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#lets build a coven
nklsdttr · 1 year
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* - cries - i need more nevermore verse things tbh
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quibbs126 · 2 years
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Random question, if you put the Layton cast in the Owl House universe, what tracks would they each be?
I mean aside from Luke being Beast Keeping, of course
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aisclosed · 9 months
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love bites - y. jungwon x reader
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vampirism comes with unusual cravings and unique solutions
PAIRING: vampire! y. jungwon x vampire! reader GENRE: vampire au , established relationship, fluff | WORDCOUNT: 2.2 k WARNINGS: slightly suggestive , mentions of blood n bites
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You do your best to ignore it, the aching sensation radiating from your teeth. But the pain is insistent, throbbing twinges extending from your gums down into your jaw. 
The feeling is almost enough to make you cave, to call your boyfriend and whine for any sort of relief. Almost. Instead you sigh, eyes flickering out the large windows looking at the expanse of the city, the light of the stars competing with the fluorescent buildings and signs. 
It had been weeks since you'd last left your apartment, you weren't ready, not fully turned or prepared to navigate the world in your new form. Jungwon’s words, not your own, and as much as you missed walking the bustling streets with him, you knew he was right. 
There's a faint hunger in the back of your mind, one that had become all too familiar these past weeks. Your brain supplies memories of warm tteokbokki, noodles and dumplings despite knowing that none of the former options could satiate your appetite. As your skin lost its warmth, your heart slowing in its cavity, you had lost your palate for real food, instead craving something that you currently had no way to get on your own. 
Wincing as another stab of pain steals your attention. you run your tongue gingerly running across the edge of your teeth, feeling out the sharp edge of the unfamiliar fangs that had begun to protrude. 
“I thought I told you to tell me if it hurts,” a low voice cuts through the silence, your heart jumping at the disruption. Even after years of dating, you could never get used to your boyfriend appearing abruptly from the shadows. You snap your mouth shut, glancing over to meet narrowed feline eyes with poorly feigned nonchalance. 
“It doesn't hurt, I’m fine,” you say breezily, drawing a scoff from Jungwon. He stalks forward, reaching out to cradle your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek. The icy temperature of his skin is a welcome sensation, and you lean into his palm letting it soothe the flaring ache in your jaw. 
“And you expect me to believe you when you're acting like this?” Jungwon mutters unamusedly. You crack your eyes open from where they had fluttered close, sweeping over his furrowed brows. Despite his best attempts at maintaining his stern expression, he was given away easily by the way his eyes softened upon making contact with yours. 
Jungwon knew your stubborn mannerisms well, that you would rather suffer than admit to him that you needed his help. Which is how he knew that once you had set your mind to joining him as a vampire you wouldn't relent until your wish was granted. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from trying for several weeks to convince you that it wasn't a necessary change. Promises that he would still love you regardless of how you aged and no he didn’t mind that one day you might be mistaken for his sugar mommy rather than his centuries younger girlfriend. His last comment had earned him an indignant scoff rather than an enamored smile like he had been expecting, and he had spent the rest of the day sucking up to you for your forgiveness. 
It had taken many arguments, tears, warnings, pleading kisses and long conversations on what exactly eternity together detailed before Jungwon had surrendered. His coven had been ecstatic at the news, congratulating him with hearty claps on the shoulder and teasing ‘about time’s. 
In all honesty, the pair of you both knew that when it came down to it, Jungwon would much rather have you by his side forever than let you wither away. You were his, and he was yours, and when he thought about an eternal lifetime with you his happiness was poorly concealed. Jungwon only wished that it wasn't at the cost of your own humanity. You would no longer be able to enjoy your favorite foods, your cheeks wouldn’t redden to the same degree when he teased you, you’d have to see your loved ones leave this earth, one by one. 
The guilt ate at him more than the pain ate at you, and that was your main motivation to hide the truth. So you did your best to swallow back the complaints and whines that threatened to spill from your lips, unwilling to see guilt swimming in his red tinted eyes. It’s a futile attempt, given that Jungwon could pick up on the waves of pain through your newly formed blood bond, his attentive eyes catching each wince.
Sighing in exasperation, Jungwon grasps your chin, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb, ”Open up for me baby, let me take a look at your fangs.” You consider insisting you’re fine, that his examination is entirely unnecessary, but the thought is dismissed by the firm look Jungwon gives you, and you comply baring your teeth as best as you could. 
You wait patiently as Jungwon inspects your teeth, tilting your chin up to grant him a better view. Instead you take the opportunity to admire your boyfriend's handsome features, the slope of his nose and the angle of his jawline. Your eyes trail down the expanse of his neck, decorated with traces of your lips and two faint puncture marks, long healed to where they looked more akin to moles than scars. 
From his close proximity you can smell an enticing fragrance wafting from his body. Jungwon always smelled good, of warm amber and clean linen sheets, but there was another underlying scent that caught your attention. There's blood pumping through his veins, fresh blood, Jungwon had recently hunted and fed. The thought causes your vision to cloud, hunger prickling at the edges of your mind.
“Baby,” Jungwon calls out softly, and your eyes drag away from his neck, struggling to find his own in your dazed state. “You're literally drooling,” he chuckles, tucking your hair behind your ear and tugging on the lobe affectionately. 
He had noticed your wandering attention, the way your stare locked onto his neck, a red tint slowly creeping into your eyes and your fangs fully extending against the pads of his prodding fingers. It was a good sign, your instincts were getting stronger and your senses sharper. Soon, you'd be a full fledged vampire. 
A slight flush spreads across your cheeks, the best it can with the limited blood flowing through your system. “Sorry,” you apologize meekly, embarrassed at the prospect of being caught openly salivating over him. 
Jungwon only coos at you teasingly, leaning down to peck your pink cheeks, and then grazing his lips against the slightly raw puncture wounds on your neck. Unlike other injuries which would quickly be remedied by their healing abilities, the initial bite, meant to turn you into a vampire, required much more patience, only closing when the transformation was complete.
The skin on your neck was still broken and bruised but as much as it pained Jungwon to know he had caused you hurt, it also gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction to see the mark he had left on you. He always loved littering your skin with love bites but seeing them fade was his least favorite part. His bite mark would forever remain, a testament to the vows you had made to each other the day he had turned you. 
“Nothing to apologize for my love, I drank extra today because I knew you'd be hungry. C’mere.” He tugs you towards the couch, sitting down on the plush seat then pulling you unceremoniously onto his lap. 
The minuscule distance makes your fangs push uncomfortably against your lips, unable to deny the alluring scent wafting from your boyfriend. You wait for Jungwon to bite into his wrist and present it to you, the way he had fed you each time these past few weeks. 
Instead Jungwon just smirks at you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leans back against the cushions. “Well? I thought you were hungry baby, come kiss me and bite me.” You splutter, panicking at the mere mention of having to bite him, but Jungwon merely laughs in response, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back. 
“Don’t be nervous, your fangs are more than ready to do the job and I’ll stop you if anything goes wrong. Remember darling, you bite firmly, sink your teeth in to make a clean wound instead of ripping tissue. As soon as it's secure, you release some venom to alleviate the pain, make it feel nice for everyone and only then do you start to drink. The hardest part is stopping before you do too much damage but I’ll let you know if you're getting to that point okay?” 
“Wonnie, I don't want to accidentally hurt you-,” you start to protest but Jungwon cuts you off with a firm kiss to your lips. 
“You’ll be fine. I promise. If you don’t trust yourself, trust in me, hm? You need to drink so you can feel better and who better to practice on than me? Come on love, I promise I don’t bite,” he murmurs cheekily against your lips, inciting a roll of your eyes, a derisive laugh escaping from your chest at the irony. 
Shaking your head in mock exasperation, you concede, leaning in to plant a peck against Jungwon’s smirking mouth. You trail kisses lower until you've reached the hollow of his neck, ears pricking as soft satisfied sighs escape from his parted lips. 
Angling your head, you finally sink your teeth into his skin, your hands finding his shoulders for support. Jungwon's grip on your waist tightens for a split second until you release your venom, relaxing as the pain subsides and gives way to pleasure. 
 A metallic flavor floods your mouth, relief washing over you as the pain and hunger ebb away. Instead you focus on the taste against your tongue and the way Jungwon strokes your hair tenderly, pressing mumbled praises and groans against the side of your head. 
It's when you begin to feel nearly intoxicated at the feeling of feeding that Jungwon whispers into the hollow of your ear softly, “Alright sweetheart, it's time to stop drinking. Let the last of your venom out and then retract your fangs, help the wound close up, you're doing so good for me baby.” You follow his instructions as best you can given the foggy state of your mind, finally pulling away to look into Jungwon’s eyes. 
He rests his forehead against yours, cupping your jaw fondly, “You did perfectly darling, I'm so proud of you,” Jungwon tilts his face, slotting your lips together, fingers tangling into your hair to bring you closer. You loop your arms around his broad shoulders melting into his embrace. He sighs into your mouth, humming contently at the faint taste before reluctantly pulling away. 
“You were so good baby, soon you'll be able to go out and hunt for yourself no problem,” Jungwon beams at you. Still dizzy from the rush that drinking gave you, blood rushing in your ears, you settle into his arms, burying into the crook of his neck.. 
“I’d rather just have you hunt enough for the both of us and just let me drink from you,” you bat your eyes at Jungwon sweetly and he snorts in response. 
“You must really be blood drunk if you expect me to act as your personal Uber eats for the rest of millenia,” he teases, pinching your cheek. 
You huff petulantly, “Considering I’ve been your walking bloodbag for the past few years I think you owe me at least a year or two of the same.” 
“Not my fault you smell so yummy,” Jungwon noses at the column of your neck, his fangs grazing the skin, “how could you expect me to want anything else?” 
You try to push his face away from your neck to little avail. Jungwon held you tightly in his grasp, knowing you were just being difficult to mess with him. “Well your pickiness and lack of self control is the reason all my neighbors think I get my neck mauled by a bear every night. I refuse to start hunting, you’re just gonna make me into your personal juicebox again,” you grumble, giving in and letting Jungwon continue his ministrations. Vampire my ass, if anything he was more akin to an overgrown kitten, always nuzzling and nipping at your neck. 
Jungwon leans back far enough to knock his head into yours playfully, “Yeah right, you love when I give you love bites.” You go to protest but Jungwon cocks his head challengingly, his eyes daring you to try and deny it. The words die in the base of your throat, and you swallow harshly, your face heating as you look away, muttering half hearted insults under your breath. 
“Did you say something sweetheart?” Jungwon asks teasingly, and you widen your eyes in mock horror, knowing that with his heightened senses he had very clearly heard every word. 
“Just saying how much I love you darling,” you blink up at him, with a saccharine smile. 
Jungwon laughs, his dimple on full display, pressing a sweet kiss on your lips. “I love you more baby, even if that means I have to hunt for two for the rest of my very long life.” You give a satisfied hum and cuddle happily into his hold. Forever seemed a lot less daunting in Jungwon’s arms. 
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a/n: ,,,,,idk what to say about this one. I wanted to give you guys something bc MTM is taking so long and I'm about to leave for vacation,,, and this ended up being the product of my 2am thoughts.... hope u enjoy :)
perm taglist: @hoonsunivrs @pkjay @thatfeelinwhenyou @lacimolela @ttalgi @cieluna @ahnneyong @luvlee1313 @meowmeowhoon @llama-lyna @dmoki @w3bqrl @16doie @itsvynnie @saintells @given8taken @yakjw @miukityy @meowwonie @simp4jakesim @teddywons @flowertothejungwon @skywithf1 @yur1a1 @nyeonglover @fallingenluvv
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megistusdiary · 1 month
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Vampire arlecchino vampire arlecchino vampire arlecchino vampire arlecchino vampire arlecchino vampire arlecchino
(I think I want vampire arlecchino lmao)
can I get a vampire arlecchino x fem!reader whose a vampire hunter? it's an idea that's been stuck in my head for a while, and I think it's really hot
(Ty in advance, btw, i love you and your work, ty for feeing arlecchino fans such as myself)
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it took me a while, but i have come to deliver 😁🙏 school and work have been draining me, but i try to post when i have the opportunity!!
also, i am glad you have been enjoying the arlecchino content as much as i love writing it ♡ i have been saving for her when i have time. let's hope she comes home early...
based vampire arlecchino idea 😻🫶 this one is a bit long, so enjoy, please ��️ call me mr. white the way i cooked this up in one sitting instead of studying
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vampire arlecchino x fem!hunter reader
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dom!vampire arlecchino x sub!hunter reader (fem anatomy/pronouns)
warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, enemies to lovers?, vampires, biting, blood, cunnilingus, arle makes a deal to basically kidnap you (but you are cool with it), guns and knives.
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your hand twitches as it hovers over your gun, loaded with a set of silver bullets, extra in your pockets (just in case).
each step you take is cautious, calculated on these creaky floorboards. despite being older than dirt and darker than night itself, this rather extravagant mansion was well taken care of.
even the top shelves of cabinets were dust-free. despite how the owner wanted it to appear abandoned at this moment, it was obvious that was nothing more than a facade. a trap, made to pull foolish, naive "investigators" in.
luckily, you were no fool, nor were you an unsuspecting traveler. you were a trained hunter from a long line of all sorts of hunters for things that go bump in the night.
you just happened to take quite the interest in vampires from a young age. your family was more than delighted, seeing as you picked up their long-honed skills with weapons, incantations, and tricks.
usually, you would go after smaller vampire covens, just a handful living together. despite their speed and strength, your skill with your gun was remarkable. you never missed a shot, and you always brought back-up.
lately, you had been growing more bold, more confident in your skills. (so confident you would come to regret that soon enough in these very halls...)
you crept around the corner, nearly tripping over a bump in the rug. it seemed strategically placed, something you did not miss, as you placed a hand on the wall to steady yourself.
in the distance, you could see warm light in the hallway, torches on the sides lit up. you approached cautiously, still ready to hold your gun at a moment's notice.
you felt something brush you, and you nearly screamed, whipping your gun out and turning your head only to see nothing at all.
your body froze, a cold sweat building up as your head spun in every direction, looking for any shadows, ears straining to listen for any noises.
once you realized nothing was going to jump out at you, your gun was placed back on your waist, and you kept moving.
the hallway was warmer here, due to the flames, each casting a welcoming glow onto the walls and floors. at the end of the hallway was a beautiful ballroom.
the entire room was lit up, chandeliers on the ceiling, glittering as if coated in diamonds. tables were placed meticulously around the room, but only one was set.
you approached it cautiously, seeing an envelope on the table. your fear skyrocketed when you saw this envelope was addressed to you.
with a shaky hand, you picked it up, turning it over to see a red seal keeping it shut. after popping it open, you pulled the letter out.
it was written it what could only be described as elegant penmanship. each letter looked as if it had flown directly out of the pen itself, curved perfectly. the letter merely stated the obvious.
you were an unwelcome guest in her home, though it was no use to attempt to escape now. you were the mouse, and this vampire was the cat.
the letter was signed from 'the knave,' smelling subtly of perfume and quick to fall from your hands and onto the floor. you began to tremble, eyes darting all around the room to find your now captor.
you moved to grab your gun this time, holding it out as you slowly moved across the ballroom, startled when music began to play.
"you can't leave quite yet, i'm afraid, little mouse." a low voice called out. her tone was rather neutral, giving nothing away as you turned to the direction of the sound.
"show yourself, demon!" you called out, being met with dry laughter.
"i'm not so sure you could handle seeing me just yet." the voice hums from another direction.
"oh, really? why's that?" you knew you were pushing your luck. but what else was there to do now? you were trapped inside this vampire's home, and even if you managed to run, she would surely hear every clumsy footstep and every pant from your lips.
the vampire merely laughed again, sounding almost bored. "well, if you're so curious, you'll have to owe me a dance. it's such a shame i don't get to use this room very often."
heels clicked on the floor, and your head whipped to face the vampire.
your face felt hot when you saw her for the first time.
she was gorgeous...in a dangerous way. she was tall, dressed neatly in a crisply pressed suit. the front was open, showing off the shape of her breasts towards the center of her chest. she was draped in expensive but classy jewelry; all diamonds, of course. ah, and she was toned beneath that suit, quite evident each time she moved.
"oh? not what you were expecting?" she tilts her head. her voice carries a lilt of amusement, despite her face not matching that.
your arm shook as you held your gun, taking a small step back.
"why don't you put that gun down? give your arm a rest. you're not going to shoot me." she called out, moving closer.
"what makes you so sure?" you challenge her, but when you go to pull the trigger- "no-"
"what's the matter? go on, pull out your backup dagger, sweetheart. i'll count to five. i'm nothing if not a gracious host."
"no...no no no no!" you mumble, fiddling with your gun helplessly to the sound of her countdown before you threw it to the side, the metal clattering noisily on the floor.
"that temper..." she tutted, and in the blink of an eye she stood behind you. before you could move, she grabbed your hands, positioning them around her neck. her hands were pure black, complete with sharp nails, indicating they were not gloves at all.
she peered down at you, x-shaped pupils sending a chill through your spine. she pulled you to dance with her, enjoying every bead of sweat building up on your forehead, every little whimper with each dangerously fast step, the darting of your eyes across the room.
her lips finally quirked up into a ghost of a smile. "i do hope, for your sake, you didn't think me as easy as those amateur vampires you hunt. you remember, don't you?"
"how did you know about them-"
"apart from the fact that word spreads fast through our kind," she leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. "i know everything there is to know about you."
her whispers are cold against your ear, sending shivers through your body.
"you may think yourself a hunter, but i regret to inform you that you've become my prey this time." she spins you around elegantly, catching you with ease on just one arm.
"that's not possible-" you begin to protest, but sharp nails against your throat shut you up.
"this moment is much nicer without your incessant complaints." she warns, slowly moving her nails away.
the minute the song finishes, she lets go, watching you stumble backwards into one of the tables. "and so it seems, we've come to an end. what a shame. i was hoping you'd have more fight in you." she taps her chin.
you struggle to catch your breath, fear finally settling in. you reach down, pulling your last-resort silver dagger from your boot, slashing it towards her.
you manage to catch her by surprise, nicking her cheek and slicing a small cut, watching her deep red blood slowly drip down her pale skin.
she reaches a hand up to catch the blood, looking over at you. in a matter of seconds, you find yourself on the floor, the vampire on your chest as she holds your wrist down with ease.
she forces the knife out of your hand, enjoying your helpless noises of frustration. "you're a pathetic excuse for a hunter." is all she says. "it's a pity you're so pretty." she sighs.
despite everything, you can't manage to look in her eyes after this. she quickly picks up on that, tossing the knife aside carelessly. "do my words unsettle you, little mouse?" she smirks ever so slightly, leaning down.
the cut on her cheek has already healed, and she knows you're looking at it with confusion. "silver doesn't do anything to creatures like me, i'm afraid." she tuts. "i'm not so sure i could bear to part with you as it is right now. i don't think i could allow you to pass on without having a little taste."
you immediately struggle against her. "you- you bastard! get the hell off of me!" but it's too late. she can hear each beat of your heart, and she knows the difference between trepidation and... excitement.
she leans down, inhaling your scent from your neck, her sharp fangs running across your throat. "be a good girl and hold still for me." she mumbles against your skin.
she places a soft kiss on your skin, hearing you let out a breathy whine, causing her to give you one of her rare grins against your throat.
and then, her fangs sink in deep, indulging in your pained yelps and squirming. "fuck-" you cry out, feeling her hand grip both of yours tighter, holding your wrists down firmly.
the hand tilting your head caresses your jaw almost sweetly while she drinks from you until you grow woozy. "no more- please- can't-" you mumble, and much to your shock, she pulls away.
her lips are coated in your blood, flushed red as she shows off her blood-covered fangs. "it seems i was right, you do taste rather divine." she seems to ponder something briefly, lost in her own world as she looks off to the side. "hm...i'll tell you what. are you still with me, little mouse?" she lightly taps your cheek, watching you blink up at her.
"what...?" you ask tiredly.
"let's make a deal, just between us." she proposes. "i don't want to have to kill you, so i'll make this as simple for you as i can manage." she caresses your cheek, nails lightly scratching your sensitive skin. "you will live, but you will never leave here. not until i'm fully satisfied with you." she hums, smoothing a hand down your face.
"you... want to kidnap me?" you ask her, brows furrowed. "i don't understand-"
"i want you all to myself." she suddenly says, seeming rather serious. "let me have you... give me all of yourself, and i will graciously allow you to live under my care here."
you freeze up, staring up at her, unsure of what to say. "i... and if i refuse?"
"would you prefer decapitation or-"
"okay, i understand!" you cut her off immediately, eyes wide with fear. "there... you are not giving me any other choice... so...i accept."
she snorts lightly. "don't act so innocent. i can practically smell you leaking for me." and those are the words that set your face ablaze.
"excuse me?" you gawk. "that- that's absurd-"
"i think the last thing you want to do right now is argue with me, little mouse. i can hear your heart. i've already memorized patterns of fear...of anger..." she leans down, breathing against your cheek, "of lust." she whispers softly.
"there is no point in lying to me, so why don't you be a good girl for me, and," she stands up, yanking you with her, "follow me."
she pulls you like a little puppy through the hallways, off to what appears to be her chambers. she lets go of your sore wrists only to toss you on her bed. the sheets are red and silky beneath you.
instead of joining you on the bed, she sits in an armchair near the foot of the luxurious bed, one leg crossed over the other. "undress for me. go on." she hums, seeming amused.
you sit frozen for a moment until she snaps her fingers, and you slowly pull your clothes off. once you get to your undergarments, you shyly sit before her.
"those too." she orders, eagerly watching you slip them off until you sit bare on the bed in front of her. "good girl. crawl to me, come here." she crooks a finger, watching you crawl to her, looking rather embarrassed as you kneel on the bed.
she stands up, approaching you and slowly kneeling down on the floor. her face is level with your thighs, and she pushes you onto your back, unceremoniously yanking you closer to her. clawed fingers dig into your thighs as she pulls them over her shoulders.
"you should know something about me before we begin." she mumbles against your thigh. "you'll refer to me as arlecchino, is that understood?"
"yes-" your voice is shaky and breathy, and she nods. the first kiss she presses on your thigh is dangerously close to your pussy, and it has your hips jumping up to chase her lips.
once she moves to kiss your clit, she smirks slightly at the breathy sigh of her name escaping your lips. she decided it sounded just perfect coming from you. so sweet despite it coming from someone trained to kill her kind.
lucky for her, it didn't seem you were prepared for her variant at all. what a shame. now you'd never finish your training.
not that you seem to care with the way her lips are wrapping around your clit. you think you'd be much happier underneath her than holding a knife to her throat anyways.
"a-arlecchino, more...please-" you beg her.
being the generous host she is, she gives you exactly what you asked for, lapping over your clit.
she slides her tongue further down, teasing your entrance with the tip, slipping in slightly before pulling away.
"please!" your voice grows whiny, and she leans up to look at your face. the way you look so pathetic is everything to her. your eyes meet hers, glassy with unshed tears. "need more, please?" you ask her so kindly...
she kneels back down, nipping at your thigh almost playfully before she dives back in. the way her tongue moves so sinfully against your cunt has your back arching.
your nipples are painfully hard, perking up and begging for attention from her as you pant. her nails dig into your thighs, but you don't even register the pain.
every so often, her tongue darts over to your thigh, licking up the blood beading from the shallow punctures she created in your skin. she lets out soft, deep groans into you, making your body tremble as your own hips move against her mouth.
"yes, yes, fuck- close, i'm so close-" you begin to ramble.
"beg for it. beg for me to allow you to cum." she simply tells you. despite her tone being rather sultry, it is a warning in itself.
"please! let me- let me cum, please, please, arlecchino-" you could've never imagined begging a vampire to allow your body to do what it wants. you felt so embarrassed, but too far gone to really care.
"go on." she urges, carrying you through your orgasm. she indulges in your little 'thank you's afterwards, kissing your clit softly, enjoying your overstimulated twitching.
she leans up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before moving to sit in her armchair. she spreads her thighs, starting to unbuckle her belt, beckoning you over. "come here, come get your reward."
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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years
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Berthe the Green Witch
Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.
The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden. 
She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself  by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon. 
She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.
Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.
“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”
The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.
Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.
Ring ring ring
Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…
“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”
“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.
Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.
Knock knock. “Berthe!”
She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.
Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!
She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off  flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.
Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather. 
It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.
Unsettling.
“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”
“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”
Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”
The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”
“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.
He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.
Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”
“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”
“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”
Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”
Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”
“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”
The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.
Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.
“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”
“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”
This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.
“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”
Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”
Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.
“Ouch!” 
Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.
————.
The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.
The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.
“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”
“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”
“It’s apple,” Berthe says.
“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”
“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”
Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”
“Currently?” Clayman asks.
“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”
She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.
“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”
Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.
“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”
With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”
Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.
“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”
“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.
Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”
Berthe grins and winks.
Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“
“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues.  She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”
Berthe sobers. “How young?”
“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”
Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.
Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”
“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”
Berthe looks at Clayman.
“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”
“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”
Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”
She opens the door.
The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.
The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.
Rachel stares. 
Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”
“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says. 
“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.
“What?”
But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”
Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”
“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”
“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.
“There’s a knife in my bag.”
Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”
“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”
“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”
“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”
“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“
But his words are interrupted by Rachel. 
Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”
Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”
“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”
“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”
Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”
“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”
Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”
Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”
“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”
“Why?”
“It—it just shouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”
“Why not?”
“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”
“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”
Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“
“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”
“The soul, but that’s—“
“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”
The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.
“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”
“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”
“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”
He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.
Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”
“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”
“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“
“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”
Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.
Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.
No longer, Berthe thinks. 
Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“
“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“
“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”
Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“
Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“
Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”
“Dying?” Rachel asks.
Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”
“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”
He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.
Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.
“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”
“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.
Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”
“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”
“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”
“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”
“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”
“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”
Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”
Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.
They both know who has jurisdiction here.
Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”
Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”
“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”
“Which is?”
“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”
Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”
“Green witchcraft isn’t--”
“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”
Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”
“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”
“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”
“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”
Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.
Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”
Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”
“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”
Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”
“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”
Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”
“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”
“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”
“What?” Clayman asks.
Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”
“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”
“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”
Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”
“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”
Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”
Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”
Berthe swats at him.
“Ms. Steighart?”
Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”
Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”
Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green soul. I think you should--”
Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”
Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”
“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”
Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”
“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.
Berthe slaps his shoulder.
--------------------.
Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.
New moon.
“Ms. Steighart?”
Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the stormclouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out to them.
Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.
“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”
Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”
Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.
-----
Thanks for reading! It’s Halloween season which means there will be witches and horror on this blog for the foreseeable future!
Next week’s short story: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.
You can read the story now on my Patreon (X) where I post all of my stories a week early! 
Also thank you everyone who bought my anthology, Being Heroes, Being Villains (X) and to those who reviewed it! I’ll be making a post this weekend about the reviews which have been so kind :) Thank you!
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the-badger-mole · 5 months
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On the Unredeemed
Unredeemed villains are important in fiction. I feel like that needs to be said. There is a trend in recent years (probably since Wicked became a hit) of people wanting to see monsters redeemed. I'm not against that (per-se... glowers in Maleficent), but also, I feel like we do lose something when we lean into the idea that the monster gets to make good.
Fiction can be really useful for teaching us about life. I remember seeing a quote some time ago on Pinterest or something that said something along the lines of "fairytales are important not because they tell us dragons are real, but because they tell us that dragons can be slayed". That has been on my mind a lot recently when I see discussions about characters like Azula and (more recently) Ozai. They are fictional characters with super magic fire powers, but they represent something real- they represent the cycle of abuse in families, and while I understand the impulse to absolve someone as young as Azula, I think it's also important to tell the story where she isn't redeemed.
One reason that most Azula redemption stories bother me is because of the responsibility they tend to place on Zuko as her older brother, despite the fact that she victimized him probably more than anyone in her life (that we get to see. I don't think her soldiers believed her death threat for no reason). There are plenty of stories about the victims of abuse needing to be the bigger person to keep their families together and being villainized when they don't (I think by now we all understand that Terri was not the villain of Soul Food). We need stories about knowing when it's okay to walk away, and that illustrate the idea that "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb".
In a time when more people are talking openly about going low contact or completely cutting off family members- close family members- I personally think that seeing stories about coming out of the other side of it, of building a new family, healing from the past, and dealing with the residual guilt that comes with "turning your back on family" even when it's the right call, is helpful in the same way that those fairytales about slayable dragons are.
I'm not saying any of this to discourage Azula redemption stories. In fact I would love to see more. Stories that have Azula confronting what she did to the people she should have loved most, and have her considering what to do with the knowledge going forward, instead of just using her past abuse and mental health to gloss over the real harm she did. I want to see her grappling to accept the fact that no one- not her brother, not Iroh, not her friends- owes her forgiveness, and then dealing with all the complex emotions that come with just one of them actually forgiving her. But also, I want to see stories where Zuko gets to let go of his father and sister and go on to be supported in that decision. Because to him, they were dragons, and they were slain.
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songofthenightingale19 · 11 months
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I don’t know if anyone's mentioned this before, but Raine's titan badge after the time skip looks a bit different than the others:
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They have this red piece of cloth attached to their badge that I haven't seen on anybody else.
Now, theorising time: I think they might be part of the new government, maybe even the president of the Boiling Isles. Hear me out, I have good reasons to believe so (and it's not just because they're my favourite character and I'm biased, shush):
1) As the former head of the Bard Coven, they'd certainly be qualified for the job: Raine has been part of the government before (as much as you can be when you're not the monarch in a monarchy lol) and knows how to lead.
2) They're probably more respected/trusted by the population of the Boiling Isles than most other public figures at this point - working together with the wannabe genocidal former emperor tends to ruin your reputation, so someone who led a rebellion against Belos (and fought against him personally in the final fight, though the question is if anyone except the people who were there knows about that) and has ties to other known rebels aka Eda should be quite well-liked.
3) They have already proven that they're able to make sacrifices for the sake of the whole Isles (for example: risking their own life and that of the woman they love to stop the Day of Unity in Eda's Requiem). Most of the other characters, like Eda and Luz, in comparison, have proven again and again that they would never be able to sacrifice someone they care about - which is an admirable trait, don't get me wrong, but you want a political leader to be able to consider what choices are best for everyone and compromise, if necessary.
4) It would be a great conclusion to their character arc: Raine spent half of their life trying to destroy the coven system from the inside and has witnessed its worst sides first-hand, let them be the one to build something new and better for the future of the Boiling Isled.
So in conclusion: Raine has the potential to be a great president....... as long as nobody forces them to make public speeches regularly.
Them being a member of the government would also explain why they are present when that coven sigil was removed: Why would someone who specialises in Bard magic be needed for something that seems to be based on Healing and Abomination magic? Because they're a representative of the government/the Boiling Isles!
Also...........
Give me power couple Raeda as president of the Boiling Isles and Headmistress of the University of Wild Magic!!
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wardenparker · 2 months
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Vampire Waltz - Epilogue
Max Phillips x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst
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A mysterious inheritance, sprawling mansion, eccentric roommates, friendly bat, and coven of New England witches are the newest chapter of your life after being unceremoniously dumped and kicked out by your boyfriend. For Max, the biggest change in his life is you, and what exactly he's going to do about the fact that he is stuck living with you as long as his sire continues to punish him for that incident at his last office...
Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 13.9k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: deceased parents, cursing, food, blood and blood drinking, depictions and references to abusive relationships. Anxiety and trauma responses. Self-worth issues.* Pregnancy. Some healing of generational trauma, reconciliation, regret, past pain. But mostly fluff. Summary: In the time after returning to your original timeline, life seems to have many more surprises left for you and Max. Notes: Editing this chapter has been a good old fashioned cry at my laptop, I will admit that entirely. This little family has given us such a wild ride, and we are so grateful to each one of you for reading along for every twist and turn. Please join us for Hummingbird Has Landed, starting next week!
Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Ch 16 ~ Ch 17
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Six months fly by in the blink of an eye, and before you know it the day of the wedding has arrived. Seacliff has been thrown open for the occasion, decorated top to bottom in roses accented with spring wildflowers and with every curtain thrown open to let the sunlight in. At the end of your second trimester, you tend to get tired earlier in the night so you and Max had opted for an afternoon wedding with sort of an high tea theme for the food. The music is all perfect for dancing to, of course, and everyone from the dance studios you now frequent to the girls from the coven to your extended vampiric family has been invited. He’s even made a few friends at the firm where he now works, opting to go into real estate this time around. After spending a hundred years building different houses, he knows a thing or two about it.
Allison and Eddie will be the ones to stand up for you today, of course, as Allison learns each day a little bit more of what it means to be a vampire who has kept her humanity through every step of the change. You and Max had stood up with them at City Hall a few months ago and helped throw their more laid-back wedding reception at Chateau-sur-Mer. Now everything is set up for today’s success as well. All that’s left, really, is for Max’s surprise to arrive.
Max hovers, a habit that he’s developed even more as your stomach has grown. In love with the slow heartbeat of his child in your stomach and the sweet smell of your blood. He craves you more than you know, but he’s refused to drink from you since finding out that you are carrying his child. Not willing to risk anything, even after decades of taking your blood.
“Everything’s fine, love.” He’s always been a doting partner but for the last few months it’s increased exponentially and somehow you’re even more in love with him for it. “We’ve had weddings before. Everything will be just fine.”
“I know.” He does know that, but for some reason, this is the one that is making him nervous. “I’m excited.” He admits quietly. “This one is us. Our original timeline.” He pushes away the pang of sadness that seems to be creeping up every time the baby moves, or he thinks about being a father. The loss of his family is more poignant in this time because there’s no good reason they are not here.
“That’s why this one is exactly what we wanted. Good music, good food, not too fancy but not too casual.” You reach out and squeeze his hand, rubbing gently along his arm. “It’s the Goldilocks of weddings.”
“Are you comfortable?” He asks, shaking away his disappointment that parents who don’t care about him aren’t sitting on the groom’s side and focuses on you. “You should sit before the ceremony.” After so many years together and so many weddings, it seems ridiculous to observe the ‘no seeing the bride before the ceremony’ tradition. “The baby was really active last night; I know your sleep wasn’t the best.”
“The baby’s excited.” Over your second trimester you’ve started to get the feeling that your little witch-vampire pup can sense your emotions, and he knows you’re excited for today. “And Tracy brewed me a little potion for today. Energy without caffeine so I won’t get too tired and I can enjoy the day.”
He eyes you, but he doesn’t say anything. Always wary about portions because he’s paranoid, not because he doesn’t trust the witches that make up your very supportive coven. “Do you want a little massage before we start?” He offers, knowing how much you enjoy the back and foot massages he’s gotten pretty good at.
“It’s perfectly safe,” you assure him, but you’re already sitting back in your favourite chair with bare feet ready for rubbing. This is not going to be a day for silk stockings or anything delicate like that. “It’s one of Lina’s recipes. Tracy is having fun going through her grimoire.”
Max chuckles at how quickly you move when you are offered a massage. It’s cute how much you enjoy being pampered and he loves to remind you that you are the absolute love of his life. “Honestly? I trust them. I’m just worrying to worry.” He tells you as he sits down on the little foot stool. “Have I told you how fucking gorgeous you are today?”
"Hmmm, only once." Max starts in on your swollen, achy feet right away and you hum happily, sinking back into your chair and letting your hands cradle the large bump that threatens to take over your entire torso. Max Phillips makes big babies, apparently. "The grey suit is one of my favourites, by the way," you hum, referencing the three-piece heather grey suit he chose for today with dark red accents that match your bouquet of roses and Allison's red bridesmaid dress. "You look like a dream."
“Not nearly as dreamy as my pregnant, gorgeous, glowing wife-to-be.” He teases, winking at you. Since the beginning of the week, he’s called you his fiancée or wife-to-be. The new ring on your finger would never replace the original that has so much meaning for the both of you, but he has always given you new rings for every wedding. “But I have to try to look my best when I will be by your side.”
"I hope you don't mind." Holding up your other hand, you show him the original engagement ring he gave you in 1885 sitting on your finger, like a family heirloom accenting the beautiful sapphire ring he chose for you in this timeline. Your something blue, he had told you with a grin. "I felt like this time was the time to wear both."
“Whatever you want.” He promises with a grin. “Eventually we will have enough rings you can wear a different one every day.”
"I'll have a very full jewelry box for our son to pick from when he eventually proposes to his soulmate." Finding out you're carrying a little boy had had both of you crying in the doctor's office, overwhelmed and emotional about the next generation of your family to come.
“Very true.” He presses his thumb to the arch of your foot and he grins when you groan.
"I'm so glad I decided not to wear heels today," you huff, laughing slightly as your head falls back on your chair.
“Me too.” Max snorts. The sparkly white shoes you have chosen are cute and practical. “Although I still like the barefoot and pregnant wedding idea.” He teases with a wink.
"Maybe next time." That draws a deep laugh from you, and you lean back even more. "We'll have that one in summer, when being barefoot doesn't mean stepping on cold floors."
“Next time.” He agrees, although he doesn’t know if there would be a next time. All that matters is your comfort. “We still have an hour and a half before the ceremony.” He chuckles. “Maybe we’ve become too efficient at getting ready for these things.”
"Probably. Sixth time's the charm, I guess." You both laugh, enjoying the quiet and the comfort of being together upstairs in your bedroom. The Taylors, Renee, and Mr. Finchley were all invited to come today as guests but they had balked at the idea of not helping to put together today's event. As a result you've had twice the staff in getting the house ready today and everything is ready ahead of schedule. "Although..." you glance up at the clock and realize it's almost time. "I did plan a sort of...surprise for you today."
“Sweetheart…” he tilts his head and pouts at you adorably. “I thought we said that we were going to keep it low key?” He huffs. “Now my surprise is just going to be a normal wedding gift exchange.”
"I know what we said, and your wedding present is entirely separate." The photo album isn't technically complete anyway, since it has photographs of your first five wedding days already set in it but has left plenty of room for your sixth. "This is just for you."
“Is it something kinky?” He asks with a wicked grin on his face. “I can get behind that. Unless you want to get behind me???” He jokes.
"Not until this little pup comes out to greet us," you laugh, knowing your maneuverability isn't great these days.
“I don’t know, you were pretty kinky last night.” He reminds you. “Or was that someone else that wanted to ride my cock while I gave her tits all the attention?”
"Oh no, that was the horny pregnant woman you're marrying today." And damn last night was a good night.
“I know, and I love her.” He laughs and looks around. “So tell me about this surprise?”
As if on cue, there is a knock at your bedroom door and your own housekeeper clears her throat gently on the other side. "Mrs. Phillips? It's time."
"Thank you, Mrs. Moreau. We'll be down directly." Thankfully your shoes are nearby, and you flash Max a small smile. "Ready, love?" You ask, knowing that he has no idea what's waiting for him downstairs.
“Sure.” He shoots you a suspicious look but quickly applies himself to putting your shoes on. “You’re lucky you don’t have stinky feet.” He teases and pats your knee when he puts your foot down, both of them now wearing comfortable shoes.
The result of about three months' worth of phone calls is waiting downstairs, and you take Max's hand to walk downstairs together. There's a chance he'll be upset with you. Angry, even. But you've known him for long enough now that you don't think he will be – or at least you hope that he will see the gesture for what it is. A loving attempt at bringing him the happiness that you know he's been missing from his life.
He’s curious when he sees that the formal parlor is where you are guiding him. Wondering what you’ve had delivered and he stops dead when he hears a voice he has not heard for a lifetime. He wouldn’t recognize it for the fact that it was permanently attached to a thousand different childhood memories.
"I reached out about three months ago," you explain, feeling him stop dead beside you in the hall. "I told them that we were getting married and that we're expecting, and honey...they miss you so much."
“They— you called them?” He asked dumbly. “That’s— that’s my parents in there?” He asks, feeling like he’s in a dream even though he’s not dreamed since he’s been changed.
"I'll let them tell you everything." He isn't shouting or refusing to see them, so you're taking his quiet wonder as a very good sign. "But...I obviously left out the whole time travel, magic, and vampirism part of our story. I did tell them we're Wiccan, though. So they wouldn't be confused by the handfasting today."
He nods but he doesn’t say anything. Still process the fact that his parents are beyond those doors. People who had abandoned him when he needed them most. Part of him wants to run away, to refuse to see them, but you are squeezing his hand and looking so hopeful when he finally looks at you.
“If you don’t want to, it’s okay.” They’ll be disappointed, and so will you a little, but you’ll all understand. “I just knew that if I asked you about having them over, you would refuse on principle.”
“No.” He chokes out, shaking his head and for a horrible moment, he thinks he might cry. “I just can’t believe they came.”
“Well…” When you look up at him again, you offer him the softest, gentlest smile possible. “They wanted to apologize in person.”
“What did you say to them?” He asks, unable to believe the people who had disowned him, told him they never wanted to see him again, want to apologize.
“I actually did very little of the talking.” You nod to the door and squeeze his hand again, ready with a handkerchief if he ends up needing it. “Do you want to go in?”
“Um, sure.” With his free hand, he meticulously straightens his vest and his hair before he moves. He’s nervous and honestly a little afraid his parents want to ruin today for him.
When the door opens there are two people standing by the windows, looking down the lawn where your wedding ceremony will be and out to the sparkling ocean. Jeff and Maria Phillips stand together in a moment of awe before Maria is rushing forward and stops still in front of Max with one arm outstretched. “Max.” Her instinct is to call him honey, but she doesn’t know just how much he would hate that. “You—we tried everything we could think of to find you and we’re—” She chokes up almost instantly, The regret painted on her face as obviously as daylight.
“We’re so sorry, son.” Jeff has come up behind his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. “We should have taken you at your word when everything happened and we didn’t. That’s—we can’t undo it, Max. But we’ve regretted it every day.”
“Why?” That is the question that plagued him for years. The thing that had broken his heart and confused him. His parents weren’t the warmest people, but he had thought they had loved him enough to believe him. “You told me I was a disgrace to the Phillips name, that you wished I had never been born.” He reminds them. “Why?” His hand lets go of yours and rests on your stomach protectively. “I can never imagine telling my son something so cruel.”
“We received a phone call from the young man who…who accused you.” Usually quite a proud man, Jeff Phillips flounders in explaining himself to his son — a fully grown and obviously proud man in his own respect. “And from the Dean of your college, as well. We were told the proof was irrefutable and we knew you were ambitious, it all just…” he stops, shaking his head and letting it hang in a moment of shame. “Your great-grandfather, my grandfather, had done a lot of very unfortunate, mostly illegal things to get ahead in his lifetime. I tried to raise you as far away from that kind of life as I possibly could, and it—it was a lie that hit too close to home. And I thought I’d failed you. Instead of taking responsibility for that, I lashed out. And I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for it. But your soulmate reached out to us and said you were getting married, so we wanted to at least tell you that we love you on your wedding day.” The gift they had brought was out on the table in the foyer with a few others that had been mailed — an heirloom for the baby with a long letter of explanation and apology. That way even if Max didn’t want to see them, they could at least leave him with words of love in another way. The Phillips family crib and baby blankets made by Max’s grandmother belonged with him now.
Max swallows harshly, knowing that before you, before his time in the past, he would have sent them away for the pure pleasure of watching them hurt the way they had hurt him. To lash out and make them feel the rejection and heartache he had lived with for years. Except, he had to watch history repeat itself in a sense. Knowing the path that was before a headstrong daughter and equally stubborn parents. Watching the silent heartbreak and pain when their daughter distanced themselves from them. Knowing the further heartache that was awaiting them. He had sworn that he would be better than his parents and if he sends them away, what does that teach his son? His parents only have a small amount of time left, should he deny himself that time out of some childish need for punishment? Over the centuries, Max would like to believe he’s matured.
He frowns, looking at the table that has the gifts on them and then looks back at his parents. “Are you staying?” He asks, unsure if they wanted to stay or if they just wanted to make peace.
“We’d like to,” his mother offers, eyes flickering once over to you and then back to her son. She knows the decision isn’t theirs or yours. “But only if you want us to.”
“What made you look for me? Do you think that I’m telling the truth? Or—” Max has to know, he has to know what changed their minds.
“We tried to look for you just a couple of weeks after everything happened.” Maria takes a small step forward, so deeply hopeful that Max will forgive them. “The school said they couldn’t tell us anything besides the fact that your transcripts had been forwarded to another university, and there wasn’t a Find My Phone or anything like that, that we could use to try to find you.” Her voice wavers, obviously emotional, and she sniffles softly. “We realized that the son we’d raised…you didn’t deserve to be shunned even if you had made a mistake. We’d just been so shocked that we reacted on instinct.” Another small shake of her head comes with a few small tears that Maria quickly wipes away. “We should have believed what you told us over anything else. Over any other fear or story. The more times we talked through it, the more we realized…cheating was never the shortcut you were going to take. You always worked too hard for that. And we’d pushed you away for nothing.”
“I had to go to Romania to find a school that would accept me.” Max tells them, biting his lip and closing his eyes as he wrestles with himself. “You lost the son you knew there.”
Your hand slips gently over his, holding it in yours and wondering if this was a mistake. You know how much Max misses his parents, but some hurts are just too deep. It would be truly unfortunate if this was one of them.
“It’s obvious you’ve become a good man even without us.” His father acknowledges, nodding sadly. He knows he failed his son in so many ways, and he really doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself. Maria had fought him in the beginning and brought him around to the truth in time. “But if you’d let us, we’d like to get to know the man you are now.”
“There’s something you need to know before you make that decision.” Max opens his eyes and looks at the older man who is so much like him, even though he has his mother’s ears. Then over to his mother who looks like she is about to break down sobbing. “I’ve wanted you in my life for years, but I won’t let you back in only for you to run away when you find out.”
“Whatever you want to share with us, we want to hear.” It’s a promise, and Jeff Phillips doesn’t take that lightly after all this time.
“Technically….” Max squeezes your hand gently. “Your son, I— died in Romania.” He admits quietly. “I was turned into a vampire.”
The quiet in the room could be cut by a knife, and you hold Max’s hand tightly while his parents process what he’s just said. It’s confusion — deep confusion — more than anything else, but after a seemingly interminable few minutes, Maria nods. “Are you happy?” She asks, aware that her husband must be looking at her like she has three heads right now.
“I am.” Max nods. “I have my soulmate and our child. I’ve done things you would never believe. And now, I am seeing you again.” He gives her a small smile. “After I— was changed, I came back. I saw you from a distance.”
“The world gave you a witch so you would have someone to understand you.” Maria observes, nodding solemnly. You had explained the pertinent parts of being Wiccan to his father over the phone months ago but hadn’t had that conversation directly with his mother so you hadn’t heard her reaction personally. “When did you come to see us, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. It’s a term he hasn’t heard from his mother in over ten years in this timeline and it makes him bite his lip. “August 14th, 2013.” He gives a small shrug. “Your birthday.”
It’s heartwarming, and unexpected, to know that he had missed them too. Just because you had said so in your call — it did not mean it ran deeply. But Max and his mother had always shared a mutual fondness for birthdays. “I wish you had come inside,” his mother admits, although she smiles in a sort of lopsided way. “Although…could you have? If we had not invited you? You’ll have to tell us what is real and what is legend.”
It’s curious that his mother automatically believes him, and he wonders if they think this is some kind of test. He’s testing to see they will believe him and chosen the most outrageous thing. “I don’t have to be invited in.” He laughs.
“Do you remember Vera?” His mother asks, seeing skepticism in her son’s eyes before looking back at her husband too. “The woman who lived next door and would babysit for us when Max was little?” To you she explains, “He would get off the school bus and go to our next-door neighbor’s house for a few hours until Jeff or I got out of work. Whichever one of us got home first would go next door and tell him we were home.”
“Yes?” Jeff frowns slightly, wondering why his wife would bring up a neighbor that was long moved away.
“When Max was a baby, and I would go over to her house during the day for a little change of scenery?” She pauses and looks back over at you with a smile. “Maternity leave can make you feel like your mind is melting sometimes. Find a safe place to get out of your own house. Even if it’s just someone else’s house.” The advice to you seems decent enough, and you barely have time to smile in acknowledgment before she’s looking back to her husband and son again. “Vera used to tell me stories from home,” Maria explains. “And…folktales are always founded in a little bit of truth, aren’t they?”
“She was Romanian.” Max remembers suddenly. “She told you about vampires, didn’t she?”
“She did.” Maria nods, but ends up shrugging reluctantly. “I thought she was an eccentric old lady, but I was grateful for the company. Now…I wish I had taken notes.” Stepping forward one more time, Maria takes a chance and reaches out for Max’s free hand. “We already lost you once, sweetheart. If this means we’ll never lose you again? That your soulmate and your son will never lose you? Then it’s a blessing.”
“I just— I didn’t want you to find out and throw me away again.” Max murmurs quietly. “I had planned on honoring your wishes, to never see you again. But— I— I’m glad you’re here.”
"We never should have said those things." Jeff was the one who said most of it, and he's been humbled enough by regret over the last decade to just...accept whatever it is that life puts out in front of him and his family. He may not understand it, but better to be confused and follow his wife's good example than to risk losing everything all over again. "We missed you, son."
Even though he doesn’t need to breathe, Max exhales loudly, trying to keep from crying. The whole in his heart that he’s refused to acknowledge since the day they had disowned him, finally starting to heal. “I’ve missed you too, Dad.”
The hesitation is cut from the room as Max's parents lurch forward to throw their arms around him and hold on to him tightly. As much as he hates to let go of your hand, he does, needing to basically catch his parents as they hug him. Closing his eyes and trying not to bawl like a baby as he inhales the scent of the people he had never imagined being close to again.
Maria is the one who cries, being dainty about it because she doesn't want her makeup to run or to stain her son's immaculate suit, but she can't help herself. It was not so long ago that she thought she would never get to even see Max again, let alone hug him.
The embrace goes on for longer than he had ever imagined until they break apart and Max turns his head towards you to find you crying quietly into a handkerchief. “Dolly, come here, my love.”
"I'm sorry," you murmur, laughing at yourself a little as you dab at your eyes. This is the reason you hadn't done your eye makeup yet. "Pregnancy hormones."
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” As soon as you are close, you are bundled into his arms and he is pressing his lips to yours. “I love you. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
"I'd do anything for you." And as many times as you've said it, the meaning always holds true. You would turn the world upside down for him – and you even have the power to do it after a hundred years spent honing your magic. "I love you so much."
“I love you too.” He promises gently. Kissing you once more before he turns to his parents. “Let me properly introduce you.” He offers. “Even though you’ve spoken on the phone.”
"We want to know everything." Max's father has handed his wife his handkerchief and is obviously stifling his own emotional reaction – and doing a very poor job of it.
Max pulls you closer to his side and his other hand is proudly protective on your stomach. “This is Dolly.” He does mention your real name, but wants them to know that you prefer your nickname. “My soulmate. The most wonderful woman in the world and the woman I will waltz through eternity with.”
Maria moves to embrace you without hesitation, but Jeff’s head tilts in obvious confusion and curiosity. “Waltz?”
Right. He had never really danced when he was with them. It was picked up in Romania. "I started ballroom dancing." He explains. "An elective in Romania. Dolly also ballroom danced competitively. My favorite thing to do is to waltz with this beautiful lady." He admits proudly.
“We choreographed our first dance,” you tell them proudly, as soft as ever at Max’s side. “You’ll see. He’s an exceptional dancer.”
Maria bites her lip, aware of missing so much time with her son because of their foolish mistake and she nods. "He is exceptional." She reaches out for one of his hands and squeezes it gently. "And you seem so happy." That's all that matters to her.
“We are.” If anything, that is the thing you can promise them. That you’re happy and living the very best, most fulfilling life you possibly can be. “Max is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
"And...his being a vampire is what caused you to meet?" Jeff asks, curious to how the two of you met and trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.
“My grandfather was one of Max’s professors in Romania.” This is the part that is going to get careful explanation, as you hadn’t gone into it over the phone. “He is also Max’s sire. That is…the vampire that turned him. My grandfather took Max under his wing, and even brought him to live with my grandmother here in Newport before she died. I met Max when I moved into that house, as well.”
"I see." There's obviously more to the story, but he won't pry. Right now, he is just glad the boy is talking to him. He knows that Max inherited his stubborn streak, and he could have been rightfully turned away with an expletive and he would have deserved it.
“You’ll meet him today, if you stay for the wedding.” There are still a few more months on Yayo’s ticking clock to join his wife and daughter in the afterlife, but he is waiting until your son is born to leave this world. He had smiled when the decision was made, telling you that wanted to bring good news to Cookie and Annie in the next life. “My grandfather is…a little dramatic,” you smile, stifling a laugh. “I’m afraid it’s a family trait.”
Max chuckles. "And since he is a vampire as well, he looks younger than you, Dad." He warns the other man. "However, Dolly's grandfather is the first vampire. The oldest in existence and has walked the earth for thousands of years."
“It’s a bit of a long story.” The expressions on both of his parents’ faces are something like an undergrad trying to work out a complex math problem, and you shake your head while running a soothing hand over your belly. “Can I offer you a tour of the house?” That, at least, is semi normal. Even if your house was built in 1888 and is still a functional Gilded Age mansion.
“It is beautiful.” Maria nods instantly and Jeff shakes his head. “Do you mind if I speak to Max privately?” He asks you before looking at his son. “Would you, son?”
You look to Max for his confirmation, and when he nods and leans over to kiss you, you offer him an encouraging smile. “I’ll show your mother the library first.”
Max nods, his eyes following you out of the room and he wants to follow you, but he is curious to what his father wants to say privately. Only when he can't see you anymore, do his eyes turn towards Jeff and he arches a brow.
“She’s quite a girl.” He says after the door closes, gesturing to where you have escorted his mother from the room with grace and surety.
"Yes she is." Max will always agree with that. His proud little smile on the corner of his mouth shows his happiness at being matched with you. "She's been through a lot and is still the kindest woman I've ever known."
"When she called us the first time, your mother thought she was an angel." Jeff smiles at that, his wife always has been the gentler out of the two of them. Just like with you and Max.
"In a lot of ways, she is." Max nods. "I normally call her Queenie, as another nickname." He tells his father. "And she is amazingly graceful, carrying a half vampiric child."
"And her..." his father clears his throat. "Her grandfather is...also a vampire?" He's not willing to go against a single second of this, his son is too precious to him after all this time, but he wants to at least make sure that he has everything he's being told straight.
"Yes." Max looks at his father. "I would have met her at Vanderbilt. Discovered that we were soulmates there. I actually had a blind date with her the day I was kicked out." He reveals. "But that didn't happen and luckily her grandfather recognized her birthmark on my arm and changed me." He slides his hands into his pockets, a defense against the hurt that is still there but slowly lessening. Ever more so now that his parents want to be in his life. "He arranged for us to have the meeting we should have had nearly fourteen years ago."
"Jesus..." If his wife was in the room, Maria would scold him for taking the Lord's name in vain, but Jeff just shakes his head. "I..." Jeff blows out a breath. "I know saying that I'm sorry will never be enough. But I really...I'll never stop saying it, if that's what it takes for you to believe how much we regret what happened."
"I believe you." Max has become closely acquainted with actions taken in anger and regretted later. He believes that your mother would have eventually broken the magic binding if she had lived. "Dolly and I talked about reaching out, but for a long time, I was so hurt, I wouldn't have come to you for anything." He sighs softly. "My wife doesn't have much family left. Her parents are gone, and I know she wants as much love for our son as possible. It doesn't surprise me that she contacted you."
"She said she lost her parents, and that you shouldn't have to lose yours as well." It's sweet, Jeff thinks, that his son already refers to his soulmate as his wife on the morning of their wedding day, but he doesn't say anything. It seems like your lives are complicated and he doesn't want to judge. On that, he has learned his lesson. "Max, you should...you should know..." He clears his throat again and casts an eye around the room. "I never actually changed my will. By the time I came out of the fog enough to even talk to our lawyer, I realized the mistake I had made. But it was already too late to find you."
Max frowns slightly, wondering why that would matter to him. Why he would be concerned with his father's will, but then it clicks. His father wants to talk to him about some kind of inheritance. He tilts his head curiously. "I see...."
"Obviously you don't...you don't need my help." The house his son lives in now is a literal mansion. It's far bigger and better than anything that he and Maria were able to give Max growing up. But there is a matter of principle and pride in making sure that they leave what they can to their son when they leave this world. "I had a cousin. A distant cousin, I mean. Who died two years ago. And the guy left behind a big plot of land as well as some assets. Combined with what your mother and I had planned to leave you...it's pretty substantial." He shrugs his shoulders a little, hands in his pockets in a posture that mirrors his son's. "Do whatever you like with it. It's yours. Or maybe your boy's, who knows?"
"Dad...I appreciate that." He promises, meaning it. He had long written off the idea of anything from his parents. "More than you know."
"Maye we can all take a trip together sometime?" He's lost so much time with Max that even being called Dad again has him close to tears, but he shakes it off for now. The day is already emotional. "I guess my mother's side of the family had some money, so it's a nice piece of land in upstate New York. Tuxedo Park. 'Pullman House', I think it's called. Can you imagine having enough money that your house has a name?" He chuckles at the idea, not realizing that his son’s current home most definitely has a name, and shaking his head.
Max freezes for a moment, his eyes widening slightly and he has to take a moment. "Pullman House?" He asks, remembering visiting the house, the last time being a very somber affair. "I— are you serious?"
"Yeah." Jeff nods, taking out his phone to pull up the pictures of the house and grounds that the estate lawyer had sent over. "Have you heard of it?"
"I— I didn't know we were related to the Pullman's." He admits, never looking into his family tree when he was back in time with you. He hadn't wanted to. "How?"
"My grandmother was a Pullman." He doesn't quite see why it matters, but Max seems to recognize the family name so he hands over his phone with photographs of the sprawling mansion. "They made train cars, I think? Back after the Civil War. Must have made quite a bit of money at it, to have a house like that, but it's not in the best shape now. We, uh...your mother and I thought, we could invest a little in it now to fix it up and rent the house out while we're alive. And once we're gone it's yours to do whatever you want with."
"I've been there before." Max tells him with a nod, "I mean, in the area. Tuxedo Park. It's gorgeous from what I remember." He lifts a brow and decides that maybe he should put forth an idea of his own. "It could be something we do together?" He offers. "Dolly and I love historical architecture. Obviously." He chuckles as he glances around the room. "We can start the restoration and see what happens?"
Jeff obviously hadn’t expected that kind of enthusiasm, and when he nods he put his hand out to his son to shake. “I’d like the chance to get to know the man my son has become,” he agrees, on the verge of being choked up again. “And I’ll never say no to getting to see my grandson. It sounds pretty perfect.”
Max looks at the offered hand and reaches out to shake it firmly. "That sounds good." He tells him. "But first, I need to make sure that my soulmate officially carries the Phillips last name." He jokes.
“Why don’t we catch up with our soulmates before they start making plans of their own?” His father suggests with a chuckle, knowing that Maria’s sweet disposition means it could very well happen.
"I'm glad you came." Max admits softly, frowning slightly even though he's completely happy. He's frowning so he doesn't cry, but there's a certain mistiness to his eyes.
“I’m glad, too.” On instinct, Jeff tugs gently on Max’s hand and gratefully holds onto his son once more in a strong hug. They’re both emotional, but if there was ever a time for it in their lives — this seems as appropriate a time as any to shed a few tears in each other’s presence. “I love you, Max. I’m sorry it’s not something you heard often when you were growing up.”
"Always thought I had done something wrong." Max confesses. "If I made the team, you'd love me. If I graduated with honors, you'd love me." He flashes an amused, self-deprecating grin. "If I was a ladies’ man, you'd – at least be proud of me." He snorts. "Always wondered why it was never quite enough. If I was just that much of a disappointment. So instead of talking about it, I decided being a cocky shit and show that I didn't really care what people thought of me."
“I pushed you hard because I knew you were going to do something incredible one day.” They’re both teary, standing together in that room, but it’s okay. It’s always been okay to show his son what he feels, he just didn’t know that. “Your Mom, um…she’s had me doing work on myself. I mean, we’ve been doing it together, but it’s mostly for…” He huffs, rolling his eyes at himself. “She comes to therapy with me a lot. Got plenty of shit to work out and I don’t want it to affect you anymore. And I really don’t want it to affect my grandson. So I’m…I’m working on me. I just really hope it helps. Because you were always enough, Bud. And I always loved you. I just didn’t know how to tell you that.”
"I understand." Max nods. "I've done my own bit of therapy." He doesn't mention it was back before therapy was a thing and it had been with his sire. "Dolly has insisted on it, because of her own issues and it's a good thing. To be the best version of ourselves for each other and our son."
“Do you have any names yet?” Motioning to the door, Jeff means to walk and talk if they can, trying to make the most of every second he has with Max. Of course there’s probably things to finalize before the wedding starts, but they at least have time to catch up to their soulmates.
"We were thinking Johnathan, for Dolly's grandfather and my sire." He smiles slightly. "Johnathan Jeffery Phillips." He watches his father, wondering how he would react to the middle name.
It’s instant, the way Jeff tears up all over again, and this time two thick tears escape his eyes before he can stop them. “Really?” He has to ask, wondering if his son had forgiven him long enough ago to have considered naming his son after the father who had made such an enormous mistake.
"We had long talks about it." Many hours spent talking while you laid in his arms and later when he was stroking the rounded stomach that houses his child even now. "If my son couldn't have his grandfather in his life, at least he would carry a piece of him with him." It was how you had phrased it and Max had nearly cried then too.
“Well goddamn.” Gobsmacked, Jeff wipes his hands down his face and then claps Max on the back with a sigh. “I don’t even know what to say. Except thank you.”
There's nothing else to say at the moment, so Max just nods as you and his mother come into view. "There they are." He hums, smiling at the sight of you absently stroking your stomach as you chat with Maria.
“Hey, my love.” In your wedding dress, all ready for the day, you have been telling your mother-in-law a little about the history of the house and showing her some of the older books in the library. Seeing Max’s softened expression though, you reach out to him immediately. “Everything alright?”
“It’s fine.” He loves that you worry about him, it makes him feel loved. “I was telling my dad about the name we’ve picked out for the baby.”
“Ah,” you hum, leaning over the bump between you to kiss him softly. “Hence the tears?”
“A little emotional.” Max admits shamelessly, enjoying the bump of his heart as he presses his lips to yours.
“That’s good.” You tilt your head to kiss his nose as well and wink. “It’s our wedding day after all.”
"You are amazing, you know that?" He asks softly, kissing you again. "I can't believe you did this. Thank you, my love."
“You deserve to be happy.” The gentle reminder comes with a smile, and you squeeze his hand. “And I know you missed them.”
"You know me too well." He smirks. "Almost like you've lived with me forever."
“Hmm.” Humming a little, you end up giggling instead. “Almost like.”
There’s an inside joke there somewhere, making Jeff and Maria smile awkwardly as the two of you share a moment. “Did you tell Mom?” He asks you, wanting to make sure everyone was aware of the name.
“Not yet.” You look back at his parents but shake your head. “I thought you would want to tell them.”
He flashes you a grin, knowing you are aware that he still has a love of attention, but this is truly special. “Our son is going to be named Johnathan Jeffery Phillips.” He tells Maria, rubbing your belly gently.
“Sweetheart.” His mother is nearly in tears all over again, reaching for Max with overwhelming affection just as earnestly as her other hand goes to her husband. “Is it…” her hands are occupied, but her eyes move to you. “Was Johnathan your father’s name?” She asks as gently as she can.
“It’s my grandfather’s,” you tell her, touched that she would think to ask. “We think we’ll call him JJ for short, but we wanted him to have family names.” JJ is also a sort of family name; in a way you can’t really explain. Lina’s youngest son — little JJ Astor — was sort of your spiritual godson after he wanted to start learning his magic as a young man. You mourned him as dearly as the rest of his family did after the Titanic went down, even though you knew it was coming. That didn’t stop you from missing him.
“I— it’s a beautiful name.” Maria assures you. “JJ is a proper little boy’s name and then he can decide if he wants to keep it or go by Johnathan.” She is so touched that Max would include them in the naming of his child, despite the troubles from before. It will be one of the greatest regrets of her life.
“No matter what, he’ll always be loved.” Your hand smooths the underside of your belly as JJ himself makes an appearance in the conversation, kicking happily to show his approval — or at least his enthusiasm.
Max chuckles proudly. “He’s always so active. Giving mom his opinions on everything. He seems to like his name.” He tells his parents.
“I hate to interrupt, sir. Madam.” The petite figure of your housekeeper appears in the open library doorway. Mrs. Moreau has been with you since the house was finished in 1888, a determined and intelligent middle-aged woman-turned-vampire from Louisiana that prided herself on her skills as a caretaker. “But the other guests have begun to arrive. Mr. And Mrs. Perez are asking for you.”
“Of course.” Max nods and looks towards his parents. “I would like you to stay.” He tells them. “Please? We can talk and if you haven’t booked a hotel, you are welcomed to stay here.” He glances at you for confirmation, but he’s well aware that you’ve probably already planned for such an event.
“I already asked Mrs. Moreau to make up a guest room.” Obviously you had been hopeful that this reunion would go well, but you had really asked your housekeeper to make sure a few guest rooms were ready just in case anyone over indulged at the wedding. Safety first.
“Oh, well – are you sure?” The last thing they want to do is intrude on their son on his wedding night, but they also aren’t ready to let him out of their sight for too long as well. They hadn’t booked a hotel in case he refused to see them; the heartbreak would have been too much.
“We insist.” This is the outcome you were hoping for, after all, and you’re glad to see that Max and his parents are going to be able to patch things up. However slowly it happens, the work has begun. And that’s what matters most. “We aren’t leaving for our honeymoon for another week. And we’d like very much if you stayed.” The little train ride down to Washington DC will be welcome, and you had planned to take in museums and eat good food for a week or two before coming home again and making sure you have everything you need for the baby.
Maria bites her lip and looks at Jeff, wanting this more than anything. She’s missed her son, her only baby and now she’s being given another chance. “We accept.” She tells you with a happy grin. “As long as we can help in some small way. However we can.”
“I’m sure we’ll think of something.” You assure her, but for now you link your fingers through Max’s and smile. “We’re going to go finish getting ready. Please have a drink if you’d like and enjoy looking around a little before you take your seats in the garden. Mrs. Moreau will help you get settled.” There’s something to be said for having come into your own as a woman and a hostess in the Gilded Age, and with the help of women like your grandmother, Mrs. Astor, and Mrs. Vanderbilt. It has made you gracious and thoughtful, and very well prepared.
“Thank you again.” Jeff nods, looking at both of you as he compares the boy he had last known and the man and father-to-be that stands in front of him. “We will speak later.”
“We shouldn’t keep Eddie and Allison waiting.” A squeeze of his hand reminds Max to walk with you, and you hurry upstairs quickly to avoid being spotted by your newly arriving guests.
“Any other surprises that I need to be aware of?” Max asks with a smirk as he keeps his hand on your back, just in case.
“I talked my grandfather into cutting his toast in half.” The grin on your face is unrepentant. At the first of your weddings, Yayo’s reception toast was early forty minutes long. “Surprise.”
Laughing, Max shakes his head. “Yeah but now, we might have to have a speech from my father.”
“I’m rather looking forward to it.” At the top of the stairs, you can hear your brother and sister-in-law in your bedroom, humming over flowers and such. “I love you, Max. Forever. And I take that promise very literally.”
“I love you too.” Max stops you and cups your cheek. “You continue to surprise me, and I will never take you for granted one day during our existence.”
******
There are things about returning to Tuxedo Park that make you very nostalgic in a way that you cannot express to anyone besides Max. You came here together for Emmanuel’s funeral, supporting your grieving mother as her friends. It had been his parents’ wish to bury him here on the property, and now a large weeping beech tree oversees a small family plot on one end of the acreage. The distant cousin Max hadn’t known was buried here also, and had stored generations of family heirlooms inside the many rooms of Pullman House.
Going through these rooms is a lot of organizational work, but thankfully you can do quite a bit of it sitting at the dining room table with JJ in his Grow-With-Me chair beside you, kicking at musical keys and playing with the knobs, soft toys, and multicolored rings that the stationary play station has for his little mind to engage with. He seems to like the house well enough – although he did not like the drive here – and is currently staring and babbling happily at the far corner of the room while you look through old staff records and maintenance books kept by the superintendent.
“Hey love.” Max breezes into the room, taking on the role of handyman seriously, complete with walking about the house in flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up and a tool belt around his hips. Not that he was really using it right now, but you seem to enjoy the view.
“Hey Daddy.” You stretch your neck to invite a kiss and he leans over obligingly as your six-month-old gurgles happily a foot away. “Are your parents back from town yet?”
“Just pulled in.” He grins and presses his lips to yours several times. “How’s my favorite girl. And my little biter?”
“He’s got a favorite spot on the wall to babble at and I’m reading through staffing records. Apparently the house got hit hard by Spanish flu and lost a few people.” You bite your lip, almost hating to say his name, but you have to. “Emmanuel’s nieces both died, and a few members of staff.”
Max sighs softly. “It feels like he should walk through the door.” He admits quietly. “Asking if we have time to check a design he had built and give our opinions.”
“Is it weird that I’ve always wished I could introduce him to my father?” The two men your mother had loved definitely had had more in common than not. Which makes sense, of course, in that your mother had a type. “I just know they would have been friends.”
“It’s not strange.” Max shakes his head. “Just like you shouldn’t feel bad for loving Emmanuel like we did. I think they would have loved each other.”
“I don’t feel bad. I mean it took some adjusting to…to realize that I miss him as my friend and he very well could have been my father.” You shrug slightly, reaching out your fingers to adjust one of JJ’s toys in his chair. “Being here just brings it all back. I’m sure if we were in the house I grew up in, I’d be thinking about my Dad instead.”
“Of course you would.” Max nods seriously. “Have you thought about my offer?” He asks softly.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.” Ever since reuniting with his parents and the birth of his son, Max has been fully family oriented. He’s been endlessly helpful in every aspect of adjusting the way you live to make way for more family, and that included a very generous suggestion a week ago. “I think I’d like it very much, honestly. Bringing Mom and Dad back to Newport seems…it seems right. The family plot at Island Cemetery has plenty of room and it would be nice to not feel so disconnected from them.”
“You would be able to visit her whenever you want.” Max agrees. You’ve visited your parents’ graves a few times, but it’s too far to travel now that JJ is here. “I will have all the arrangements made.”
“Thank you, love.” A half-smile graces your lips, which grows when JJ babbles at the corner again happily. “And when we’re here, we can visit Emmanuel.”
“What is he babbling at?” Max wonders, looking over at his son with a curious pride. “It’s like he’s talking to someone.”
“I don’t know, he’s been at it the whole time I’ve—” But turning your head to actually look at the area where your son is focused makes you almost swallow your tongue. “Oh gods…”
“What?” Max’s fangs descend in a flash and he’s speeding over to JJ to whisk him into his arms. He might be a little overprotective, but this is his son.
"Emmanuel?" The ghostly figure in the corner is unmistakable, his tousled hair and immaculate clothing exactly the way he looked in life, if significantly more transparent and...somewhat more sad.
“What?” This time Max’s eyes are wide, not fearful or protective, but confused. “What do you see?” He demands again, staring at the spot where JJ has been babbling.
"I see Emmanuel," you repeat again, more carefully, seeing the figure of your old friend looking back at you. "That...that is you, isn't it?" The fact that Max can't see him makes you think it must be your and JJ's witch's blood at work, and you stand up from your chair carefully. "Can you see me, too?"
"Oh..." The shadowy memory of Emmanuel sighs quietly. "I can see you. And hear you. It's...I didn't know you could see me," he admits.
“What’s he saying? Is he talking back?” Max asks, looking back and forth between the corner and you.
"He didn't know that we could see him," you explain to Max, tears brimming in your eyes to see your old friend again. "But I—I don't understand." When you look back to the corner, Emmanuel has taken a step forward. "How long have you been here? I had no idea someone who had been a vampire could become a ghost."
Max tilts his head as you seemingly talk to thin air, but Emmanuel has to be there if you say he is. “Since I was destroyed.” He admits quietly, eyes darting back and forth between you and Max. “But you are here and— Annie? She’s your mother?”
“I suppose there’s…a bit to explain.” You glance back at Max where he is holding JJ close to his chest and bouncing your son gently in his arms. “This is when we are originally from. One of my powers is the ability to time travel, and I brought us back to your time by accident. But…yes. Annie was my mother. And the Browns were actually my grandparents.” You smile softly, almost laughing in disbelief. “And this is our son, JJ. Who apparently could see you all day today and simply couldn’t tell me.”
Emmanuel bites his lip as he stares at you. “I— I thought I was doing the right thing.” He tells you, having had decades to reflect on his mistakes.
“So did my grandfather.” Although you nod, regret sticks in your throat as though you were somehow complicit in the decision to sire your mother’s soulmate purely because you didn’t stop it. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“Is that what happened?” Emmanuel asks softly, frowning fiercely as he tries to remember those last moments. There was just a fog, a hunger he had never felt before and then seeing Annie’s eyes filled with regret and pain. Realizing she had staked him. “I— I could never hurt her. She is my world.”
“I know.” Magic isn’t merciful enough to let you touch him — hug him — to offer him comfort, but at least you can give your friend some kind of reassurance. “And Mom knew that, too. That it wasn’t you, when it happened.” Maybe that’s how he ended up a ghost, instead of moving on? You can’t be sure. “No one who ever saw you together could ever doubt how much you loved each other.”
“I— oh god.” He closes his eyes, pain etched across his face. “I hurt her. I— I just wanted to live through eternity with her. To give her the world. I would have never…” Regret laces his words, fills his tone and he wishes once again, that he had never changed.
“Emmanuel…” Cutting him off softly, you find yourself reaching out a hand to him even though you know you can’t touch him. It’s just instinct. “It’s—it’s done with. And…even if you had lived on? It’s…Annie died in a car accident when I was eighteen. She was still mortal, Emmanuel. Despite having such a long life. There’s just… there’s nothing that any of us can do sometimes to prevent tragedy. I know that might not be the most comforting thing in the world, but please don’t torture yourself thinking that she’s still walking the earth in pain.”
“She’s— Annie is gone?” He chokes out, the pain of knowing his soulmate no longer exists, blooming. He had thought he couldn’t feel the crushing pain of loss as a ghost after so many years of haunting Pullman House, but apparently he could. “Dolly— I— she’s gone?”
“I’m sorry.” Maybe you should have eased into the news a little, but you had honestly thought it would be comforting to know she wasn’t in pain anymore. “It’s been almost fifteen years now.”
“Why am I still here?” Emmanuel asks, unable to ask the question to anyone else since he has shown up here to haunt the halls.
“I don’t know.” You tell him honestly. “I’ve…you’re the first ghost I’ve ever met.”
He nods and his eyes slide over to Max and JJ. “Is he—?” He asks, eyes longing as they look at the child. The child that in his mind, should be his grandchild. “Are you happy?”
It almost feels rude to tell him just how happy you really are, but there is such a small chance that knowing your family is happy and healthy might actually help him somehow — and you cannot lie to your friend. Not anymore. You’ve already kept so much from him. “Yes,” you nod, knowing that Max is right behind you with JJ in his arms and that every moment your family has together is not to be taken for granted. “We’re still very happy.”
“Good.” Emmanuel smiles and looks back at the baby again. “Your son?” He asks. “He’s bright. He saw me right away.”
“He’s six months old today.” You can’t help the immensely proud way you beam when talking about your son. JJ is your pride and joy and you absolutely will talk about him from dawn until dusk. “Seeing you is…it’s the first sign of magic he’s shown. And I’m so very glad.”
“Does he...need blood?” He asks curiously.
“Some.” And you’re grateful you had been prepared for that, otherwise it would have been a very rude awakening. “But according to Cookie, Annie stopped needing blood after she stopped growing.”
“And you?” He asks, curious as to what you experienced as a child. “Did you need blood?”
“Not that I remember.” It isn’t impossible that you were given it as a baby and simply don’t remember, but even with your memory as clear as it is you don’t recall any sippy cups of blood in your childhood. “But I do take some of Max’s now. To prolong my life.”
“That is good.” Emmanuel nods. “You deserve a long life. You were always so kind to me. Even if you obviously knew what my fate was.”
“You loved my mother.” It’s as simple as that, to you at least, and again you just desperately wish you could hug him. “And you were a wonderful friend to Max and to me. You deserve as much kindness as every other good person in the world. I’m just…I’m very glad that I could be one of the people you find it in.”
“I am sorry.” Emmanuel murmurs softly. “For all the pain I cause your mother.” He’s had plenty of time to regret his change and now that he knows that he had hurt her, he is even more so.
“I wish it didn’t torture you the way it does.” It’s a sort of vain hope…or least a far-fetched one, but it is honest. “We are all of us only human, after all. Even witches and even vampires. We still make all the same mistakes and have all the same feelings.”
“I just hope that she was happy.” Emmanuel confesses. “After my time with her had ended.”
“In my memories of her, she was very happy.” It would be cruel to harp on the fact that your father was a good man and a good partner for her, and you won’t mention him at all, but you do smile reflexively. “Life when I was growing up was simple, and quiet, and happy. I can promise you that.”
“Good.” He smiles, nodding at the imagery you are producing. “That is all I can ask for.”
“You should know.” Stepping away from the topic of your mother or his regret for a moment is the gentlest thing you can think of in this moment. “Max and I…we’re helping his parents restore this house. They own it now. So we’ll be here, in and out, from now on.”
“Truly?” His eyes light up, delighted to maybe have company at some points during his existence as a ghost. “Would you— perhaps we could talk more? Not always, but some moments when you have time?”
“Of course we can talk more. And as JJ gets older, he’ll be able to talk to you, too.” His joy makes your heart ache, just like the very idea that you might not want to talk to him is absurd. “We’ve missed you, Emmanuel. Very much.”
“I’ve missed you too.” He promises with a small, sardonic smirk. “Although it’s amusing that Max cannot see me.”
“We’ll have to talk about him while he’s in the room,” you tease, throwing a grin back at your soulmate. “It will drive him crazy.”
“Don’t you dare talk about me.” Max huffs, frowning fiercely at the idea.
"Love you, babe." A grin over your shoulder tells him you're only teasing.
Max huffs and rolls his eyes. “Keep it up and I’ll start calling you ‘Manny’.” He threatens his old friend, not meaning a word of it.
“You’ll do that anyway,” Emmanuel replies, knowing his friend can’t hear him but enjoying the comfort that you can. You’re the first person to ever see him and actually hear what he says and it’s more comforting than he can possibly say.
“He says you’ll do that anyway,” you pass the message along with a grin.
Max tries to look innocent but fails miserably when he grins. “True.” He snorts and steps closer to the corner with the baby in his arms. “I can’t see you, but I’m glad that you’re— not gone.” He settles for that and shrugs. “I don’t know what to call it, but I’ve missed our billiards games.”
“It’s hard to play billiards without a body,” Emmanuel chuckles. “But maybe your wife will be kind enough to help us play chess.”
“He says I should help you play chess.” Translating between them makes you smile. Something you never expected but it warms your heart. “And I happily agree.”
“We will have to do it.” Max nods and gives a small chuckle. “No cheating though. I know you.”
That makes you snicker, but you hold up both hands in innocence. “I promise I won’t help him cheat,” you vow, wiggling your fingers in his direction. “Now, can I hold our son, please?”
“Sure.” Now that there’s no danger, Max has no problem handing over JJ to you. The boy goes easily, babbling happily and pointing at the corner.
"Sweetheart, I want you to meet somebody." Cooing to your son, you press a kiss to JJ's forehead and carry him a little closer to where Emmanuel is standing, past the table and past the chairs you had been sitting on all day. "This is Uncle Emmanuel." How much of what you're telling him is actually sinking into his curious little mind, you can't be sure. At six months old, he's definitely not piecing together a family tree in his mind. "He lives here, so we're going to be very nice to his house, okay Bud?" Picking up his little hand in yours, you grin when your son giggles approvingly. "Wave hi, Bud! Hi Uncle Emmanuel!"
JJ has learned to wave and he throws his entire body into it. Babbling and gurgling with a giant grin on his face as he damn near wiggles out of your arms.
If Emmanuel could still cry, he would have tears in his eyes. But as it is, the emotion sticking in his throat gives him away. “He is a blessing.” He manages to say, regarding the little boy in your arms.
“Yes.” You will agree to that every time, and never contest it for even a moment. “He absolutely is.”
******
Despite it being over 100 years of you sleeping beside him while he stays awake, Max doesn’t leave the bed. Too content to hold you as your breathing is nice and slow. Unless JJ is fussy and then he leaves you sleeping to handle the baby. He slips out of the bed as you groan and turn over to hug his pillow.
Your dreams have gotten slightly stranger since starting to take Max’s blood — the strangest were during pregnancy, but thank the gods that’s over — but it wouldn’t be uncommon to dream of magic or anthropomorphic anything or even create entire other universes in your mind. That makes this dream, as Max slips out of bed to rock your fussy son in his arms, all the more remarkable for being normal. Just a dream of your grandparents and parents sitting around a table playing cards like nothing had ever happened between them.
Your grandfather is the first to notice you, turning and smiling at you, just like he had your entire childhood when he visited you in your dreams. “Muñeca, you have come.” He stands and waves you over to the group.
“Yayo?” It isn’t the first time you’ve dreamt of your grandfather since he left this life, but it feels so much more real. “Am I late?”
He shakes his head and moves to gather you into a hug. “You are just on time. Come. There are others who have waited so long to see you again.”
You can see your family in the room, but at your grandfather’s bidding it’s like a veil lifts and you step further into the dining room at Chateau-sur-Mer to see your parents beaming at you as your abuela starts to deal you into their card game.
“Come sit with us.” Cookie hums in delight. “It has been so long since I have talked to you, my darling.”
“Are you…” Aware of your grandfather’s power, you don’t hesitate to go to the table, but you do look back at him before reaching out to hug your grandmother. “Are you all really here?” You ask, already choked up at the idea of it.
“After death, hard feelings are not nearly as important as family.” Annie admits, reaching out and taking your hand when you sit down. “I have so much to apologize for, sweetheart. So much.”
“You did what you thought was right, Mom.” Being able to see her again — touch her — call her Mom instead of Annie? It’s such a gift. It’s more than you ever dared to ask for, even knowing what is possible in the world. On her other side, though, you fly out of your chair to go to your father. It’s been the longest since you saw him, let alone spoke to him, because talking to the photos on your vanity at home don’t count as much.
“Hey pumpkin.” The fact that you are grown makes no difference as your father folds you into his arms and pulls you onto his lap for a hug like you are still six years old. “I have missed you so much. Been watching over you.”
“I miss you, Dad.” Such easy words to say, even as they shake through you, and you cling to him for a hug. “I miss all of you, but…gods I’m so sorry I didn’t come to see you when I was in the past. I was terrified of changing the timeline.”
“Honey, we understand.” Your father reassures you, kissing your forehead like he would have when comforting you from a bad dream. “I am just glad you got to see your mother. Your grandparents.” He pulls back and smiles at you. “Now you get to see me.”
“I wish you could’ve met Max.” Looking up and casting your eyes around the table, you soften again. “And JJ. Yayo is the only one who got to meet JJ, and you would all love him so much.”
“We’ve met JJ.” Your father admits with a smile. “Dreams, just like now, with you.”
“You can…with JJ?” It shouldn’t surprise you, not after last week’s revelation that your six-month-old can already see ghosts, but you smile in relief. “Good. I’m glad he’ll get to dream of his family.”
“We won’t monopolize his dreams.” Cookie promises. “Just drop in from time to time.”
“How are you still able to visit us?” This question is for Yayo, who is quietly looking through his hand off cards with a small smile. “If you…passed on? How do you still have your powers?”
“We are waiting.” Yayo tells you simply. “For Emmanuel.”
“Then I think you might be waiting for a while,” you tell him, guilt creeping into your voice as you look around the table. “He’s…he didn’t cross over. We’re at Pullman House right now. And he’s still here.”
“He has to forgive himself first.” Annie murmurs, looking sadly over at your father and then at you. “But he will. And then we will all be together.”
"He's heartbroken that he hurt you." It's so important for your mother to know this. To completely wrap her head around it, even if you understand that she probably forgave him long ago. "He barely even remembers when it happened. We've...talked through it. Extensively." Call it Ghost Therapy, but you had been hoping that trying to remember might somehow help him move on.
“Tell him that I— we— are waiting for him.” Annie requests, looking over at her husband, your father, and smiling. “Your father is looking forward to knowing the man that I loved before him. That I still love.”
“I…always thought you would be such good friends if you could meet.” It feels odd to admit it to your father, but it’s honest. It’s how you’ve felt since very early on after meeting Emmanuel.
“I know we would be.” Your father chuckles and looks at Annie lovingly. “She has told me about her soulmate.”
“Did they…tell you about Max, too?” It might be selfish, to wonder if they’ve talked about you and your happiness — but this is your family. Your parents and grandparents. In your heart your hope they’re at least happy for you.
“Absolutely.” He assures you with a proud smile. “I’ve watched how he cares for you, loves you.” He bites his lip. “He’s the kind of man I always hoped you would be with.”
“I wish you could visit him, too.” You admit, smiling softly. “But he doesn’t dream. Or sleep, really.”
“Yes, he’s too busy watching over his family.” Your grandmother hums in approval.
“You made a good choice, Yayo.” Of that, you can assure him. “Eddie and Allison are doing so well.”
“They are, aren’t they?” He smiles the satisfied little smirk of contentment before he picks up Cookie’s hand and kisses the back of it. “They are made for it, so I have cashed in one last favor from the devil.”
“Oh?” To hear that he had any left at all is a surprise, and you sit up at the table.
“Yes.” He hums, arching his brow and letting the moment sit just a touch longer for the dramatic effect. “They will walk the earth for eternity as soulmates.”
“Yayo.” The well of tears behind your eyes is instant, tears spilling over onto your cheeks as you think of how much that will mean to them. “You—they’ll be ecstatic,” you sniffle, wiping away the dripping tears.
“I thought they would like my last gift to them.” He nods, and holds up a finger. “But tell them that they should still treat every day as if they have just discovered each other.”
“I promise I’ll tell them.” Is it possible they don’t know yet? That it hasn’t happened? You’re certain that Allison would have called if she and Eddie had suddenly gained each other’s marks on any random afternoon. “And…” you look to your mother but have to wipe tears away all over again. “I’ll talk to Emmanuel. To tell him it’s time to finally forgive himself. Because you forgave him a long time ago.”
“I wish for him to enjoy this eternity with us.” Annie adds, nodding happily that you understand and there seems to be no hard feelings.
“I’ll tell him,” you promise again. For all the lifetimes that you knew your mother — whether she was your mother or your friend Annie — you have been able to love her through all of them. It’s oddly gratifying that you’ll be able to send her soulmate to her now. So that she can be loved all the more.
“Thank you, love.” Annie beams at you. “I am so grateful that you came back to visit during my youth. That I know you as the woman you are as well as my baby girl.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you while we were there.” It would have been too much. Too complicated and too risky. But at least you had been able to know your mother for many more years.
“Oh sweetheart, I understand.” Your mother shakes her head and gives you a sad smile. “It would have changed things if I had known. And while I wish that I had not made mistakes, I did. I just hope you can forgive me for them.”
“I don’t think there’s a single person at this table who hasn’t tried a little too hard to protect the people they love.” Too much pressure, spellbinding, and accidental time travel all seem to be varying levels of the same misguided leaps into protection. It seems to be a family trait. “I understand why you did it. I’d do anything to protect JJ, too.”
“Just don’t repeat the mistakes we have made.” Yayo cautions you wisely. “Learn from our follies so you can make all new mistakes.”
You can’t help but laugh at that. The idea of all new mistakes being both daunting and very realistic. “I’m sure we will. That’s parenthood, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.” All of the adults chuckle, well aware of their own parental mistakes and your father strokes your back gently. “You are a good mother. You will be for all the children to come.”
“I hope it will be several,” you admit with a grin. “I’m really enjoying motherhood.”
“It will be.” Yayo confirms with a knowing smirk. He has his ways of knowing that his family will be happy and healthy for generations to come.
******
The sun rises right into your bedroom window at Pullman House, bringing you out of your dream gently but without question. The baby monitor is gone from the nightstand on your side of the bed and your husband is nowhere in sight, so he must have gotten up with JJ in the night to make sure you could sleep. Sometimes he’s fussy for blood and sometimes for a bottle, but either way Max is able to take care of him.
They’re sitting together, father and son, at the table in the breakfast room when you come downstairs in your favourite old t-shirt and jeans after taking a steaming hot shower. Any chance to actually take a lengthy shower and feel human again is not something to be undervalued as a new mom, you have found.
JJ squeals happily at the sight of you and you sweep into the room to scoop him up out of his seat. “Hey Bud,” you croon, kissing his little forehead before leaning over to kiss Max as well. “Were you good for Daddy this morning?”
“Say ‘of course I was, Mommy’.” Max answers for him. “Nothing short of perfect, my son.” He winks at you playfully. “Takes after his father.”
“Mmhmm.” Even if you smirk skeptically, it’s full of nothing but love. “So that means he wanted blood last night, then?”
“So much that I’ve been thinking of creating a ‘Little Biters’ line of baby products.” He snorts jokingly. “The mascot of the line will be Cutie.”
“Mommy’s little menace,” you tease, placing another kiss on JJ’s head before moving around the kitchen to pour yourself a bowl of cereal. “I…had a dream last night.” Looking back over your shoulder, you shoot Max a meaningful look. “A family dream.”
“Really?” Max straightens up and his brow furrows slightly. He’s curious at the timing, especially since Emmanuel’s appearance. “What was it about?”
“Yayo had some messages to deliver.” Your grandfather’s mastery of the dramatic never ends. “I played cards with my grandparents and my parents and we talked.”
“Bridge?” Max asks, having spent many hours playing with your mother and grandmother back in the day.
“Of course.” The smirk on your face is because you got very good at the game over the decades. To the point where you were almost better than your abuela. “Dad and I switched out. Apparently he never quite mastered it the way you did.”
“Was this….a visit? Or a dream?” He asks seriously, knowing that stranger things are possible. He’s currently feeding one of them.
“It was a visit.” The distinct, you grant him, is important. “Apparently Yayo still has a little pull where it matters. Don’t I think this will be the last one.”
Max chuckles and shakes his head affectionately. “Of course the old bastard does.” He huffs.
“They told me they’re waiting.” The reality of it feels heavy, weighing on your shoulders like Atlas balancing the world. “They haven’t crossed over yet because they don’t want to leave Emmanuel behind.”
“That’s…sweet.” Max admits, his expression soft and yearning. He has been a little put out that he can’t see his old friend, but you have been enjoying talking to him. “Very sweet.”
"You know the old chestnut about ghosts having unfinished business?" With a bowl of cereal now in hand and enough milk to satisfy you, you sit down at the table with Max and set JJ back down in his own seat. "Mom says Emmanuel has to forgive himself so he can move on."
“Yeah?” Max shakes his head. “How are you going to convince him to do that?” He asks. “Although, telling him that Annie is waiting for him is a good start.”
"Hopefully being able to tell him directly from Mom that she has already forgiven him will give him the permission he feels like he needs to forgive himself." It's your best theory, anyway, and the fact that your friend has been so tortured over what happened for more than a century grieves you in a way you didn't know what possible. "Dad wants to meet him. Wants to wait for him, too. It’s...actually incredibly sweet."
“I told you it was.” He huffs at you playfully, reaching out and taking your hand. “Were you happy to see all of them together? Especially your dad? Since you didn’t get more time with him?”
"It was really nice to see Dad." To see him, to hug him, even if it was only in your dream. Dreams in your family have always been a little more intense anyway – but visitations are step above and beyond. "I think..." You glance up at your soulmate with a little grin. "Maybe we name the next little boy after him?"
“Next little boy?” Max perks up, considering you haven’t really talked about having more kids, and you had cursed him blue while in labor with JJ.
"I'm not saying giving birth was my favorite leisure day or anything." You snort at the idea, letting yourself enjoy a bite of your breakfast while you chuckle silently over the very idea. "But Yayo heavily implied a little insight into the timeline, and the fact that JJ will have at least a couple of siblings at some point."
“Can we start making them now?” Max asks, waggling his brows at you suggestively.
Shoving Max's arm playfully at the table, you make a soft if slightly non-committal noise at him and have another bite of your breakfast. You haven't been intimate since JJ was born and that's the longest you've gone in your entire relationship, but the doctor had been adamant that you needed time to heal and Max had agreed to follow medical advice without hesitation. "Let's see what the doc says when we get back to Newport," you tell him, that beaming grin overtaking your face again. "It took a hundred years to get JJ. Who knows how long we'll have to wait for the next?"
“That’s a hell of an age gap.” Max snorts, imagining JJ as a grandfather and becoming a big brother at the same time.
"It would be," you agree, laughing almost to yourself in silent little huffs. "Hopefully it won't take as long next time."
“Whenever you’re ready.” Max insists. He had even suggested wearing condoms when you were ready to have sex again.
"I love you." As many children as you many or may not have, as many different houses as you may live in, and as many decades or centuries as will ever pass between you -- this is the thing that holds it all together. The fuel that keeps your life going is right here at this table. And you can't help but be caught up in it a little when he slides his hand into yours and smiles. "Come on," you urge, pushing your cereal bowl away and nodding toward the belly of the house. "Come dance with me." It wouldn't be the first time he's twirled you around the dance floor at eight in the morning and you're sure it won't be the last, because the two of you never seem to tire of the waltz.
______
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potatomountain · 11 months
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My Filthy Boy - part 1
bf!wooyoung x reader x witch/hybrid!ateez  
Word Count: 2,042
Synopsis: (it came to me in a dream) Getting caught fucking your boyfriend in the living space he shared with his coven should have been embarrassing- but he liked it far too much.
warnings: smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, creampie, cursing. switch woo! switch reader! fem reader!
An: so I had this written out months ago so here is my attempt to get back into the groove of things ^^ enjoy, feedback is greatly appreciated :')
“Fuck Baby! so perfect up there-”
You slammed your hips down to meet Wooyoung’s hips, angled just right his cock hit your sweet spot each time. “Bet you love the view huh baby? Tits bouncing as I fuck myself on your cock. Give me more of those pretty sounds you make. Come on you can do that for me can’t you?”
He moaned out in response, hands gripping at the blankets beneath him. What had started as a cute floor date with netflix in the communal living space of his shared home had turned into the two of you making a mess out of each other, as it usually did when you and your boyfriend were left alone.
The two of you had at least waited to get touchy until after the rest of his housemates had left to do something Wooyoung hadn’t indulged with you. Probably had something to do with the fact that they were witches, or warlocks, but they said they would be gone for a view hours.
So either you had been bouncing on Wooyoung’s messy cock for a few hours or they were back early: a fact neither of you noticed until Wooyoung was tilting his head back and letting out the sweetest moan just for you.
Focused on your own pleasure, watching your boyfriend beneath you as you continued to roll and bounce your hips just right; Your head lolled forward a bit, hands on his chest as you let out your own breathless moan.
You felt him twitch beneath you, head still tilted back and pointed towards the front door when he drawled out: “Like the show?” By the smirk on his lips you realized he was talking to you.
Head snapping up your hips halted the moment you saw seven other males standing just in the entranceway, gawking at you with a mixture of expressions. From their jaws hanging open to teasing smirks to shyly trying to hide their clear interest in the sight you and Wooyoung no doubt made; you had clearly been caught.
Mortified, you squeaked out, moving to pull yourself off of Wooyoung only for his hands to latch onto your hips and roll you both over so you were pinned beneath him. You tried to protest, pushing at his chest and whining, only for him to shut you up with one thrust with perfect precision to your sweet spot. “We never stop a ritual once we started, Kitten, and this is as primal a ritual as any.”
“B-b-but-!” You could hardly get a protest out with the way he was jackhammering into your cunt with a newfound excitement. You could tell he was enjoying this, and none of the onlookers were making any protests either.
In fact Wooyoung wanted to show you off more, leaning back and lifting your hips up to meet each of his thrusts, groaning at the way your whole body bounced. A few resounding groans a few feet above you insinuated they were enjoying the sight too. “Never answered me guys: are you enjoying the show?”
You dared to tilt your head just enough to look up, a bit too jostled to make out their expressions but from the way Mingi was working his pants off to free the clear bulge residing there- as well as the way San was palming himself through his leather pants, were clear indications they liked this too. All of them answered Woo young with either a fervent nod or a low hum that was like a pleased growl. Out of embarrassment, and due the slow build of your climax twisting in your stomach, you had to look away from them.
You weren’t a witch, you weren’t blessed with a coven or even the knowledge of how one works but you were fascinated by them. That’s how you had met Wooyoung- attempting to steal glances at the local head Coven of warlocks just out of curiosity. Perhaps this was a normal thing for them, watching their brothers fuck their lovers- perhaps they even fucked them together.
At that thought, a guttural moan ripped through you, your head turning to look  up at Wooyoung. There was a sheen of magic in his eyes, a cheeky grin pasted on his lips as he reached forward and flicked his thumb against your clit. Perhaps you liked being watched, or would even like being shared, because the idea filled you with arousal that matched Wooyoung’s.
He recognized the way your eyes glazed over and felt your legs tremble around his waist as his thumb worked in tandem with his thrusts. “Come on kitten- come with me- show my brothers what pretty sounds you make for me.” He all but threw your earlier words back at you with a cockiness that just turned you on even more.
Nodding quickly, You gripped the blankets beneath you, pants and breathless moans growing in volume as your embarrassment over the situation evaporated until you were chanting Wooyoung’s name and chasing your high.
You were vaguely aware of a few mutterings from the others, a few growls, but all you could focus on was Wooyoung until your head was spinning with your high and your were clenching down on him so hard that he barely lasted another thrust before spurting his seed into you. He fucked you through both your climaxes until he pulled out, growing at the sight of his cum already leaking out of your abused hole. “Fuck that’s an even prettier sight.”
Near your head there was a whine. “I want to see-” You managed to open one unfocused eye to find Mingi peering over you, inhaling sharply as Wooyoung proudly showed off his work. “Fuck her pussy looks good enough to eat.”
“You want a taste now?” Wooyoung collapsed on your other side, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer while your body and mind were still reeling in post-orgasmic bliss.
Mingi whined again, nodding. It wasn’t until his face was mere inches away from your cunt that it fully clicked what was happening and you quickly shut your legs with a vice grip. “What- the fuck Woo?” Sense seemed to return to you, pulling you away from him and grappling for the blankets to cover yourself. “You should talk to me about stuff like that before just offering it up!”
“Okay- Kitten, are you okay if Mingi eats you out? My cum and all?” He replied instantly and without a hint of shame, propping himself up on his elbow and resting his head in the palm of his hand.
Your cheeks burned with newfound embarrassment, unable to look at any of the others and just glared as menacingly at your boyfriend as you could. “I-is this normal for covens? To just share like this?”
“It’s normal for us.” Hongjoong was the one who spoke up, drawing your attention. He seemed the least affected by what had happened, aside from Yeosang. “He probably planned this.”
Your head swung back to Wooyoung, jaw falling slack. “What?”
“We were only going out for a quick dinner.” Seonghwa offered, adjusting his pants as he stepped up behind Hongjoong. You noticed San was long gone, as was Jongho and Yeosang, leaving just Mingi behind you and Yunho still by the door seemingly rooted in place.
“Woo said you would be gone for a few movies worth.” As it clicked, you unleashed your rising ire on your boyfriend, slapping his arm a few times. “Dammit Wooyoung! You sneaky filthy little bastard!”
He winced but laughed, grabbing your hand and pulling you down to him. “But you love me. Come on, I want to share you with everyone. Can’t I?”
You bit down on your lip, avoiding his eyes as you practically melted against his chest. “I- do they want it too?”
“Yes.” Both Mingi and Yunho breathed out together, voice strained.  Mingi took it a step further to whine behind you. “Please?’
Burying your head into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, you could feel the others watching you. “Can I... can I think about it? This is really sudden and I-”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. Whatever you decide we’ll accept. Right Wooyoung?” Seonghwa warned, moving over to Mingi to pull him back.
You caught the man beneath you faking a salute up at Seonghwa out of the corner of your eye. “Yes sir.”
Vaguely you could hear the rest of them shuffling away, Mingi’s whines dying out until it was just you and your boyfriend. Slowly you sat up and looked down at him with a pout. “Why didn’t you talk to me baby?” There wasn’t a hint of disgust in your tone, more so confusion and a bit of disappointment because you prided yourself on how honest the two of  you were. Wooyoung usually talked about everything with you, even stuff most couples might find tmi.
He avoided your gaze, running a hand up your thigh. “Other lovers the others hand hated the idea when we would bring it up. We aren’t like other covens, we’re not lovers or in love but we’re not a typical family vibe either. We do things together, and when we love someone outside the coven, we all agreed its all or none. Which, as I said, made all the others flee.”
Your eyes widened, taking in this new information. “Is that why Yeosang and that one girl stopped dating?” Barely a few weeks after you had started hanging around, in fact shortly after Wooyoung asked to be your boyfriend, the girl Yeosang had been dating had just stopped coming all together. Now it made sense why Yeosang had been so sad, and the last to warm up to you.
Wooyoung nodded. “Yeo didn’t want me to end up with a broken heart too.”
“Oh baby- I’m not going to end things with you over this-” It didn’t seem to be just a kink any more, yet you needed more explanation. “Do I have to love them all? Like fall in love?”
He shook his head. “Not really.You don’t have to love us, but be open to the idea that we can love you.”
It felt somewhat like a hivemind deal, and you weren’t particularly against it. “I think I get it. I don’t have to claim all of you, but you all have to claim me? It’s like a ritual to fully accept me as yours, as they are as much a part of you as your magic?” He had briefly explained it like that a while back, and I had found it to be oddly charming. They weren’t partners, they weren’t lovers, but somehow the eight of them were so much more. And before Wooyoung could fully accept me, they all needed to accept me, in the way a lover should.
When he nodded, you continued on: “I... do I have to sleep with them all by myself?”
Noticing you weren’t shying away from the idea, merely curious and a bit confused, Wooyoung sat up with a widening smile. “We both would. Fuck them that is, one by one. I can watch, or they could, its just- leave the details to us, all you would have to worry about is enjoying yourself.”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “But if you accept, you can’t back out. This is our equivalent to marriage, to making you a part of the coven. You can always get another lover, but you’ll be stuck with us in a sense. We don’t let our covenmates go.”
The idea of being one with their coven, with fully immersing yourself into their world, had your heart racing. It was curiosity that brought you to them over two years ago, and it was something much deeper that already had you bonded to them. “Alright- Let me sleep on it but I- I think I want to do this Wooyoung. I want to be with you, here, as part of the coven.”
The figure eavesdropping from the all felt their heart pound harshly against their ribcage, gripping their chest. You were going to be their first like this... but could you really handle how filthy it was about to get?
_________________________________________
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nobodysdaydreams · 5 months
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More Hatchetverse Theory: Sycamore High and the Timberwolves are connected to the Hatchetmen and the Tree-People
Starkid's Hatchetverse has retriggered my hyperfixation, and by golly if you think I'm not gonna share every unhinged theory...you're wrong. I’ll tag them “#hatchetverse theory” to make it easier. So let's dive in.
One thing I haven't seen anyone talking about is the fact that, based on what we know about canon, Sycamore High School likely shouldn't exist.
Hatchetfield is a "tiny town". There doesn't seem to be a reason for them to have two high schools, especially when Sycamore seems to not even have enough staff and students for most extra curriculars and programs (in TGWDLM, Paul mentions they don't have a theater program).
So why does Sycamore High School exist? Well, one thing I noticed was that SYCAMORE High as well as its mascot, the TIMBERwolves, have tree related pun names. And what a coincidence, trees happened to be big in the hatchetfield universe, particularly when it comes to the hatchetmen and their hatred of the LIB and magic/“the gift” in general. They did plant a forest of magic tree people after all. And, since they hate the LIB so much, they likely wouldn't want their children attending high school at one of the black altar locations, which just so happens to be Hatchetfield High. That gives them a motivation to build an alternative school.
Sounds like a pretty solid theory to me, but then there's also the fact that the residents also seem to have an odd attitude towards Sycamore High. It's not hated by Hatchetfield High with the same level of hatred they give the Clivesdale Chemists, but they still don't like Sycamore, and the students hate the idea of transferring there. Which seems odd. You'd think it would be the other way around since Hatchetfield High is the school with the black altar. Unless being around a black altar makes the students hate Sycamore, and I could probably do a whole different rant on how the LIB's influence is messing with the perceptions and behavior of the people of Hatchetfield, particularly at the altar locations or when someone uses or has used the black book, but maybe I'll save that for later.
However, if you really wanted to take this theory to the extreme, it could be part of the reason why Paul "doesn't like musicals." Musicals and music are the primary way Pokey expands his influence in Hatchetfield, at least in TGWDLM. That might be one of the reasons Sycamore doesn't have a choir or theater program: not just due to lack of students, but strategically to keep Pokey's influence out. Paul went to Sycamore High, which isn't a black altar (and indeed, might even be designed to counteract or resist the LIB), therefore he's more put off by music and musical performances in Hatchetfield, though he doesn't really know why.
I also suspect this isn't the only instance where the name of locations around town have significance. This has already been seen several times, particularly with the black altar locations.
For example:
The Starlight Theater: has a star theme similar to "the Church of the Starry Children"
CCRP (COVEN Communication Research and Power): Literally has the word "Coven" in it.
Lakeside Mall: Used to be the old mill (which would be located near water, also "mall" and "mill" are one letter off).
And trust me, I have my theories about Clivesdale as well, but again, maybe that one is better for another time.
I hope you enjoy Starkid fandom!
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I had a long argument with someone on whether or not stomping Belos before he dies was better than letting him die pathetically, and I asked myself if that is what fans really believe in... or if they would hail any Belos' death as the perfect one if Dana choose a different one?
They also justify the stomping as being part of horror-comedy genre and that Belos should not have any dignity what so ever because apparently letting him die in despair with no stomping is running the risk of making the audience feel "sorry" for him.
Honestly, these justifications make The Owl House feel more shallow. Like, why shouldn't the audience be allowed to feel sorry for Belos? What is the danger? That people would agree with Belos' views?
Or are we supposed to develop a black and white view of the world akin to a conservative view but inverted? And then hide behind the horror comedy genre to justify less drama? I hate to say it, but Nostalgia Critic is right about Belos being this strange outlier. The show seems to be afraid of actually doing a complex, tragic and yet irredeemable villain.
It doesn't make any sense to argue that Belos' death fits because of toh's genre as a horror comedy because the scene was neither played for horror nor laughs. At best, you have the image of Philip slowly being dissolved by the rain and then Raine's smug "that was satisfying" line. The overall tone of the scene is one of contempt as Philip tries one last plea to Luz only to be snuffed out (and weirdly validated) by the heroes. Its intent is to be cathartic for both audience (though as you know doubt know, YMMV) and the characters.
Frankly, despite its marketing, I don't see toh as either a horror or a comedy because it spends more time on slice of life stuff and high school teen drama and romance. And even when it does go for the horror and comedy, both are rather tepid. You want a real example of a horror-comedy for kids, then go watch Courage the Cowardly Dog or Invader Zim.
The reason why I argue the heroes validated Belos is because in the moment of his death, he clings to the idea that as humans, "we're better than this!" It's a moment of pathetic delusion that is appropriately met with silence but then it's ruined with Eda and Co. barging in with "Well, we ain't!" only to then prove his point by mercilessly stomping an already dying man to death. There's a reason why kid shows usually end with either the villain being imprisoned or not outright being murdered by the heroes. Evil has to die by its own hubris, not get killed by the heroes after the Big Battle when they're no longer a threat. I made a post about the importance of defeating a major antagonist twice.
Belos' death also doesn't work with a "Kill your oppressors" theme because the show isn't about that. The show barely spends any time showing why the EC is bad for the Boiling Isles and Eda is the only named wild witch we see getting harassed by them and even then, it's mostly played for laughs given how inept the coven scouts are (seriously, they're able to quit without fear of repercussions).
I think a reason fans are split on Belos' death is because of differing expectations; the fans who paid attention to Belos and the implication of his backstory and waited for every lie to come crashing down on him since that's what the show seemed to be building up to only to be unceremoniously ignored in the end were no doubt disappointed. Then you have the other fans who hated the character to the point that any gruesome death will do, regardless whether it made narrative or thematic sense or not.
Ultimately, I think the biggest reason his death doesn't work is because Belos fails as a villain.
Belos' status as a colonial puritan only works on a meta-level; it serves a cathartic release for marginialized people to see a representative of real world oppression beaten by queer characters as it fulfills the fantasy of finally overthrowing an oppressive system. The fatal flaw though is that none of this works on a narrative level because the coven system is either treated as a joke or simply a career path one must choose and we never see the disenfranchisement of wild witches. People largely get off scot-free opposing Belos, which undermines his credibility as both a dictator and a villain because no one cares about him until the plot needs them to. Luz doesn't even care about proving he's evil until Hollow Mind, which is halfway through season 2.
Belos as a villain only works if you project your own feelings and desires in wanting to see the Evil Christian/Evil Parent destroyed. While this is extremely satisfying emotionally, it does not make a sound story.
All the reasons why people like his death ("it's great the evil colonizer died so pathetically!" "omg, the white christian colonizer was killed by two queer people and their adopted son!" etc) are all meta reasons. And to be clear, it's totally fine if you thought his death was satisfying. But for many people, it did not work for a variety of reasons, including narrative ones. And that differing opinion should be respected instead of arguing some nonsense like "we have to make our villain as stupid/evil as possible or run the risk of people liking/sympathizing with him."
Belos should have died in a manner that connected back to his original sin: the murder of his brother. All of his lies and delusions and fear of being wrong should have played a part in the finale. He should have not died thinking he was right. He should have died realizing that all he did was for nothing. And that he is to blame. And that there is no one waiting for him back home.
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staticsketchbook · 2 months
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ted and paul??? or maybe spankoffski brothers???
Paul pulled his car up to an apartment building in downtown Hatchetfield. He promised he'd drive Ted into work after his own car broke down the day before. He sat there for a few minutes, checking the time on his phone. Eventually, Ted came out of the building and easily slid into the front seat.
"Good morning," Paul said.
"Yeah, hey," he replied, not fully paying attention. He was looking at something on his phone.
Paul shrugged, and began the drive to work. Soon, they stopped at an intersection.
"Turn here," Ted said suddenly, pointing to the left.
"Ted, the office is right there." Paul gestured forward to the plain looking office building. The sign reading Coven Communications, Research, and Power was clearly visible from the car. He could even see Bill holding the door open for Sylvia as they walked in together.
"I know that." He looked at Paul like he was crazy. "Change of plans, we gotta drive my kid brother to school."
"What? Ted, are you kidding me-?"
"Oh, come on, Paul!" He threw up his hands, and scowled. "The bus left him behind this morning. Do you want him to walk to school?"
"Well, no, but-," Paul began to argue, but then he just sighed, letting his raised hand fall against the steering wheel. He was never good at confrontation, especially with people as abrasive as Ted. "Okay." He flipped on his turn signal and turned down the street. "Okay."
Minutes later they were in a small residential neighborhood. They pulled in front of a quaint little home with large flowerbeds. Paul couldn't believe a jerk like Ted grew up in a place so... cute.
A teenager came out the front door, with the same dark hair and lanky frame as Ted. He hunched his shoulders as he fiddled with his bowtie. He quickly slid into the back seat.
"So, where to? Hatchetfield High or Sycamore?" Paul asked, giving a polite smile to the teen.
"Hatch-"
"Syncamore?" Ted repeated, sounding insulted. "Ew, no. Petey's a Nighthawk!" He leaned back, giving the teen a playful punch on the shoulder. Peter gave him an awkard smile, rubbing his shoulder as soon as Ted turned back around.
"Ted," Paul said with a frown. "I went to Sycamore."
"Yeah," he scoffed. "No wonder you're such a fuckin' geek."
He shook his head, choosing not to reply. He focused on the road for a while, before looking to Peter in the rear view mirror. "So, anything fun planned today at school?"
He shrugged. "Not really. My friend Ruth said we have a pop quiz this morning, and I'm working on a physics project later tonight."
"Hey, physics, that's cool." Paul realized how entirely uncool he sounded right now. He saw Ted rolling his eyes next to him. "So, uh, you going to the big game in a few weeks? I hear Hatchetfield's got good chances this year."
"Uh, I'm not really into football," he said, wincing when his voice cracked. He fidgeted in his seat.
"I get it. I wasn't really into sports when I was your age."
"Oh my God, Paul," Ted groaned. "We get it, you're a nerd."
Paul frowned, noticing Peter react to that in mirror. The teen awkwardly looked out the window as they pulled up to the school. "Um... thanks for the ride, Paul." He picked up his backpack and scooted towards the door.
"No problem." It was a problem, they were already ten minutes late to work. But he wasn't going to tell Peter that. "Have a good day."
Peter nodded and smiled. "You too."
"Hey." Ted reached back and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't let anyone give you any shit, alright? You go in there and show everyone who's boss."
He shifted in his seat, looking down at the floor. He looked back and gave him a hesitant smile. "Ok, Ted."
"Love you, kid."
"Yeah, love you too." He opened the door and hurried towards the school. He looked around, then turned to give one last wave to Ted before ducking inside.
"Man," Ted said, looking out the window with an almost wistful look in his eye. "He's a good kid. I wish he'd have a bit more confidence in himself. He's cooler than he thinks he is."
Paul smiled. He was surprised by how sincere Ted was when it came to his brother. A glimpse of softness behind his coarse exterior.
Ted suddenly turned, scowling at him. He slapped him on the shoulder. "What the fuck are you sitting around for, Paul? We're late."
Paul sighed. And he's back. 
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johnwickb1tsch · 3 days
Text
The Girl Next Door ~ 2
A Constantine x Reader fic based on this imagine. Part 1
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Summary: John Constantine has a crush on you. He wasn’t going to do anything about it though, until you strong arm him into coming over for dinner. Little do you know, this paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven… Rating: Explicit, NSFW, but no dead doves...😮 Note: I got Constantine on my brain, y'all! 😆 I write about vampire hunters all the time, but never from the vampire perspective. This was new. I hope you enjoy!🧡
2. whoever drinks my blood has eternal life
In the end, he was too late.
Oh, he killed them all, wiping out the entire coven with his magical holy shotgun, and a handy spell that basically burned the remaining undead to a crisp around you.
But you were already half dead, drained and forced to drink their blood in kind.
You were well on your way to becoming one of the Damned.
John knew this, as he cradled your cold body in his arms, carrying you like a bride to the cab outside the warehouse. He knew it as he held you close in the backseat, reciting ancient prayers over your fevered brow, hoping just this once God might grant him a good miracle, and not forsake one of his children just because of an unlucky twist of fate.
Your only crime, as far as he knew, had been extending the mercy of your kindness towards him, and that should not have earned you this.
He barely thanked Chas for a job well done, carrying you bridal style up the stairs of your apartment building. Rather than return you to your bed, he brings you to his. He doesn’t know if the vampire who you must have inadvertently invited into your home died that night, and all his holy weapons are at hand in his own space.
He lays you down in his bed, wishing he’d washed his sheets more recently for you. He wishes a lot of things, in the interim hours that follow.
He can tell that his incantations are not touching the dark magic that is taking hold of you, and he knows that he should just put an end to it here and now. You are damned, and there’s no going back, and who knows what chaos you will reap with your new thirst when you wake?
He can’t bring himself to do it.
Looking down at you, huddled in a ball, trembling as your body is dying and remaking itself anew—he falls to his knees to talk to God, though his words aren’t exactly a prayer. “Our father, who art in heaven…fuck you. I hope you're happy, asshole. Another innocent who you should have protected, fucked over by your stupid games. Why? Why is it always the good ones? I hate you. Amen.”
He takes your hand in his, and only because you are practically unconscious in the fever-pitch of your transformation, does he let his eyes fill with silent tears.
One more soul he was too late to save.
One more weight upon his conscience.
He cries for you. For himself. For the impossible odds God and the Devil pit against humans, then punish them when they're just not up to the task. Flesh is weak, but They made you this way. None of it is fair.
Constantine has never actually been present at a Turning. He doesn’t know how long it will take, or how you’ll act when you come out of it. He has crosses and holy water to keep you in line if he has to…or maybe you’ll rip out his throat, and he will absolutely deserve it after what he let happen to you.
He wonders how the vampires knew about you. Did they watch through the window from some impossible perch, as you made love? Maybe he would never admit it out loud, but that was what that merciful night together had felt like, with you.
This was a hell of a reminder, as to why he couldn’t ever let anyone get close.
It never ended well.
Fully clothed, shoes and all, he spoons your smaller body with his arm around your waist, and waits.
***
When at last you wake, the first thing you are aware of is a heartbeat, right next to you. Behind you. Pressed against you. You hear it like a drum, thundering in your ears. There is a grinding pain in your belly. You are so hungry.
You do not recognize your surroundings, or the bed you lay in. A heavy arm is draped over your waist. You study the large hand upon the sheets, long fingered, veiny. Maybe you know that hand.
Slowly you turn, to find John Constantine beside you. He looks up at your through hooded dark eyes. He was dozing, but no longer.
“Y/n?”
You take a deep breath, and the smells that hit you: his aftershave, sweat, deodorant, dirty sheets, scotch whisky in the kitchen. Old Chinese food. But most of all, you can smell his blood, and it is the sweetest thing you’ve ever smelled.
You lean towards him, mouth open, hands reaching.
You don’t know that your incisors have lengthened to deadly little points.
Casually, John holds up a little crucifix between you. You feel it like a hand pressing back against you, and instinctively you flinch.
What is going on with you?
“John?”
You feel something long brush your lip, and you reach up to touch your teeth, finding the sharp points. Your eyes go half-dollar round as you nearly cut yourself with the tip of one.
“What happened to me?”
He sighs, and there is so much weight and sorrow in that one exhalation of air.
“I’m sorry, y/n.”
“John?” The panic in your voice starts to rise.
“Shh. Don’t get excited. It won’t be good.”
A rampaging new vampire was the last thing he needed on his hands.
“Those things took me,” you whisper, your hand covering your mouth. You start to remember what happened, those creeps who snatched you from your apartment, the impossible things you saw. They were monsters. Vampires. Things you only thought existed in folklore, books, bad B movies. And they’d told you a little about John Constantine too. That he was some sort of demon hunter, crazy as that fucking sounded, who clearly they wished to do harm to.
“Yeah.” 
“They took me,” you repeat with emphasis, still trying to understand.  
A longer pause, pregnant with lots of words you sense he doesn’t quite know how to say.
Again, he settles for, “Yeah.” 
“Why?” 
“I guess…they thought that you mean something to me.” 
After everything that happened, this hits you like a knife between the ribs, a long sharp blade aimed right for your heart.
“Do I not?” 
“Come on, I didn't mean it like that.” 
Yes he did, and you realize... that maybe he's just like all the others. 
At least he'd warned you. 
You just...had hoped, anyway, like the stupid little romantic you are. 
You look down, unable to meet his eyes. 
You kind of want to cry, but you're not even sure you can anymore. 
“I came for you as soon as I knew,” he says quietly, not liking this at all.
You nod, your lip quivering.
“What's going to happen to me?” 
The haunted way he looks at you rends your heart in two.
“We'll…figure it out.” 
“I'm hungry...I think.”
He nods gravely. 
“I was afraid of that.”
“What am I going to do?” 
“I'll...try to help you.”
Your eyes go to his throat again. The thought should be gross, but...you just feel hunger pangs, instead—and a confusing wave of desire.
He notices the focus of your attention, and looks uneasy about it. Your eyes have started to glow.
“Why don't we start with the wrist?” he deadpans, not enthused about your untried razor-sharp fangs in his throat.
You nod shakily, tears in your eyes. “I'm sorry,” you say. 
There's a flicker in John's soulful brown eyes, and though he says nothing, you feel his guilt as though it's your own. You feel it crawling over your skin, and it scares you. 
What is happening to you? 
“Come on,” he says gruffly. “Let's get this over with.” 
You've seen the movies, and you’re not a total idiot. But the thought of actually...biting him? And drinking his blood? It freaks you out, ok, even if every cell in your body is singing out for you to swallow him down. The smell of him. You'd thought it was intoxicating before. Aftershave, spice, and cigarette smoke. The smoke was good only because it ticked some deep buried memory box in your subconscious. But now...it’s like you can sense the strength of his very soul, in the smell of his blood, and you know he will nourish you. 
These thoughts come to you unbidden, and you don't even really know what they mean. Just... that they are unequivocally true.
You take his wrist, the blue veins there seeming to dance for your new improved vampire vision, as though you can see the blood pumping within them.
This is so fucking weird.
“You’re going to be really strong now,” he cautions you. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks. “So be gentle with me.”
Your eyebrows raise at the thought that you could actually hurt him. This big, strong man who threw you around not so long ago like you were just a doll. You’d loved that, truth be told. The memory is so sweet that it almost makes you want to cry again.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You should do it now,” he says. “Because you’re just going to get hungrier, and young vampires when they’re hungry are at their most dangerous. I’d hate to have to—”
He cuts himself off before finishing that thought. Your eyes drift to his nightstand, the holy water, crucifixes, and a broom handle piece that has been sharpened into a nice neat stake. Just in case he has to shove it through your heart.
“Could you do that to me?” you ask quietly before you can stop yourself, still staring at the stake.
“I don’t want to find out,” he deflects. “So come on. Pull up your big girl panties.”
You glare at him, taking his wrist again. “I think I have a right to be freaked out about this.”
“Sure, but it is what it is,” he fires back unkindly. “You’re a vampire now. You have to drink blood to survive, and you’re Damned. Welcome to the club.”
You frown at him, your eyes flashing dangerously. You notice him tense, his attention flicking over to the stake on the bedside.
“You’re afraid of me now,” you marvel. 
“A little, yeah.”
“And I should be afraid of you? They told me what you are.”
“Let’s agree to have a healthy respect of one another, alright?”
You sit quietly, contemplating him. With his wrist in your grasp you can feel the thump thump of his pulse through your entire body, like bumping bass out of a speaker. It is distracting, and as you think about what you must do a warmth rises in you, a tingling rush of power that spreads from your fingers into his arm. It makes him shudder, his pupils suddenly blown wide with desire.
This feels good. Better than the fear, although you’re ashamed to admit, that had been delicious too.
You don’t know how you’re doing any of this. It’s just happening, and you let your new instinct take you, straddling his narrow hips to find his burgeoning erection straining against his slacks. You are still wearing the sundress those creatures took you in, and nothing but the thin cotton of your panties barricades the space between you and him.
He is so handsome, and strong. His blood smells so strong, and it fills you with an aching desire, wetness flooding between your legs. Suddenly the desire to bite him while he is inside you grips you like an iron fist, some ancient knowledge of arcane pleasure pulsing through your veins. You blink, the urge receding only slightly, and you do not know it but your eyes glow like coals. It’s strange, how your body feels cold, except where your skin is touching his. Your points of contact are almost searing, in comparison.
“Y/n…”
“What?” you taunt him. “You don’t want me now that I’m a monster?”
You can still hardly believe this is really happening to you.
“I think you can feel that’s not the case.”
Again, you sense his fear, cloyingly sweet upon your tongue. You like it, and that is the thing that brings you back to yourself. Wanting anyone to be afraid of you is so opposite your true nature that it shocks you.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” you apologize again, squeezing your eyes closed.
“It’s alright,” he says in that deep voice of his.
It’s not. It’s really not.
“Just…can we get this over with, please?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He’s not going to help you now, believe me. Just…go slow, ok? Don’t bite me too hard. I need use of my hand still, if you don’t mind.”
You let out a shuddering breath. It feels weird, and you realize…you don’t need to breathe? Taking in air is a reflex, but there’s no effect of your body processing oxygen.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay. I’m going to do it.”
“Any day now.”
“Shut up.”
This is the thing that actually makes him smile, that slight curl of lips that is like a full-on grin for most people. Maybe it’s stupid—but it gives you courage.
You graze his skin with your new sharp teeth, and like a beachcomber searching for treasure with a metal detector, you just sense the sweet spot. You move as carefully as you can, pressing down into his flesh to make two neat little holes.
The spill of blood is divine, and you don’t have time to think that it’s gross. It fills your mouth and it is good, and you are so hungry, and you can’t get enough. The magic in this bloodletting rises like a tide, desire crashing over the both of you in a tingling, intoxicating rush. You feel everything, and there is no extricating the sexual pleasure from the gustatory. They are one and the same with this man, his delicious, powerful blood filling your mouth, his strapping body beneath yours, his hips bucking against you.
You feel his hand slide up your thigh, his thumb seeking the molten center of you. When he makes himself stop just short of your panty line you whine in protest, straining for his touch, but he resists your goading, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. Perhaps you should be grateful, that he is strong enough to resist the pull of this magic between you, trying not to debauch you while you feed for the first time and everything is new and you have no idea what is happening. And yet, you can hardly think past how wonderful it would be to have his teeming erection buried inside you to the hilt while you drink him down.
You would tell him all this, but you can’t bring yourself to separate your mouth from the font of his delectable lifeblood. In fact, you don’t know how you’re going to stop, period.
It’s just so good.
John watches you through heavy lidded eyes, seemingly enjoying this as much as you are. Yet he has more sense of the situation as well, and when he tells you, “That’s enough, y/n,” an inhuman keening of protest escapes from deep in your throat.
“Y/n…” he warns again, his words thick with desire. “You have to stop.”
You close your eyes, telling yourself just one last mouthful.
That was two long sucking draughts ago.
Suddenly you feel a searing heat very near your face. Startled, your eyes fly open to find the crucifix there before you, and you hiss in answer, scrabbling back on the bed away from the holy item. With John Constantine’s blood on your lips you cower, shielding your eyes with a hand.
With a shuddering sigh he lowers the cross, sitting back against the headboard of his bed. He presses a tissue against his wrist, and your eyes are drawn to the crimson stains flowering on the wad of paper beneath his fingers.
What a waste, you think, before shaking the thought away.
Then the horror of what could have happened dawns on you.
You could have drank him dry, and in the heat of the moment you would have done it gladly.
Oh God. What have you become?
“I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “Are you ok?”
He actually has the gall to smirk at you, as though any of this could be funny. “Yeah. Not the first time I’ve lost a little blood.”
There’s some inside joke in that statement you don’t understand, though you sense the darkness of self-deprecation in it.
Somehow, you feel simultaneously sated, and horrible. With a whimper you curl up at the foot of his bed, closing your eyes against the world. You can feel everything. You sense the people in the building, the fragile sound of their juicy little hearts beating. Even outside, the life on the street, men and women going about their lives with no idea what lurks in the shadows, wanting to eat them up…
But most distracting of all, the sheets beneath you smell like John, and the lust in your blood has yet to abate, even if the feeding is over. You feel it marching across your skin like red-hot ants. The desire to crawl up the bed and press your bloody lips to his is real, and you fight it with everything you have, because you don’t imagine he’d appreciate that very much after what he’s done for you. The sour expression on his face did not match the size of the tent in his pants, that is for sure.  
You wonder, is it going to be like this every time you eat from now on? The thought does not thrill you.
“Hey,” he goads softly, and your eyes fly open to regard him. Again, your irises shine like lanterns, fueled by the roil of emotions warring in your heart. “Come here.” He holds out one of those beautiful hands to you. Hands that you had so relished upon your body, on your flesh, in your hair…hands with such thick, beautiful blue veins…
You’re not sure how he knows that you want to be held, but now you fear it too. You fear what you are, and your ability to control yourself around him. Because the truth is you still want him very much, and he’d basically told you point blank that you mean nothing to him. The thought weighs on your heart now like a thousand stinging needles, and you feel your eyes fill with moisture of some kind.
So, vampires can cry after all.
You touch a finger to the corner of your eye, and see it comes away tinted red.
You kind of want to throw up.
“Maybe…I should go,” you say sadly, sitting up. You’re certain you look as disheveled as you feel. Your hair is a bird’s nest. Your once pretty floral sundress is dirty and torn. No wonder he doesn’t want you.
“If…you want.” Why does he sound sad about it? Shouldn’t he be glad to see the backside of you? Constantine the Demon Hunter? If you’d been nothing but a one-night fuck as a human, he certainly didn’t want to spend time with you now.
 “You know you’re going to need a dark place to rest for the day?”
Is he actually worried about where you’re going to sleep?
“Okay.” You think you can manage that, in your apartment next door. Or maybe…you’ll see what happens, if you watch the sun rise. Maybe it would just be better that way. Are vampire suicides double damned? You’ve never really been a religious person, but he’d said it like it was A Thing.
It reminds you of what John had said earlier. “What did you mean before? When you said join the club?”
He sighs, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the night stand. “I’ll tell you some other time.”
Feeling like you’ve now been dismissed, you slide from the bed, standing on bare feet. You should be sore, but your movements are lithe, liquid as a cat’s.
Something else to get used to.
You can feel Constantine’s eyes glued to you, and you dare to take one last look back, waiting to turn to a pillar of salt. He’s so handsome it hurts, even in his rumpled state, his cuffs rolled up his forearms and his tie loose around his neck. How do his soulful dark eyes seem to hold all the sorrow of the world right now?
“Bye, John.”
He just nods, and you let yourself out.
***
Much to your surprise, ten minutes before dawn, you hear a knock on your door. You know it's John. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heart beat. You can smell him, and it is a heady thing in your nostrils. When you do not answer he just lets himself in, the cheeky bastard. 
He finds you sitting in one of your thrift store chairs by the window, one of the only ones not broken in the mess the vampires who took you left behind. He does not like this, you can tell, by his hairline frown. 
“Hey.” 
“Hi.”
“Hate to tell you, but you're going to have to find a new way to get your vitamin D.”
“Ha ha,” you say, turning back to the window. A few people are out and about below. This city never really sleeps. 
“Hey,” he says again, crouching down by your chair. “I know this is a lot...”
The look you pay him is not exactly kind. He plows forward anyway.
“But take it from someone who's been there. Hell isn't a place you should be in a hurry to go.” 
You blink at that. He says it like it's so black and white, not a hint of uncertainty. Not faith. Fact. Once upon a time, you might have questioned his sanity. Not anymore. 
“Sounds like you've been.” 
“For about two minutes. It was enough.” 
“What was it like?” you whisper. 
“Pure agony.” 
Your eyes go wide at hearing that. 
“So...want to show me your bolt hole?” he asks.
Once upon a time you would have capitalized on the opportunity for inuendo with such comedic gold just handed to you for free, but you’re not in the mood. You just stare at him.
“John...You're a demon hunter. Why do you care?”
He tries to meet your eyes, but in the end can only look away. “Come on, y/n. Just…don’t give up yet, ok?”
He just feels guilty, you tell yourself, and you pry yourself from your chair with a sigh. You’re not sure what the point of anything will be, anymore. But maybe you’ll make an effort to go on, because he asked you to.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
“Fine.”
You figure the closet will be the darkest place in the apartment for you to hide.
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ghostlychief · 2 months
Note
I'm not sure if you write for Blue team, but can you do relationship headcanons for them? If not, then relationship headcanons for John-117?
another master chief request for the books, LETS GOOOOO
(i decided to write headcanons for John) enjoy!! <3
---
Dating Master Chief (John 117) Headcanons
no warnings; just fluff
---
Dating John would feel like the calm after the storm, or like a consistent gentle rainfall that can’t help but ease you, quelling your worries
Dating John is calming like rainfall in the sense that you feel a sense of respite wash over you when you’re with him; being with him is also akin to that of the calming pitter-patter noise you hear when the rain comes; it’s never to harsh, or too loud; always a consistent rhythm
You feel a blanket of security wrapping itself around you tightly, never threatening to let you go when dating him; it’s solid and firm, just like John
You both were a bit shy when you first got together; no surprises there though, John leans more on the quiet side, and you, well, anyone would be a little timid when first dating a Spartan (they were genetically modified humans after all)
But John quickly made sure that you felt completely and utterly safe around him; he knew what he was capable of, and the last thing he wanted to do was ever scare you; and you appreciated that about him
It’s not like you are some scared little girl, afraid of Spartans, but, you know, they were the infamous Spartans you heard about growing up, you weren’t quite sure what to expect when you first met them (surprise, surprise Blue team all turned out to be lovely people)
You appreciated John’s understanding for the time it took for you fully get to know him, and be comfortable around him
In your early stages of dating, you guys mainly kept to public outings, like restaurants, movie theaters (yes Reach has a cinema), parks (you both enjoyed going on long walks together and you tease John about how his ‘normal’ walk is your jog)
You could say that he properly ‘wine and dined’ you, well as much as one can on Reach seeing that its operation is more so military and not just another regular planet
He was a gentleman: he opened doors for you, whether that be building, apartment, or car doors; it didn’t matter, he was there to open them for you; he also would sometimes place his hand at the small of your back, which sent sparks twinkling up your spine the first few times he did that (let’s be honest, you still feel giddy even now)
He was a great listener, always ready with a question (or 10) whenever you were telling him about your day, things that happened at work, the latest book you read. He always had a follow-up, always curious to know more about you, and what you’re thinking
You also were the same in that matter, always asking him questions; who could blame you though, his job was a lot cooler than yours
You were in awe of all the different planets and solar systems he’s been to (including the Halos) and you always picked his brain about the Covenant (you’ve been fortunate enough to not cross paths with the Covenant)
When John wasn’t on a mission, you weren’t at work, or you guys weren’t going on a “formal” date, you and John could be found lounging around one of your apartments, either reading, watching TV, doing puzzles, things like that
Sometimes you guys liked to do your own thing but in the company of the other
However, one of your favorite things to do is to nap with John
He’s so large that he generates a lot of body heat, so whenever winter rolls around and there’s snowflakes in the air, you loved to cuddle up with him on the couch, completely wrapped in his embrace and fall asleep with no worries on your mind (being with John made that easy)
John is the kind of partner who is a great shoulder to cry on; his support is endless for you, and he’s always there whenever you run into a problem; he’s there to listen about what’s troubling your life, but he’s not one to be pushy about how to fix it; no, he’s there for you, and makes sure to comfort you the best he can (which usually is you asking him for a hug, which he immediately complies with)
John gives the best hugs because 1) he is taller than you, so he can easily wrap you up tight and rest his head on yours, and 2) his arms are long and muscular, which makes his hugs 10x warmer and just better overall
Something that you quickly learned about John after a couple months of dating was that he was actually funny (right, like what are the odds a Spartan of his caliber has a funny bone?)
His humor was of course dry and sarcastic, but he got a laugh out of you every time he cracked a joke
Blue team also tells you stories about John (not to his knowledge) since they have known him since they were all pre-teens; sometimes you’ll bring something up to John, and he’ll be like “Where’d you hear that from?” (he wasn’t stupid he knew); and then a couple days later you’ll hear how hard John made training for them (oops)
Nevertheless, dating John has brought a sense of security into your life that you never thought you would feel, or have; you only hope is that you provide the same for him
(spoiler, you do)
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moonlightazriel · 5 months
Text
Son of the Darkness XVI /// Azriel X F!Reader
Summary: Hidden for so long The court of shadows thrived, and things were great until the high lord's death, now the next in line should assume the crown of high lord of shadows, will he accept his duties?
Warnings: SMUT and talkings about war.
Word Count: 2,7K
Notes: After so long, SOD is finally back, it feels so good to be writing this again.
Son of the Darkness Masterlist
Main Masterlist
“I must say that I love a good-looking fierce female.” Helion leaned closer to Y/N and she giggled trying to politely shove him away, Azriel raised an eyebrow at that, his wings flaring and he puffed his chest, appearing bigger and scarier as Helion hit on his mate. 
They had retrieved to a banquet room, food was being served and wine was being passed around. Y/N was seated right beside Helion and Azriel was across from them, the High Lords and their courts having nice conversations with each other, the atmosphere was amicable, it almost felt like the meeting hadn't occurred. 
“What are our numbers?” Tamlin asked, trying to make small talk, everyone turned his way, harsh gazes directed at him, he tried to ignore how this made him feel, by sipping on his goblet. 
“Let’s enjoy this feast, we never got to be together like that.” Thesan redirected the conversation to something else, everyone was hiding their numbers, Tamlin could not be trusted, it was a smart move. 
Soon, everyone was walking around, talking with friends they hadn’t seen in a really long time. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow among the stones that composed the room and the people. 
“This place is beautiful.” Y/N whispered, appearing behind Azriel, her voice sounded tired. He turned to her, pulling her closer by the waist.
“Did you like it? I can build one for you.” She looked at him, blushing a bit under his intense gaze, the sun reflected in his eyes, making them look like melted gold.
“No need, I’m perfectly fine with Tornan.” She replied, feeling the light flutter of a thousand butterflies in her stomach as he looked at her. 
Azriel wanted to kiss her, but instead, he pulled her towards the musicians, moving her in an animated dance. Neither of them were that good, bumping into each other but the smile on her face made it all worth it. 
His family watched, Azriel seemed lighter, happier. He deserved all the happiness he could find, and he sure did in the arms of the female who looked at him like he was her whole world. They could smell their bond, so strong, even if it hadn’t snapped yet for her. A match like no other. 
“You’re all welcome to stay here for the night, but you can leave.” Thesan announced. Rhysand’s voice quickly echoed through their minds, telling them he would like to stay. 
Each high lord had the same idea, deciding to stay. Thesan escorted Tamlin out and the Night court walked to their designated chamber. Helion follows them closely. 
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
“The Illyrian legions are ready for war, every single camp was prepared. The dark bringers are joining too.” Rhys stated, spinning the wine in his glass. Helion nodded. 
“My armies are all ready as well. Everyone I could gather.” He looked at Azriel, he was standing in the corner, hugging Y/N from behind, with his arm around her neck. Helion eyed the both of them with lust, the clear smell of arousal made Cassian snort a laughter. “You know you’re always invited to join, Lord of Bloodshed.” He whispered, winking at Cassian. 
“Her legions are ready.” He said he was the High Lord, but the person who spent her whole life getting ready and taking care of his “army” was her, it was only fair to address things properly. 
“55.000 soldiers ready to be transported by the Sephiran coven.” She added that pride emanated from the dark bridge between them, so much pride that leaked through half their bond. 
“We’re marching to war as well.” Evanore, who had watched all evening in her own world, spoke. “For healing and for protecting, if we can gather the armies together, we can bless the weapons.” 
“Cassian and I are going to the Illyrian camps first thing tomorrow morning.” Rhys turned to her. “Maybe you can start there? I can try to help.” Eva nodded. 
“Sounds like a plan.” She happily replied. 
“Then we need to go back home, it’s time for the Nightfall.” The night court members nodded. 
Talking took a little while longer, with Feyre pulling Y/N aside. As soon as they were on the balcony, Feyre smiled at her. 
“I need your help.” She started, not sure how to tell her exactly what the plan was.
“Whatever you need.” Feyre nodded.
“I want Bryaxis by our side.” Y/N’s eyes widened.
“The Soul Seeker?” The female smirked. “That will be interesting. We will do that tomorrow.” Feyre nodded, shared a quick handshake and they went back inside. 
“Do you want to go to sleep, my love?” Azriel asked as she approached, a cute yawn coming out of her mouth as she agreed, they said their goodbyes and marched to the chamber designated to them. 
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
“What is up with Helion? He looked like he wanted to fuck you.” She asked, removing her jewelry and makeup in front of the mirror. 
“It’s his dream to get me and Cassian in his bed.” He approached her from behind, hands pressing the knots in her shoulders. “And now apparently you.” She could hear the jealousy in his voice. 
“Jealous, my High Lord?” Her voice was low and sensual, her pink tongue wetting her lips as she looked at him through the mirror. 
“Maybe.” It was all that he said, his hand wrapped around her throat and he forced her up, kicking the chair to the side. “It’s just that…” His lips started to kiss the skin of her neck, and she let her head fall onto his shoulder, pressing her lips together so she wouldn’t moan. “The thought of you with another male, it’s enough to drive me insane.”
His hand kept pressing her throat, while his other traveled down her body, fingers ghosting over her nipple, which hardened under his touch, the lacy nightgown was also enough to drive him mad. His cock throbbed in his pants, and he pressed it against her ass. 
“Eager, I see?” She teased, Azriel smirked against the skin of her shoulder, only to dip his hand inside her underwear, touching her bare dripping cunt. She shivered, pressing her legs together, arching her back and her ass as she tried to control her breath. Azriel rubbed circles in her clit, sending waves of pleasure through her body. He wanted to taste her so badly. 
He turned her around, almost coming with her expression, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, and flushed cheeks, he felt proud of being the one making her feel like that. His hands helped her sit on the desk, the contact of her hot skin against the cold surface made her whimper, the sound going straight to Azriel’s cock.
He pulled down her underwear, locking his gaze on her, her expression filled with lust as she watched him kneel in front of her, part her legs open, and dip his head between her legs, tongue licking a stripe along her core, focusing on the apex of her tights while two of his fingers pumped in and out of her. One of her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer to her, while the other held firmly on the desk. 
She whimpered and squirmed, feeling her peak approach her fast as Azriel’s skilled tongue drove her closer to the edge, he flickered his tongue in circles, making her moan loudly. 
“Oh Mother, I’m going to cum.” She blurted it out, how long since someone properly ate her out? She couldn’t even remember, and she didn’t want to, he was the only one who would ever do that again, and he did it so well.
“Come in my tongue, love.” He said, going back to his ministrations, moving his fingers and tongue in synchrony, at an impossibly fast pace. Y/N was violently thrown over the edge. Coming so hard that she felt consciousness slip away from her grasp. Azriel noticed, getting up and pulling her in his arms. Gently carrying her to bed. 
He pulled her under the covers, circling the bed and going to the other side, pulling her to his chest again, she softly snored and he tried to calm his hormones, going to sleep with the taste of her still in his tongue. 
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
“We have to go home soon.” Azriel said, rubbing soap on her back as they shared the shower in the morning. She turned to him, gently applying shampoo on his dark locks, fingers rubbing his scalp and Azriel let out a low groan in pleasure, he loved to have her whining and panting underneath him, but this non-sexual pleasure? Just having her in this intimate way? It was enough to have him giggling and kicking his feet like a little girl. 
“Are you going with Rhys?” He nodded. “I’ll ask someone to take me there, I need to do something with Feyre first.” He hummed in agreement. 
“Maybe Mor can take you.” Y/N whispered a “sure” and they finished their shower. Getting dressed and eating the meal that was sent to their chamber. 
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
“Thank you again for coming with me.” Y/N shook her head, they were all back to the night court, and now she and Feyre were marching down to the bottom of the library. 
“I like him.” It was all that the brunette said. Her scalp tingled as she felt the temperature drop, Feyre squeezed her hand harshly. “Hey, Soul Seeker.” 
“I haven’t heard this name in a long time.” The shadows moved with curiosity. “You’re not from here.” He deduced. “You belong home.” 
“Took a while for you to notice.” She joked and Feyre tried to look at her, feeling the fear sneaking up her spine, she was rigid, afraid to make the wrong move. The shadows moved and the beast chuckled. 
“They fear me here.” Bryaxis stated. 
“Good for you, that our High Lady here has a deal for you.” She nudged Feyre, the female cleared her throat. 
“If you help us in the war, I can get you home.” The beast got agitated with interest. 
“All I have to do is help?” Feyre hummed in agreement. “And how do I get back to the Court of Shadows?” He inquired. 
“The Sephiran.” Y/N replied. 
“Ahhh, the witches. My dearest friends.” The shadows moved and it felt like he was happy. 
“But…” they abruptly stopped. “You will have to follow our rules, and fight for us until we don’t need you anymore, and only then will we bring you home.” The creature watched Y/N, then Feyre, who stood with more confidence. 
“We have a deal then.” The creature said, and both females could feel the burning in their arms, as they reached the light, a drawing of the night sky, the court of the Shadows night sky, marked their skin.
“I’ll ask Amren to help with the restraining spell. Mor will take you to the camps.” Feyre stated as they reached the house of wind. “Thank you for helping me.” 
“I’m always here to aid a friend.” She winked, squeezing Feyre’s hand, the female smiled, going after Amren. 
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
“I hate this place.” Mor stated as she felt the male’s eyes lingered a bit too long on parts they shouldn’t. 
“Males are awful everywhere, I see.” She pointed out, gaining a few more angry gazes as they walked through Windhaven, reaching Devlon’s tent. 
Rhysand sat on the desk, while Cassian discussed strategies with Devlon, who had a very sour expression on his face. 
“Where’s Eva and Azriel?” Y/N asked, earning the attention of the three males. 
“She’s protecting the weapons and he’s with her, for safety.” Rhys gestured for the two to approach. Y/N looked at the Prythian map.
“We should face them in an open field.” Devlon insisted.
“Or we could force them near the sea, here.” Cassian pointed. 
“Some of the summer court members have water abilities, and so do the witches.” The leader of Windhaven shivered at the words. “That beautiful creature out there? One of the most powerful witches ever born.” She proudly spoke of her best friend. 
“Fucking hell.” That was all that he replied. Looking back at the map. 
“Here, we have this mountain and water. This guarantees they can’t attack us from behind. Natural protection.” She crossed her arms. Cassian smiled at her. 
“That’s actually perfect, but how do we get this many people there?” 
“Teleporting!” Evanore said, entering the tent, sweat coated her forehead even in the cold winds of the mountain. “Me and my sisters can teleport all of them, it’s no big deal.” She smiled. 
“Then it’s done.” Cassian circulated the area on the map with a coal pencil. “This is where it all ends.” 
At this same time, Feyre and her sisters entered the tent, Nesta looking around and giving a small smile to Eva and Y/N, while Elain just nodded to everyone, her eyes lingering a little while longer on Azriel, Y/N rolled her eyes at that, deciding to ignore it.
Then, they all felt the shaking of the ground and the air being knocked out of their lungs, like a huge wave of raw magic sweeping over the camp, the terrified looks in their eyes. 
“The wall is gone.” Nesta stated. She had felt it more deeply as they used the cauldron. 
“We need to be fast.” Y/N grabbed Evanore’s hand and they both disappeared through the folds of time. Going home. 
They were met with the witches already waiting at the war camp. “I called them.” Eva explained. 
“ATTENTION.” Y/N yelled, the soldiers falling silent as they reunited in front of their general. “It’s time.” Her voice echoed through the camp, thanks to one of the Sephiran spells. “The war is here and we need to prepare, he trained our whole lives for this. This is the moment.” The soldiers nodded in silence. “Gather your supplies, take your armor. We’re leaving in the morning.” She dismissed them with a wave of her hand. 
The chaos started as soon as they departed, the clinking of metal from the armory being carried around, swords being cleaned and packed. The kitchen packing food to feed an army twice as big. The healers rushed around getting their wagons ready. 
“Someone needs to go back to Prythian and keep blessing their weapons.” Eva told Rune, who just nodded, that she might be the leader and know everything that was happening, but Evanore was the future of the Coven, she wanted to see if her sister had what it took to keep their legacy once Rune couldn’t. 
“I’ll send Thalia and Kharis to bless their weapons. Ellora, Alais, Ryo, and I are going to transport them. You should rest, sister.” Rune advised. 
“Rune is right.” Y/N squeezed Evanore’s shoulder. “You can rest in my tent.” The blond looked at her. 
“What about you?” Her blue eyes were filled with concern. 
“I have too much to do.” She ushered Evanore to her tent, turning to Rune. “We need to take them to the Illyrian war camps.” She felt all the weight on her shoulders, Ryo wrapped her in a hug. “I’m so sorry to ask that from you.” 
“It’s our land too, we will fight for what’s right.” Ellora spoke, her voice was soothing. She squeezed Y/N’s hand. “Everything is going to be fine.” But she wondered if they really would. The fear was clawing at her heart and she felt sick to her stomach. 
“I’ll prepare tea for you.” Alais offered and the female nodded. She needed to calm down if she wanted to make this work.
“Thank you all, for always being kind to me. You’re all a blessing to this land.” Rune smiled at her. The witch was at least 700 years old, but as all the witches did, she looked as young as ever with the red hair and the freckles adorning her face. 
“It’s our pleasure to fight by your side, general.” The witch bowed, Ryo let her go and Alais was next to her with the tea, she sipped quickly, feeling the calming properties of the plant filling her senses. 
She exchanged a quick goodbye to the witches and went to the meeting room, to share her strategies with her soldiers, the sounds of the camp muffled by her powerful voice. 
“I guarantee to you all, we will be the standing ones on that battlefield, we won’t lose this war.”
⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆
Taglist: @allison-rosewood-maximoff @devilsfoodcake22 @fieldofdaisiies @brekkershadowsinger @valeridarkness @margssstuff
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abelle25125 · 2 years
Text
a comprehensive list of all things sus about Adrian Graye
ok so i have been slightly obsessed with the illusion coven head since his introduction in hunting palisman, but now that we’ve had an episode with him as an actual character there are some things about him that feel super suspicious and i’m going to try my best to explain them here
1:Despite being the head of the illusion coven, We never actually see him cast any illusions. 
When we’re first introduced to him when he tries to trick the school into joining coven he mentions that the illusion of him was cast by a different coven scout
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“Tom, that Adrian illusion was lacking a certain, hmm? You get me?”
and given his need to yell for the illusion to end rather than just stopping it himself, we can assume that he wasn’t in control of the illusion in that scene.
 We can probably apply this logic to his later scene with the fake willow and Belos  - as we’ve seen in the past that illusions need a constant focus when cast by a witch, and he seemed a bit too concentrated on bullying his actors and kicking hunter in the back of the head to be casting anything.
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Him snapping his fingers and the Belos illusion vanishing could either be read as him dispelling the illusion or calling of the two Guards behind it, but given the lack of evidence towards the spell belonging to him, im choosing to believe the latter. 
this leads us onto the next few points:
2: He casts spells without drawing a circle and 
3: the only two times he draws a spell circle, he does so while holding/using his magical amplifier  
in his first scene after Gus calls out the fake Adrian, we see him hand off his coffee cup and then in a poof of smoke - appears next to and grabs Gus. you cant touch illusions, so neither of those were fake, which means that, without drawing a spell circle he’s teleported across the room. 
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We only see him draw a spell circle twice in the entire episode, the first time he literally uses the magical amplifier to draw it, and the second time he’s holding it. 
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now these first three points could just be explained by saying “oh he’s the coven head he’s super powerful at illusions he probably doesn't need to concentrate or draw circles or whatever” but then even ignoring all that there’s -
4: this man is waaay to focused on the looking glass ruins 
Graye was sent to Hexside by Belos to brand the children, but the moment the illusion stuff kicks off and he sees the looking glass ruins he abandons that plan to hunt down gus and figure out where the graveyard is. His reasoning is that the galderstones would be good gifts for belos, but are they worth abandoning his mission for? 
the reasoning could just be that he’s figured that the branding mission was a bust and hes in the panic of ‘i need to please my boss so he doesn’t kill me for failing so bad’ and wants to make it up for him, but then why does he seem to be happier when he sees that the galderstones are intangible 
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either way - this is not the face of a super confident person who has everything under control
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The looking glass ruins have come up a few times now in relation to the EC, and based on how good TOH is at setting up plot lines - it feels like they’re building it up to be more important than it seems. 
then of course theres the one that a bunch of people are talking about 
4: He got his ass handed to him by Gus’ memory bubble
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that shit fully incapacitated him, like he was still knocked out , fully catatonic later on, like - not even hunter got knocked down by this and he’s gone through some shit  - and Graye’s comments about bad memories feel way to prominent to just be a passing comment.   
Theres been a fun trend of all the coven heads being ironic in some way , a bard with stage fright, a plant head who loves killing ect; so having an illusionist who’s been lying about something to get where he is today could be really fun 
so whats up with this guy? lets figure it out- yeah he’s a basilisk 
- similar fangs, tail and :3 face
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- similar hair styles
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- same blue teleportation magic 
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- including the inspector from the first day we’ve only seen 4 of the 5 basilisks
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- Basilisk number 4 even has the same hair squiggle as Graye
theres kinda just a weird amount of evidence supporting this theory, it’s probably not true, and if it is, probably wont have a lot of plot relevance, but i cant help but think theres something else going on with this guy. He’s the only coven head who’s showed up by himself in an episode so far, and there’s just a lot of details and potentially foreshadowing stuff happening around him. 
this ended up being way longer than i planned so kudos on reading all the way through
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