John Mactavish - Tumblr Posts

ignore how wierd Ghost looks, LOOK AT THEM!!! 💕

I don’t own the characters, all rights belong to the creators of the games.

i firmly support them just hugging or whatever

A Little Blood Never Hurt Nobody ✦ ︎John “Soap” MacTavish

Kinktober Day VI: Period Sex

summary: the best boyfriend in the world relieves you of your pain tags/trigger warnings: 18+, f!reader, period sex, vagina blood, john being the sweetest gentleman, fluff, soft sex, p in v, pet names, praise, author tries really hard at accents wc: 2k a/n: not me being on my period rn

MASTERLIST

You settled into the cozy embrace of your makeshift cocoon, surrounded by layers of warmth - a plush comforter and soft blankets enveloping your body. Nestled within this comforting sanctuary, you applied a heating pad to your stomach, its gentle warmth soothing the persistent discomfort caused by the pinching of your uterus. A full bottle of water stood within easy reach on your nightstand. Despite the discomfort, you found solace in the carefully prepared comforts that eased the pain sensation, allowing you to find a semblance of relief within the embrace of your bedding.

All you need is your man, the one you were missing dearly.

John had went to the store to buy you some supplies: enough pads and tampons for the week and a list of your favorite snacks so you won't get hangry.

As you lay in bed, struggling to keep your heavy eyelids from closing, you were jolted awake by the distinct sound of the front door clicking shut. The rustling of plastic bags filled the air, growing louder as the footsteps approached the door to your room.

“Ay, sweet bonnie,” he says as he enters the room. He greets you with a warm smile, his eyes lighting up as he steps closer. He carefully places the bags on your bed, the weight causing the mattress to dip slightly. You slowly peek out from underneath your cozy bedding, feeling curious and excited as you glance from the bags to his face.

“Thank you,” you say, sitting up, digging through the grocery bags, pulling out the treats waiting inside. You heard John laugh, taking the boxes of feminine products in his arms. Never mind a week; these will last you months.

“Anythin’ fer ye’” he winked, adoring you with his loving gaze.

“Ah’ll go stash these aweay,” he ducks into the bathroom, boxes in hand. Your eyes were glued to his large biceps, each covered in intricate tattoos running up and down his muscular arms. You bit your lip as your gaze traveled lower, noting the plush roundness of his ass and the thick hardness of his thighs.

“John?” You called out, setting the bag of snacks to the side. He called back, the sound of boxes knocking around before the swift sound of a cupboard closing followed.

"Can you come here?" You asked, your fingers gently grasping the edges of the soft sheets. Obediently, he reappeared in the doorway, his eyes meeting yours with an expectant gaze. "Need somethin’ else, princess?" he teased playfully, his tone warm and affectionate. You knew he would go to any lengths to fulfill your requests, whether big or small. His willingness to please you was evident in every gesture and word.

"Yes," you respond quietly, meeting his piercing gaze with apprehension and anticipation. You hope that he'll understand your unspoken message. A faint smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he crosses his arms, his icy eyes never leaving yours. His gaze briefly flickers to your concealed body before he takes a silent step forward, his presence looming over you from the edge of the bed.

“Ye gonnae tell me, or am I gonnae have tah figure it out?”

"Please, John," you pleaded, your heart racing as you reached out for him, your small fingers sliding against his warm, calloused digits, urging him to come closer. John hesitated momentarily, his eyes searching yours for reassurance, before finally complying with a mix of a weary sigh and a grunt. He shifted in front of you, his muscular frame towering over you, and with a gentle yet firm touch, he peeled back the soft comforter as he settled in facing you.

“Only because ye look so desperate.” he chuckled, taking the heating pad and tossing it to the side, replacing it with his hands. His touch caressed and massaged your lower stomach, pulling an airy sigh from your chest. After a few moments, he slipped them up higher, pulling your thin tank top from your body and tossing it to the floor.

His hands cupped your tender, swollen breasts, gently squeezing them as he sighed; his gaze zeroed on your body with a burning lust as he kneaded the soft, doughy flesh of your chest. You let out a soft whine, your body sinking further into the mattress, enjoying the feel of John’s large, warm hands pawing at your pliant body.

“Gorgeous girl,” he purred, his fingers dipping into the seam of your shorts before slipping them off your legs, leaving you fully nude in front of him.

“Gonnae make ye feel all better,” he promised, reaching behind his back to tug his shirt over his head, showcasing his thick and hairy chest trailing down his hard muscles and into his jeans. He tugs off his belt before sitting to the side to shuck off his pants, followed by his briefs.

“I love you,” you whispered as he crawled back over you, bracketing you with his thick arms. He grinned down at you, his smile toothy and his eyes crinkling.

“I love ye too, sweet girl,” he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before descending to your lips, groaning into your mouth as his hand pumped his growing erection, preparing himself to enter you.

You looked down, moaning as you watched him jerk himself off. As he slowly pumped closer to his tip, you licked your lips as pre dribbled from his slit, sliding down towards his fingers. You reached outwards, wrapping your hand around him, your fingers barely touching with how thick he was. Collecting his pre cum in your digits, you swiped them down his cock, coating his cock in his slippery essence for a smoother glide.

He grunted above you, his eyes narrowing as his lips parted, moaning from your soft touch. You squeezed his base, guiding him towards your bleeding hole, pulsing with desire.

The moment his tip caught against your entrance, John was pushing his hips forward, his cock sliding inside, filling you up completely with little to no resistance.

“Steamin’ Jesus, yer so tight!” John hissed, his hands wrapping around your middle, burying his face in your neck as he pushed his hips forward. His dog tags clinked as they pressed against your chest, the cool metal causing you to shiver.

You whimpered as his hips pulled back before pressing back in. You could tell he was trying to be gentle, but if his loud noises were anything to go by, you knew he wanted to pummel you into next week. You wrapped your arms around his neck, gripping your nails into his back as he picked up a steady rhythm, his deep strokes punching the air from your lungs.

John leaned up on his hands, his chain dangling in front of you as his blue eyes stared down into yours. One hand curled over the headboard as the other planted against your lower back, arching your hips closer to his thrusting cock.

“Fuck, ye feel so damn good,” he moaned, more words of praise spilling from his mouth as he pounded you into the bed, his fingers trailing toward your pussy before reaching underneath your hood and rubbing circles onto your clit.

You glanced downwards at your combined bodies; eyes glazed over as his cock pulled out before sinking back in, coated in a mixture of your blood and arousal, creating a thick and slimy texture that stuck to your thighs.

“John,” you whimpered, mouth falling open as your cunt clenched around him at the sight, his thumb rubbing faster at your sensitive nub as his pace quickened. You tossed your head back, hands reaching behind you to grasp onto the pillow underneath your head, eyes squeezing shut as you moaned uncontrollably.

“I ken, I ken,” he grunted, his pace faltering slightly, hips stuttering as his cock twitched hard inside you, hitting your G-spot over and over with each involuntary jump.

You were so much more sensitive than usual, not just your quivery pussy but your body as well; each touch and simple caress of his rough hands felt like they were melting away your skin, their heat licking fire into your veins, causing your head to spin and your limbs to tremble.

“M’gonna cum!” you wailed, crying out as John lifted your hips higher, his cock slamming even deeper inside you, barely pulling out as your greedy pussy clamped around him as if it couldn't bare the thought of him leaving you like it had a consciousness of its own.

“Me too, fuck!” He whimpered, his blunt nails digging into the flesh of your waist, tugging you down onto his prick with every forceful thrust of his hips.

With one final thrust, you felt his warm cum spurt inside of you, rope after rope, as John’s slow grinds triggered your release; you both moaned in unison, clutching onto each other for dear life as you both rode out your highs together, debauched sounds of pleasure filling the confined space of your bedroom.

As John pulled out of you, a pink mixture of your combined fluids leaked out of you, paused by John’s thumb as he pushed it back in, groaning at the sight of your stretched hole spreading wider to accept him.

"Feel better?" he asked, his voice slightly breathless as a proud smile spread across his face. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath as he looked down at you, studying your expression for any signs of discomfort.

You smiled a lazy, contented smile, your eyes barely peeking open to look up at him. A warm, post-sex glow illuminated your face as you nodded slowly, still trying to catch your breath.

He leaned down, pressing a hard and wet smooch to your stomach before pulling back to kiss your clit, sucking it into his mouth with short flicks of his tongue.

“John!” you whimpered, tugging him away by his hair. He let out a loud bark of laughter, slapping the side of your thigh before reluctantly pulling away. “Jus’ showin’ her some extra love,” he winked before laying beside you and pulling you into his chest.

“Wan’ me teh run ye’ a bath?” he asked, nosing his face against your cheek before kissing your temple. You nodded before burying your face into his chest, letting out a deep sigh as you closed your eyes, letting sleep overtake you.

You were awakened when you felt arms scoop underneath you, gently carrying you into the washroom.

“Sorry, I had teh wake ye.’” you looked up at John’s face as he settled you into the warm water, bottles of bath oils, and a bag of bath salts sitting on the side.

He settled in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulled you into his chest, resting his head over your head. You could feel his cock begin to harden behind you before his mouth began pressing messy kisses against your shoulder.

You looked behind you, meeting his lips with a slow yet passionate kiss of your own before turning around to face him, before reaching behind you to grab his cock. His hands traveled up your waist as you sat down, his cock slipping back inside you, pushing his cum back into your body.

You slumped against him, pressing your cheek against his chest as you warmed his cock. Closing your eyes again with another pleasure-filled sigh, you buried your nose into his neck, relishing his gentle touch as his hands massaged your back. John watched you with a loving smile, kissing your head as you fell back asleep in his embrace. He knew he would take good care of you—just like he always did.

main masterlist, rules

Sweet Like Cinnamon ✦ John “Soap” MacTavish

Kinktober Day IX: Praise Kink

summary: just tell him he’s a good boy, okay? tags/trigger warnings: 18+, f!reader, the author tried really hard at accents, degradation in the beginning, fingering, cunnilingus, praise, fluff, body worship, john being a suckup, pet names, p in v, facesitting

wc: 1.1k

MASTERLIST

“M’sorry, hen! M’sorry!” Your boyfriend whimpered from beneath you, his body convulsing, clinging desperately onto your hips as you bounced on top of his length.

“Hush.” You demanded, pressing your palm to his lips, glaring down at him as he gazed up at you, his brows upturned and tears forming in his eyes. He arched his back, chasing the pleasure you were giving him as you slowed your pace to a slow grind.

“Please!” Came his muffled sob. His pleading eyes stared up at you as his hips bucked up into you, his feet planted on the bed as leverage to fuck into your tight pussy. You raised your hips until only his tip was left inside. You watched John squeeze his eyes shut, bracing himself for when your hips dropped, enveloping his cock in your gummy walls.

He whispered your name underneath your hand, peering his eyes open when you kept still, placing your hand against his pelvis, pushing him towards the bed as you steadied yourself. You removed your hand from his mouth, settling it beside the other.

You raised one eyebrow in a subtle display of skepticism, locking eyes with his tear-filled gaze with your own icy, unwavering stare. After silence, you watched John’s shoulders relax, his tense muscles unwinding as he released a choked sigh.

You grinned, sinking onto his thick cock, spearing yourself with an airy sigh, moaning out as the tip of his cock snuggly pressed up against your sore G-spot, causing you to let out a loud moan.

“M’serious bonnie,” John whined, his fingers sinking into your skin. “M’really–”

“I thought I told you to be quiet,” you growled, quickly setting an unforgiving pace, raising your body on and off his cock, pistoning his cock in and out of your sopping pussy, using him for your pleasure as you chased your high.

For the past hour, you've been keeping him on edge, refusing his release while you chase yours over and over. You were angry because he canceled the date he had planned at the last minute, claiming he was out with his friends while you were getting ready.

John's heart sank as he heard the deafening silence on the other end of the phone. It spoke volumes, conveying a message of anger and disappointment that needed no words. Hastily bidding farewell to his friends, John made a beeline for home, his mind racing with thoughts of what awaited him. When he arrived, he found you already dressed in your regular attire; your expression twisted into an angry scowl. It was clear that he was in for it.

“I ken, I ken,” he whimpered, his blunt nails piercing your soft skin, leaving crescent shapes in their wake. “I’ll… I’ll make it up teh ye’.” he moans, tilting his head back, baring his neck to you.

“You are making it up to me,” placing your hands against his pectorals, one hand wrapping around his throat, squeezing gently. “Right now,” you finished with deep breaths, glaring down at his pliant body.

John reached up, gripping the hand squeezing his throat. He reopened his eyes, mouth falling open as whorish moans echoed through the room, reverberating off the walls and into your ears. Your eyes softened at his pretty face contorted in pleasure, his gaze teary and pleading as your fingers curled deeper into his neck.

“Sweet boy,” you murmured, picking up the pace, fucking him until you were both moaning out uncontrollably. You arched your back, resting your hands on his knees, grinding your pussy back and forth, side to side, and in quick circles as his cock twitched inside you.

“You gonna cum for me? Hm?” you could tell he was nearing his release, smirking as he swiftly nodded, his eyes wide, pale blues sparkling with anticipation and desire.

“Go on, baby,” you purred, rubbing your nails through his sweaty brown locks sticking to his dewy skin. “Come for me.” Your smile widened as he let out a sharp cry, his hands pushing and pulling at your smaller body as his hips fucked into you in tandem, his cock jerking angrily inside of you before it jumped, spurting endless ropes into your womb with a silent scream.

“Good boy,” you cooed, refusing to slow your pace until he let out a painful groan, pulling your body up and off his sensitive cock. You cringed as his release slipped out of your gaping pussy, spilling onto his softening erection and down his length, coating his sack in a lewd mixture of your fluids.

John let out another whimper, lifting his head as he watched the sinful display of your combined releases coating his cock, causing a deep shiver to run up and down his body.

You smirked down at him, hands perching against the headboard as you shifted your body above him until your knees rested on either side of his head, trapping him underneath you. John stared up at you, his eyes unblinking as his mouth parted in awe.

“You gonna be good and clean me up?” you asked condescendingly, tilting your head to the side, your hair following suit.

He nodded again, running his hands up and down your body. His voice was airy and low as he whispered, "Please…”

“I’ll give you what you want,” you promised as you lowered your dripping cunt onto his mouth, tilting your head back with another sigh. “Fuck that's it,”

You ground your hips back and forth, moaning out as his tongue fucked in and out of your soft folds, sucking your clit into his mouth as he made out with your pussy, sounds of his muffled sucking and slurping causing heat to rise to your cheeks and yet he never seemed so at peace with your thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck John, I'm so close!” you cried, digging your nails deep into his scalp, guiding his movements as you rocked forward, chasing your high, wailing out as you stared up at the ceiling before your eyes rolled back; your vision going dark as you let out one final cry before drowning his face in your essence, jerking your pussy over his face until his nose dug into your delicate pearl. He shook his face from side to side, burying his face deeper in between your thighs, swallowing your sweet slick, not caring if he couldn't breathe.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, your grip relaxing before running through his hair, swiping back the strands stuck to his skin. He whined against your core, large hands tugging you forward when you tried to lift them away.

“Please,” came his garbled plea, fingers digging into the plush skin of your ass. “One more time,” he panted, his tongue flicking around your sensitive nub pulsing in response.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” you grinned, your chest heaving with exertion, but you knew couldn't say no—not to him.

main masterlist, rules

nod nod nod

Soap and Ghost with a s/o on their period

Warnings: period blood, fluff

A/n: I feel like I’m bleeding out rn and need to vent

Ghost:

Is absolutely not grossed out by your period, I mean this man sees blood everyday, he’s used to it, plus it’s natural right? As long as it’s coming from a menstrual cycle and not some major wound, he’s good

Is absolutely clueless when it comes to female issues. Like he knows all the medical stuff of what’s happening to you and why it’s happening but as far as how to comfort you and make you feel better? Completely clueless. He’s never really had a close enough relationship with another woman to have to deal with this.

Not saying he won’t help you out though, just need’s a little guidance. Will 100% do anything you tell him to. He’d be your good little soldier. You want take out? He’s calling it in. You want a warm bath? He’s carrying you to the bathroom.

Would probably sit on the side of your bed rubbing a large hand over your back or through your hair.

Though if you don’t feel like being touched and want distance? He’s a big boy, he can take no for an answer and not pout about it. “That’s fine doll, whatever you need.” Though he’ll still be coming in the room ever thirty minutes to check in on you with an “You alright, love?”

Will give you one of his gigantic shirts to wear since you don’t want tight fabric rubbing against you right now.

Would do everything around the house for you without being asked. It’s how he’d show he cared since he wasn’t one for lovey dovey words. Feeling guilty, you’d keep trying to get up to help him, despite his many refusals. About the fifth time he’d eventually just pick you up over his shoulder and carry you back to bed himself.

.“Nope, you’re gonna sit your little arse in bed and let me do the bloody dishes.” “But it’s not fair for you to do all the dirty work.” “I’m not the one bleeding out my a**.”

Your snarky reply of “That’s not exactly where it’s coming from” has him slamming the bedroom door in your face. Would definitely just pop back in your room a few minutes later with a tub of ice cream though.

Soap:

Like ghost, he’s not grossed out at all by your period.

Unlike Ghost, I feel like he would know exactly what to do for you. Chocolate, flowers, basically makes you a whole nest on your bed of pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, etc. Basically, he would just be absolutely perfect.

This man is a major cuddler and you can’t convince me other wise. Would spoon you from behind while holding a heating pad to your aching stomach. Running his other hand up and down your side and back.

But, he too, would of course understand if you didn’t want to be touched. Would maybe joke around and pout at you a little,”If ye’ don’ love me no more, jus’ say that.” But would end up kissing you on the head, “I’m jus’ kiddin, that’s fine sweetheart.” And would leave you alone as long as you needed

If you live separately and your period starts while at his place, you’d be surprised to find that he already has supplies. He’d here your muffled curse from the bathroom, “Honey? You alright?” You’d be a little embarrassed at first, telling him what’s happened and that you, in fact, did not have anything with you. “Oh, that’s alrigh’. Check the bottom drawer on the lef’ for me, should be somethin’ in there.” You’d instantly feel calmed by how nonchalant he was being about it. Though that quickly turned to shock as you open the drawer. There’s an array of pads and tampons of different sizes. Even has an extra pair of underwear which, when you check the tag, is your size. When questioned, he just smiled and told you “A soldier’s always prepared.” Which you then gave him possibly the deepest kiss of your life just for his thoughtfulness.

If you started at night and bleed over on his sheets he’d make absolutely no fuss about it, instantly waving away your embarrassment with a smile. If you try to apologize for it he would be having absolutely none of it. Cups your face, “Hey, no. None of tha’. This is completely natural, nothin’ to be ashamed of. Nothin’ a good soak won’ fix.”

Would 100% be making all kinds of puns about it. “Gotta say swee’heart, your’ looking bloody sexy right now.” And you’d so not be in the mood. If looks could kill

Cold

Grumpy simon smut

Here you go since I’m bad at writing smut without plot like gr anyway I think this is cute he’s kinda jealous a bit grumpy

Also if you have requests send them in! I’m always looking for ideas.

↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢

“So? Are you in?”

“…”

“Yes.”

“Good, you leave tomorrow. 6 am.”

…

That’s how I found myself on a helicopter in the early morning, being transferred to the base where task force 141 resides.

I stared out the window quietly, since I’d run out of things to talk about with the pilot. I see a large building come into view as we slowly start to descend.

The heli lands and I grab onto my large duffel bag, swinging it over my shoulder. I look over our surroundings and see four men standing in the distance. I recognize only one, captain price.

I step out and walk over towards the group, a smile on my face.

“Hi, I’m Alessandra.” I say as I look between them. “John price, I’ve heard about you, laswell

Says your one hell of a shot.” He smiles at me and I only nod along.

“Soap, you can call me John if ya like lass.” He says with a grin spread across his face, I can’t help but notice his hair, which is cut into a Mohawk. I smile at the friendly man and shake his hand.

“I’m Kyle, team calls me Gaz though.” He nods at me before crossing his arms.

I look over to the last man who stays silent before Soap speaks up. “This here is si-“

“Ghost.” He says cutting off soap. I nod and give him a small smile.

The walk me through the base and what missions may come up soon, before dropping me off at my room and letting me settle in.

I place the few items I have around the rooms before smiling to myself and exiting. I wander down the hallway to where I remember the kitchen was.

It smells good?

I walk in and see price in the kitchen, storing something in a pot. “Ooh what are you makin?” I ask curiously as I take a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Chilli, perfect for winter, no?” He glances at me and I nod. I turn my head as soap walks into the kitchen “he says it’s world famous” he grins “honestly he probably stole the recipe from some old woman” he says making me laugh.

Price serves us a bowl of chilli and a piece of bread on the side. I begin eating when I look around and notice Ghost is absent from the table.

Gaz must have noticed me looking around as he speaks up. “Doesn’t like to eat around new people” he shrugs “don’t take it personal” he says with a friendly smile.

We all finished our food and have moved onto to board games, which I have to say i am the best at by far.

We’re playing charades, which Ghost has decided to not show up for either.

I was partnered with soap, and we were winning by a lot.

“Okay three words.” Gaz nods at the captain “first word.” He starts waving his arms around like a distressed seagull.

“Uh..windmill” He shakes his head and starts doing the motion again. “Damn, uh..” the timer goes off and soap and I cheer.

“It was flying a kite! I was trying to do a flying motion like a chicken” he puts his head in his hands dramatically.

“Chickens are horrible at flying idiot!” Price shouts before we all burst out into laughter, soap practically falling to the floor.

We play a few more rounds before calling it a night and everyone starts to head off to bed.

I’m waking down the hallway as I hear price call out to me, I turn to look at him.

“So you know, you’ll be shadowing Ghost tomorrow. Just to get a feel of things round here.” He says before patting my shoulder and heading off somewhere.

I head off to bed, practically falling asleep as soon as my face hits the pillow.

…

I’ve been looking for a Ghost for a while now, since I was supposed to shadow him. But he really lives up to his name since he is nowhere to be found.

I reach a shooting range which seems to be empty until I spot him at the very last lane. I walk inside and stand a few feet away.

He puts his gun down and turns to face me, somehow sending I was there..

He gives me a blank look probably wondering what I was doing but not saying anything.

“Price said I would shadow you today, to get a feel for things I guess?” I say as he only sighs and starts to put his gun away.

“So where are we going? Do you have to do much around here or is it more like waiting for the next mission?” I wonder out loud as he stays silent which urges me to talk more.

“And about the mission, how do you guys plan them? Or is it price who does most of it and then you guys kinda just follow the plan.” I say not even facing him anymore as I ramble on.

“Jesus..” I hear him mumble under his breath as he starts to walk out of the room. “Hey! Where are you going lieutenant?” I ask as I trail behind him.

He walks down a long hallway, a few soldiers passing by us and giving him a nod. I look around curiously, not having yet explored this part of the base.

I follow him into a room at the end of the hall, which starts to look more like a office the more I glance around.

As soon as I fully step inside he’s slamming me against the door and locking it. “Don’t know how to be quiet, huh?” He asks as he pins my arms above my head.

I can only sit there and stare at him, fully at a loss for words.

“Acting all friendly with everyone, don’t you know when to shut up? Don’t you notice all the people eyeing you.” He says in a cold tone as his face is inches away from mine.

“Need someone to teach ya?” He stares me dead in the eyes. I nod my head at him slowly.

“Words sweetheart, words.” He mumbles as he looks down at me. “Yes..”

“Yes what?” He asks teasingly “yes..please.” I swear a see a smirk under that mask.

“That’s better.” He mutters before slowly lowering his head and lifting his mask just enough to show his lips. He kisses along my neck sloppily, leaving hickeys all over the place.

I let out small whimpers, trying to stay quiet in case anyone decides to walk by here. His hands roam down to my waist and gives it a little squeeze before he’s picking me up and putting me back down on his desk.

He slowly reaches down to my pants, harshly pulling them down without any warning. His hands find the hem of my panties and he tugs on them before looking up to me, seemingly for permission. I nod at him eagerly as he drops the to the floor, letting them fall in some unknown corner.

I hear heavy breathing and the sound of his belt clanging as he moves to undo it. His pants drop along with his boxers.

I look down and damn.

He moves closer, holding onto my thighs with his large hands. He lines it up with my entrance and slowly starts to push in, giving me a few seconds to adjust.

I let out whimpers and moans at the feeling of him inside, which only seems to feed his ego and make him more eager.

He starts to move, his pace slow at first. “Fuck, so tight..” he mumbles into my neck as he thrusts faster. “Doing so good f’me”

His hips rocks into me, pounding harder until I can practically feel his tip in my stomach. I let out loud moans at the feeling.

“Gotta stay quiet sweetheart, yeah?” I bite down onto my lip, trying to keep any sounds inside. He moves relentlessly, practically feral.

“Gho..” my voice is hoarse as I speak.

“Hm?” He says breathlessly. “M’ so close..gonna cum..” I whine into his shoulder. “Fuck, fuck..gonna cum for me? For your lieutenant?” He grunts into my ear as I only nod at him eagerly.

He holds onto my thighs harshly as I feel the waves of my orgasm hit me, hard. My legs shake a little but he holds them down, as he cums right after me.

“Think ya can give me one more?” He says cockily before he starts pounding into me again. I let out whines as he only goes harder this time.

“S’too much..” I moan out “you can do it, you’re doing so good.” He encourages as his hands find my waist and he clamps down on it.

“Fuck, gonna leave marks all over your body.” He grumbles “everyone will know who you belong to then.”

I stay silent, too lost in the pleasure he’s giving me to respond. I feel myself once again reaching a high and my hands find his back, probably leaving marks all over.

“You close?” He asks and I nod eagerly. I open my mouth a little as the feeling in my stomach rises. “You wanna cum?” He asks “yes!” I practically shout. “say your mine then.” He says coldly.

“I’m..yours, please..” I pant out as his grip on my waist tightens “good girl, so good f’me.” He says as I come undone on his cock.

Heavy breathing fills the room as he holds onto me tightly. Letting me relax in his arms before pulling out.

“Tired?” He ask softly and I nod against him. He picks me up and dresses me before leading me to my room and letting me fall asleep on his chest.

↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢↣↢



Imagine that your uniform is made up of several layers of different types of fabric and bulletproof shields. In addition to the extra fabric, you wear a mask and helmet that cover your entire face. Your costume makes it impossible to identify whether you are a woman or a man, and to top it off, you never speak. This leads people who aren't part of your squad to believe that you're just a short man who never speaks.

You work for the squad led by Colonel König. Recently, there were some situations that resulted in Kortac temporarily joining Task Force 141, two squads united to capture a terrorist.

You are not and have never been a sociable person. You don't talk to people you don't know and you always let someone else do the talking for you. As much as you are an adult woman, mature enough to make decisions on your own, you are shy. Very shy.

It's not unusual for other people to ask your teammates about you, always wondering why you don't speak up. They ask about the many layers of fabric that make up your outfit, whether you don't suffocate from the excess cloth and pockets.

And these people always refer to you in the masculine.

Always.

Soap is a bit of a curiosity when it comes to mysterious people who don't interact much with others in the room and who just stand in a quiet corner, far away from any living thing in the room. No wonder he made Ghost his best friend.

So believe me when I say that he's intrigued by you. The mysterious, masked guy in the dark corner of the room, who so far hasn't interacted with anyone since he arrived. You've caught his attention, but he won't talk to you because something inside him tells him not to come up to you out of the blue.

Something inside him tells him to take it easy this time, because that something inside him thinks that the outside of that guy should be molded slowly to reveal the inside. Does that make sense?

The first person Soap will ask about you is König, because them strangely hit it off, much to the unhappiness of Ghost, who didn't like König. Perhaps it's because he's taller and has stolen the role of being the tallest in the room from Ghost.

And also because he saw König talking to you about something, but you didn't use your voice and just nodded. Which led him to think that maybe you were mute.

Soap approached König with a smile, bringing up some other subject before starting to ask questions about you. He doesn't want to sound weird.

"Hm... You know, I keep asking myself..." Soap begins, waiting for a signal to continue.

"What is it?" König asks, crossing his arms and smiling beneath his mask.

"That guy in the corner... Why doesn't he join the others?"

"Oh." König straightens his posture and looks at you, standing in the corner of the room and staring at an interesting spot on the floor. "She's a bit shy, don't worry."

The gears turned slowly in Soap's head after this information.

"IT'S A WOMAN?!!??!!!!?"

It wasn't Soap's intention to draw the attention of everyone in the room, Including you, to him and König. But it just happened.

Hello:)) it's my first time posting something written by me and my English is terrible, but I tried my best with a translator 😞

STOP IT I GIGGLED @riviclouds

nobody said anything cause they didn't know what to say

BAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHHAHAH THIS IS SO FUCKING TRUE IM DEAD @writersp3n

Ghost is the type of dad that would always be super blunt with his kids. So when his toddler asks him how her little sister came to be in mummy’s belly, instead of weaving a tale of magic wishes and baby-delivering storks, he says simply “We had sex”.

Gaz is the type of dad that would have his kid’s birthday entertainer cancel on him last minute. Good news is that the party store down the road is still open. Bad news is that the Spiderman costume he buys himself is two sizes too small.

Soap is the type of dad that would get kicked out of his kid’s football game because of his unruly behavior in the stands. Apparently, encouraging a group of six year olds to “Bloody kill!” the other team is frowned upon by most parents.

Price is the type of dad that would shave off his facial hair because he wanted to change up his look a little, only to end up scaring his kids (even making his ten month old cry) because they thought a stranger had broken into the house.

MW3 spoilers

.

.

.

WTF

That was like the stupidest thing to do!

I'm talking to YOU, scriptwriters!

Soap became the soal of the game, for God's sake! How could you do this to him?

I'm sooo not sure I would care to check out mw4 or whatever now...

WOW

The news of the low reviews MW3 got is on my news feed today.

I'm still furious/in denial so you know what I did?

This.

Signing, not starting, though😅.

Jennifer schutt, thank you so much for actually bringing it up🙏

Here's the link to the petition

https://chng.it/MdGXMgYFLs

And thanks for being there for us, Soap

If Ghost wants to avoid being accused of favouritism, he should really try harder than this.

Johnny - and - Garrick??

Ghost, you're sure you don't want to call all of the TF-141 members equally by names? Oh, wait, do you even know that Garrick guy's name at all?. .

Uhmmm 😀

me n the big scary men of task force 141 that could snap my neck

EVERYBODY GO AND READ THIS RIGHT NOW, I’M DEMANDING.

Which Witch

Painting by Joseph Tomanek Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story. Part 1 of 2 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 that 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, that’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 smirk.

“Nude?” he raises an eyebrow, 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 releasing you. “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 face, 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 eyes, 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.

Eventually, 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!”

I

AM

ON

TO

SEE

MY

HUSBAND

JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH ↳ Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2

GhostSoap thoughts…

Saw someone comment something like Soap fell first but Ghost fell harder and I literally cannot stop thinking about it. Like the thought of Ghost finally being able to open himself up to someone, even if it’s just a little, then turning into absolute admiration towards Soap because he didn’t react the way Ghost had convinved himself he would is the sweetest thing. I also think Soap’s love language is physical touch (and acts of service) so Ghost is overwhelmed by it at first but slowly becomes used to it and even returns the touch sometimes AGGFHDHDNDB— Ghost’s love language is DEFINITELY quality time so having Soap just in his presence immediately soothes him and the entirety of 141 probably notices it too LMAO

The line between Simon and Ghost

Nothing on this planet makes me happier than when SoapGhost fic writers treat Ghost and Simon like 2 separate identities. Like Ghost is cold, direct, straight to the point and no fucks given but Simon is a broken, affection starved and lonely man,, IDK IT’S JUST SO GOOD

Like especially whenever the line between the two is broken by Soap and he just finally accepts his emotions and learns to deal with and move on from his trauma to be a better man UGHHHH!! I’ve only read one like this and I’d have to dig through my collection to find it but if anyone has ANY like this PLEASEEE!!! Give me, thank you :3

Ghosts Intrusive Thoughts

So I saw this TikTok and it got me thinking,, what if Ghost had this intrusive thought really often? How would he deal with it? Then I thought oh my god,, would he break down into tears and beg for Soap to touch him, hold him and speak to him just to assure Ghost that he’s real?? ITS SO SAD HRGRHH

I think the idea of Ghost just being so vulnerable is sad enough because it implies something either triggered him or something horrible has happened OR he’s finally had enough of the tough guy stuff and just needed his minute of vulnerability in which he trusts Soap with ONLY WWAAHAGAJ