#magic!au
Text
Which Witch
Painting by Joseph Tomanek
Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story.
Part 1 - Part 2 here
John "Soap" MacTavish/witch!reader
13k words - AO3
You do not need to read Mermaids to enjoy this fic, but it exists in the same world and for the full experience, I do recommend it.
Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Mature and dark themes. Fae!AU. Brief blink of smut. Blood Magic. Fae Magic. Violence. Killing. Human Sacrifice. Angst. Tenderness. Protective Johnny.
"I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret,
Been in the dark since the day we met,
Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM
Johnny presses the heel of his boot into the cheek of the being on the ground, his eyes glazed with a vacancy he has seen more times than he cares to count, or remember, the bleakness of his irises meaning only one thing: the end of their life.
“Was it worth it to ye?” he spits, and the male shudders beneath his sole, twisting pathetically, a half attempt at getting away. Blood sputters and pools, lamely leaking from his body, drenching the air in an earth rich scent.
It does not matter, there is not where for him to go, nowhere for him to flee. He will be lost to the 141, just as almost every other being is this castle has.
The echo of his brother’s power, Gaz’s light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnny’s spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.
“Where’s Ghost?” Kyle’s voice booms across the distance, and Johnny jerks his head northward, to where Simon is ransacking the library like a madman.
He is a madman, Johnny thinks, shaking his head, didn’t even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books.
He cannot fault him, his brother is a being possessed, tortured by his own heart, a heart that beats for a creature that does not even know he exists. He is miserable, and brutish, and half the time almost unbearable to be around, and Johnny really, really hopes it all comes to an end soon.
The being beneath Johnny’s heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.
“Mercenaries.” He snarls, and Johnny can feel him trying to pull a sliver of power, a desperate and feeble attempt that fails before he chokes again. “That’s all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.” Gaz rolls his eyes in a dramatic motion, rotating his neck before a dagger born from the shimmer of suns materializes in his hand, and the male on the floor whines in fear.
“Yes, yes.” Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the being’s neck, right below where his pulse hammers. It sears his skin, burning away at the flesh slowly, filling the air between them with putrid smoke, the smell of incinerating sinew stinging in Johnny’s nostrils. “But how are we so different from you, then?”
“I don’t kill for money.”
“Just for sport.” Johnny follows up drily, and the male has no argument. His fighting rings are known throughout the realm. In the closest town over, one can make a fair amount of profit, or lose their freedom, if you knew where to look.
“As if you’re so appalled by it, MacTavish.” The being hisses, and Johnny stills. His power thrums in his blood, reacting to tense state of his body, churning in his mind, ready to strike. Chaos readies itself, pulsing deep, ready to blow this entire castle to the Netherworlds. “I know where ya’re from. I’ve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with it’s-“ Johnny’s magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the being’s own celestial connections and shredding them to pieces. The magic and rage combined electrifies Johnny, filling him with a heady power that pulses in every pore, every neuron existing in his body, and it’s a well fought effort to shove it down, to not give into the intoxicating feeling of the craze, the lust for battle and blood. He pulls and pulls the threads from the being’s crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until he’s nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.
“Shite.” Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. There’s not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnny’s magic, dark red rivers seeping across the polished stone floor. Gaz chuckles darkly.
A ripple of power echoes towards them, and at the end of it, Price looms, arms crossed, mouth turned down in a huff of irritation.
“Job’s done then?” He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gaz’s dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before it’s swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.
“Simon’s finishing up the last bit.”
The three of them venture towards the library, a massive room with ceilings that stretch towards the moons, and shelves built from top to bottom. There are books of every kind here, books from every realm, even. Grimoires, from the witches in the mortal realm, and lost texts from its human inhabitants. Heavy volumes of history from the Netherworlds, sacred texts from a faraway realm that only Simon has been to. Books bound in human skin, books bound with being skin, books that only appear to those they choose. Books that possess their own spells, even if they’re not inherently magic. Books that contain the ability to give any being a gift, so long as they are willing to receive it. Johnny breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of leather and paper, papyrus, and cloth, holding onto it for as long as possible before his lungs deflate with a whoosh. The taste settles on his tongue, and he tamps down the urge to start pulling volumes towards himself, eager to flick through them and devour what lies between their pages. He craves it, the knowledge, the magic that sits sleeping in this room. The bedlam that swirls in his bloodstream melds with his desire for new puzzles, new knowledge, and it creates a double-edged sword that only his brothers seem to understand. Maybe it’s because of his mum, and the deep, ravenous love of books that she had and instilled in him, the balance of his love for chaos and his love for puzzles lending well to learning, or maybe it’s because he’s lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on.
This is where they find Simon. He’s got a female sorceress of some kind, the one they were looking for in the first place, kneeling, in the middle of the room, arms pressed down to her sides, her eyes wild with fear. Johnny can smell it from here, the rank stench of her terror, the scent of her dread as the being in front of her walks in a tight circle, his eyes fixed on her quivering form.
“I cannot perform it.” She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like he’s tired, or exasperated. “That magic, it’s not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-“ she sobs, and her desperation tugs at Johnny, just a bit, even though his sympathy is slim for this creature who cries pitifully in front of her soon to be executor.
“Simon.” Price intones from where he stands, a distance away, and her eyes flash to him, relief scrawling across her features as she mistakes John for one who may be kind to her, for a being who may help her.
She doesn’t know, that they know. That they’re fully aware, of the terrible things she’s done for the once ruler of this land, that they know the extent of her cruelty, her thirst for blood and pain.
Price crouches in front of where she sits on her knees, and cups her face between his palms, rubbing a placating thumb across her cheekbone.
“Tell us, love.” He encourages. “Tell us about the song. And perhaps, we’ll let you go.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t know that, and it’s painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.
“It’s blood magic.” She croaks. “The only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.” Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. “There are few who still practice it.”
“Where?” Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.
“In the mortal realm.” Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simon’s power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. “There is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. She’s a witch, that-” She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long they’d been practicing. She gave and gave, until there was nothing left to say, and then she stared up at Price, with wistful hope on her face.
Hope, that dies, as she feels the slipknot of Simon’s power, twisting with torsion around her neck.
“No, no. You said… you said you’d let me go!” She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He can’t help but correct her.
“Is that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That you’d let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?”
“I wa-was only doing what I was told.” She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. “Please!” Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but it’s pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. “Please… plea- please.” She moans, fragments of her life slipping through their fingers as it drains away, her body growing limp and her existence becoming futile by the moment. “I- ‘m sorry.” She tries, but it’s far too late now.
It's far too late.
The tavern is packed. Every one and thing inside gives them a wide berth, their eyes jumping from Simon, who walks in front, dark gaze glaring from behind the skull mask and hood he dons in public, to Price, who casually strolls behind him, hand in one pocket, the other swinging by his side, free and available, should quick intervention be needed. Gaz stands at the bar, flirting with a striking female who is leaning towards him, her lips parting to reveal shiny, sharp golden teeth.
That’s odd. What’s a Harpy doing all the way out ‘ere? If Gaz is taken aback, he hides it well, instead slipping her a note that more than covers the cost of a round, and then points at the table where they’ve settled.
“Bit out o’ place.” Price comments, and Simon grunts.
“It’s curious.” He agrees, and they all track Gaz on his way back, watching him until he plants himself on the bench, casual grimace lining his lips.
Simon shifts restlessly, and they all can feel the hot singe of his power, the frustration lurking in the air. Waiting as he hedges.
“If it’s true-“
“At what cost?” Price cuts him off. They hold a silent conversation with their eyes, arguments and counters flowing back and forth between them. Price is the natural voice of reason; he’ll convince him it’s a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnny’s mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness?
Johnny was no fool, he’s seen the change in Simon, year after year. His fear and confusion, anger and dread starting to seep from his skin, coloring everything around them, affecting them all in different ways. His Nereid was at the end of her rope, and so was Simon.
“All I want, is a chance, Johnny. A chance to know her, without standing in the shadow, for her to know me. To hold her, to tell her she’s not alone.” He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. “I love her. I cannot give her up, I won’t allow her to die.”
He had returned to their realm frantic, distress wracking his body, seizing his power and twisting it until it nearly suffocated all of them where they stood. It took hours for Johnny to calm him, to get him to explain what had happened, for him to realize why Simon had been so distraught. His Nereid had nearly failed her task, botched her own hunt, and Simon almost stole her away in a moment of blind panic, without even stopping to consider that she might die as soon as steps foot in Faerie.
“What you’re asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, it’s-“
“I’m not asking. I’d never ask this of you.” He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnny’s head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power.
“Do ye truly believe we’d leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?”
“It is not merely a year, Johnny. It could be two, or three, or one hundred. I cannot take her until I know how to sustain her, and we’re still not closer to the answer.”
“I’m with ye Simon. Just as you’ve been with me through difficult times. I won’t turn my back now.”
“And neither will I.” Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side.
“Sign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.” Gaz gives them an impish grin, flourishing a set of light daggers and then lowering himself in a mock bow, an ode to his bloodline and ridiculous family. Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he watches how Simon’s shoulders ease, how he releases the breath he’s been holding, before giving them all a nod.
“I will go.” Johnny declares, and Simon’s eyes crinkle with relief. The sooner we get this all done, the sooner we can return home for good. Johnny was tired. They had been in the mortal realm for nearly a decade, coming back to Faerie now and then when something needed attending or when Simon had a lead. And now, with Simon desperately searching for the final piece of the puzzle, the end of all this finally felt close enough to taste. The only thing left outstanding was, how to get his blood to sing the Nereid’s song.
“I fancy a field trip myself.” Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. “Could use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.”
“Or Las Almas.” Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.
“I liked Las Almas.”
“You just like Ale and Rudy.” Gaz ribs him, and Johnny laughs full throated. He did a soft spot for the two Vaqueros. They were smart, cunning humans who excelled in battle and cared for their community. Rare traits to find amongst the greedy, swamp like mortals that mostly roam their world. He respected them.
“Aye.” He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.
“Very well. We will go together then.” Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.
“Together.”
“It’s not optional anymore.” Your aunt’s voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. “Your coven is your family.” She prattles on, unaware you’ve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.
“She’s nuts.” You mouth to Jet, who weaves between your legs before hopping up in front of you, rubbing her face against your fingers, seeking a scratch behind her ear.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.
“You need to spend time with your coven. You can’t spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.” Why not? You don’t say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesn’t understand. You have a deep affection, a pure love for your connection to your power, for your magic, but that love did not extend to your coven, who were mostly still stuck in the darkest ages of time, who’s desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you don’t respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. “You must perform your duties. You’ll be expected on Samhain.”
And then the line goes dead.
You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. You’re not sure. She is your familiar, but you don’t speak her language. You don’t know how she actually feels.
But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do.
“I know, I know.” You give her another rub of your fingertips under her chin before pulling the stack of books towards you and carrying them through the back to the front of the shop.
Your day passes quietly. Mortals come and go, browsing the books in the front room, some choosing to stay and settle in the armchairs or the nooks with plush cushions, curled up with their selections for hours. There are places to tuck away here, corners between shelves where you could allow yourself to get lost in another world if you wanted, with no one to disturb or bother you, except maybe Jet. The black cat patrols the front room with high scrutiny, jumping to and from different heights while she ensures nothing is amiss in her domain.
You keep yourself busy with your daily tasks, organizing, counting, compiling, all while trying not think too much about the demand of your presence at Samhain.
You don’t want to go.
But you also don’t think you’ll be able to get out of it. You had already managed to dodge Lughnasa, and a fully body shudder rips through you when you recall the efforts of matchmaking that were done on your behalf before the festival had even started.
Not like anyone wanted to be matched with you to begin with. Not when there were effortless beauties by the dozen, witches and warlocks waiting with bated breath to be paired together.
Crazy, evil old hags. Crazier than the full moon herself.
By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and you’ve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you don’t want the general public to see, ancient books bound with skin, grimoires with spells to summon demons, to kill lovers, to resurrect children. Books with magic of blood and bone, written by ancient witches from your own coven. Stories that come and go as they please. Stories of gods and monsters. Books that could open doors. Books that could trap you beyond those doors, forever. Banned books, by some’s standards.
Books you’re really not supposed to have but can’t help but collect. Your desire to absorb it all, learn it all unyielding, no matter how much information you consume, and it's become more than your livelihood now. The bookstore has become a place where others can come if they need something that their coven cannot provide, a place a witch can find a spell that’s long been forgotten, a place where answers can be found, if you knew where to look.
A safe place, for yourself, and for others.
A dangerous place, to some, and a dangerous place to you, at times. A place that made you known in magical communities, a place where you could be found.
And to your coven, nothing was worse.
Secret practitioners of blood magic, they were extremely closed off to outsiders. They stone walled others, refused friendships in magical society, kept to themselves as much as possible. It was their tradition, the only way they could survive and continue their practice, their devotion to blood, water and bone keeping them alive longer than others, keeping them young and fair when their counterparts aged and withered, kept them practicing for the entirety of their long lives.
And who would want to give that up?
You hadn’t been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadn’t asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your aunt’s hands at a young age, where you learned all too quickly that your magic was different from other young witches, that you had been blessed with your coven’s ultimate gift.
Blood spinning.
Jet meows, leaping from the floor to the table to sit in front of you on her haunches, jet black fur shining under the dancing light of the candles. There are no lamps in this room, the bulbs too bright or too offensive for the books, some who’s pages don’t even show themselves unless they’re lit by magic.
You keep the flames in here lit by your power, day in and day out. Wax drips onto the mantle that sits over the fireplace, forming sand like castles on the wooden beam as the candles burn, staying in perfect stasis while the flames never go out.
You cast your magic out, just slightly, enough to straighten a shelf that was haphazardly arranged earlier, and then you wave a finger over a flame, just enough that it lightly heats your skin.
Fucking Samhain.
You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after today’s conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.
Don’t these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? That’s when the Others get through.
You shiver.
You’re just about to ask Jet what she wants for dinner before you lock up when you hear a clattering smack, the sound of the broom that always stands so astute by the front door falling to floor, and your blood freezes in your veins.
Jet hisses.
Company’s coming.
“Hello?” A male voice calls, accent unusual to your ears, ricocheting past the shelves to where you sit in the back, hunched over a dusty tome. “Is anyone here?”
“I am!” You yell, standing up too fast, knocking into the heavy wooden table with your hip and letting out a hiss of air through your lips. Ow. Shit. That’s going to bruise. “I’m here, sorry.” You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.
Oh.
Fuck.
There is a beautiful man standing in the front of the bookstore. A stunningly gorgeous, perfectly formed human being with crystalline blue eyes and a smile that practically beams. His hair is cut into a mohawk, a unique style that you don’t see too often, and his eyes glimmer with something mischievous, something wild. His bone structure reminiscent of the gods you grew up learning about, his face open, and handsome, watching you from where he stands, bolts of setting sunlight streaming in from the glass door behind him, framing him in the orange and pink goodness of dusk.
Just looking at him sets your body alight.
“H-hello.” Gods.. Get it together. It's just a guy. You've see plenty of mortal men before. His lips quirk, and you try not to look too closely at them, their sweet shape, perfectly pressed together while he cocks his head.
“Hello.” Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a book.” He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.
“Well, this is a good place to do that.” Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you can’t. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesn’t seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.
“It’s well… it’s a rare book.”
“Oh?”
“And I’ve been told, you’re a purveyor of such rare and curious books.” Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.
“I… have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what you’re looking for?”
“It’s a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.” You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?
“I don’t have anything that old here.” The lie slips through your teeth with ease.
“Oh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room an’ everything.” Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.
Magic. There’s magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like it’s waiting for something, waiting to strike.
Is it his?
Like he can sense it, he tenses for a split second before relaxing, and offering you his hand.
“I’m Johnny.” You stare at his waiting gesture, poised on the edge of a decision, uncertainty hanging in the balance.
Something is different here.
Something is strange.
But the way he looks at you, like he’s really looking at you, seeing you, noticing you, soothes the wariness in your mind, the strong beating of your heart drowning out your more cautious nature.
Still, you’re not one to give your birth given name to anyone outside the coven, whether they be friend or foe.
You've seen someone learn that lesson first hand.
“My friends call me Fern.” It’s not a lie, your friends, what little you still had, do call you Fern. Have called you Fern ever since you were all children, when you were more interested in laying on your back in the woods and staring at the clouds through the trees, then you were learning basic spells at anyone’s house. Strange, they used to call you. Odd. Weird. Their parents, bless them, had instructed their children not to be cruel to you, but the nickname had persisted, and then stuck, until it was what you were calling yourself all through Uni and afterwards.
“Fern.” He echoes, a ripple of something you cannot name crossing his face before it smooths, and he releases your hand while giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s lovely to meet you.” The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. You’re staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like you’re in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before he’s clearing his throat and you’re blinking yourself free.
Odd. Your brain warns.
Enchanting. Your heart sings.
“Sorry, I uh. Don’t have your book.”
“It’s alright. Mind if I had a look around?”
“Sure!” you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.
Calm down. He’s not here for you. He’s here for a book.
You try not to track his every move as he browses, instead staring at the blank computer screen at the front check out desk, clicking the mouse intermittently and shuffling some papers back and forth mindlessly while you sneak a look every now and then.
He’s fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You can’t help but stare when he reaches for a higher shelf, and his shirt rides up to expose a flash of his midriff, honey cream skin on full display that makes your mouth water, just a bit.
Jet meows loudly, and then makes an exaggerated point of licking her paw, pointing it in the direction of the clock that hangs over the door.
Welp.
“I’m actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-“
“Sorry to keep ye.” He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.
“Oh, you’re not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.” You don’t know why exactly, but it feels like you’re stalling him. Like you don’t want him to leave. Jet jumps from the floor to the shelf behind you, and she growls as the man, Johnny, who takes a step away from the book he’s studying towards you. “Jet!” you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.
“Smart, locking up, cannae be too sure about what’s lurking out there.” He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.
“Uh, I do have some rarities, if that… if that’s something you’d like to come back and see.” What? What did you just say? Did you really just-
Johnny visibly brightens, like you’ve made his day. Like you’ve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until it’s beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.
He tells you he’ll come back then, that he’d like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.
What the fuck was that?
Two days later, the bells that hang from the front door jangle and chime to announce his arrival, and the butterflies swirl in your stomach as you walk up front.
“Good evening.” He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. “It’s Foxglove? Or… Sage?” Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. “You’re named after a plant, right?”
“It’s Fern.” You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.
“My apologies, Fern.” He does not hide the way his eyes trace you up and down, from your black boots to where your two times two big, button-down shirt is parted to reveal your clavicle. “Are ye well?” He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.
“Y-yes. Thanks. Yourself?”
“Aye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets you’re keeping.” He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?
“I uh. Yeah, well. Let’s… it’s this way.” You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like you’ve amused him.
You pull your magic under the current of the atmosphere in the hallway to wrap around the lock and spring it free, allowing the door to open before the two of you and step inside. The room itself is a marvel, deep burgundy walls with more floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a giant table in the middle, it’s top carved from an ash tree far older than you. The candles dance in your presence, and you feed the wicks just a small sampling of magic, allowing them to gradually brighten so Johnny can see better. Mortal’s eyes were not known for being so sharp.
“And these are all…?”
“Varying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.” You laugh, but he doesn’t, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. “I’ve got some… old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.”
Definitely a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“When people thought witches were real?” He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.
“Yeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.” You try to play it off but can’t escape his gaze, can’t escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.
“And you’re usually in the habit of lying to customers?” You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. “I can feel you.” He explains, like it’s normal, or natural. Like you’re both speaking the same language. “Can feel ye from across the street, actually. Didn’t know little plants could hold so much magic.” He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.
“I-“ you start, but abruptly stop when words fail you, and your chest tightens with panic. You internally scream at yourself, the strange feelings from when he first stepped foot in the shop coming back to haunt you, to teach you a lesson.
“Hey, hey.” He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. “It’s alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.” The way he says your nickname feels like a bite, like a mark against your skin, the word singed with some sort of magic, something flavorless that you cannot taste, yet you know it’s there all the same. You realize he’s staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.
“What are you?” you challenge, and his lips twist.
“I’m no threat to ye.”
“Sounds like what someone who is a threat would say.”
“I promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.” A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. It’s an old term, one used to describe those born into magical families without marginal power. Wielding witches or warlocks usually have enough magic in them to cast minimal impact spells, some charms and enchantments, things of little consequence. “I ah, work in the military. I don’t practice.” He admits, and that takes you by surprise.
“The military?”
“Aye.” An impish grin splits across his face. “I like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. We’re on leave right now, but. That’s usually what I’m doing.” That’s different. Magical beings usually stay far away from things like government, or military. Easier to remain undetected that way, and it was fairly known that mortals were left to their own affairs, without magical interference. You find yourself asking the question before you can smack your lips shut.
“But, your family must-“ not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? You’re not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.
“My mum’s gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.” Oh.
“I’m sorry.” Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright, happened a long time ago.”
“I shouldn’t have-“
“Fern.” He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. “It’s alright, I promise.” You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before he’s speaking again. “What is this?” He’s pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.
“That’s a grimoire.”
“It looks… old. Like it’s seen better days.”
“It is, and it has.” You don’t elaborate, because you don’t know if you should, or even if you want to.
“Where’s it from?” He pushes.
“Here. It’s uh… from my coven. From a very long time ago.”
“You lot been around a long time?”
“You could say that.” You could say that’s an understatement. There were only a handful of old covens left in the world, ancient powers that slept beneath the skin of their witches, only growing stronger and stronger through their lengthy history and connection to the earth. Dangerous.
He continues on with his inquiries, and you give him as much information as you can, pulling books from their resting places and cracking them wide for his eyes, pointing out little things of interest here and there while he stands in awe, time ticking away until the clock in the hall is chiming for ten pm, and he’s apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.
“You’re not keeping me.” You assure him. “I live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.” You laugh.
“Well, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are… special. I’m grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.” He makes your head spin, with how earnest he is, how easy and honest he confesses such things to you. It makes your knees feel weak, makes your throat feel dry.
“Of course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, I’m here.” You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize he’s going to leave now, the knowledge that he’ll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.
“I ah… was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?” You don’t even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him?
“Yeah!” you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry so… dinner would be great.”
“Know any good spots around?”
“Uh, yeah there’s a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?”
“Sure.” He agrees, and then steps outside to wait for you while you lock everything up.
Jet complains the entire time, loudly, and you try to shush her multiple times.
“Oh, stop!” you scold over her meows. “It’s just dinner. He’s nice.” She watches you with keen eyes, green spheres that probably know far more than you, before slinking off to the stairs in the back, taking herself up to the flat. “Goodnight then!” You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.
Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.
“I lost my parents too.” You tell him one night, a week later. He’s met you after closing, in a park where you like to walk sometimes, and the two of you slowly stroll along the walking path as you trade questions and answers about one another’s lives. It’s somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green space’s center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. “I uh, didn’t want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.
“Thanks, I was young. There’s not much I remember about it.” Mostly true. You really didn’t know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your mother’s life. The spell that ended your father’s. All buried deep in your heart, untouched. Unvisited. You both lapse into silence, and you fight the awkwardness by posing a question, hoping to change the subject without being too obvious.
“How many siblings do you have?”
“I’ve got one sister, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And then, my brothers, who aren’t mine by blood but by we’ve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. We’re… very bonded.”
“That’s sweet.” His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you.
“Sweet isn’t what I’d call them, but it’s something.”
“They’re like your family then?”
“Aye. Closest some of us ‘ll ever get.” There’s a pang of something in your heart at that, the idea that Johnny has both blood and love, people who have chosen him, who love him. You’ve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. “Look, there. It's you.” He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. “Little plant.” He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.
“Piss off.” You elbow him playfully, trying to push away, and he grabs you, pulling you into his side with a firm grip, half holding you to him in an embrace as he chuckles and rubs your shoulder affectionately.
“Sorry, little shrub.”
“What are ye doing for Samhain?” He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.
“There’s a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.” You tease.
“Nude?” he smirks, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume you’re shelving.
“No, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.” You don’t mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. “We drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. There’s also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.” He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. “Would you… would you like to come?” Why not? It’s not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. He’s quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like he’s reading it. He’s silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isn’t what you thought it might be. Maybe he’s-
“I would be happy to.”
“Be watchful of the féth fíada.” The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. “Something else is in these woods tonight.” You give your beverage to Johnny and then take the second mug from her, before leading him away, down the hill and closer to the fires.
“What’s the féth fíada?”
“It’s the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises but…” You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. “We, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.” You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.
“The Others?” He asks, and you nod.
“Yes. That’s what we call them. The Fae.” He raises an eyebrow.
“Thought the Fae were a myth.” You laugh and turn to face him.
“I assure you, they’re very real.”
“Oh? Have ye encountered one then?” You shudder, like you’re cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.
“Once. When I was a child.” He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like he’s looking for something. Like he’s seeing.
“Were ye hurt, Fern?” Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your mother’s screams ring in between your ears.
“No.” Someone lights a new pyre a second after your denial, orange embers leaping into the night sky with grace, and it draws your attention enough to distract the both of you. “Come on.” You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. “Dance with me?” You ask him breathlessly, emboldened by the sniff of fire whiskey that sits in your cup and he smiles before draping an around your waist and pulling you close to his body.
“I’d like nothing more.”
Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didn’t know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches.
“You’re beautiful, little witch.” He whispers against your ear, words soft and saccharine, floating on the warm air around you as you sway together in time to the music. His hand cups your jaw gently, tilting your chin upwards until you’re both looking at one another, his blue eyes alight with the reflection of the bonfire behind you, lovely and bright, burning down into your soul like a love spell. “I’d like to kiss ye, Fern.” He murmurs, voice strained and tinged with an accent you cannot place, and you blink while your heart rockets off at superspeed, sending blood buzzing with excited magic through your veins.
“Okay.” You murmur, and he smiles at you like you’re the most stunning creature he’s ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.
It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be. You’ve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. There’s an explosion inside of you when his mouth meets yours, the gentle coaxing of the way he holds you melting you into a boneless heap while you breathe him in, his scent practically transporting you to another world, a mossy, emerald-green wood with lush plant life and giant ferns that blanket the forest floor. The feel of him, of whatever this is, mixed with your magic and the magic in the air is a powerful elixir, one that seems to make the world tilt where you stand, gravity disappearing and your body pressing into his as a result. The closer you get, the more you can feel something in him, something strong, something powerful, lurking in the shadow of this moment, waiting. Watching. He tastes like oak and dew dropped grass, earthy and rich and magical, everything wrapping up into one as you practically go limp in his arms when he parts your lips with his tongue and sweeps inside.
When he pulls away he’s still holding you steady, while you stare at him wordlessly, smile tugging at your lips. The world feels quiet, like everything has all but died down, like mostly everyone has left except for you, and him. A second stretches on for a minute, for an hour, and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, your magic arcing wildly through the night sky, snapping and hissing with the overflow of your emotions. You never want this to end. You want this to last forever... you want him in more ways than you've ever known. You want-
"Fern! Fern!" Someone's calling you, over the noise of the night, and you reluctantly step back, realizing it’s your aunt’s voice carrying over the music and revelry.
“I… I have to…” You nod in her direction, where she stands beyond the pyre, at the seam of the forest, sealed mason jar of something in her hands.
“Of course.” He answers immediately, and takes your hand in his, folding his fingers between yours and petting his thumb over your knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, carding his lips over your skin with a gentle kiss, before giving your hand a squeeze and relaxing his grip. “I’ll see ye soon?”
“Y-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?” Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but don’t release him, and it’s not until he’s asking you if you’re alright that you realize you’re clutching to him too tightly. Like he’s a lifeline. Like he could save you from this. His free hand moves into your line of sight, and then he strokes a finger across your cheek, eyes worried, face creased with concern. “Fern? What is it?”
“Nothing. I… I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday.” He opens his mouth to speak but you’re already pulling away, releasing him and bringing the cowl of your hood up over your hair, slipping into the crowd without another word.
You stumble around the dancing and celebrating until you break through and reach the tree line, your aunt and another standing in their ceremonial black robes. You swallow a gasp when you see the jar, it’s clear liquid a tell-tale sign of what’s to come.
Divination.
Your aunt’s lips purse when she sees you.
“Are you ready?” No. No, no. Please don’t make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, you’re not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you don’t want this. You don’t want to do this. This is not what you were meant for, you know it in your heart. You do not want to hurt; you were not meant for harm. “Fern.” Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.
“Yes.”
You lay still for days, after. Unable to sleep, your eyes never close, your mind never settles, the adrenaline crystalizing in your bones as you drag yourself back and forth from your bathroom to bed, over and over.
You wash hands hundreds of times, but you still see the blood stains on your palms, under your nails, splattered up to your elbows.
Your power burns throughout you, magic heating the air with fervor and thrall, chanting voices culminating around you as you seek the vessels in his body and pull, drawing each drop through him and into yourself, ruby ichor spouting from his mouth like a furious volcano, blood dripping from his lips like the hallowed tears of the old gods. It’s everywhere, on your hands, your arms, your face, your neck, the earth. You imbue it with power, pushing your connections with the roots beneath the soil upwards, into the blood while the breeze sizzles and shatters, mist gathering around your ankles like shackles meant to drag you below.
You close your eyes thousands of times, but you still see the face of the man, still see his fear, still hear his pleas, his screams, his cries for mercy as you bleed him dry, scrying for the future with the litres of his blood.
The visions come quickly, splintering through your head with a sharpness that hurts, and you cry out amidst the pain, your mind being ripped into pieces as you scream. There are hands on you, arms cloaked in dark robes, holding you up, holding you steady while your magic vibrates through the ground and into your bones, filling your sight with the future. Clips of death, birth, tragedy echo behind your closed lids, the mineral scent of blood filling your nostrils until you think it will be burned there permanently.
Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face.
Your cries join the reprise of the man who sits dying at your feet, the force of his life draining through your magic, bending and weaving with the power from the earth and your own blood until he’s nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it.
The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days.
The elders extract the ones that pertain to them from your mind through their own spell, the process nearly as painful as the Divining itself. They hold you down to the ground to get what they want, pinning your shoulders with a bruising grip, cutting your skin to smear their fingers in your blood, holding your head still as you thrash. Their hands hurt. You will wear their marks for weeks.
Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises.
No one calls. No one comes.
You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that you’ll never know. Places you’ll only ever read about in books Places that you’ll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams.
Your brain fractures into tiny little pieces. Your own understanding becomes non sensical.
You become lost between planes. Lost in your own mind. Lost to the Divination.
Jet never leaves your side. The shop stays shuttered, as it does every year after Samhain, no one coming or going, your lone employee enjoying her annual week after Halloween vacation.
Eventually your eyes close. You sleep fitfully. You dream of the visions, the screams, the sacrifice.
Finally, you regain enough strength to weave a weak spell that helps quiet your mind, and then you truly rest, for the first time in days. You rest, and you sleep until Thursday afternoon, when there’s a rapping against your door.
Johnny.
“Hey little sprout, what’s-“ the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. “Fern.” He whispers.
“Hi.” You know how you appear. Strung out, most likely. Battered. Exhausted. Bruised. You try to fix the top of the knit shawl that you have draped over your shoulders, but it’s far too late. He’s already seen.
“What… what’s happened?”
“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” You try to play it off but it’s pointless now.
“Who did this?” The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looks… different, something primordial reflecting in his gaze, something ominous etched in the lines of his face. The question holds a promise of violence, of punishment, and being so close to him in this moment makes your head spin. It makes you feel like the very fabric of this world is tearing apart, ripping to pieces around you as he stands there, an otherworldly feeling swirling in the air between your two bodies. It suffocates you, pushes you into the dark depths of waters that feel all too familiar, like the leftover scars on your mind from the Divination are being ripped wide open and plunging you back between celestial planes.
“Johnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "it’s fine, I- I’m okay. It’s just… the aftermath. Of Samhain.” Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something that’s out of your control, tears caught in your throat. He stares at you, bewildered, a hand raised midair before it falls to his side in a fist, and he turns away. “Johnny?” He doesn’t respond, and you watch the smooth skin of his jaw flex and harden. He stares into the distance, across the street, into the sky.
Looking anywhere but you.
It’s because he can’t stand to see you.
You look awful.
You look monstrous.
You are monstrous.
“No one should ever touch ye like this.” He bites out, his knuckles tensing against the door frame. His eyes are angry, and wild, burning a hole into your clavicle, where your skin sits exposed, healing from a gash. You shift, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and then he snaps his gaze up to yours, face immediately softening, lips parting, expression rife with unease. With worry. “Are ye… are ye okay?”
“Yes. Just a bit tired.”
“If it’s too much, to have dinner-“
“No! N-no, no. I want… to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?” He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.
“I could go get a takeaway?” Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.
“That would be wonderful.”
“Alright.” He steps just a little closer, close enough for you to get a deep inhale of him, that woodsy, mossy, magical scent, and swoops down to land a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling your hand into his and bringing it to his lips, eyes slipping closed with a shuddering breath when he presses a kiss to your palm. “I’ll be right back. You'll be alright?”
“Yeah, 'm fine.”
He feeds you until you cannot eat anymore. He plies you with noodles of too many kinds, different cartons that overflow spread out on the coffee table, in front of where you sit curled up on the couch. You’re still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, you’re sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. It’s warm, and comforting, and you swear you can feel little zings of magic moving inside you, lulling you into a peaceful rest, cocooning you in hazy feelings of softness and safety.
Hours later, in the dark, lips press to your forehead. Your body curls against something warm, face flush against the steady thump of a heartbeat. Someone whispers in your ear.
“Sleep well, little witch.”
“Tell me about your magic.” He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when you’re finally back to your normal self, spending most of your time getting caught up on everything you let slip during your post Samhain recovery period.
Having Johnny around has seemed to help, somehow. He’s been here, every day since, like he’s unwilling to let you out of his sight, showing up in the mornings before you open the shop with a coffee and sweet, a baked treat that two of you usually split as you go about tidying things around the front room. He hovers, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin often, grasping your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm reverently throughout the day. You’re not sure how, or why, but it seems your magic and mind have taken to having him around, and you feel better, more well than you normally would during the Divination healing process, your head clear and wounds mostly mended.
“What about it?”
“There were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didn’t feel anyone quite like ye.” A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound… less insane.
“There aren’t any witches like me anymore, really.” You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. You’re both sitting on your flat’s back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. “I’m a blood spinner.” He gives you a confused look.
“What’s that?”
“It’s like… a special kind of witch, in my coven. We aren’t exactly… the most orthodox of our kind.”
“What do ye mean?” Ah, fuck. You chew on the inside of your cheek, hesitant to break your oath, to betray the promises you made to protect the secrets that rule your existence.
But it’s Johnny.
And you trust him.
“My coven… we’re blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and… such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. It’s generally taboo, now. There aren’t any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.”
“And what is a blood spinner?” At the same time as he poses his question, he taps his thigh meaningfully, and you rise from the chair that you were sitting in to lower yourself into his lap, edge of your dress sliding down your thigh when he tucks his arm under your knees. His palm skates up and down the back of your leg, and goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.
“Every few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone who’s… connected.”
“Connected?”
“We rely heavily on our connection to the earth, and most of my coven cannot pull on those connections without casting some sort of spell. I can do it… naturally.” You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “I feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like they’re a part of me. During our walk the other week? I could feel the trees, breathing. Could feel the grass growing. Could hear the rapid heartbeats of the ducks in the pond. All without using a single spell. Using my magic is not something I have to cast for, like most others. I can just… do it.”
“I’m still not following.” Of course he’s not. Because you sound insane.
“Right, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. It’s how they organize and harness their power, pushing the chaotic force of it into something that can contain it, regulate it, give it a purpose.”
“But not you.”
“No. If a witch in my coven wanted to, let’s say, cast a love spell, they’d need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but they’d still need one. They’d write it themselves or get it from someone else if they weren’t confident in their spell making. But I… could just do it. Could just manipulate the blood, enchant it with my own power. Straight from the source. No words. No chanting.”
“Just your power.”
“Yes.” You hesitate. Might as well, while you’re at it. “And, I can use blood to see the future.” He stiffens.
“Divination?” You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, “I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.” Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean?
“They can’t. We’re not mortal.” His eyes narrow.
“What?”
“My coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. “Not me, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m still my natural age.” You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.
“Well, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?” He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.
“Kiss me.” You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.
“Ye never have to ask.” He answers, and then seals his lips to yours, stealing your breath while his hand sinks into your hip, your body heating under his ministrations, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. He shifts you in one movement, so you’re straddling him, and you can feel the outline of his cock in his jeans beneath you, can feel the heaviness that sits there. You sink down, just slightly, enough that your clothed cunt barely rubs over him, the contact sending little electric shocks through your body, and you whimper into his mouth. “Fern.” He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece he’s willing to give. He groans, and your hands drift to his waist, a thumb tucking beneath his skin and the button of his jeans, desperate to touch, to feel, to have him… when his fingers encircle your wrist and pull you away. “We canna’ dove. It’s late.” He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.
Why doesn’t he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?
He brings your palm to his lips, kissing you tenderly, and some of the bitterness leeches from your soul, your heart gentling it's disappointment, your dejection ebbing away on silken spun clouds.
“Right. Of course.”
He sighs, like he’s bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.
“I’m sorry, sweet Fern. It’s not you, ah just… it’s late.”
“That’s alright, I understand.” You hoist yourself off his lap, and he scratches his head, more so in a way that seems to be a nervous tic than a necessary action, and you shrug. He stands, body held in stasis halfway to you, arm extended like he wants to touch you, grab you, but he’s holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.
“Of course.” He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.
“Goodnight.” You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.
“You’ve mentioned… you ‘ave books about mermaids?” His fork digs through the container of noodles, lifting a perfect mouthful to his lips after the question, and you nod with your own mouth full of pad see ew.
“Sort of. They’re not really… mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.” You’re sitting opposite him upstairs, in the kitchen of your flat, with a window open, cool breeze flowing through your curtains. Your mind wanders to the ancient Greek text that sits on one of the shelves, it’s writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. “They’re different.”
“The Nereids.” He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. “The ones who lure mortals to their deaths?”
“You know of the Nereids?” He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues.
“My mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.” You sigh into your wine glass. His fingers snake across the table and then up your forearm, tracing featherlight touches on the inside of your wrist.
“They don’t use blood spells.”
“No?”
“No.” You scoff. “Their magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. They’re naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.”
“So, it could be anyone.” He muses, and you shrug.
“Yeah. I’m sure it’s pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals… they’ve no idea. It’s not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.” Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost don’t catch it. “You didn’t know?” It wouldn’t surprise you. Not much is known about the Nereids. You only hold this knowledge because your coven is well informed, due to the length of their lives, and because you possess one of the few texts left that references them in such detail. Both you and your coven hold the truth of what lurks in the sea close to your hearts. Another secret to keep, another truth never to be borne.
But the wine has made your tongue loose and well, you can’t help but give him everything he wants, anything he’s asked. His eyes flash, and he cradles your hand in his, stroking across your palm with his thumb.
Your words flow so easily, so uninhabited.
It feels so free, so right.
“No. Had no idea.” He watches you carefully, dancing candlelight spinning shadows along the walls and across his face. He looks handsome as usual, but something in the way he regards you now feels different. Dangerous. Thrilling. Your thighs press together almost subconsciously, low whirring of need humming inside your body, and your fingers tighten on the stem of you glass as you continue.
“Yeah, they need them… to live. It’s very… complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.” You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. “It’s pretty sad. They fall in love with their victims for a night, and then harvest the organ and eat it before the sun comes up. It’s what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.” You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. “It all comes from the heart, you know?” You tap your own for reference, finger padding at the skin over your breastbone, over top where your heart beats just a little faster than normal.
“Aye, I guess it does.” He murmurs, fingertips light against your skin. His attention is focused on you, unwaveringly so, and you fidget under the scrutiny. He looks so… ethereal, in the dim candlelight, so otherworldly that you have to blink a few times to make sure you’re not seeing things.
You’re not.
He’s just really so, so beautiful.
It’s late when Johnny poses another question, clearing his throat over the low volume of a movie playing in the background. He lays behind you on the couch, the curve of your ass pressed into his hips, his arm slung over your belly, palm pressed to space above your navel. His breath fawns over your cheek, and he presses soft kisses to your temple in quick succession before you feel the vibration in his chest.
“I was thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“What if… it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereid’s song. Could you save them somehow?” It’s an interesting question, and you pause for a moment. His fingers stroke the back of your hand, before wrapping around your wrist and bringing your palm towards his mouth, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your skin before pulling you tighter into his embrace.
“I don’t know. I suppose you could, extract the song. You’d have to call it forth because it’s naturally occurring. You couldn’t just… cast a spell. You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then you’d be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I don’t think I could make that choice.” His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.
“I don’t think I could either.”
“That’s not what I meant!” You shriek with laughter, chest expanding as you rock backwards, leaning away from him and his devilish smile. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you close to him, fingers playing across your clavicle while you giggle.
“Aye but it’s what ye said.” He’s been taunting you relentlessly about last night, when you fell asleep on the couch and then proceeded to talk for a few hours, all while you were blissfully tucked away in a dream somewhere.
“Nooo Johnny.” You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though it’s the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when you’re around him. It swamps you in glee, exuberance oozing from every one of your pores. Your power feels sweeter, feels lighter, feels more peaceful now than it ever has before.
You know it’s because of him.
You dread that it’s because of him.
Four days later, you’re cataloguing some new arrivals when the front door of the shop bangs open, smacking against the wall, nearly shaking the building, the sound alone bringing you to your feet in a panic.
Your aunt stands in the doorframe, body thrumming with spells just barely contained, anger flooding the space between the two of you.
“What have you done?” She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.
“I don’t... what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. “You’ve always been such a foolish child.”
“I don’t understand…”
That male you brought to Samhain wasn’t a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.”
“Johnny? No, he’s… he’s not. He’s-“ He’s not. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t lie to you.
“Have you not heard? What’s happened?” she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right.
“Heard what?”
“A Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.” You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.
“No, that’s not possible.” Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that even…
The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naïve, how you’re lucky you’re the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive.
But you cannot focus on any of it.
All you can hear, all you can picture, is the horrid replays of those conversations with Johnny.
All you can think about, is how easily your lips spilled those secrets. How free it all felt. How right.
“You know of the Nereids?”
“I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.”
“I suppose you could, extract the song…”
“They don’t use blood spells.”
“You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself…”
“It all comes from the heart, you know?”
“Oh, gods.” You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.
“You’re dead to us. You’ll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, you’re to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.” She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. “The jury’s still out, on whether you’ll be tried and burned.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t know… I didn’t do it intentionally.” You don’t even know why you’re trying to explain yourself, why you’re bothering. She won’t listen. No one will care. You broke your oath. You betrayed the thing you were supposed to protect. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as the walls narrow in on where you stand.
All for some stupid attention. All because some guy, someone you thought was just a harmless mortal with a tinge of power, smiled at you and kissed you sweetly. Because he told you were beautiful, and held your hand, and went on walks with you in the park. Because he kissed you like you meant something, like you mattered.
Your aunt stops at the door, casting a parting remark over her shoulder as she leaves.
“Your poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what you’ve done.”
It doesn’t take long, to find him. You thread your power through the city, scrying your magic through every drop on blood on every street, every corner, ever floor of every building until you locate him, sitting at a two top table outside of a pub, a handsome male across from him. They’re speaking in hushed tones as you turn the corner, and you stop for a moment to take them in.
How could you not have seen this?
Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing.
This male is not a man at all, but Fae.
You stomp down the rest of the block, urging mortals away, using your magic to push them, to send them scurrying in other directions, just as the one sitting opposite Johnny spots you, mouth dropping into an o of surprise before he’s speaking, lips moving rapidly.
Johnny swivels in his chair, but it’s too late. You’re already upon them.
Your rage, your shame overshadows your hurt, the fear that threatens to drown you, as you stand in front of him spitting mad, your magic swirling around you in violent hues of red and purple while he stares, dumbfounded.
“You tricked me, you Fae bastard.” He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.
“Fern-“ He tries, but you steamroll him. He’s Fae. Don’t listen to a word he says.
“You used me!” You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.
“No, listen-“ The other one, like him, is standing off to his left, watching you warily while you yell, tears wet on your cheeks. He steps closer, coming to stand nearly behind Johnny’s shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.
“No! You listen! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as he’s hurt you, betray him as he’s betrayed you. Your feelings and thoughts and magic all swirl together, weaving and bending into a chaotic mass of pain and sorrow and anger, surging forward, and then your finger extends, pointing right at him.
In the blink of an eye the air shifts and he drops his glamour, exposing the true strength of his power, the tips of his ears, the mighty weight of the magic he carries in his veins.
Your words die on your tongue.
His hand darts forward, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you close, close enough that he can incline his head above your ear, voice razor sharp, lethal and cold when he whispers in an accent you've never heard before:
“Did ye just point at me, little witch?” You’re stunned for a moment, terror galloping through your heart before your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you wrench your arm away, stepping back as quickly as you can.
“Stay away from me.” You hiss. Johnny hasn’t reverted back to how you know him, with the soft angles and rounded ears, his glamoured state, you now realize, and staring him down is a feat in its own. It hurts, to look at him, and you know it’s intentional, you know it’s the way they operate. They aim to sow fear. To scare. Their blinding beauty is just another means to an end, just another tool for them to use.
Something shifts, and Johnny’s eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.
He looks… upset.
No. No he doesn’t. He’s not remorseful. He doesn’t care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you.
You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but it’s too late, you’re too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.
“Fern, wait!”
#peaches writes#fae!johnny#john mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish#fae!au#john mactavish#magic!au#john soap mctavish x you#fae!soap#call of duty#cod mw2#soap mw2#soap x reader#soap cod#johnny soap mctavish x reader#john soap mctavish x reader#soap mactavish#cod x reader#female reader#witch!reader#which witch#which witch 
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Instead of sleeping yesterday my mind came up with a really silly Aftg au
Imagine everything is the same but Allison is either Aphrodite in disguise (why? And why would she come to earth to end up with the foxes of all people? Playing exy???) ( Listen I never said this would make sense just let me explain) or she is a descendant of Aphrodite in some way and therefore she can feel when people are in love. SO I'm just picturing Allison being constantly hit by the unbelievable strength of Andreil's feelings for one another. I don't know you guys this made sense last night , just the idea of Allison loving love but at some point she starts to struggle because Andrew and Neil really can't get a grip, they are so gone for each other that if Allison is in the same room as them she can't really concentrate on anything and it's getting annoying. Also she's pissed because those two little fuckers manage to look completely normal and unaffected while she's fighting for her life trying to concentrate on anything but them.
( OMG IMAGINE IF IT WAS AARON
now I'm thinking about Aaron getting cursed ( maybe by Allison??) for one reason or another to feel his brother feelings for one day and everything is going good and Andrew is being chill and unaffected until NEIL shows up and Aaron feels like his heart is actively trying to get out of his ribcage to be with him
Aaron *completely baffled by this experience*: is this what you feel everytime??
Andrew: feel? I'm sorry brother dearest but what are you talking about? I've never felt anything in my life , my chest is a void where no such thing as these ~feelings~ you're talking about can thrive
Aaron with his heart POUNDING becase Neil just smiled at Andrew: OH SO YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT GOOD TO KNOW)
( I don't know how I went from Allison being Aphrodite to Aaron learning that his brother is not only human but also a pathetic lovesick loser but that's how it is sometimes)
#andrew with a straight face : i hate him#allison feeling his feelings from a mile away becase they are so strong: BITCH WHO YOU THINK YOU'RE KIDDING??#at least my girl is making big money betting on them#not her fault everybody else is blind#greek gods#Aphrodite#magic!AU#gods!AU#allison reynolds#aftg#aftg au#crack#andreil#andrew minyard#neil josten#twinyards#twinyards bonding#aaron minyard
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To Pierce the White Eye PREVIEW
Preview / One / Two / Three / Four / Fin.
Psychic!Jaemin x Reader
Genre: Soulmate, magical school au, low fantasy
Preview WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery, 18+ language
Preview Word Count: 405
This is an alternate timeline to my other completed work Under the Blue Flames. You do not need to read UBF to understand To Pierce the White Eye.
You were in a white room with screens playing all along the circular walls. Confused, you looked down, making eye contact with Jaemin, who laid on the floor on his back, arms tucked under the back of his head.
“Where the fuck am I?” you whimpered, holding yourself and spinning as you looked at all of the screens that made their way to the top of the dome you two somehow found yourselves in.
“Oh, it’s a defense mechanism psychics have. It used to be for when people would try to kill us in our sleep. They would be knocked out and sent to where we psychics go when we sleep,” he explained casually, turning his attention back to looking at the screens. You looked closer, seeing clips of different people, some more grainy than others.
“You’re seeing futures even as you sleep?” you asked, your arms going slack at your side.
“Yeah, just because I’m sleeping doesn’t mean time stops,” he shrugged.
“That’s exhausting.”
“Existence is exhausting,” Jaemin corrected.
You gulped, swallowing your anxiety. You stepped forward, your feet echoing in the space as you focused on one of Jaemin’s visions- one of Mark, your father, and Yuta. The vision was grainy, but you were able to at least make out these three figures for sure- not so much the space they were in. You could tell the conversation was engaging and vibrant by the hand gestures your brother used when he got excited.
The screen next to it was much less grainy, but also much less full of energy. Jaemin sat in the spot Yuta was- in the middle of the couch in your family home with Mark to his side. Your Dad sat off to the side, and you could make out his furrowed brow pointed at the psychic in your home. While there was no sound you could gather from the first video, in this one however, there was a faint vhs style of speaking coming through the screen.
“... makes… me smile,” Jaemin’s scrambled voice came through.
“... I’m glad,” your father’s voice was crystal clear- it was as if he too was in Jaemin’s head. The image suddenly cleared and you were able to clearly make out every part of the screen, and hear the low conversation all three were having together.
“Hey guys!” this voice made you jump, and then the screen went black. It was your voice, you realized.
Continue? -> ONE
Taglist! @nini0620 @markl33sgf @ckcatt @n23ctzen7 @decaffeinatedastrodict @penginmarchd @jinniebell @dearj43 @one-i-chill @haedgaf @whatisafterlikeyouandi @imyjoonq @oddkpoppod @vatterie @allieacero @jaemingold @positionslab @roseecheriee @hoonbrry @hy1ck @fdy08 @m-uerta @danielacastellon @softrnjn @wordsgodeep
Let me know if you’d like to be added/removed.
#nct fanfic#nct angst#nct imagines#nct fic#jaemin au#jaemin x reader#jaemin fanfic#jaemin angst#jaemin x y/n#nct x y/n#nct x reader#wayv x reader#wayv x y/n#nct dream fluff#nct dream fanfic#nct dream college au#psychic!jaemin#magic!au#jaemin imagines#na jaemin x reader#na jaemin x y/n#na Jaemin fic#kpop fanfiction#kpop au#kpop fic
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ACCIDENTAL GOD: CHAPTER ONE
Pairing: OT8 Ateez x Reader Fantasy AU
Synopsis: You get summoned into a fantasy world by a group of runaway misfits, (who strangely look like your favorite idols) who claim you to be an ancient forgotten War God, and they need your help to survive while being hunted down by a tyrant King.
Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, member x member, eventual smut, slow burn, gore, death, language, torture, angst, fighting, magic, mentions of past abuse, rituals, blood rituals, some obsessive behavior
Let me know if i missed anything! More warnings will be added as the story goes.
A/N: Finally, here is the first chapter! And don’t worry, reader is introduced in the next chapter! Sorry for any weird formatting, idk how to write lmao. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Please be sure to read the Prologue, it’s short but it’s important!
Masterlist, Prologue, Chapter Two,
Seonghwa’s entire body hurt. He couldn’t seem to remember what happened, where was he? Why did he hurt? Why did he feel like he couldn’t breathe? There was something heavy on his chest, and it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and looked did he realize. There was someone-no, Hongjoon was laying on top of him, seemingly unconscious, he could recognize that ash blond mullet anywhere. Gently, he tried to push Hongjoon off of him and to the side to be able to get up, but slightly winced as his own body protested at the exertion. Once Seonghwa knew Hongjoon wasn’t lying uncomfortably, he sat up on his hands and began to take in their surroundings.
The first thing he noticed was the fact they were in a deep crack in the earth, vines clinging to the steep walls and trees hung over the edges overhead. The next was how dirty and wet he was, along with Hongjoon. Both of their clothes were torn and caked in mud and leaves. Seonghwa tried his best to rack his brain for information on how both him and Hongjoon ended up here, and without any sign of his other clan members nonetheless.
Seonghwa knew He was helping Hongjoon draw a map of the castle grounds to go along with the already drawn areas of the town surrounding the castle earlier, when he heard Mingi’s voice yelling from the woods. He couldn’t see him yet, but knew Mingi was running towards their camp. He was alerting everyone of the guards that were surrounding them and before Seonghwa knew it, Hongjoon was barking orders that they grab what they could and run. Seonghwa helped the captain put away the map and shove it along with some other important documents and books they had into a leather bag, before Hongjoon slung it over his shoulder. The others doing similar things as they prepared to take off. Seonghwa made sure to stuff the dagger he had stolen, his Father’s dagger, into his boot before Hongjoon grabbed his hand and forcibly pulled him along, the rest of the clan members quickly following suit.
He knew they had run into an opening where the king’s guards, who had just arrived at their camp as they were leaving, weren’t covering. But he didn’t know the direction they were headed. The ATEEZ clan hadn’t settled in this forest for very long, a week at most, and hadn’t had a chance to fully explore their surroundings other than right around camp. Basically, none of them had any idea where they were going, and they were fucked.
The guards were hot on their trails as they all ran, Hongjoon was still holding Seonghwa’s hand. Seonghwa didn’t know how long they had run for, but his body was about ready to give out when he noticed Hongjoon lagging behind him. He did his best to tug him along, trying to lose the guards in the dense forest, but as Seonghwa passed through another bush it wasn’t until it was too late to stop did he notice the steep drop right in front of him. As the ground disappeared underneath him, Seonghwa whipped his head around to meet Hongjoon’s fear-filled eyes. Seonghwa knew, as some sort of adrenaline filled fast thinking, that even if he had let go of Hongjoon’s hand he would fall too. So he tugged Hongjoon into his chest with as much force as he could muster and wrapped his arms around him. One around his waist and one on the back of his head to protect it. He didn’t let go as they fell, not until he hit the ground and everything went black. Right, So that’s how they got here. However, Seonghwa still had questions. Where was the rest of the clan? Are they safe? Captured? How do he and Hongjoon get out of here? What do we do next?
A groan from his right snapped Seonghwa from his thoughts, Hongjoon was awake. Sitting up, he looked around and saw Seonghwa before he spoke.
“What happened? I feel awful… Where are we?”
“It seems we are in a ravine somewhere in the forest. We fell as we were running away from the guards that invaded our camp.” Seonghwa spoke as he stood up. The pain from the fall was bearable now, but still throbbing underneath his skin. He held out his hand to help Hongjoon stand.
As Hongjoon wobbily stood, he groaned, his body also aching. He still had questions.
“What about the others? How do we get out of here? How long have we been here, actually?”
Hongjoon shot questions at Seonghwa once again, but these he had no answer to.
“I’m not sure, I woke up not too long before you, and I can’t see the sun from here so I couldn’t tell you the time.”
Seonghwa craned his neck upwards to see the top of the ravine again. The sun was still shining brightly through the trees and vines overhead. It had been early morning when they were attacked, the sun just fully risen over the horizon, so it must’ve been a few hours at least.
“Let's just focus on getting out of here first, Hongjoon. Then we can see if we can find any of the others.”
Seonghwa didn’t want to say ‘Find their bodies’ but he was afraid that was most likely the truth. That, or they are currently being tortured at the castle for information, or simply for the enjoyment of the King. Seonghwa’s stomach turned at the thought. His father- no, the King. That man was no father, maybe not even human. He was a sick man, and Seonghwa resented the fact that they are kin in any way. He shook his head to rid of those thoughts. Stay focused, they are alive, they have to be. You must survive to help them, and you can’t do that stuck where you are.
The both of them began walking towards one end of the ravine, the other close enough to see it was too steep to climb.
“Hongjoon,” Seonghwa called, the man in question humming in response, “ Did you help with the fall?”
“What do you mean?”
“We shouldn’t have survived the drop from that height, did you do something?”
“Ah yes, I did. I remembered I threw up a protective barrier at the last second before we hit the ground. That is most likely the reason we aren’t dead, though the guards from before seem to think we are.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They haven't come to retrieve your body as proof yet.”
Right, of course the king would need proof of the prince's death. It made sense since Seonghwa has quite the bounty on his head, as do the rest of his clan members. Treason (and many other crimes) were written on the wanted posters across the town whenever they had snuck in to steal supplies. It was not a pleasant sight to see, and it was a big reality check for them all as to what they had gotten themselves into.
Seonghwa realized they had made it to the end of the ravine now. It wasn’t very long, surprisingly, as it was a good width. This end they could climb, while the slope was still steep, there were various small trees and rocks they could grapple onto to climb up, and so they did.
No words were exchanged as they climbed, just small grunts and pants escaping their mouths. Once they made it to the top, they stood there for a second to rest. Hongjoon looked at Seonghwa before he spoke up.
“Do you think it’s safe to try and grab anything left from camp?” Seonghwa only shrugged. It was a risk, but one they were going to have to take. They had virtually nothing on them besides the bag of documents still over Hongjoon’s shoulder, the clan wasn’t supposed to split up and in their rush they didn’t grab anything in case they did. Perhaps if one of the other clan members got away, they would have the same idea to head there. It was the only familiar territory any of them knew in these woods.
They began to head towards their camp, following the trail they had sprinted down and passing broken tree limbs and rushed footprints along the way. Yet, no sight of blood, which is both good and bad. It means that their clan members weren't hurt on the trail, but it also means none of the guards were either. Seonghwa hopes that at least some of the others got away. After about 2 hours or so, both Him and Hongjoon came across a small waterfall, leading into a pond. They stopped to rest, refilling the waterskins that hung off of each of their hips, and attempting to wash off some of the dirt still stuck to their skin. A tense silence hung over the both of them. The thought of their clan members, their new family, possibly dead or worse stuck in their minds. Hongjoon had just sat down near the edge of the water as Seonghwa was still cleaning up, when they both heard a ‘snap’.
Both heads whipped impossibly fast towards the noise coming from behind them, on high alert. Two figures began to walk out of the trees towards them, one tall, one shorter. As Seonghwa began to grab his dagger out of his boot, the figure's faces came into view. Air felt like it was sucked out of his lungs, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Hongjoon was the first to move, sprinting towards them.
“San! Wooyoung!”
He crashed into the other two clan members with force, nearly knocking them both down as Hongjoon wrapped them in a bear hug. Seonghwa was quick to follow suit.
“You're alive! You’re- How did you get away? Have you seen any of the others? I’m so glad you are both safe!” Hongjoon rushed out the words, pure relief lacing his tone as he pulled back. Smiles graced everyone’s features.
“You guys are okay! And no, we haven’t seen anyone else. Both me and Wooyoung managed to slip away after we lost sight of you both. I’m not sure if any of the others did so as well.” San seemed on the verge of tears as he spoke, Both happy and worried tears. The healer cares so much for his clan, not knowing what happened to them all was tearing his heart apart.
“What happened to you guys?” Wooyoung piped up now, looking both Hongjoon and Seonghwa up and down, taking in their tattered and dirty attire.
“ We were chased off into a ravine, it was not an easy fall.” Seonghwa finally spoke. They had all pulled away from the group hug but still stayed close, not wanting to be too far from each other now that they were together again. Wooyoung’s mouth parted into an ‘o’ in understanding as San spoke up once more.
“So what do we do now? The other members have most definitely been taken by the guards back to the castle. How are we supposed to get them back? We don’t even know which way to camp is! Night is falling soon as well and I’m sure there are still guards lurking to find the rest of us. We saw them on the way here.” Worry pulled at his features, and all Hongjoon wanted to do was make him smile again, to make everything better again.
He didn’t know what to do, it was near impossible to sneak into the town surrounding the castle without being recognized anymore, forget trying to sneak into the castle. If they ran into anyone they would more than likely lose that fight and end up killed. They needed help from an outside source, but who would help them? Who could they trust? He was silent before Hongjoon spoke again, a frown on his lips.
“We can’t break them out alone, that’s for sure. We need to find someone that can help us, but who? Do any of you know someone? Or have any ideas?” It was silent once more as everyone tried to think. They were desperate.
“What about your magic Joong? Could we do something with that? Summon a minion or something to help us?” Wooyoung threw out the idea, a stupid idea better than none in his mind.
“No, my magic isn’t powerful enough to summon someone to help, and would be no use against the Royal Sorcerers. They have wards up near the castle so no one can use magic around it. Besides, to perform such a powerful ritual like that to summon something would require certain spell books to work, ones we don’t have.” Hongjoon responded. Not even the old spell books and grimoires stored in his magic shop had information on how to do that. Such powerful things were outlawed to the public, only Royalty and those allowed by royalty could access things like that.
“Wait,” A lightbulb seemed to go off above Seonghwa’s head. He turned and rummaged through the bag over Hongjoon’s shoulder before pulling out a large book. It had a dark brown leather cover with red gemstones decorating it, and unknown language written on the front.
“We might be able to do that! This is a grimoire I had stolen out of the library back at the castle before I fled. I meant to give it to Hongjoon but with everything that has happened, it slipped my mind. Here.” Seonghwa handed the book to Hongjoon. The latter excitedly began to flip through it.
“Seonghwa, Do you even know what you grabbed? This book has so many forgotten and outlawed spells and rituals! It’s most likely one of a kind!” Hongjoon plopped down onto the ground where he stood, still flipping through before stopping on a page, Something must've caught his eye. They all looked over Hongjoons shoulder, now crouching around him to get a better look. Different images and graphs lined this page, along with a lot of writing in seemingly the same language on the cover. Hongjoon was quiet now, intensely focusing on this specific page.
“Can you really read all that?” Wooyoung commented, it seems Hongjoon ignored him as he looked up at Seonghwa with an astonished face.
“We can summon a God. A long forgotten and Powerful God. Do you know what this means? We can get the others out! We can be protected!” A look of disbelief coated Hongjoon’s face.
Dumbstruck looks seemed to cross everyone’s faces. A god? Was that even possible? Confused murmurs left the others mouths. Hongjoon looked back down at the book before speaking.
“It’s extremely dangerous, and I’m not even sure it’ll work, but I think it’s our only chance at saving the others. This page details the ritual to summon Omen, a god of war and wrath, among other things but that is what they were most known for.”
This time San spoke up. “Almost no one worships them anymore, right? They’ve almost faded into obscurity. I remember reading a book on them. Are we sure we want them? They could easily kill us the moment we call for them! Are they even real?”
Many gods had shrines and temples mortals would go and worship, praying and leaving offerings in exchange for their wishes. But Omen was a god lesser known, having vanished from text and tongue in the day and age they were living in. Summoning a god was completely unheard of, the all powerful beings didn’t often meddle in mortal affairs, only caring for the land or doing small favors for offerings. They wouldn’t let some measly mortal have any power over them and messing in mortal wars was definitely something they didn’t do either. Why would a War god want to help them?
“It’s our only shot, San. What else can we do? Leave the others to be slowly tortured to death as we continue to run like a bunch of cowards?” Hongjoon’s words were sharp, slicing at the feelings of the others. He didn’t want to be mean, but it was the cold hard truth. They couldn’t keep running like this, and they could never leave their comrades behind. A long, silent beat passed.
“Fine, so we all agree to do this?” Seonghwa looked at San and Wooyoung for confirmation. He had made up his mind, and he knew Hongjoon wouldn’t budge. They had to get the others back, and if that meant doing something so stupid like trying to summon an ancient god, then so be it. Seonghwa was also tired of running and feeling helpless. He saw San and Wooyoung reluctantly nod. Upon seeing their reactions, Hongjoon stood as determined words left his mouth.
“Alright, let’s get to work.”
#ateez#ateez fanfic#fanfic#ateez x reader#x reader#choi san#jung wooyoung#kim hongjoong#choi jongho#park seonghwa#kang yeosang#song mingi#jeong yunho#fantasy#ateez fantasy au#fantasy au#magic!au#god!reader#god au#series
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Clover with Sandor? Also idk if you played dragon age but i feel like Sandor would be totally anti mage lol.
♡ Clover ♡
hello friend! i don’t know dragon age well enough to base this off that so it’s just a generic magic!au :3
• Westeros has different creatures all over the Seven Kingdoms. Different regions breed different creatures. Gryffins in The Vale, Stone Trolls in The Stormlands, Selkies in The North, Minotaurs in Dorne— even Centaurs roam Essos. And House Clegane is built off the bones of those monsters
• Sandor Clegane, like his brother and father and grandfather, is a hunter. He took bounties, killed whatever creature was unlucky enough to be spotted too close to town. It was no different from killing regular animals for meat, for blankets, for weaponry or armor. You were supposed to be no different too
• He set traps for you— whatever you were. Not one bloody soul from the village you apparently stole from had seen you, so he was wary about just what kind of creature he was working with
• You hung upside down from a tree, your ankle snared and bleeding from the wire. Sandor never felt bad about hurting monsters, he wasn’t about to start now. No matter how hard your watery eyes tugged at his rib cage oddly
• The moment Sandor stepped too close, a burst of.. something shot out of your outstretched hands and blasted him back into the bushes. By the time he sat up, you were darting the opposite way
• The Hound didn’t like being bested, he didn’t want to face Gregor’s wrath when he came home empty handed. He couldn’t go back without a prize, but the longer he stalked you the more he was curious about you. He’d never seen anything like you before in his life, not with his own two eyes and never in any book
• You never allowed him too close but a smile came to your face when you noticed him now. It was a game of cat and mouse. Sandor soon found himself smirking right before he ran to chase you again
#game of thrones imagine#x reader#sandor clegane x reader#game of thrones#imagine#sandor the hound clegane#ask stuff#poiboidrabbles#sandor clegane#magic!au#alternate universe#headcannons
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Different Skins: Part 4
Description: You’re awoken in the night to find seven strange (and oddly suicidal) men in your home–who apparently are magical creatures in disguise? Now you have a Dragon, Werewolf, Elf, Mermaid, Unicorn, Fairy living in your home and an enchanter that visits now and then. What could go wrong?
Warnings: ??
Posted: 01/05/2023
Tags: bts x reader, ot7
Chaos: 1,753 words
A/N: Scarily overdo, and I actually finished writing this part in early December but brain. I’m hoping to pick up and finish a lot of my stories this year.
Previous. Next.
Half an hour.
You had half an hour before your dotty aunt arrived and turned everything here on it’s head.
“But…my magic…it should have…worked….” Taehyung was still astonished. “What do we do?”
You needed a plan.
Half an hour.
“I need the first floor spare room cleared, change the sheets, and get clean blankets. Get all of your things upstairs. Jimin, take dinner upstairs. Taehyung, you’re not going to let her go upstairs. Use your magic, make it so she doesn’t want to go upstairs. Jungkook, help clean, when she gets here, you can shift into a dog and we’ll work from there,” You decided. “We’re going to try and get rid of her, but if I’m not successful…it’s going to be a long night.”
Continue Reading on Ao3
Masterlist - ot7 Masterpost
Tagging: @alex–awesome–22 @missmoxxiesworld @bryvada @knjhe @i-dont-even-know-fck @kerikaaria
#bts#bts fic#Fantasy!AU#magic!au#magical creature!bts#dragon!namjoon#werewolf!jungkook#fairy!jimin#merman!yoongi#elf!seokjin#unicorn!hoseok#enchanter!taehyung#merman au#dragon!au#Fairy!AU#fairy au#bts x reader
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Return
Pairing Yoongi x Reader
Rating 13+
Genre/Tropes Magic!au, angst if you squint
Warnings Drinking, Min MF Yoongis hands
WC 475
Crosspost AO3 - herecomessatvrn
Summary One day, your home smelled like his magic again.
AN A short drabble written during some sprint sessions. I was inspired by this prompt… "They lived alone, so they were alarmed to see flowers and a sweating glass of champagne on the table when they arrived home."
Thank you @sunshinerainbowsbts for just having a look at this for no other reason than I wanted you to read it first. And thank you @egocypher for the gorgeous moodboard banner for this. <3
Another day done, and it was the same as it had been the day before, and the one before that. Each sunrise melted into the same sunset on repeat, and the only joy in your life thus far had been the neighborhood stray that had claimed you as its own three years ago. As you climbed the stairs, the dusty gray tabby lifted her head, stretched and yawned as she left the last patch of quickly fading sunshine.
“Hey Holly. Anything to report for the day?”
She yawned again, and meowed before pawing at the door. You smile and hold it open to let her sprint towards the kitchen ahead of you. Just as it had been for the past three years, you had a routine that the two of you had fallen into.
You set down your bag and emptied your pockets into the glass dish on top of the hall table. When you looked up, your cat had stopped short of the kitchen. She stared into the living room as if something else had taken up residence there. You saw the hair on her back bristle before she disappeared through the doorway.
That's when you felt it. You could smell it too. Like static on a cold day, and that sharp ozone sort of smell after a summer rain. The smell of magic.
The only magic that should have been in this house was your own. And it smelled of cinnamon and clove, and salty sea air. The further you went into your home, the magic revealed itself to you. One layer at a time.
First cedar, and then burnt sugar and vanilla. Smoothed over with something sharp and metallic, icy almost.
You froze in the doorway. This was not new and strange, butsomething familiar from your past. Something, no, someone that you had never thought you would see again.
From the winged armchair appeared a hand. Long elegant fingers wrapped around a glass filled with amber liquid. On the table beside, a bouquet of flowers. A quick glance around and you saw the same coat he had put on the day he disappeared. It should have shown more age, but it still looked as new as the day you gave it to him. If he had been off in the world getting into trouble, you should have seen the wear and tear.
Your coat fell to the floor, and in the silence of the house, it was loud enough to make him turn. You dreamed that one day, he would return to you. But yo it was only a dream. Just like you tried to convince yourself that this was. As his profile came into view, you went to pinch your arm, to try to wake yourself up. But not before seeing his face one more time.
“Hi Love. Sorry I’m late.”
AN Thank you so much for reading! Comments and feedback mean the world to me! Come say hello to me, my ask box is always open! <3
#bts fanfiction#bangtanoasis#btshoneyhive#btscarnivalnet#btswritingcafe#bangtanarmynet#min yoongi#yoongi x reader#angst#magic!au#satvrn fics#return#sprint drabble
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The Season of the Witch
Fic O’Ween Day 13: Tooth-Rotting Fluff! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe we’re here already! The past two weeks have been a real treat, and I’m so grateful to be able to share these stories with you <3 For our final day, we have an AU that has been consuming the thoughts of my lovely Discord friends and I--hope you enjoy! Character credit goes to @lumosinlove !
TW for Coops flirting a bit spicily
There is a house on Lacewing Drive. Two stories, simply built, rather blocky and solid save for the chimney and its sharp gable. The roof tiles stand stark against cool gray stone interwoven with ivy and morning glories that seem to bloom no matter the weather, not that anyone has been brave enough to bring it up. Strong wooden beams traverse the ceiling, visible through windows bracketed by lovingly-painted shutters. The house stands out from the rest of Lacewing Drive’s pastel suburban homes; even the front yard, mossy and packed with plants, stands with silent confidence among manicured lawns.
(Mrs. Lillian next door swears that rhododendron has been trying to sneak over the fence, but she’s never quite been able to catch it in the act. Naughty thing.)
While the house may be odder than a silver penny, it is a precious piece of the quiet cul-de-sac. Beloved by the children for its fenceless yard with all manner of little wooden creatures tucked inside the wildflowers, admired by those with an eye for well-done architecture, and begrudgingly tolerated by cranky Mr. Haversham because it thrills his grandchildren, it simply cannot be replaced. Whether it was built as a novelty by a wealthy couple or has been standing since the Salem days, none can say—then again, it doesn’t really matter, as long as the house keeps doing what it does best. And what it does best is due in part to its keepers.
There are residents of the house on Lacewing Drive, of course. Two of them, one tall and ox-strong and the other more of a well-carved willow. Both beautiful, in the way a clear night sky makes you look and look and then look some more, because there were stars there that had been gone half a second before. The neighborhood hadn’t been sure what to make of them when they first moved in. Not because they were two women sharing a home—oh, no, Lacewing Drive had far more interesting things to worry about—but because of the inexplicable changes that began to occur when they did.
Like the sneaky rhododendron, for example. And the sudden appearance of a stained-glass moon and stars on the attic window. And how the long-abandoned cottage had gone from washed-out to cozy in a matter of days. And surely there was no way two people could move those massive bookshelves by themselves, or make a house livable with just a duster and a wheezing vacuum.
Nobody talks about it, naturally. Best not to offend. Besides, losing the annual Halloween display would be a blow to neighborhoods for miles around.
Scarecrows, twinkling lights, enough jack o’lanterns to light the block—it’s all there, meticulously set up throughout October until the sun sets on Halloween and something truly beyond words settles in. Mrs. Lillian has watched every step of the process through her windows for half a decade, and she still must admit to pure bafflement at the final result. That soft orange glow surrounding the grounds could never be achieved by electric light; the shadows flitting between shrubs when a gaggle of teenagers pass through looking for a scare do not belong to anything human.
It is precisely what one would expect from a pair of witches.
--
“Are you done yet?” Remus called from the front room, adding a last pin to her hat. She caught sight of the last bit of horizon turning the sky coral in the mirror and wrinkled her nose; every year, she told herself they’d be on time, and every year, they managed to just barely scrape by. No response answered. “Baby?”
“I’m here, I’m here.” There was a tumble of footsteps on the stairs and then Sirius was there over her shoulder, shaking out the sleeves of her blouse. Remus watched Padfoot make the leap between her collarbones before vanishing beneath one lacy epaulet; she waited until Sirius was close enough to make eye contact in the mirror before leaning back into her chest. There was a brief noise of surprise, then a laugh. “You’re going to take my eye out with this thing, loup.”
A tug on the peak of her hat made her smile. “You only need one, right?”
“Non.” She sank into Sirius’ arms and let herself be squished in a hug, humming happily when a chaste kiss found her cheek. Sirius’ lipstick was tacky on her skin, but a delight she would never tire of. She felt Sirius’ head turn away. “We have about sixty seconds before a horde of trick-or-treaters is banging on our door, don’t we.”
“I could bang you against our door.”
“What part of sixty seconds don’t you understand?” Sirius snorted, giving Remus’ hips a squeeze before releasing her.
Remus had never had much of height preference for her partners, but she couldn’t deny her small, secret fantasies of finding someone tall enough to sweep her off her feet. Lots of women wanted a tall girlfriend until Remus stood eight inches above than them in her favorite boots, half a foot without. Her back used to ache from stooping at parties.
She stood on her toes and slung her arms around Sirius’ neck, relishing the stretch of her muscles. Every glorious six-foot-three-inch bit of Sirius was hers, now. Forever and ever.
A raspberry kiss to her cheek made Sirius jump. “I’ll still bang you against the door,” Remus promised with a wicked grin.
Sirius shook her head, cheek dimpling beneath the vivid purple kiss mark, but bent to nuzzle their noses together. “I’ll hold you to it.”
The doorbell rang, then kept ringing, and ringing, and—
“We’re coming!” Sirius called, lowering her voice to murmur I wish before releasing Remus to grab the candy bowl off their end table. She waved one hand with a flourish, tattooed runes dancing in the low candlelight they always used to add a little extra spookiness. “After you, mon coeur.”
Remus dipped her fingertips in a small pot of balm and smeared them over the lintel, down each jamb, and finally to the whorl in the dark wood. A bright pulse of light rippled over the living room; outside, several people gasped. An amber glow rose at the edges of the property and she let it fill her up, warm like hearthfire and nutmeg. Her magic gave a happy leap and she heard Sirius laugh as their candles pulsed in agreement. Autumn was good to her this year.
“TRICK OR TREAT!” a dozen children screamed the moment Sirius opened the door.
“What, no hello?” she playfully protested. At the back of her neck, Remus watched Padfoot’s fluffy tail swish with happiness, the rest of her hidden under velvet.
“I’m a Pokémon this year!” Lydia announced, holding her pillowcase out.
“I can see that,” Remus agreed as she began to distribute their homemade candies.
Lydia leveled a haughty look on her, more solemn than any five-year-old had the right to be. “A differ’nt one from last year, too.”
Sirius nodded. “Very impressive.”
“Are you actually a witch?” one little boy blurted from the middle of the group. Immediately, all eyes turned to him, followed by a rather aggressive chorus of shushing.
“Don’t ask, it’s rude,” Damien scolded in a whisper. Remus had held a fondness for him ever since he found one of the hedgehogs Sirius accidentally transfigured while he was playing outside and brought it to them in distress, cradling it with careful hands.
“Of course I’m a witch,” Remus laughed. “Look at my hat! What else would I be?”
“No, I mean a real—”
The poor kid was once again hushed and shuffled to the back of the group, clearly disappointed. When it was finally his turn to get candy, she made sure to slip him a little extra chocolate and a knowing look. That seemed to brighten his spirits, and really, what else was Halloween for?
They made it through the first wave, a second, and a third before they could finally sit down for more than three seconds. “I wonder how Jamie and Lils are faring?” she mused to the ceiling.
Sirius made a faint sound of agreement, her head heavy in Remus’ lap. Her short-cropped hair was satin-smooth under the silver circlet woven in; she had done a beautiful job, her craftsmanship clear in every twist of wire. They sat in silence for a moment before Sirius heaved a sigh and stuck her hand out to Summon her phone.
Another beat of quiet passed. “They’re good. The zombie hand got a little too excited and tried to break a window, but they disenchanted it before anyone saw.”
“Shit, I was really hoping we’d get them this year.”
“I know, right? Oh, do that again.”
Remus doubled down on scratching just behind Sirius’ ear with a laugh. “See, this is why I tease you about Padfoot. I wouldn’t even be able to tell if you swapped places.”
Sirius sniffed, every inch the well-bred ex-aristocrat. “I’d like to think my nose is smaller than a dog’s.”
“Only time will tell,” Remus murmured into her lips, trailing kisses over each cheekbone before leaving one on the tip of her (admittedly adorable) nose. The top Sirius had chosen for tonight was a favorite for them both—soft, gorgeous velvet, with flowing sleeves that nearly touched the floor and hid the tattoos that couldn’t help but frolic over Sirius’ arms. The runes on her chest and hands were more stationary, thankfully. Remus knew about half of the neighborhood had figured out the truth, but that might be a step too far.
Sirius toyed with the rings on Remus’ left hand, almost casual if she hadn’t spent so much time twisting the newest one around and around her fourth finger. “How’s the wolf?” came the quiet question.
Remus exhaled through her nose and relaxed back against the couch. “Blessedly asleep.”
“Are we looking at spring again?”
“I’ll check at the solstice, don’t worry.”
Sirius kissed just below the golden band. “Can’t help it.”
“I’ll be fine,” she promised. Sirius’ hair looked like spilled ink against the soft green fabric of her skirt; she smoothed a thumb over one dark brow. “It’s one season a year. Yes, it’s harder in the spring, but I would be tired from the turnover anyway.”
Sirius’ jaw worked at one side, like Remus was a particularly stubborn boulder that refused to work with her. Perks of being a material witch, she supposed—Sirius liked the tangible things in life. The things she could fix and hold and shape with gentle hands. It was one of the reasons it took so long for Sirius to recognize Remus’ magic for what it was: when her power changed with each solstice and equinox, that kind of bullheaded reasoning often failed.
Footsteps pattered up the flat stone pathway and they shared a look full of silent laughter before pulling each other to their feet again. “Back to la fête,” Sirius sighed, the silver shimmer of her power radiating like starlight. “Time to work some magic.”
Remus caught her by the hand and twirled her in a small circle that deposited her in the perfect position for a candy-sweet kiss. “Nobody I’d rather do it with than you.”
#remus lupin#sirius black#coops#sweater weather#lumosinlove#my fic#fanfic#fluff#halloween#trick or treat#magic#fem!au#magic!au#wolfstar#fic o'ween 2022#noot fest#witches
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Sorry I'm gonna keep plugging my big blackbonnet wytch AU until you're all sick of it 🪷
As familiars, I cast Lucius as a fancy pigeon with the fabulous foot feathers and Izzy as a pissed off street cat with a stump for a tail.
Although I'm regretting not giving Lucius a little neckerchief to match Stede, missed opportunity!
#ofmd#our flag means death#the villain's art#ofmd fanart#blackbeard#gentlebeard#edward teach#blackbonnet#stede bonnet#ofmd rbb#ofmd reverse big bang#magic!au
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Suga | Magic!au RECs
(💦) ~ Smut , (🐑) ~ Fluff , (👊) ~ Angst ,
(📝) ~ Series , (🗒) ~ One-Shot/Drabble ,
(💜) ~ Personal Favorite
Request Guidelines | Fic Rec ML
NONE of these works are mine. Give all your love to the authors and their works. The links will either bring you to the Tumblr page or a Ao3 page of the work.
Magic!au includes witches, warlocks, wizards, and fae. It also includes curses or “other worldly” concepts that involve magic.
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Title: Thorns & Mildew 🐑🗒
Author: @alilbihh
Summary: Witch!Yoongi x Reader.
↳ “you’re not human.” “did you think I was?” yes, you want to say. or maybe. something that sounds at least halfway believable. but the truth is that the day you’d first seen him your very first thought was oh. you are not like me. you are not like anything I’ve ever seen before.
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Title: Magic of The Night 👊🗒💜
Author: @gukyi
Summary: witch!yoongi x human!reader. Also Halloween and Horror!au.
↳ “There is a witch you go to for spells and potions whenever human nature is not enough for things to go your way, and he loves you more than anyone else ever will.”
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Title: Exiled 🐑👊🗒
Author: @casuallyimagining
Summary: Also zombie!au.
↳ “After a year of being on the run and the world’s shittiest luck, Yoongi comes across a familiar face. You. The only problem? Everything is trying to kill him including, he assumes, you.”
-
Title: A Lost of Correspondence 👊📝
Author: @crystaljins
Summary: Wizard professor!yoongi x wizard professor!reader. Part of a Hogwarts drabble series.
↳ “You used to have a penpal, once. But that was long before you accepted a job as a professor at Hogwarts”
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Title: Snowstorm 🐑👊🗒💜
Author: @btsmosphere
Summary: Also jack frost and childhood friends!au.
↳ “Strange things happen in the woods when you return home for Christmas. And why does your mum insist you stay away from Min Yoongi?”
#yoongi#suga#suga bts#yoongi bts#bts#yoongi x reader#suga x reader#magic!au#magic yoongi#magic!yoongi#fic recs#bts recs#wizard!yoongi#witch!yoongi
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Hello, this is my take on this week's prompt by @thisdivorce (I loooove it so much. If I had time, I would also write a drabble for each sin). It's the continuation of my drabble series, I'll find a name for it one day. @galladrabbles
Part one
Part two
P.S: This starts immediately after part two.
P.P.S: Sorry Evie and Vey, I'm not answering your questions this time but we're getting there, I promise
_________________
"Of fucking course!" Mickey feels the wrath swimming in the pit of his belly, finding roots in his frustration. Hands become fists, the insult on the tip of his tongue.
Lips, a distraction, kiss the crook of his neck. Intangible body over his own. The weight, an anchor. Feels like disappearing into the earth and floating all at once, it melts the anger away. A bittersweet surrender.
There was a time when he'd have fought the mist of lust. Not anymore.
His greedy hands are already trying to reach behind him; grasping nothing but air.
In his daze, Mickey half-moans half-groans.
"What are you, man?"
#this prompt was quite in sync with what I had in mind yay#It's actually my second draft but I'm okay with how it turns out and I hope you are too#seven deadly sins such a good idea and perfect for gallavich#Maybe I'll do another one before the end of the week ;)#magic!au#otp bookshelf#gallavich#shameless#ian gallagher#mickey milkovich#writing
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Which Witch
Part 2 of 2 / Faerie masterlist
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader
13.3k words - AO3 - Part 1
Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Fae!AU. Blood magic. Faerie magic. Angst. Tenderness. Comfort. Pining. Sex magic. Praise kink, light breeding kink. Magical dubious consent. Possessive Johnny, Protective Johnny.
"I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret,
Been in the dark since the day we met,
Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM
Johnny has never experienced a headache before.
The feeling is surprisingly uncomfortable, and has been blooming behind his eyes since the other day, when you advanced on him outside the pub in the mortal realm, when you caught him off guard with your fury, your heartbreak.
He tries not to think about that part, too much.
Tries not to think about the torment he saw in your eyes.
Tries not to think about his plans, laid to waste, to ruin. A dream, crumbled into a nightmare.
He tries not to think about the ache that’s settled beneath his ribs since the second you snatched your hand from his grasp and stomped away, the pressure of your magic making the stitching of the mortal realm feel too thin, too fragile.
He tries not to think about the extra weight of something that’s been added to him, nestled there in his side, the heavy feel of a magic that feels not unfamiliar, but alien at the same time.
“Bloody hell.” Gaz whispered. “No wonder ‘uve been keepin’ her a secret.” He whistled, low and sharp, as they watched you cross the street and slowly disappear from view, red and purple magic angrily arcing off from your body and tainting the air with a tart, burnt aftertaste.
You were the only being on the street, besides them. All the mortals had gone off, pushed by you, sent scurrying by your power. “That’s one powerful little wi-“
“That’s enough.” Johnny snarled in his face, the ferocity, intensity of his tone, the words spat at his own brother surprising them both, signaling Kyle to step back, out of precaution, with a gentle hand raised. Johnny panted harshly, while his magic thrashed inside of him, desperate to get out, wild and nearly out of control, fully brimming with the chaos that he knows so well.
It yearned for something, desperately.
“Easy, Soap.” Price had been on them then, appearing from where he had been inside the bar, inserting himself between their two bodies, like he needed to protect Kyle, a ridiculous sentiment by any of their standards.
“Sorry.” Johnny drew the word long, shaking his head from the pressure beating inside his skull. “’m sorry, Gaz. I dinnae- I-”
“It’s alright mate.” He assured, reaching out, clasping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was warm, and comforting, and he nodded in response.
“I think you should probably get home. You’ve been here… too long.” Price follows up, and Johnny couldn’t argue. He felt drained, suddenly. Tired. A feeling that happens for them, from time to time. Especially when they’ve been in the mortal realm for an extended period.
“Alright.”
He thinks this discomfort, this ailment, whatever it may be, will pass, once he’s been home for more than a few days. He imagines it’s just a side effect of being in the mortal realm too long, and he can practically hear Price telling him he needs to stay put, stay in Faerie for a while, or at least until his magic settles and his body adjusts to its rightful plane.
After all… his kind doesn’t take sick. They can suffer magical ailments, wounds from weapons or other Fae, but to fall ill is incredibly rare.
And usually only happens to those of them who are incredibly stupid.
Still, the headache rots and spreads throughout his brain, festering in his magic until it becomes an unruly, ungovernable thing that barely recognizes him, and his muscles become excruciatingly sore, useless in his body when he tries to exert himself in any way.
The Isle itself seems restless, the sea raging tumultuously beneath the bluffs, the forests shielding themselves from the light of the sun. Johnny can feel her magic, biting and gnawing against him, yearning and screaming, the wind whistling through the oldest trees with a shriek that hurts his ears.
All the while, something else aches within him. An unbearable longing that builds and builds like a dark grey cloud growing heavy with rain.
“It’s your soul.” The Nereid, Ce, tells him softly. “You’re soul sick.”
“What?”
“Someone has bound themselves to you. Your soul, your magic, is woven together. When you’re separated, your soul will mourn for theirs.” The image of you pointing at him flashes through his mind, your gaze enraged, haunted, while you cursed him up and down.
Surely, you did not mean for this?
Simon watches him knowingly, before pulling her into his arms, rubbing his hand over the swell of her belly where their child sleeps, blissfully unaware.
“Do you know, who it could be?” She questions, and he grimaces, eyes flicking to Simon who betrays nothing, only gives him a subtle nod.
“A… witch. From the mortal realm.” She stiffens in Simon’s lap, and then shakes her head in disbelief.
“A mortal witch could not cast a binding such as this, nor survive it.”
“Well, ah… dinnae believe she’s entirely mortal.” She turns, looking between them, before glaring openly at her husband.
“The only immortal witches who still live in the mortal realm are the elemental witches…” she trails off, looking out the window to where the sea crashes on the shore, something distant flickering in her gaze, realization settling heavily upon her. “What have you done?”
“You were my priority.” Simon utters, face shuttering, eyes going grim. Johnny shifts nervously in the chair. Ce is sharp, intelligent, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s whispering her confirmation of the truth.
“The song. She’s a blood witch.” He nods, unable to break the eye contact. Simon holds her hip firmly, but she doesn’t look away from Johnny, and before he even realizes, he’s spilling more secrets.
“Blood spinner.” Her eyes widen, and then rips Simon’s hand free from her body, standing unsteadily on her two legs. Her balance has gotten better in her time here, but she still struggles with managing her new walking appendages, something that always keeps Simon hovering near by, just in case he needs to catch her.
“You must find her.” She implores Johnny, while turning on her heel to poke a finger into Simon’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
“Little huntress-“ He begins, but is swiftly cut off.
“No. Do not use your sweet words to try to placate me.” She turns her nose up from him, while facing Johnny. “You must, she’s in danger. Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. The effects could be catastrophic, the binding could kill her.” His heart speeds to a halt. The binding could kill you.
The feeling Johnny had a few days ago outside the pub compounds inside of him, the yearning infused with his chaos, the wild piece of his magic surging in his blood, eager to be set loose. He closes his eyes and reaches inside himself to settle his power, to soothe the uncontrolled pieces that are climbing closer to the top.
When he looks back to them, he realizes Simon is standing more than a few paces away, Ce shielded behind his body.
“It’s the binding! It can drive you mad, control your magic if you're separated too long.” She calls from around his shoulder, trying to peek out even though there is a formidable mass blocking her.
“Perhaps she planned this, Johnny.” Simon proposes, a sentiment that Johnny balks at. Were you capable of such a thing? His wife shakes her head reverently, and mouths a no.
Danger.
Catastrophic.
When he thinks about the way you looked when you thrust your finger into his face, fiery and full of rage, he realizes it’s much, much more than what he thinks he knows, or what he believes.
You tricked me, you Fae bastard.
Had you tricked him in return?
The lock on your flat’s front door is not complex. It’s not even spelled for intruders, or unwanted guests, something that’s always sat uneasily within Johnny, even when he was taking full advantage of it. His magic knows this lock well, is intimately familiar with it, and plies the deadbolt free with ease, door swinging wide like it’s been expecting him, just like every other time before.
You tossed in your sleep, brow furrowed, distress written across your face as you shook your head back and forth, trapped in your own dreams, your memories, your nightmares.
Your body, still battered and bruised, slowly healing from whatever had happened to you on Samhain, trembled beneath the sheets, and you made small, terrified mouth sounds against your pillow.
“You’re safe now, dove, you’re safe.” He stroked a thumb across your temple, down the apple of your cheek, whispering to you softly, sweetly. His own magic worked quickly, dragging you under, lulling you into a deep sleep, a near coma. He had hoped it would be enough, to keep you from waking while he worked, while he healed you from whatever ordeal you had been put through, whatever torture you had been subjected to.
He built you the sweetest dreams he could conjure, images of his own realm, lush forests and sparkling aquamarine seas, the moss-covered stone bluffs of the Isle, the three moons when they’re full, the sparkle of the night sky, webs of worlds and starlight stretching out as far as any being could see.
He had tried, so desperately, to burn the image of you from the previous night out of his mind, when you first answered his knocking with your broken soul and tearful eyes, abused body halfway hidden by the door.
What happened to you? Who could mistreat you in such a way?
He hadn’t known then, but he wanted to, urgently. Wanted you to tell him everything, wanted you to make him your tool, your harbinger of revenge. He wanted to kill for you, destroy for you, burn this entire realm for you. He wanted to lay all his promises at your feet, wanted to tell you that no one would ever touch you again, that no one would ever harm you if he was here.
He cursed himself. Cursed the truth. Cursed the spell that you put him under, the one that didn’t even exist.
He had gotten so lost in thought, lost in staring down at your now relaxed face, that he almost didn’t realize the sun was rising, the soft rays of light seeping across your room from under the curtain startling him into withdrawing his magic so he could allow you to wake and return with a coffee, maybe a pastry, some sort of breakfast sweet that mortals seemed to be overly fond of.
He leaned over you for a quick moment, unable to help himself, breathing in the scent of your hair, your skin, your very soul. It intoxicated him, the sweet citrus and balsam mixing with the minerality of blood, of earth, creating something that seeped through his own being, pulling him closer and closer until he grazed his lips across your temple so gently, he’s not sure he’s even made contact.
“I’ll be back soon.” He whispered above your ear, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “Have a good morning, sweet Fern.”
“Fern.” He calls, before stepping across the threshold, but there’s no answer. There’s no sound or sign of movement, no echo of your voice down the hall. “Fern!” He tries again. His blood feels hot under his skin, and he’s nearly feverish, off balance and unsteady, while the spot beneath his ribs throbs in pain.
He expects to see Jet, or hear her hiss, considering how much the little creature loathes him, but when there’s no sign of her either, something prickles along the back of his neck.
“Do not hide from me, little witch. I know what’s happened.” He calls, raising his voice, projecting it with a touch of magic so it rings down the hall, through every room, into your personal library, and beyond.
When there’s still no answer, his sense of discomfort grows, and like there is a hook in him, in his very soul, he can feel his magic being tugged along, down the hall to your bedroom.
When pushes the door open, his heart slams to a halt. Fear is the foreign sensation that pours through him, paralyzes him. It’s fear that anesthetizes him as he stares at you, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by books, ancient grimoires and other texts, your magic drained from your body like someone has bled you dry, eyes wide in agony and a rasping breath on your lips. The room smells like mineral, like clay rich soil, like earth, and he chokes on it when he realizes the stain that darkens the carpet beneath you is your blood.
“Oh, little witch.” He murmurs, kneeling by your side, wide palm slipping behind your neck gently. “What have ye done?” He tucks you into his chest, and you mumble something as he carries you to your bed, trying to lay you flat, propping your face up so he can look into your eyes.
“N-no.” you push against him weakly.
“Shhh, Fern. It’s okay.”
“Don’t.” you hiss, and blood leaks from your lips. His magic thrashes, barely contained, bubbling up and trying to break free.
“Tell me what to do.” He pleads, desperation rising in him like the swell of high tide, threatening to tip him over into fathomless depths, places where he cannot swim, or survive.
“Lea… leave.” You moan, and he shakes his head. “Leave. I don’t… I don’t need your ‘elp.”
“No.” He refuses, cradling your face between his hands, and you blink at him slowly, eyelids heavy, expression disorientated. Long seconds pass and you look… confused suddenly, like you don’t recognize him, like all the vitriol and venom that you were spitting a moment ago has suddenly disappeared, and he feels a surge of your magic, the snapping of something, the binding, twisting, and tugging at the two of you.
“Johnny?” You mumble, and a smile breaks across his face, a small one, an encouraging one, something he hopes brings you comfort.
“Aye. It’s me, dove. It’s me. ’m here.” You tremble in his grasp, and more blood drips from your mouth. The sight of it is enough to loosen the hold on his power, and the room floods with bright light, illuminating every corner in the flat, and every detail on your face.
You need help. You need help, now. Badly.
He’s never wanted to have your name as frantically as he does in this moment. He wants to force you to tell him what to do, how to fix whatever this is, he wants to reach inside your magic and your mind and root around in your soul until he can pull the answer free from your lips.
A terrible thought forms in his mind. It’s wrong, and one he is sure you will hate him for, one he knows you will punish him for.
If you live.
Danger. Catastrophic.
Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others.
The binding could kill her.
Ce’s warning plays over and over in his mind, and when you cough again, blood splattering on his forearm, his magic makes his mind up for him, spreading forward to try to soothe you, cocooning you in a soft, twilight embrace that tries to lull you to sleep.
He pulls you back into his arms, tucking you against his body and concentrating his power on the thrum of your heartbeat, the power in your veins. He needs to blink the two of you to the closest door, and the only one that’s remotely doable is in Sherwood Forest, nestled among a ring of birch trees that all lean suspiciously inward.
“Fern.” He tries to get your eyes to focus on him, jostling you slightly as he strides away from your room. “Fern, I need… I have to take ye away.” Your brow furrows, and somewhere in the very back of his mind, he remembers how cute you are when you look at him like this, when you’re well, and not suffering.
He comes to halt in the kitchen, where Jet sits on her haunches atop the table, watching him with her head cocked.
“She’s dying.” He explains to her, and Jet scowls before she answers him, disdain dripping from her words.
“Because of you.”
“What happened?”
“The binding was an accident. She lost control.”
“She needs help. Is there anyone?”
“Not here… she’s been shunned. Thanks to you.” She glares at him, and he shoves down his urge to scream. Jet slinks towards him, eyes wise and wandering, sizing him before she sits down next to where he’s got you hovering above the table in his grip. “You’ll have to take her.”
“I cannae. I need her name.” She flicks her gaze to you before hopping from the table, walking to where the door creaks open on its own.
“You need to get it on your own.”
“She’s dying, Jet.”
“I know you won’t let that happen. After all, this was your plan, was it not?” She says before slipping outside, into the night.
You shiver against him, and he tightens his arms around you instinctively, lowering his nose into your hair, trying to find the sweet balsam and citrus scent under the sour smell of scorched earth and black blood. It’s there, but barely. There’s hope.
“Little witch.” He taps your cheek, trying to get you to concentrate on him, to look at him. “Fern, will you give me your name?” He coos sweetly, sugaring his voice with honey, dropping his glamour to pull your focus. It’s wrong, he knows this, so wrong, a true violation, but what choice does he have?
He won’t leave you to die.
You lick your lips, and he smiles, fully aware that he’s probably partially blinding you, scrambling the signals in your magic and mind, his own power pulling desperately at the binding to get you to comply.
Come on, sweet Fern.
Give me your name, dove.
He grips your hand, twisting your wrist until your palm is facing him, and for the first time without his glamour, he lets himself kiss you there, right on the heel below your thumb, dabbing his magic into the veins that vibrate just beneath your skin. He pushes, and then for good measure, pushes again, until your lips are cracking on an intake of breath, and your free hand is reaching for his, bloodied fingers smearing your ichor across his skin as you slowly speak, mouth forming the one thing he’s needed all along, the thing he’s wanted more than anything since the day he’s met you.
Your name. Given to him. By you.
It sinks into him, heating his own blood with the power of your admission, pulsing through his magic until it’s settling in that spot behind his ribs, the same spot that’s been aching since the last time he saw you, the place where the binding is nestled.
“Okay.” He coos, and then repeats your name, while you nod. “Okay, hold on to me.” He whispers, and then pulls everything in the flat tight, all the magic that’s spilled from your body, all the magic that he’s let run wild since he got here. He moves himself, and you, into the blink, and then the ground shifts, room tilting and splitting until the walls are fading into trees, the tile of your kitchen becoming grass under his feet, and your ceiling is a night sky. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, and he knows it’s because the blink is uncomfortable, disorientating for those who are not Fae. Lesser creatures usually don’t even survive it.
But you are no lesser creature.
This fact, this truth, is the thing he takes comfort in as he barrels towards the door, his magic breaking through the threshold and crashing through the planes until he’s stumbling into Faerie with a blood covered witch curled against his chest.
“Are ye hungry?” Eilean asks from the threshold of the room, not willing to cross inside, but eager to see if she can help at all.
“No.”
“Should I bring some wine?” She tries, voice dipped in hopeful inflection. He rubs a palm over his face in part exasperation, part exhaustion.
“Please. Wine would be lovely, thank ye Eilean.” He placates her, and he doesn’t need to turn to know she’s smiling with approval.
He wouldn’t turn, regardless. He doesn’t dare look away from where you lay against the pillows in a bed that seems far too big. Where you lay, alone. Sleeping. Unconscious now, for far too many days. You’re weak, so weak, from travelling here, from trying to exist in this realm, a realm that you were not made for, a realm that no one seems to know if you can even persist in.
The Isle cradles you, fosters your survival. She holds you firm, holds you as he would, a casket of stone and sea weaving around your body, protecting you from anything. Everything.
Sometimes he fears she may be protecting you from him.
The waves crash against the rocks far below where he sits and you lay, sea ravaging against the rock, water pounding against stone over and over, the repetition enough to carve out caves and patterns in the walls, to change the physical manifestation of the Isle, to alter the very ground he lives on, walks on. The ground that he had hoped, one day, you may walk on with him. Beside him. The place he had hoped you might embrace with all her horror and secrets, that you might accept as a place of your own.
His hope fades with every breath you draw. It flickers like a flame being doused out.
Every now and then, you fidget beneath the blankets, body shivering and shaking, subdued whimpers escaping your lips as you twitch. He fears the binding may not need to drive him mad, because watching you suffer, watching you sleep endlessly, may do it regardless, in the end.
However, the bleeding has stopped, a small thing that Johnny is immensely grateful for, even though no one knows why.
“She needs time.” The healer tried to tell him, their effervescent magic embracing you in a halo while they worked to stop the blood that had started leaking from your eyes and nose, as well as your mouth. “Her magic is overloaded by the binding. The best thing you can do for her is stay close by. She will wake on her own time.”
“Her temperature-“
“We do not know. There are some things at work here, even we do not understand.” They explained, sympathy pooling across their face.
They wished him well after that, instructing him to call for them should they be needed further.
He didn’t know how to ask them to stay. He didn’t know how to tell them that for the first time in his eternally too long life, he was truly scared.
“How is she?” This voice, this one that calls to him from the threshold, speaking to him in his mind, startles him in the armchair, even though he knows it belongs to his brother. He turns to see Gaz, who watches him through lowered lashes. He’s keeping his distance, as every other being has, unsure about how Johnny will react with another coming so close to his… witch. “Price says ya’ve been holed up in here for days. Thought I’d come check, see if anything was needed.”
“Come in.” Johnny implores, out loud, and Gaz does, hesitantly, watching his brother for any changes, any indication he may lose control. Once he gets about two meters away, Johnny holds his hand up, a signal to stop, and Gaz conjures a chair, brimming at the seams with sun kissed light, a neat trick that benefits him when he plops down in it, like he too, is exhausted and weary.
“Well?”
“She’s… ‘m not sure. She still hasn’t woken, and her temperature, her body is hot to the touch. Too hot. But she’s stopped bleeding, which I take as a good thing.” He hasn’t left your side, constantly feeding the binding his own magic in hopes it would help give you some strength or help heal you.
“She’ll be alright.” Kyle encourages lowly, smiling at him. “She has you to look out for her, after all.” Johnny nods, even if he doesn’t believe it.
“Thank ye, for comin’.” He whispers, clearing his throat.
“We’re family, Johnny. Even when you run away to this damn Isle with a blood witch that you’ve stolen from the mortal realm.” He laughs with a wink, and Johnny’s lips curl into a very subtle grin.
“Not much better than Simon, am I?”
“Well, you didn’t drag us all around the mortal realm for nearly a decade so, that’s something.” He sighs, leaning back, slinging his feet over the arm of the chair. “Besides. I’m not exactly exempt either now.” Johnny nods, and he watches the flicker of discontent that washes over his brother, the way his magic pulses through him and the chair before returning to stasis.
Now, it’s his turn to ask.
“How is she?” Gaz shakes his head.
“Violent.” The word gives Johnny pause, and he feels his sympathy grow. His brother is the gentlest of them, the most kind. The one who others seek out, for comfort, for care. The one who wields the sun’s light itself. “Won’t let me near ‘er. Won’t eat. Won’t open the door, only yells at me through it. Hardly even speaks to her sister.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with graceful fingers. “She wants me to let her die.”
“And will ye?” He doesn’t respond right away, and they both just watch where you lay in the bed, silent.
“Don’t think I can. I feel… something for her. It’s different, from anything I’ve felt before. It’s-“
“Frightening.” Johnny finishes for him, and some tension leaks from his body. It is unlike them both, to feel fear. To feel fear and acknowledge it.
You twitch, eyes moving behind closed lids, and Gaz gives him a nod as he rises.
“See you soon?”
“Aye.”
It’s late, two days later, when you start to wake. Your temperature has gone down, and you’ve finally slept peacefully through an entire night. The moons have already risen, and Johnny has the drapes tucked open, so the room is illuminated in a silvery purple glow that shimmers across the floor and onto the bed. Your lashes flutter, and he feels the influx of magic in the room, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger, spilling from you as you swim closer and closer to consciousness, your eyes slowly opening, brow furrowed, discontent pulling your lips downwards in a frown. The wild yearning cries out inside of him, chaos beating in his heart, and he struggles to contain it.
“What’s…” your voice trails off as you look around, and Johnny waits for the moment when you find him in the chair by your bedside.
It happens fast. Your expression goes from confused, maybe a little contrite, but still curious, to rage filled, and startled. Fear reflects in your gaze, and his stomach drops.
“Fern.” He tries to calm you, and you hold your hand in front of your body like you’re trying to ward him off.
“Stay away from me.” You hiss. You try to sit up, try to move away from him, but your body is too weak, physically, and you sink down to your elbows in a second while you press yourself against the headboard. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” He stands, casting a little bit of magic out, trying to relax you, but you beat him back with your own before you’re yelling as loud as you can. “Help! Help! HELP ME!” you scream, voice drenched in horror, and a piece of his heart chips away in an instant.
You’re terrified of him.
There’s a noise, behind him, like a soft chiming of bells, and then he feels the shadow of Eilean’s magic, her presence unmistakable. He holds a hand out to stop her in the doorway, and you gasp aloud, palm covering your mouth, eyes round with shock when you see her.
“Oh. My gods.” You look from her, back to him, and then around the room, tracking out the window to where the three moons glow, bathing the sea below in silky shades of lilac, before you try even harder to shuffle yourself away from the edge of the bed, your hands fully shaking. “You stole me.” You whisper it between your fingers. “You took me. We’re… we’re in Faerie.” Tears are coursing down your cheeks, breaths coming in frantic little puffs that grate at his soul, the spot beneath his ribs aching as you cry.
“I thought… ah thought I was goin’ lose ye.” He croaks. “I dinnae- I had no other choice.” You’re breathing too fast, too short, and he wants to tear at the unfathomable distance between you and him that seems to be widening by the moment.
“Get away from me.” You half yell, half cry at him, tone dripping in disdain, in fear. “Get away!” you scream, and the demand physically pains him, like you’re ripping him apart, like you’re taking a knife and jamming it up underneath his ribs, hollowing him out, destroying him from the inside.
He stumbles from the room, clutching his side like he’s been wounded, and your magic lashes forward to slam the door shut behind his back with a finality that hits like a killing blow.
“Well, she’s scared. And rightfully so.” Ce says with a hand on her hip, leveling Johnny with a look that he can feel burning through his skin. “I managed to get her to listen to me long enough so I could… explain everything.” He straightens.
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” She sighs, and shifts her weight, reaching for where Simon stands. He takes her outstretched hand and brings her into his body, wrapping her up with a supportive arm around her waist. Johnny eyes the doors of the bedroom, clearly overeager, and she shakes her head immediately. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“But-“
“She’s traumatized. She was used by you, betrayed by you. And then you kidnapped her from the only home she’s ever known.” At that, she gives Simon a healthy glare, and he has the good sense to look at least, somewhat ashamed. “It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Simon watches closely, and Ce looks at Johnny with a face full of sadness. “The binding… she may not be able to undo it.”
“What?”
“It is powerful magic. Magic that she did not intend to cast. It came… from the heart.” Johnny lets his eyes slip shut at her words, jaw clenching tight. “You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.” She ghosts a hand over her belly and implores him with a meaningful look, one that cannot be understated or misunderstood.
The magic that feels like you, the fibers that he believes are the binding, seem to flex within his power, like it’s being pulled, and he involuntarily takes a step towards the door.
“Soap.” Simon beseeches, and Johnny stops short. “You must give her some space for now.”
They’re right. He knows, they’re right. He’s violated you, forced your name from you, stole you from your home, betrayed you in every way.
But the binding, the burning ache in his side, cries out to him. Begs him to go to you. Begs him to take you into his arms, complete the binding right then and there, and steal you away forever.
He grits his teeth.
“Alright.”
Days pass, and Johnny fights himself every step of the way. He fights his magic, which has grown unruly and uncomfortable again, fights the gaping hole that seems to be forming in that spot behind his ribs, fights what he is sure now is the binding, the incessant pull that tries to drag him into your orbit. He fights how he feels, the deep-laid emotions that he’s spent months trying to bury, and the feelings of discontent, of missing something. Someone.
The estate is heavy with your ghost. Eilean keeps him informed of your comings and goings, your visits with Simon’s wife, your days spent locked in his library. She says you’re physically better, but tire easily. You only sleep for short moments at a time, like him. Johnny tries to tell himself he does not care that you refuse to see him. He tells himself that it does not bother him, that you were so willing to shut him out completely, so eager to escape him. He tells himself that the sound of your fear, of your cries for help are not burning into his memory, that they are not entrenching themselves into his soul, driving him mad. He tells himself it’s just the binding. That the binding is driving him to the brink, that the binding is to blame for his near descent into madness.
But he knows, it’s not responsible for everything, It’s not responsible for the yearning in his soul, his heart, his magic. For the wild edged chaos that brews out of control in his veins.
It's love. His heart bleats in the quiet hours of the night, when he holds his breath and feels for you through the estate, when he catches the barely-there scent of citrus and blood in a hallway where you must have recently lingered. It’s love. His mind screams when he closes his eyes to rest for a few precious moments, and all he can see is your face, smiling at him, giggling in the golden light of your kitchen at dusk. It’s love. His magic shrieks at him to go to you, to hold you, to tell you everything. To tell you about the way his power rioted in his blood the moment he saw you, the way his magic exploded in his chest the first time you shared your heart, your mind, your life with him, the way he knew after that very first day, that no other being would ever possess him, except you.
Eilean walks with you in the garden. He tries not to watch too closely, warily waiting for something to happen, for a decision to be made that he will not be able to fight, no matter how hard he tries. She delights you, when she shows you how to sow your magic into the fabric of Faerie, how to connect with Isle as you connect with the earth of your home realm.
Johnny does not allow himself the hope that lights in his soul, when she looks up at where he stands in the window, and nods. An approval. A yes. A piece of herself, given to you.
As time crawls by, he cannot stop himself from thinking about you, every waking moment. He cannot stop himself from wondering how you’re faring, if you need him, if you’re feeling well. His magic never lets him sleep, never lets him come, keeps him on the edge eternally, pacing, tossing, and turning while his mind is invaded by thoughts of you.
It is one of these nights, when he’s drowning in too many feelings, along with two bottles of wine, pacing fruitlessly, that Gaz blinks into the kitchen with an irritated huff.
“Look sharp. Been callin’ ya for hours.” Gaz spits, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, Soap. Get yourself together. Simon sent for us.”
The meeting is a long one.
Simon outlines recent inquiries, payloads for work, demands of their presence in places across the realm, old contracts that have long laid dormant being renewed with a fresh round bloodshed.
It is the same song and dance. The same battle cry of blood and victory.
Fae and mortals are not as different in their hearts as they seem, he muses, reading over a potential contract, a high paying job for the removal of a seated power. It comes with a catch, a royal child who requires protection, and he places it on the top of the list for consideration. Children cost extra.
He is not surprised, when both Simon and Gaz seem hesitant to agree to anything, especially work that will take them away from extended periods of time.
Johnny says nothing but shares their feelings. The idea of leaving the Isle for any amount of time makes his magic churn in his veins. Even now, anxiety builds like a storm inside him, and he agonizes about returning.
“It’s not optimal.” Simon declares, while Price smirks from where he sits with his arms crossed.
“Ye going soft, Riley?” Johnny ribs him, and Simon scowls.
“I’ll show you soft, Soap.” He shoots back, while Gaz chuckles.
“I’m not opposed to taking it easy, for a bit.” Price offers something, an inquiry that caught his eye, a short engagement, not very far away, while Simon counters it with a different one that’s even less time. They bicker, back and forth, back and forth, and Gaz slowly becomes more interested in a half open book laying on Simon’s desk than he does the conversation.
Johnny loses interest completely. The spot beneath his ribs is pounding like his heart, and his magic is swelling violently in time with the binding. When he says his goodbyes, no one is surprised.
“I want to know.”
“Witch business is no business of the Fae.”
“Fern is my business.” She laughed at his demand, the echo of it scraping across the front his mind like he had been scratched by her claws.
“So possessive.” She murmured. “Over a witch who does not even know the truth of who you are.”
“Jet.” He warned, and she growled a sigh.
“Divination is not practiced here as it practiced in your realm. It requires a sacrifice, and the visions are not easy, even for a powerful witch like Fern. It extracts a higher toll.” His blood curdled in his veins, and her tail whipped back and forth, green eyes watchful from where she sat in the kitchen. “Her participation is not voluntary.”
“They force her?”
“They’ve forced her since she was a child. The coven only cares for their power, their vanity, their immortality, and without the blood spinner, without the Divination, they would have none of it.” He pictured you, a small girl, alone, defenseless, victim to practices of your coven, your magic and mind a tool for them to use, to take advantage of, to torture. She licked her paw before rising to all fours, casting an underhanded glance at him. “The way they see it, Fern belongs to them. The blood spinner is not a being with a soul, but a thing to be used as the coven sees fit.” Outside, the wind howled, spurred on by the tethers of magic that spun from Johnny, the chaos that reveled in his distress, ropes and ropes of rage and desperation twisting together with the force of his power, sowing down deep into the earth, and expelling into the sky. “Should one protest… well.” She didn’t finish, just fixed her gaze beyond him, out through the window where the sky swirled with violent hues of black and purple.
“Her parents.” Jet refused him a response, but he didn’t need one to know the truth. “She doesn’t know.” He continued, and she slunk from her perch to the corner of the table.
“Have you considered what will happen, after your damage is done? What the coven will do when they discover her betrayal? Or worse…. you and your brothers are not the only ones who go bump in the night here. Fern is a magnet for creatures. Without the protection of her coven, she will be a target. She will be vulnerable.” She studied him, and he felt the shadowed point of her power, probing along his own, trying to peer into his mind.
He let a swirl of chaos break free, pushed out into the open.
He let a sentiment slip through, into her sight.
He had considered it, had planned for it. Anticipated it.
She met his eyes with her own, and understanding, recognition occurred between them.
“You plan to take her.”
He blinks onto the veranda of his own home, eager to escape the argument, rubbing his neck in exasperation when he catches the scent of balsam and citrus, mineral and blood, coming from the garden.
It’s you. You’re in the garden.
“Hello.” Johnny calls, stepping into the grass but no further, allowing you to see him, to recognize him as a non-threat. The light from the moons spills down your back and across your skin, making you shimmer under their glow, illuminating you in the brisk night air. The flowers around you are all in bloom, even in the middle of the night, and his lips quirk to the side with a smile when he realizes it’s your doing, velvety petals blossoming across the grounds in large swatches, vibrating with the signature of your magic.
You’re sitting amongst a variety of plants, long vines that stretch and strain towards where your fingers dance to entice them into reaching for you.
“Hi.” You don’t bother to lift your eyes, and it stings a little, disappointment settling heavy in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
“About what?” you bristle, and he grinds his teeth. About us? About the binding? About what happened? About how sorry I am? About how I cannot stop thinking about ye? Worrying about ye? Obsessing? He settles on, what happened, hoping that will ease you open to talking.
“About what happened.”
“About what happened, which time? The time when you used me to get information so your brother could abduct a Nereid, or the time you stole my name from me and then stole me from my own realm."
Well. Fuck.
“What’s wrong, Johnny? Cat got your tongue?” You latch onto his silence and dig in, not sparing him from your venom. His temper flares, needled on by the discomfort that is restless in his magic, and he pushes back at you.
“I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done to save ye, dove.” He snaps, drawing to his full height, and you glare at him, fury twisting your face into something that’s a little scary, and a little enthralling.
“Save me?” you hiss, incredulous. “Save me? You didn’t care much about saving me when you used me to get what you needed.” You stand, forgoing your plants to face him, fingers pointed to the ground, a hot flare of magic stretching across the space between him and you.
“I never wanted to hurt ye, I wanted to bring ye with me, but it was too late before ye knew the truth and I had no chance to explain.” He counters, and you laugh, the sound all sour and wrong, harsh, and unforgiving.
“You thought I would just go with you? You tricked me. You took advantage of me.” He feels the ground shifting, feels the earth growing under his feet, and your magic pulsing around him, strong and eager, pushing and pulling at something he cannot see. What is this? “You lied to me. You betrayed me.” The forest at your back groans, like the Isle herself is protesting this battle of wills, like she objects to the clash of power. The pressure in the air rises, and then something is tightening around his feet, restricting his boots, and tying him to the ground.
Roots.
There are tree roots, crisscrossed across his toes, snaking up his ankles.
“Fern.” He warns.
“Johnny.” You mock, and the magic crests, more gnarled plant life coming to sprout from the ground, lashing across his wrists, tying them tight to his sides wrapping him up like rope. “You won’t fight back?” you taunt, mouth curving into a wicked little smile. Another tendril of green binds around his forearm, and he grunts with effort to stay calm.
“No.” he grits out.
“No? No?” you hiss and step closer, bare feet pressing the grass down between your toes. You look like a predator in this moment, eyes sharp and narrowed, stalking closer to your prey. You’re enchanting, and unsettling, and the binding hums inside of him.
The plants twist past his forearms, tightening against his circulation, curling up his biceps and stroking the skin of his shoulders.
His power flares, distressed, confused.
In battle, if you were a foe, he’d already have struck you down, dealt you a killing blow.
“Fern. Stop this.” The vines squeeze him, and then crawl up his neck, holding firm beneath his jaw.
“Do you know what they wanted to do to me, Johnny? After they found out what I did?” He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to wait you out, trying to see if you’ll draw back. “Answer me!” your voice cracks, and so does his heart.
“No.”
“They wanted to burn me at the stake.” You whisper, the words enough to take his breath. His magic thrashes. The spot underneath his ribs aches. “It wasn’t enough to shun me. They wanted to kill me.” He shakes his head furiously.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“
“No, don’t say that. You’re not.”
“Ah wouldn’t have let them. No one will ever touch ye again Fern, I swear it.”
“Why even bother with more of these lies? You just needed to help your brother, and you didn’t care who was collateral damage. You used me.” You break, and a tear glitters on your cheek, refracting the light of the moons. “Just… just like them.” Oh, dove.
“No, no. That’s not… It’s not true. Ah care for ye, ye’ve meant something to me since the first day I laid-“
“Stop.” The plants squeeze him, and any tighter they’ll probably be strangling him. Cutting off his air. He fights against them, just marginally, enough to give himself some breathing room, and is surprised when they don’t loosen so easily. “I’m stronger here. Eilean taught me, how to feel this earth. How to hear it breathing, find its water, its blood.” You explain, tone bitter, and he nods a slow agreement.
“Of course.” Of course, she did. Because she likes you, dove. She accepts you. She wishes for you to make your home here. With me. With us.
He doesn’t try again, doesn’t flex in the web of plants that you’ve wrapped him in, just stands completely still, waiting. He urges his power to settle, to resist the call of blood and battle, to stand down as you seethe.
If he tried, only a little harder, he could shred the vines and roots in an instant. He could break free.
But a large part of him, spurred on by the gaping hole that’s been left by your absence, the pain that’s nestled in his diaphragm, doesn’t want to.
Most of him wants to stand here and take it, take everything from you.
It’s no more than he deserves, and he knows it.
Your hands are shaking, fingernails gleaming in the moonslight when you hastily wipe your cheek, and he wants so badly to reach for you. To hold you. To tell you how sorry he is. How he wishes he could take it all back. How he never wanted to hurt you.
“I trusted you.” It’s a whisper on the wind, spoken to the earth, to the sky, to anywhere but him. The words are hollow, like there’s nothing left there for him, like you’ve written your story, and his pages are long over.
“Ah know.” He murmurs. Your tears drip onto the grass, and he watches each one splash while dread swallows his heart whole. The ache in his ribs burns, magic howling through his limbs, tugging and digging against him to act, to move.
In the end, he doesn’t move at all. He stands trapped in the vines you’ve grown around him, stands trapped in time as you walk past him and up the veranda into the estate. The wind shrieks through the trees, whipping around where he stands immobile, and he watches the light in your room on the second-floor flick on, a warm yellow glow seeping out from behind the curtains as you peek around them, gazing down to where he stands, still like a statue in the garden below.
He stands there until your room goes dark.
The light sparkled across your skin, your hair, your eyes. He had never been fond of the mortal realm’s sun, always finding it too harsh, too abrasive, but the way it shone on you in that moment, he wasn’t sure he had loved anything more.
“Which was your favorite, then?” You extended the thing in your hand towards him, the fragrant, sweet ice cream treat, and he politely shook his head to decline.
“Ah dinnae care much for it, if ‘m being honest.”
“What?” Your other arm stayed looped in his, allowing him to subtly press his hip against yours, feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your skirt as the two of you took long, loping steps down the park’s path. “How can you not like ice cream?” You frowned. “We sampled so many. You didn’t like any of them?” He considered explaining he only sampled them because it allowed him to stand to so close you in that tiny shop. That he liked it because he was able to wrap his fingers around yours when you passed him the tiny spoons.
“The mint was alright.” He told you instead, and you huffed. “The lavender one too.” You gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t help himself, too eager to see you smile, too weak to resist the promise of your laughter. “It seems, I am overly fond of plants.”
The sea roars beneath grassy knoll where he hides. He swears it’s screaming your name, calling to you, crying about you.
He tries to clear his mind.
It’s why he comes here. To think. To be alone. To be unbothered. The hill is tucked away from his home, and he sits in the shadow of an ash tree, staring at the sky, waiting to settle, waiting to feel at peace.
A fool’s errand.
His mind is incapable of rest. It can only dwell on one thing, his desperation, his desire, his longing for you. The yearning in his heart that now works in tandem with the binding, trying to drag him towards you every waking moment of the day, trying to force him into your path.
You’re in the hallway when he returns, stack of books clutched to your body.
“Fern.” He chokes out, dumbstruck. He had planned a speech, for this, after what happened in the garden. A plea. A desperate sonnet of sadness and guilt. But in this moment, with you standing in front of him like a wild animal that may dart away at any moment, everything escapes him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his brain feels blank.
You’re frozen, looking back at him, eyes wide, and a tiny sliver of relief fractures through his heart when he doesn’t smell any fear on you.
“Hi.” You whisper, and like a magnet, he cannot stop himself from stepping closer.
You do not flinch, or move, or even look away. You just… stare at him.
“Are ye well?” He tries, and you swallow so loud he can hear it rattling in his brain.
“I… am. Are you?”
“As well as I can be.” I’m in love with ye. I’ve been in love with ye. I’m sorry. All of these things echo in his mind, circling his consciousness but none of them come to the forefront. Instead, he stammers out a: “Ye look… beautiful.” Bleedin’ gods. It’s a massacre. He tries to smother his grimace and you give him a funny look.
“Thank you.”
“Are ye, getting on well here?” He motions to the too long, too wide hallway that seems to stretch farther and farther every second, and you nod slowly.
“Yes, you have… a lot of books.”
“Ah… ‘ve always been fond of them. The books.” He agrees, and your lips flick upwards in a polite smile. His heart races.
He takes another step.
It’s too much. You shrink away, moving backwards, and he curses himself.
“Sorry-“
“I should go.” You gesture the leather-bound volumes in your grasp.
“Of course.” He concedes, and you incline your head to him before turning around.
His magic screams through his body the entire time he watches you walk away.
You’ve made yourself at home in the library. He tries to push away the glee that it brings him, the fire that it stokes within him, the urge that it encourages. The binding warbles inside his magic, his soul, as he passes the door every day, tugging and dragging him until he’s trying the handle one morning, ignoring his prior commitments, opting to slide inside the heavy wooden doors just for a chance to see your face.
“You have books from my ho- from the mortal realm.” He winces, when you cut your words off abruptly and reroute them, all while staring at him from the desk in the library. Your fingers stroke the corner of a volume that lays open in front of you, and he takes a step closer, slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you’ll spook.
You don’t. You don’t even fidget, or flinch, just gently turn the pages as if everything is normal.
“Would ye like to see something special?” He cannot help it, this desire to impress you, to tempt you. He wants to catch you, keep you, hold you in a thrall like you hold him in yours. He thinks he should probably feel guilty, for using the things he knows you love so dear to entice you, to gentle you to him and draw you out, but he can’t find it in himself to feel poorly for it. He’s worried sick. He wants to see you smile again. Wants the life to come back to your eyes.
He wants his sweet Fern. His little witch.
He gestures to a book, one that sits in a glass case on a table next to his side, black binding shiny and perfect as if it were brand new and not thousands of years old.
“What is it?” You cannot help yourself, brushing past him to lean over the glass, eyes wide and curious.
“It’s a grimoire.” You inspect it with a frown, and he threads his magic through the air and into the glass, evaporating it into its original form, tiny spheres of sand that disappear before your eyes. You startle, and he smirks when you look up at him.
“Doesn’t look like any grimoire I’ve ever seen.” Your hand cautiously hovers above the spell book, and he can feel your magic probing along the edges, testing, seeking.
“It’s from a Netherworld.”
“Which?” you blurt, and then look half embarrassed, before tacking on a soft spoken, “And how?” He’s not surprised that you know of them, but it feels uneasy, knowing you may have been exposed to something from those realms, some sort of monster or creature, a Demon or worse, an Angel.
“The Below. I travel there, sometimes.” Your jaw goes slack, and you study him closer, something foreign flickering across your features before they turn doleful.
“I have seen them.” What? You turn a page with your magic, being careful not to let your fingers directly touch the pages. “Through Divination. I’ve seen both the Below, and Above.” You shudder, and his heart thunders, blood rushing through his ears.
A mortal witch, who’s not a mortal at all. Who spins blood and can see through realms, into the Below and Above. Places not even Gaz or Price dare travel to.
Formidable indeed.
“Dove, that’s… that must have been frightening.” Another page turns beneath your fingers, and you shrug.
“I have been Divining since I was a child. I’ve seen many things. It’s how I knew where we were, when I woke up,” Rage rips through him, unbridled and coarse, rousing his magic into a whirlwind of anger, the feel of it as violent as when he first learned the truth. It makes his blood boil in his veins, makes the shelves in the library vibrate in anticipation, his magic bouncing around the room, seeking to destroy, to sow chaos, to obliterate.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice calls, echoing inside his skull, and he tenses, muscles turning to stone as he feels for his brother, locating him and Gaz outside, in the hall.
“Not now.” He grits in response, but he hasn’t forgotten his prior engagement, and knows trying to put it off is pointless.
When they come closer, when Simon pulls the doors wide, he bares his teeth, tension filling the air of the library. They stand at a respectful distance, not stepping inside, leagues away at the opposite end of the room, but he still feels overly exposed, can feel the pull of possession as he instinctually positions himself between your body and theirs.
You frown at his brothers before stepping into the shadow of his body, close enough that you brush against him, your fingers tracing a barely-there circle on the inside of his wrist.
“Why did you do it?” You break the silence, whispering to the ceiling, and he frowns.
“Do what?”
“Make me fall in love with you.” You still do not look at him, but he cannot tear his eyes from you, mouth wide with shock, the space beneath his ribs pulsing with chaotic magic, his heart beating too fast to count. “You could have just… used your magic. You could have taken what I knew, by force. Why did you spend all that time with me?” The confession slowly takes shape across his tongue, heavy and raw, ready to drip like honey from his mouth to yours.
“I- are ye in love with me, Fern?”
“Answer the question.”
“I knew what I had to do, to help my brother but ye were unexpected. The worst, and most wonderful surprise of my eternal existence.”
“Johnny.” Simon’s insistence echoes across his mind and he feels the urge to turn on them both, to banish them from the estate, from the Isle, from his life, just to keep his time with you from being interrupted.
‘Bloody terrible timing.”
“Clearly. But this cannot be delayed.” He clenches his jaw, and pulls your hand into his, smoothing a palm over your knuckles.
“I’ll be back later, if ye want to talk more.” It’s a hopeful thing, this sentence. Something that carries so much weight, without even being a question. Something that has the power to crush him, without a mere thought.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Okay?” your head bobs, and you look down at the book with mock interest.
“I do not forgive you but, I’d like to… talk. Yes.” Yes. Yes. The word rings between his ears. He can work for your forgiveness, he can spend the rest of his existence earning it, if this means you’ll let him. If you’ll speak to him.
“Later then?” He manages to get out, and then squeezes your hand in a goodbye after you nod.
He does not see the way you stare at your own fingers after he leaves, does not see the way your magic explodes throughout the library, before settling back against your skin like a warm embrace, your side of the binding fluttering in your heart.
“My home is alive.” He told your sleeping form, words quiet as he watched for any sign of you waking. “The place where my home is built, where I was born. The Isle. She chooses, who can stay, who can make their life there. She is a complex thing, a wild thing. Like you.” You twitched, and he paused, holding still as he waited.
When you didn’t rouse, he pushed a small spark of chaos into your sleeping mind, drawing you in deeper, settling you into your wildest dreams. “Jet told me, about what ye’ve been through. About what the coven has done to ye, forced ye to do… and I think, the Isle would accept ye. Ah think she would like ye, and welcome ye, Fern. With me.” You shivered, and he instinctually warmed the room, raising the temperature until you settled.
“Johnny.” Price called inside his mind, insistent, but patient. “We have business.” He sighed.
He had already been here too long tonight, and his brothers waited for him.
The kiss to your hair was fleeting. Gentle. Sweet. Punctuated with a whisper lost on the breeze from the open window.
“Gods, what have ye done to me little witch?”
“Ye come out here often.” He says quietly from the door, standing just beyond it after spotting you on the veranda, and you nod slowly in response, eyes dragging away from the sky to his, before returning upwards. The night is soft. Calm edged and serene, the breeze carrying a hint of sea spray from the foam below.
“I’ve never seen so many.”
“Stars?”
“Planets.”
“Surely there are other planets besides your own?” He knows there are, he’s seen them in sky, in the mortal realm.
“Yes, but not like this. There’s… there’s nothing, like this.” Your lips part, throat bobbing with a breath and he feels a strange tightening his chest as he watches you take it in. You look so amazed, so enchanted, so captivated by something he views so ordinary, that he too, tilts his head back to look up at the dizzying number of planets. Hundreds of worlds swirl in the inky darkness above them, their colors so vibrant they shine like gemstones, blinking in and out of the velvet backdrop that is the night sky. “There are so many worlds. So many places.” you whisper to him, a smile full of awe sloping across your lips. “Do you go to them? These worlds?”
“Some.”
“Some.” you parrot. “Some.” you laugh, like the notion is absurd, which it probably is, to you. Something inconceivable, improbable. “They’re beautiful.” Your hand raises to reach for them, as if you could pluck one right out of the night and hold it in your palm. He watches, entranced by the way the three moon’s light shimmers across your face, bathing you in a purple silver glow, spilling over your shoulders and across your skin graciously, framing you like a star, a celestial being. His throat feels dry.
“Aye. They are.” You lapse into silence, and he enjoys the feeling of being near you, his magic humming happily in his being, peace settling over him while you watch the stars, transfixed.
“Johnny.” You breathe his name, sweet and syrupy, magic dripping from each syllable. You look a little dazed, exhaustion pulling at your features, and he indulges in a daydream where he kisses your forehead, pressing a hint of power against your skin, wrapping you in a soft cocoon of his magic to comfort you. “I… I’d like to kiss you.” The words break him from his imaginations, and he jerks, pulling away to inspect your face, to see if were alright. Or if you were reading his mind. Or if you had become possessed by some Demon, some evil creature appearing here to make him suffer more than he already was.
But all he sees is his dove. His Fern. His little witch, face soft and open, expectant.
“Would you deny me, Johnny? After everything you’ve done?” You raise an eyebrow, and his heart sings, magic humming along happily, binding trilling in his body. You’re teasing him.
“Ye never have to ask.” The words are the same ones he said on Samhain, and he restrains his movements, keeping his body slow and steady while he leans into you, lowering his mouth to yours, the warmth of your lips against him sending his heart soaring, the intoxicating scent of you, the feel of your magic, the light caress of your fingers against his hip all amplified in this realm, and by the binding that seems to be stitching the two of you together by every moment.
He follows your lead, giving you space when you begin to ease off from him, and explosions rattle his soul as he stares down at you and your cautious smile.
“I love ye, Fern.” Your eyes go wide, and you startle, stepping a half pace away. “I dinnae how to tell ye, after everything. Ah ken, ah… there’s nothing that can be said, to make up for my treachery, for what I did to you.” He can feel the binding, the sailor’s knot tightening around the two of you, dragging you into one another, can feel the distinct signature of your magic, swirling around him, can smell the sweet citrus and blood dipped in balsam that floods his dreams. It’s enough to make his head spin.
“Johnny, this- this is the binding, it’s...” He shakes his head in rebuttal and reaches for your hand.
“I’ve loved ye since the first day I set foot in the shop. I’d burn the realms for ye, Fern.”
“You used me.”
“And ye will never know how I regret it, how I wish I could change it.” Let me love you. Let me hold you. Let me have you. The swell of the tide within him crests, magic churning into an excessive force, the binding burning, screaming, yearning against his lungs, and he pushes and pulls at it, twisting it up into something he struggles to contain. “Break the binding or leave it intact. It won’t change the way I feel.”
“I-“ Your words are snatched from your mouth when you draw a quick breath, bending at the waist, flat of your palm pressed to your belly with a soft groan.
“Fern?” His hand hovers at the small of your back, just above your skin.
“Sorry, I- I just had a cramp, is all.” You straighten, faint grimace sunken into your expression, and he frowns.
“What do ye need?”
“Nothing, I’m just gonna go lay down, I think.” You’re still holding your stomach, and worry froths in his heart, his mind as he watches you wince.
“Ye sure? Do you need-“
“I’m sure.” You wave him off, already turning away. “Goodnight, Johnny.” You murmur over your shoulder.
“Sleep well, little witch.”
The shockwave that ripples through his home in the small hours of the morning startles him from restless sleep. It jolts him into a panic, the binding clawing at his mind, his magic, tugging and pulling him towards something.
Towards you.
“Fern?” He calls, body teetering at the threshold of your room.
Are you dreaming?
Are you ill?
He can smell you from the doorway, balsam and citrus tinged with the scent of sour fruit, distress permeating through the air to where he stands, waiting. Holding his breath for answer.
“Fern.” He tries again, firmly, but you don’t respond, only moan into your pillow, the sound of your pain tearing at his heart until he’s blinkingacross the room, coming to lean over your trembling form, panic hammering inside his skull. “Hey, dove. Are ye with me?” He pulls you towards him, holding your face between his palms. Your eyes are nearly black, pupils so large they dot out your irises, and you thrash in his grip, nails digging into his skin while you cry out.
“Jo-Johnny. Johnny.” You’re sweating, sheets soaked beneath you, and the heat that’s blaring from your skin curdles his stomach.
The binding. The magic. It’s burning you from the inside.
You whimper, and his heart breaks for you, bleeds for you while you bury your nose in his neck, panting heavily.
“I’m here.” He tries to hold you steady, cradling the back of your head in his hand, the sear of your skin far too warm to be comfortable, the effect of the binding boiling in your blood.
You’re suffering. You’re suffering, and it’s his fault. He did this. He caused this.
Ce’s warning echoes sharply in his mind.
“You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.”
The guilt fissures his heart in two.
“It hurts.” You try to tell him, weakly, and his frustration builds, the magic inside of him compounding, yearning to lash out.
“Ah know, Ah know it does.” The words are little comfort.
“Please. Pl-please make it stop.”
He can’t. He shouldn’t.
“It hu-hurts Johnny. Please. It burns.” You’re breaking apart in front of him. Inconsolable. Desperate. Dying.
“Shhh. ‘ve got ye.” He tries to calm you, holds you tight against him, pressing your body to his but all it does it make you squirm more, make you cry out against him, your voice broken with distress.
“Please! Please-“ you beg, and he slams his eyes shut.
He shouldn’t. He can’t.
But you’re in pain.
You could die.
The binding is heating your body past any measurable sense. You were not made to survive such a thing.
When he looks at you now, he knows his insistence on refusing this is pointless. He is too weak to give you up. He is not strong enough to say no. He has loved you since the day he first laid eyes on you. He would do anything to save you, to keep you alive.
Even if it meant this.
Even if it meant completing the bond the only way he knew how.
“I’m here, I’m here.” He kisses your breastbone, trails his lips down between your breasts, sucking marks into your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat like a dying mortal. “I’m going to make it okay.” He wants to take his time, wants to savor you, wants to have you the way he’s always dreamed about, slow and sweet, taking you apart piece by piece like you deserved.
There’s no time for that now.
“Johnny.” You whimper, something broken in your voice, a desperation unlike he’s ever heard before and it stings.
“Shhh. I’m going to take care of ye.”
A broken moan rises from your throat when he moves your body, shifting you underneath his weight, pinning your hips and teasing his tongue around one your nipples, nipping across you with his teeth just enough to sting your skin, to jolt you.
“I- I need- I want-“ You try to explain it, to direct him, and your magic flourishes forward, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for salvation.
“I know what ye need, Fern. Ah know.” His fingertips stroke over your navel, over where your lower belly tenses under his touch, and then to your cunt, where scorching heat mixes with liquid fire, your body wet and ready for him, desperate for him, magic burning you with arousal, with an undeniable need for him.
“Touch me.” You plead, and his lips find the inside of your thigh, dragging towards where you’re dripping, citrus and blood flooding his senses.
You taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of. Pressure builds up his spine, magic and desire burning like a fuse as he presses his tongue against your clit, and you shiver in his grasp when he lavishes you there.
His palm presses against your belly, holding you firm, muscles and sinew rippling under his touch, your voice peaking with a cry when he swirls around your swollen bud, over and over, working you relentlessly.
“Come for me, come on. Let me make it better, dove.” It won’t, and he knows it, knows only one thing will, but he hopes to the gods it will stave off some of your pain. He rasps against your skin and you keen, rocketing into an orgasm within a moment’s time, sharp and fiery, but only a balm for the burn of the binding, the incessant tugging beneath his ribs humming with miserable bliss over the moan of his name on your lips.
You’re still strung taut, seizing, the heat of your skin blazing against him. You tug fruitlessly at his clothes, fingers knotted up in his shirt, his pants, and he swipes a hand across your cheek to press his thumb against your tongue as he divests himself with one hand and a snap of magic.
His fingers are wet with you, with your spit, your arousal, and he coats himself with it, stroking the length of his cock, kissing the crown to your opening while he stares down at you indulgently.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch.
“Please.” You breathe your plea into him, into his mouth, his skin. “Please, it’s- I need you.” You choke and he pushes, your eyes going wide as he batters his way into your body, the tight clench of your walls strangling him as he moves. “Gods-“ you gasp, and he strokes some hair from your face, lips pressing sweetly to your cheek, your jaw to soothe you, to quiet the discomfort from the stretch.
“I know, I know.” He murmurs, keeping his movements slow and steady, watching how your expression eases, how your body adjusts, how your brows unknit with each passing moment. You relax around him finally, face going slack with bliss as he folds one of your knees back towards your shoulder. “That’s it, good… good girl.” He hums over your ear, before pressing a gentle kiss there. “Take me so well. So perfect.” He needs to fill you, own you, fuck you full and possess every inch of your being. It’s the only way, the only way to soothe your soul, to soothe his own. It’s always been the only way, since the day he saw you. Since the first time he kissed you, in the shadow of Samhain.
His heart flutters, the binding clawing at his power, wrapping itself around your heart, stitching across the bridge between your bodies to reach the other side, encasing itself and him in the warmth of blood magic, of your magic. It only grows stronger as his hips stroke, his body moving inside of yours, gasps of pleasure falling from your lips.
Your muscles clench around him, desperate, and it feels right. Everything feels right, it feels fated, it feels meant to be. Like you were made for him, born for him. You, his equal. You, his balance. He pads over your clit with a press of his fingers, moving against you in time with his thrusts and your power surges to meet his, interweaving until it’s impossible to discern your beginning and his ending.
“I’ve always wanted ye here with me.” He nips along your collarbone, tracing a bead of sweat up the skin of your neck to your jaw. “I broke into the flat, just to watch ye sleep, every night after Samhain.” He punches his sentence with thrust of his cock, brushing against your cervix, and you keen. “I’ve loved ye. Dreamt of ye. I have betrayed ye,” you mumble something, lashes fluttering, and he swallows your words with his mouth before continuing. “and will spend the rest of my existence, our existence, apologizing for my transgressions.” Your body shifts with him, the rhythm he set upon your clit forcing you forward, spine curling you into him, his name a whisper on your lips.
“Johnny, Johnny.”
He fucks into you harder, wild, primal, full of ferocity and you cry out, shuddering beneath him, squeezing around his cock. The urge to fill you, to breed you, is too strong to fight, and the binding croons to him in your voice, spurring him onwards.
“Gods, dove.” His voice is broken song, a plea, and you respond with a melody of your own. “Ye belong to me.” You nod in a daze, lips forming a word that sounds like please. “Going to give ye my come. Keep ye forever.”
“Ye-es.”
“Sweet Fern.” He coos when he feels it, the build of your climax, ushering you along with the press of his body. “My good girl, coming all over my cock. Like ye were made for it.” You hiss, and then your orgasm is washing you away, your voice shouting his name as you come. Your eyes spark, celestial light glittering beneath the black pools that have expanded across your irises, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, blood trickling down his chest, slicking between your bodies. It spills and spills, running like a river over the two of you, tracking across your breasts, down his abdomen, across your belly, down your thighs. It flows wildly, freely, rushing from him and towards you, spurred on by your mastery of it, your mastery of him.
You’re spinning him. You’re taking and taking, the binding drinking his magic in greedily, digging and scratching beneath the surface of his chaos, sowing vines that sprout and flourish, that tie him to you. His side of the binding shrieks in glee, in elation, and bends for you, arcing between your bodies to imbue you with cosmic pieces of chaos, a blend of blood and bedlam, boiling in your veins. In his.
Blood continues to gush from his body, his mouth full of you, of citrus and blood, of earth and balsam. You inhale him, pushing your tongue past his teeth, swirling in the mess there, and when you pull away, he can see the stains of ichor on your teeth under the curve your half-moon smile.
Your magic strangles him, strengthening itself, solidifying your power, absorbing what it can of his mayhem. The binding purrs, it sings to him, it sings to you, the sound chiming through his mind, echoing off the hollowed-out coves of the Isle, vibrating through its dark forest. He shouts against it, with it, orgasm just on the peak, both his body and yours trembling violently.
“Mine.” He snaps, and you answer easily.
“Yours.” You nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He cradles you there, back of your head in his palm, and then he thrusts up into your body as hard as he can, overcome with need, with the burn of the binding, with love. It’s so much, the pull of the magic, the wildness of your heart seeping into his own, and he spills as deep as he can into your body, filling you with himself, plugging his come deep, your own body sucking him in desperately while you cry and shake in his arms.
His Fern. His dove. His little witch.
Ancient celestial light streams through the curtains, the proof of an entire day passing, the rising of the moons stirring you from where you have slept for the last few hours, body and binding finally sated, skin scrubbed clean from the stain of his blood.
You blink, heavily with exhaustion, and he pulls you into his body, unable to resist cuddling you close, breathing you in and wrapping an arm around your back to still you when you start to fidget. You smell different now, like a swirling storm of him and you, and his free hand drifts to your navel possessively.
“Johnny.” You murmur, and he answers by pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“I’m here.” He whispers. “Ye can rest dove. It’s okay.” You settle against him, and just as he’s starting to drift into his own star lit slumber, you sigh.
“You should start makin’ a list.”
“Of what?” You kiss his chest, lips soft against his skin.
“Of all the things,” you yawn, breath hot and sweet, and he wants to drag his tongue over your skin again, take you apart while he savors every tremble, every moan that leaves your body. “you’re going to do over the next hundred years to make it up to me.”
“One hundred years?” he chuckles in jest, but his heart soars.
He knows, there is more hardship to come. He knows, the pain, the suffering, that you will experience, that you will unleash on the mortal realm, on him, when you learn the truth about your parents, about your coven. He knows the challenge ahead.
But in this quiet moment, with you in his arms, nothing about it feels like the end.
Only the beginning.
“Careful." you breathe into him. "Or I’ll make it two.”
#peaches writes#which witch#john soap mactavish#fae au#johnny soap mactavish#john soap mactavish x reader#fae!johnny#john soap mactavish x you#fae!au#john soap mctavish x reader#johnny soap mctavish x reader#cod x reader#fae!soap#soap mactavish#soap mw2#magic!au#magic au
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#mozart l'opera rock#AU#mozalieri#werewolf!au#magic!au#mozartxsalieri#Antonio Salieri#Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart#my edit#Rene Moreau#Henri Lambert#original: Equinox
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Summary: Jongin, a very human man, unknowingly goes to a party with actual supernatural creatures and finds a sexy-ass witch that he wants to fuck. Shenanigans ensue.
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ACCIDENTAL GOD: SERIES MASTERLIST
Series is currently ongoing!
Pairing: OT8 Ateez x Reader Fantasy AU
Synopsis: You get summoned into a fantasy world by a group of runaway misfits, (who strangely look like your favorite idols) who claim you to be an ancient forgotten War God, and they need your help to survive while being hunted down by a tyrant King.
Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, member x member, eventual smut, slow burn, gore, death, language, torture, angst, fighting, magic, mentions of past abuse, rituals, blood rituals, some obsessive behavior
Let me know if i missed anything! More warnings will be added as the story goes.
NOTHING IS BETA READ
Here is a playlist I made of songs I listen to that remind me of this story, feel free to have a listen! I will continue to add to it as I find songs. (Lyrics of songs majority of the time do not relate to the story, just the vibes of the song)
Playlist
Prologue Please read this before Chapter One!
Chapter One
Chapter Two: WIP
#ateez#ateez fanfic#fanfic#jung wooyoung#park seonghwa#kim hongjoong#choi san#choi jongho#kang yeosang#jeong yunho#song mingi#fantasy au#ateez fantasy au#ateez x reader#god au#magic!au#ateez mingi#ateez yeosang#ateez san#ateez yunho#ateez seonghwa#ateez wooyoung#ateez hongjoong#ateez jongho#ateez atiny#ateez x oc#ateez fluff#ateez angst#ateez smut#member x member
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Billy slept hard. By the time he managed to crack his eyes open, music played quietly from downstairs, and breakfast smells were in the air, not dinner. It took Billy several minutes to piece together that they were not at school, and to come to terms with that. Staying in bed had a hell of an incentive...
Mainly due to Steve standing halfway out of his window. Billy stared, puffy-eyed, at the loon’s boxer briefs until he mumbled, “Steve?”
He ducked back into his room with white freckles in his hair. “It’s snowing!”
“Weknowwhatsnowis,” Billy scolded, tucking deep under the covers that he didn’t remember being under in the first place. A curt sound burst out of him when Steve landed astride him, shaking the snow from his hair and then kissing each cold spot on Billy’s hair and forehead.
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Last Seen Blogs
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