to reader flinching at their movements? Like they raise their hand/arm and reader kind of cowers away?
I found your page tonight and LOVE how you write them! Keep up the amazing work and thank you💖
141 + König Reactions To GN!Reader Flinching
cod masterlist
A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH IM KICKING AND GIGGLING RN ILY ANON I LOVE YOU ALL THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALMOST 400!! i also feel very iffy about this aaghhhdhfjcj
I’m having a 400 follower celebration!
-> John Price
He raises his arm quickly to grab something from a top shelf and that’s when he spots your flinch—your arm comes shooting up like you’re about to grab said arm, your eyes slightly wide. Price pauses and you quickly lower your arm, clearing your throat like nothing happened, like that didn’t just happen.
if you’re military; I don’t think he would be too concerned because it’s quite common for soldiers who have been through traumatic battles to have insanely fast reflexes, to be ready at a moment’s notice. He does, however, nudge you a bit. You glance at him and Price raises his eyebrows and asks the silent question with his face—‘are you alright?’
if you’re a civilian; that’s when he gets properly worried. You have no reason to have that fast of a reflex, so he ends up staring at you for a moment. Price doesn’t ask you about it in the moment, but he makes sure to keep his movements slower around you and he gives himself a reminder to gently ask about it later—just in case it’s sensitive.
-> Kyle Garrick
You and Kyle are walking in the local park when this happens. An American football is thrown and strays from it’s course and Kyle notices a flying object coming near. His hands fly up and catch the football in an instant and you couldn’t help but flinch, putting your own hand up to grab his in a defensive position.
if you’re military; Kyle throws the football back and quietly apologizes to you with a kiss to your temple; he knows all too well about having your instincts triggered by normal everyday life. It’s not that big of a deal in hindsight, but he knows how it is.
if you’re a civilian; Kyle throws the football back and asks if you’re alright, at first he isn’t sure if he accidentally hit you or not by the way you reacted. You quietly confirm you’re alright and Kyle looks at you with a concerned face when you’re dodging his eyes a bit. You sigh. “Later, I promise.”
-> John MacTavish
You and Soap decided to go out to a rage room together for fun. You get suited up and fix your goggles onto your face, giggling at how Soap looks. He hums and picks out a baseball bat—he doesn’t realize how close you are to him when he swings the baseball bat up and violently smashes a vase.
if you’re military; Soap is profusely apologizing, one for not looking out and two because he knows these actions can come off as aggressive. “M’so sorry, bonnie! Didnae see you there, are you alright??” Soap makes sure everything is alright and he makes sure there’s a good distance next swing.
if you’re a civilian; He apologizes to you, but this time he doesn’t really realize you might’ve flinched for a different reason. You were standing a bit too close so he would likely think it’s from the swing, but he would check in on you anyway, loud with his apologies.
-> Ghost
He is oddly silent for his size, so it’s a common occurrence for him to accidentally sneak up on you and often make an announcement of his appearance with movement. Your hand comes shooting out when you finally notice him next to you and your fingers wrap around his wrist, your eyes wide, like an animal being hunted—just for a second. You quickly let go of his wrist with an apology.
if you’re military; he would probably tease you on needing to brush up your detection skills and listen a little closer, but it’s not like he’d purposely keep doing it to get at you. Ghost would also chalk it up to your military instincts.
if you’re a civilian; this is where Ghost gets worried because he knows the signs of abuse. Even if you’re just a very flinchy person, that doesn’t stop him from subtly hinting that you can help him anything important. I imagine Ghost a bit emotionally constipated so he struggles to outright say it, but he’s in your corner if you need him.
-> König
You two were walking down the base’s sidewalk together and you were about to go ahead, forgetting to look both ways. König’s arm suddenly shoots out in front of you to stop you, resulting in your hands hastily grabbing his arm, nearly shoving it away from you. You quickly let go and clear your throat.
if you’re military; könig would apologize to you for startling you, he knows how jumpy people can be after long missions but it was necessary to keep you safe. He would definitely eye a you little longer due to your wide eyed look, and maybe he would ask you about that later if he begins to overthink the situation.
if you’re a civilian; He would apologize immensely and claim that it was for your safety, asking if he startled you and that he’s sorry. If you’re a bit winded from the sudden action, he definitely notices. König asks softly if he can talk to you about important stuff later that day because he needs to know why you reacted that way and how he can prevent that reaction.
#call of duty#call of duty mwii#cod mw2#mw2 2022#mw2022#modern warfare ii#cod#mw2 fanfic#mwii#john price x reader#soap x reader#gaz x reader#ghost x reader#könig x reader#konig x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#headcanons#flinching#tw#abuse#modern warfare 2#modern warfare two#modern warfare#mw2 x reader#mw2#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#captain john price
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Dinosaur Talks
Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader
Summary: You like to talk about dinosaurs, and Wednesday likes to listen.
Warnings: soft/ooc!wednesday (does this even need to be said)
Word count: 0.8k
Notes: this is literally just for 🦕 anon. i hope you enjoy it, dino<3
Masterlist
“The Mesozoic Era, also known as the Age of Dinosaurs, is comprised of three periods—the Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous periods. The first real dinosaurs actually emerged in the middle of the Triassic period—aw, come on, Thing. A draw four? Really, man?”
Calm, somehow smug-sounding taps sounded from atop her bed followed by low mutterings about betrayal, but Wednesday paid it little mind.
Her fingers flew across the keys of her typewriter with a rhythm and purpose she had become well acquainted with. She was in what many referred to as the zone—when words surged from her like the rapids of a raging river.
It was a state of being achieved by having complete, unrelenting attention to the task at hand. A familiar feeling when it came to her writing.
You were in a similar state. Though instead of writing out the gory details of a detective’s crime scene like she was, you were entrenched in your ramblings about prehistoric creatures.
An interesting sight, but not an unfamiliar one to Wednesday or really anyone that knew you.
It was no secret that for whatever reason, you were very fond of dinosaurs.
They were a special interest of sorts, something you were exceedingly passionate about, and though she herself cared little about reptiles gone long extinct, she indulged you for reasons not entirely yet known to her.
“Fascinating,” she responded evenly, allowing her mind to file the information away with all of the other technically useless dinosaur-related factoids you’d voluntarily offered up over the months she had known you.
You shot her a smile that likely would’ve blinded her if she were looking directly at it. “I know right? How about you, Thing? You think it’s fascinating?”
Wednesday could picture him giving you an excited thumbs up in response, and the airy laugh you let out all but confirmed it.
“Okay, it’s your turn, bud. Yeah, I’ll keep going,” you took a breath, sat up a little straighter. “The Triassic period ended with an extinction event. A bunch of sudden, widespread volcanic eruptions wiped out all Triassic archosaurs apart from dinosaurs, pterosaurs, and crocodiles. This ushered in the…”
You trailed off slowly, animated frame going oddly still in her peripheral.
The abruptness of it made Wednesday spare you the smallest of glances, and she found you looking back at her, brows drawn, and bottom lip tucked between your teeth.
“Actually, uh…nevermind, I’ll save it for later. After you’re done writing.” You flashed a small smile then turned back to your game with Thing.
Quiet embraced the room. The only sounds that could be heard were the shuffling of cards and the occasional taps from Thing. And Wednesday should have been happy about the newfound peace, should have been able to put even more focus on her work. But she couldn’t.
Because suddenly, it was as if there was a dam halting the natural flow of her artistic river, causing the joints in her fingers to stiffen and her mind to go frustratingly blank.
Usually, it was the opposite. Enid’s incessant noise was a notorious distraction during her writing time and though she’d grown somewhat attached to her roommate, there were times when she wished she had a muzzle on hand so she could have just a moment of tranquility.
And yet now that she had the silence she normally longed for, she didn’t want it.
Her mind instead craved the timbre and intonation of your voice when you spoke about something with immense fervor. The space felt empty without it.
With a silent sigh, she set her hands on her lap and turned to you, momentarily giving you her full attention. “And what of the Jurassic period?”
Your head whipped to the side. “Huh?”
“That is the period that follows the Triassic period, correct?” she prompted.
You blinked a few times, clearly unsure, but an expectant raise of her brows was enough for you to take the extended olive branch.
“Well, yes,” you started up again, tone excited but informative, “the Jurassic period is indeed what followed the Triassic period, and thanks to Jurassic Park, it’s the most identifiable of the three. It was during this period that the first gigantic sauropod and theropod dinosaurs appeared—"
You looked away to continue your card game with Thing, words never faltering in the process, but Wednesday’s eyes stayed on you for just a bit longer.
Your ardor for these stupid dead animals was not cute—she refused to ever allow that word into her personal vocabulary—but it was something akin to that.
Endearing, perhaps. Possibly charming. Or maybe something even more…
No, that wasn’t a rabbit hole she was interested in diving into just yet, she decided.
Returning her gaze forward, she flexed her fingers experimentally, exhaling when she found them relaxed and ready, just as they were before.
Satisfied, Wednesday turned back to her typewriter and continued the paragraph she was working on, once again letting the currents of her creativity flow from her freely to the symphonically sweet sound of your voice.
#jenna gif ik but it's cute so who cares#wednesday#wednesday addams#wednesday addams x reader#wednesday addams x female reader#wednesday addams x you#wednesday addams imagine#jenna ortega
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🤭 daddy kink nsfw headcannons with characters of ur choice (feel free to add a breeding kink too if u want)
-the sussy 🥐 anon
Daddy Kink Headcanons (NSFW)
I have yet to have a chance to write about him. So lemme just talk about Pierro.
Daddy Daddy Daddy
That man has a raging daddy kink, and he would be the one to bring it up first.
"Does Daddy's Princess/Prince need something?"
He expected the best out of his little one. Of course, as the number one harbingers partner, you must always be on your best behavior.
If you decide to be a little brat? Oh, you are in for a very long night.
When you returned to your shared room, Pierro sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for you. He just silently tapped his thigh, not having to tell you what was coming.
"I expect you to count each one. If you mess up, Daddy will make you start again."
This immortal daddy will have you crying for him as he rails you.
"I thought you wanted attention, little one? Isn't that why you walked around today in your skimpy outfit, showing off your body to everyone?"
He never uses protection. He always wants to fill you up with his cum
He especially loves watching it leak out of you when he pulls out.
There was no way I could not include the OG Daddy in this.
Zhongli has been around for so long now. So of course he's dabbled in different Honorifics.
But it was you who accidentally called him daddy once, and he just went for it.
He had riled you up, gotten multiple orgasms out of you, and it just… slipped out.
"Oh?" Is daddy making you feel that good right now?"
You were so embarrassed, but the way he reacted was enough to have you crying out for daddy all night long.
Zhongli loves to tease you, but he can't help but give in when you call him daddy in that whiny voice.
He loves to come up behind you and wrap his arms around you before whispering.
"How's Daddy's girl/boy doing today?"
If you call him by his name in bed, he will remind you just who he is
What is my name again? I don't think I heard you right, little dove."
This man right here had no idea that he had a daddy kink.
But one day, he was getting on your ass, repeatedly telling you what to do, and finally, you fired back at him.
"Yeah Yeah, I'll get right on it Daddy."
He looked at you so shocked, but before you knew it, you were pinned against the wall, Alhaithams hands roaming your body.
"Say it again; say it again right now."
He fucked you right there in the living room, making you scream out for your daddy over and over.
Kaveh had walked up to the house to come in and heard what was happening. He just turned around and left, spending the night at a friend's.
"I want everyone to hear how good your Daddy makes you feel."
He goes feral every time you call him daddy. It's like a switch you can flip whenever you want.
You once visited him at the Academia and jokingly called him Daddy just before you were going to leave.
He had you bent over his desk, your underwear shoved in your mouth.
"You better be quiet for Daddy, unless you want to get caught… or maybe you would like that."
🥐 I love you SO MUCH right now. I have wanted to write something like this for so long now, just some self-indulgent smut. God, now i'm thinking about writing fanfiction like Kaveh spying on Daddy Alhaitham and his girlfriend and doing something he shouldn't be
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who’s she?
summary- after your fallout with tara you find comfort in the thing you hated most about her, alcohol.
warnings- some sweet angst, meaningless one night stands and some swears. possible grammar n spelling errors
A/N- thank you anon for the suggestion i hope it lived up to your standards. sorry this took so long i have been so damn busy lately but enjoy🙏
part 1
it had been 3 months since your ‘break up’ with tara and to be completely honest you were doing terrible.
you never liked it when tara drank, she became someone you didn’t recognise.
and now you’re here, you barely recognise yourself. drinking copious amounts of liquor sleeping with a new random girl.
if you kept yourslef sober enough you’d be disgusted by the reputation you had acquitted, the ‘life of the party’ the fuck boy who gets with pretty girls and leaves before they wake up. it didn’t mean anything to you it truly didn’t it clearly meant nothing to the hookups. you both wanted a sexual realsie and that’s what you got.
doing anything to distract yourself from losing the one thing that made your life bright.
Tara had heard of your new found reputation along with glaring looking at you drunkly go upstairs with a girl.
she felt guilty, real guilty. yet too stubborn to talk to you. was she scared you’d end up the way amber did? yeah. did she love you? yeah. was her fear a reasonable excuse to hurt you the way she did? not particularly.
but yet here she is, sat in her apartment wallowing in self pity, contemplating texting you.
she’d spend her nights feeling guilty debating to reach out but never truly had the courage. she hears a ping from her phone and checks the message.
nerdymeeks: have u heard of Y/Ns new girl?
Tgiz: wait what? like gf??
nerdymeeks: i think so? they’ve been seen hanging out at their place couple times
nerdymeeks: told u. u should’ve stopped being stubborn n got ur girl back before it was too late
well if she had a reason to text it was definitely now, so with the surge of confidence that had absolutely nothing to do with the raging jealousy she clicked your contact and let it ring.
“sorry the person you’re trying to contact does not exist” and with that the call ended.
tara was left in disbelief, you blocked her? you got some new girl and blocked her? that made a already very jealous mad tara exceptionally more angry
she didn’t particularly have the right to but she still was.
grabbing her shoes and keys, she was going to confront you, luckily for her you’re a couple doors away. it’s honestly shocking you two haven’t seen eachother since the fallout.
and with three knocks, she was stood at the door left with silince. she raised her fist to knock once more when a beautiful black haird girl opened the door.
logically she was stunning, but to tara? you could do better. and it isn’t at all jealousy
“can i help you?” the girl at the door way asked, recovering from the momentary stun tara replied.
“i-uh. i’m here for Y/N?”
“tara?” your voice rang out behind this new mysterious girl.
this was the first time her eyes met yours after THAT. you looked good, better than you did atleast.
but she would hate to admit how she missed the way her eyes instantly found yours wherever you were.
“we need to talk” tara replied to you
you were stuck, on one side you never wanted to see her again but that little part of ur brain was nagging at you to just hear her out.
and so you went for the latter. “okay”
tara looked back at the girl guarding the entrance to your apartment, she reluctantly moved aside and headed towards your bedroom.
“if you need me Y/N i’ll be right here” and with that she entered the room closing the door.
“so are you and broody over there..together?” she was trying to keep composer (it didn’t work)
“what do you care?” you replied bitterly
“i don’t. i-just..wondering” that composer is definitely working very well. “what do you want tara?” you were getting impatient now
“why did you block me?” she asked getting straight to the point
“it’s not like we were talking” you replied. she really had the nerve to throw you to the cerb then comd to your apartment and ask why you had blocked her?
“maybe because you were too busy getting drunk” she folded her arms across her chest.
“oh? so you’re getting judgemental now?” you walked closer to her.
“i have never once judged you, and now you’re judging me for something you’ve done?”
you were face to face with her now. you were a couple inches taller than tara, so you were looking down on her.
she would be lying if she said seeing you mad wasn’t atleast a little bit attractive.
“i had my reasons for what i did” she stated getting louder now.
“and i didn’t?” you were shouting now, both arguing with one an other.
“we were simply fucking Y/N-“ she started “No!” you cut her off. “don’t even act like what we were doing was ‘just fucking’. i loved you and you know damn well you liked me more than just some side bitch-“
it was her turn to intrupt you now “you loved me?” the tension was softer now.
“of course i did tara? you were everything i ever wanted” you paused
“and now i have everything i need” you looked towards the bedroom door, tara following your line of sight.
she felt the tears in her eyes, but she be dammed if she let you see them fall.
the soft “oh” fell from her lips “i see, well i’ll leave you two to it then” and before you could say more she turned around and left, leaving you stood in your apartment once more.
this time you had something, someone to go to. someone worth it.
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#tara carpenter x reader#tara carpenter x you#tara carpenter x y/n#tara x y/n#tara x reader#tara carpenter#scream
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hii silly ask anon back with another silly ask😓 (before i continue tysm for answering the last one i enjoyed it sm!!🫶🏻) how would yan!zhongli, pantalone (help me i love them) and childe react to darling going absolutely feral with rage anytime they are near😭?
like they’ll get home and be like “i’m home pookie💗” and reader will scream their head off crying and throwing stuff at them
this is so long sorry but could i be 🐚 anon?
ofc you can! the more anons the merrier :D also this is such an interesting thought because there are so many different ways for the yandere to reaction in a situation like this and it's certainly not talked about enough with the diverse types so i hope you enjoy :D
Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including delusional behaviors, implied being held against will, force-feeding, mentions of being drugged, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!
Yandere!Zhongli would be well prepared, readying his shield before getting within arms reach of you. It really does come in handy for your more unruly days and he appreciates its usefulness. While he doesn’t want to see you enter the mindbroken or emotionally numb state, he’s worried that he might not have any other choice but to push you to that, lest you calm down otherwise.
“Fret not dear, it’s merely food. If you flip it over again I’m afraid I’ll have to go back to spoon feeding you.” Zhongli enters the room with a plated meal for you, setting it down at your feet. His shield was already activated, the faint glow from Geo illuminating the room as you glowered up at him. Your spot on the floor, chained down for your safety and his, was not ideal but for now it was practical. Mixed with the low lighting of the room and its generally chilly temperature, Zhongli hoped to create a strong feeling of isolation, one that would slowly drive you insane. If need be though, he had other options for breaking you, he just preferred this one. It was the most humane after all.
Yandere!Pantalone would only tolerate it for so long. He can replace all the furniture and decorations in his home with less easily broken replicas until you calm down. He can sleep in bed at night while you slept in a cage built into the walls of the closet. He could eat his meals alone while you starved in another room, too busy fretting about it being poisoned, that all he could tolerate. But the screaming was something else.
No one in Zapolyarny Palace heard your screams and wails, and those who did were ordered not to pay mind to it. It was a wasted effort that had Pantalone often sitting with his head in his hands, trying to find some sort of solution. He had run across a few temporary ones, a sleeping agent from Dottore for night time, sound proof walls in his office for business hours. But nothing could help him outside though hours, like at dinner time. You were kept in a separate room strictly for feeding due to the mess you often made, while Pantalone sat alone at the empty kitchen table. The home in general looked devoid of life outside the small inhabitant of Pantalone. This was because it was supposed to be your home, but you were often too busy throwing a hissy-fit to enjoy it and Pantalone was getting really sick of your behavior.
Yandere!Childe would take it as a challenge, playfully wrestling you to pin you down so he could feed you during the day. You could kick and scream and punch all you want, he’s taken worse and won’t stop until he’s physically unable to move. The screaming doesn’t bother him either, he just thinks you need more time to adjust is all.
Another day, another miserable feeding session. You were currently pinned underneath Childe, the ginger having pinned you to the floor with your hands held tightly to your chest as he slowly fed you bites of a sandwich. Any attempts to spit them out would be met with a pout, he had worked hard to make it for you ya know, and any attempts to not eat would be met with a quick pinch of your nose to force you to open your mouth. The worst part was possibly how normal Childe acted about the whole thing, chatting amicably to you about his day as he shoved bits of food down your throat. One time you had kept spitting food at him and in response he covered your mouth with his hand to prevent you from continuing the childish act. You had bit down as hard as you physically could on the male's palm just for him to not flinch and continue his silly little stories like nothing had happened. Being stuck with this guy was hopeless for you.
#genshin x reader#genshin x male reader#yandere genshin x reader#yandere genshin x male reader#zhongli x reader#zhongli x male reader#yandere zhongli x reader#yandere zhongli x male reader#pantalone x reader#pantalone x male reader#yandere pantalone x reader#yandere pantalone x male reader#childe x reader#childe x male reader#yandere childe x reader#yandere childe x male reader#yandere genshin#yandere zhongli#yandere pantalone
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If you really want to write something for me (crab 🦀) then how about some Kaveh fluff because he is way to relatable right now, especially in my current situation (doesn’t have to be though, I didn’t expect you to want to write something for me so get a bit creative with it lol) 🦀 🦀 🦀
— 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲 & 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐲.
SUMMARY. when you offer a friend a suggestion on how to increase his efficiency, you don't expect your intimacy for him would also increase alongside it. (he doesn't expect it too.) (1.5k+ words)
CHARACTERS. kaveh + GN!reader.
GENRE. fluff, angst with comfort, friends to ??? (when ur friend starts looking a lil too good for some reason...).
CW. references to kaveh's backstory, implications of crying and stress (kaveh our beloved <//3), reader wears reading glasses (cool stuff) and rambles abt naps.
THOUGHTS. ik all kaveh simps and kinnies want to give him a hug, so here you go! i cherish him vv much. to 🦀 anon, let's just treat this as like your commissioning me in a way (i hope this ficlet is alright?? i'm rusty hhhhh) ♡
✰ masterlist.
"Ughhhhhh."
So, the rumors amongst the people of the Akademiya are true, after all; that there can never be a silence that lasts too long when a certain man with blond hair is present.
"Gahhhhhh."
For someone who is still at the prime of his life, KAVEH sure looks like he has already aged a hundred years in the span of a single night. But according to the people at the Akademiya, this occurrence is nothing out of the ordinary and as someone who has known him for years, you can absolutely concur with them.
With a hand on his temple and a heavy sigh that weighs a thousand troubles, there is no other way for the blond male to express his frustration besides verbal means — and to that, too, you are a witness sitting across from him on the table.
Guess that's just the price you have to pay for agreeing to help him when he begged you yesterday. According to him, your "job description" is just to stop him from dozing off because a deadline from a client of his is nearing way too quickly for his liking.
Thus, here you are — watching him do his work while you do your own work on a table at his place (or more precisely, his room in Alhaitham's place but you don't want Kaveh to fly into a fit of rage).
"My head hurts," Kaveh groans.
"Because you've stared at that blueprint for hours now," you answer.
"My back hurts too," he complains again.
"Because you haven't changed your position ever since we started sitting," you retort again.
If anyone were to ask for some sort of proof about the frequency of Kaveh's grumbles, the fact that you could respond so naturally and quickly while barely taking your gaze off the documents spread out in front of you, as if you've done this so many times before (which you have), would have sufficed.
"[Y/N]," Kaveh calls your name in a dramatic whine, "You're supposed to sympathize with me...!" But you don't find the need to look up from your paper when you can almost feel the pout forming on his lips already.
It isn't as if you don't want to empathize with him, but that sight of his pout happens to be quite adorable — does it count as being mean if you want him to keep it on for a bit longer? Ha, what a strange feeling.
"Then, why don't you take a nap?" you give him a suggestion as you look up to spare your colleague a glance, "I'll wake you up in about 20 minutes or so."
That look of hesitance on Kaveh's face makes you raise an eyebrow. "Sounds tempting, but are you sure doing that wouldn't waste more time instead of saving it?" the man tilts his head questioningly with a frown as if he is unsure of the right answer himself.
"Idiot," you blurt out.
Thank goodness the circumference of the table isn't wide enough to interrupt your movements as you put down your reading glasses and reach out to pull on Kaveh's cheek gently. He, as the one on the receiving end, doesn't think the gesture is as gentle as it looks though.
"Hey! Ouch, ouch—" Kaveh cries out a little yelp that is a perfect representation of his surprise. "Let me ask you this," you release his cheek from your grasp and he expresses gratitude to the Dendro Archon like never before while you continue, "Why do you think you've been staring at that blueprint without being able to function properly?"
"Uh, umm," he stammers, "...Because I feel tired, maybe?" Again, he sounds unsure of himself but that is most likely because you've shaken off half of his brain cells by pinching his cheek just now. Fortunately, judging by that satisfied expression on your face, he seems to have gotten it right.
"Good," you nod approvingly, "Naps have been proven to provide relaxation, reduce fatigue, and increase alertness. The most optimal time for adults is between 10 to 20 minutes."
Kaveh listens to you intently, but that dumbfounded look he has on almost says otherwise. Noticing this, you decide to feign an aura of seriousness as you add, "I was being generous when I offered to wake you up after 20 minutes, by the way. I could've set it to 10 minutes instead."
"You're ruthless," he gapes.
"So, are you going to take a nap or not?" you stifle a giggle.
"Seems like that's the best option I have right now," your dear friend can only shrug his shoulders defeatedly. In order to prepare for his nap, Kaveh sets aside the blueprint he has previously spent hours working on and neatly folds his arms on top of the table.
"Sleeping on a desk isn't very comfy but it'll do," he heaves out an exhausted sigh. Not even one second into placing his head atop his folded arms, he is already missing the softness of his bed back at home — but he can't really complain, so he closes his eyes in silence despite the slight discomfort.
You observe, picking up the disgruntled noises Kaveh makes as he shifts around to find the right position to lay his head. This quiet moment where your banters with him finally die down is when you can truly see the burdens weighing upon his shoulders and your gaze can't help but soften.
Despite how empathetic he appears or how his dramatic antics always elicit a laugh out of others, you know Kaveh really has been through a lot — and you wonder if you didn't suggest he take a nap, would he have neglected his health to do more in a state of low efficiency? Does he often allow himself some time to rest like this?
"You're really tired, aren't you?" your voice lowers into a soft murmur.
"...Yeah," his answer comes out quieter than your question.
"Deadlines are killing me. I know it's meant to help me be organized and all," you see how he opens his eyes to glance at the blueprint mere inches away from his face, "But right now, it's putting more pressure on me than anything."
Kaveh exhales another drained sigh, "And I still have my debts to worry about too. God, when will this all end..." His voice eventually trails off into an evident crack like he is about to choke, "So many things at once, I feel like it's all crashing on me..."
Your heart clenches. He's about to cry, you note.
"Hey," you speak tenderly. "Don't frown so hard, it'll make your head hurt more," you extend your hand to rub soothingly at the deepening frown on his forehead with your thumb. "Oh, s-sorry," his lips try their best not to tremble when he lets that apology slip, but you're not here to scold him.
"Even if it all comes crashing down on you, you'll be able to push them all off eventually, right? One at a time," you say as you rub a few more circles on his forehead to soothe his headache. You're not certain on how he'd receive your words, so you purse your lips with a tinge of reluctance, "Even now, you're still working on it, aren't you? Don't beat yourself up for not reaching your goal when you're still in the process. That's not fair to yourself."
There is a moment of silence before you hear a series of sniffles. "Curses..." he mumbles with a pathetic chuckle, "Look at me, putting this all on you when I'm supposed to be taking a nap." Just as you're about to shake your head in denial, Kaveh's eyes flicker to meet yours — and you're momentarily stunned by how they look.
Mesmerizing irises in the color of red stare back at you; they're glassy as if a single touch would make them ripple and a dam of tears will burst from it, yet filled with unspoken gratefulness.
"And... thanks for saying that," he smiles, "It's been a while since people actually took my problems seriously, s-so um, shoot—" Darn it, his tongue just has to mess up at the worst timing! Kaveh picks himself back up with a small cough, "Uh, anyway, what I was about to say is that it means a lot to me... So, thank you."
He peers at you worriedly after finishing his words, concerned that you'll laugh at him instead. But rather than a laugh, he is met with the softest smile and Kaveh swears— he swears that his heart has never thumped this hard before. Never ever.
"I'm glad," you say and suddenly, he feels oddly exposed underneath your gaze. He has always been more used to your sterner yet caring side; so, this gentleness of yours is sending inexplicable warmth rushing through his veins.
Oh no.
How is he supposed to sleep now?
Then, comes the sensation of something in his hair and Kaveh winces before registering the fact that it's actually your fingers that are combing through his hair. The shock easily fades into relaxation and he lets out a sigh of contentment, "That feels nice."
"Should I stop?" you ask.
"N-no," his hand grabs onto your wrist almost desperately as if keeping it in place. "Keep going... please," Kaveh utters the last word so meekly you almost mistake it for a whisper.
You smile to yourself.
"Sleep well, Kav."
Perhaps, you uttered those words with more love and newfound affection for him than you realize.
And maybe he, too, realizes the same.
─ ⊹ ⊱ ・・・・・・☆・・・・・・・⊰ ⊹ ─
✰ TAGLIST: @meimeimeirin @hcikazu @tsuk4sa-yug1 @catcze @semi-orangeapple @yuuki4646 @d-a-r-k-s-w-a-n @daisydkj @omgscaramouche @coquettemaiden @lemontum @herdrops @lleoll @xiaosonlybeloved @chiisananingen @irethepotato @ainescribe @blooodyvampy @starlightaura @jihyuniepark @duhsies @maybemiko @lordbugs @sakkaku-squared @lupicalbestwolf — [ bolded names are unable to be tagged because of url changes or visibility settings + register here to be a part of my taglist! ]
© SEELESTIA, may 2023. do not repost, plagiarize, translate nor claim as your own.
#genshin x reader#kaveh x reader#genshin x you#kaveh x you#genshin fluff#kaveh fluff#genshin scenarios#genshin imagines#genshin fanfic#genshin headcanons#seelestial.inks
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Request for the 100 follower event!
Scaramouche/Wanderer (Genshin Impact), fluff! :^
If you don't have any ideas, maybe Scaramouche taking care of sick reader? (I'm caught a cold recently, lol)
But feel free to write it as you want to.
Congratulations on 100 followers!
Hello! And thank you for the request 😊 Hope you're feeling better now, anon!
Part of my ✨ 100 followers milestone event ✨ that ran from September 2nd to September 9th.
Pairing — Scaramouche / Reader
Word count — 942
Content warning — none
“Back to bed, now,” Scaramouche orders, his stern expression flickering between you and the stack of papers you’re desperately clutching against your chest. You manage a sheepish grin, hugging the documents closer.
“No.”
“I’ve already told you more than once. Go back to bed.” Your boyfriend argues, taking a slow step towards you. “You’re unwell, running a fever, and you need to rest.”
“These papers won’t grade themselves, you know?”
He mutters something under his breath, mild annoyance crossing his face. In a split second, he’s in front of you, swiftly taking the papers from your grasp. You let out a gasp, attempting to reach them. It’s a futile attempt — the paper’s too high to reach.
“Give them back!” you exclaim. He gives you a deadpan stare.
You shift around, trying to outmaneuver him, hoping to somehow gain the upper hand, but your body is too fatigued. The fever rages through your body, and not even a minute later, you’re panting, feeling the heat course through you. The room suddenly feels a bit too stifling.
“Back to bed,” he repeats. “Or else.”
“Or else what?” you challenge. But deep down you know he’s right, you know your stubbornness is unnecessary, but the idea of the ungraded research papers looms heavily on your mind. The deadline is too close for comfort. And if you didn’t complete the task, you’d face (yet another) lengthy and harsh reprimand from your supervisor — an ordeal you dread, not looking forward to the sight of the long, curly stray hair on his chin, nor the spittle that leaves his lips as he yells out a variety of insults.
Scaramouche pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing yet another sigh. “Bed. Right now.”
“Fine, fine,” you relent, dragging your feet towards the bedroom. You shoot him a nasty, annoyed look and let out a humph.
He trails after you, ensuring your cocooned comfortable in bed, a blanket wrapped snugly around your feverish form.
“I’ll be back with some medication,” he announced, heading towards the bathroom. You hear him rummaging through the cabinet and you frown — Bimarstan’s fever-breaking medication has a bitter, earthy taste that you heavily dislike. And sadly enough, none of the Amurta students seem interested in trying to sweeten up the recipe, claiming it’s good enough as long as it does the job.
A sneeze echoes around the room, and you rub your temples, attempting to alleviate the headache wrapping around your head. You sniffle, sensing another sneeze on the way, and you brace yourself for the burst of pain that will follow.
“Here,” Scaramouche mutters, thrusting the herbal-smelling pills towards you. You grab them, feeling the rough texture as you stare at the dark green circular tablet. ”I’ll bring you some water to help you swallow these.”
“Can I have some tea instead?” you ask, grinning meekly.
“The usual?” You nod, heart warming at the way your boyfriend is taking care of you — despite his prickly personality and tendency to be blunt and sometimes downright mean, he cares a great deal about you.
You leave the pills on the bedside table and snuggle your face into the blanket — it smells like Scaramouche, a woody and grassy scent, mixed with the bitterness of his favorite green tea.
You close your eyes for what feels like a second, the room's peaceful silence coaxing you closer to slumber. Moments later, the bed dips as your boyfriend sits down, a steaming cup of fresh tea in his hands. He helps you sit up, arranging several pillows against the bed frame.
With a grimace, you take the herbal medication and swallow it; of course, it gets stuck in your throat, and you take a few gulps of the hot liquid, coughing at the burn. There's some residue of the pill down your throat, and you take a few more desperate sips of tea, hoping to rid yourself of the taste.
"Idiot," Scaramouche scolds, taking the mug away from you. "Do you want to choke on the tea?"
"'m sorry," you mumble, pouting.
He gently brushes a strand of hair that's sticking to your slightly moist forehead, and you nuzzle into his tender touch. "What am I going to do with you," he mutters under his breath, cupping your cheek, his thumb caressing your bottom lip softly.
"Kiss me to make me feel better?" you joke.
Scaramouche shakes his head, but heeds your request. He moves closer to your burning body, cupping your face with his two hands. You stare at his eyes in astonishment, feeling vulnerable and exposed under his gaze.
"Wait, wait! No! I was just joking," you try to push him away, but he doesn't budge. "You'll get sick too!"
"Idiot," he chuckles. "This puppet body of mine does not suffer from illness." With that, he dips his head, his soft lips meeting yours.
The kiss is unhurried, tender even. You freeze for a moment, then melt into it, savoring the sensation of his body close to yours. His fingers thread through the back of your head, tangled in your tousled hair.
You gingerly nip at his lower lip, and he responds by parting his mouth, allowing the kiss to deepen. Breathless, you're intoxicated by the sensations, the rush of the kiss enough to give you the energy to continue.
You're on the verge of wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, when—
"ACHOO!"
Scaramouche recoils, a mild disgust and disbelief etched on his face.
"Sorry," you mutter sheepishly. "Maybe I should just lie down and nap. Care to join me for a cuddle session?"
"On one condition — never sneeze on my face again."
Author's note: not really proofread, my brain is too fried from uni classes and work 😫
#genshin x reader#scaramouche x reader#wanderer x reader#genshin x you#genshin x y/n#scaramouche x y/n#wanderer x y/n#scaramouche x you#wanderer x you#genshin impact#genshin imagines#request#scaramouche#wanderer
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idk if the first one got sent-
(ok this is one of the worst things to talk ab on international womens day of all days bUT-)
i know that i, a modern day feminist, wants ANY man to know that i can handle myself in any situation like that anon ask but now bc of said ask i need blurbs of husband(or boyfriend or pining, idc)!spencer standing up for or defending reader or else. i wont take no for an answer girlies, so ima need you to drop recs in the comments
-🐝
of course. i'm sorry it's so late <3
Spencer is used to being the odd one out. He's the youngest member of the BAU, and his intellect often sets him apart from his colleagues.
But he has never felt as uncomfortable as he does now, standing in the crowded police precinct, surrounded by men who were openly leering at you.
It had started with a few offhand comments, the kind that was meant to be funny but left a sour taste in Spencer's mouth. Then it had escalated to outright harassment, with some of the officers making suggestive gestures as you walked by.
Spencer had tried to ignore it at first, let you deal with it as you saw most appropriate and focus on the task at hand, but as the comments became more aggressive and personal, he knew he couldn't stay silent any longer.
"Excuse me." He says, stepping in front of you and facing the group of officers. "Can we please focus on the case at hand? We're all here to solve a crime, not to make inappropriate comments about our colleagues." The officers laugh, but Spencer stands his ground. "I'm serious." He says, his voice rising with anger. "This behavior is unacceptable, and it needs to stop."
One of the officers, a burly man with a thick mustache and bad body odor, steps forward. "What's the matter, pretty boy?" He sneers. "Can't handle a little locker room talk?"
Spencer feels a surge of rage. How could these men be so callous, so disrespectful? No matter what room it happens in, it's wrong. He takes a step forward, ready to confront the officer, but before he can say anything, you speak up.
"Excuse me." You say, keeping a calm but firm voice. You've kept quiet out of ease, blowing up at them would only make the whole working relationship tense, and to save people, everyone needs to be working together. "I don't appreciate being talked about like I'm a piece of meat. And I'm sure the families of the victims we're here to help wouldn't appreciate it either."
The room falls silent, and for a moment, Spencer thinks the officers might apologize and back off. But then the mustache man steps forward again, his face twisted in anger.
"Who do you think you are?" He growls. "Coming in here, telling us how to do our jobs?"
"I'm not telling you how to do your job." You say. "I'm asking you to show me respect."
The officer scoffs. "Respect? You want respect? How about you show us a little respect and stop acting like you're better than us?"
Spencer can feel his blood boiling. This man is completely out of line, and he knows he had to do something before the situation gets out of hand.
"Excuse me." He says, his voice steady but forceful. "Y/n is not acting like she's better than anyone. She's simply asking to be treated with basic human decency. That isn't too much to ask."
The officer glares at Spencer, but before he can say anything, the door to the precinct opens, and a man in a suit walks in.
"What's going on here?" He asks, looking around the room.
Spencer recognizes him as the captain of the precinct, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe with a higher-up present, the officers will back off.
But the mustache man isn't done yet. "These feds are coming in here, telling us how to do our jobs, and then they're crying about being disrespected? Give me a break."
The captain raises an eyebrow. "Is that true?" He asked, looking at you. It seems impossible he's even questioning your truthfulness.
Spencer takes a deep breath, ready to defend you until the end. "No, sir." He says. "We're here to work with you, not against you. But we won't tolerate being harassed. Agent L/n hasn't reacted to any of the disgusting comments coming from your officers, but one more and all the sanctions you can imagine will be filed against your officers and you as their supervisor." He's always been respectful of authority, drawn inside the line, but this is an argument he's not going to back down from.
Thankfully, the captain understands the seriousness of what's gone on. You're willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that he has just had his head in the sand for the last few days. It's not surprising when he's spent most of the time in his office with the blinds drawn. "Outside, all of you. Now." He sounds furious, scowling at them.
You turn to him, nudging his shoulder. "Thanks."
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry you had to listen to that crap, and I hope I didn't overstep by stepping in."
"Not at all." You assure him. "Thank you for it, truly."
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Pretty
Joker x Fem reader
Requested by: anon
Warnings: swearing, threats, violence, joker being joker.
A/n: if you don't like the warnings, please don't read
Request: Can I request a Leto!Joker where the reader is Harley’s younger sister (she is telekinetic) and she is a pyschiatrist and she secretly loves J. One day the reader is in one of J’s sessions with Harley but J keeps looking at the reader until J breaks out and does everything that he did to Harley to the reader. J and the reader go to Ace Chemicals to make their relationship offical (you can add the rest) thank u :)
___
Joker sat across from the sisters in a straitjacket. Y/n felt a chill roll down her spine every time he looked her way, but there was something about him that intrigued her. He was handsome, and there was something she saw in his eyes everytime they locked with hers, it wasn't crazy. He knew what he wanted, he knew what he was doing. No amount of therapy was gonna help him, he was perfectly sane. He just wasn't normal, he had a dark side and he chooses to live in his own shadows, behind the mask that is the Joker.
"So who is this?" He asked, nodding towards Y/n.
Harley looked over at her younger sister and smiled.
"Oh, this is my sister, Y/n. She's training to be a psychiatrist, so I thought it would be a great learning experience if she sat in on our session."
The Joker just nodded and kept staring, the session went on and Y/n didn't pay any attention. She at there sketching him on her note pad.
"I'm curious." She said. "Do you feel anger towards anyone here?"
Joker slowly looked over at her. Fuck this man was terrifying, she didn't know how Harley couldn't get up and bolt for the door.
"No."
"Okay, just asking." Y/n went back to sketching the man.
Over the next few weeks Harley and Y/n went back and forth with the sessions, they made a schedule on which one of them would be evaluating him on this day and that day. Harley began noticing changes between the two, y/n had even told him the secret that only the two of them knew about.
"I like your sister." Joker said. "She's innocent."
Harley looked up from her papers, she knew what this man could do to y/n, he could brainwash her and get her to do his bidding. Joker could play the "I was framed! Poor me!" Act to make her feel bad and let him out. Or worse she could fall in love with him.
"Yeah well, she's not coming here anymore."
"Why is that?" He asked.
"I don't want you using her. She's not who you think."
Harley got up to leave, she got to the door and stopped when she heard The joker speak.
"Telekinesis is a new one in Gotham. You think I'd use her to get to her ability?"
Harley felt rage as she flung the door open and stormed out of the room. She wanted a transfer, she was done with this psychotic clown.
Y/n entered Arkham and walked down the hall towards Jokers cell. She ducked behind a filing cabinet when she saw Harley come plowing by.
Y/n had one of the guards unlock his cell and let her in, Joker smiled and leaned against the wall.
"I thought your sister didn't want you near me?"
"Harley doesn't know I'm here."
They sat down, she didn't ask the normal questions. Instead, they had a real conversation.
"I need a machine gun." He said while leaning over the table.
"A machine gun?"
Joker smiled. "You can get it for me can't you?"
"But-"
The Joker stood and came to her side of the table. He gently touched her cheek and leaned in, whispering in her ear. This man made her feel scared, but she wanted more. She was addicted to this man and she didn't know why. Was this love?
"I need a machine gun, Y/n. Can you get it for me?"
"I...yes."
___
Y/n was in her office at Arkham when the gunshots could be heard, the screams rang through the hall as running feet fleeing for the exits came flying passed her door.
Two men busted it down and came at her, she struggled but they had her in a tight grip. The brought her into another room and slammed her down on a table. She felt them strap her down, the room when quiet all but the screams that could be heard outside.
"What do we have here?" Joker yelled.
He walked into the room, he was wearing nothing but pants, shoes, and rubber purple gloves. Joker came closer and aggressively lowered the lamp, blasting her in the eyes with the light.
"What the fuck!?" Y/n pulled at the straps. "I helped you!"
"You helped me?" He asked. "By erasing my mind? No you left me in a black hole of rage and confusion. You and your spiteful bitch sister."
Joker smiled and turned to the table beside him, he began rummaging through items.
"The sister who tried to keep you from me." He moved his head back and forth, cracking his neck. "like she could ever keep us apart."
He picked up two metal things attached to cords. Fear struck Y/n, she started pulling at the straps again, trying to get away.
"What are you planning?" She asked. "You gonna kill me?"
"No, I'm not gonna kill ya, Sweetheart. I'm just gonna hurt ya, really really bad."
"Yeah? You don't know me that well then. Cuz I can take it."
Joker smiled and took off his belt, the sound clanking of the metal going right to her core. He straighted it and had her bite it.
"This is gonna hurt, so I suggest you don't spit this out. We don't want you breaking your teeth now do we?"
J turned in the machine and pressed the metal devices to both sides of her head. Pain shot through her making her bite the belt so hard it hurt her jaw.
All she could hear was the screech if the machine, gun shots ringing through the halls and the joker laughing.
___
Y/n was looking down at the giant barrels of bubbling chemicals. Joker paced back and forth behind her, he gently gripped her hips and turned her to face him.
"Would you die for me?" He asked.
"I-"
"That's too easy....would you...would you live for me?"
Y/n looked him in the eyes as she answered, she wanted him to know she ment it.
"Yes."
"Careful, my dear." Joker circled her. "Don't say this oath thoughtlessly."
He leaned in close, their lips nearly touching.
"Desire becomes surrender, surrender becomes power." He gently places a kiss on her lips. He stayed close. "Are you ready to surrender to your fate? To me?"
She slowly backed up towards the edge, Y/n could see he didn't believe she's do it. He thought she was too weak. Y/n smile and blew him as kiss before letting herself fall over the edge.
Joker watched her sink into the green liquid. He turned and began slowly walking away before he stopped. Joker tilted his head side to side, cracking his neck before he pulled his leather jacket off and jumped over after her.
Y/n felt the air being forced back into her lungs as her eyes shot open, Joker was holding her close and looking at her with hunger in his eyes. He leaned in and closed the gap between them, the kiss was passionate. He pulled away slowly, he smiled and whispered.
"Pretty pretty pretty pretty."
THE END ❤️
I'm gonna make a part 2
#fyp#foryou#fanfic#foryoupage#x reader#requested#jared leto joker#jared leto#joker x fem reader#joker x oc#joker x y/n#joker x reader#joker suicide squad#suicide squad#suicide squad x reader#suicide squad joker
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More vamp azzy as we all desperately need.
This one is a request from an anon: “Okay so for vamp Az. I’m not sure if vampires eat anything other than blood but if not, then imagine him trying to cook anything for reader because she got sick or something. I don’t want to get into too many details since you only asked for ideas so totally no pressure! I fell hopelessly in love with vamp Az and am so excited for more!! ❤️🔥And spooky season is coming and it just fits perfectly 😌🧛🏼”
**Not edited!**
A clatter from the kitchen shocks you from your sleep. Your eyes are heavy and sore, nose stuffed and mouth dry. You cough a little as you swallow, trying to wet your throat and gather your bearings.
Your blanket sits heavy on your body, and you notice not only one, but three thick comforters piled up and tucked under your chin. You’re a cocoon of warmth, and despite the chill wracking your bones, sweat dampens your forehead.
The couch is as good as any bed, but the room is missing the body of the vampire you’ve become accustomed to seeing. Azriel doesn’t need sleep, not that you have noticed anyway, but he often never lets you leave his sight, even if he knows you’re in your rooms or his excellent hearing picks up on you prowling around his home during the daylight hours.
You’ve grown into his schedule, sleeping away the days and staying up during the nights. You hadn’t even realized you’d been doing it until as of late. It had been purely survival instinct at first, to stay up for as long as possible. You pulled open the thick, black, heavy curtains to let the sun stream through the windows, hoping it would keep Azriel away from you, but he’d only reached into the blazing sun to pull them shut again. It how his hands got like this, you realized, when they had started sizzling and one had caught fire from the sun. He hadn’t hissed, but the hazel of his eyes gleamed in a way that had scared you and made your stomach twist. It was paired with a hint of fang, the curve of his lips telling you all you needed to know about him.
You weren’t going anywhere.
The other night, you had attempted escape, to no avail.
Azriel had been away at one of his meetings, with whom or about what you didn’t know, but you’d managed to shimmy open one of the ancient windows. There was a storm raging, and it seemed like the perfect escape. The rain would cover your scent and would wash away your footprints in the mud.
You hadn’t anticipated being hunted through the woods.
Being out in the rain that long hadn’t been good for you, but the fucking you received when Azriel had found you had almost made it worth it. He’d taken you right there in the middle of the forest, and then again when he wrangled you home and lit a fire in the hearth so big it rivaled those of Hel. He’d been silent the entire time, even as he lied you down to dry and fucked you deep. You thought your shivering body was due to his cold hands and wicked tongue, not the oncoming cold.
The noise is followed by a low string of curses that you’re sure he means to keep soft. Your eyes slide shut again, exhausted and too achy to move.
It’s better to keep silent, not draw his attention to you no matter how badly you want a glass of water.
It doesn’t take long for him to enter the room. He holds a bowl in one hand and helps you sit up with the other. You can’t help but notice the bulge of his biceps from underneath his tight shirt as he does so, and you didn’t think that your mouth could possibly get any drier, but here you are.
You stare at the bowl wearily, then back up at him, heart stumbling at the nervous look on his face.
“You can cook?” You ask, watching as he paces to the hearth to stoke the fire. He avoids your eyes, not wanting to see the sympathy swimming in them.
“I used to be able to, once upon a time,” Azriel’s voice is soft, longing. He can no longer consume food that sustains you, you realize. You find yourself aching for him, a little.
“And now you can’t eat,” you trail off, glancing to your bowl again. It smells delicious, the scents of vegetables and spices filling the room with warmth. Your freezing fingers are beginning to thaw already.
Azriel shakes his head in response, gesturing to the bowl. You pick up the spoon, dipping it into the bowl. You see the carrots and shallots swimming in it, along with barley and herbs that make it taste like heaven.
You can’t help but to groan pleasurably, the flavors exploding on your tongue. “For someone who can’t eat, this is delicious.”
“I can eat, but there’s no use,” Azriel says, eyes intent on you as he watches you take another bite. He’s filled with pleasure at the sight of you enjoying something he’d made for you, and he can admit that he did have fun being in the kitchen again. “Everything tastes boring and it’s not the kind of thing that can sustain me.”
Right. Your stomach swirls, thinking about the blood he needs to consume in order to survive. You feel a little sick at the thought that this is what he’s taken you for, to use you for pleasure to ultimately drain you one day.
You shiver but shove the thought away. Azriel’s eyes grow warmer with each spoonful you take, and there’s something itching at you to be nice to him, despite everything that’s happened between the both of you. He had taken you in from the rain, most likely saving your life in the process, and now he’s feeding you.
You find a part of yourself wanting to return the favor.
“Eat with me,” you say, patting the spot you’d just sat up from. It’s piled with pillows but you can surely shove them aside to make room for Azriel.
“What?” He asks, brows furrowing deeply. He looks like he’s about to protest but you’re cutting him off before he can.
“Come on, come eat with me.”
Azriel stares at you like you’ve grown a second head and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“I just told you that it doesn’t matter if I eat.”
“Then come eat.”
It’s clear you’re not giving up on this. Azriel sighs, pushing to his feet and striding towards the kitchen to get his own bowl.
But you’re a stubborn one. He doesn’t expect you to grab for him, and you’re as quick as an asp. He’s not expecting the feel of your hands on his exposed forearms, sleeves of his thick, black shirt rolled up to keep away from the food as he was cooking.
“You can share with me.”
“No,” he says, voice harsh and demanding. “You ned to eat.”
You quirk a brow. “Afraid of catching a little cold?”
Azriel can’t contain the rolling of his eyes and you want to laugh at how human it makes him look.
“I can’t catch a cold.”
“Of course you can’t,” you agree, shoving the pillows onto the floor and biting back a grin at Azriel’s grimace. “Now sit down and eat.”
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I mean I feel like every person on the planet would still be obsessing over schoolboy experiences and unable to hold a civil tongue as an adult if one of those experiences was some thug setting them up to get murdered by a werewolf and getting away with it scot-free! Sometimes I kinda feel like JKR went a tiny bit too hard in Snape’s Worst Memory.
an eminently reasonable point, anon - in response to this, on whether sirius and snape could work as a couple if james was still alive.
the werewolf incident and the bullying we see in snape's worst memory are pretty bonkers - and, while they're great for character work [snape seeing himself as a victim targeted for his obvious poverty by the posh and beloved, who the rest of the school will always side with, is a really key aspect of his radicalisation], and while the fact that the marauders basically get away with everything is crucial for the plot [since both james and sirius need that swaggering conviction that they're invincible for the idiotic secret keeper plan to work], they aren't helping dumbledore beat the "hogwarts is a safeguarding nightmare" allegations...
[the older i get, the more sympathy i have with the opposition to dumbledore as headmaster. i'm team lucius malfoy, i fear. cut that hippogriff's head off...]
but one thing i think is really interesting is that - despite the intensity of the bullying and the weakness of the school's response - snape's beef with sirius in adulthood is a petty obsession over schoolboy drama, rather than a visceral response to trauma that he can be forgiven for being unable to control.
snape and sirius interact by behaving like children. they squabble constantly, go out of their way to make little digs about each other both to each other's faces and behind each other's backs, act like shaking hands is going to kill them, remember everything the other has ever said and done, and so on...
their aim is evidently to "win" their interactions in the eyes of others, by forcing those others to side unequivocally with them - even the "sirius black showed he was capable of murder at the age of sixteen" point in prisoner of azkaban is fundamentally snape trying to get dumbledore to acknowledge that he's the best little boy in the room. unsuccessfully.
but they also both clearly enjoy this way of interacting - and i think it's always worth emphasising that, while i think snape does sincerely believe that sirius intended to kill him by sending him to the shack, he is never shown in canon to be afraid of him.
[even when sirius is threatening him with his wand during the occlumency discussion, snape is too busy reading him to care.]
and the very fact that they spend so much time being childish towards each other proves this. because it's very striking - especially in prisoner of azkaban - that snape is afraid of lupin.
and this fear manifests itself not in confrontation, but in avoidance. snape goes out of his way to never be alone with lupin, he makes his efforts to undermine him [setting the essay which outs him as a werewolf, reminding dumbledore that he thinks he's helping sirius enter the castle] when he is guaranteed to be indisposed, and - after lupin leaves his teaching job - we literally never see the two interact.
i think you can make, then, a pretty plausible case for the idea that snape focuses his trauma over nearly being eaten by a werewolf onto... the werewolf himself. snape certainly thinks lupin was in on the plan to lure him to the shack - and he evidently regards the adult lupin as someone who approaches the management of his lycanthropy recklessly, which massively endangers others.
[remember, we only have lupin's word for the claim that snape forces him to leave his job because of his rage over his lost order of merlin... and not because lupin's failure to take his wolfsbane might have killed any number of the children who live in the school he appears to have been hired at to teach without any safeguarding measures being put in place.]
[although - before i make snape sound like an ofsted hero - obviously the main reason he forces lupin out is because he thinks he conspired with dumbledore and harry to free the man who murdered his beloved lily, and lupin is the only one of those people who he can feasibly get revenge on.]
lupin also functions - i think - as the living person on whom snape can focus his fury over james. and, in particular, over the hagiographical way james is remembered - which harry draws attention to in order of the phoenix by pointing out that nobody but snape has ever told him that his father was anything less than wonderful. snape's loathing of james' postmortem reputation - which connects to a belief he has while at school that james is two-faced, obsessed with his public image, and nowhere near as charming in private as he likes to make himself seem before a crowd [which is, of course, the only reason he thinks james intervened before lupin could kill him] - seems to me to be the clearest way in which his trauma over being bullied and never receiving any acknowledgement of that fact manifests itself.
[after all, the fact that everyone is agreed that james was perfect and noble and clever and loyal and funny and brave and benignly cheeky must make him feel... pretty gaslit...]
lupin is the character who expresses this hagiographical view of james most explicitly - he is literally incapable of ever criticising him [i.e. him telling harry that snape thinks james was a bully because he was jealous that james was so talented and popular... instead of because he was a bully...], hence him becoming the focus of snape's lingering trauma over what the "perfect" james did to him.
in contrast, snape clearly regards sirius as more honest - by which i don't mean that he regards him as more admirable, but that he believes with sirius that what you see is what you get. as bizarre as it sounds, i think he actually rates sirius for his role in the werewolf trick, because the callous disregard for his life sirius displays is something which confirms snape's belief that he's a cruel, crude, murderous cunt who doesn't deserve an ounce of the praise he gets, and he's clearly pleased that sirius appears to agree with this assessment. james and lupin - both of whom he clearly thinks whitewash their roles in the scheme in order to seem heroic [james] and a poor innocent [lupin] - upset him much more because he knows they're awful, violent liars but nobody else can see it.
this is an extremely perverse way of respecting someone, but it is respecting someone nonetheless... and i do think, as i said in the ask which inspired this one, that this would set up a way for snape and sirius to grow beyond the schoolboy sniping in time, in a world where james and lily lived and snape and sirius weren't forced by their grief into a state of arrested development - perpetually twenty-one, each using his teenage relationship with the other as a way of self-soothing his agony by regressing to a dynamic they had when their lost loves were still alive...
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Hi, love your work! Could I please request a headcanon with SatanxMC, author’s choice?
Hi there, anon! Thank you so much, I'm so glad you enjoy my writing!
Okay, so uh, since it was author's choice, I thought I'd do a little hurt/comfort. And oh man, I was in a mood 'cause MC is really going through it in this one. But the thing is, I really feel like Satan in particular would be like this. He's actually really good at balancing himself in a way none of his brothers are at all. (When he's not enraged that is.) And I think that gives him a different perspective on an MC who was deliberately suppressing their feelings. Anyway, hopefully it turned out okay!
Thanks for participating!
COZY COMFORTS EVENT
It's another long day. And something inside you mumbles quietly of sadness - a constant hum that you had tuned out long ago. You have no reason to feel anything but a sense of progress and contentment along with the inevitable knowledge that there was always more to be done. You don't have time to focus on anything else.
Satan learns your patterns the first time he sees them in action. Perhaps it's the way you isolate yourself or maybe it's the strained sound of your voice. He notices when all you ever do is give your energy, passion, and love away. He watches it deplete you.
It takes some trial and error, but Satan figures out when it's all too much. He had to learn fast when he found himself unceremoniously ripped into existence, fully formed and full of rage. He knows how to adapt quickly. He knows how emotions that feel like they don't belong to you can be so overwhelming that there isn’t space for anything else.
Satan knows that you would never say it out loud, not to anyone. He sees that low melancholy in your eyes no matter how hard you try to hide it behind your smile. You don't want anyone to know, but you desperately want someone to see it, too. And he does. He always does.
He might start out with shooing his brothers away from you. Giving them glaring looks if they become too demanding. He can’t act as though he isn't also guilty of wanting your attention, your love, your friendship. He knows you like it that way because it helps you avoid the truth of your heart. It's easy to push yourself aside when others need you. He watches you bury yourself in the wants and desires of him and his brothers. Like your own don’t matter. Like your comfort is secondary to theirs.
Satan is going to ask you about it directly. It hurts. It hurts you both to talk about it and by the end you’ve both succumbed to tears. He knows you can’t hold it in forever. He knows you can’t pretend you’re okay for the rest of your life. It doesn’t work like that and he won’t watch you crash and burn. He’s been there too many times himself. That’s why he forces himself to ask you. He calls you out when you lie or somehow downplay your feelings. Don’t hold out on him, MC. Please.
Satan’s heart breaks as he watches your eyes fill with tears the minute he asks you why you’ve been sad lately. He knows this is what he needs to do for you, but he hates watching you in pain. You reluctantly start to talk to him and every word seems to be cutting you open. Every word becomes an arrow through his heart. And he realizes he’s able to stand it, able to hold this hurt, because he can also see it healing you.
Didn’t you heal him, too? Didn’t you calm his wrath in a way no one else ever could? Isn’t it the least he could do to make room for your sadness? Isn’t it the least he could do to hold it for you, just for a little while? He would take it all if he could. He would protect you from every feeling that wasn’t happiness or joy or love.
He can’t, so instead he holds you. He hates the way you shudder in his arms, like your body can’t contain the heaviness of your own heart. But he keeps you close to him, buries his hand in your hair, kisses your cheeks softly, his lips wet with your tears. He runs his fingertips down your back, he tightens his arms around your torso. He lets you stay that way as long as you want. He’ll hold you against his chest all night if you cry yourself to sleep there.
When morning comes, Satan is floored by the bright relief he sees in your eyes. For so long, you kept quiet and he watched you fade. All it took was someone to ask you, someone to listen, someone to be there to witness you pour everything out of your soul and into the night. Now you’re radiant again and beside that a gratefulness, a tenderness, a bond between you of a shared secret hurt that no one else has ever seen. You have carried him in his anger and he will always hold you through your pain.
cozy comforts | masterlist | Thank you for reading!
#obey me#obey me nightbringer#obey me shall we date#obey me headcanons#obey me fanfic#omnb#omswd#obey me satan#om satan#obey me satan x reader#om satan x reader#obey me satan x mc#om satan x mc#misc cozy comforts#misc writes
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Just Words
[Siobhan Roy x GN!Reader]
Synopsis: Words can be hurtful (especially to most) but with Siobhan’s “5-star” personality and ability to not care about anything other than herself, you can’t help BUT spill some words. {GIF Creds: @olliviacooke// I took this off of google (fair warning) so I had to dig deep to find the OP}
WC: 2274
Category: Slight Fluff (?), Enemies to… trope {Trigger Warning: Foul Language (I really channeled the Roy family here), Logan}
I did not expect my first succession fic to be Siobhan… but honestly, I’m not complaining 👀 (fyi: this was a request and I stupidly forgot to “answer” so hopefully the anon who requested lovely Shiv finds this 💀)
『••✎••』
Siobhan Roy… mega bitch. You hated her. Well, that might be an understatement; you despised her. From the moment you met her, she was just a total and complete pain in your ass. Not to mention completely and utterly self-absorbed. She had the attitude and ego of a child.
So when you were made to work with her, you were less than pleased. Logan Roy, the only man who could top Siobhan in terms of being an insufferable asshole, had made you a deal. If you and Siobhan worked together to find a solution to the media shitstorm he was currently experiencing, he would put you on the team that handled the IPO of Waystar. It was the opportunity you had been waiting for, so you sucked it up and agreed.
You and Siobhan sat in the meeting, both of you looking like a pair of miserable children. It made Roman look like a ray of sunshine, and that was really saying something.
Logan slammed the door, causing you to flinch.
"Fuck," he said, taking his seat.
"What?" asked Siobhan, a tinge of irritation in her voice. It’s amazing how her mood could shift on a dime.
"Nothing. I'm just a bit tired of this fucking circus."
"Well, what the fuck do you expect? You made a public promise. If you can't make good on it, why not just say so? Why continue this fucking farce?"
Logan narrowed his eyes at her.
"If I wanted to hear that, Siobhan, I would have gone to my wife's bed. I don't need a cunt in my ear right now."
Siobhan rolled her eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ. I'm a realist. You're the one who wants to live in your fantasy world. Just fucking drop the bomb, tell the truth, and let's move on."
"The truth? And what is the truth? That my son’s a psychotic, drug-addled mess? That Kendall is a sniveling, entitled little fuck? A pathetic, whiny, little shit stain who can't do his job because he's too busy jerking himself off to his own sob story? Is that the truth you want to set free?"
Siobhan stared him down, and once again, you were surprised. You had thought the woman was completely brazen, but there were still limits.
"I'm not your therapist," she said.
"No. You're not. And I'm not going to sit here and listen to a woman with the emotional range of a fucking teaspoon telling me how to handle this situation. Now, I need to get on the phone with my PR team. Fuck off, all of you. Get back to work."
You and Roman both jumped up, quickly leaving the room. Once you were safely away from Logan, you took a deep breath and relaxed a bit.
"Jesus fucking Christ," you muttered, "I don't know how she does it."
Roman smirked, "Oh, she's a special snowflake—a real ball buster. You should see her with Tom. It's a fucking bloodbath."
“Tell me about it. It’s a raging dumpster fire, even saying more than two words to her. I feel like she's going to snap my head off any minute. I’m so tired of her bullshit, and she's the least of my worries. The whole family is a fucking disaster. And I don't have time for any of it…. No offense.”
Roman gave you a half smile. "None taken. You're right; I'm the best of a very bad lot."
"Well, at least you're self-aware."
“You fuckers talking shit about me behind my back?"
You turned and saw Shiv leaning against the wall.
"Always," replied Roman. "And it's fucking hilarious."
"Well, don't let me stop you," she said, rolling her eyes. Her eyes then shifted to you.
"I didn't realize we were having a fucking slumber party."
"Just having a bit of a break," you said.
"Oh, well, that's very fucking nice. I'm glad everyone is taking a fucking break because I've been dealing with our father, who is a raging psycho at the moment. You know, while the rest of you are fucking around, the company is dying. It's falling apart, and everyone is too fucking busy to give a shit."
"Come on, Shivvy. Take a breather. You’re starting to act like Kendall… and that's never a good look," said Roman.
"Fuck off, Ro.”
Shiv glared at him, then glanced back at you. The glare made you want to hide, but you refused to show fear in front of her. You had done it in the past, and it only fed her.
"Well," she said, "aren't you going to say anything? Or are you just going to stand there with your mouth open like an idiot?"
"I think I'll take option B. I'd like to live through this," you replied.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"I think it's pretty clear."
"Yeah, I suppose it is. I guess I shouldn't expect someone like you to understand."
"Someone like me?"
“Shiv,” warned Roman, trying to interject. Personally, despite his whacked-out sense of humor, you actually enjoyed his company. He was definitely the least obnoxious of the Roy siblings. “Let’s not get into this now, okay? Just drop it."
"No. No, go ahead, Shiv. Let's have it out. Right here, right now. Let's see if you can handle it."
Shiv stared at you for a few moments, then she smiled. It wasn’t her usual smug, condescending grin. It was different, almost sincere.
"You think you're tough?" she asked.
"No. I know I am. It's a little different, don't you think?"
"Okay," she replied, her eyes darkening. She leaned forward, her face just inches from yours. Roman just looked at the two of you as if watching a tennis match. "You're so sure you can handle me. So why don't you prove it?"
"Prove it? Like, what, punch you in the face? Is that what you want?"
"Although, as satisfying as that sounds, I was thinking we all should just move on… maybe have a drink, talk it over? Yeah? No?”
Shiv just looked at you. "Yeah, I'll pass. I'm not here to make friends, and I'm certainly not here to kiss your ass."
"That's good. Because, honestly, I don't see you as the ass-kissing type. Tom, yes. You? Not a chance. You're the type who wants everything to be handed to you on a silver platter. I'm sorry, but I'm not the maid. I'm not going to serve you or kiss your ass. I'm here because I have a job to do, and I intend to do it. That's it.”
"Oh, right. I see. Well, then, why don't we cut the bullshit and just get right to it. How about you go back to whatever shithole you crawled out of and let the real people get on with things."
“Guys-” Roman started.
"Real people? Real people? You think you're real? You think this is real? I hate to break it to you, Siobhan, but you're not a princess, and this isn't a fairy tale. You're not the queen. Your father isn't the king. You're a spoiled brat, and he's… well, he’s Logan. He's not even a king. He's just a bully."
"Is that supposed to hurt me? To insult me?"
"No, but you seem like the kind of person who doesn't take criticism well. You’re doing a terrible job.”
Shiv stared at you, her lip curled up in disgust. She looked as if she were about to hit you, but the rage was just a facade.
"Well," she finally said, "It's a good thing we're not here to play fucking games, then. So why don't you shut the fuck up and get back to work? Unless, of course, you don't think you can handle it. Maybe you should just go back to where you came from, and let the real people get on with things."
Your nostrils flared. It took every ounce of strength in you not to smack the look off her face. But you knew better. If you started a fight, Logan would take your head off, and that was a fight you couldn't win. So, instead, you smiled.
"Fine," you said. "If that's what you want. I'll do my job, and you do yours. But, just remember, the day is coming when this little charade is going to come to an end, and when it does, it's going to be a lot worse than it is right now."
You didn't wait for her reply. Instead, you turned and walked away, leaving the two of them standing in the hallway.
Once you were back in the safety of your office, you collapsed into your chair and let out a sigh. You had just gotten your first taste of a Roy fight, and it was worse than you had anticipated. The worst part was Siobhan had gotten the last word. It didn't matter that you might’ve won. She had gotten the last good word, and you hated her for it.
As the hours ticked by, you became more and more frustrated. You were angry and bitter. You were pissed at yourself for letting Shiv get under your skin, and you were angry at her for getting to you.
So, when your phone rang and you saw her name, you were tempted to ignore it. You let it ring for a few seconds, then decided to answer.
"Yes?” Your attitude was short.
"Get your shit together," she snapped. “We have a meeting in five minutes. We have a lot of ground to cover."
That was, in fact, false. By the time you arrived, the conference room was deserted, and only Shiv remained. She was sitting at the table, her laptop open in front of her.
"What the hell?" you demanded.
"I'm sorry. Did you want a fucking audience? Because that can be arranged. But, if you don't mind, I would prefer not to have any interruptions."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that we are both here, and we have a job to do. Now, either sit down and help me, or fuck off. I really don't give a shit."
You stared at her, and she looked up from her laptop, raising an eyebrow. There was no audience, and there wasn’t going to be one. So, you had two options. Either walk away and look like an idiot, or stay and possibly get chewed out again. You took a deep breath and sat down.
Shiv just hummed in response, then looked back at her screen. "Good choice."
For the next couple of hours, the two of you worked together, trying to figure out a way to turn the situation around. Arguments arose, shots were fired, and at one point, Shiv threatened to kick you out, but overall, it was a productive session. Logan wouldn’t be pissed, so that was a win.
"So," Shiv said as the two of you left the building, "Did you cool down?"
"What?"
"I'm asking if you cooled down. Do you feel better now?"
"Um, yeah, sure. Why wouldn't I? You know, besides the fact that we were at each other's throats for hours and the fact that we both wanted to kill each other. I'm peachy."
"Mm, peachy." She said the word like it was an insult. "That's a strange choice of words, don't you think?”
“What? The real people don’t use the word peachy, huh? Is it beneath you, Shiv? Do you only use fancy words and proper grammar?"
"Oh, I can be a real commoner when the situation calls for it. It's all about knowing your audience."
"Really? So, is this the commoner Shiv? Should I expect a new side of you?"
"Maybe.” She smiled oddly again. The one that made you nervous. "Maybe not. That depends on you. Do you want to know the real me?"
"No, not particularly."
"Good. Because I'm not interested in showing you. I’m just curious if you have what it takes."
"To what, put up with your bullshit? To put up with a spoiled brat who thinks the world is hers for the taking? Mmm, yeah, I think I've got what it takes."
"Okay, first off, fuck you. Second, you're a piece of shit. Third, I have something to tell you. So, listen up. This is important. Okay, ready?"
You were about to say something, but her expression stopped you. Her voice was low, her tone serious. You nodded.
"I'm a bitch. And, yeah, I have a temper, and I'm not a warm and fuzzy kind of girl. But, that's the thing, I don't need to be. I don't need to pretend that I'm anything other than who I am. I don't have to fake it because I know what I want, and I'm not afraid to go after it. That’s what you need to understand. It's not about what you think you need. It's about what you want and what you're willing to do to get it."
You just stared at her, unsure of what to say.
"So, let me ask you, what do you want? And are you willing to do what it takes to get it?"
You thought about it for a second. "I want a drink. A strong one."
A little comedy never hurt anyone. And judging by her expression, you could tell you had made her smile.
"Well, that's a start." Siobhan had a smirk on her face. "Alright, fine. Let's get that drink. Then we'll see how far that gets you."
"Yeah," you muttered, "I'm sure."
But, as you walked down the street, you couldn't help but think about the question. What did you want?
And what was Siobhan offering?
#siobhan roy#siobhan roy x reader#siobhan roy x gn reader#siobhan roy/reader#siobhan roy x you#succession#sarah snook#sarah snook x reader#shiv roy#shiv roy x reader#shiv roy/reader#kendall roy#kendall roy x reader#roman roy#roman roy x reader#succession tv#succession show#tom wambsgans x reader#kendall roy x you#tom wambsgans#roman roy x you#connor roy x reader#greg hirsch x reader#connor roy#greg hirsch#x reader#fanfic#reader#fanfiction#succession fic
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