PIECE OF ART - Tumblr Posts







hi i did it :) um thanks if u requested them im not usually a big townie guy so LMAO this was like somewhat a novelty for me. also im realising my favourite part of cas is the genetics specifically once we get to the clothes i start pulling my hair out


you tie my insides up cat's cradle
@literalite since u wouldn't stop telling me u missed sioyef. faggot
Questa era l'arte degli antichi romani, cosa lasceremo noi in ereditĂ ai posteri?

Bronze Portrait Head
Realistic face of an anonymous figure carrying the burden of ephemeral thoughts.
⢠From Delos ⢠Early 1st c. BC ⢠National Archaeological Museum ⢠Athens ⢠Greece
Vaso di sfida rende bene l'idea dello sforzo, per questo l'ho condivisa

Kaoru Yamada
A Vase of Defiance
We stan a piece of art
When you know you're supposed to be resting but you can't because JB exist this man is just đĽđĽđĽ
I need to find verlore_poplap (ao3 username) to encourage them to re-upload âour steady true northâ, which is an amazing piece of art that deserves all the love and re-readings they can get⌠Help me? Please? Reblog?
All the love to verlore_poplap!!!
Life and art go hand in hand...



ANDREW GARFIELD at the Zegna Fashion Show.

You are your artwork,you are your creator,you are your artist.Never forget that.

Personification of humanity destroying the earth :)
Iâm still speechless. Between this and his Blavk Swan solo performance, I honest to God have no words. He is a glorious, wonderful, piece of art work.



we were blessed
The number of times Jeon Jeongguk has sinned in this MV đ








Oh my GOD I love this đ

i had escapism by aj michalka on loop while drawing this idk,,
EVERYBODY GO AND READ THIS RIGHT NOW, IâM 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.
âWas it worth it to ye?â 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 brotherâs power, Gazâs light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnnyâs spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.
âWhereâs Ghost?â Kyleâs 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, didnât even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books.Â
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 Johnnyâs heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.
âMercenaries.â 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. âThatâs all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.â 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.
âYes, yes.â Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the beingâs 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 Johnnyâs nostrils. âBut how are we so different from you, then?â
âI donât kill for money.âÂ
âJust for sport.â 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.
âAs if youâre so appalled by it, MacTavish.â 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. âI know where yaâre from. Iâve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with itâs-â Johnnyâs magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the beingâs 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 itâs 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 beingâs crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until heâs nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.
âShite.â Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. Thereâs not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnnyâs 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.
âJobâs done then?â He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gazâs dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before itâs swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.
âSimonâs finishing up the last bit.â
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 theyâre 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 itâs 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 itâs because heâs lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on.Â
This is where they find Simon. Heâs 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.
âI cannot perform it.â She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like heâs tired, or exasperated. âThat magic, itâs not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-â 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.
âSimon.â 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 doesnât know, that they know. That theyâre fully aware, of the terrible things sheâs 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.
âTell us, love.â He encourages. âTell us about the song. And perhaps, weâll let you go.â Itâs a lie, but she doesnât know that, and itâs painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.
âItâs blood magic.â She croaks. âThe only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.â Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. âThere are few who still practice it.â
âWhere?â Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.
âIn the mortal realm.â Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simonâs power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. âThere is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. Sheâs a witch, that-â She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long theyâd 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 Simonâs power, twisting with torsion around her neck.
âNo, no. You said⌠you said youâd let me go!â She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He canât help but correct her.
âIs that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That youâd let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?â
âI wa-was only doing what I was told.â She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. âPlease!â Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but itâs pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. âPlease⌠plea- please.â 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. âI- âm sorry.â She tries, but itâs 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.
Thatâs odd. Whatâs a Harpy doing all the way out âere? 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 theyâve settled.
âBit out oâ place.â Price comments, and Simon grunts.
âItâs curious.â 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.
âIf itâs true-â
âAt what cost?â 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; heâll convince him itâs a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnnyâs mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness?Â
Johnny was no fool, heâs 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.
âAll 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 sheâs not alone.â He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. âI love her. I cannot give her up, I wonât allow her to die.âÂ
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.Â
âWhat youâre asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, itâs-âÂ
âIâm not asking. Iâd never ask this of you.â He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnnyâs head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power.Â
âDo ye truly believe weâd leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?âÂ
âIt 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 weâre still not closer to the answer.âÂ
âIâm with ye Simon. Just as youâve been with me through difficult times. I wonât turn my back now.âÂ
âAnd neither will I.â Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side.Â
âSign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.â 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 doesnât say anything, but he watches how Simonâs shoulders ease, how he releases the breath heâs been holding, before giving them all a nod.Â
âI will go.â Johnny declares, and Simonâs 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 Nereidâs song.
âI fancy a field trip myself.â Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. âCould use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.â
âOr Las Almas.â Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.
âI liked Las Almas.â
âYou just like Ale and Rudy.â 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.
âAye.â He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.
âVery well. We will go together then.â Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.
âTogether.â
âItâs not optional anymore.â Your auntâs voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. âYour coven is your family.â She prattles on, unaware youâve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.
âSheâs nuts.â 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.
âAre you listening to me?â
âYes.â You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.
âYou need to spend time with your coven. You canât spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.â Why not?You donât say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesnât 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, whoâs desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you donât respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. âYou must perform your duties. Youâll be expected on Samhain.â
And then the line goes dead.
You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. Youâre not sure. She is your familiar, but you donât speak her language. You donât know how she actually feels.
But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do. Â
âI know, I know.â 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 donât want to go.
But you also donât think youâll 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.Â
By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and youâve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you donât 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 someâs standards.
Books youâre really not supposed to have but canât 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 thatâs 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?Â
You hadnât been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadnât asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your auntâs 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 covenâs 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 whoâs pages donât even show themselves unless theyâre 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.Â
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.Â
You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after todayâs conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.
Donât these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? Thatâs when the Others get through.Â
You shiver.
Youâre 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.
Companyâs coming.Â
âHello?â 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. âIs anyone here?â
âI am!â 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. Thatâs going to bruise. âIâm here, sorry.â You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.
Oh.
Fuck.Â
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 donât 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.
âH-hello.â 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.
âHello.â Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.
âHi, can I help you?â
âIâm looking for a book.â He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.
âWell, this is a good place to do that.â Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you canât. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesnât seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.
âItâs well⌠itâs a rare book.â
âOh?â
âAnd Iâve been told, youâre a purveyor of such rare and curious books.â Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.
âI⌠have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what youâre looking for?â
âItâs a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.â You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?
âI donât have anything that old here.â The lie slips through your teeth with ease.
âOh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room anâ everything.â Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.
Magic. Thereâs magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like itâs 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.
âIâm Johnny.â 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.Â
But the way he looks at you, like heâs 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, youâre 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.Â
âMy friends call me Fern.â Itâs 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 anyoneâs 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.
âFern.â 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. âItâs lovely to meet you.â The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. Youâre staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like youâre in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before heâs clearing his throat and youâre blinking yourself free.
Odd. Your brain warns.
Enchanting. Your heart sings.
âSorry, I uh. Donât have your book.â
âItâs alright. Mind if I had a look around?â
âSure!â you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.
Calm down. Heâs not here for you. Heâs here for a book.Â
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.
Heâs fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You canât 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.Â
âIâm actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-â
âSorry to keep ye.â He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.
âOh, youâre not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.â You donât know why exactly, but it feels like youâre stalling him. Like you donât 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 heâs studying towards you. âJet!â you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.
âSmart, locking up, cannae be too sure about whatâs lurking out there.â He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.
âUh, I do have some rarities, if that⌠if thatâs something youâd like to come back and see.â What? What did you just say? Did you really just-Â
Johnny visibly brightens, like youâve made his day. Like youâve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until itâs beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.
He tells you heâll come back then, that heâd like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.
What the fuck was that?Â
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.
âGood evening.â He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. âItâs Foxglove? Or⌠Sage?â Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. âYouâre named after a plant, right?â
âItâs Fern.â You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.
âMy apologies, Fern.â 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. âAre ye well?â He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.
âY-yes. Thanks. Yourself?â
âAye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets youâre keeping.â He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?
âI uh. Yeah, well. Letâs⌠itâs this way.â You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like youâve 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, itâs 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. Mortalâs eyes were not known for being so sharp.Â
âAnd these are allâŚ?â
âVarying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.â You laugh, but he doesnât, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. âIâve got some⌠old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.â
Definitely a lie, but he doesnât need to know that.Â
âWhen people thought witches were real?â He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.
âYeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.â You try to play it off but canât escape his gaze, canât escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.
âAnd youâre usually in the habit of lying to customers?â You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. âI can feel you.â He explains, like itâs normal, or natural. Like youâre both speaking the same language. âCan feel ye from across the street, actually. Didnât know little plants could hold so much magic.â He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.
âI-â 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.
âHey, hey.â He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. âItâs alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.â 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 itâs there all the same. You realize heâs staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.
âWhat are you?â you challenge, and his lips twist.
âIâm no threat to ye.â
âSounds like what someone who is a threat would say.â
âI promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.â A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. Itâs 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. âI ah, work in the military. I donât practice.â He admits, and that takes you by surprise.
âThe military?â
âAye.â An impish grin splits across his face. âI like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. Weâre on leave right now, but. Thatâs usually what Iâm doing.â Thatâs 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.
âBut, your family must-â not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? Youâre not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.
âMy mumâs gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.â Oh.
âIâm sorry.â Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. âI wasnât trying to pry, Iâm sorry.â
âThatâs alright, happened a long time ago.â
âI shouldnât have-â
âFern.â He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. âItâs alright, I promise.â You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before heâs speaking again. âWhat is this?â Heâs pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.
âThatâs a grimoire.â
âIt looks⌠old. Like itâs seen better days.â
âIt is, and it has.â You donât elaborate, because you donât know if you should, or even if you want to.
âWhereâs it from?â He pushes.
âHere. Itâs uh⌠from my coven. From a very long time ago.â
âYou lot been around a long time?â
âYou could say that.â You could say thatâs 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 heâs apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.
âYouâre not keeping me.â You assure him. âI live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.â You laugh.
âWell, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are⌠special. Iâm grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.â 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.
âOf course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, Iâm here.â You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize heâs going to leave now, the knowledge that heâll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.
âI ah⌠was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?â You donât even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him?Â
âYeah!â you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. âYes. Yes, Iâm hungry so⌠dinner would be great.â
âKnow any good spots around?â
âUh, yeah thereâs a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?â
âSure.â 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.
âOh, stop!â you scold over her meows. âItâs just dinner. Heâs nice.â 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. âGoodnight then!â You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.
Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.
âI lost my parents too.â You tell him one night, a week later. Heâs 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 anotherâs lives. Itâs somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green spaceâs center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. âI uh, didnât want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.â
âIâm sorry.â He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.
âThanks, I was young. Thereâs not much I remember about it.â Mostly true. You really didnât know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your motherâs life. The spell that ended your fatherâs. 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.
âHow many siblings do you have?â
âIâve got one sister, who I donât get to see as often as Iâd like. And then, my brothers, who arenât mine by blood but by weâve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. Weâre⌠very bonded.â
âThatâs sweet.â His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you.Â
âSweet isnât what Iâd call them, but itâs something.â
âTheyâre like your family then?â
âAye. Closest some of us âll ever get.â Thereâs 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. Youâve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. âLook, thatâs you.â He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. âLittle plant.â He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.
âPiss off.â 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.
âSorry, little shrub.â
âWhat are ye doing for Samhain?â He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.
âThereâs a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.â You smirk.
âNude?â he raises an eyebrow, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume youâre shelving.
âNo, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.â You donât mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. âWe drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. Thereâs also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.â He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. âWould you⌠would you like to come?â Why not? Itâs not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. Heâs quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like heâs reading it. Heâs silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isnât what you thought it might be. Maybe heâs-
âI would be happy to.â
âBe watchful of the fĂŠth fĂada.â The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. âSomething else is in these woods tonight.â 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.
âWhatâs the fĂŠth fĂada?â
âItâs the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises butâŚâ You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. âWe, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.â You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.
âThe Others?â He asks, and you nod.
âYes. Thatâs what we call them. The Fae.â He raises an eyebrow.
âThought the Fae were a myth.â You laugh and turn to face him.
âI assure you, theyâre very real.â
âOh? Have ye encountered one then?â You shudder, like youâre cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.
âOnce. When I was a child.â He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like heâs looking for something. Like heâs seeing.
âWere ye hurt, Fern?â Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your motherâs screams ring in between your ears.
âNo.â 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. âCome on.â You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. âDance with me?â 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.
âIâd like nothing more.â
Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didnât know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches. Â
âYouâre beautiful, little witch.â 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 youâre 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. âIâd like to kiss ye, Fern.â 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.
âOkay.â You murmur, and he smiles at you like youâre the most stunning creature heâs ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.
Itâs everything youâve ever dreamed it would be. Youâve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. Thereâs 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 heâs 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 canât 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 itâs your auntâs voice carrying over the music and revelry.
âI⌠I have toâŚâ 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. Â
âOf course.â 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. âIâll see ye soon?â
âY-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?â Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.
âI wouldnât miss it.â He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but donât release him, and itâs not until heâs asking you if youâre alright that you realize youâre clutching to him too tightly. Like heâs 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. âFern? What is it?âÂ
âNothing. I⌠I have to go. Iâll see you Thursday.â He opens his mouth to speak but youâre 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, itâs clear liquid a tell-tale sign of whatâs to come.
Divination.
Your auntâs lips purse when she sees you.
âAre you ready?â No. No, no. Please donât make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, youâre not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you donât want this. You donât 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. âFern.â Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.
âYes.â
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. Itâs 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.Â
 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.Â
Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face.Â
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 heâs nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it.Â
The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days.Â
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.Â
Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises.Â
No one calls. No one comes.Â
You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that youâll never know. Places youâll only ever read about in books Places that youâll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams.Â
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.Â
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 thereâs a rapping against your door.
Johnny.
âHey little sprout, whatâs-â the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. âFern.â He whispers.
âHi.â 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 itâs far too late. Heâs already seen.
âWhat⌠whatâs happened?â
âItâs nothing, Iâm fine.â You try to play it off but itâs pointless now.
âWho did this?â The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looksâŚÂ 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.Â
âJohnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "itâs fine, I- Iâm okay. Itâs just⌠the aftermath. Of Samhain.â Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something thatâs 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. âJohnny?â He doesnât 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.
Itâs because he canât stand to see you.Â
You look awful.Â
You look monstrous.Â
You are monstrous.Â
âNo one should ever touch ye like this.â 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. âAre ye⌠are ye okay?â
âYes. Just a bit tired.â
âIf itâs too much, to have dinner-â
âNo! N-no, no. I want⌠to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?â He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.
âI could go get a takeaway?â Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.
âThat would be wonderful.â
âAlright.â 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. âIâll be right back. You'll be alright?â
âYeah, 'm fine.â
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. Youâre still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, youâre sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. Itâs 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.
âSleep well, little witch.â
âTell me about your magic.â He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when youâre 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. Heâs been here, every day since, like heâs 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. Youâre 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.
âWhat about it?â
âThere were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didnât feel anyone quite like ye.â A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound⌠less insane.
âThere arenât any witches like me anymore, really.â You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. Youâre both sitting on your flatâs back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. âIâm a blood spinner.â He gives you a confused look.
âWhatâs that?â
âItâs like⌠a special kind of witch, in my coven. We arenât exactly⌠the most orthodox of our kind.â
âWhat do ye mean?â 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 itâs Johnny.Â
And you trust him.Â
âMy coven⌠weâre blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and⌠such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. Itâs generally taboo, now. There arenât any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.â
âAnd what is a blood spinner?â 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.
âEvery few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone whoâs⌠connected.â
âConnected?â
âWe 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.â You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. âI feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like theyâre 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.â
âIâm still not following.â Of course heâs not. Because you sound insane.Â
âRight, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. Itâs 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.â
âBut not you.â
âNo. If a witch in my coven wanted to, letâs say, cast a love spell, theyâd need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but theyâd still need one. Theyâd write it themselves or get it from someone else if they werenât 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.â
âJust your power.â
âYes.â You hesitate. Might as well, while youâre at it. âAnd, I can use blood to see the future.â He stiffens.
âDivination?â You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, âI didnât know mortal witches could practice Divination.â Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean?Â
âThey canât. Weâre not mortal.â His eyes narrow.Â
âWhat?â
âMy coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.â He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. âNot me, though. Not yet, anyway. Iâm still my natural age.â You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.
âWell, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?â He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.
âKiss me.â You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.
âYe never have to ask.â 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 youâre 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. âFern.â He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece heâs 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. âWe cannaâ dove. Itâs late.â He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.
Why doesnât he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?  Â
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.Â
âRight. Of course.â
He sighs, like heâs bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.
âIâm sorry, sweet Fern. Itâs not you, ah just⌠itâs late.âÂ
âThatâs alright, I understand.â 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 heâs holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. âIâll see you tomorrow?â you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.
âOf course.â He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.
âGoodnight.â You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.
âYouâve mentioned⌠you âave books about mermaids?â 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.
âSort of. Theyâre not really⌠mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.â Youâre 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, itâs writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. âTheyâre different.â
âThe Nereids.â He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. âThe ones who lure mortals to their deaths?â
âYou know of the Nereids?â He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues.Â
âMy mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.â 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.
âThey donât use blood spells.â
âNo?â
âNo.â You scoff. âTheir magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. Theyâre naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.â
âSo, it could be anyone.â He muses, and you shrug.
âYeah. Iâm sure itâs pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals⌠theyâve no idea. Itâs not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.â Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost donât catch it. âYou didnât know?â It wouldnât 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 canât help but give him everything he wants, anything heâs 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.
âNo. Had no idea.â 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.
âYeah, they need them⌠to live. Itâs very⌠complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.â You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. âItâs 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. Itâs what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.â You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. âIt all comes from the heart, you know?â 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.
âAye, I guess it does.â 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 youâre not seeing things.
Youâre not.
Heâs just really so, so beautiful.
Itâs 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.
âI was thinkingâŚâ
âYeah?â
âWhat if⌠it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereidâs song. Could you save them somehow?â Itâs 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.Â
âI donât know. I suppose you could, extract the song. Youâd have to call it forth because itâs naturally occurring. You couldnât just⌠cast a spell. Youâd have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then youâd be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I donât think I could make that choice.â His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.
âI donât think I could either.â
âThatâs not what I meant!â 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.
âAye but itâs what ye said.â Heâs 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.Â
âNooo Johnny.â You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though itâs the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when youâre 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 itâs because of him.
You dread that itâs because of him.
Four days later, youâre 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.
âWhat have you done?â She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.
âI donât... whatâs going on?â Â
âWhatâs going on?â She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. âYouâve always been such a foolish child.â
âI donât understandâŚâ
That male you brought to Samhain wasnât a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.â
âJohnny? No, heâs⌠heâs not. Heâs-â Heâs not. He couldnât be. He wouldnât lie to you.
âHave you not heard? Whatâs happened?â she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right.Â
âHeard what?â
âA Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.â You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.
âNo, thatâs not possible.â Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that evenâŚÂ
The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naĂŻve, how youâre lucky youâre the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive. Â
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.
âYou know of the Nereids?â
âI didnât know mortal witches could practice Divination.â
âI suppose you could, extract the songâŚâ
âThey donât use blood spells.âÂ
âYouâd have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourselfâŚâ
âIt all comes from the heart, you know?â
âOh, gods.â You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.
âYouâre dead to us. Youâll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, youâre to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.â She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. âThe juryâs still out, on whether youâll be tried and burned.â
âI didnât⌠I didnât know⌠I didnât do it intentionally.â You donât even know why youâre trying to explain yourself, why youâre bothering. She wonât 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.
âYour poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what youâve done.â
It doesnât 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. Theyâre 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?Â
Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing.Â
This male is not a man at all, but Fae.Â
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 heâs speaking, lips moving rapidly.
Johnny swivels in his chair, but itâs too late. Youâre 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.
âYou tricked me, you Fae bastard.â He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.
âFern-â He tries, but you steamroll him. Heâs Fae. Donât listen to a word he says.
âYou used me!â You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.
âNo, listen-â 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 Johnnyâs shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.
âNo! You listen! Do you have any idea what youâve done?â Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as heâs hurt you, betray him as heâs 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.Â
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.Â
Your words die on your tongue.Â
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:
âDid ye just point at me, little witch?â Youâre 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.
âStay away from me.â You hiss. Johnny hasnât 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 itâs intentional, you know itâs 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 Johnnyâs eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.
He looks⌠upset.
No. No he doesnât. Heâs not remorseful. He doesnât care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you.Â
You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but itâs too late, youâre too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.
âFern, wait!â

MY FIRST DRAWINGS OF ETHAN????? DSDRGYYJKOYREFHJJDEFDGJGD