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#fae au
hoodiedidnotdie · 4 months
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this turned into a 9 days fixation,,,, ty @ghouljams for the nasty boii content :'')
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sharpedgedfool · 2 months
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Deigh-dubh and Geanais
Kinda loved the winter Shadow I drew so I went back to work on more, gave him a name and a friend! The names are in Gaelic (hopefully if my research is right kjgdfh), Shadow's based off winter fairytales and Sonic's based off the Flower Fairy series of poems I've been obsessed with all my life - this is incredibly self-indulgent haha
Deigh-dubh is winter incarnate, he's immortal and goes away through the other seasons to rest before bringing winter back with him. Geanais is a fae that brings harvest to wild cherry trees (a reference to the sakura sonic thing) but he dies every winter and reincarnates every spring. They met once by chance, and now seek each other out. Deigh's used to isolation, so he doesn't talk much - Geanais loves talking to him though, he tells him all about how the warm seasons went. They only briefly pass when the seasons change, but since Deigh-dubh doesn't see many flowers Geanais blooms some early to show him, and Deigh makes sure his passing is comfortable in return.
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ghouljams · 11 days
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Fae using magic to make their partners bodies adapt when mating is so hot!!! 😩 The thought that it would break them if it wasn't for Fae manipulating their anatomy... screaming crying throwing up
The monster fuckers can come get their juice now, I'm doing monster fucking, size queen, shit.
It should hurt, it should split you open until you scream and sob, but when König pushes his monstrous cock into you it's slick and pulsing. You can't take your eyes off of it, your breath hitching in your chest as he pushes and pushes it into your tight cunt. It must be magic that keeps you from ripping, must be magic that let's your pussy hug his cock like a vice as he eases each inch into you. Not even halfway through and you can tell his cock is starting to bulge out your stomach, you clench around him and a monstrous growl echoes through the forest. He stretches you past what you ever thought possible, squeezes against every soft spot within you, and lets you feel every delicious inch of him. You can feel every vein, the ridge of his bulbous head where it butts against your cervix. Fuck, he's already hit the end, there's no more space for him.
König grinds against you, stirring you with his fat cock and making heat sizzle up your spine. You whine, eyes fixed between your legs at the monster settled inside you, the length left to go. König gives a testing thrust and something in you shifts. You jerk, arch your back with a breathless gasp as your body adjusts for him, forces itself to make room for the cock bigger than your arm. It's like nothing you've ever felt before. You stare, unseeing, at the forest your body wrapping around König like it was made for him as he slides every fat inch into your cunt. Your eyes roll back, you can feel him nudge your ribs, can feel him stretching your shirt and pushing against the already sliced waistband of your pants, god...
His drool drips onto the forest floor, mushrooms sprouting from the decaying leaves where it pools. You can hear the low growl vibrating through his chest, can feel the creak of the claws holding you up, the spread of them, the way his pinky presses against the head of his cock. You look down and whimper at the absolutely destruction that must be coursing through your body, the huge cock magically forced inside of you. You can't bring a single thought to your head, can only do your best to swallow down the greedy drool that fills your mouth, and listen to the wind whispering at the presence of a king. You may as well be a fleshlight in his hands. You can't feel your legs.
König moves you up and down his cock, using you to pleasure himself. You watch the motion of it greedily, fascinated, you must be dead ten times over to be letting this happen. But it doesn't hurt, there's just the warm aching drag of his thick cock against your insides. Each gummy inch of your cunt tries to keep him inside, clenching when he bumps your sensitive spots, making tight heat pool in your stomach. It's such a heavy pressure, unyielding, and deadly the way it shocks pleasure up your spine with each inch of movement. You come on his cock without meaning too, the orgasm too deep and wanting for you to anticipate, it breaks through you and König whines at the squeeze of your walls around him.
"Meine Königin," he rumbles, the very air, the click of his claws and teeth, the rustle of his fur and spines, seem to speak for him, "if you don't relax it's going to hurt."
You take a shaking breath and tip your head back to look up at the monster over you. His eyes are red, his teeth like tombstones. You stick your tongue out for him, your lips parted and your eyes bleary with barely contained tears. He smiles, and dips down to shove his tongue down your throat, the appendage wiggling inhumanly to stretch your poor throat the way his cock has stretched your pussy. He only pulls away when your lungs are starting to burn and your vision is starting to darken at the edges. You suck in a breath as he pulls you up the length of his cock and shoves you back down. The burn of it rips through you, and you scream for the whole forest to hear.
"Little masochist," König chastises, "of course you'd want it to hurt."
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blackberreh-art · 11 months
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Fairy AU!!
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peachesofteal · 7 months
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Which Witch
Part 2 of 2 / Faerie masterlist
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Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader 13.3k words - AO3 - Part 1 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Fae!AU. Blood magic. Faerie magic. Angst. Tenderness. Comfort. Pining. Sex magic. Praise kink, light breeding kink. Magical dubious consent. Possessive Johnny, 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 has never experienced a headache before.
The feeling is surprisingly uncomfortable, and has been blooming behind his eyes since the other day, when you advanced on him outside the pub in the mortal realm, when you caught him off guard with your fury, your heartbreak.
He tries not to think about that part, too much.
Tries not to think about the torment he saw in your eyes.  
Tries not to think about his plans, laid to waste, to ruin. A dream, crumbled into a nightmare.
He tries not to think about the ache that’s settled beneath his ribs since the second you snatched your hand from his grasp and stomped away, the pressure of your magic making the stitching of the mortal realm feel too thin, too fragile.
He tries not to think about the extra weight of something that’s been added to him, nestled there in his side, the heavy feel of a magic that feels not unfamiliar, but alien at the same time.
“Bloody hell.” Gaz whispered. “No wonder ‘uve been keepin’ her a secret.” He whistled, low and sharp, as they watched you cross the street and slowly disappear from view, red and purple magic angrily arcing off from your body and tainting the air with a tart, burnt aftertaste. 
You were the only being on the street, besides them. All the mortals had gone off, pushed by you, sent scurrying by your power. “That’s one powerful little wi-“ 
“That’s enough.” Johnny snarled in his face, the ferocity, intensity of his tone, the words spat at his own brother surprising them both, signaling Kyle to step back, out of precaution, with a gentle hand raised. Johnny panted harshly, while his magic thrashed inside of him, desperate to get out, wild and nearly out of control, fully brimming with the chaos that he knows so well. 
It yearned for something, desperately. 
“Easy, Soap.” Price had been on them then, appearing from where he had been inside the bar, inserting himself between their two bodies, like he needed to protect Kyle, a ridiculous sentiment by any of their standards. 
“Sorry.” Johnny drew the word long, shaking his head from the pressure beating inside his skull. “’m sorry, Gaz. I dinnae- I-” 
“It’s alright mate.” He assured, reaching out, clasping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was warm, and comforting, and he nodded in response. 
“I think you should probably get home. You’ve been here… too long.” Price follows up, and Johnny couldn’t argue. He felt drained, suddenly. Tired. A feeling that happens for them, from time to time. Especially when they’ve been in the mortal realm for an extended period. 
“Alright.”
He thinks this discomfort, this ailment, whatever it may be, will pass, once he’s been home for more than a few days. He imagines it’s just a side effect of being in the mortal realm too long, and he can practically hear Price telling him he needs to stay put, stay in Faerie for a while, or at least until his magic settles and his body adjusts to its rightful plane.
After all… his kind doesn’t take sick. They can suffer magical ailments, wounds from weapons or other Fae, but to fall ill is incredibly rare.
And usually only happens to those of them who are incredibly stupid. 
Still, the headache rots and spreads throughout his brain, festering in his magic until it becomes an unruly, ungovernable thing that barely recognizes him, and his muscles become excruciatingly sore, useless in his body when he tries to exert himself in any way.
The Isle itself seems restless, the sea raging tumultuously beneath the bluffs, the forests shielding themselves from the light of the sun. Johnny can feel her magic, biting and gnawing against him, yearning and screaming, the wind whistling through the oldest trees with a shriek that hurts his ears.
All the while, something else aches within him. An unbearable longing that builds and builds like a dark grey cloud growing heavy with rain.
“It’s your soul.” The Nereid, Ce, tells him softly. “You’re soul sick.”
“What?”
“Someone has bound themselves to you. Your soul, your magic, is woven together. When you’re separated, your soul will mourn for theirs.” The image of you pointing at him flashes through his mind, your gaze enraged, haunted, while you cursed him up and down.
Surely, you did not mean for this? 
Simon watches him knowingly, before pulling her into his arms, rubbing his hand over the swell of her belly where their child sleeps, blissfully unaware.
“Do you know, who it could be?” She questions, and he grimaces, eyes flicking to Simon who betrays nothing, only gives him a subtle nod.
“A… witch. From the mortal realm.” She stiffens in Simon’s lap, and then shakes her head in disbelief.
“A mortal witch could not cast a binding such as this, nor survive it.”
“Well, ah… dinnae believe she’s entirely mortal.” She turns, looking between them, before glaring openly at her husband.
“The only immortal witches who still live in the mortal realm are the elemental witches…” she trails off, looking out the window to where the sea crashes on the shore, something distant flickering in her gaze, realization settling heavily upon her. “What have you done?”
“You were my priority.” Simon utters, face shuttering, eyes going grim. Johnny shifts nervously in the chair. Ce is sharp, intelligent, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s whispering her confirmation of the truth.
“The song. She’s a blood witch.” He nods, unable to break the eye contact. Simon holds her hip firmly, but she doesn’t look away from Johnny, and before he even realizes, he’s spilling more secrets.
“Blood spinner.” Her eyes widen, and then rips Simon’s hand free from her body, standing unsteadily on her two legs. Her balance has gotten better in her time here, but she still struggles with managing her new walking appendages, something that always keeps Simon hovering near by, just in case he needs to catch her.
“You must find her.” She implores Johnny, while turning on her heel to poke a finger into Simon’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
“Little huntress-“ He begins, but is swiftly cut off.
“No. Do not use your sweet words to try to placate me.” She turns her nose up from him, while facing Johnny. “You must, she’s in danger. Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. The effects could be catastrophic, the binding could kill her.” His heart speeds to a halt. The binding could kill you. 
The feeling Johnny had a few days ago outside the pub compounds inside of him, the yearning infused with his chaos, the wild piece of his magic surging in his blood, eager to be set loose. He closes his eyes and reaches inside himself to settle his power, to soothe the uncontrolled pieces that are climbing closer to the top.
When he looks back to them, he realizes Simon is standing more than a few paces away, Ce shielded behind his body.
“It’s the binding! It can drive you mad, control your magic if you're separated too long.” She calls from around his shoulder, trying to peek out even though there is a formidable mass blocking her.
“Perhaps she planned this, Johnny.” Simon proposes, a sentiment that Johnny balks at. Were you capable of such a thing? His wife shakes her head reverently, and mouths a no. 
Danger.
Catastrophic.
When he thinks about the way you looked when you thrust your finger into his face, fiery and full of rage, he realizes it’s much, much more than what he thinks he knows, or what he believes.
You tricked me, you Fae bastard. 
Had you tricked him in return? 
The lock on your flat’s front door is not complex. It’s not even spelled for intruders, or unwanted guests, something that’s always sat uneasily within Johnny, even when he was taking full advantage of it. His magic knows this lock well, is intimately familiar with it, and plies the deadbolt free with ease, door swinging wide like it’s been expecting him, just like every other time before.
You tossed in your sleep, brow furrowed, distress written across your face as you shook your head back and forth, trapped in your own dreams, your memories, your nightmares.
Your body, still battered and bruised, slowly healing from whatever had happened to you on Samhain, trembled beneath the sheets, and you made small, terrified mouth sounds against your pillow. 
“You’re safe now, dove, you’re safe.” He stroked a thumb across your temple, down the apple of your cheek, whispering to you softly, sweetly. His own magic worked quickly, dragging you under, lulling you into a deep sleep, a near coma. He had hoped it would be enough, to keep you from waking while he worked, while he healed you from whatever ordeal you had been put through, whatever torture you had been subjected to. 
He built you the sweetest dreams he could conjure, images of his own realm, lush forests and sparkling aquamarine seas, the moss-covered stone bluffs of the Isle, the three moons when they’re full, the sparkle of the night sky, webs of worlds and starlight stretching out as far as any being could see. 
He had tried, so desperately, to burn the image of you from the previous night out of his mind, when you first answered his knocking with your broken soul and tearful eyes, abused body halfway hidden by the door. 
What happened to you? Who could mistreat you in such a way? 
He hadn’t known then, but he wanted to, urgently. Wanted you to tell him everything, wanted you to make him your tool, your harbinger of revenge. He wanted to kill for you, destroy for you, burn this entire realm for you. He wanted to lay all his promises at your feet, wanted to tell you that no one would ever touch you again, that no one would ever harm you if he was here. 
He cursed himself. Cursed the truth. Cursed the spell that you put him under, the one that didn’t even exist. 
He had gotten so lost in thought, lost in staring down at your now relaxed face, that he almost didn’t realize the sun was rising, the soft rays of light seeping across your room from under the curtain startling him into withdrawing his magic so he could allow you to wake and return with a coffee, maybe a pastry, some sort of breakfast sweet that mortals seemed to be overly fond of. 
He leaned over you for a quick moment, unable to help himself, breathing in the scent of your hair, your skin, your very soul. It intoxicated him, the sweet citrus and balsam mixing with the minerality of blood, of earth, creating something that seeped through his own being, pulling him closer and closer until he grazed his lips across your temple so gently, he’s not sure he’s even made contact. 
“I’ll be back soon.” He whispered above your ear, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “Have a good morning, sweet Fern.” 
“Fern.” He calls, before stepping across the threshold, but there’s no answer. There’s no sound or sign of movement, no echo of your voice down the hall. “Fern!” He tries again. His blood feels hot under his skin, and he’s nearly feverish, off balance and unsteady, while the spot beneath his ribs throbs in pain.
He expects to see Jet, or hear her hiss, considering how much the little creature loathes him, but when there’s no sign of her either, something prickles along the back of his neck.
“Do not hide from me, little witch. I know what’s happened.” He calls, raising his voice, projecting it with a touch of magic so it rings down the hall, through every room, into your personal library, and beyond.
When there’s still no answer, his sense of discomfort grows, and like there is a hook in him, in his very soul, he can feel his magic being tugged along, down the hall to your bedroom.
When pushes the door open, his heart slams to a halt. Fear is the foreign sensation that pours through him, paralyzes him. It’s fear that anesthetizes him as he stares at you, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by books, ancient grimoires and other texts, your magic drained from your body like someone has bled you dry, eyes wide in agony and a rasping breath on your lips. The room smells like mineral, like clay rich soil, like earth, and he chokes on it when he realizes the stain that darkens the carpet beneath you is your blood. 
 “Oh, little witch.” He murmurs, kneeling by your side, wide palm slipping behind your neck gently. “What have ye done?” He tucks you into his chest, and you mumble something as he carries you to your bed, trying to lay you flat, propping your face up so he can look into your eyes.
“N-no.” you push against him weakly.
“Shhh, Fern. It’s okay.”
“Don’t.” you hiss, and blood leaks from your lips. His magic thrashes, barely contained, bubbling up and trying to break free.
“Tell me what to do.” He pleads, desperation rising in him like the swell of high tide, threatening to tip him over into fathomless depths, places where he cannot swim, or survive.
“Lea… leave.” You moan, and he shakes his head. “Leave. I don’t… I don’t need your ‘elp.”
“No.” He refuses, cradling your face between his hands, and you blink at him slowly, eyelids heavy, expression disorientated. Long seconds pass and you look… confused suddenly, like you don’t recognize him, like all the vitriol and venom that you were spitting a moment ago has suddenly disappeared, and he feels a surge of your magic, the snapping of something, the binding, twisting, and tugging at the two of you.
“Johnny?” You mumble, and a smile breaks across his face, a small one, an encouraging one, something he hopes brings you comfort.
“Aye. It’s me, dove. It’s me. ’m here.” You tremble in his grasp, and more blood drips from your mouth. The sight of it is enough to loosen the hold on his power, and the room floods with bright light, illuminating every corner in the flat, and every detail on your face.
You need help. You need help, now. Badly.
He’s never wanted to have your name as frantically as he does in this moment. He wants to force you to tell him what to do, how to fix whatever this is, he wants to reach inside your magic and your mind and root around in your soul until he can pull the answer free from your lips.
A terrible thought forms in his mind. It’s wrong, and one he is sure you will hate him for, one he knows you will punish him for.
If you live. 
Danger. Catastrophic. 
Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. 
The binding could kill her. 
Ce’s warning plays over and over in his mind, and when you cough again, blood splattering on his forearm, his magic makes his mind up for him, spreading forward to try to soothe you, cocooning you in a soft, twilight embrace that tries to lull you to sleep.
He pulls you back into his arms, tucking you against his body and concentrating his power on the thrum of your heartbeat, the power in your veins. He needs to blink the two of you to the closest door, and the only one that’s remotely doable is in Sherwood Forest, nestled among a ring of birch trees that all lean suspiciously inward.
“Fern.” He tries to get your eyes to focus on him, jostling you slightly as he strides away from your room. “Fern, I need… I have to take ye away.” Your brow furrows, and somewhere in the very back of his mind, he remembers how cute you are when you look at him like this, when you’re well, and not suffering.
He comes to halt in the kitchen, where Jet sits on her haunches atop the table, watching him with her head cocked.
“She’s dying.” He explains to her, and Jet scowls before she answers him, disdain dripping from her words.
“Because of you.” 
“What happened?” 
“The binding was an accident. She lost control.” 
“She needs help. Is there anyone?” 
“Not here… she’s been shunned. Thanks to you.” She glares at him, and he shoves down his urge to scream. Jet slinks towards him, eyes wise and wandering, sizing him before she sits down next to where he’s got you hovering above the table in his grip. “You’ll have to take her.” 
“I cannae. I need her name.” She flicks her gaze to you before hopping from the table, walking to where the door creaks open on its own.
“You need to get it on your own.”
“She’s dying, Jet.” 
“I know you won’t let that happen. After all, this was your plan, was it not?” She says before slipping outside, into the night.
You shiver against him, and he tightens his arms around you instinctively, lowering his nose into your hair, trying to find the sweet balsam and citrus scent under the sour smell of scorched earth and black blood. It’s there, but barely. There’s hope.
“Little witch.” He taps your cheek, trying to get you to concentrate on him, to look at him. “Fern, will you give me your name?” He coos sweetly, sugaring his voice with honey, dropping his glamour to pull your focus. It’s wrong, he knows this, so wrong, a true violation, but what choice does he have?
He won’t leave you to die.
You lick your lips, and he smiles, fully aware that he’s probably partially blinding you, scrambling the signals in your magic and mind, his own power pulling desperately at the binding to get you to comply.
Come on, sweet Fern. 
Give me your name, dove. 
He grips your hand, twisting your wrist until your palm is facing him, and for the first time without his glamour, he lets himself kiss you there, right on the heel below your thumb, dabbing his magic into the veins that vibrate just beneath your skin. He pushes, and then for good measure, pushes again, until your lips are cracking on an intake of breath, and your free hand is reaching for his, bloodied fingers smearing your ichor across his skin as you slowly speak, mouth forming the one thing he’s needed all along, the thing he’s wanted more than anything since the day he’s met you.
Your name. Given to him. By you.
It sinks into him, heating his own blood with the power of your admission, pulsing through his magic until it’s settling in that spot behind his ribs, the same spot that’s been aching since the last time he saw you, the place where the binding is nestled.
“Okay.” He coos, and then repeats your name, while you nod. “Okay, hold on to me.” He whispers, and then pulls everything in the flat tight, all the magic that’s spilled from your body, all the magic that he’s let run wild since he got here. He moves himself, and you, into the blink, and then the ground shifts, room tilting and splitting until the walls are fading into trees, the tile of your kitchen becoming grass under his feet, and your ceiling is a night sky. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, and he knows it’s because the blink is uncomfortable, disorientating for those who are not Fae. Lesser creatures usually don’t even survive it.
But you are no lesser creature.
This fact, this truth, is the thing he takes comfort in as he barrels towards the door, his magic breaking through the threshold and crashing through the planes until he’s stumbling into Faerie with a blood covered witch curled against his chest.
“Are ye hungry?” Eilean asks from the threshold of the room, not willing to cross inside, but eager to see if she can help at all.
“No.”
“Should I bring some wine?” She tries, voice dipped in hopeful inflection. He rubs a palm over his face in part exasperation, part exhaustion.
“Please. Wine would be lovely, thank ye Eilean.” He placates her, and he doesn’t need to turn to know she’s smiling with approval.
He wouldn’t turn, regardless. He doesn’t dare look away from where you lay against the pillows in a bed that seems far too big. Where you lay, alone. Sleeping. Unconscious now, for far too many days. You’re weak, so weak, from travelling here, from trying to exist in this realm, a realm that you were not made for, a realm that no one seems to know if you can even persist in.
The Isle cradles you, fosters your survival. She holds you firm, holds you as he would, a casket of stone and sea weaving around your body, protecting you from anything. Everything.
Sometimes he fears she may be protecting you from him.
The waves crash against the rocks far below where he sits and you lay, sea ravaging against the rock, water pounding against stone over and over, the repetition enough to carve out caves and patterns in the walls, to change the physical manifestation of the Isle, to alter the very ground he lives on, walks on. The ground that he had hoped, one day, you may walk on with him. Beside him. The place he had hoped you might embrace with all her horror and secrets, that you might accept as a place of your own.
His hope fades with every breath you draw. It flickers like a flame being doused out.
Every now and then, you fidget beneath the blankets, body shivering and shaking, subdued whimpers escaping your lips as you twitch. He fears the binding may not need to drive him mad, because watching you suffer, watching you sleep endlessly, may do it regardless, in the end. 
However, the bleeding has stopped, a small thing that Johnny is immensely grateful for, even though no one knows why.
“She needs time.” The healer tried to tell him, their effervescent magic embracing you in a halo while they worked to stop the blood that had started leaking from your eyes and nose, as well as your mouth. “Her magic is overloaded by the binding. The best thing you can do for her is stay close by. She will wake on her own time.” 
“Her temperature-“
“We do not know. There are some things at work here, even we do not understand.” They explained, sympathy pooling across their face. 
They wished him well after that, instructing him to call for them should they be needed further. 
He didn’t know how to ask them to stay. He didn’t know how to tell them that for the first time in his eternally too long life, he was truly scared. 
“How is she?” This voice, this one that calls to him from the threshold, speaking to him in his mind, startles him in the armchair, even though he knows it belongs to his brother. He turns to see Gaz, who watches him through lowered lashes. He’s keeping his distance, as every other being has, unsure about how Johnny will react with another coming so close to his… witch. “Price says ya’ve been holed up in here for days. Thought I’d come check, see if anything was needed.”
“Come in.” Johnny implores, out loud, and Gaz does, hesitantly, watching his brother for any changes, any indication he may lose control. Once he gets about two meters away, Johnny holds his hand up, a signal to stop, and Gaz conjures a chair, brimming at the seams with sun kissed light, a neat trick that benefits him when he plops down in it, like he too, is exhausted and weary.
“Well?”
“She’s… ‘m not sure. She still hasn’t woken, and her temperature, her body is hot to the touch. Too hot. But she’s stopped bleeding, which I take as a good thing.” He hasn’t left your side, constantly feeding the binding his own magic in hopes it would help give you some strength or help heal you.
“She’ll be alright.” Kyle encourages lowly, smiling at him. “She has you to look out for her, after all.” Johnny nods, even if he doesn’t believe it.
“Thank ye, for comin’.” He whispers, clearing his throat.
“We’re family, Johnny. Even when you run away to this damn Isle with a blood witch that you’ve stolen from the mortal realm.” He laughs with a wink, and Johnny’s lips curl into a very subtle grin.
“Not much better than Simon, am I?”
“Well, you didn’t drag us all around the mortal realm for nearly a decade so, that’s something.” He sighs, leaning back, slinging his feet over the arm of the chair. “Besides. I’m not exactly exempt either now.” Johnny nods, and he watches the flicker of discontent that washes over his brother, the way his magic pulses through him and the chair before returning to stasis.
Now, it’s his turn to ask.
“How is she?” Gaz shakes his head.
“Violent.” The word gives Johnny pause, and he feels his sympathy grow. His brother is the gentlest of them, the most kind. The one who others seek out, for comfort, for care. The one who wields the sun’s light itself. “Won’t let me near ‘er. Won’t eat. Won’t open the door, only yells at me through it. Hardly even speaks to her sister.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with graceful fingers. “She wants me to let her die.”
“And will ye?” He doesn’t respond right away, and they both just watch where you lay in the bed, silent.
“Don’t think I can. I feel… something for her. It’s different, from anything I’ve felt before. It’s-“
“Frightening.” Johnny finishes for him, and some tension leaks from his body. It is unlike them both, to feel fear. To feel fear and acknowledge it.
You twitch, eyes moving behind closed lids, and Gaz gives him a nod as he rises.
“See you soon?”
“Aye.”
It’s late, two days later, when you start to wake. Your temperature has gone down, and you’ve finally slept peacefully through an entire night. The moons have already risen, and Johnny has the drapes tucked open, so the room is illuminated in a silvery purple glow that shimmers across the floor and onto the bed. Your lashes flutter, and he feels the influx of magic in the room, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger, spilling from you as you swim closer and closer to consciousness, your eyes slowly opening, brow furrowed, discontent pulling your lips downwards in a frown. The wild yearning cries out inside of him, chaos beating in his heart, and he struggles to contain it.
“What’s…” your voice trails off as you look around, and Johnny waits for the moment when you find him in the chair by your bedside.
It happens fast. Your expression goes from confused, maybe a little contrite, but still curious, to rage filled, and startled. Fear reflects in your gaze, and his stomach drops.
“Fern.” He tries to calm you, and you hold your hand in front of your body like you’re trying to ward him off.
“Stay away from me.” You hiss. You try to sit up, try to move away from him, but your body is too weak, physically, and you sink down to your elbows in a second while you press yourself against the headboard. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” He stands, casting a little bit of magic out, trying to relax you, but you beat him back with your own before you’re yelling as loud as you can. “Help! Help! HELP ME!” you scream, voice drenched in horror, and a piece of his heart chips away in an instant.
You’re terrified of him. 
There’s a noise, behind him, like a soft chiming of bells, and then he feels the shadow of Eilean’s magic, her presence unmistakable. He holds a hand out to stop her in the doorway, and you gasp aloud, palm covering your mouth, eyes round with shock when you see her.
“Oh. My gods.” You look from her, back to him, and then around the room, tracking out the window to where the three moons glow, bathing the sea below in silky shades of lilac, before you try even harder to shuffle yourself away from the edge of the bed, your hands fully shaking. “You stole me.” You whisper it between your fingers. “You took me. We’re… we’re in Faerie.” Tears are coursing down your cheeks, breaths coming in frantic little puffs that grate at his soul, the spot beneath his ribs aching as you cry.
“I thought… ah thought I was goin’ lose ye.” He croaks. “I dinnae- I had no other choice.” You’re breathing too fast, too short, and he wants to tear at the unfathomable distance between you and him that seems to be widening by the moment.
“Get away from me.” You half yell, half cry at him, tone dripping in disdain, in fear. “Get away!” you scream, and the demand physically pains him, like you’re ripping him apart, like you’re taking a knife and jamming it up underneath his ribs, hollowing him out, destroying him from the inside.
He stumbles from the room, clutching his side like he’s been wounded, and your magic lashes forward to slam the door shut behind his back with a finality that hits like a killing blow.
“Well, she’s scared. And rightfully so.” Ce says with a hand on her hip, leveling Johnny with a look that he can feel burning through his skin. “I managed to get her to listen to me long enough so I could… explain everything.” He straightens.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” She sighs, and shifts her weight, reaching for where Simon stands. He takes her outstretched hand and brings her into his body, wrapping her up with a supportive arm around her waist. Johnny eyes the doors of the bedroom, clearly overeager, and she shakes her head immediately. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“But-“
“She’s traumatized. She was used by you, betrayed by you. And then you kidnapped her from the only home she’s ever known.” At that, she gives Simon a healthy glare, and he has the good sense to look at least, somewhat ashamed. “It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Simon watches closely, and Ce looks at Johnny with a face full of sadness. “The binding… she may not be able to undo it.”
“What?”
“It is powerful magic. Magic that she did not intend to cast. It came… from the heart.” Johnny lets his eyes slip shut at her words, jaw clenching tight. “You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.” She ghosts a hand over her belly and implores him with a meaningful look, one that cannot be understated or misunderstood.
The magic that feels like you, the fibers that he believes are the binding, seem to flex within his power, like it’s being pulled, and he involuntarily takes a step towards the door.
“Soap.” Simon beseeches, and Johnny stops short. “You must give her some space for now.”
They’re right. He knows, they’re right. He’s violated you, forced your name from you, stole you from your home, betrayed you in every way.
But the binding, the burning ache in his side, cries out to him. Begs him to go to you. Begs him to take you into his arms, complete the binding right then and there, and steal you away forever.
He grits his teeth.
“Alright.”
Days pass, and Johnny fights himself every step of the way. He fights his magic, which has grown unruly and uncomfortable again, fights the gaping hole that seems to be forming in that spot behind his ribs, fights what he is sure now is the binding, the incessant pull that tries to drag him into your orbit. He fights how he feels, the deep-laid emotions that he’s spent months trying to bury, and the feelings of discontent, of missing something. Someone.
The estate is heavy with your ghost. Eilean keeps him informed of your comings and goings, your visits with Simon’s wife, your days spent locked in his library. She says you’re physically better, but tire easily. You only sleep for short moments at a time, like him. Johnny tries to tell himself he does not care that you refuse to see him. He tells himself that it does not bother him, that you were so willing to shut him out completely, so eager to escape him. He tells himself that the sound of your fear, of your cries for help are not burning into his memory, that they are not entrenching themselves into his soul, driving him mad. He tells himself it’s just the binding. That the binding is driving him to the brink, that the binding is to blame for his near descent into madness.
But he knows, it’s not responsible for everything, It’s not responsible for the yearning in his soul, his heart, his magic. For the wild edged chaos that brews out of control in his veins.
It's love. His heart bleats in the quiet hours of the night, when he holds his breath and feels for you through the estate, when he catches the barely-there scent of citrus and blood in a hallway where you must have recently lingered. It’s love. His mind screams when he closes his eyes to rest for a few precious moments, and all he can see is your face, smiling at him, giggling in the golden light of your kitchen at dusk. It’s love. His magic shrieks at him to go to you, to hold you, to tell you everything. To tell you about the way his power rioted in his blood the moment he saw you, the way his magic exploded in his chest the first time you shared your heart, your mind, your life with him, the way he knew after that very first day, that no other being would ever possess him, except you.
Eilean walks with you in the garden. He tries not to watch too closely, warily waiting for something to happen, for a decision to be made that he will not be able to fight, no matter how hard he tries. She delights you, when she shows you how to sow your magic into the fabric of Faerie, how to connect with Isle as you connect with the earth of your home realm.
Johnny does not allow himself the hope that lights in his soul, when she looks up at where he stands in the window, and nods. An approval. A yes. A piece of herself, given to you.
As time crawls by, he cannot stop himself from thinking about you, every waking moment. He cannot stop himself from wondering how you’re faring, if you need him, if you’re feeling well. His magic never lets him sleep, never lets him come, keeps him on the edge eternally, pacing, tossing, and turning while his mind is invaded by thoughts of you.
It is one of these nights, when he’s drowning in too many feelings, along with two bottles of wine, pacing fruitlessly, that Gaz blinks into the kitchen with an irritated huff.
“Look sharp. Been callin’ ya for hours.” Gaz spits, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, Soap. Get yourself together. Simon sent for us.”
The meeting is a long one.
Simon outlines recent inquiries, payloads for work, demands of their presence in places across the realm, old contracts that have long laid dormant being renewed with a fresh round bloodshed.
It is the same song and dance. The same battle cry of blood and victory.
Fae and mortals are not as different in their hearts as they seem, he muses, reading over a potential contract, a high paying job for the removal of a seated power. It comes with a catch, a royal child who requires protection, and he places it on the top of the list for consideration. Children cost extra.
He is not surprised, when both Simon and Gaz seem hesitant to agree to anything, especially work that will take them away from extended periods of time.
Johnny says nothing but shares their feelings. The idea of leaving the Isle for any amount of time makes his magic churn in his veins. Even now, anxiety builds like a storm inside him, and he agonizes about returning.
“It’s not optimal.” Simon declares, while Price smirks from where he sits with his arms crossed.
“Ye going soft, Riley?” Johnny ribs him, and Simon scowls.
“I’ll show you soft, Soap.” He shoots back, while Gaz chuckles.
“I’m not opposed to taking it easy, for a bit.” Price offers something, an inquiry that caught his eye, a short engagement, not very far away, while Simon counters it with a different one that’s even less time. They bicker, back and forth, back and forth, and Gaz slowly becomes more interested in a half open book laying on Simon’s desk than he does the conversation.
Johnny loses interest completely. The spot beneath his ribs is pounding like his heart, and his magic is swelling violently in time with the binding. When he says his goodbyes, no one is surprised.
“I want to know.” 
“Witch business is no business of the Fae.” 
“Fern is my business.” She laughed at his demand, the echo of it scraping across the front his mind like he had been scratched by her claws. 
“So possessive.” She murmured. “Over a witch who does not even know the truth of who you are.” 
“Jet.” He warned, and she growled a sigh. 
“Divination is not practiced here as it practiced in your realm. It requires a sacrifice, and the visions are not easy, even for a powerful witch like Fern. It extracts a higher toll.” His blood curdled in his veins, and her tail whipped back and forth, green eyes watchful from where she sat in the kitchen. “Her participation is not voluntary.” 
“They force her?”
“They’ve forced her since she was a child. The coven only cares for their power, their vanity, their immortality, and without the blood spinner, without the Divination, they would have none of it.” He pictured you, a small girl, alone, defenseless, victim to practices of your coven, your magic and mind a tool for them to use, to take advantage of, to torture. She licked her paw before rising to all fours, casting an underhanded glance at him. “The way they see it, Fern belongs to them. The blood spinner is not a being with a soul, but a thing to be used as the coven sees fit.” Outside, the wind howled, spurred on by the tethers of magic that spun from Johnny, the chaos that reveled in his distress, ropes and ropes of rage and desperation twisting together with the force of his power, sowing down deep into the earth, and expelling into the sky. “Should one protest… well.” She didn’t finish, just fixed her gaze beyond him, out through the window where the sky swirled with violent hues of black and purple. 
“Her parents.” Jet refused him a response, but he didn’t need one to know the truth. “She doesn’t know.” He continued, and she slunk from her perch to the corner of the table. 
“Have you considered what will happen, after your damage is done? What the coven will do when they discover her betrayal? Or worse…. you and your brothers are not the only ones who go bump in the night here. Fern is a magnet for creatures. Without the protection of her coven, she will be a target. She will be vulnerable.” She studied him, and he felt the shadowed point of her power, probing along his own, trying to peer into his mind. 
He let a swirl of chaos break free, pushed out into the open. 
He let a sentiment slip through, into her sight. 
He had considered it, had planned for it. Anticipated it. 
She met his eyes with her own, and understanding, recognition occurred between them. 
“You plan to take her.” 
He blinks onto the veranda of his own home, eager to escape the argument, rubbing his neck in exasperation when he catches the scent of balsam and citrus, mineral and blood, coming from the garden.
It’s you. You’re in the garden. 
“Hello.” Johnny calls, stepping into the grass but no further, allowing you to see him, to recognize him as a non-threat. The light from the moons spills down your back and across your skin, making you shimmer under their glow, illuminating you in the brisk night air. The flowers around you are all in bloom, even in the middle of the night, and his lips quirk to the side with a smile when he realizes it’s your doing, velvety petals blossoming across the grounds in large swatches, vibrating with the signature of your magic.
You’re sitting amongst a variety of plants, long vines that stretch and strain towards where your fingers dance to entice them into reaching for you.
“Hi.” You don’t bother to lift your eyes, and it stings a little, disappointment settling heavy in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?” you bristle, and he grinds his teeth. About us? About the binding? About what happened? About how sorry I am? About how I cannot stop thinking about ye? Worrying about ye? Obsessing? He settles on, what happened, hoping that will ease you open to talking.
“About what happened.”
“About what happened, which time? The time when you used me to get information so your brother could abduct a Nereid, or the time you stole my name from me and then stole me from my own realm." 
Well. Fuck. 
“What’s wrong, Johnny? Cat got your tongue?” You latch onto his silence and dig in, not sparing him from your venom. His temper flares, needled on by the discomfort that is restless in his magic, and he pushes back at you.
“I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done to save ye, dove.” He snaps, drawing to his full height, and you glare at him, fury twisting your face into something that’s a little scary, and a little enthralling.
“Save me?” you hiss, incredulous. “Save me? You didn’t care much about saving me when you used me to get what you needed.” You stand, forgoing your plants to face him, fingers pointed to the ground, a hot flare of magic stretching across the space between him and you.
“I never wanted to hurt ye, I wanted to bring ye with me, but it was too late before ye knew the truth and I had no chance to explain.” He counters, and you laugh, the sound all sour and wrong, harsh, and unforgiving.
“You thought I would just go with you? You tricked me. You took advantage of me.” He feels the ground shifting, feels the earth growing under his feet, and your magic pulsing around him, strong and eager, pushing and pulling at something he cannot see. What is this?  “You lied to me. You betrayed me.” The forest at your back groans, like the Isle herself is protesting this battle of wills, like she objects to the clash of power. The pressure in the air rises, and then something is tightening around his feet, restricting his boots, and tying him to the ground.
Roots.
There are tree roots, crisscrossed across his toes, snaking up his ankles.
“Fern.” He warns.
“Johnny.” You mock, and the magic crests, more gnarled plant life coming to sprout from the ground, lashing across his wrists, tying them tight to his sides wrapping him up like rope. “You won’t fight back?” you taunt, mouth curving into a wicked little smile. Another tendril of green binds around his forearm, and he grunts with effort to stay calm.
“No.” he grits out.
“No? No?” you hiss and step closer, bare feet pressing the grass down between your toes. You look like a predator in this moment, eyes sharp and narrowed, stalking closer to your prey. You’re enchanting, and unsettling, and the binding hums inside of him.
The plants twist past his forearms, tightening against his circulation, curling up his biceps and stroking the skin of his shoulders.
His power flares, distressed, confused.
In battle, if you were a foe, he’d already have struck you down, dealt you a killing blow.
“Fern. Stop this.” The vines squeeze him, and then crawl up his neck, holding firm beneath his jaw.
“Do you know what they wanted to do to me, Johnny? After they found out what I did?” He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to wait you out, trying to see if you’ll draw back. “Answer me!” your voice cracks, and so does his heart.
“No.”
“They wanted to burn me at the stake.” You whisper, the words enough to take his breath. His magic thrashes. The spot underneath his ribs aches. “It wasn’t enough to shun me. They wanted to kill me.” He shakes his head furiously.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“
“No, don’t say that. You’re not.”
“Ah wouldn’t have let them. No one will ever touch ye again Fern, I swear it.”  
“Why even bother with more of these lies? You just needed to help your brother, and you didn’t care who was collateral damage. You used me.” You break, and a tear glitters on your cheek, refracting the light of the moons. “Just… just like them.” Oh, dove. 
“No, no. That’s not… It’s not true. Ah care for ye, ye’ve meant something to me since the first day I laid-“
“Stop.” The plants squeeze him, and any tighter they’ll probably be strangling him. Cutting off his air. He fights against them, just marginally, enough to give himself some breathing room, and is surprised when they don’t loosen so easily. “I’m stronger here. Eilean taught me, how to feel this earth. How to hear it breathing, find its water, its blood.” You explain, tone bitter, and he nods a slow agreement.
“Of course.” Of course, she did. Because she likes you, dove. She accepts you. She wishes for you to make your home here. With me. With us. 
He doesn’t try again, doesn’t flex in the web of plants that you’ve wrapped him in, just stands completely still, waiting. He urges his power to settle, to resist the call of blood and battle, to stand down as you seethe.
If he tried, only a little harder, he could shred the vines and roots in an instant. He could break free.
But a large part of him, spurred on by the gaping hole that’s been left by your absence, the pain that’s nestled in his diaphragm, doesn’t want to.
Most of him wants to stand here and take it, take everything from you.
It’s no more than he deserves, and he knows it.
Your hands are shaking, fingernails gleaming in the moonslight when you hastily wipe your cheek, and he wants so badly to reach for you. To hold you. To tell you how sorry he is. How he wishes he could take it all back. How he never wanted to hurt you.
“I trusted you.” It’s a whisper on the wind, spoken to the earth, to the sky, to anywhere but him. The words are hollow, like there’s nothing left there for him, like you’ve written your story, and his pages are long over.
“Ah know.” He murmurs. Your tears drip onto the grass, and he watches each one splash while dread swallows his heart whole. The ache in his ribs burns, magic howling through his limbs, tugging and digging against him to act, to move.
In the end, he doesn’t move at all. He stands trapped in the vines you’ve grown around him, stands trapped in time as you walk past him and up the veranda into the estate. The wind shrieks through the trees, whipping around where he stands immobile, and he watches the light in your room on the second-floor flick on, a warm yellow glow seeping out from behind the curtains as you peek around them, gazing down to where he stands, still like a statue in the garden below.
He stands there until your room goes dark.
The light sparkled across your skin, your hair, your eyes. He had never been fond of the mortal realm’s sun, always finding it too harsh, too abrasive, but the way it shone on you in that moment, he wasn’t sure he had loved anything more. 
“Which was your favorite, then?” You extended the thing in your hand towards him, the fragrant, sweet ice cream treat, and he politely shook his head to decline. 
“Ah dinnae care much for it, if ‘m being honest.” 
“What?” Your other arm stayed looped in his, allowing him to subtly press his hip against yours, feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your skirt as the two of you took long, loping steps down the park’s path. “How can you not like ice cream?” You frowned. “We sampled so many. You didn’t like any of them?” He considered explaining he only sampled them because it allowed him to stand to so close you in that tiny shop. That he liked it because he was able to wrap his fingers around yours when you passed him the tiny spoons. 
“The mint was alright.” He told you instead, and you huffed. “The lavender one too.” You gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t help himself, too eager to see you smile, too weak to resist the promise of your laughter. “It seems, I am overly fond of plants.” 
The sea roars beneath grassy knoll where he hides. He swears it’s screaming your name, calling to you, crying about you.
He tries to clear his mind.
It’s why he comes here. To think. To be alone. To be unbothered. The hill is tucked away from his home, and he sits in the shadow of an ash tree, staring at the sky, waiting to settle, waiting to feel at peace.
A fool’s errand. 
His mind is incapable of rest. It can only dwell on one thing, his desperation, his desire, his longing for you. The yearning in his heart that now works in tandem with the binding, trying to drag him towards you every waking moment of the day, trying to force him into your path.
You’re in the hallway when he returns, stack of books clutched to your body.
“Fern.” He chokes out, dumbstruck. He had planned a speech, for this, after what happened in the garden. A plea. A desperate sonnet of sadness and guilt. But in this moment, with you standing in front of him like a wild animal that may dart away at any moment, everything escapes him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his brain feels blank.
You’re frozen, looking back at him, eyes wide, and a tiny sliver of relief fractures through his heart when he doesn’t smell any fear on you.
“Hi.” You whisper, and like a magnet, he cannot stop himself from stepping closer.
You do not flinch, or move, or even look away. You just… stare at him.  
“Are ye well?” He tries, and you swallow so loud he can hear it rattling in his brain.
“I… am. Are you?”
“As well as I can be.” I’m in love with ye. I’ve been in love with ye. I’m sorry. All of these things echo in his mind, circling his consciousness but none of them come to the forefront. Instead, he stammers out a: “Ye look… beautiful.” Bleedin’ gods. It’s a massacre. He tries to smother his grimace and you give him a funny look.
“Thank you.”
“Are ye, getting on well here?” He motions to the too long, too wide hallway that seems to stretch farther and farther every second, and you nod slowly.
“Yes, you have… a lot of books.”
“Ah… ‘ve always been fond of them. The books.” He agrees, and your lips flick upwards in a polite smile. His heart races.
He takes another step.
It’s too much. You shrink away, moving backwards, and he curses himself.
“Sorry-“
“I should go.” You gesture the leather-bound volumes in your grasp.
“Of course.” He concedes, and you incline your head to him before turning around.
His magic screams through his body the entire time he watches you walk away.
You’ve made yourself at home in the library. He tries to push away the glee that it brings him, the fire that it stokes within him, the urge that it encourages. The binding warbles inside his magic, his soul, as he passes the door every day, tugging and dragging him until he’s trying the handle one morning, ignoring his prior commitments, opting to slide inside the heavy wooden doors just for a chance to see your face.
“You have books from my ho- from the mortal realm.” He winces, when you cut your words off abruptly and reroute them, all while staring at him from the desk in the library. Your fingers stroke the corner of a volume that lays open in front of you, and he takes a step closer, slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you’ll spook.
You don’t. You don’t even fidget, or flinch, just gently turn the pages as if everything is normal.
“Would ye like to see something special?” He cannot help it, this desire to impress you, to tempt you. He wants to catch you, keep you, hold you in a thrall like you hold him in yours. He thinks he should probably feel guilty, for using the things he knows you love so dear to entice you, to gentle you to him and draw you out, but he can’t find it in himself to feel poorly for it. He’s worried sick. He wants to see you smile again. Wants the life to come back to your eyes.
He wants his sweet Fern. His little witch.
He gestures to a book, one that sits in a glass case on a table next to his side, black binding shiny and perfect as if it were brand new and not thousands of years old.
“What is it?” You cannot help yourself, brushing past him to lean over the glass, eyes wide and curious.
“It’s a grimoire.” You inspect it with a frown, and he threads his magic through the air and into the glass, evaporating it into its original form, tiny spheres of sand that disappear before your eyes. You startle, and he smirks when you look up at him.
“Doesn’t look like any grimoire I’ve ever seen.” Your hand cautiously hovers above the spell book, and he can feel your magic probing along the edges, testing, seeking.
“It’s from a Netherworld.”
“Which?” you blurt, and then look half embarrassed, before tacking on a soft spoken, “And how?” He’s not surprised that you know of them, but it feels uneasy, knowing you may have been exposed to something from those realms, some sort of monster or creature, a Demon or worse, an Angel.
“The Below. I travel there, sometimes.” Your jaw goes slack, and you study him closer, something foreign flickering across your features before they turn doleful.
“I have seen them.” What? You turn a page with your magic, being careful not to let your fingers directly touch the pages. “Through Divination. I’ve seen both the Below, and Above.” You shudder, and his heart thunders, blood rushing through his ears.
A mortal witch, who’s not a mortal at all. Who spins blood and can see through realms, into the Below and Above. Places not even Gaz or Price dare travel to. 
Formidable indeed. 
“Dove, that’s… that must have been frightening.” Another page turns beneath your fingers, and you shrug.
“I have been Divining since I was a child. I’ve seen many things. It’s how I knew where we were, when I woke up,” Rage rips through him, unbridled and coarse, rousing his magic into a whirlwind of anger, the feel of it as violent as when he first learned the truth. It makes his blood boil in his veins, makes the shelves in the library vibrate in anticipation, his magic bouncing around the room, seeking to destroy, to sow chaos, to obliterate.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice calls, echoing inside his skull, and he tenses, muscles turning to stone as he feels for his brother, locating him and Gaz outside, in the hall.
“Not now.” He grits in response, but he hasn’t forgotten his prior engagement, and knows trying to put it off is pointless.
When they come closer, when Simon pulls the doors wide, he bares his teeth, tension filling the air of the library. They stand at a respectful distance, not stepping inside, leagues away at the opposite end of the room, but he still feels overly exposed, can feel the pull of possession as he instinctually positions himself between your body and theirs.
You frown at his brothers before stepping into the shadow of his body, close enough that you brush against him, your fingers tracing a barely-there circle on the inside of his wrist.
“Why did you do it?” You break the silence, whispering to the ceiling, and he frowns.
“Do what?”
“Make me fall in love with you.” You still do not look at him, but he cannot tear his eyes from you, mouth wide with shock, the space beneath his ribs pulsing with chaotic magic, his heart beating too fast to count. “You could have just… used your magic. You could have taken what I knew, by force. Why did you spend all that time with me?” The confession slowly takes shape across his tongue, heavy and raw, ready to drip like honey from his mouth to yours.
“I- are ye in love with me, Fern?”
“Answer the question.”
“I knew what I had to do, to help my brother but ye were unexpected. The worst, and most wonderful surprise of my eternal existence.”
“Johnny.” Simon’s insistence echoes across his mind and he feels the urge to turn on them both, to banish them from the estate, from the Isle, from his life, just to keep his time with you from being interrupted.
‘Bloody terrible timing.”
“Clearly. But this cannot be delayed.” He clenches his jaw, and pulls your hand into his, smoothing a palm over your knuckles.
“I’ll be back later, if ye want to talk more.” It’s a hopeful thing, this sentence. Something that carries so much weight, without even being a question. Something that has the power to crush him, without a mere thought.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Okay?” your head bobs, and you look down at the book with mock interest.  
“I do not forgive you but, I’d like to… talk. Yes.” Yes. Yes. The word rings between his ears. He can work for your forgiveness, he can spend the rest of his existence earning it, if this means you’ll let him. If you’ll speak to him.
“Later then?” He manages to get out, and then squeezes your hand in a goodbye after you nod.
He does not see the way you stare at your own fingers after he leaves, does not see the way your magic explodes throughout the library, before settling back against your skin like a warm embrace, your side of the binding fluttering in your heart.
“My home is alive.” He told your sleeping form, words quiet as he watched for any sign of you waking. “The place where my home is built, where I was born. The Isle. She chooses, who can stay, who can make their life there. She is a complex thing, a wild thing. Like you.” You twitched, and he paused, holding still as he waited. 
When you didn’t rouse, he pushed a small spark of chaos into your sleeping mind, drawing you in deeper, settling you into your wildest dreams. “Jet told me, about what ye’ve been through. About what the coven has done to ye, forced ye to do… and I think, the Isle would accept ye. Ah think she would like ye, and welcome ye, Fern. With me.” You shivered, and he instinctually warmed the room, raising the temperature until you settled.
“Johnny.” Price called inside his mind, insistent, but patient. “We have business.” He sighed. 
He had already been here too long tonight, and his brothers waited for him. 
The kiss to your hair was fleeting. Gentle. Sweet. Punctuated with a whisper lost on the breeze from the open window. 
“Gods, what have ye done to me little witch?” 
“Ye come out here often.” He says quietly from the door, standing just beyond it after spotting you on the veranda, and you nod slowly in response, eyes dragging away from the sky to his, before returning upwards. The night is soft. Calm edged and serene, the breeze carrying a hint of sea spray from the foam below.
“I’ve never seen so many.” 
“Stars?” 
“Planets.”
“Surely there are other planets besides your own?” He knows there are, he’s seen them in sky, in the mortal realm.
“Yes, but not like this. There’s… there’s nothing, like this.” Your lips part, throat bobbing with a breath and he feels a strange tightening his chest as he watches you take it in. You look so amazed, so enchanted, so captivated by something he views so ordinary, that he too, tilts his head back to look up at the dizzying number of planets. Hundreds of worlds swirl in the inky darkness above them, their colors so vibrant they shine like gemstones, blinking in and out of the velvet backdrop that is the night sky. “There are so many worlds. So many places.” you whisper to him, a smile full of awe sloping across your lips. “Do you go to them? These worlds?” 
“Some.” 
“Some.” you parrot. “Some.” you laugh, like the notion is absurd, which it probably is, to you. Something inconceivable, improbable. “They’re beautiful.” Your hand raises to reach for them, as if you could pluck one right out of the night and hold it in your palm. He watches, entranced by the way the three moon’s light shimmers across your face, bathing you in a purple silver glow, spilling over your shoulders and across your skin graciously, framing you like a star, a celestial being. His throat feels dry. 
“Aye. They are.” You lapse into silence, and he enjoys the feeling of being near you, his magic humming happily in his being, peace settling over him while you watch the stars, transfixed.
“Johnny.” You breathe his name, sweet and syrupy, magic dripping from each syllable. You look a little dazed, exhaustion pulling at your features, and he indulges in a daydream where he kisses your forehead, pressing a hint of power against your skin, wrapping you in a soft cocoon of his magic to comfort you. “I… I’d like to kiss you.” The words break him from his imaginations, and he jerks, pulling away to inspect your face, to see if were alright. Or if you were reading his mind. Or if you had become possessed by some Demon, some evil creature appearing here to make him suffer more than he already was.
But all he sees is his dove. His Fern. His little witch, face soft and open, expectant.
“Would you deny me, Johnny? After everything you’ve done?” You raise an eyebrow, and his heart sings, magic humming along happily, binding trilling in his body. You’re teasing him.
“Ye never have to ask.” The words are the same ones he said on Samhain, and he restrains his movements, keeping his body slow and steady while he leans into you, lowering his mouth to yours, the warmth of your lips against him sending his heart soaring, the intoxicating scent of you, the feel of your magic, the light caress of your fingers against his hip all amplified in this realm, and by the binding that seems to be stitching the two of you together by every moment.
He follows your lead, giving you space when you begin to ease off from him, and explosions rattle his soul as he stares down at you and your cautious smile.
“I love ye, Fern.” Your eyes go wide, and you startle, stepping a half pace away. “I dinnae how to tell ye, after everything. Ah ken, ah… there’s nothing that can be said, to make up for my treachery, for what I did to you.” He can feel the binding, the sailor’s knot tightening around the two of you, dragging you into one another, can feel the distinct signature of your magic, swirling around him, can smell the sweet citrus and blood dipped in balsam that floods his dreams. It’s enough to make his head spin.
“Johnny, this- this is the binding, it’s...” He shakes his head in rebuttal and reaches for your hand.
“I’ve loved ye since the first day I set foot in the shop. I’d burn the realms for ye, Fern.”
“You used me.”
“And ye will never know how I regret it, how I wish I could change it.” Let me love you. Let me hold you. Let me have you. The swell of the tide within him crests, magic churning into an excessive force, the binding burning, screaming, yearning against his lungs, and he pushes and pulls at it, twisting it up into something he struggles to contain. “Break the binding or leave it intact. It won’t change the way I feel.”
“I-“ Your words are snatched from your mouth when you draw a quick breath, bending at the waist, flat of your palm pressed to your belly with a soft groan.
“Fern?” His hand hovers at the small of your back, just above your skin.
“Sorry, I- I just had a cramp, is all.” You straighten, faint grimace sunken into your expression, and he frowns.
“What do ye need?”
“Nothing, I’m just gonna go lay down, I think.” You’re still holding your stomach, and worry froths in his heart, his mind as he watches you wince.
“Ye sure? Do you need-“
“I’m sure.” You wave him off, already turning away. “Goodnight, Johnny.” You murmur over your shoulder.
“Sleep well, little witch.”
The shockwave that ripples through his home in the small hours of the morning startles him from restless sleep. It jolts him into a panic, the binding clawing at his mind, his magic, tugging and pulling him towards something.
Towards you.
“Fern?” He calls, body teetering at the threshold of your room.
Are you dreaming? 
Are you ill? 
He can smell you from the doorway, balsam and citrus tinged with the scent of sour fruit, distress permeating through the air to where he stands, waiting. Holding his breath for answer.
“Fern.” He tries again, firmly, but you don’t respond, only moan into your pillow, the sound of your pain tearing at his heart until he’s blinkingacross the room, coming to lean over your trembling form, panic hammering inside his skull. “Hey, dove. Are ye with me?” He pulls you towards him, holding your face between his palms. Your eyes are nearly black, pupils so large they dot out your irises, and you thrash in his grip, nails digging into his skin while you cry out.
“Jo-Johnny. Johnny.” You’re sweating, sheets soaked beneath you, and the heat that’s blaring from your skin curdles his stomach.
The binding. The magic. It’s burning you from the inside. 
You whimper, and his heart breaks for you, bleeds for you while you bury your nose in his neck, panting heavily.
“I’m here.” He tries to hold you steady, cradling the back of your head in his hand, the sear of your skin far too warm to be comfortable, the effect of the binding boiling in your blood.
You’re suffering. You’re suffering, and it’s his fault. He did this. He caused this. 
Ce’s warning echoes sharply in his mind.
“You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.”
The guilt fissures his heart in two.
“It hurts.” You try to tell him, weakly, and his frustration builds, the magic inside of him compounding, yearning to lash out.
“Ah know, Ah know it does.” The words are little comfort.
“Please. Pl-please make it stop.”
He can’t. He shouldn’t. 
“It hu-hurts Johnny. Please. It burns.” You’re breaking apart in front of him. Inconsolable. Desperate. Dying. 
“Shhh. ‘ve got ye.” He tries to calm you, holds you tight against him, pressing your body to his but all it does it make you squirm more, make you cry out against him, your voice broken with distress.
“Please! Please-“ you beg, and he slams his eyes shut.
He shouldn’t. He can’t.
But you’re in pain. 
You could die. 
The binding is heating your body past any measurable sense. You were not made to survive such a thing.
When he looks at you now, he knows his insistence on refusing this is pointless. He is too weak to give you up. He is not strong enough to say no. He has loved you since the day he first laid eyes on you. He would do anything to save you, to keep you alive.
Even if it meant this.
Even if it meant completing the bond the only way he knew how.
“I’m here, I’m here.” He kisses your breastbone, trails his lips down between your breasts, sucking marks into your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat like a dying mortal. “I’m going to make it okay.” He wants to take his time, wants to savor you, wants to have you the way he’s always dreamed about, slow and sweet, taking you apart piece by piece like you deserved.
There’s no time for that now.
“Johnny.” You whimper, something broken in your voice, a desperation unlike he’s ever heard before and it stings.
“Shhh. I’m going to take care of ye.”
A broken moan rises from your throat when he moves your body, shifting you underneath his weight, pinning your hips and teasing his tongue around one your nipples, nipping across you with his teeth just enough to sting your skin, to jolt you.
“I- I need- I want-“ You try to explain it, to direct him, and your magic flourishes forward, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for salvation.
“I know what ye need, Fern. Ah know.” His fingertips stroke over your navel, over where your lower belly tenses under his touch, and then to your cunt, where scorching heat mixes with liquid fire, your body wet and ready for him, desperate for him, magic burning you with arousal, with an undeniable need for him.
“Touch me.” You plead, and his lips find the inside of your thigh, dragging towards where you’re dripping, citrus and blood flooding his senses.
You taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of. Pressure builds up his spine, magic and desire burning like a fuse as he presses his tongue against your clit, and you shiver in his grasp when he lavishes you there.
His palm presses against your belly, holding you firm, muscles and sinew rippling under his touch, your voice peaking with a cry when he swirls around your swollen bud, over and over, working you relentlessly.
“Come for me, come on. Let me make it better, dove.” It won’t, and he knows it, knows only one thing will, but he hopes to the gods it will stave off some of your pain. He rasps against your skin and you keen, rocketing into an orgasm within a moment’s time, sharp and fiery, but only a balm for the burn of the binding, the incessant tugging beneath his ribs humming with miserable bliss over the moan of his name on your lips.
You’re still strung taut, seizing, the heat of your skin blazing against him. You tug fruitlessly at his clothes, fingers knotted up in his shirt, his pants, and he swipes a hand across your cheek to press his thumb against your tongue as he divests himself with one hand and a snap of magic.
His fingers are wet with you, with your spit, your arousal, and he coats himself with it, stroking the length of his cock, kissing the crown to your opening while he stares down at you indulgently.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch. 
“Please.” You breathe your plea into him, into his mouth, his skin. “Please, it’s- I need you.” You choke and he pushes, your eyes going wide as he batters his way into your body, the tight clench of your walls strangling him as he moves. “Gods-“ you gasp, and he strokes some hair from your face, lips pressing sweetly to your cheek, your jaw to soothe you, to quiet the discomfort from the stretch.
“I know, I know.” He murmurs, keeping his movements slow and steady, watching how your expression eases, how your body adjusts, how your brows unknit with each passing moment. You relax around him finally, face going slack with bliss as he folds one of your knees back towards your shoulder. “That’s it, good… good girl.” He hums over your ear, before pressing a gentle kiss there. “Take me so well. So perfect.” He needs to fill you, own you, fuck you full and possess every inch of your being. It’s the only way, the only way to soothe your soul, to soothe his own. It’s always been the only way, since the day he saw you. Since the first time he kissed you, in the shadow of Samhain.
His heart flutters, the binding clawing at his power, wrapping itself around your heart, stitching across the bridge between your bodies to reach the other side, encasing itself and him in the warmth of blood magic, of your magic. It only grows stronger as his hips stroke, his body moving inside of yours, gasps of pleasure falling from your lips.
Your muscles clench around him, desperate, and it feels right. Everything feels right, it feels fated, it feels meant to be. Like you were made for him, born for him. You, his equal. You, his balance. He pads over your clit with a press of his fingers, moving against you in time with his thrusts and your power surges to meet his, interweaving until it’s impossible to discern your beginning and his ending.
“I’ve always wanted ye here with me.” He nips along your collarbone, tracing a bead of sweat up the skin of your neck to your jaw. “I broke into the flat, just to watch ye sleep, every night after Samhain.” He punches his sentence with thrust of his cock, brushing against your cervix, and you keen. “I’ve loved ye. Dreamt of ye. I have betrayed ye,” you mumble something, lashes fluttering, and he swallows your words with his mouth before continuing. “and will spend the rest of my existence, our existence, apologizing for my transgressions.” Your body shifts with him, the rhythm he set upon your clit forcing you forward, spine curling you into him, his name a whisper on your lips.
“Johnny, Johnny.”
He fucks into you harder, wild, primal, full of ferocity and you cry out, shuddering beneath him, squeezing around his cock. The urge to fill you, to breed you, is too strong to fight, and the binding croons to him in your voice, spurring him onwards.
“Gods, dove.” His voice is broken song, a plea, and you respond with a melody of your own. “Ye belong to me.” You nod in a daze, lips forming a word that sounds like please. “Going to give ye my come. Keep ye forever.”
“Ye-es.”
“Sweet Fern.” He coos when he feels it, the build of your climax, ushering you along with the press of his body. “My good girl, coming all over my cock. Like ye were made for it.” You hiss, and then your orgasm is washing you away, your voice shouting his name as you come. Your eyes spark, celestial light glittering beneath the black pools that have expanded across your irises, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, blood trickling down his chest, slicking between your bodies. It spills and spills, running like a river over the two of you, tracking across your breasts, down his abdomen, across your belly, down your thighs. It flows wildly, freely, rushing from him and towards you, spurred on by your mastery of it, your mastery of him.
You’re spinning him. You’re taking and taking, the binding drinking his magic in greedily, digging and scratching beneath the surface of his chaos, sowing vines that sprout and flourish, that tie him to you. His side of the binding shrieks in glee, in elation, and bends for you, arcing between your bodies to imbue you with cosmic pieces of chaos, a blend of blood and bedlam, boiling in your veins. In his.
Blood continues to gush from his body, his mouth full of you, of citrus and blood, of earth and balsam. You inhale him, pushing your tongue past his teeth, swirling in the mess there, and when you pull away, he can see the stains of ichor on your teeth under the curve your half-moon smile.
Your magic strangles him, strengthening itself, solidifying your power, absorbing what it can of his mayhem. The binding purrs, it sings to him, it sings to you, the sound chiming through his mind, echoing off the hollowed-out coves of the Isle, vibrating through its dark forest. He shouts against it, with it, orgasm just on the peak, both his body and yours trembling violently.
“Mine.” He snaps, and you answer easily. 
“Yours.” You nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He cradles you there, back of your head in his palm, and then he thrusts up into your body as hard as he can, overcome with need, with the burn of the binding, with love. It’s so much, the pull of the magic, the wildness of your heart seeping into his own, and he spills as deep as he can into your body, filling you with himself, plugging his come deep, your own body sucking him in desperately while you cry and shake in his arms.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch.
Ancient celestial light streams through the curtains, the proof of an entire day passing, the rising of the moons stirring you from where you have slept for the last few hours, body and binding finally sated, skin scrubbed clean from the stain of his blood.
You blink, heavily with exhaustion, and he pulls you into his body, unable to resist cuddling you close, breathing you in and wrapping an arm around your back to still you when you start to fidget. You smell different now, like a swirling storm of him and you, and his free hand drifts to your navel possessively.
“Johnny.” You murmur, and he answers by pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“I’m here.” He whispers. “Ye can rest dove. It’s okay.” You settle against him, and just as he’s starting to drift into his own star lit slumber, you sigh.
“You should start makin’ a list.”
“Of what?” You kiss his chest, lips soft against his skin.
“Of all the things,” you yawn, breath hot and sweet, and he wants to drag his tongue over your skin again, take you apart while he savors every tremble, every moan that leaves your body. “you’re going to do over the next hundred years to make it up to me.”
“One hundred years?” he chuckles in jest, but his heart soars. 
He knows, there is more hardship to come. He knows, the pain, the suffering, that you will experience, that you will unleash on the mortal realm, on him, when you learn the truth about your parents, about your coven. He knows the challenge ahead. 
But in this quiet moment, with you in his arms, nothing about it feels like the end. 
Only the beginning. 
“Careful." you breathe into him. "Or I’ll make it two.”
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five-and-dimes · 5 months
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I have no idea where this came from but I’m never going to turn it into a full fic so I’m releasing it into the void.
Dream is some sort of fae creature whose son died, so he sneaks into a mortal village and kidnaps a young boy around the same age his son was.
(Part of his heart hurts because he never took part in the traditional changeling child/fae kidnapping thing because he couldn’t bear to leave his son with some stranger, he loved him too much, and he knows deep down he shouldn’t do this to someone else but he’s desperate for something, anything, to dull the pain of his loss).
When single dad Hob wakes up and finds his son Robyn missing, he’s fully prepared to go scorched earth to find him. When it becomes clear he’s not in the village, he going charging alone into the woods, too impatient to put a party together to help him. (He’s terrified- he’s heard rumors of fae in these parts, but there was no child left behind. What could have taken his little boy?)
After a few days searching, he hears Robyn’s voice up ahead. He’s got a sword at his side, but for now he draws a bow and arrow, moving forward slowly. Eventually he comes to a clearing, peeking forward and preparing to shoot down whatever took his child. But then. He pauses. 
Robyn is smiling, and laughing, and has an abundance of flowers adorning his hair. He is plucking some berries from a bush and popping them into his mouth under the guidance of the most beautiful creature Hob’s ever seen. As he listens, he realizes that Robyn is talking about him, telling stories of how his papa taught him to identify the things that are safe to eat in the forest, and how tall he feels when he sits on his father’s shoulders, and how his papa has a terrible singing voice but sings the loudest anyway and so Robyn loves it. 
“I think papa will like you lots!” Robyn declares, and the creature smiles sadly.
“I… doubt that… but he sounds lovely.”
Hob is so confused by the whole situation that he doesn’t notice he’s taken a step forward until a branch snaps under his foot. Robyn looks over and immediately bursts into a wide smile, even as the creature lets out a panicked series of chirps and bolts in the other direction.
“Papa!!” 
Robyn throws himself into his father’s arms, and Hob drops his weapons to hold him, beyond relieved to have his son safe in his arms, unharmed. He spends a few minutes just peppering his son’s face with kisses and telling him how worried he was before finally looking at the spot where the creature had disappeared into the woods. Robyn follows his gaze, smiling and tugging on Hob’s hand to guide him into the clearing as he calls out.
“It’s okay, Dream! Papa is super nice to everyone, you don’t have to hide!”
Hob’s sees two bright eyes in the shadows before the creature- Dream- hesitantly steps forward. He looks sad and scared and ashamed and Hob is smitten almost immediately.
Robyn explains that when he woke up he had been scared, but Dream had hugged him (almost as good as his papa’s hugs, he claims) and told him he would keep him safe and take care of him. Then Robyn had been sad because he already missed his dad, and when he told Dream about him he had immediately realized the error of what he had done and resolved to return Robyn. It had taken some time because Robyn had insisted he was too big to be carried (it’s one thing if he was sleeping, but he was a big boy he could walk home just fine, really!) so they had traveled together, Dream never feeding him anything that would bind Robyn to him, instead just pointing out food and water for him to gather himself. 
Dream is still standing a bit aways from them both as Robyn tells the tale, looking at the little boy with aching fondness.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly to Hob, “I just... miss my son so much,” he smiles weakly at Robyn, “I believe you and Orpheus would have been great friends.”
And oh, Hob gets it all of a sudden. He had been fully prepared to do all sorts of questionable things to get his son back, he can’t imagine what he might be compelled to do if he actually lost him. And Dream was bringing him back, so he finds it very easy to forgive him.
He finds it even easier to invite Dream to finish the journey back with them, and then invite him to stay, and then invite him to build a home in the woods together, and share kisses and a bed and a life. 
Robyn is very smug.
He told Dream his dad would like him.
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adhdslugcrimes · 5 days
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Bruce: Robin is a fae, please don't take anything from him, don't give him your name, and I'm not liable if you get taken by the fae. *Leaves*
Everyone but kaldur and Wally: *nervous, especially zatanna*
Dick, holding a milkshake: here you go Walls.
Wally, about to grab it: thanks Rob— *zatanna slaps it out of his hands* hey!
Zatanna: didn't you just heard Batman!?
Wally: it doesn't apply to me I already gave him my name when I was six!
Zatanna: you gave the fae your name, at six!? And you took a gullible child's name
Wally: I wasn't gullible, he told me not to give him my name but I did because lore reasons!
Dick: it's true, I tried to warn him. *Gives Wally another milkshake*
Zatanna: what could have been so bad you gave ya name to a fae!
Wally, abused by his father so badly the stories of fae taking him didn't sound so bad: we don't have enough time to unpack all of that, *slurps milkshake*
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mint-yooxgi · 3 months
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Fight or Flight - Yandere!Redcap!Mingi X Tall!Chubby!Reader
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Fae!AU & Yandere!AU - Part of the CoDN Thrill of the Hunt Collab
Genre: Fantasy, Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Smut
Pairing: Mingi X Reader
Words: 7,327
Rating: Mature - 18+ MDNI
Warnings: Please read the warnings carefully, as this is a very heavy story dealing with many dark topics. This is also all of the warnings for this fic as it is one long one shot that I had to split into multiple parts, and I'm too tired right now to individually categorize all of these warnings to their respective parts. 8 ft tall Mingi. Slow burn. Violence: depiction of a massacre, a deer being slaughtered, as well as physical, verbal, sexual, and emotional, both alluded to and not. Blood and gore. Abuse: physical, emotional, verbal, and sexual, both alluded to and implied. Assault: physical, and sexual, both alluded to, implied, and attempted. OC has a really rough past, really this isn't for the faint of heart. Whipping, both alluded to, and done. Mentions of branding. Heavy themes of possession and ownership. Deception. Arson. Really, there's a lot of dark subject matter. Mingi falls hard and fast, thus, he simps a lot for the OC, but it's not a story written by me if Mingi doesn't simp for the OC. The reader is mentioned to be both tall and chubby, but it is not mentioned often, so it shouldn't disrupt the flow of the story when ready if you are not tall and/or chubby. I think that's everything, but if I missed something, please let me know! Smut: Biting/marking, outdoor sex, fingering (fem. rec), oral (fem. rec), hand job (male rec), come eating, overstimulation, Mingi has a dig bick, sex in a spring, really, it's very soft in comparison to the subject matter. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.
P.S. If there are any spelling or grammatical errors, please ignore them. I did my best through many rounds of editing, but some are liable to still slip through.
A/n: I am SO sorry this took me LITERALLY forever to complete. I meant to have this out so much earlier, and actually posted on time, but it turned out much, much longer than I ever anticipated it being. I'm really proud of how this story turned out, and I didn't want to split it into multiple parts because I felt it would take away from the story as a whole. I'm super excited for you all to read this one, as I had a tremendous amount of fun writing it, and I really hope you all love Mingi's and OC's journey as much as I do. Huge shoutout and thanks to @anyamaris and @kwanisms for listening to me ramble and rave about this story both before and during the writing process, and for always encouraging me while writing! Also, huge thank you to @sanjoongie for being so patient and understanding with me as I write this all out in full. I hope you all enjoy! As always feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!~
Summary: Out of one horrible situation and into another, the cycle of abuse never stops. You've lived with monsters your whole life. So, what's one more?
P.P.S. Please don't let this flop guys. If you enjoyed it, please reblog!!!
Mini Masterlist
An annoyed sigh leaves his lips at the incessant chatter he hears around him. Low whispers rise in volume until the dull buzz of voices consumes him, interrupting his post meal relaxation. Irritation mars his features, his brow tugging downwards as he pulls the broken sliver of bone he had been using to pick at his teeth with out of his mouth.
“What is with your incessant whining?” 
All Mingi had wanted to do was relax after dinner. In peace, within the confines of his makeshift encampment at the heart of his battalion, but it seems there’s been a commotion at the far edge.
“Humans, General.” One of his underlings, a vice-captain under his command, Darius, hisses. “They say they want to make a deal.”
Mingi scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Not too bright, are they?”
“When have humans ever been known to be smart?” Darius snickers.
Mingi heaves a long sigh, standing to his feet. “Given the length of this interaction, I can’t trust any of you to be competent enough to end this quickly.”
“They’re persistent, General.” He replies, flinching back as Mingi turns his sharp-eyed gaze to him.
“You let them think their words had any merit of importance to us.” The redcap general snaps. “No wonder they’re being so uncooperative.”
Striding through the encampment, the whispers finally come to a halt. A dead silence surrounds his soldiers as Mingi strolls through their ranks, eyes zeroing in on the small gathering of frail humans. Darius rushes along behind the proud general, whom stands a good eight feet tall. The tallest amongst his redcap companions.
A red sash is tied around Mingi’s bicep, alerting all to his rank within the gathered redcaps. There is a clear air of respect the others hold for him as he walks passed, holding his head high, no falter in his steps. Some even go so far as to look upon him in awe while others incline their head out of respect.
Reaching the edges of his encampment, Mingi scowls. “What’s the big idea here?”
“Ah, General!” Lias turns to him, a malicious grin tugging at the younger captain’s lips. “These humans insist on making a trade with us.”
“How did they even find us in the first place?” Mingi darts his gaze over to the three standing before him, just over the threshold of their protection line.
A woman seems to be holding another in her arms. The one with her head down doesn’t say much, but the one holding her trembles as she meets Mingi’s gaze. The male, slightly taller than the woman being held, stands a little straighter.
“We know mushroom rings will bring us where we want to be, or rather, to whom.” He replies, almost defiantly. “You just so happened to be the closest in the area.”
“Why are you wasting our time?” Mingi growls, teeth bared over much too sharp fangs.
“Please,” the woman holding the other in her arms seems desperate as she attempts to take a step forward.
That’s when he notices: the tall women is unconscious, being held up by the other. He quirks a brow, unaware a frail human such as the small one could ever be so strong.
“We just want to make a deal.” The man states, rather firmly.
Mingi’s gaze darts between the two humans.
“They want us to take their daughter for them.” Lias snorts, Darius laughing along with him. “As if we would care for such a useless mortal.”
“We know a little about your kind.” The woman continues. “Please, we know she’ll be better off here. We don’t want anything in return, just her safety.”
“She can earn her place.” The male adds. “She can look after herself, just please, take her with you.”
“We’re not about to gain something you don’t want.” Mingi retorts harshly, crossing his arms over his chest. “She has no use to us.”
“That’s not it at all.” The male is quick to shake his head, attempting to take a step towards the gathered redcaps only to be greeted by snarls and snapping fangs. He freezes. “Please-“
“We don’t need one of your kind slowing us down.” Mingi states, narrowing his eyes at the way the unconscious woman sways slightly. Honestly, he’s surprised this woman hasn’t fallen over yet, or caused the other holding her up to collapse under her seemingly dead weight.
“She won’t slow you down!” The woman is quick to protest.
“Watch your tongue, mortal.” Darius snaps. “This is no ordinary general you’re speaking to.”
The woman bows her head, cowering back and holding the other tighter to her chest. Though, due to the height difference, it looks quite awkward. A fact only echoed by the snickers Mingi can hear echo out behind him.
“Oh, come on,” Lias tilts his head slightly, a mischievous gleam in his gaze. “This could be fun. We could always use another pack mule.”
Some more snickers are heard from around the area, along with the snapping of jaws in agreement. The harsh clicking of fangs only rises in sound, and Mingi can smell the spikes of fear from the two conscious humans. A taste he absolutely revels in.
“The human would be safe with us from whatever outside forces you’re referring to.” Lias continues, his lips stretching widely over all too sharp teeth.
Mingi spares a glance around at his men, noting their sudden change in attitude. The eager gleams he sees throughout the crowd have him heaving a sigh.
“Very well,” he turns, beginning to walk away from this whole matter. He’ll let his men have their fun, and with any luck, the human will be dead come morning. “She’s your responsibility, though. If she survives.”
A cheer rises up through the surrounding redcaps as the tall women gets torn from the other’s arms and dragged across the protection barrier. Mingi thinks nothing of the way a faint smell of blood rises on the air, knowing his men are probably already having their fun after bringing the human properly into their realm. The other two have already been sent back, their memories altered forever. If they even remember having a daughter at all would be a miracle.
Entering his own private tent, Mingi settles into his favourite chair. Kicking his feet up onto a little stump, he leans back, relaxing into the evening chill that begins to settle over the land. They’ve still got a long ways to go to return to their keep, the scouting mission having taken a lot out of them. The rogue redcaps they had been hunting have all been dealt with. Traitors, every last one of them. The fight they had put up was gruesome, but as always, Mingi and his men came out on top. 
Despite it all, some of his men still have energy to burn as he hears the familiar hooting and hollering of his subordinates last long into the night.
***
The next day, Mingi wakes to the encampment practically all cleaned up. Some of his men are finishing last minute preparations for travel, their bags packed and stored for easier maneuvering. All that’s left is to secure his own lodgings for the next leg of their journey.
“The human finally woke up.” Darius informs Mingi as he steps to the head of the line.
“She’s not dead?” Mingi quirks a brow, barely bothering to scan the gathered ranks to see if he can spot the women he saw last night.
“We figured we could use her for some entertainment-“ at Mingi’s sharp glare, Darius stops himself. “She’s surprisingly stronger than she looks. We’ve loaded her with a few packs and told her to carry them for us, or else she won’t like the outcome.” The vice-captain shrugs. “She complied.”
Mingi hums to himself, turning towards the direction they’ll be setting off in in a few minutes. He finds it odd for a human to be so complacent. All of the stories he’s heard contradict such simplistic actions. He was expecting screaming, and an attempt to run the first moment she regained consciousness. 
Even more shocking is the fact that you’re still alive.
“Don’t let it go on too long,” Mingi shoots him a look out of the corner of his eyes. “Have your fun, but make sure she doesn’t slow me down.”
“Of course, General.” Darius nods, saluting him before running off to finish some last minute things.
Quietly, Mingi observes his battalion. He can see Lias barking orders at some subordinates to finish packing the rest of the camp quickly. Others appear to be scrambling about, and true to Darius’ word, Mingi spots that same tall woman from last night standing off to the side.
There’s nothing special about you. At least, from what Mingi can tell. You stand upright, spine straight with three packs carried on your figure. Their bulk simply adds to your own, nearly drowning you in their sheer size. Your face looks worn, and tired, but you move around where they instruct you to without complaint. 
Mingi just hopes you can keep up with them.
A few minutes later, the redcaps are on the move. Multiple shoot you looks of disgust as they run passed, growling lowly in your direction. Some even go to far as to purposely run into you, spitting on you as they knock you over in your attempts to keep pace with the company. 
It isn’t more than an hour into the morning when you start to fall behind.
Mingi heaves out a sigh, smelling the faintest bit of blood again in the air. A scent not uncommon in a group of redcaps, given their premise. Though, what truly annoys him is the subtle limp you attempt to hide as he marches over to you at the very rear of his guard.
Again, his men part for him silently. The simple power he exudes enough to silence even the rowdiest of the bunch.
“Are you that incompetent that you do not know how to walk properly, mortal?” He sneers, irritation clear on his features.
“I can walk just fine.” You reply bluntly.
“Then, keep up.” He snaps, turning so as not to waste another word on you for the moment.
With Mingi’s back to you, he fails to notice the harsh glare you send his way, but his subordinates do.
A harsh slap rings out through the forest, a dull thud heard soon after.
“You dare look upon our general with such vile contempt in your eyes?” Lias’ voice booms out through the surrounding redcaps, catching Mingi’s attention.
He freezes, turning to spare a glance over his shoulder.
There you rest, face down on the ground as you attempt to push yourself up. Your clothes are even more disheveled than before, dirt smearing your cheek. Yet, that harsh look still rests upon your face, even as the smell of blood becomes more prominent in the air.
“I didn’t ask for this.” You keep your voice low, but still clear enough for everyone around you to hear.
“Well, get used to it, Sweetheart,” Lias hisses, tugging you harshly back to your feet by the back of your neck. “You’re no better than a pet, now.”
You say nothing, instead opting to purse your lips. Your eyes narrow as you watch Lias retreat from you, hands fisted around the straps of the packs you carry as your whole body seems to tremble. 
If Mingi didn’t know any better, he’d say you’re angry.
No… not angry. Disappointed.
Turning back to face front, Mingi decides to ignore you for the rest of the day. You’re not his responsibility, and how his subordinates treat you is truly none of his concern. Really, if it were up to him, he would have sent those two other humans bargaining for you to join them here in the fae realm packing. Perhaps he should have made an example of you all when he had the chance. Only, now, he’s stuck with you, and he’ll have to learn to deal with it, for the sake of his men. It’s not like you’re the only human he’s ever dealt with before.
Luckily, for the rest of the day, travel does not get halted again. You manage to keep up just fine, only falling behind once more near sunset. Mingi had wanted to travel for longer this day, covering more distance and hearing no complaints from neither you nor his men. 
The faster they get home, the swifter he can deal with the mess that is you.
Mingi wants nothing to do with you. All you are to him is a pathetic little human. So frail, he could break you with the flick of his wrist. His eyes narrow on your figure as he sees you collapse against the side of a tree, none of his underlings sparing you any supplies as they set up for the night.
No food is offered to you, but you manage to scrounge some water. Your throat burns, and your feet ache as if they’re ready to fall off at a moment’s notice. The stitch in your side is finally calming down, and you’re just grateful none of these fae have ordered you to help them set up camp for the night. No, they stated they didn’t want you touching anything, or doing something wrong, and for once, you’re thanking your lucky stars for such a harsh verdict.
Lightly, you rub at your leg, right where you know that fresh wound still resides. It’s not a deep cut, but twisting wrong, or moving around too much aggravates the scar. Not to mention your limp which has returned even worse than before, due to the speed at which you’re expected to move.
Despite it all, you don’t say anything. No, you learned the hard way what talking back meant. Though, that might just be your one salvation through this all. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll see how far you can push these redcaps, and discover if their nature really lives up to their legacy.
For now, you settle deeper against that tree. It’s late, and you are exhausted. Sleep is one of the best things for you now, especially since there’s no way you can return to the life you previously once had. Thinking back on it now, you don’t know if you’d ever want to.
Not that you really ever had a choice.
The next morning brings another early start, you being commanded to carry even more than yesterday on your back. The only saving grace is that it seems the speed at which the band you’re travelling with has lessoned, but that doesn’t stop your whole body from aching.
Two more days pass like this, insults thrown at you by the surrounding redcaps, only for them to take out their amusement on you by either scratching you by ‘accident’, spitting on you, or pushing you to the ground. You manage to get some food, but it’s both rotten and vile. You’re honestly surprised your body hasn’t given up on you, yet.
You start to complain, but to your relief, or rather, disappointment, no one bothers to take your whining seriously. That, or they’re quick to shut you up, but not in the way you so desperately hope.
It’s around midday when you feel yourself lose your footing. The sun is shining brightly in the sky above your head, a few clouds drifting lazily by as you tumble harshly to the ground. The worst part is, you end up landing badly on your injured side. Unluckily for you, both that scar and your bad ankle are on your right leg which just so happens to land awkwardly on top of the root you tripped over.
You attempt to keep them at bay, but the sudden sharp pain you feel shoot up your leg sends tears to your eyes. You can practically feel your cut tear itself anew, a dampness seeping into the material of your tattered pants. Your breathing is heavy, and you can hardly force yourself back onto your hands, your entire body groaning in protest. Every ache pulses through you with each heartbeat, and in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is truly the end.
“What’s the hold up this time?” You hear a stern voice huff out above your head.
Mustering enough energy, you tilt your head upwards at the approaching figure. There’s a brief moment where the sun blinds you, filtering through the branches in such a way that burns your vision with a bright light until a shadow looms over you. Blinking reveals the redcap’s general standing before you, a look of pure ire marring his features as he glares down at you.
“Get up.” He growls, not even bothering to nudge you with his foot. You’re too far beneath him to bother.
A sad attempt is made by you once more before you’re collapsing on top of your weakened arms.
“I. Can’t.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, squeezing your eyes shut through the pain.
Mingi snorts. “Pathetic.”
With a roll of his eyes, he storms away from you, barking out orders to set up the encampment. From what you can hear, he plans to move out during the night.
They need to stop to eat, anyways.
Insults are hurled your way by various underlings, some even going so far as to step on you as they walk passed. It’s as if you are worth no more than the dirt beneath their feet as you continue to lay there, weak and injured, just waiting and begging for death to finally claim you.
“You’ve really been a thorn in the general’s side ever since you joined us.” A voice to your left catches your attention.
“I didn’t ask to become a slave.” You retort is half grumbled into the earth, brow furrowing as you glare in the voice’s direction.
A chuckle is heard from above you. “Last I checked, you weren’t actually bound to this group.”
Out of the corner of your vision, you see a male, or rather, what appears to be a male, crouch beside you. He appears a bit shorter than his companions, perhaps even an inch or two shorter than you, and that’s saying something.
“My name’s Windfel,” he says lightly. “I’ve never met a human before. What’s your name?”
“Don’t worry about it,” you huff, finally managing to push yourself upwards and shrug those packs off of your back.
A hiss escapes you as you accidentally apply to much pressure to your right side, hand grasping over where that reopened cut resides. The dull throbbing you can feel, mixed in with the sight of days old blood and dirt only has you wincing. The wound is more than likely infected, and probably has been for the past few days. Only, you don’t have anything to treat it with, and it’s not like you can go around asking for help.
“Oh, you’re more clever than we give you credit for.” He grins. “You must know that telling a fae your true name means they have complete power over you.”
“You’re the ones who assumed me incompetent in the first place.” Your retort is low, and almost immediately, you flinch, as if bracing yourself for an impact of some sorts.
Again, he only chuckles. “That we did.”
“Is there something you want, Windfel?” The question is a bit harsh, despite you avoiding his gaze.
“Not in particular at the moment,” he hums. “I’m simply satisfying a mere curiosity. I’ve read a lot about you humans, thanks to the experiments in the Latha Court.”
“You experiment on humans?” Your eyes widen, a surge of panic washing through you.
“Yes.” He replies, somewhat cheerfully with a nod of his head. “We learn a lot about your kind that way.”
“You’re despicable.” A shudder caresses your spine.
“So I’ve been told.” He grins. “I am a redcap, you know.”
Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice him tip a flat cap stained dark red in your direction.
“I’m aware.” Your answer is blunt as you attempt to stand to your feet. You don’t get very far, for you immediately fall back onto your ass as your arms give out beneath you.
A small ‘oof’ escapes you as you land on your right side, eyes squeezing shut as more tears spring up from beneath where you’ve always tried to hide them.
“You’re not looking so good,” he observes.
“Thanks for noticing.” A low grumble is all he receives in response as you attempt to push yourself upwards once more.
Another chuckle. “I like your sense of humour.”
A side-eyed look is sent his way curtesy of you, “If you want to call it that.”
“Come on, I’ll help you.” He goes to lift you to your feet.
Immediately, you cower away from him, a brief panic filling your gaze as you fixate on his hands.
“I have no intentions of harming you right now.” He replies, somewhat calmly.
“Why are you trying to help me?” You eye him cautiously.
He shrugs. “I’m bored.”
As much as you don’t appreciate his answer, you have no better options. Somewhat reluctantly, you allow him to help you to your feet, guiding you to a tent already prepped and ready. He lifts the flap, allowing you to stumble your way inside and sitting in a chair as per his instruction.
The tent is large enough to fit three people comfortable, appearing more spacious on the inside than from the outside. You suppose it has to do with the magic of the fae, considering they’re able to store everything and carry it so efficiently in such packs, no larger than what you’re used to calling knapsacks.
“You know, you really have caused a great deal of annoyance for our general since your arrival.” He says as he grabs a roll of white medical cloth from a little side table.
“I never asked for this.” You mumble, keeping your head down.
“I’m aware you were brought unconscious into our ranks.” Windfel replies. “Is there a reason for that?”
“Not that I’m obliged to tell you.” Your eyes narrow suspiciously, watching every movement he makes closely.
You highly doubt anyone will come to your aid if you decide to scream for help.
“Just making conversation,” he responds, lifting his hands lightly in front of himself in a shrug. “I’m not a healer, so all I’m willing to do is let you wrap that wound. If you’re lucky, you won’t have to dress it when we get back to the keep.”
You purse your lips, eyeing Windfel as he places the roll of cloth beside you. A moment later, and he’s moving around the tent, rummaging through his own pack and pulling out a fresh pair of clothes.
“What, exactly, is this ‘keep’ you all continuously talk about?” You ask, somewhat warily.
He completely ignores your question, tossing the spare clothes at you.
“I don’t use these anymore, and although we typically enjoy the smell of blood, we don’t enjoy when wounds fester.” His nose crinkles along with his words. “There’s a small stream about a quarter of a mile to the northeast. I’ll take you there once you’re ready.”
“You’re being awful nice to me for someone who doesn’t like my kind,” You observe, eyeing him carefully.
“I care about my general, and anything I can do to… lesson his burdens, I will.” Comes Windfel’s simple reply. “When you’re ready, I’ll be outside.”
You watch him step out the opposite flap of the tent he entered, brow furrowing as the material slaps shut. Shouts can be heard outside, along with the hustle and bustle of the rest of the encampment being set up. You bet the rest wouldn’t have even notice you moved from that tree, yet.
Tilting your head downwards, you look at the clothes in your hand, feeling the fabric between your fingers. It’s been far too long since you’ve gotten any type of new clothing. Back in the human realm, the only time you got a new piece of clothing was when- no. You shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.
Swallowing thickly, you look over at that roll of white medical cloth. As much as you don’t trust this redcap, this is the first ounce of kindness you’ve received in quite a long time. There’s a part of you screaming at yourself not to believe it, but there’s another part, a part much more vulnerable that clings onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, things are starting to look up for you.
Your life has never been worth much, but perhaps someone is actually starting to see value in you that has never been there before. Then again, you probably shouldn’t get your hopes up. They’ve fallen too many times for you to count.
Taking a deep breath in, you grab that roll of medical cloth. Carefully, you wrap it in the bundle of clothes from Windfel, and stand back to your feet. Though you wobble slightly, you’re able to steady yourself, and within a minute, you’re exiting through the same flap that redcap did only moments before.
A single nod is all you give him as you stand outside the tent. A single nod of which he returns, motioning for you to follow him deep into the woods.
***
The journey to the stream is slow, taking well over an hour to get there. The distance is much greater than you were expecting, and the path isn’t easy at all. As much as Windfel seems to be ‘helping’ you, he did not once offer you a hand through the rough terrain of the woods through your travels.
“Will there be enough time?” You ask, eyeing the trickling water at the edge of the bank.
“Relax,” Windfel huffs out lightly. “Knowing the general, he’ll probably spend at least another two hours resting. So, as long as you don’t take too long, we’ll be fine.”
You purse your lips in response, but say nothing.
“I have no interest in watching you bathe, either, human.” He says, turning so his back is to you. “So, you needn’t worry about that.”
“I’ve never had much privacy, anyways.” You grumble, but as soon as the words leave your lips, your eyes widen. Terrified, you glance at Windfel’s back.
Choosing to either ignore your statement, or you entirely, he stands there, unmoving, His back is straight as he gazes out into the woods in the direction you both came, paying no mind to even the sound of water trickling behind you.
You turn back around.
Darting your gaze to the stream once more, you notice how clear the water seems to be. The movement against the stones appears languid, a gentle breeze flitting through the trees in the next moment. It’s almost as if the stream is inviting you in, luring you into it’s pristine waters, and the longer you stare at its enchanting depths, the more you long to dip your feet into its calming waters.
“What’s the catch?” You grit your teeth, cursing yourself for being so stupid.
“You humans always think there’s some sort of trick to everything, don’t you?” Windfel chuckles, and suddenly, you feel his hot breath on your neck. You didn’t even hear him move. “I could push you in, if you like, but I don’t think that would bode well for your wound.”
Your spine straightens. “I can get in myself, thank you very much.”
“You are most welcome.” The way you can practically feel him smile against your back has a shiver running down your spine.
A moment later, his presence at your back lessens, and you find yourself able to breathe easier once more. You spare a glance over your shoulder to see him resting in that same spot as before, his back turned as he begins to hum a small tune to himself. Eyeing him cautiously for a few moments, you finally turn back around to face the stream, deciding that he won’t actually do anything to you. Besides, even you are starting to not be able to handle your own stench, and that’s saying something.
Slowly, carefully, you begin stripping yourself of your old clothes. The tattered shirt you wear gets tossed onto the ground beside the new one, your pants following shortly after. You have enough mind to leave your undergarments on, just in case Windfel decides to play a trick of some sort on you, or run away with both sets of clothes. You still need something to wear, and Windfel is still a man.
Men are never good at keeping their promises. You learned that the hard way.
Stepping towards the very edge of the stream, you take your time sitting down. Each movement is stiff, pain shooting through your right side as you finally get a good look at the cut on your upper leg. 
The wound festers, dried pus caked on the edge. The cut itself is swollen, days old blood littering the skin around it. From how bad it looks, you’re scared to even touch it, but a creeping thought in the back of your mind keeps you inching towards the water with every passing second.
You’ve had worse.
Carefully, you dip your toes into the crystalline water. It’s a bit cool to the touch, and causes you to jerk back, surprised by its icy feel. Yet, it’s alluring in a way, as if it’s the softest of silk that has ever caressed your skin. A luxury you have never been afforded, and you take the time now to savour it, despite the chill that clings to your feet as you submerge them beneath the gentle flow of the stream.
In no time at all, you feel yourself get used to the water’s icy chill, sinking deeper and deeper until you’re fully sitting on the edge of the river bank. Being mindful of your leg, you angle yourself so you can lean towards the water, cupping your hands together in order to gather the cool liquid in your palms and clean your wound.
The first few handfuls sting, but you grit your teeth and bear it. With each handful of water, more and more of the dirt, grime, and blood is washed away, revealing the cut to have gotten longer over the past few days. All that running around must have strained it, and reopened the wound over and over again, leading to the edges widening, and the cut deepening.
No wonder your whole leg has been aching. You just hope the infection isn’t already in your blood. There’s no telling what may happen to you, then.
“Oh my, that looks bad.” 
A voice from above your head startles you, and you nearly go toppling into the stream. Looking up with a hand clutched over your chest, your eyes wide in panic, you see Windfel leaning over you, inspecting your cut.
“A few more days and you would have had to cut it off,” he remarks casually.
You physically feel your heart drop, your eyes briefly shifting to your right ankle. You swallow thickly, a jolt of pain travelling all the way from your foot upwards to your hip as tears unwillingly spring to your eyes. Almost involuntarily, you begin rapidly shaking your head, protests falling from numb lips.
“I’m just shanking ya!” He laughs, boisterously at that. He even goes so far as to pat your shoulder a few times, wiping tears of joy from the corner of his eyes.
“You’re not very funny.” You whisper, expression hard.
Windfel blinks, “Geez, tough crowd.”
You purposely avoid his gaze, looking back out over to the opposite bank of the stream. Your lips are pursed in a thin line as you slowly manage to get your breathing under control. Even you can hear the thunderous pounding of your own heartbeat, so you sure as hell know that Windfel can, too.
“I thought you weren’t going to watch me.” You mutter, slowly turning yourself further into the stream.
“No, I said I had no interest in watching you bathe.” He remarks, matter of factly. “There’s a difference.”
“If you say so,” you mutter, slipping into the water and putting a little bit of distance between you and that redcap. Not that it would really matter, in the long run.
The chill of the water causes your body to stiffen for a moment, only for the entirety of your muscles to immediately relax. The chill morphs into a gentle caress, and as you sink down to allow the water up to your neck, you find yourself letting out a small, blissful sigh through your nose. Involuntarily, your eyes slip shut.
“Feels better, doesn’t it?” Windfel hums.
Your eyes shoot open, turning to look over at the redcap who is back to standing in his original spot, facing away from you.
“I-“ you swallow, keeping your voice low. “I haven’t had a chance to bathe like this in a long time.”
“Yeah,” Windfel snorts. “I could tell.”
He makes a gesture similar to fanning the air in front of himself, and you find yourself rolling your eyes. You even go to far as to splash water in his direction before you can stop yourself.
Even though not a single drop of water touches him, your eyes still go wide. Not a muscle moves as you stare at him, your heartbeat thudding once more in your ears.
“Damn, human, you really are uptight.” Windfel snickers. “As if a little water could hurt me. It’s nice when such creatures are playful. Adorable, even.”
“I don’t think many would agree with you.” You mutter, gently pushing yourself backwards and creating just a tiny bit more distance between yourself and him.
“You’re probably right,” he hums. “Though, we all can agree on liking to be amused.”
“You confuse me.” You state blankly, rubbing at your skin lightly beneath the water and washing away any excess dirt and grime you can see.
“The feeling is very much mutual, human.” He replies. “I bet if you lived on your own as long as I have in the wild, you’d feel the same way.”
“Oh, yeah,” you hum, clearly not convinced as you dunk your head under the water briefly. “I’m sure.”
“Oh, come on! You’re telling me you’ve never lived in the woods before? Never fought for your own survival all by you little lonesome?” Windfel’s voice is slightly mocking, and you know he’s probably only trying to get a rise out of you. 
Unfortunately, though, it’s working.
“I think you and I have two very different definitions of survival.” You say, scrubbing a bit harder at your skin.
“Perhaps that is true,” he hums once more, as if considering your words. “But come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to know what it’s like to live on your own.”
“How do you know if I’ve lived on my own or not?” You retort, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.
“I don’t.” Windfel shrugs. “From what those of us who care enough to read about your kind can gather, it’s observed that you usually go out on your own once you reach a certain age.”
“And you’re one of those that have read about my kind?” You quirk a brow. 
The longer you spend talking with Windfel, the more you seem to ease into the conversation. Though the water continues to feel nice around you, you also decide that it’s time to remove yourself from the stream so you can quickly dry off and make it back to the others. The last thing you need is for something to happen, or for you to finally face the wrath of a redcap.
At this point, that may just be a blessing.
There’s almost a slight tug at the back of your mind. With each step you take towards the bank and your awaiting clothes, a small voice tells you to stay. The water seems to be caressing your entire body, becoming denser around you with each step. It’s almost as if the stream is trying to hold you down, to force you to not leave its waters. Yet, despite it’s almost enchanted callings, you persist, managing to pull yourself out of the crystalline water and back onto the side of the bank.
The consequences of staying far outweigh the rewards in your mind.
You fail to notice how Windfel’s brow quirks in surprise, but he continues on the conversation as if nothing is wrong.
“I’ve read a few things, yes.” He confirms. “Knowledge is power, or haven’t you heard?”
“Power is power, no matter where in the world.” You grumble, flicking off as much excess water on your body as you can before beginning to wrap your upper thigh with that medical cloth. Once finished, you tie it off quickly, but not tight enough that it will hurt you even more than you already are. A moment later, you stand back to your feet.
“Spoken like a true scholar,” Windfel teases lightly, his back still turned to you.
Slowly, you begin pulling on the clothes he leant you. The pants are a little short around the ankles, but they fit surprisingly well. Considering the size difference between the both of you, you’re surprised the shirt even managed to pull over your head, but it’s loose, and you’re grateful for the soft material that graces your skin.
“Still, you should definitely try living on your own at some point.” He remarks casually. “There’s no feeling quite like freedom.”
Your whole body freezes, gaze slowly trailing over to where Windfel stands, now at the edge of the wood. He seems to be holding a bundle in his hands, and when you look down, you realize that it’s your old, raggedy clothes.
“I wouldn’t know.” You state, rather firmly as your eyes narrow at the redcap across from you.
“Oh, yes, well,” he finally turns back around to face you, a grin tugging at his lips to reveal all too sharp fangs. “About that…”
“If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.”
Your words clearly catch him off guard, for now it’s his turn for his eyes to widen in shock.
“My dear, why would I want to kill you?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve done nothing but be forced upon us since the start. I may be a monster, but I’m not unreasonable.”
“Like I’ve never heard that one before.” You mutter, rolling your eyes.
Again, your breath hitches as soon as the words leave your lips, and you find yourself flinching backwards away from Windfel instinctually.
He frowns, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “I told you. I care about my general and how much your presence burdens him. It’s easier this way if you just disappear.”
Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You want me to disappear, but not kill me?”
“For the most part.” He blinks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“How do you expect me to do that?” You frown, doing whatever you can to hide the clear exasperation in your voice.
“Run away.” He states.
“Excuse me?”
“Run away.” He repeats with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I doubt they’ll even notice you’re gone.”
Now, it’s your turn to blink at him. Once. Twice. Three times in disbelief as you cannot keep your mouth from falling open in shock.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I think the whole point of you bathing was for that to no longer be the case.” He says smartly. “I told you. You’re a burden to our general, and if I can relieve that burden from his shoulders, I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re not currently being hunted, so there’s no reason to kill you right now.”
“And where will I go?” You ask, incredulously. “I have nothing-“
“Find the Latha court, I’m sure those human lovers will take you in.” He cuts you off, a slight twitch to his brow. “Go that way,” he points off to your left with a clawed finger. “There’s a small town. I’m sure someone will give you a hand.”
“Like you did?” You quirk a brow, eyeing Windfel carefully.
“Exactly.” He nods. “Now, you best be on your way, little mortal. My patience is starting to wear thin.”
Though the last part of his words he says in a cheerful voice, the way his eyes gleam in the light of the setting sun unnerves you.
Without waiting for another chance, you take the one presented to you.
“I better not see you around again.” Windfel hums, and you can hear him beginning to trudge in the opposite direction that you are. “You won’t like it if you do.”
A shiver caresses your spine at his words, and you find yourself picking up your pace. Reaching the opposite end of the little clearing where the stream is, you quickly spare a glance over your shoulder. Windfel is nowhere to be seen, and you do not know if it should relieve you, or terrify you. All you do know, is that you have to put as much distance between yourself and that gang of redcaps as you can. To start, you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
The trek into town is a lot easier than you thought it would be. It only takes you about forty minutes to reach the outskirts, and with every step, you seem to gain better footing than before. The ache in your leg is dulling, and your head is the clearest it’s been in weeks. You don’t trip over any roots, or stumble over any rocks, either. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say things are actually starting to look up for you.
That’s when it hits you.
Is this even reality anymore?
Windfel could have cast a glamour over you. You could be under some sort of spell, or undergone some weird magic while bathing in that stream. You have no way of knowing what is true or not, unless you talk to someone. Even then, your chances of them tricking you are high, but it may be the only way to tell what is true or not.
Standing at the edge of the town, you do a quick scan of those you can see. The sun has already set, and the faint glow of lanterns casts a warmth around the surrounding buildings. There seems to be only a few people milling about, and honestly, you shouldn’t really call them people at all. From what you can gather, all these beings appear to faeries. Some have grand wings that sprout from their backs, ranging from feathered to those of the insect variety. Others, you can only discern from their height and pointed ears. The few flashes of razor sharp teeth aren’t that reassuring, either.
The only relief seems to be that all of the inhabitants steer perfectly clear of you. Save for one, who watches you fidget from across the way. His gaze dances with amusement, and you don’t know if that unnerves you more than if he were glaring. Long, dark hair is pulled back in a half-ponytail to showcase his sharp features. He sits on the edge of some steps leading up to what appears to be a shop of some sorts, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward.
The moment he catches you staring, his eyebrows quirk curiously.
Turning away quickly, you curse yourself. You’ve always been used to blending in back home, that you didn’t realize just how much you’d stick out in the Fae realm. Perhaps you really are in over your head, but where else are you supposed to go?
A voice, smooth and deep, coming from behind startles you.
“Are you lost, Little One?”
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cyrwrites · 1 month
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Claim
Dick Grayson as a fae child, but with Bruce adopting him against his will.
When Batman had stopped the mourning child from murdering Tony Zucco in revenge for the death of his parents, he hadn't been aware that using his full name would open a contract between them. It left them in a sticky situation, with Bruce stuck with a seething child that had no intention of dropping his mischief and with one hell of a grudge.
By the time Jason was dragged into the family drama, "Dick Grayson" and "Robin" had gained such a fearsome reputation that he almost makes a run for it instantly.
It's a shame he can't.
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georgiapeach30513 · 8 months
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Lips Like Sugar
Summary:  Ari only had one choice, and you were made for him.  
Pairings:  Fae King!Ari Levinson X Fae!Reader
Rating:  explicit
Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, faerie curses, size kink, objectification, being held in captivity, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, loss of virginity, 18+ ONLY
Word Count:  2.2K
Series Masterlist
*dividers created by @firefly-graphics​
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Looking up at the moon, the old hag continues her journey through the dense forest.  Things were almost ripe.  They were finally aligning.  Her feet trudge through the damp fallen leaves, creating an eerie stomp and drag.  While everyone else was celebrating the Summer King’s birthday, she was completing her life’s work.  
No longer will she be overlooked as a crazy loon.  Her grandmother had set a beautiful plan into motion, and it was nearly complete.  This was the last blood moon before you were ready.  
Bending over the creek side, she drops a crystal into the dark water, before scooping up a bit of liquid, and begins her trek back to her cottage.  You would be ready, and you would be his undoing.  Perfectly formed and bred to be his greatest weakness.  Someone he couldn’t say no to.
Hearing the creek of the door, you scurry back in your cage.  Eyes shimmering as you look up at her, “You’re almost ready my sweet nymph.  Drink it.”
“No,” you whine, shaking your head.  “I don’t want to.  He’ll hurt me.”
“He won’t hurt you.  Sure he’s a king, and you are such a small little nymph, but this is what you were designed for.  Drink it.”
“I don’t want to,” you whisper, pulling your knees up to your chest.  “Don’t make me do this.”
“It’s already done, my child.  By the time the sun comes up the king will be so drunk off summer wine, and human pussy he won’t even think straight.  All you need to do is be seen.  I assure you, Ari will take care of the rest.  He doesn’t have a choice.  He’ll know.  Drink.  It.”
“Please, don’t make me do this.”
“It’s already done,” she croaks out as her hand slips through your cage.  “Don’t you want to get out of here?  Live in the sun?  There are worse faerie kings that could be fucking you.”
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“Ari,” a squeaky voice screams in his ear.  Ari’s naked body rolls over on the bed, groaning.  “Ari!  It’s the first day of summer!”
“I know.  I’m summer embodiment,” he pulls his covers up around his face as a few bodies clamor out of his bed.  “Nothing happened.”
“Nothing is going to happen.  They are human.  They can’t change anything.  Get out,” Ari smacks at the little sprite, but he still stands there.  “Ari, it is my duty to get the king out on the first day of summer.  It is your job to be seen, and this birthday is different.”
“Yes, a cruel and unusual curse,” Ari sits up in his bed, glaring at the sprite.  His little friend hands him a pair of pants to cover himself up, but Ari walks over to the window completely nude.  “I will die today if I don’t fuck the right faerie.  Sounds like a fair trade off.”
“Yes, and you’ve made sure to stick your cock in every living thing in the glade.”
“And still this mysterious curse looms over my head.  I am to believe that pussy will be my downfall.  I have literally fucked every fae in Collingswood, and still my sun mark hasn’t fully filled in.  The only fae I haven’t fucked is you, Pip.”
“Oh.  No.  No, I don’t think my ass is your ticket to fully becoming summer.  I think that you need to listen to the curse.  You are to go by the creek bed.  Let her come to you.  And then…”
“Make her come on me.  Over and over again.  Isn’t that what I do?  Stretch them out, ruin them for other cock, and selfishly send them back to the human realm always longing for the golden cock of summer?” Pip rolls his eyes, starting to walk out of Ari’s sleeping quarters.  Ari ever the arrogant asshole.
“You always were full of yourself.”
“Humans were always addicted to me.”
“Because they’re human.  You’re not special.  They can be addicted to anyone of us.  The one to save you is not a human.  That is something you know.  Fine, lay in here, and drown in your covers.  Die on your birthday while Fala takes charge of the glade.  It’s what I would do if I were a coward.  Imagine being scared to fuck someone,” Pip slams the door to Ari’s room, and the fae king looks at his discarded pants.
He wasn’t scared.  He was tired.  Who knew that sex for thousands of years could make one tired.  Grunting, he grabs up his bottoms, and walks out into the forest.  By the creek he would wait.
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Ari tosses a rock into the creek before laying back down on the mossy ground.  This was boring.  This would be his deathbed.  Right by the water.  Everyone would know that he didn’t rise to his full capacity, and died because of some ridiculous curse.  A curse that didn’t even make sense.
A twinkle of a giggle has him jolting up quickly, and there you are, sitting on a rock, bathing in the creek.  Your laughter was like music, and your skin glimmered in the sunlight.  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before,” he calls out to you.
Taking a deep gulp, you look back to the water, “You wouldn’t,” no one but Fala and her family had ever seen you.
Ari had never seen anyone more beautiful than you.  The embodiment of sexual desire.  Much smaller than his normal fae of choice.  The way he could have you twisted, and manipulated to suit his sexual needs has his head spinning.  And your wings were intact.  No fraying on the edges.  “You don’t travel much?”
“No,” even the simplest of words had your voice ringing in his ear like that most beautiful symphony, and he finds his body pulling him closer to you.  
“Where did you come from?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he didn’t even care where you came from.  Every part of his body was begging to have you.  It needed you.  “Who are you?”
“The King of Summer,” you didn’t even seem impressed, and didn’t reach for his hand as he tries to pull you out of the water.  “I can command you to do anything.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” you have never been given a choice of the matter.  Everything you did was because someone wanted you to.  He could command you by more than words.  Ari was gigantic.  Towering over you.  Thick cords of muscle over every inch of him.  You squeeze your thighs together, dreading the inevitable.  Your body ached, and craved him, and it was preparing itself to take his wide self.  
“What is your name?”
“You can call me, Nymph.”
“That is your title.  And you wear it well,” his eyes trace over every inch of your curves.  While he embodied summer, you were the epitome of sexual desire.  “What is your name?”
“I’m the only Nymph in the glade.  You can call me what my maker did.  Nymph,” Ari blows out a puff of air, and you whimper.  Having to look away from him quickly.  
“What’s wrong, Nymph?”
“It hurts,” you struggle to breathe as your arms wrap around your stomach.  “Please?” This isn’t at all what you thought it would feel like.  You had lived your whole life in a cage, knowing that you were created to be Ari’s cocksleeve.  What had once disgusted you, now was needing Ari.  Your body screams for his touch, but your brain doesn't want to ruin someone’s life.
“Please, my King,” Ari’s eyes roll in the back of his head at the sound of your pitiful voice.  He didn’t even know exactly what you were begging for.  Tiny little thing, shivering in the freezing creek, and needing her king.  “Ari, it hurts.”
“What hurts?” You point between your legs, and Ari’s mouth turns up in a crooked grin.  It was you.  The one that would allow him to fully be summer.  To hold the entire light of summer in his body.  “Oh, sweet Nymph, what would make you feel better?”
“I think…ow,” holding your stomach tighter, you have to look away from him.  There was only one thing that would take away this pain, and it was the one thing you swore you would never do.  “Ow…Ari!”
He didn’t even recognize that he had never even given you his name.  He was just as needy for you as you are for him.  Watching as your body starts grinding on the rock, trying to get a relief that will only come by his touch.  “Ari!”
“You have to tell me what you need,” he is mesmerized watching your desperate little body.  Trying to put into words what you are feeling.  Whether the pain was too much or you are too embarrassed he didn’t know.  You scream out his name again, spreading your legs apart, and it’s then he realizes that your hair was the only thing covering yourself from him.
He couldn’t think straight.  Didn’t realize that this was indeed a trap to lure him to you.  Couldn’t fathom how this seemed so perfectly placed.  But your tight little virgin cunt was trembling.  “Nymph?”
“I need you.  Need you to…don’t hurt me though.”
“What was that?  I think you forgot some words,” Ari is an experienced man, and judging by the giant bulge in his pants, he was going to destroy you.  “Nymph I need you to…”
“Fuck me!  Fuck away this pain!”
Pushing his pants down, his thick member springs to life.  Veiny and leaking precum, and you screech.  It was going to hurt.  His tremendous hands grab your legs and arms at the same time.  Keeping you unable to move or get away if you wanted to.  And you did not.  He stares at your weeping cunt, bringing you right up to his face as he watches your core throb and plead for relief.
“That is a tight little cunt.  Are you a virgin?” He asks, licking up your slit.  The sweetest dessert was right in between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whimper.  There was no way to get comfortable.  Ari was going to have you however he wanted.  He spits at your opening, bringing you down to his waist.  “It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes, my sweet, Nymph.  It’s going to hurt a great deal.  But don’t worry, I always make it fit.  But if the curse is correct, that tight little hole was made just for my enjoyment.  You’ll get used to it.”
“Get used to being used.”
“Exactly,” he moans, starting to press your channel over his tip.  “You’re mine.  Say it.  You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” your voice shakes as he pushes through your entrance.  You hiss.  It hurt, but the relief was immediate.  Warmth moves through your body, as he lowers you over him.  Gaping your hole wide before your balls deep, and chirping at the sensation.  “Ahh!” A cry of pleasured pain echoes through the forest.  
Ari stares at where the two of you connect, grunting at just how good your tiny little self took him.  A tunneled bump on your stomach showing exactly where he was deeply rooted in you.  “Holy fuck,” he pants out.  Power fills him up as the comfort flows through your veins.
You stare at his chest as his sun mark starts to deepen.  “Fuck.  Me,” he had to finish it.  He couldn’t just stand there, holding you on his cock like you were some ornament for his dick.  
“Use.  Me,” he is frozen.  Allowing his body to be taken by summer, but also by you.  His pretty little nymph.  He wouldn’t be dying.  Not today.
“I’m.  Yours,” you mewl, and his eyes snap back into focus.  “Ari, I’m yours.”
He lifts your body off before slamming you over his cock.  Using you as a personal sex toy.  He could throw you, and lift you like you were the weight of a leaf.  Tiny in comparison to him.  His motions are hard and fast, and you have never felt more satisfied.  Your life’s work was complete as he makes you go dumb with pleasure.
“That’s right!  I’m the fucking king!  This is my pussy!  Mine!” He screams to whatever fae is around.  Everyone had seen him fucking before, but never you.  Never saw his body gulp the warmth of summer in its veins.  Had never witnessed a man become weak over a woman like this.  
“Mine!” He grunts out, eyes on yours.  “Mine!” He is possessive.  Letting the forest know you only belonged to him.  You are the reason that he was coming into power.  “Mine!”
He still wasn’t saying the words, and you fear you will be nothing more than wet skin for him.  “My Queen!” And there it was.
Fala’s haunting words whisper into your mind as euphoria overtakes your body, “It’s simple really.  I control you.  I am your maker.  Ari controls you, he is your king.  But…should you become Queen, he has a weakness.  I then control you both.  And I will get my revenge.”
“Ari!  Ari!” You scream into the woods as your eyes go blank.  Nothing had ever felt better.  Nothing will ever feel better.  You were his.  And he is yours.  Ari growls up to the canopy as he empties his load into your stretched hole.  His cream starts leaking down his thighs because your body just couldn’t handle anymore.  Just not now.  He still had some stretching to you.
“I control you both,” Fala whispers as she heads back to her cottage.  “I control them both.”
Next
Masterlist
Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot​ @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @missusbarnes-rogers @peaches1958 @seitmai​ @smile1318​ @andydrysdalerogers​ @cjand10​ @midnightramyeoncravings @donutloverxo​ @whiskeytangofoxtrot555​ @bambamwolf87 @harrysthiccthighss @theinheriteddutchess @kmc1989  
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Hey, uh.. y/n? how come you haven't even notice that Eclipse was stalking ya the entire time and also he's behind ya right now 🤣.
P.s: He heard all of your rambling about wings and your compliments about them. welp, good luck 🤗
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Wh-
Oh you are such a Spoilsport little voice
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!?!?!EEEEEeeeeEEeeEep!?!?!?!
Oh oh geez, i wanted to surprise you but not that much... you are really jumpy you know that?
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mnemov · 2 months
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To continue the fantasy au rabbit hole I’ve dug myself into ft. Jazz
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sharpedgedfool · 19 days
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I've ended up doing a full character sheet for each of the season's, I'll probably do the fairies grouped up together as they're not as detailed but this was fun!
Some more extensive lore under the cut!
So the seasons are all personified as these four spirits. They're not considered fae they're more like deities, the fae have their own courts separate but they pay respect to the seasons as they pass - Winter is the season with the least amount of fae present as most of the fairies are spring-born and die before winter and reincarnate every spring again, a select few fae stay alive through winter but their court is rather elusive. Winter is rarely seen in person, and so they are quite mysterious. Most of what people and fae alike know of Winter are only rumours passed around - they are often described to be cold, violent and deadly due to the amount of battles waged over wintertime.
Although Winter is necessary for the other seasons to thrive, they are often targeted by people attempting to kill Winter to save loved ones dying of the cold. They take no pleasure in it, but they've became accustomed to fighting those desperate enough to try, sometimes fighting armies off by themselves. Animal-patron-fae see the benefits of these battles first, the predator animals feed off the remains of the fallen and prey animals are less likely to be targeted in turn. Plant-patron-fae see more prey animals feeding off the berries in spring so they at least have a passive understanding of the events.
Those who know Winter, or know them by their name 'Black Ice', know they deeply care for animals, and do their best to not disturb those hiding away in hibernation and often enjoys the company of the more active animals. They often ride their Stag around in the snow, the two of them are almost inseparable. Wolves, crows and foxes tend to follow them around in case they slay someone and they can pick at the scraps, but they've secretly thrown snowballs around for them when they're playing. Winter fae like mistletoe or holly sometimes pay respect and offer gifts, but Winter doesn't partake in their festivities - they feel like they shouldn't celebrate when many are suffering in his presence.
Winter refuses to abandon their duty and takes pride in their role in the lifecycle, they know the importance of their season, but they are constantly in a state of grief witnessing more death than life. They know most of the people waging war against them aren't trying to take over the season's power (Summer is mostly targeted for this reason, as they're considered a 'good' season and people want their power and position) instead the attackers truly believe they're doing a good thing and are just foolish not malicious. Despite sympathising with them, Winter won't give them mercy or let their guard down, lest they do manage to kill them and throw off everything.
If they were to die, it is unlikely anyone would want to take up the mantle of winter due to it's hated reputation, but a cruel person could use winter to do untold damage and kill Autumn or Spring in the process - even Summer might falter if their heart were too cold to be burned. They knew the previous spirit of Winter when they were mortal. They had grown close, but she was fatally wounded in a battle against a grieving lover and she couldn't bring herself to strike back. The lover escaped unscathed, and Black Ice found her dying in the snow. In her final moments they promised to take her place and protect what she could not. They love the winter with all their heart, but they still struggle to see the beauty in the season, they still see her blood in the snow.
Winter is the eldest season of the current four, but holds great respect for all his three peers - he has never met Summer but trusts they are more than capable. He isn't talkative, and is quite clinical. They arrive and leave punctually and without much conversation with the other seasons, unlike the other three who often enjoy each others company for a few days before moving on.
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ghouljams · 7 months
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idk why but just imagining soap taking care of love when ghosts not around- maybe she got too drunk out at night with some friends or got hurt or maybe just one her period who knows
Yes more poly Ghost/Soap/Love, the softest throuple. Ghost runs and errand and leaves Love in Soap's capable hands.
You've learned very quickly that Soap is about as close to an actual walking heater as you can get. That's not a bad thing either. Ghost is always a nice sort of cool lukewarm, so being sandwiched between them in bed almost puts you at an equilibrium, and when your hands are cold you can just stick them under Soap's shirt. Seeing him yelp and flinch away from the chill is pretty funny too. Soap's internal furnace is especially helpful when it comes to aches and pains, something you are taking full advantage of.
Soap rubs his hand over your stomach, pressing just below your belly button as you lay over his lap on the couch. You're cramping hard. You've already thrown up once today because of it and you spooked Simon bad enough for him to willingly go to the pharmacy. You give a quiet pained hum as Soap pushes a little more firmly, the heat helps, the pressure helps, honestly you think death might help.
"No tears, come on sweetheart," Soap mumbles, thumb soothing gentle circles against your skin. You're doing your best.
"Can't you just magic the pain away?" You whine. Simon did it once. It was blissful.
"What, so I can feel it? Pain's gotta go somewhere, lass, and I'm not putting Ghost through it." Ah. That explains why Simon didn't offer again. Babies both of them. Who are you kidding, you're a baby. This sucks.
"At least get me a blanket then," you grumble. Soap rolls his eyes with a smile.
"Got a better idea, let's just..."
Soap twists on the couch and hitches your legs up around his waist before he settles comfortably(flops, he flops) on top of you. It feels like all the air has been forced out of your lungs, he's heavy and you're moderately crushed, but you're used to it; Simon does this all the time. He's so warm. A weighted heated blanket compressing you exactly where you need it. Soap's lips drag along your jaw absentmindedly, letting you get settled and comfortable under him.
"Better?" He asks, his teeth just scraping your skin. You nod, careful not to headbutt him as you melt against the couch. Your arms are tight around his shoulders, holding him close as he takes his time sucking bruises along your bared throat. "Best part," he rocks his hips against yours, and the breath the catches in your throat is plenty distraction from your cramps. You hadn't even considered that.
When Ghost gets home you and Soap are passed out on the couch. Tangled together in a way he finds probably more endearing than he rightly should. It's cute seeing how tightly you hold onto Soap, the way he presses his face against your neck, the soft sleeping breaths you share. Ghost settles a small brown paper bag on the kitchen counter and goes to put the kettle on.
He scoops a spoon of the floral mixture from the bag into your preferred mug and switches the kettle off before it can wake you up. Best to let you sleep while you can, he knows its been sparing these last few nights. Hopefully this will help. Painkillers are all well and good but with how bad your pain fucked him up? You need some magical intervention.
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ititheteavillain · 2 months
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“My boy, I’d rather have you cry in my arms than suffer in silence again."
Fanart for @littlegreenpinetree's fic "Woodland Paths"
The chapter with their reunion left me with so many emotions when I read it for the first time. And every time I reread it. So, many times...
Have this little cosy scene that I like so much and check out Pine's fic for more
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peachesofteal · 8 months
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Faerie
Magic!au / Fae!au / COD x reader collection Stories that exist within the same universe and characters that make continued appearances throughout the collection.
The women in these paintings are white but this does not reflect or represent the reader characters in these stories.
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Mermaids AO3 / also a part of The Paintings series Simon Riley/mermaid!reader “And the mermaids, they come once a year  They climb the struts of Brighton Pier  They come to drink, they come to dance  To sacrifice a human heart” - F + TM Which Witch AO3 / Part 1 / Part 2 John 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader “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 Cosmic Love TBA / Drabble here Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick/mermaid!reader "I took the stars from my eyes and then I made a map And knew that somehow I could find my way back Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too So I stayed in the darkness with you." - F + TM Long and Lost TBA / Drabble here John Price/ !reader "I need the clouds to cover me Pulling them down, surround me Without your love I'll be So long and lost, are you missing me?" - F + TM
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