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The Sad Saga of James Morgan and Company: My Writing Style Was Goblin Mode

Imagine being an eleven-year-old girl who is obsessed with Xena: Warrior Princess (and ripping off the dark plots from it) and Pokémon. Imagine being this kid who, after acting out her fanfics (that involve way too much human sacrifice and crucifixion) with her Barbies, decides she should actually write them down in a form other people can read.

Add a dose of repressed anger issues and you get this.

This fic contains: Colorful language; general angst; possible out-of-character moments for Jessie, James, and Meowth; violence; convoluted occult lore; blood; murderous, occult-powered Jessiebelle; attempted murder; Jessiebelle wants to honor-kill James(?!); Jessiebelle slut-shames James a lot; character death and resurrection; ellipses abuse; Jesus Hades Christ eleven!me tortured James a lot in fic (I don’t know why; he was and still is my favorite Pokémon character); James has bottlecap powers

-O-o-O-o-O-

*Imagine that Jessie, James, and Meowth have been trying witchcraft to do better at their job. It doesn't work for Jessie and Meowth, but it works for James. So he's a witch now. Imagine Jessiebelle is trying to kidnap James and is also a witch. Since James is a witch (whose powers are not supposed to be used for evil) and Team Rocket is an evil organization, the mismatch makes his powers go insane, weakening him.

*Jessiebelle sneaks up behind James while he's sitting at camp. He screams, but Jessiebelle puts a rag with knockout potion over his mouth. He passes out. Meowth comes on the scene.

Meowth: What did you do to him?! Jessiebelle: If he won't marry me, I'll have to marry him. I made him unconscious with a potion. I'll do the same with you.

*Meowth screams. Jessiebelle knocks him out with the potion and runs off with James, who is still unconscious.

*When Meowth comes to, Jessie is there.

Jessie: What happened to you? Where's James? Meowth: Jessiebelle used a potion to knock him out. She did that to me, too. I guess she took James away.

*They go out looking for James. Meanwhile, James comes to. He's chained to a wall. Jessiebelle is standing in front of him.

Jessiebelle: Did you have a nice nap?

*James magically screams so loud, Jessie and Meowth can hear him.

Meowth: That sounded like James!

*Back at the dungeon…

James: What are you trying to do to me? Jessiebelle: If you won't marry me, I'll just have to marry you. By force. And I know you're a witch, so those chains are witchcraft-proof.

*James tries to break the chains with his powers but it doesn't work. He screams. Jessiebelle puts her hand over his mouth.

Jessiebelle: Don't make me use the potion again.

*Jessie and Meowth climb through the window.

Jessie: You can't force him to marry you! Meowth: He doesn't love you!

*James looks relieved to see them.

Jessiebelle: I'll kill him if you two try anything.

*James's eyes widen. Jessiebelle turns to him.

Jessiebelle: You have dishonored your family, you know. If you resist marrying me, I'll have no choice but to kill you.

*James's widened eyes focus on the noose Jessiebelle is holding.

Jessiebelle: Either tie the knot or tie the noose. James: Why should I have to die because I don't want to get married? Jessiebelle: Shut up, or I'll blast you to pieces!

*Jessiebelle takes out a bulky wand that looks like a shotgun. James puts his head down.

Jessiebelle: And don't you dare try to scream again because I've got a really sharp dagger I'd like to test out on some flesh. (pulls out a really sharp dagger) Jessie: Stop threatening him! It makes no damn sense, killing him just because he doesn't want to get married. Jessiebelle: So you want to be killed with him? I can arrange that. James: Don't kill her! Jessiebelle: I told you to shut up, you insolent trollop! (takes out a needle with black liquid in it)

*James can't help it. He struggles against his chains. Jessiebelle pimp-slaps him across his face.

Jessiebelle: I told you, that's useless! Now, stop it! (kicks James) Meowth: You stop it! Quit trying to marry or kill him. I think you just want to marry him to kill him. Jessiebelle: That's not true. If he resists, I kill him. If he accepts, he lives. James: Why would I marry a murderer? Are you going to sacrifice me? Jessiebelle: That's it! I'll make you suffer, little witch! James: No, you won't! I'm not that same weak little child I was before. Jessiebelle: I can trigger your powers to go insane, you know. Jessie: I challenge you to a Pokémon battle, Jessiebelle! Jessiebelle: Fine. If you win, you can keep the little whore. If I win, I keep him. And possibly sacrifice him. Jessie: Don't call him a whore.

*They start the match. Jessie's Arbok wins the match and knocks Jessiebelle's Vileplume out. Jessie, James, and Meowth escape the dungeon. They look for a place to camp out.

Meowth: (to James) Are you okay? James: Why wouldn't I be? Meowth: You're not usually so quiet. James: I'm just tired.

*They find a place to camp out.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Jessiebelle has a new way to kill James if he doesn't marry her. She makes him suffer and beg for death.

*Jessie, James, and Meowth are trying to think of a new plan for stealing Pokémon. Jessiebelle comes out of nowhere and grabs James inconspicuously.

Jessie: Where did James go? Meowth: I don't know. I think I saw him get grabbed by somebody.

*Jessiebelle is running off with James, who is magically screaming as loud as he can so Jessie and Meowth can track him.

Jessiebelle: Will you shut up, you harlot?

*Jessiebelle shuts James up with her knockout potion. When she gets to the dungeon, James wakes up.

Jessiebelle: All right. No more Miss Nice Warlock. James: What do you mean, "no more?" You were never Miss Nice Warlock. Jessiebelle: You're going to suffer until you beg for death. I'll be glad to fuck you up until you die. James: It'll be a cold day in hell before I beg for death. Jessiebelle: Well, I guess you'll be there in hell on that cold day.

*Jessie and Meowth set their tent up right next to the dungeon. Even though it's next to it, Jessiebelle can't see it because James left them a camouflage potion spray.

*Jessiebelle drags James outside (it's a really hot day) and ties him to some dead leafless tree that's in the sun. The sun is right on him and it's "no shadow time." He almost faints. Next, Jessiebelle throws rocks at him, but doesn't kill him with them. Then she makes him carry heavy bricks, barely clothed, through mud on a rainy day. That's his breaking point. James faints and the bricks are cutting his arms and legs, so now he's covered in mud and blood.

*Jessie and Meowth are unaware of all this happening until they find James's limp body lying there. He's not dead. When they take him into their tent, he wakes up.

James: What happened? (tries to sit up, but is still dizzy from the torture in the sun) Jessie: I don't know what she did to you. We just found you lying in the mud. James: I don't know if I remember all of what happened. (tries to sit up again, winces, clutches head) Meowth: Lie down. What happened to you?

*James tells them what he remembers.

James: I don't care what she does to me, I'm not marrying her. Meowth: If that bitch ever tries that again, I don't know what I'm gonna do, but it won't be good. Jessie: So what you're saying is, a fucking-up is in the question. Meowth: Yeah. Pretty much.

*Jessiebelle glances out the window. She squints through a magic scope and sees the tent.

Jessiebelle: Whoever's in that tent, you're squatting on private property and I have a right to shoot! (cocks wand)

*Jessie and Meowth tell James to stay inside. They get out of the tent.

Jessiebelle: Not you bastards again! What'd you do with James? Jessie: He's not with us right now. Jessiebelle: My ass! (jumps out window onto tent)

*Jessiebelle lands next to James.

Jessiebelle: I'm locking you up and throwing away the key!

*James screams. Jessiebelle puts her hand over his mouth. He bites her hand. It doesn't faze her. She takes James inside the dungeon and locks the door behind them.

*Inside….

Jessiebelle: You know what happens now? First, I'll get your little friends.

*Jessiebelle drags Jessie and Meowth in with a sucking wind and chains them to the wall with witchcraft-proof chains.

Jessiebelle: Next I'll test out my new dagger on their necks. James: Don't kill them, kill me. Jessiebelle: What was that? James: I said, kill me instead. Jessiebelle: Fine. (walks over to James and stabs him)

*James slides down the wall, leaving a trail of blood. Jessiebelle unchains Jessie and Meowth.

Jessiebelle: You can't help him now, so I might as well let you free. (leaves in a cloud of red smoke) Meowth: No….(walks over to James) No….he's not dying….we can save him.

*James isn't quite dead yet.

James: I'm sorry. It's true. I am dying. Meowth: No, you're not. I can help you. I'm sorry we didn't save you in time. James: (coughs up blood) She moves too fast. Nobody can stop her. At least she won't bother you now I'm dying. Meowth: You're not dying. Just don't talk, save your strength, maybe you'll live. James: (painfully) Nobody can live through being (breathes with difficulty) mortally wounded. Meowth : Is this goodbye?

*James's eyes close. They don't open again. Meowth holds James's hand in his paw. James's hand is cold.

Meowth: He's dead. Jessie: I guess it was too much for him. The suffering was, I mean.

*Meowth starts to cry. Jessie holds him.

Jessie: Maybe we could try one of those rituals to bring him back. Meowth: But how? The powers didn't come to us. Jessie: Then we'll steal some of Jessiebelle's.

*They find Jessiebelle's spell books and supplies. They find a cauldron and start trying to mix the potions. They sacrifice three Spearow, prick their fingers, and add their own blood to the cauldron. Then they drip their own blood on the floor, making markings, and place James's body in the center. They pour some of the potion on James. He comes back to life.

James: I'm alive. (gasps) Meowth: Don't get worked up. We don't want you fainting when you've just come back to life. James: I'm not worked up. I'm happy.

*The three of them hug and get out of there.

Meowth: I managed to grab this. (pulls out a bottle of potion) But I don't have anything to cover it.

*James zaps a bottle cap out of the air and puts it on the potion bottle. Team Rocket walks into the sunset.

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: Eleven!me knows way too many synonyms for "whore." Also, James's powers are magical screaming, conjuring bottlecaps, and mixing potions.

The Sad Saga of James Morgan and Company: The First of the Ill-Fated OCs

I made practically a whole boy band of original characters for James to fall in love with. They will, of course, all end up in Jessiebelle's fridge as angst fodder. I'd jokingly say, "Original Character: do not steal," but there's barely anything there to steal.

This fic contains: Colorful language; general angst; possible out-of-character moments for Jessie, James, and Meowth; definite out-of-character moments for Ash (he's kind of ableist holy crap); violence; convoluted occult lore; blood; underdeveloped original character; murderous, occult-powered Jessiebelle; attempted murder/human sacrifice; Meowth gets weirdly descriptive about death; character (Pokémon) death and resurrection; ellipses abuse; Jesus Hades Christ eleven!me tortured James a lot in fic (you always hurt the ones you love i guess)

-O-o-O-o-O-

*Imagine Team Rocket is just walking, minding their own business, until Jessiebelle kidnaps James again. Jessie and Meowth follow her.

Jessiebelle: You stupid, stupid little strumpet. Why do you even try to run from me? You know resistance is futile. You can't run and you can't hide. James: If I can't hide, how come it takes you so long to find me? Jessiebelle: Well, you can hide, but not for long.

*Jessiebelle sprays a potion on James. He falls to the ground, writhing in pain.

James: What is that stuff? Jessiebelle: It's a special potion for disobedient witches.

*James faints. Jessie and Meowth jump in the window.

Jessiebelle: Why must you break my windows? In fact, why must you ruin my plans of sacrificing your friend? Jessie: Unlike you, we don't want to control him.

*Jessiebelle's guard, a boy with green hair and green eyes, walks in.

Guard: Did you kill him?! Jessiebelle: No, but I'm going to. Guard: (looks at James) Don't kill him. Jessiebelle: And why shouldn't I kill him? He's evil, you know. Guard: He's not evil. In fact, I don't think he could be a bad guy.

*While Jessiebelle and her guard are arguing, Jessie and Meowth take James out of there.

Meowth: Wake up, James!

*Meowth starts gently patting James's cheek. James wakes up.

James: What happened? Meowth: You were poisoned by that crazy bitch Jessiebelle. James: It wouldn't be the first time. (winces)

*James takes out a vial of reddish-brown liquid. He turns pale while drinking it and clearly is not enjoying it.

Meowth: What is that stuff? James: (coughs) It's Jigglypuff blood, not taken violently. It's supposed to be an antidote. (doubles over, tries not to vomit)

Meowth: Feel any better? James: Not right away.

*Later that day, James's powers are going insane, which seems to drive him crazy.

James: (softly) I hate her. Meowth: What? James: (louder) I hate her. Jessie: What's the matter? James: I hate her! I hate her! I HATE HER! Meowth: Calm down. Who do you hate? James: I hate that crazy bitch! Jessie: You mean Jessiebelle. James: Yes.

*No one speaks until the next day because of that violent outburst James had. Ash comes across Team Rocket.

Ash: It's Team Rocket! What trick do you have up your sleeves now? Jessie: Just piss off, twerp.

*James is standing with his head down. All he can think about is how he hates Jessiebelle.

James: I hate her. Meowth: Uh-oh. Jessie: Not this shit again. Ash: What?! James: I hate her. Ash: What the hell are you talking about?! James: (screaming) I hate that crazy bitch Jessiebelle! Ash: (backing away) Are you sure you're not the crazy bitch? James: How do you think you'd act if someone wanted to sacrifice you?! Ash: Okay, call the guys in white coats. James: (hisses) I don't need them. I'm not a crazy bitch, I'm a sane witch! Ash: Right now, you sound like a cat. Meowth: Hey! I resemble that remark! Ash: Whatever drugs you're on, I'm gonna just say no. James: I am not on drugs! You're full of shit, you little twerpy bastard! Shut the hell up! Ash: (dubiously) Right.

*Jessie pulls James back and dumps a vial of green potion on his head. James blinks, then seems to snap out of a trance.

James: What was I saying? Ash: That you're not a crackhead? Meowth: Let's just get outta here.

*Jessie and Meowth lead James away to find a place to camp. When they find a good spot, Meowth makes James lie down.

Meowth: After that outburst, you should probably rest. James: What did I do and why don't I remember anything? Meowth: Let's just say you got a little bit mad.

*James sighs. This was clearly the work of Jessiebelle's dark magic.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Jessiebelle traps Jessie, James, and Meowth in a cage. She decides to leave them there for a while.

*They're clawing and trying to batter their way out. Jessiebelle ignores them.

Jessie: This isn't working. We're going to have to try and get the keys. James: I don't think we'll ever get out. She wants to leave us in here until we beg to die. Meowth: I think all our skin will rot away and our organs will dry up and our blood will evaporate before we beg for death. I'd rather have my brain disintegrate than beg to die.

*They're in different cages. Jessie is in one cage while James and Meowth are in a second cage.

Meowth: I'm not going to beg to die. James: Neither will I. Jessie: I definitely won't.

*Jessiebelle comes back in.

Meowth: Ya hear that? You're not gonna win this! Jessiebelle: Shut up, hell cat! (kicks Meowth, knocking him out) Don't tell me what I will and won't do. Damn you! James: (crawls over to Meowth) What have you done to him?! (holds Meowth)

*Jessiebelle leaves. James tries to nurse Meowth back to health magically. Jessiebelle comes back in and sees James holding Meowth with tears streaming down his cheeks.

James: You killed him. Jessiebelle: No, I didn't.

*James's eyes start glowing ominously. He's got a dark look on his face. But for a second, he looks hurt.

Jessiebelle: I wouldn't do that if I were you. This cage is witchcraft-proof. (to her guard) Tylas, watch these three. See that they don't escape. And keep a very watchful eye on that boy. (walks away)

*Tylas watches them. James is still crying silently.

Tylas: Why are you crying? James: Meowth is going to die. I hate Jessiebelle. Tylas: To tell you the truth, I don't really like her either.

*James and Tylas look in each other's eyes.

Tylas: What's wrong? James: (seems to snap out of a trance) Nothing. (sighs sadly) Maybe she didn't kill him. If you kill a Pokémon out of spite, you get cursed.

*James puts his ear to Meowth's heart. His eyes glaze over. His face gets really pale. He cries out.

Tylas: What's wrong? James: (sobbing) She killed him. Jessie: She killed Meowth?! James: Yes. (sobs) Jessiebelle: What's all this noise about? James: You know damn well what it's about. Jessiebelle: True, but I want to see if I'm right. James: You killed Meowth. Jessiebelle: I was right. (walks out again) Jessie: James, couldn't you use that life potion on Meowth? James: I didn't think of that.

*James sprays the life potion on Meowth. They don't even need to do the whole routine with the sacrifices this time. Meowth comes back to life.

Meowth: I'm alive again. James: I'm so glad you're alive. Jessie: So am I. Tylas: I'm glad, too.

*They manage to escape.

Jessiebelle: How could you let them escape?! Tylas: I don't know. I was hiding the key. Jessiebelle: There's always tomorrow.

*Meanwhile, Jessie, James, and Meowth are in the forest, looking for a place to camp out.

Jessie: I think it was really strange that Tylas was glad Meowth was alive. James: He said he didn't like Jessiebelle that much. Meowth: It was nice of him to help us escape. Jessie: Definitely. Don't you think so, James?

*James doesn't answer. He's staring into space.

Meowth: Hello? Anybody home?

*Jessie waves her hand in James's face.

James: What? What were we talking about? Jessie: We were talking about how it was nice of Tylas to help us escape. James: Oh, yeah. Him. (sighs) Meowth: Why do you keep daydreaming when we talk about him? (figures it out) Hey, I know why! James: What? Jessie: I think you're in love with Tylas. James: (blushes) I'm not. I just….like him a lot. Meowth: That's love.

*James thinks about this for a while.

James: Okay. So Maybe I'm in love with Tylas. Meowth: Then I'll go tell him. James: Wait! Come back here!

*James chases after Meowth. They eventually find a place to camp out.

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: If you kill a Pokémon out of spite, you get cursed. This story must be a Poké serial killer, then.

The Sad Saga of James Morgan and Company: Nobody Is Safe

More of my Pokémon occult AU, barely-there OCs, and James whumpage (I swear he's my favorite character I don't know why I did this to him).

This fic contains: Colorful language; general angst; possible out-of-character moments for Jessie, James, and Meowth; underdeveloped original characters (and their fridging); violence and blood; convoluted occult lore; murderous, occult-powered Jessiebelle (now with fucked up whip action!); attempted murder; main character death (RIP Jessie); Jessiebelle is really messed up; ellipses abuse; Jesus Hades Christ eleven!me tortured James a lot in fic (this extends to Jessie and Meowth it seems); James still has magical powers

-O-o-O-o-O-

*Imagine Tylas quit being Jessiebelle's guard because he didn't want to help kill James. He figures out that James is in love with him. Jessiebelle decides to kill him by putting a curse on James. So, because James loves Tylas, if they kiss each other, Tylas will die.

*James is running from his Victreebel, which is chasing him. Tylas is running, too. He wants to get away from Jessiebelle's dungeon. They both run into each other.

James: (gets up) I'm sorry. It's my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going. Tylas: I wasn't looking either. And I was running too fast. I should be sorry.

*They both look into each other's eyes. Victreebel ruins the romantic moment by pouncing James. James gets Victreebel back into the Pokéball. Tylas is looking at him.

Tylas: Are you okay? James: (shyly) Yes. (blushes) Tylas: You sure? You're turning red. James: I'm fine. (blushes harder)

*They stand there like that for a few seconds.

Tylas: Are you, by any chance, in love with me? Is that why you're so shy and blushing? James: (breathes) Yes. Tylas: Wow. (smiles) James: Well, I have to get back to the camp now. Tylas: Okay.

*They walk away from each other.

Meowth: Did you tell him? James: Yes. At least I didn't kiss him. Then he'd die.

*The next day, the trio and Tylas walk toward each other.

Tylas: James, I know you're kind of shy around me, so I'll make this short. I love you.

*This is too much for James. He bursts into tears.

Tylas: Was it something I said? James: I'm sorry….I shouldn't have started crying. (sniffles) It's just that….Jessiebelle put a curse on me and if I kiss you, you'll die. Tylas: I still love you. James: So do I. But I can't kiss you. Tylas: That's okay.

*Jessiebelle is spying on them.

Jessiebelle: He's too smart. He won't make a mistake. I'll have to kill Tylas myself. James will either beg me to kill him, or die of a broken heart.

*Jessiebelle traps James and Tylas. Jessie and Meowth follow them. Jessiebelle gets out a dark occult knife. She locks James in a cage.

Jessiebelle: Now you'll witness the death of your lover! James: No! Let me die for him! Jessiebelle: No, this time, you can't die for your friend. I'm going to dip this knife in a very powerful potion. It's so powerful, your life potion and your powers won't be able to bring him back to life. I call it "Pure Death." (dips dark occult knife in the pure death potion)

*Jessiebelle stabs Tylas with the the dark occult pure death knife. James's vocal cords lock up and his breathing is shaky.

Jessiebelle: You want his dead body? James: (shakily) Yes.

*James grabs Tylas and gets out of there.

James: You're not going to die. You can live. I can save you. Tylas: She stabbed me with the pure death knife. James: Maybe she was lying about how powerful it was. Tylas: She wasn't. I know that potion. I saw her make it. I will always love you. James: I will, too.

*Tylas dies.

Meowth: You okay? James: No. (is quiet awhile) Maybe I'm not meant to love anyone. (gets up and walks away) Meowth: Where are you going? James: To get a shovel and to bury him.

*Jessie and Meowth see James standing out there in the rain, burying Tylas. He says something, but they can barely hear it. Then he comes back.

*The next day….

Meowth: Love is cruel. James: I hate that word now. Meowth: What?! James: I hate the "L" word. Jessie: You're being ridiculous. James: Everyone I love dies. I managed to bring Meowth back to life, but Tylas is gone. If one more person I love dies, I might consider committing suicide. Meowth: You must've liked him a lot to feel that way now. James: I did. (sighs heavily) I don't want to hurt your feelings, but can I please be left alone for a while? Meowth: You're not hurting our feelings.

*Jessie and Meowth go into the tent. James stays outside. He lets go of the fact that Tylas is dead and realizes that sometimes when you really love a person, you have to let them go.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Jessiebelle captured James and then Jessie and Meowth followed them and got chained up, too. Jessiebelle injects poison into James. It isn't the pure death poison or some other deadly poison. She sets off a bomb, leaves the dungeon, and lets it blow up. Jessie, James, and Meowth blast off, get separated, and land in three different places. Jessie lands in a lake. James lands in a tree. Meowth lands in another dungeon.

*Jessie gets out of the lake.

Jessie: I wonder what the other two are doing.

*A bunch of kids see her coming out of the lake and start laughing. Meanwhile, James is up in a tree, on a branch. He loses his balance and falls. The tree branch snaps and falls. It lands on his head and knocks him out. At a dungeon….

Meowth: This must be Jessiebelle's new dungeon. (looks around) I'm never blasting off again.

*At the lake….

Jessie: I would take off my skirt and wring it out if all those kids weren't staring.

*At the tree a blond boy finds James. The boy's name is Lucian.

Lucian: He's hurt really badly. Jessiebelle doesn't have to know about this.

*Another boy (red-haired) comes out of the bushes.

Boy: What happened? Lucian: This boy is really hurt.

*The other boy's name is Lenny. He's Lucian's friend.

Lenny: How could he have gotten all those injuries? He looks so young. Lucian: He's only seventeen. His parents want him to marry Jessiebelle, but Jessiebelle has been abusing him. I'm Jessiebelle's new guard. It's a shame he's being abused. Lenny: How has he not died? Lucian: He's a witch, so he has some slight protection against her. But I'm going to protect him more.

*Lucian spreads a paste on James's leg where the poison was injected into him.

Lucian: He's got a bad head injury. Jessiebelle must've hit him. Or maybe he fell out of a tree.

*James wakes up.

James: Where am I? (sits up with difficulty) Lucian: I'm going to help you. I don't care what Jessiebelle thinks. Where are your friends? James: I don't know. We got separated when Jessiebelle blew up the dungeon. Lenny: Who are your friends? James: One of them is a girl named Jessie. She looks exactly like Jessiebelle, but tougher and with longer hair. The other one is a talking Meowth. Lenny: A talking Meowth? I think you should lie back down. James: But it's true. Lucian: He's right. I've seen the talking Meowth. They seem quite close. What happened to you? James: Jessiebelle injected poison into me and blew up the dungeon. Somehow, when we blasted off, Jessie, Meowth, and I got separated. I landed in a tree, but I lost my balance and fell. Then something hit me on the head and I blacked out.

*Jessie and Meowth step out of the bushes.

Meowth: What are you doing? Lucian: I'm helping him. Jessie: A likely story. Lucian: But I want to help him. Meowth: So you can earn his trust and then ambush him when he least expects it. Lucian: No! It isn't like that. I just found him unconscious a few minutes ago. He told me he got separated from you and he didn't know where you were. Meowth: You gained that much of his trust to find that out. Lucian: I took care of his wounds. Meowth: Usually he does that himself. Lucian: He was unconscious.

*Jessie and Meowth share a look.

Meowth: Okay. You can help him. But we'll stay with you to make sure there's no funny business. Lucian: (to James) I'll take care of you.

*James is looking up at Lucian adoringly. Team Rocket befriends Lucian and Lenny. James is in love with Lucian.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Jessiebelle wants to make James die of sadness. She kills Lucian. Then she decides to try to kill Jessie, then James will commit suicide, ask Jessiebelle to kill him, or die of sadness.

*The trio is walking along the road. Jessiebelle grabs James, knocks him out with her potion, and runs. She comes to a toll booth in the middle of the forest.

Toll Booth Attendant: Where are you going? Jessiebelle: Sorry. I can't tell. It's top secret.

*Later, Jessie and Meowth come to the toll booth.

Toll Booth Attendant: You again?! Jessie: That was just someone who looked exactly like me. Which way did she go? Meowth: And was she carrying a boy? Toll Booth Attendant: She went that way. (points) Yes, she was carrying a boy. Jessie: Did you see what the boy looked like? Toll Booth Person: He had long violet hair. His eyes were closed. He was wearing a uniform similar to yours. Why? Do you think she's going to do something bad to him? Meowth: She's going to kill him.

*They find Jessiebelle's dungeon. James is locked up in a cage. He's kicking the door and trying to blast it open with his powers.

Jessiebelle: Kicking it and using your powers won't do anything. James: I have to at least try!

*Jessie and Meowth come in.

Jessiebelle: Since you're here, I'll just kill one of you. I can't kill that hell cat or I'll get cursed, so I'll have to kill you. James: No. Don't you kill her. Let me die for her! Jessie: James, you're too young to die. I'll die for you. James: No. I couldn't save Tylas and Lucian, but I'm going to save you. Jessiebelle: (dips dark occult knife in pure death potion) I think I'll end this argument. (stabs Jessie)

*James starts screaming and kicking the cage door to get it.

James: You bastard! How could you?! Jessiebelle: Young witches. Always so temperamental. (lets James out)

*James grabs Jessie's dead body, grabs Meowth by the hand, and gets out of there.

James: She's already dead. I didn't even get to say goodbye. (starts to cry softly)

*Meowth can't say anything because he's crying, too. James gets a shovel and buries Jessie.

*The next day, Jessiebelle jumps out of a tree and lands on her feet in front of James and Meowth. She's dressed like Jessie.

James: Jessie? Is that you? Jessiebelle: It's me. Your worst nightmare. Meowth: You're not Jessie. Jessiebelle: Meowth, that's right.

*James faints. Jessiebelle is about to stab James.

Meowth: Fuck off of him! (scratches Jessiebelle across the face)

*Jessiebelle screams and runs off.

Meowth: James, wake up!

*James wakes up.

James: What happened? Meowth: You passed out when Jessiebelle came back.

*Meowth notices James trembling.

Meowth:What's wrong? James: She couldn't have made a Team Rocket uniform that quickly. She would've had to take it off Jessie's body. She dug up Jessie's grave and disrespected her body. Meowth: You're sweating. James: I hate Jessiebelle. Meowth: So do I. James: What did Jessie ever do to her? Why did she have to kill her and do that to her dead body? Meowth: We've gotten killed by her, too. What did any of us do to her to make her kill us? James: I think she wants to make me die of sadness or beg for death. She's getting back at me for not marrying her. Meowth: That could be right. James: I think I should put something on Jessie's grave. Meowth: What are you going to put there?

*James gets up. He goes over to Jessie's grave (which is next to Tylas's grave) and takes out one of his roses. It's a blood red rose. There's a faded pink one on Tylas's grave.

Meowth: But that's your rose you say the motto with. James: I know. I'll carry a black rose because I'm in mourning. Meowth: She'd probably want us to continue saying the motto as we steal Pokémon. James: I don't know if I can continue to be a Team Rocket member. I think she'd want me to, and I want to honor her memory. Meowth: I want to, too. James: Why don't I just dye my uniform black?

*Jessiebelle jumps out of a tree again. She grabs James. Meowth runs after them. They all end up at the dungeon.

Jessiebelle: Marry me or die. I know a great way to kill you.

*Jessiebelle pokes James in the dick with the handle of a dark occult knife. Meowth manages to free James, take him by the hand, and run out of there.

Meowth: Why don't we tell Officer Jenny about this? James: She'd never believe a Team Rocket member. She'd probably laugh if I told her I was sexually abused.

*Jessiebelle kidnaps James and his grandparents. Meowth gets catnapped (or Poké-napped) too.

Jessiebelle: I thought you could use your old-age wisdom to set your grandson straight. (whips James around the waist)

*The whip wraps around James's waist and starts choking him. Jessiebelle tugs on the whip, trying to strangle James.

James's grandfather: What are you doing to him?!

*Jessiebelle lets go of the whip. James falls backward, unconscious. His grandparents catch him before he falls.

James's grandmother: This is madness. Meowth: Why are you killing him?

*James's grandfather is holding his body.

James's grandfather: You killed him. Meowth: (listens to James's heartbeat) He's not dead. He's just unconscious.

James's grandmother: You're going to be all right.

*James comes to.

James: What happened? Meowth: Jessiebelle tried to strangle you to death. James's grandfather: You leave our grandson alone. Jessiebelle: And if I don't?

*Growlie comes in and sets Jessiebelle on fire. She pours water on the fire. Meowth scratches her face. Everybody else runs out of there, taking Meowth with them.

James's grandmother: I'm so sorry we didn't intervene earlier when your parents tried to force you to marry Jessiebelle. We didn't know the danger they were putting you in. James: It's okay. They covered up a lot.

*After James's grandparents and Growlie leave, Meowth comes up to James.

Meowth: I guess it's just the two of us. James: Yeah. Just us. Meowth: Let's go.

*James and Meowth walk into the sunset.

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: Even in the middle of nowhere in an occult-infested forest, you can't escape the toll booths.

The Sad Saga of James Morgan and Company: I Still Have Questions

If you were (or still are) a regular viewer of Xena: Warrior Princess, you will probably recognize the inspiration for this fic as the season three episode "Forget Me Not." You will also notice that eleven!me completely mangled it.

This fic contains: Colorful language; possible out-of-character moments for James and Meowth; convoluted occult lore; murderous, occult-powered Jessiebelle; ellipses abuse; definite out-of-character moment for Ash; original character; attempted suicide on astral plane/alternate timeline; violence; Jessiebelle is really messed up; Butch and Cassidy are pretty terrible, too; Jessie is still dead; James actually has useful powers (?!); Jesus Hades Christ eleven!me tortured James (and Meowth!) a lot in fic (this particular warning is getting a lot of use isn't it)

-O-o-O-o-O-

*James and Meowth are still mourning Jessie. Jessiebelle is still after James. One day, James and Meowth are walking in the forest when they come across a strange building. It has a sign that says, "Answer Shack: Any questions will be answered, whether you like it or not." It looks like a stone temple.

Meowth: Do you have any questions? James: (thinks awhile). Yes. Several.

*James goes in, but the two guards don't let Meowth in.

Meowth: Hey, what's the big idea? Guard One: Only one inquirer is allowed at a time. Meowth: I don't have any questions. I just wanted to go in with my friend. Guard Two: The questions must be asked and answered in private.

*In the temple, James is standing and looking around. A boy who looks an awful lot like Tylas is standing across from him. James is looking at him with a frightened look on his face.

Temple Keeper Tylas look-alike: What is wrong, James? James: (whispering) Nothing.

*The boy even sounds like Tylas, except his voice is monotone. He's also a witch.

Temple Witch: What do you wish to know? James: Why did all the things that happened to me have to happen to me? Temple Witch: I know what you are talking about. I have been watching you. I have seen you witness the death of your chosen sister and best friend as well as the death of your true love. I have seen you go through pain only a power-carrier can survive. I know the answer to all your questions. It all had to happen to you because you are the Chosen One. If all of that had not happened to you, history would have been changed. And because you are a good bad guy, meaning that on the outside you are a bad guy, but on the inside, you cannot stand being bad. You will kill yourself if you steal one more Pokémon. You will want your Meowth friend to scratch your heart out if your plan to steal Ash's Pikachu actually works. James: No…. Temple Witch: Yes. It may be painful, but it is the truth. You cannot deny it. James: No. I like being part of Team Rocket. I like being evil and nasty. Temple Witch: Admit it. You are not fit to be a bad guy and you know it.

*James tries to break away from him, but for every step backward he takes, the Temple Witch takes a step forward. Even if the Temple Witch weren't taller than him, he'd be afraid.

Temple Witch: You are the perfect one for my experiment.

*Meanwhile, outside….

Meowth: Let me in, NOW!

*Meowth hears James scream. The guards let him in. Meowth sees James lying unconscious on the floor. The Temple Witch stands over him.

Meowth: (screams) What have you done to him?! Temple Witch: I dosed him with this. (holds up a sack of powder) I will take you into what he is thinking and experiencing now.

*The Temple Witch takes Meowth into a back room to show him what James is experiencing in the astral plane dimension. It's mostly what would happen if James had never met Jessie and Meowth.

Meowth: You forced him to think these awful thoughts? Temple Witch: It was necessary. (points to a lonely-looking Pokémon) Look over there. Does that cat look familiar? Meowth: Is that….? Temple Witch: Yes. That is you.

*The cat he pointed to could talk, but….

Temple Witch: What is wrong with this picture? Meowth: I don't know. All I see is a cat talking. Temple Witch: He is talking to himself. This is where you would be if you had never met James, just after Jessie died. All alone.

*Some people take him away.

Temple Witch: Listen. Person taking Meowth away: Where is your owner? Can you really talk and understand us? Meowth in James's dream: She died. Person: We'll have to set up an orphanage. Dream Meowth: An orphanage?! Please don't take me there! Person: I'm sorry, but we can't let you stay on the streets if you used to have a trainer. (takes him away) Temple Witch: That is what would have happened. Now, look at this.

*They're at a mansion, looking through the window.

Meowth: That's James! I don't see anything different about him. Temple Witch: Look closely. At his expression. Look what that woman is doing to him. Meowth: That's Jessiebelle! But she's got a whip and a wand. James looks so scared and sad. Temple Witch: He is not just scared and sad. He is frightened and miserable. Now, watch.

*Jessiebelle closes the door and locks it. James sits, shaking. He's crying. Jessiebelle hits him.

Meowth: Don't let her do this to you! Temple Witch: He cannot hear or see you. Meowth: I don't want to see any more of this. Temple Witch: We are not finished. Look.

*James is in the dungeon. He's doing something with a rope.

Meowth: What's he doing? Temple Witch: He had to tie the knot. Now he will tie the noose. Meowth: What's that supposed to mean?! Temple Witch: He is committing suicide.

*Jessiebelle comes in. She makes James put the noose away. He's now like a slave. He can't talk without permission.

Meowth: She's hurt him so much. Temple Witch: He is not allowed to cry. One tear could mean death for him. Meowth: (crying) Stop! Take me back to reality. I want to see the real James. Not some emotionless, voiceless boy who happens to be the same person. Temple Witch: It is now time to return.

*They go back to reality. James wakes up.

Temple Witch: What both of you just saw and experienced was a page from your life's history ripped out. The page where you met each other. (disappears into a cloud of smoke)

*James picks up Meowth and runs as fast as he can trying to get as far as he can from that temple. Later that day….

Meowth: Why are you sitting on that rock? James: (flat, monotone voice) I'm thinking. (wanders back to the tent)

*James's face is pale and his eyes are glazed over. Meowth could swear on Jessie's grave that an eerie green glow is coming from James's green eyes. Meowth follows him into the tent.

Meowth: If there's something wrong, please talk to me.

*James glances at Meowth, even though he isn't really looking at Meowth.

James: (flat voice) It's just that boy. He looks too much like Tylas. Meowth: (thinking) I wish I had the old James back. Not….this distant boy who looks at everyone with an empty stare and wanders around like a ghost. I want my only living friend back.

*Meowth starts to cry.

James: (flat voice) What's wrong? (turns to face Meowth)

*James's empty stare and the lack of color on his face only makes Meowth cry harder.

Meowth: I'm worried about you. James: (flat voice) Why ever would that be? I'm fine. Meowth: No, you're not. You talk like a robot. You wander around like a ghost. You have that distant look in your eyes. You're almost as white as your uniform. James: (soft, flat voice) I've always been like this. Meowth: (crying) No, you haven't! I just want the old James back. The one who even though he could only smile weakly, he'd smile anyway.

*James is quiet for a minute. Meowth thinks he sees a very small trace of emotion on James's face. When James turns to face him fully, he has that emotionless expression and empty stare back on.

James: (flat voice) There's nothing wrong with me. (sighs) Meowth: Even your sighing sounds monotone. James: (flat voice) Maybe after a good night's rest, we'll both feel better.

*They go to sleep. The next day, James wanders off to that rock he sat on the day before. The twerps notice him.

Ash: It's Team rocket! What are you up to now?

*James doesn't answer him.

Ash: What's the deal with him?

*James turns in Ash's direction. He has that distant look in his eyes.

Ash: He's giving me he creeps. Brock: He looks strange. Like a ghost, except he's not floating or see-through.

*Misty walks up to James.

Misty: What's wrong? James: (flat voice) Nothing. Meowth: He's been like that for hours.

*Misty waves her hand in front of James's face. He doesn't seem to respond.

Misty: He's so pale and quiet. Why is that? Meowth: I don't know. James: (flat voice) It's something I saw yesterday. Misty: What was it?

*James tells her in a flat monotone voice. His eyes are halfway open, like he's in a trance. After hearing the story, the twerps are disturbed and leave. James is trying to support himself by leaning on a nearby tree.

Meowth: I think he's draining your energy. James: (flat voice, getting shakier) I'm fine. Maybe my powers are just going insane again.

*James shakes violently, breaks away from the tree, and runs to a bush to throw up.

Meowth: You sure don't seem fine to me.

*James looks up again while wiping his mouth. He seems to have rejected whatever powder he took in the temple. The distant James dissolves. James breaks down in tears.

James: (crying) That temple witch was Tylas's ghost, being controlled by Jessiebelle.

*Meowth comforts James and then walks him back to the tent to rest. Later that evening, Meowth decides to cook dinner.

Meowth: We're having soup. It'll go down easier for you. (hands James a bowl) James: Thanks.

*The next day, as they're walking through the woods, they come across Butch and Cassidy.

Cassidy: I don't see Jessie anywhere. I guess she couldn't cut it in Team Rocket after all.

*James and Meowth glare.

Butch: You two should go ahead and quit while you're behind. You're not fit to be Team Rocket members. Cassidy: Are you still shitty at training that Victreebel? Did it finally snap and eat Jessie's hair off? Is that why she left you? Butch: Or did all your failures drive her to make a final blast off?

*James's hands curl into fists.

James: JESSIE WAS MURDERED, YOU UTTER CUNTS!

*James zaps lightning at Butch and Cassidy. They scream and run off. James sinks to his knees and stares at his hands.

Meowth: Ha! You sure showed them! (turns to James) James? James: I could've killed them…. Meowth: But you didn't. James: That doesn't matter! (trembling) Meowth: I think you should lie down. James: Let's just set up camp.

*They set up camp. James goes into the tent and lies down on his sleeping bag. Meowth follows.

Meowth: I'm worried about you. First, Jessiebelle tries to kill you, then she kills Jessie, now this. I hate to say this, but maybe we can't fight her anymore. James: What are you saying?! Meowth: Maybe we should surrender. James: No! I'm not going down without a fight. It's even in our motto! "Surrender now or prepare to fight!" I have to live up to it. Even if we lose. (sighs sadly) Jessie would want us to. Meowth: I miss Jessie, too. And we're not even near her grave. James: It's not just Jessie I miss. That temple witch reminded me of Tylas. Meowth: I see a pattern here. You loved Tylas, so Jessiebelle killed him. Jessie is our friend, so Jessiebelle killed her, and….

*James's eyes widen.

James: You're the only one left. (starts crying quietly) Meowth: I won't die. And I won't leave you. James: I will protect you.

*James protects Meowth and they manage to avoid Jessiebelle for a while.

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: If a person, place, or organization claims to have all the answers, RUN.

The Sad Saga of James Morgan and Company: The Trouble Is Made Double

In which James loses his blood innocence (first kill drama) but gains a doppelganger.

This fic contains: Colorful language; possible out-of-character moments for James and Meowth; convoluted occult lore; murderous, occult-powered Jessiebelle; ellipses abuse; original characters; blood and violence (including sexual violence); Jessiebelle slut-shames James a lot; Jessie is still dead; Jesus Hades Christ eleven!me tortured James (and Meowth!) a lot in fic (and then I decided one James wasn't enough); James still has magical powers

-O-o-O-o-O-

*Jessiebelle kidnaps James again. Meowth meets Lenny and they both follow.

*At the dungeon, Jessiebelle has a new guard named Tyrel, who looks down at James mockingly.

Jessiebelle: Tyrel, help me find a way to punish this strumpet. James: I'm no strumpet! I'm still a virgin! Jessiebelle: I would've thought you'd sin with Tylas or Lucian. James: Don't you say their names. Tyrel: If you want, I could dig them up for you. James: I will beat the piss out of you. Tyrel: I'd like to see you try, whore-lock.

*James starts punching and kicking Tyrel. Tyrel is bigger than him, so his fighting doesn't do anything.

Tyrel: You're so soft. Will you love me like the other guards?

*Tyrel grabs James's ass and pulls him down. James bites Tyrel on his dick.

Tyrel: Get this crazy ho off my fuckin' dick!

*Meowth and Lenny come in. Jessiebelle whips James.

Meowth: He fights good, in a dirty way.

*Jessiebelle pulls James off Tyrel's dick. Meowth and Lenny get James out of there.

Meowth: That was weird. James: He grabbed my arse and called me a whore. Meowth: Now I see why you did that.

*Suddenly, a trap closes around James's leg. He shrieks.

Meowth: What's wrong? James: I think Jessiebelle set a trap and I fell into it.

*Meowth and Lenny pry the trap open and get James's leg out, somehow managing to avoid the powder smeared on it. James looks relieved until he sees the powder seeping into his skin. His eyes widen.

Meowth: What's wrong? James: It has poison on it. (winces) I'm starting to think the universe has something against me. Meowth: You and me both.

*James continues to put antidote on the poison.

James: (sighs) I'm just a bad luck charm. If life was a test, I'd get an "F." You're probably better off without me. Meowth: Don't say that. (grabs James's hands) We're stronger as a team. I will not leave you behind.

*They manage to keep away from Jessiebelle and Tyrel for a while.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Tyrel made James so mad, he did an awful thing.

*James, Meowth, and Lenny are walking through the woods. Tyrel kidnaps James. Meowth and Lenny follow them (as usual). Tyrel does everything to torture James. Jessiebelle just stands by watching and smiling at the whole scene. Tyrel grabs James's nether areas. James tries to kick Tyrel. Tyrel pushes James against a wall with his foot. James gets away from the wall and punches Tyrel. Tyrel grabs James.

Tyrel: You are a disgrace and dishonorable for refusing to marry Jessiebelle. You must be punished! James: Let go of me!

*James starts fighting like mad. He grabs the pure death knife and stabs Tyrel three times. Tyrel is dead.

James: What have I done? Jessiebelle: (smirking) Congratulations, James. Your first kill.

*James just whimpers.

Jessiebelle: You should be happy. You didn't even like him. James: I drew blood. I killed someone. Jessiebelle: And the really funny part is, I controlled you and made you kill him. (laughs)

*James snarls and glares at Jessiebelle.

James: Leave me alone.

*Meowth and Lenny drag him out of there. James is pale.

Meowth: Are you okay? James: No.

*James begins to cry quietly.

James: I hate Tyrel. And I hate Jessiebelle. (sobs) Meowth: I know how you feel.

*Meowth puts his arms around James. James hugs Meowth. They stay like that for a long time. Neither of them are thinking about Jessiebelle's newest guard.

-O-o-O-

*Imagine Jessiebelle got a new guard. This guard really surprises James and Meowth.

*Their day starts out just like any other. Walking along, minding their own business, trying to avoid death. Then Jessiebelle grabs James inconspicuously. Meowth and Lenny follow. Jessiebelle takes James to her dungeon.

James: What more could you possibly want to do to me? Jessiebelle: Don't you want to meet my new guard? James: I'd rather not. Jessiebelle: Well, you're going to see him anyway. Evander, you can come out now. Evander: Is he here?

*Evander's voice sounds very familiar to James, but with a different accent.

Jessiebelle: Don't be shy. Come meet your target.

*A black-clad boy comes out of the shadows. James gasps. The boy looks exactly like James. The same hair, the same body type, the same face. And he's smirking evilly and James is staring at him, horrified.

Evander: What are you staring at, James? James: You have my face.

*Evander looks straight into James's eyes. His eyes are an icy shade of pale green, much colder than James's emerald green eyes.

Evander: Not exactly. I have the same Pokémon, too. James: No, you don't. You can't. Evander: You're right. Koffing and Weepinbel aren't the same as Weezing and Victreebel.

*James faints from the shock and from staring into Evander's eyes.

Meowth: What have you done to him?! Evander: He can't handle my Glare.

*Evander pimp slaps James. James wakes up, covered in sweat.

Evander: Did you have a nice nap?

*James just snarls and scowls at him in a very undignified way.

Jessiebelle: Good boy, Evander. Evander: Thank you, Master.

*Jessiebelle pats Evander on the head. Evander smiles like a dog getting patted on the head.

James: If you're so obedient, why don't you marry Jessiebelle? Evander: Because I'm helping her marry you. And I'm not suited to become the sacrifice. Jessiebelle: Leave Team Rocket. Marry me. James: No. I won't leave Meowth. Evander: Come now, the Temple Witch told you you're no good at it. James: That Temple was a trap! You disrespected Tylas's spirit!

*Evander hits James across the face.

Evander: Don't you tell us about disrespect, trollop!

*Evander takes out a Pokéball and releases a Persian.

Evander: Persian, fury swipes!

*Persian scratches James. He cries out in pain. Evander calls out an Arcanine.

Evander: His name is Archie. James: Copycat. Evander: Archie, bite him!

*Archie bites James. James screams. Evander calls back Archie and Persian. He starts beating James himself. He continues to whip James even after he's unconscious.

Meowth: Get away from James!

*Meowth slashes his way in and fights off Evander. He and Lenny get James out of there. He's covered in blood. Meowth collects some of the blood, cleans James up, and takes care of his wounds. James wakes up.

James: Is he gone? Meowth: Don't worry. He's not here.

*James begins to cry silently.

James: Why did she have to get a guard that looks exactly like me? Why did I have to kill that other guard? Meowth: It was self defense. James: That was my first kill ever. Meowth: I hate to say it, but you might have to do it again.

*James looks at Meowth, horrified.

Meowth: You have to kill Evander. James: No! I couldn't! Meowth: But if you don't kill him, he'll kill you!

*James shakes his head.

James: I'm not killing anymore. Tyrel will be my first and last kill. I can't kill Evander. Meowth: Then what are we going to do? James: I don't know. But there has to be another way.

*To be continued….

-O-o-O-o-O-

Moral of the story: If you keep saying "Make it double," one day a fic writer will actually take you up on it.

I have had this idea for a fic forever but it's probably lame. What if witch!reader met Olivia Godfrey and could tell she was rotten. That she just had the worst intentions for everyone. So the reader spelled protection charms (like jewelry or trinkets) for Roman, Peter, Letha, Shelley, ect. to try to keep them safe?

now this... this is something I can work with lol, enjoy!!!<33

safe (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: none lol (can you believe it)

summary: when you get confronted with your boyfriend's mother, your existence is threatened. but no matter the dangers, love will always prevail; your love will always come first to you.

word count: 1,191

"So you're not going to tell me what happened?" Letha said, watching me with a worried look on her face. I could barely sit still, watching other students pass us by as I anxiously ripped at my nails, hoping our lunch break would never end. 

"Well, dinner with his family went well," I mumbled, making myself comfortable on the bench in the courtyard. "But I could just feel it in my bones that something was... wrong."

Letha put away her lunch, turning to me. "In what sense?"

"His mom-- Ow, fuck!" I hissed, realizing I had ripped too deep into a nail. I also didn't know how to explain this properly to Letha without giving away too much about my identity. "It's just this... This feeling I haven't sensed before. I can't put my finger on exactly what was wrong with her, but it was something dark, something ancient." 

"Okay..." Concerned, Letha put her hand on my shoulder. She obviously thought I sounded like I was having a manic episode, but Letha being who she was, she still found a way to approach me with kindness; "I hear you, and I get that meeting Roman's mom must've been quite intimidating for you... However, I still think you should answer his messages. He's going a bit crazy," 

I shouldn't. "I don't know," I breathed, reaching into my purse. I had spent the whole night trying to put some protective spells on a couple of rocks I had found in my backyard, having found nothing else. Finding a small, round rock, I handed it to Letha; "Keep this in your purse. Or in the front pocket of your jeans. Just... keep it close, okay?"

Understandably, Letha grimaced, taking the little rock into her hands. Judging by her facial expression, I realized I probably sounded absolutely insane. Still, she smiled back up at me with the same soft smile as always; "Uh... Thanks. It's very sweet of you to give me this... rock, but--"

"No, I'm not talking to Roman," I said, getting up from the bench. "I can't. I seriously can't." Having been born into ancient magic myself, I knew I couldn't get involved with anything as big as upirs without any backup. And currently, I didn't have any. After having been forced to move from one state to another because of a neighbouring witch-clan, I somehow found myself in Hemlock Grove, once again feeling remnants of something supernatural in the one guy I had somehow gotten feelings for. However, I had forced myself that I was just imagining it, that I was being paranoid, that upirs were just legends-- until I met his mother. I had sensed specks in Roman, but nothing compared to her.

Even worse, I knew Olivia Godfrey could definitely sense something in me as well, and that put everyone around me in danger. I had to protect them somehow, didn't I?

--

My locker slammed shut right in front of me just as I was about to take out my history book. I yelped, taking a startled step back as my eyes darted up at the culprit. 

Roman's big, green eyes were staring down at me with anger I hadn't seen in them before. It made me want to turn around and run for my life, save myself from whatever was about to come, but instead, I froze. I couldn't move, not even if I wanted to, as my eyes widened with a mix of both shock and fear.

Roman stepped forward, cornering me back up against my locker. "What's wrong with you?" he said, voice low. "You think you can just disappear on me like that?"

I succumbed to a slight tremble, at a loss for words. I knew a guy like Roman wouldn't take a situation like this lightly-- he had his pride to protect, after all. 

"You think that ignoring me for two days is okay?" he sneered, his eye twitching just slightly. "That's not how this works. You don't get to do that."

I held my breath-- he was right. My heart thumped hard in my chest as I pushed away all thoughts of how gorgeous he looked right now, his hair styled back as always, his pink, plush lips pursed in anger.  "I'm sorry," I breathed, not knowing what else to say. This was absolutely killing me; I was crazy about this guy. This was not how I wanted this to go down. 

"Seriously? That's all I get?" Groaning, Roman ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with me. "The one time I take someone seriously, and you pull this crap on me?"

It felt like he was ripping my heart into hundreds of tiny pieces, the remnants scattering across the floor of the busy hallway. Roman had been the one good thing in my life since I left everything behind and moved-- I didn't want it to end like this. I didn't want it to end at all. 

I just didn't want to move again; I didn't want to have to never see him. In my mind, it would be better to break it off now and watch him bloom from afar, than to get myself deeper into the dark shit I knew would follow if Olivia found out her son had serious intentions with a fucking witch. I doubted that she wanted anyone foreign like that in her territory. 

"Roman, I..." With a sigh, I reached into my purse once more with a trembling hand, fishing out another protective stone. This was all I could do. I had to do something to protect him, didn't I? I was praying to all the Gods in the world that Olivia wouldn't find it in his pockets or anything along those lines, but I couldn't let him walk around unprotected with a creature like her roaming the halls of his own home. "Take this. Keep it close. I can't explain, but I need you to not let your mom find this."

With a huff, Roman took the rock into his hand, our fingertips touching during the exchange. If only we could stay here like this forever, touching, close-- but I knew fate wouldn't allow it.

"A rock? A fucking rock? And what does my mom have to do with this?--" Suddenly, he froze, eyes rounding out as he balled his hand around it. Something told me Roman could feel the spell, that he knew what it was and why I had given it to him, but I told myself that it was just my wishful thinking trying to soothe me. 

"I'm sorry I can't explain," I breathed, letting out a shaky breath. "You're wonderful. You're gentle, you're kind, and I... I just don't think we should be together. I don't think it would be good for us."

Roman stared down at me with an expression mixed with disbelief and shock. His hand clenched around the rock, slowly opening his palm to glance at it once more. "You... Wait, is this thing seriously what I think it is?--"

I frantically shook my head, stepping away from him. "It's nothing. Just stay safe. Please," He didn't need to know. It wasn't safe for him to know.

And I needed him to be safe.

Wolf! Xiumin (Minseok) x Witch! OC

everything i brew, i brew it for you

⤷ 1.2k follower event request: Familiar!Seokjin x Witch!Reader + “I should’ve told you back then, but I didn’t want you to leave.” + Fluff/Angst ⤷ @softescapism​ said: seokjin x reader or OT7 x reader + prompt C8 + witch/familiar, fluff, sfw (hi! could you write a drabble/scenario/short fic for the follower event based on this, please? 💓) ⤷ word count: 2.1k ⤷ a/n: this is a little angsty in the beginning, but the ending is all fluff! i hope you like it!!

“There you are!” You grumble, snatching up a vial from the back of your cabinet. The little thing is covered with dust, the label yellowed with age and barely clinging on to the glass. But even then, there’s no mistaking the content. The shimmering pink powder inside makes you stomach flip uneasily, but you know it has to be done. You uncap the bottle before you can talk yourself out of it, carefully sprinkling the powder counter-clockwise into the boiling concoction in your pot. You can’t help but frown as it slowly turns from clear to bright pink, the stark colour mocking you as you throw in a pair of four leaf clovers with a little more force than necessary. The kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling brew and the rhythmic tapping of your impatient fingers against the counter, your eyes resting nervously on the dark garden outside your window. You promised Seokjin years ago that you would never make this particular potion again, but you’ve run out of options.

You love being a potions witch, but truth be told, it’s probably the worst financial decision you could have made. All witches have to choose their niche the day they turn eighteen, and you, driven by the long list of potions witches in your ancestry, wanted to follow in their footsteps. What you didn’t account for however, is just how drastically the times have changed. Larger covens have started selling their potions online, making them in big batches to cut down on the cost and shipping them all across the country. There’s no longer a need for a town to have their own potions witch, not when you can get them delivered to your doorstep for a cheaper price. The mass produced potions are definitely not as potent as a singularly brewed ones, but it seems people care more about price than efficiency these days. Well, at least most people don’t care. And considering business has been dwindling so alarmingly fast over the last four months that you’re barely scraping by, there’s not a chance that you can lower your prices anymore than you already have.

You shake your head, trying your best to ignore the tendrils of guilt wrapping around your chest. As long as your familiar doesn’t find out about this order, there will be nothing for him to worry about. That’s why you’re hunkered over the stove in the first place; desperately hoping that it will be done in time before he comes home. Tonight is Seokjin’s monthly familiar night with Hoseok and Namjoon, and the only window of alone time you have to make something like this. You murmur a quick incantation under your breath as you give the potion one last stir, watching as the pink brew slowly darkens to red. The sickly sweet smell that whiffs up from the cauldron almost makes you gag, but at least it tells you that the potion is almost complete.

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Chatoyant | Min Yoonji

pairing: min yoonji x reader genre: hybrid!au, magic!au/ witch!au, familiar!au, smut, slight angst words: 15.5k Rating: nsfw warnings: alcohol consumption, handcuffs, graphic sexual content: f x f, cunnilingus/oral (giving + receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dom Yoonji (more or less?), but also switch Yoonji I guess lol, hybrid sex note: @suga-stars​ remember when we talked about hybrid familiar yoonji and I made a moodboard for you? Here’s the fic to accompany it! I hope you cheer up, buttercup! You can always tell @yminie​ and me what’s up babe! I love you! 

You’re a witch, and Yoonji is your familiar. The tension between you has been rising steadily over the months, and comes to a head after Jungkook and Taehyung pull an April Fools joke that doesn’t quite go right. Perhaps you should thank them for how things turned out… right after they finish running from Yoonji, that is.

masterlist

“Don’t get that one, y/n, it’s cheap.”

You made a face at the bored-sounding voice that came from behind you. Your familiar was many things, but tactful wasn’t one of them, and neither was polite.

“Yoonji, I don’t know if you remember this, but we’re poor. We have to get the cheap ones,” you responded, not even bothering to look back and see the affronted look you knew the female was giving you. Your hand reached up to grasp the jar from the shelf and her tail whipped and hit your leg. You could almost imagine the slight pout on her lips.

“But quality, y/n,” a purr sounded near your ear, slim arms winding around your waist and a chin resting on your shoulder. “Quality is always better. Didn’t you learn that from the time you used dollar-store herbs in that luck potion?”

The mention of the memory made you grimace, embarrassment still fresh. For one of your classes you had to create one of the potions you’d covered over the semester. You knew technically, you were supposed to always use the highest quality ingredients possible for good practice, but you’d decided to shortcut a bit and use the cheaper alternatives. Needless to say, the result had not been pretty, and you would have definitely failed that class had you not hurried and made another attempt with the correct ingredients.

“This is different,” you grumbled in an attempt to salvage your pride, but your hand retracted from the shelf without the jar nonetheless. You could feel Yoonji’s pleased smirk as you reached for the better quality jar instead.

“Good girl,” she purred, pleased, free hand brushing your waist as she reached with the other and took the jar from your hand. You were sure she could hear it the second your heart skipped a beat and launched into overdrive, thudding loudly against your ribcage. You struggled to keep your breath regulated, butterflies fluttering delicately in your stomach.

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Covenant 01 || jjk

↠ Covenant ↞ A witch’s familiar is their life partner, their protector, their shadow in the night. You don’t choose them; they choose you if they deem you worthy. So why, oh why, did you have to get picked by Hell’s most exasperating hound?

Word Count: 4k

Warnings/Genre/Rating: Hellhound familiar!Jungkook. Witch!Reader. Young college professor!Reader. Supernatural. Slight themes of horror. Mentions of blood & slight gore. Brief mention of drugging (reader gets roofied but it’s not explicit and nothing happens to her) Alcohol use. Jealousy. Marking. Pining. Dom!Jungkook. Sub!Reader. Explicit language. Warlock!Hoseok & Familiar!Yoongi. 18+

Author’s Note: Instead of making this one huge one-shot, the first half of this fic has been chilling in my drafts for months and while I haven’t written anything bts related in a while, I figured that I could at least give you what I do have. So this’ll be a two-parter.~

                               || Next | Masterlist | |

“I’m bored.”

A sigh. The sound of bare feet shuffling across the carpet and a heavy weight dropping down onto the other couch cushion. You pretended like you couldn’t hear it, fiddling with the remote control in your hands until the volume on the television was raised. Reruns of some sitcom had been on all day, and you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t a little invested in the corny storyline.

“I said,” a whine of annoyance was accompanied by a familiar head of wavy dark hair flopping onto your lap. “I’m bored.”

Rolling your eyes, you continued to ignore the gaze that burned a metaphorical hole into your face. The less attention you gave him, the less likely that the little shit would keep bothering you. At least, that’s what you’d learned over the past year he’d been terrorizing you. Though maybe “terrorizing” was the wrong descriptor. Annoying the Hell out of you rolled off the tongue a little better.

Pun not intended.

“Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.” Each syllable of your name was punctuated by a finger poking into your cheek just hard enough to annoy you, but soft enough not to hurt. “Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.”

“What?” You finally snapped, slapping away his pestering hand with a glare downwards. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

Jungkook sighed in exasperation (as if you were the one bothering him!), twisting around in your lap until the blanket thrown over your legs was more on the floor than the couch. “I’m bored.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers in an attempt to control your irritation. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Entertain me.” His warm golden eyes scrunched in the corners when he flashed you a toothy smile. He had perfect teeth, if not a little oversized. You’d always thought that they were cute, even though his incisors were so sharply pointed that he could pierce through human bone without even trying.

“Entertain yourself.” Pressing the up button on the remote, the volume on the television increased until Jungkook’s indignant whines were drowned out by the couple on the screen. In a perfect, coincidental fashion, an obviously fake laugh track filled your living room right as you finished grumbling, “fuck off.”

“But I’m your familiar. You’re supposed to take care of me.”

He was pouting now, you could tell without even sparing him a glance. Cheeks all puffed up with air and eyes widened. The brat had used that trick enough on you in the past to know damn well that it worked. How a literal demon from Hell managed to pull off looking so innocent was beyond your comprehension.

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Who live next door? : Wizard next door (MYG)

Shout out : The plot belongs to WRITING.PROMPT.S (I found it in pinterest...again)

Summary : You were sleeping in a comfy bed after having such a hectic day. Just when you prepared for beauty sleep, you heard a loud thud from your storage. You ignored it completely. Little do you know that it wasn’t because something fell, but someone fell-coming out of nowhere and waiting to be found by you the morning.

Y/N POV.

“My lovely bed, I miss you.”  Arriving in my room, I jumped onto my bed. I felt like I haven’t slept for years, yet it was only 8 hours after I finished my shift. 

Where’s my manner? Let me introduce myself.

Hey ya! I’m Y/N. Well, there was nothing much for me to tell you guys anyway, except I currently work at Divina Cadle Bar, a scented candle shop. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but the shop paid me well.

Ok, where am I again? 

Oh, my bed. As I said, it was only 8 hours since I got out of bed. However, today was more hectic than usual. Thanks to Mrs.Hopkins, I didn’t know we have a special sale today. How could she forget to tell me? 

THUD

“Huh?” I sprang up from my bed. 

What happened in the storage? I glanced up at the bed frame, and Lune still slept there. ‘That must be some boxes fall.’ I thought to myself. The sleepiness conquered my body entirely that I couldn’t get out of my bed. I only wanted sleep.

“Maybe..la’er..” Then fell back onto my bed.

Yoongi POV. : Next morning 

“Hmmm huh...” 

My eyes fluttered open. I felt a cramp crawling up from my lower back. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around. The light in here was crazy. I didn’t know when I let so much light into my room.

“Where the curtain?” I stood there with confusion. I usually installed every window with curtain. 

‘Wait? Since when I need to close curtain? I never open it.’ I mumbled with myself. Now my eyes fully opened and looked around the surrounding again.

Where . the . hell . am . I ?

I sighed. I remembered the last scene from last night was me slipping into my blanket. Then how the hell I was here? A storage room? I slept on boxes, and now my back hurt.

“I gotta go real quick.” 

I started chanting the spell to teleport myself and just then...

“How on earth you get in here?”

Welp, fuck!

Author POV.

“Let’s me check what happened in the storage last night.” You head off to the storage.

Approaching the room, you heard a noise. It was like someone was in there and talking? As you got closer, the voice got louder. Out of curiosity, you slammed the door open. Your breath hitched when the pair of eyes looked at you with a shocked expression.

“How on earth you get in here?!”

You quickly looked inside the room. Chacking every corner and making sure nothing disappeared from this room. You then gazed back at the guy. His indigo orbs interlocked with your brown ones. He stood still, or should you say frozen like a statue.

“I’m..I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be here. I will go now. Oh! nothing was stolen, I just..I don’t know how too. Sorry again.” And in a blick of an eye, he disappeared. 

What was that?

“Have you ever seen him before?” Your friend asked. 

“No, I don’t think he lives around my neighborhood either. Everything happen real quick and I...I don’t know.” 

You rambled your story to your boss. It has been a week ever since that guy appeared in your storage. She thought of something but didn’t tell you anything about it.

The bell chimed as a signal of a customer got in. Mrs.Hopkins walked away and continued arranging new orders. You prepared yourself at the cashier. A customer who just entered then walked over to the cashier.

“May I help you?” 

“Uhh Is there any of this in here?” The guy then brought out and empty glass with a tag on it. You read the lable carefully.

“I need to ask my manager. This might take awhile.” You walked upstairs to find Mrs.Hopkins. She was checking the orders when you put the glass in front of her.

“Someone ask for this.” The old lady took a look at the tag before she walked down the stairs.

“When was the last time I see you, Yoongi?” Mrs.Hopkins asked the guy. The man revealed himself out of the hood. Seeing him again made you gasp.

“You again!” You forgot all the manner and pointed toward the guy. Mrs.Hopkins chuckled-knowing what was going on between the two. She continued to brew her special ingredient for the candle.

“Dear, don’t mind her. She was my new emplyee. It seems like your condition didn’t get to anything near better.”

“Yeah and I couldn’t keep up with caffeine anymore.” You looked back a the guy who looked miserable. Tiredness radiated out of his body. His eyelids fluttered from time to time. 

You had an idea pop in your head. Suddenly, your feet took you to your backpack as if it listened unconsciosly to the order. You brought out your favourit tea before poured it into a cup.

“Take it.” You handed it to him. Yoongi took a sip. His body felt calm and relax, so he drank all in one shot. All of a sudden, he drifted into sleep. Mrs.Hopkins, who came back with the candles, gasped with what she saw.

“What did you just do to him?”

“I did nothing. I just gave him my fav tea, thinking it might help him to get good sleep, and this happened.” You motioned toward Yoongi’s body.

Yoongi POV.

I awoke in unfamiliar place again. 

Why this always happen with me? 

You guys must be puzzled about me so let me explain.

I am a wizard. It wasn’t something special really in this village. However, one thing that can count as unordinary was my unconscious habit. I happened to born with an ability, which was more like a curse to me, called ‘dimensia.'

Kitchen, check

Bathroom, check

Garden, check

Garage, check

You could list any corner of my house. I had already slept everywhere.  Every time I slept, I would wake up in other places. The places could also be somewhere in the city. For the worst-case scenario, I could be in another dimension. That had never happened with me yet.

Ok, continuing from where I stopped, I woke up somewhere again. Then I remembered the girl gave me a drink. ‘Did I get drug by her?’ I thought to myself. Mrs.Hopkins tapped my shoulder.

“Dear, how was your sleep?” She asked while packing my order.

“Did I get drug by your employee?” With that sentence left my mouth, she chuckled.

“No dear, y/n just gave her sleepy tea for you. When you knocked out, she brought you up here.”

So it was a ‘sleepy’ tea and...wait?

Did Mrs.Hopkins said she dragged me up here?

Am I still inside the shop?

“You were at the second floor of my shop, Yoongi if that what you are thinking.”

“How...?” 

I didn’t finish speaking when the tea girl interrupted me. She immediately approached me and checked my face. Her hand grabbed my face firmly while she stared at my face.

“Huh I thought you were dead. I am sorry for accuse you as a theift last time. I didn’t know someone would have such a condition.” She rambled things out.

“May I ask you how did I end up here?” I asked her-wanting to know is Mrs.Hopkins lying about the girl dragged me up here or not.

“Oh, I brought you up here when you knocked out. We temporarily closed the shop so that I can deal with this problem. It was my fault anyway.”

How I don’t end up waking somewhere?

Y/N POV.

I was freak out when he suddenly knocked out because of my tea. Guilty started filling me up. It washed all over my body when I heard his story from Mrs.Hopkins. Poor guy had to endure his condition and candle was his only hope.

Now we were walking back home. The old lady dismissed me eairly because of the incident. Yoongi was so quiet, but that didn’t feel akward. Calmness radiated from his body right now, which was a relief for me. I thought he would be angry toward me.

“I’m sorry to cau-”

“How can you do that?” Yoongi interrupted me with a question.

“Do..what?”

“How can I drink your tea, knocked out, and still didn’t appear somewhere else?”

“Uhhh, I don’t know really. My tea was suppose to make people calm and drift to sleep gently. It seems like you didn’t sleep too long that my tea strike you immediately. Maybe because of that. You didn’t sleep because yourself, but my tea. My tea may act like a depressant for your condition.” 

I tried to connect the dots and made a possible assumption out of this situation. Yoongi sided-eye me before returning to his world. ‘He looks depressed.’ My thought reflected the aura I received from him.

“We arrive.” He spoke and stopped his footstep. I looked up and my eyes widen. Your house was on the right side of his.

“You live next to my unit.”

Author POV.

After both of them found out they were neighbors, Yoongi visited your house everyday-Claiming that he needs your sleepy tea. You became his doctor unintentionally by prescribed his medicine called ‘sleepy tea.’

“I never ask what are you?” Yoongi asked out of his curiosity. He could sense magic in your vein, but it was so weak that he couldn’t detect it from the first time he met you.

“I’m a half witch.” Yoongi looked at you with an amused face.

“My father was a human. He met my mother, the witch, because he got injured. My mother specialty helped him. Later they got married and had me.” Yoongi stayed silence as if he knew this was not the end of your story yet.

“My father's relatives disapproved of my mother so they declared objection toward my father. My father cut ties with them. When I was 12, he got into an accident so did my mother.” 

Yoongi gazed into those brown orbs that now became dull. The light inside suddenly disappeared. It seemed like you were holding pain and sorrow. And for the first time in his life, he felt hurt. He didn’t know why he cares everything about you. In these few weeks, how he sensed the bond got stronger as each day pass by-surprised him.

“Sleepover?” You asked Yoongi. He immediately got out of his head space.

“Sleepover? Today I plan to have a movie night. You like horror?” You repeated the question with a little more detail. He nodded as a yes. 

“Good, but let’s have a dinner first.”

“I will cook.” 

Yoongi sprang out of the sofa. His action caught you by surprise, though he had his signature blank face. His action reflected the excitement that bottled up in his body. You couldn’t help, but chuckled.

“Wah this is no joke.” You stared at the dishes, drooling.

“Eat it before it get cold.” Yoongi then digged into his meal. You joined him.

Every time you grunted out of joy or compliment him because of the dishes, Yoongi would smile. He didn’t realize how his dishes were now capturing your heart. Also, having him told the story of how he learn cooking and how he treated you like his VIP customer were bonus points.

‘I think hanging around you weren’t that bad.’ You thought to yourself.

The night was smooth sailing. You and Yoongi got closer. You were proud of him opening himself to you. For Yoongi, he also had an answer for his condition. You were his cure. He got his hope back a bit.

Cafe

“Coffee?”  You looked at the shop that was opposite the park. 

“Get in, I pay.”

“No, I pay. The last time you cook for me.” You two started arguing with each other while headed to the cafe. Bickering back and forth, the waiter interrupted you. 

“Sorry, but we need to keep the line moving.” You two stopped.

After orders, you roamed around for a seat. Finding the perfect window-corner table, you settled your bag. Yoongi followed behind after paying the bill secretly.

Theatre

“Hey, that’s my popcorn.”

“No, we have a deal on sharing this bucket.”

“No I don’t want to share.” You took a bucket out of his grip. He sat there and continued to watch the movie wit you.

You noticed how Yoongi turned his silence mode on. Seeing his face, you nudged the popcorn bucket back into his grip. The guy, however, sat still and ignored you completely.

“Sorry...” You looked at him, pouting. He ignored you again. You then sat back and concentrated with the movie.

The scene got darker. The sound slowly vanished. You prepared yourself for a jumpscare because of all those signs. Well, it seemed like you missed another thing.

“Boo!” You fell off your seat. Yoongi clutched his stomach and laughed at you. 

“How was it scaredy cat...”

“Min Yoongi!”

Park

“You should get some exercise.” You tried your best to drag him out of the park’s bench.

“Let’s go” 

“Nah I’m gonna sleep here.” Yoongi laid his back down.

“If you appear somewhere else, I won’t help you.”

“No it won’t happen.”

“But you didn’t drink my tea this morning, Yoon.” 

Yoongi stared at you suspiciously. He remembered you would make him a cup every morning. Looking through the memory in his head again, he found something different with the tea today.

“You..little...”

“Tea is good, but exercise is better. Now come with me lazy cat.” 

A month later

You guys were a couple. Everyone could notice the spark in your and his eyes, everyone acept you both. Mrs.Hopkins was the first who mentioned the change since Yoongi came to the shop lest often. When he came, he would always ask for your presence.

Yoongi’s condition got better. He tried his best not drinking your tea or lighting up candles that contained mint and lavender, which were the same ingredients in your tea. You somehow managed to put him to sleep and controlled his condition. 

And the tip was he slept beside you.

“Ready for our movie night?” You asked. Both of you had just come back from grocerry shopping.

Yoongi didn’t reply. In his head, he was busy thinking about the plan for tonight. He didn’t want to mess anything up. You, on the other hand, had already disappeared upstairs.

Yoongi POV.

Ok, this was great. Now she was upstairs taking a shower. I would start preparing the meal first then decorate the place. Reviewing the plan, I already got a package of meat out of the bag.

Will she like this?

Is there any chance for me?

The possibility of things went wrong was high, but I ignored them. After living with her for a month, I felt like I need her. Whether she put me into her spell or not, I was so sure that this was my true feeling.

“Anything special?” I had just finished preparing the meal when she came down the stairs.

‘Arghh the decoration.’ I screamed in my head.

“Yoon..eat.” I snapped back to reality.

And here I was, thinking I had a chance. I just messed up my plan. I ate my meal. She complimented them like usual, but that didn't lift my mood any bit. 

We decided on the program. I let her put the program on while I went to grab a bowl of popcorn. Entering the room, I met with the sleeping beauty-cuddling in her wool blanket.

“What make you that tire hmm, lavender?” I spoke gently to the girl while tugging her hair.

If she slept like this, I would take this chance then. I ran downstairs and brought every decor inside the room-decorating every corner like the picture in my head. Nightlights, Ballons, everything started coming together and brighten the room vibe.

“Mom...Dad..don’t..” I turned around. She raised her hands and grabbed the air as if there was something.

“Shhh...it is going to be alright.” I quickly embraced her and rocked her back to sleep.

Y/N POV.

Why am I here?

I found myself standing alone in front of the cemetery. Today must be the day then. I stared at the marble, engraving my parents' name and their death date. When I looked up, I saw them. I noticed my mom still had my watch with her so did dad. But the time wasn’t ticking.

“How are you my little doe?” 

“Miss you always.” I answered my dad. Three of us had a good conversation.-making me miss them even more.

“We have to go. Our time has come.” Tear welled up in my eyes. 

“Don’t, please.”

I wanted to grab them, but I couldn’t. Their bodies became transparent and faded away. I kneeled and mourned. Why did they leave me again? I closed my puffy eyes and tried my best to get out of here.

“Shhh...it is going to be alright.”

Is that Yoongi? I asked myself. I quickly opened my eyes-thinking I already awoke. 

“Where am I?” 

I asked myself while looking around. I was now in the hammock. The view in front of me was stunning. The purple-indigo cotton cloud shaded the bright yellow-peach sun. The light peeked out a little, which helped to light the sky.

“You like it?” Yoongi tighten his arms.

“Love it.”

“How about me?” He whispered into my ears. My face heated up. Where is that confident come from? I wanted to know who took my lazy blank face cat. 

“Answer me lav, I am waiting for it, you know.”

“I..huh..yeah love it.” I repeated. 

Author POV. : a week later

“This is Jin and [SJ’s girlfreind/name].” 

“Nice to meet you. It must be hard for you to live with this dude.” Jin teased Yoongi and you laughed. 

Yoongi decided to introduce you to his friend. Both of you would have dinner today at Jin’s place. You were so nervous when Yoongi proposed the idea. However, seeing Jin and his girlfriend made you relief. They both were super kind.

“I heard you finally get rid of your dimensia. Being a dream controller and have such a thing, god I can’t relate.”

“You dragon won’t understand if it didn’t relate to your ‘beauty’ face.” Yoongi continued eating his meal.

“You meanie, I was your roomate and hyung.” Jin fakely got angry with Yoongi.

The mealtime was full of laughter and joy. You got to know some old habits of Yoongi while also bonding with Seokjin’s girlfriend on girl stuff.

“I can’t believe you propose to me before I do.” 

“I said you didn’t.” 

Both of you were back inside the house. You sat on the bed, browsing for nes tea recipes. Yoongi continued drying his hair.

“In my dream, I got to visit my parent. We talked. It felt so nice to have that chance again. They faded away; however, at the moment, I felt good. Then you appeared and proposed to me. I must say you were bold in my dream.”

You smile from ears to ears while appraoched him. Taking a towel in his hand, you helped him dried his hair. He gently grabed you delicate hands-staring deep into your brown orbs.

“Thank you.” A soft kissed plant on your cherry lips.

“Thanks for being my cure and my love. I am not that expressive. I’m sorry, but...” 

He didn’t finish his sentence because you didn’t let him have a chance. You returned his kiss with the same gentle kiss.

And here was the collision of two lifelines, your and his.

A/N note: Hey ya, I hope your enjoy this one. This series nearly come to an end. If you notice the tag, you will see that I try to write gender neutral character. However, I don’t know how to use the pronoun properly. For me, I still use ‘she/her’ even if I’m not straight. So sorry if some of you who read this felt like it annoyed you, diappointed you or uncomfy for you. See you next time.

Okay so I read this super late last night fighting sleep the whole time bc it was so good! You have this cool witch character who is also eddie’s soulmate? Um yes please! 

I love Siouxsie so much! What a sweet kitty 🥺🥺 I too wanna brother Eddie and steal his blankets while he is trying to sleep. And the kitty getting dates confused is so cute !!

I really liked the moment with Wayne where his reaction is just gotta stop smoking so much dope son - i love seeing those two interact. 

The whole storyline of Eddie’s scars :((( our poor boy omg. lol not the nipple !! and then miss witchy helping with the pain and then Eddie just crying :(((( ouchhh so good 

How do you know so much about witch stuff? So cool made me wanna do more research about witches! I absolutely love a witch reader who gives luna lovegood energy! This has to be my fav witch AU i’ve read for Eddie - so good!! 

Siouxsie and the Soulmates

Eddie Munson x Witch!Reader More Eddie fics here

12,968 words

Warnings: Drug use; reference to canon-typical violence; canon-typical trauma; extensive discussion and depiction of scars; no beta

Synopsis: When you roll into Forest Hills Trailer Park, a white cat and daisy lines following you, Eddie Munson is just a little bit obsessed. A soulmate story featuring Eddie back from the Upside Down, a lot of witchy magic, and even more soft love.

Includes the ‘soulmate find what the other has lost’ trope. Post S4, but canon-divergent: Eddie survived, the gang stopped Vecna and saved the day; everything is ‘normal’ in Hawkins.

Author's Note: If you read the sneak peek, some of that section has changed so don’t skip it. Includes Eddie has all the gnarly scars, including facial scarring, for reference click here and here. We love a girl who tries to be mysterious but falls head over heels for Eddie Spaghetti.

There was something really… freaky… about the newest resident of Forest Hills Trailer Park. Eddie Munson was absolutely convinced she was a wizard, witch, whatever. He had no tangible proof. But the circumstantial evidence, your honour, was overwhelming.

Firstly, your small, black VW Bug appeared silently overnight, pulling a small trailer home in what seemed like an impossible feat of automobile engineering. You set up next to the Mayfield’s home, cordoning off your rectangular plot with a black plastic picket fence hammered into the ground. It was short, reaching only your knees, but it laid claim to the land in a way that kept unwanted guests away from the garden.

Secondly, that garden. The trailer sat at the back of the plot, with green grass surrounding it that hadn’t existed before you arrived. Pots of plants framed the land, their flowers and fruit spilling out as if they had been growing in their positions for months. Bees and butterflies had come to Forest Hills, making home in your established greenery.

Thirdly, nobody had seen you. Sometimes the black Bug was there. Sometimes it wasn’t. A few long-term residents of the park had taken it upon themselves to step over the pickets and knock on the trailer door. They received no answer, although the lights inside were on.

Eddie would watch your place as soon as he rolled in, driving his van slowly. He’d sneak looks through the blinds of his trailer and take too long to hang the laundry around the back, close to where he could eavesdrop on the locals gossiping about the mystery of it all.

…

It was near the witching hour, 3:00 am, when Eddie shot up in bed one night, drenched in sweat. The scratching in his nightmare transitioned into real life and he looked around for the source of the sound. Small, frantic scratching. Unfamiliar, persistent scratching.

He followed the noise outside his bedroom and to the door that led to a makeshift deck. He’d only begun to crack it open when a snow white cat darted through, her scratching replaced with happy meows.

“Hi there,” Eddie said to the cat, squatting down and holding a hand out for the creature to smell. The cat rubbed her face on his hand, welcoming any and all pats. “Where’d you come from, huh?”

The cat wore a red glittery collar holding a small tag printed with her name. Siouxsie seemed to be a big Eddie fan; the feeling was mutual. The pair was so engaged in their purring and patting that Eddie didn’t notice you arrive.

“Jesus!” he screamed when he clocked you out the corner of his eyes. He fell backward, spilling through the open bathroom door behind him.

Startled, Siouxsie went running outside. You watched her leap from the deck and cross the gravel road, disappearing under your trailer. Turning back to Eddie, you waited for him to get to his feet. He wore blue and white checked cotton boxer shorts and nothing else.

“What were you doing with my cat?” you asked him, only briefly making eye contact before letting your gaze travel to his sketchy tattoos and D.I.Y. pick necklace. The scars… You couldn’t begin to guess what had caused them, but that was the thing: you usually wouldn’t have to guess at all.

“Uh… She woke me up. Tried to break in,” he answered, his voice cracking with sleep and nerves. And, oh fuck, was he nervous. “Guess she’s a… cat burglar?”

Eddie looked at you, the way that lights from the park backlit you like an angel. You were in a black dress that fell around your feet. The hem was ratty from where it dragged behind you wherever you went. Bracelets and rings and necklaces adorned your body, and your nails were painted Barbie pink.

“She woke you?”

“Yeah… The scratching…” Eddie went to explain, but couldn’t describe how the sound was in his head, then was real. Your expression filled him with dismay; had he said something wrong? It was the joke. He shouldn’t have made the joke. The joke was bad.

He stood still and silent, watching you look him up and down. Suddenly aware of his near nakedness, he blushed hard and felt weird. Nobody had seen his scars like that.

“You just moved here,” he said, needing the quiet to be filled. You cocked your head to the side, taking his sentence as a statement and not a question. He knew the answer. “I’m Eddie,” he introduced, holding a hand out. He looked down at his arm, confused as to why he was being so formal, operating on autopilot.

Eddie watched your hand take his, gently shake and not let go. You said your name, followed by, “Siouxsie likes you. Put a bowl of salt next to your bed to stop the nightmares.”

You were gone then. In the morning, he couldn’t remember watching you walk back to your trailer.

Jesus fucking Christ. You were definitely a witch. And he was obsessed.

…

“What d’ya mean she’s a witch?” Wayne Munson replied, sighing at his nephew’s manic bouncing-off-the-walls energy. He’d just woken up and was getting ready for his night shift at the plant, but Eddie had been waiting all day to talk to him.

“Like, she knows shit she shouldn’t. She can probably see through Siouxsie or something-”

“Who’s Siouxsie?”

“Her cat. She woke me up trying to break in,” Eddie said. “And you should see what she looks like. She’s way too fucking pretty to be here. Like, Arwen pretty,”

“Let me get this straight. A pretty girl has a cat, so she’s a witch?” Wayne asked, picking up his keys. “Thought you didn’t judge a book by its cover?”

“You’re not even listening,” Eddie grumbled. “How’d she get all those plants to grow that fast? Seriously! Look.”

Eddie took his uncle by the shoulders and led him to the door, opening it. Wayne looked across the park’s road at your trailer.

“Ed, buddy, they’re in planters. Planters can be moved. Think maybe you need to cut back on the dope? Less time with your head in the clouds?” Wayne was poking fun, knowing exactly how to annoy Eddie.

Consider Eddie annoyed.

“She’s a witch,”

“Guess you better go ask her to marry you then, huh? Make an honest man out of you. Don’t forget to take the trash out. It’s Thursday. See ya later, bud,” Wayne called, leaving the trailer and making his way to his truck.

Eddie winced at how loud their conversation was. He was sure you could hear everything. As he watched Wayne drive away, he took the chance to steal a look at your trailer.

Siouxsie was sitting in one of the garden beds, looking back at him. Instinctively, Eddie began to wave, before he caught himself. Slapping his hand to his face, he quickly retreated back into his trailer before anyone saw him waving to a goddamn cat and added that to the qualities that made him a certified freak.

…

On Sunday, Eddie found a necklace that didn’t belong to him sitting on his bedside table. He woke up, squinting in the too-early morning light, and reached for his watch. He felt the cool metal before he saw it. As if it had given him an electric shock, his hand jerked back from it and he sat up.

Bedside lamp on, he looked at it. The silver chain, the crescent moon. There was no doubt that it belonged to you. He’d seen it hanging from your neck Thursday morning.

Were you in his room? While he slept? He would have heard you, surely. There would be some other trace of you. The clothes and books scattered around hadn’t been displaced. It was like the necklace had just appeared.

However the fuck it got there, Eddie Munson wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. He pulled on the cleanest clothes he could find and headed out the door.

As soon as he stepped over the black plastic pickets, he felt it. A sudden drop in temperature. A quietness. The air smelt honeysuckle sweet and it felt just a touch harder to breathe, like how it does when the humidity rises.

The grass was cool under Eddie’s bare feet; as he knocked on your door, he wriggled his toes and smiled to himself. You might not answer, he thought. You hadn’t to anyone else. It would be okay if you didn’t. The feeling of the grass was a good enough experience to justify the trip.

Eddie was a split second away from turning around and leaving when you opened the door.

“Did you find my necklace?” you asked, expression open and inquisitive.

Was that what you slept in? Silk and lace, all light and flowy but tight around your curvy belly and thighs. Your hair was messy, bed hair, and when you punctuated your sentence with a yawn, Eddie’s entire body began to shake. It took all his willpower to keep fucking still.

“What?”

“My necklace. I’ve lost it. Did you find it?”

The necklace was burning a hole through his pocket, not immediately observable.

“How did you know?”

You smiled kindly, still overtly amused at his confusion though. When you held your hand out, Eddie had no choice but to give it up.

“Where was it?”

How was he meant to tell you that without sounding insane? While he hesitated, tried to come up with a lie, he felt Siouxsie curl around his legs. He looked down and beamed at her.

“Hi,” Eddie greeted the cat, crouching and holding his hand out to her like he had before. She bypassed the outreached hand to come closer, rub herself against his legs.

“Was it in your bedroom?” you asked.

How did you know that? Eddie wanted to ask if you’d been in his room. Somehow, he knew you hadn’t been. At least, not in the physical form human being sense. Could you astral project? Instead of asking anything, Eddie continued to pat the cat. 

“Did the salt work?”

Eddie felt relief. That was an easier question and answer. “Could be a coincidence,” he replied, standing up and looking at you.

“Do you think it is?”

He was shaking his head because focusing on you again meant words were… hard… to… make.

You looked him up and down. “Mmm,” you agreed. “You could test it. Go without it. If you’re a sceptic.”

He wasn’t. Eddie really wasn’t. He didn’t know why he said what he said. He was freaking out.

“Thanks for bringing this back,” you said, and like Siouxsie knew it was a farewell, she jumped up and disappeared inside your trailer.

Eddie stood for a second at your closed door, confused and even more obsessed.

…

Eddie hadn’t seen you all week. He had, however, begun a page in his D&D journal dedicated to documenting occurrences he felt were out of the ordinary and therefore, had something to do with you.

He liked to imagine himself confidently knocking on your door, where you would invite him in. He’d present his evidence and draw his conclusion. You would smile, confess, kiss him and-

Stop, he thought.

But how could he go about his days as if nothing was different? A line of daisies had appeared, mapping a route from his door to your black picket fence. The moon was brighter, shining into his bedroom even when he covered the windows in heavy canvas Corroded Coffin banners. And every single cup of instant coffee or cheap tea tasted sweet before any sugar could be swirled through.

When Eddie woke again at 3:00 am Thursday morning, he thought maybe you’d cast a spell on him. The bowl of salt had rid his sleep of nightmares, but the dreams he was having were just as vivid and just as likely to make him sticky with sweat.

Eddie rolled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. Two glasses of tap water later, he was standing still, listening.

Scratching. Scratching. A soft meow.

Siouxsie was back at the deck door. Eddie checked for you as he let the cat in. The park was quiet, the night warm, and an uneasy feeling settled in Eddie’s stomach.

“What brings you here?” he asked the cat, watching as she walked circles around the trailer, returning to him and meowing. She went into his room, jumped on the bed, and sniffed the sheets.

Before Siouxsie could settle into a little loaf of white bread, Eddie scooped her up. “Nah, man. You can’t stay here. Let’s get you home.”

When Eddie arrived at your door, his heart was racing. There were no lights on inside and the thought of waking you made him want to die just a little bit. He looked at his armful of cat and started to chew his lip.

“Fuuuuuck,” he said under his breath.

Eddie curled an arm around Siouxsie securely, then knocked on your door. No response. A second knock, louder. He waited, listened to the silence of the park. The abject silence.

Eddie couldn’t hear anything. No buzzing of generators. No trees in the breeze. No mosquitos or birds or people or anything at all. It was as if all the noise in the world had been sucked into a vacuum.

He was going to panic. Red lightening and It doesn’t hurt me, Do you wanna feel how it feels? Razor sharp teeth and empty lungs. Had Eddie been dumb? Had he tumbled into your garden, not seeing a monster in disguise? Maybe you were like Eleven though. You could be good, right? So good.

Jesus fucking Christ, he thought. At least he could hear his thoughts. His internal monologue. And the sound of… bells?

Eddie moved, his body naturally turning to face the noise.

It wasn’t bells. It was the bracelets on your wrist gently clinking against each other as you stepped over the pickets.

“Hi,” you greeted, your voice restoring the rest of the trailer park soundscape. The feeling in Eddie’s stomach was gone and everything seemed normal again. He could almost cry with relief.

“Hi,” he breathed out.

“She woke you again?”

“No… I was awake already,” he assured you, not wanting you to feel guilty.

You approached Eddie, stood in front of him and held your hands out for your cat. When you took Siouxsie, you hugged her close then looked back at Eddie.

In your short life, you had seen a lot. There had been beautiful people before, but none that made you feel the way Eddie did. You knew nothing about him, only spoken a handful of words, and yet, he made you want to scratch at his door like Siouxsie. Of course, you’d never. And judging by the Bambi-eyed expression on his face, you really wouldn’t have to.

“You have beautiful eyes,” you complimented Eddie.

He was taken aback, his mind cycling through the million and one things he thought were beautiful about you.

“And I’m sorry,” you continued. “I’ll talk to her. She’s just worried about you,”

“The cat? Is worried about me?”

“Yeah. She probably has the wrong Thursday though. She’s never been good at keeping track of the days.”

Eddie stared at you in absolute awe. Either you were a witch or you were a couple Crayola’s short of the rainbow. Both versions of you excited him.

“Does that mean there’s gonna be a Thursday where something bad happens?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe it’s already happened,” you answered with a shrug.

Eddie was processing, trying to work out if you were just taking the piss. He watched you step around him and open the trailer door. Siouxsie jumped from your arms and padded off to bed. You turned around and looked at Eddie again, smiled softly at him.

“Have you lost anything?”

“What?”

“Have you lost anything?” you repeated.

Eddie shook his head, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Like you lost your necklace?” he asked, to which you nodded. “No. But… There’s these flowers growing…” His sentence trailed off when he realised he was now the one sounding unhinged.

You made a humming sound of approval. “I saw. Almost like a little fairy highway from your door to mine.”

God, there had to be something more than just obsessed because Eddie was dying.

“That’s… weird,” he told you, smiling wide.

“Anything else… weird?” you asked him.

He was sure you knew. Maybe it was a test. Maybe you wanted to know what he noticed. “Coffee tastes sweet. Moon’s brighter. I found a dime bag I didn’t know I had… but I don’t think that one was you,”

“It wasn’t,” you confirmed.

Did that mean the other things were you?

Eddie’s smile was full of wonder and warmth.

“If she comes to you again, she can stay the night, if you want her to,” you said then, turning to step up into your trailer. Before he could stop himself, Eddie was stepping after you. “Goodnight, Eddie.” Hanging from the doorframe, you leaned down to press a light kiss to his forehead.

Eddie’s mouth was too dry to make words come from it and too soon you had closed the door, leaving him alone in the wake of your leave.

…

Saturday morning was cold, frost threatening to burn the tips of leaves and fingers alike. When you woke alone, you realised Siouxsie had spent her second night with Eddie, leaving you no company but your thoughts.

You were young, still learning to master your thoughts. It was why you were in Hawkins, a town built on a pattern of fault lines and far enough away from everything you knew. Somewhere to learn independence, and maybe figure out exactly who you wanted to be. It had history, which meant the promise of earth magic and plenty of energy to work with.

All of that was made easy with Siouxsie at your side, and you already missed her comforting purr and shiny eyes. Maybe you shouldn’t have offered up your only friend to Eddie so easily. For a moment, you thought she had heard your lament, the unmistakable sound of her crying at the trailer door becoming louder.

Putting down your marmalade toast and tea brewed from hand rolled balls of fresh leaves, you opened the door. The cat rubbed her face against your bare legs, then moved across the green grass as if she was going to leave again.

“That all I get?” you asked her, looking up to see where she was trotting off to, lament unheeded.

Eddie was under the hood of his van, switching between kicking at it and mumbling to himself. You watched Siouxsie make a great leap from ground to van rooftop, where she sat staring at you.

Help him, she was saying. He lets me have all the blanket.

Eddie didn’t hear you approach; it was only when he took an exasperated step backwards, growling in frustration, that he saw you standing next to the van. You’d thrown a huge, forest green knitted jumper on. The sleeves were too long and the hem came to your knees. It warmed all of you, even with the cold and wet stones beneath your feet.

Eddie’s expression softened when he saw you. “Hi,” he said, his voice in stark contrast to how it was moments ago.

“Are you okay?” you asked, forgoing a greeting.

“Ah… Yeah. No. Yeah, I am, I mean. My van though… When it’s this cold it has trouble starting. Starter motor, I guess?” He looked back into the engine with no idea what he was doing. Wayne wasn’t home from his night shift, so Eddie had to fix it or else call in sick to work.

After last year, Eddie wasn’t sure what he was going to do. At some point he’d need to study and test for his HSC. Not, yet though. He wasn’t ready.

He didn’t have Hellfire to occupy his time and the other members of Corroded Coffin were still haunting the halls of Hawkins High. He knew he wasn’t really the mindless manual labour type, even Wayne calling him too pretty for it, so he went for what he knew – music.

Eddie was persistent in his approach to getting a job at the only decent record store in the town. He wrote a letter to the owner, demonstrating his musical knowledge and appreciation. He showed up day after day, talking to customers like he already worked there. He promised he’d never arrive at work high and he’d always be on time.

The cold snap causing the oil in his van’s engine to become thicker, therefore, was a fucking disaster. Increased friction. Starter motor working harder, or not working at all, Eddie was running out of options and looking distressed.

“You don’t got a spell that can just like, fix this, do you?” Eddie asked you, half joking and half hoping you really would.

“A spell?” you replied, raising an eyebrow and smirking at his audacity.

“Yeah, fuck, never mind.” Eddie felt dumb. Embarrassed, even.

“I have a car though. If you need a ride,” you offered, glancing up at Siouxsie. She climbed down the front windscreen, jumping from the van and heading back across the road to home, satisfied with your intervention.

“Yes! Holy shit, yes. Thank you!” Eddie exclaimed, jumping on the spot then hugging you. “Fuck. Sorry,” he quickly said, pulling away from you like you burned. He must have seen the confusion on your face. “I, uh, normally ask. Girls. Before I, you know… Touch… them…” Embarrassed, definitely.

“I guess that’s a good policy,” you said to him, shrugging. “I’ll get my keys.”

He had followed you across the road and stood patiently at the passenger door of your black Bug while you retrieved the keys. Eddie noted that you elected to not put on shoes or pants. You noted that he was slightly too tall to look comfortable in your car.

“Where to?” you asked him as you reversed out of your spot and headed for the park’s exit.

“Hawkins Records. It’s Downtown, I can give you directions,” Eddie replied. “You’re saving my ass here. I owe you big time.”

The ride was short, Eddie knew, but an opportunity nonetheless. Since his stunning revelation that after last year, he probably shouldn’t purposefully get involved in more supernatural shit (even if the supernatural shit was a super pretty probably-witch), he had decided to gather more intel. Make an informed decision about if you were dangerous or connected to the Upside Down.

“So, ah, why Hawkins? Surely plenty of other cooler places you could’ve moved to?” he asked, trying his best at sounding casual.

“Have you heard of scrying?” you replied, glancing over at him. Eddie shook his head. “Hold a crystal over a map, let it swing, and it will land of a place of significance.”

Eddie thought for a second. “I really can’t tell if you’re fucking with me,”

“I know you can’t. Next question,” you said, smirking. As if you wouldn’t be able to sense the interrogation begin.

“Do you know anyone here?”

“I know you,”

“Do you know about… all the shit that’s happened here?” Eddie asked.

“I know what the papers say. I know there are still people that think you’re… bad. And, I know, this town is steeped in trauma. I can feel it. It radiates off everything and everyone.”

Eddie was plunged into his memories; it felt like an ice bath.

“Do you want to ask me anything else?” you asked, turning the heat up in the car.

Eddie’s eyes were glassy as he watched you turn the dial. “How did your necklace get in my room?”

“I truly don’t know how that works,” you answered honestly.

“But you didn’t seem… surprised,” Eddie said.

“No. I mean… I can feel it. Can you?”

Could Eddie feel what? Was there some cosmic energy he couldn’t sense? A shift in fate’s plan? Or, was he just meant to be feeling the swelling obsession he was nurturing for you? Could you feel that? Did you know what was in his mind and heart?

“Did you make the flowers grow?”

“No.”

Eddie was dismayed by that. “But… they’re… because of you, or something?” He was getting desperate for any proof. He needed you to admit to something.

“Maybe, Eddie, what you see in me, you’re seeing all around you now too,” you said, although you could see he wasn’t placated by your words. A small sigh, and you offered, “If it makes you feel… comforted… Then, yes. It’s me.”

It didn’t comfort him. But your car smelt like pine needles and there was a peacock feather hanging from your rear view mirror. Your cat slept soundly at his feet during the night. You were in his dreams.

“You don’t have more questions,” you stated. “My turn then?”

Eddie’s face lit up with curiosity.

“How personal can I get?” you asked.

“I’m an open book, baby,” Eddie replied, his charm defence back on.

“You weren’t… here… when you got those scars, were you?”

The question threw him entirely. It wasn’t that it was about the scars; he had predicted that it would be one of the first things you wanted to know about him. It was the implication of your question.

You clocked his breathing hitch and a heaviness settle in his shoulders.

“You almost died,” you, again, stated rather than asked.

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. Last year.” He laughed then, not joyful but somewhat entertained by what he was about to say. “On a Thursday,”

“Hmm. She’s a very perceptive cat,” you told him. Eddie would have to come back to that one later. “Where were you?”

“How do you know I wasn’t here,”

“I would say something like ‘oh, you won’t believe me,’ but I think you would,” you started. “I can… read you. Anyone. Anybody. Literally, bodies. Your freckles and scars. Anything with a history on this mortal plane. But I can’t read your scars. Not those ones.”

He didn’t know what you meant, not with any certainty. His mind was ticking over at a million miles an hour while he tried to fill in the blanks, come up with explanations he could make himself understand. Maybe you really were like the superhero girl Eleven. Or maybe like the smallest Byers, touched by something and unable to ever shake clean of it. Or maybe he didn’t know anything about witches.

“They called it the Upside Down,” Eddie said, his voice shaky but measured. “It was like the normal world but… bad. It was… decomposing while alive. Had monsters. It was evil,”

“I have a lot of questions, Eddie,” you told him softly. “But not today.”

He looked over at you and almost imploded at your softness. Your knitted jumper and bare legs, unshaved and dotted with strawberry spots. Your specific brand of weirdness, and how it felt like kindness to be around.

“Can I ask you one more?” he ventured. “Are you jealous that Siouxsie loves me so much?”

You laughed, explained that she was prone to short bursts of heavy affection and that she would return to where she truly found safe haven. Eddie looked through your car mixed tapes, then you bid him a farewell as you approached Hawkins Records.

“Do you need me to pick you up after school?” you teased through your open window.

He flipped you the bird and you pretended to catch it like it was a kiss. He grinned.

…

It wasn’t until the sound of plastic to metal startled you, that you realised something was different. You were a few grams heavier than you were the night before. Bold of you, you thought to fate, taking Eddie’s pick from around your neck and holding the chain in your hand.

You weren’t so dumb as to call Eddie to you, but to that necklace… that could be done with minimal magical risk. Sitting at your alter, you centred yourself before creating a circle.

In front of you, true north, you placed a white candle as the gatekeeper. Clockwise, a bowl of salt to keep the nasties at bay, then a rhodozite to cleanse and magnify energy. To your left, a bunch of daisies freshly picked and a small jar of dirt in which one earthworm lived as it always had and always would, never growing, never aging, simply being.

Saying your prayers, you put Eddie’s necklace in the small silver bowl on your alter, followed by a bay leaf on which you wrote his name. Calling him to his lost thing, you lit a small red spell candle, letting it burn quickly. After lighting the bay leaf and watching it go up in flames and turn to ash, you breathed out and closed the circle.

Across town, as he put a display for the new INXS album up, Eddie suddenly brought his hand to his chest, feeling for the necklace he never took off. It was gone. Inside him though, was a strong sensation that he was being pulled. Back home to the trailer park. No. Not home. To you.

All day, Eddie was distracted. He barely bothered to even try and talk customers out of buying George Michael and into buying, “Fuck, man, even The Smiths are better than this.” As soon as his van had been put into park, he was crossing the road and banging on your door.

Inside, you had just begun cooking cranberry and dark chocolate muffins in anticipation of his arrival. When you opened the door, Eddie looked feral, breathless.

“Do you have it?” he asked, pupils dilated.

Leaning down, you put his necklace over his head and watched him hold the pick between his fingers. The mania subsided and he felt normal again.

“Would you like to come in?”

He nodded and followed you into the trailer you called home.

“Holy shit, this is like… What the fuck? This is some sort of… magic, right?” Eddie said, almost spinning on the spot as he tried to calculate how much square footage the trailer should have.

“What do you mean?” you asked playing dumb.

“It shouldn’t be this big in here.” He was looking around… it felt like the inside of your small trailer, the very one that your Bug pulled along, was as big as his own free standing one.

It opened into a small kitchen that was comparable to his, and a living space. Maybe it was the fact that instead of a couch and coffee table, you had a beanbag, a large cushion collection, and a table that looked like its legs got cut off about a foot from the top. Or maybe it was witchcraft.

Eddie invited himself to go through a door that led to your bedroom, again, comparable to his own in size. Through another door was a small bathroom. When he wandered back out, the confusion set deep on his face, you laughed.

“Surely, you’ve seen stranger things, Eddie Munson of Hawkins, Indiana?”

“I mean… Yeah, but… Fuck, I don’t know.” He sat himself down on the beanbag, his long legs folded in front of him. “You’re really a witch, huh?”

“You floated that idea by anyone?” you asked him, leaning with your back to the kitchen bench.

“I live with my uncle,” Eddie said, pointing outside and across the road to his home. “Said I was judging a book by its cover,”

“Are you?”

“No. I’m judging you by all the weird shit that’s happening. This,” and he pointed to the trailer below him. “This is a big one. Fuckin’ Mary Poppins trailer.”

You laughed at the analogy; it was good. Accurate.

“How does it make you feel?” you asked then, watching him carefully.

Eddie felt like he was on fire whenever you looked at him like that. He was scared you could see into his soul. Of course, you couldn’t, but there wasn’t a single thing about watching Eddie that wasn’t fun.

“Honestly?” he said, paused mostly to begin to stitch together a sentence rather than to hear your reply. “Like I could be doing something dumb,”

“Because I could be… from the Upside Down?” you asked.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, but you’re not. That’s gone. Or, at least, the door got closed. Nailed shut. I hope. Doesn’t matter. You’re not from there,”

“I’m not, no. I have never heard of something like it before either,” you told him. He believed you, implicitly. “I don’t want anything from you, Eddie.”

Someone always did. His teachers wanted him to be more productive. His friends wanted him to be their larger-than-life Dungeon Master. His uncle wanted him to be the best he could be, which wasn’t a bad thing but came with its own set of expectations and let downs. Fuck, even his enemies still wanted him to show up outside their parties so they could buy from him.

“Except, maybe, your company,” you added, smiling at him and turning back to the batter you were stirring.

Eddie was blushing and therefore grateful you had turned away. He ran his hand through his hair, then looked around. Sitting under a window that framed his own trailer perfectly, was a record player and your beloved collection.

Eddie crawled over to them and sat cross legged, flicking through the stack, making little snorting and huffing sounds.

“You got something to say to me?” you asked, not turning around.

“Nope. No comments from me.”

Whitney Houston. The Cure. Fleetwood Mac. Depeche Mode. Prince. David Bowie. The Clash. Joan Jett & The Blackhearts. Alice Cooper. The Damned. Patti Smith. Bauhaus. Tom Waits. The Birthday Party. Brian Eno. And of course, Siouxsie and the Banshees.

“You gonna call me cliché, because people in glass houses, Eddie,” you told him, pointing the wooden spoon in your hand at him.

“No… A few surprises. But there is… a lot of black eyeliner in this collection. That’s all I’m saying. A lot of cats in the dark and then she is the darkness kind of thing,” he joked.

“You getting enough oxygen, all the way up there on your high horse?”

Eddie laughed, settling on Joan Jett. He’d always loved the cover of Crimson and Clover. He stood and came to see what you were doing. He ran his finger along the top of the mixing bowl, scooping up some of the batter and tasting it.

“Spicy,” he reviewed.

“Good spicy?”

“Yep. Like… Christmas spices. What’s it for?”

“Muffins,” you answered, handing him the wooden spoon to lick as you used a smaller one to divide the batter evenly into the muffin tray. “For you and your uncle.”

Eddie was quiet as he sucked on the spoon. Then, “Are we meant to bring you somethin’, like a housewarming gift?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” you asked, looking up at him.

He grinned then quickly leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

…

Stronger together, you knew how it went. Find a coven. Sisterhood (not cisterhood). Community. All that empowering jazz. At least without one, you had nobody to torment and tease you about how utterly infatuated with Eddie you were.

You could hear the ghosts of covens past. A boy? A mortal metalhead boy had you that ruffled. But, yeah. Yes, he fucking did. Maybe it was that he followed you like a lost puppy while you went hunting for special leaves and sticks. Maybe it was that he now brought over any vaguely interesting rock to ask if it was a crystal. Maybe it was that he was so easy to be around.

Eddie let you put thin braids in his hair and read his palm. He’d gotten all serious about it until you told him it wasn’t actually a specialty of yours. However, you could tell him the basics. The waves in his head line meant he was a progressive thinker. A life line with a clear arc told a story of a vibrant and energetic personality. His heart line was deep and curved.

“It means you invest in relationships. All or nothing. And that you express emotions willingly,” you’d told him, tracing the valleys of his palm. “See how your sun line is close to your fate line? That’s a strange one. It means that your public image is controlled by external forces. Things out of your control,”

“You mean like how the entire town seriously thought I was a cult leader that murdered teenagers in the name of Satan?”

“Yep. That’s it,”

“And it says that? On my hand?”

“I mean, if you believe it, yes,” you answered, never pushing him to feel or think anything other than what was coming naturally to him.

He studied his palm, looked at the lines you’d read. “But this isn’t your thing?”

“No. Not my area of expertise,”

“What is?” he asked.

“I gotta keep you coming over. Don’t want to ruin the mystique by telling you everything,” you said with a casual shrug and a smirk Eddie loved.

He held his hands out to you, you took them and let him thread your fingers through his.

“I’m not here for the mystique,”

“Anymore,” you clarified.

“Right. Anymore,” he agreed.

“Then, why are you here?”

It was an obvious question. Self-serving. You just wanted him to say it. However, as smitten as Eddie was with you, he was still a troublemaker. Someone who would not go quietly into the night, so to speak.

“The baked goods and Siouxsie,” Eddie said.

You pouted and pulled the saddest ever face. Eddie laughed, then yanked you by your hands towards him. He tipped backward, pulling you on top of him. Between the cushions and blankets, it was a soft landing. You let it happen, curling up to him and laying your head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“I’m here for you,” Eddie whispered, resting one hand on your back and the other running soft lines through your hair.

You moved, putting your chin on his chest so you could look up at his face. “I’m here for you too.”

…

If you had been asked to place a bet on how long it would take Eddie Munson to kiss you, you would have gone home in debt. It had been a month since you had moved to Hawkins. A month of lost things and mushroom picking and late night reading. Still, Eddie hadn’t braved more than a kiss on the cheek.

There had been afternoons where you fell asleep spooned together on his bed and mornings where he’d woken too early, made his way over to your place to brew tea and cook pancakes. Still, no kiss.

Eddie was sometimes like a caged animal, sometimes like a lost pet. His moods and outlook on the world shifted often and wildly. It was hard to know exactly what was going on in his head, but you were sure he wanted you. Through all his trauma, he was a lover at heart.

The universe spoke to you as well. She said the same thing. One afternoon you took a cat nap on your bed, woke up feeling spaced out, dreamy, to Eddie staring at you.

“What? What’s wrong?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“How… How did you…” but he couldn’t form words. You looked around. You were in Eddie’s room, on his bed. “There’s no way… You didn’t have time…”

He’d walked into his room to collect the dirty dishes, got to the door to leave, stopped as he remembered the stash of water glasses on the other side of the bed, turned back around and you were there. Asleep on his bed. Appeared out of thin air.

For a moment, you just stared at each other.

“Is this real?” Eddie asked, putting his collection of dishes down and kneeling on the bed. You sat up and met his hug. “You feel real,”

“I’m real,” you reassured him.

“You don’t know what’s happened,” he stated, sensing that this wasn’t one of your secret little witchy things you did.

You shook your head and racked your brain for an explanation.

From the kitchen, Wayne yelled, “You forgot what you’re doing in there or what?”

“I’ll be right back,” Eddie said, picking up the dishes and taking them to where Wayne was waiting by the kitchen sink.

As soon as Eddie took his eyes off you, you blinked back to your own bed. It was instant. Painless. So fast that you took a second to realise you’d moved again.

Eddie ran back to his room to find it empty. He left through the door near his bedroom, Siouxsie’s entrance of choice, and walked to yours. You were already opening the door as he approached.

“Did you-” you went to ask.

“Yeah. You were just in my room. What the hell was that?”

No book nor muse could give you answers. There was only one place to turn. You dropped Eddie at work, then found a pay phone on a quiet street. Although you didn’t know if it was entirely possible, you didn’t want them to be able to use the line to find you.

“The universe is restoring things once broken,” the oldest witch you knew said.

“That doesn’t make sense. How does putting me in some boy’s bed restore something broken?”

“Edward. And he’s not some boy to you,”

“Jesus. How do you- Whatever. Am I meant to do anything? Is it going to happen again? Can I stop it?” you asked, not getting stuck on how she knew Eddie.

“Stop it?” she laughed. “Of course it could only be you that asks to stop the universe.”

You said nothing, slightly ashamed that you, even for a moment, thought you knew better than the universe.

“Listen to her. Use your gift. You know what it means.”

She hung up.

You banged your head on the glass door and groaned. Goddamn witches, you thought, everything’s gotta be so goddamn mysterious.

…

It didn’t happen again. Both you and Eddie waited for it, but nothing. When a week went by, you decided it was a one-off kind of thing.

“Maybe it means you should spend more time with me,” Eddie said from the beanbag in your trailer.

Looking up from where you were journaling, spread out on the cushions of your living room, you gave Eddie a look that so clearly said ‘we are together all the time.’ He chuckled and rolled onto the floor to be next to you.

“Your grimoire,” he said, poking the journal.

“Not everything I do is all magic and moonlight, Eddie. Just a normal journal.”

He made a small ‘hmm’ sound and picked up one of the black pens you were using. He positioned himself next to your free arm and began to draw bats to match his. You were going out of your mind; you had never been the type of girl to let anyone mark you in any way, shape, or form. But it was Eddie.

When you closed your journal with a definite snap, Eddie jumped a little. He dropped the pen.

“No. Keep going. I like it,” you told him, handing him a thicker sharpie to work with.

You laid on your back and let Eddie draw all up your arm. Eyes closed, it felt good. Soft. Intimate. When you could tell he was going back over the same lines, you opened your eyes for explanation.

“It will look dumb if you’re entirely covered,” he offered in a hushed tone.

There was a solution to every problem; you took a pen and marked the line on your thigh where your skirt’s hem sat. Then, you bunched the skirt up around your waist, revealing a lot of skin for Eddie to work with.

There was a simple pleasure in watching Eddie try not to look at your underwear but fail miserably. He could contain the grin on his face and you laughed at him.

“Draw me something,” you asked.

He blinked at you a few times, then did the only thing he could think of. In clear letters, at the top of your thigh, he wrote his name and circled it in a heart. He beamed up at you and you reached out to pat his hair.

“Good boy,” you praised, then wriggled down into the cushions and blankets. “More.”

Eddie wasn’t what the world would consider a sublime artist, but he knew his way around a dragon. His sketches were fantasy in nature, and they translated onto your skin remarkably well. As he covered you, he hummed happily, and you continued to play with his hair.

When Eddie ran out of space, he sat up and watched you wake from the totally blissed out altered state you were in.

“Hi,” Eddie whispered, waiting for you to inspect his work.

“I like them,” you told him. “Shame they’ll wash off,”

“I will do this anytime you want. Just say the word, I am here.”

You smiled, felt your skin flush red and your body react to being so close to him. You were all tingles and hot spots. And Eddie, well he was doing his best to angle himself in a way that would hide his own body’s reaction to your bare thighs and underwear. Keep your shit together, Munson, he yelled at himself from inside his skull. Now or never.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes. Please,” you replied, the whininess in your voice obvious to both of you.

Eddie grinned ear to ear, then leaned in and kissed you like it was something he did all day every day. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his lap. His hands began to roam, touching his drawings on your legs and the softness of your waist.

You wanted to touch him, hold him like he was holding you, but his scars were deep and he was covered in them. The singular time you’d spoken to him about them was when you’d given him a ride to work, all those mornings ago.

“Eddie,” you said his name into his mouth. He nodded but didn’t break the kiss. “Can I…” You gently placed your hand on his face, over where the scars began. It was those ones – on both cheeks and his left jawline– that made him most self-conscious.

Eddie’s grip on you stayed tight, but his gaze lowered and he licked his lips nervously. You waited for him to speak, not settling for anything less than explicit and voluntary consent.

“I want to tell you about it,” he said. He looked at you with an open expression. You kissed him again, deep and heavy.

“Tell me about it.”

…

Sleep between warm flannel sheets and velvet blankets. Holding cups of hot cocoa. Being kissed, gently, softly, all over. These were the things you wanted for Eddie.

He was a wonder before you knew about 1986. Knowing that he survived quite literal horrors, bitten and bleeding. On the cusp of death then expected to live knowing how it felt to be eaten alive. You wanted to worship at his feet for the rest of your life.

You were a firm believer that all trauma and pain were relative. What could seem like just a bad day to some, could send others to therapy. Yet, you were in awe of how kind and happy Eddie was. Even before the creatures in the Upside Down, the ostracising and villainising, the abandonment and the loneliness… Eddie could be half the person he was and you’d still think he was a miracle.

“You have magic in you,” you told Eddie.

Wrapped up in the softness of your bed, he was happy; it was his happy place. The light filtered in and broke against crystals, prisms of rainbow beams shooting across the space. It always smelled of muffins or incense or sage. Siouxsie was always thrilled to see him and you’d let him add a few vinyls to the stack.

“Magic, huh?”

“Yep,”

“Nah… That’s just like, your love, but in me,” he replied.

“Nope. You have a special brand of magic. It’s earth magic. I can feel it,”

“Can I do anything with this special earth magic?”

You thought on it, watched Eddie stretch and stopped yourself from cooing ‘oh big stretch’ at him like you did with Siouxsie.

“Well, I hear that boys with long hair and earth magic can ask people like me for almost anything, and they just say yes,”

“Oh really?” Eddie laughed. “What if I ask for… a kiss?”

“Your wish is my command,” you replied, wriggling closer to him and kissing him lazily.

“And here,” he said, pointing to the tip of his nose. You giggled and did what he said. “And here.” The top point of his right cheekbone.

It was the hesitation then that made you aware of what he wanted to ask for. The words got caught on their way out, stuck on a branch of self-consciousness.

“Maybe, here?” you asked, then planting a feather-light kiss on his right cheek, over the scar. Eddie nodded before your lips left his skin. “And here?” A kiss to his left cheek, where the scars ran deeper. His breathing hitched, but you could tell by the way he was pulling you closer that he was fine. More than fine.

“I’m gonna say it just one more time. And here?” you said, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck, over the bites.

Eddie’s final wall came down and you traced every line of his body. When the weight of letting you in, letting love touch the part of himself he hated, he cried. He tried his best to wipe the tears away quickly, but nothing got by you unnoticed.

A joke for him, to lighten the mood. You gasped, covered your mouth in faux shock. “Not the nipple!” you said in whispered outrage.

Eddie laughed and the joyful sound broke the tension. It all evaporated into the air, along with any hang-ups he was harbouring about his body, and about if making it out of the Upside Down was worth it at all.

When he had told you about what it was like there and how the scars were formed, he also told you about the pain. Not the pain in the moment, but in the healing.

Some doctors said it was like his skin had been poisoned; it rejected grafts and began to heal twisted, regardless of how perfectly the stitches were placed. Other doctors were more superstitious. They’d seen some fucked up things come through the emergency room doors. They said Eddie had been cursed. There was no medical explanation for why the scarring seemed to get worse the more they tried to heal them. There was no scientific reason for Eddie’s body to refuse medicine and food.  

“They still hurt you,” you stated, focussed on his arms, kissing the insides of his elbows.

Eddie nodded after a split second of confusion. “You never told me what you meant,” he said. “About how you can… read? Is that what you said? You can read scars?”

Since you met Eddie, your conversations had been peppered with information about each other. Things that warranted immediate interrogation. Things that probably did, but you each let slide. Then things of major interest you made notes to return to. You had wondered how long it would take Eddie to ask you about it.

“It’s my specialty. Some of us palm read. Some can conjure elements. Talk to the other side. See the future. Endless possibility,” you started. Eddie was listening intently. “Me. I got a bit of a weird one. Only useful in very specific contexts, but you know how it is,”

“No. I really don’t,” Eddie replied with a small laugh. He waited for you to continue.

“So, this freckle here,” you said pointing to the spot on his wrist that was darker than the others. “I can see you. You’re… four, maybe five? It’s summer. You’re walking home eating a popsicle. This freckle got darker that summer.”

Eddie brought his wrist closer, studied it.

“And that teeny tiny scar under your eye. As white and thin as one of Siouxsie’s whiskers. Guitar string snapped when you were seventeen. Sliced right across your face.”

Eddie’s mouth curved into a smile. “You can do that with anything?”

“Anything that…” It was hard to explain. “Changes your body in an unnatural way. Tattoos included,”

“Don’t judge me,” he quickly said.

“Sketchy home jobs. At least you made sure the needle was sanitised,”

“Mmmm. High pain tolerance and I’m smart. Total catch,” Eddie joked.

“You are, actually,” you told him, not letting him linger in self-deprecation. “And if I am being totally honest with you, Eddie Munson, I would like to formally catch you, if I may,”

“Formally?” he repeated, smiling widely and opening his arms in an invitation.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. “Eddie. I love you. I like who I am around you… I tried to be all ‘mysterious witch rolls into town,’ ‘ohhhh leave her alone,’ but, I don’t know. I didn’t see you coming. But now you’re here. Under me. Around me all the time. And I don’t want you to go. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Eddie was breathless, submerged in a sea of your devotion. But he couldn’t fucking help himself. “So, you admit you’re a witch?”

You huffed dramatically and rolled off him, pushing him away playfully.

“I’m sorry!” he yelled. “Come back! I love you too!”

Too late. You were up, off the bed. Eddie ran after you, chasing you until he had you pinned down on top of the piles of pillows in the living space. He tickled until you were begging him to stop, then he kissed you like it was the single reason he refused to die. Maybe it was.

…

“So, you’re saying if I smoked that, it would kill me?”

“Eddie…” you warned.

“I’m serious. Look at all this. We could make a lot of cash if we’re smart about this.”

You pushed him away from your kitchen bench. “Go back over to your fucking rollies and let me work,”

“So serious!” he teased, walking to the cushion thrown he’d built and plonking down.

You were dividing herbs, crystals, and other conduits into small hessian fabric bags. Some were for you, some were gifts, and some were for sale. Eddie, also involved in the distribution of earth magic, was rolling joints ready to sell to first timers. It was second nature to him, something he could do blindfolded, so while he worked, he watched you.

“Can you tell me everything is for?” he asked, making eye contact while his tongue ran along the edge of a paper.

“Well… this is one is for Lucy,” you said, holding up one of your small parcels. “There is angelica herb for the baby’s colic, and valerian to help Lucy sleep. But everything has a twofold purpose. The medicinal and the magical. Angelica helps to protect the home, and valerian is good for romantic energy,”

“Lucy as in, my boss’ wife?”

“Yep. I have a long list of Hawkins clients. Not all of them would own up to it… Like… Mrs Miles has requested fire agate.”

You took the crystal over for Eddie to inspect. “What’s it for? Help her be less of a bitch?”

“It would take a whole lot more than agate for that. This is a positive stone. It helps manifest safety and security and that kind of thing. Depending on how you use it, it can help you be a little braver, and help reflect harm. But that isn’t what she’s using it for,”

“Oh?” Eddie quipped with a grin. “Do tell,”

“She didn’t tell me everything, but she did say it was for her husband. And this is a crystal that we use to fight cravings. Addictions. Less than healthy desires,”

“Oh shit. What do you reckon he’s into?”

“Probably something boring, like the bottle. I don’t know. I do hope it helps though,” you reply.

“Do they deserve your help?” Eddie asked sincerely.

“She’s not the nicest person I’ve met, but who I am to gatekeep magic? It’s bigger than me, you know? I… serve… it? In a way? I don’t know how to explain it.”

You went on to tell Eddie about moonstone and black obsidian, mistletoe and borage leaf.

“And I can’t smoke any of it,”

“Not any of this, no. I mean, you could try, but I think most would either do nothing or do harm. However…” You stood on tippy toes and pulled a jar off the top shelf.

Eddie was at your side quickly, taking the jar and shaking it. “This kind of looks like dope. What is it?”

“Mugwort,”

“That sounds super fucking witchy,” he said with a laugh.

“It’s smokable, but is pretty bitter. Some people say it tastes kind of floral but I don’t get that. It doesn’t give you a high while you’re awake, but it makes your dream suuuuper trippy,”

“People buy it?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “To help lucid dream, mostly.”

Sometimes, you worried that Eddie would get bored if you rambled on about the history of herbs and magic. You didn’t know, but sometimes he worried you would get bored if he rambled on about D&D and Metallica. The truth was not somewhere in the middle, but at the absolute extreme end of it being impossible to bore each other at all.

Eddie was listening, watching, waiting for you to continue.

“The Aztecs made it into incense, because they believed it to be sacred. Native Americans use it for purification. Ancient cultures from everywhere used it to ward off evil spirits. People like me believe it’s connected to lunar energy, which is very strong,”

“The moon?” Eddie asked with genuine curiosity.

“Yeah. Lunar energy is about cycles, things that repeat. We can’t be static; we need to move through life’s cycles, you know?”

He nodded despite not entirely understanding. “Soooooo, can I-”

“No. Maybe if your nightmares stop you can try some,”

“I don’t have the nightmares when I sleep with you,” Eddie argued.

“I know. But I won’t be able to live with the guilt if it fucks you up. So, it’s a hard no.”

Eddie accepted your ruling, shook the jar again and handed it back.

“Tell me more,” he said, once again becoming side tracked from his task by you and your magic.

…

It happened again. While you watched Eddie, who had not gone to sleep in your bed but was beside you when you woke, you thought about it.

The universe is restoring things once broken. Use your gift.

The universe had taken great effort in moving you to Eddie, all those weeks ago. Whatever you’d done between then and now, she wasn’t satisfied. She had moved Eddie to you. A clear message that there was something to be done for him.

He’s not broken, you said to yourself. But he was in pain. Maybe if your medium was scars and bodies, you could do more than just read them.

Eddie’s eyes began to flutter open, focus on you.

Maybe there was something you could do for him. It would take planning. Planning that he could not be privy to; you wouldn’t give him hope where there may be none.

“The fuck?” he mumbled, sleepiness slurring his words.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

Eddie sat up and realised what had happened. He looked to you for an answer, but you had none, so all you could offer was a shrug.

“Alright… Well. Hi,” he grinned, moving over to kiss you.

“Hi,” you said into his mouth. “I think, if I take my eyes off you, you’ll go back,” you told him. “That’s what happened with me, right?”

Eddie nodded. “Guess we just have to stay in bed, staring at each other forever,”

“You’ve got to open the store. That’s why you slept at yours last night. Didn’t want to wake me early.”

The smile faded from his face and was replaced with a silly pout. “Fuck. Yeah. First time opening. Huge promotion, you know? Lots of responsibility,” he joked.

All you had to do was raise an eyebrow and Eddie knew what you were thinking. No more self-deprecation. It was good that he liked working at Hawkins Records. It was good the boss was teaching him how to open and close, how to balance the books and bank the cash. It wasn’t to be laughed at or be considered small.

“I love you,” he said then.

“I love you too. I’m gonna let you go now,”

“Fuck, does this hurt?”

“No, baby. If it did, I wouldn’t let it happen to you.”

Before he could reply, you leaned in and kissed him, then rolled over in bed, feeling the weight of his body disappear in an instant, leaving you alone in your trailer once again.

…

The trust in Eddie’s eyes was deep, unwavering. He was laid out in front of you, flat on the floor of your trailer. You’d made him as comfortable as possible. A faux fur blanket was beneath him and Siouxsie was cuddled into his side. Still, being stark naked in the middle of a pentagram of candles was a scary thing.

“Would you be more or less anxious if I, like, talk through this? You could just close your eyes and let your mind wander, or-”

“No. Talk me through it,” Eddie replied.

“Okay. Well, first we need to create our circle.”

Like you had countless times before, a gatekeeper white candle at true north, salt bowl, rhodozite, fresh flowers, and an immortal earthworm. Eddie found a spot on the ceiling to focus on and tried to slow his heart rate.

“You ready? I’m going to cover your scars with this,” you explained, holding up a jar of the homemade concoction. “It has a careful balance of four pain relievers – wormwood, yarrow, St Johns’ Wort, and willow bark. The plants all came from specific places and were grown at specific times. Then, we have chickweed, comfrey, and meadowsweet for healing,”

“It will make the scars go?” Eddie asked. You hadn’t told him what exactly you were doing, just that you wanted to try something.

“No. That would take a different kind of magic, one I don’t have. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Eddie. I don’t want to change you. I just want to take your pain away. And I can.”

He nodded, went back to staring at the ceiling and patting Siouxsie.

“The plants were dried, then ground up. They’ve been steeping in chamomile oil for exactly thirty-three days,”

“You’ve been planning this for a while, huh?”

“Yep. This is… kind of the culmination of all my talents. An extension of them, maybe… Anyway. The oil is stabilised with some beeswax,”

“Then you put it all over me,”

“Yep. How’s it feel?” you asked.

“Uh, weird. Cold and warm? And… surprised I don’t have a raging hard on.”

You laughed. “It’s the circle. There’s intention here, and it’s not a sexual one,”

“Huh… I just don’t want you to get offended. Any other situation in which you were putting this gooey shit all over me with this much… attention, I would be creaming my jeans.”

Again, you laughed, shaking your hair and trying to pull yourself back into the right mindset. “Eddie, shut up. I need to focus,”

“Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.”

Eddie remained quiet while you wrapped his arms and legs in red twine. You had him sit up so you could wrap his torso and neck. When panic briefly flashed across his face, you kissed him.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, continuing the twine up around his head so his cheeks, mouth and nose were covered. You checked he could breathe then laid him back down. “You need to stay still, as much as you can, for thirty-three minutes. I know it’s uncomfortable, but I promise this is gonna work.”

You placed a small black onyx over Eddie’s heart, for protection. Jade in his left hand and smoky quartz in his right. Lastly, gently sitting on his forehead, the master healer – brandberg amethyst.

It was the most still for the longest time Eddie could remember being. He thought it was going to take all his willpower, but it didn’t. Something was happening that he couldn’t describe. He felt awake and alert but far away and light. So light. Like he was floating. It felt as though his body was deep into a dish of edibles, but his mind was calm and on mum-friend duty. It was good.

When he felt the weight of the crystals lift, he opened his eyes. He watched you carefully put them into a bowl of salt water. Next to it was another bowl, one that held the smallest, cutest bonfire.

You began to pull the twine from his legs, feeding it into the fire slowly. When Eddie’s body was free, you extinguished the flames and poured the still-hot ashes into a small glass vial.

Lastly, you used a muslin cloth to wipe the potion from his skin, then closed the circle.

“Alright. You can shower now, and I’ll go bury this,” you told him, picking up the vial.

Eddie remained placid as he nodded and disappeared into your bathroom. Siouxsie took it upon herself to follow him and keep watch until both she and you knew the spell had worked and Eddie was safe.

When you came back in from the cold night, Eddie was sitting on the edge of your bed in pyjama pants. His scars had remained, but were perhaps a lighter shade of pink. They didn’t scream in angry red.

“How do you feel?” you asked him, coming to stand between his legs.

Eddie took hold of your hips and looked up at you. A tear slipped down his face, followed quickly by more. It was only once it was gone that Eddie realised how much pain there had been.

“I… I can’t… feel them. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he cried, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling himself into your belly, hiding his face against your warm body.

…

In numerology, four is a figure of stability, security, and dependability. So, when Eddie finally asked to have his tarot read, you calculated the days since you first met him. It had been four-hundred and forty-four days, a bit over a year, since you had found Siouxsie in the company of Eddie.

Of course, you thought.

Eddie had jumped at the chance to have you read his palm. Nearly weekly, he’d bring his empty mug to you so you could decipher the tea leaves. But his cards? It had been a hard no.

“Can I ask why?” you had said softly.

Eddie shrugged. “Feels like… everything is good right now. I don’t want anything to fuck it up. If I know too much about what’s coming, might do something stupid.”

It was simple logic and you respected his boundary. Sometimes, if the tea leaves said too much, you’d not speak of it all to Eddie.

Months later, when he asked for you to shuffle your deck, you asked him what had changed. Once again, he shrugged.

“Woke up feeling good?” he offered. You were sure it was the number four and the placement of the moon, but just nodded and retrieved the cards from the special place you kept them.

While you were in your bedroom, Eddie lit a joint and gave Siouxsie a little treat. He put Van Morrison’s Moondance record on; it was not his usual thing but it always made you happy, and Crazy Love fed the butterflies in his stomach.

You and Eddie sat opposite each other on the cushions in your living space. Over the sawed-off coffee table, you laid a deep purple silk cloth. When you asked if he wanted a simple three-card spread, or something more complex, he said he was all in.

Swapping the cards for the joint, you let Eddie shuffle while you inhaled deeply.

“We can stop at any time,” you reminded him as he put the deck on the table.

Eddie nodded and waited for further instruction.

“Okay, you’re going to shuffle them again, but this time I want you to think about something. It might be a general question you have or something you wanna know more about. It doesn’t have to be super specific, but try to focus in on a theme.”

He picked up the cards and did what you said. There was something about the image of Eddie sitting cross-legged surrounded by cushions, joint hanging from between his lips, shuffling tarot cards that made you feel a little bit feral with love. You needed to focus though; if he was ever going to let you do this again you needed to channel your energy into reading his.

Once Eddie placed the deck on the table, you pushed it along, spreading them in a line.

“You’re going to pick your cards now. Hold your hand out flat, like this, and see if you can feel anything. The right card might feel warm or like static. It’s okay if they don’t though. The first one is going to represent your preconceived ideas about the theme.”

Eddie held back a smirk as he moved his hand along the line of cards like you’d shown him. He felt a little bit silly, but he was a believer regardless. He knew your magic was real.

“This one,” he said, pushing a card out of the line. You moved it away from the rest.

“Again. This card will represent the present.”

He repeated the process for the unexpected, the near future, and the distant future. Once the five cards were drawn, you put the remaining deck aside. Eddie’s chosen cards were neatly arranged side by side on the table.

“You can turn your first card over.”

The Chariot.

“He looks cool,” Eddie commented.

“He is. This card is about having direction, control, and willpower. It would suggest, whatever it is your thinking about, that you have a sense of real, practical determination about it,” you said, watching Eddie for that flicker of recognition people got when the cards resonated with them.

“Can I tell you the thing?” he asked, to which you nodded. “Been thinking a bit about work. I think they’re gonna open up that second store I told you about. Their kid is nearly one. I don’t what they’re thinking about managers and who’s gonna run the record store, but…”

“But it could be you?” you finished for Eddie, because he felt like saying it out loud might jinx it.

“Yeah,”

“I think it could be too. And, this card is saying that you’ve been working hard and, you know, moving forward. The moons on his armour represent what is coming to be. It has a connection to the Divine will. So, it’s a good headspace to be in,”

“Okay. Yeah, cool. Next one?” Eddie asked. He was getting into it.

As soon as he saw the card, Eddie groaned.

“No! It’s not bad! The Death card is good. Metamorphosis. If we apply it to your theme, then you’re right. There is change happening at work, and it will bring new beginnings,” you told him. He raised his eyebrows. “Come on, Eddie. You know better than anyone that there’s more to dark imagery than like, actual death and doom,”

“Alright. I’ll trust you on that one,”

“Good; trust me. Next one is the unexpected… The Tower,” you read, then began to hum.

“What? Is this one bad? It’s upside down,”

“It is. That changes the meaning. See, the upright Tower means disaster. The lightning and fire, the people jumping or falling. It’s not normally a good omen, but yours is reversed. That symbolises disaster avoided, or just delayed.”

You were speaking slower and more considered, and Eddie clocked it immediately. “Just tell me,”

“Well, no, it’s just… if this is your unexpected thing, it means there probably will be something you have to overcome. The Tower is falling, and you can’t stop it, but seeing it reversed means that you’ll cope and survive and probably be better for it,”

“Right,” Eddie replied, thinking.

You weren’t entirely sure what it meant for Eddie’s future, but that’s the nature of the cards. It was certainly the nature of the unexpected position in the five-card spread.

“So next is the future?” Eddie said, then flipped the card.

“Yep,” you said, then laughed as The Fool was revealed.

“Great. So, I get a burning tower and now I’m a fucking clown?”

“This is a good card, Eddie! I promise. The Fool has a free spirit. He is taking his first steps out into the world. He’s happy and excited,”

“He sounds dumb,” Eddie said deadpan.

“A little. Innocent, definitely. See the cliff? He needs to be maybe just a little bit more aware of his surroundings, but he’ll have help. The dog is his warning sign,”

“We have a cat,”

“Firstly, we? Do we? Secondly, it could be a metaphor. It just means, take to the road light-hearted but heed the warning signs,”

“Alright. I can do that. Last one,”

“That was your near future. This is more long term.”

You held your breath as Eddie turned the card over. If it were up to you, Eddie’s future would be filled with comfort and ease, triumph and beauty. Alas, it wasn’t up to you, it was up to the universe. While you trusted her, she had dealt Eddie a pretty shit hand.

When The World sat face up on the table, you breathed out happily and wiped your eyes, unaware they had started to well with tears.

Eddie looked up at you. “Baby?” he asked concerned.

You sniffed back the tears and smiled at him. “It’s good. Really good. And it makes sense for today, too.”

Eddie grinned, picked up the card and studied it. “There’s a lot going on,”

“Yeah, um,” you started, composing yourself. “The World. Okay. At the heart of her is balance, in all things. But, not at the expense of progress. The World is eternal evolution in movement. And, uh,” you paused, giving Eddie a chance to reign you in if he wanted.

Eddie saw the sparkle in your eyes, the excitement and the innate need to just talk.

“Tell me everything,” he reassured you.

“Well, like, today, you know what today is? We’ve known each other for four-hundred and forty-four days, right, and see here, in the corners. These four guys, they represent Scorpio, Leo, Aquarius and Taurus, from the zodiac, and they in turn can represent so much, like the four corners of the universe, the four elements and seasons, and the four suits of Tarot, four compass points…”

“Everything is coming up fours, huh?”

You were beaming. “Yeah, and if you wanna get all hippie about it, if you pull The World it means there is wholeness in your future, Eddie. Like, alignment of you and everything around you. A sense that you’re connected to something bigger.”

Eddie laughed. “These are some big feelings to have about a job,”

“Maybe. But maybe that stability brings, you know, something more? Fulfillment and achievement. And, maybe the cards have branched away from just your main theme. They have waited a long time to tell you their story, so maybe they’re just peppering in other things too?”

“Ah, I see. So your cards are as tricky as you? Love a bit of mystery?”

“They do. I do,” you replied, looking back down at the table. “This is a really good reading, Eddie. How do you feel, ‘cause I feel… I’m so happy for you,”

“I feel like this is promising me a lot but if I have learnt anything in the past four million four thousand four hundred forty-four point four four days is that I can trust you, my little witch,” Eddie replied, smiling fondly and reaching across the table to boop you on the nose.

“I love you,”

“I love you too. You make me… so fucking happy,” Eddie said, his voice equal parts soft with love and rough with lust.

For a moment, a timeless moment, you and Eddie watched each other. The air was hazy with incense and smelt like choc chip cookies. Siouxsie had departed, off to chase leaves and make friends with mice, leaving the two of you alone.

You crawled around the table and sat in Eddie’s lap. Quickly, immediately, his hands were holding you, travelling under your shirt and up around your back. You buried your head in his neck, kissing over what used to be pain but now was perfect neutrality. His hair curled around your fingers and as you pulled, Eddie felt his scalp tingle and his entire body scream that it needed to be closer to you, closer than it was, closer than humanly possible.

The kissing was desperate, messy, unprecise. As you pulled away, Eddie brought a hand to your mouth to wipe away spit before it escaped. You sucked in his finger, holding it between your front teeth and not letting go. He grinned, all manic and beautiful.

“I need you… in like, so many ways,” he whispered.

“You’ve got me. In every single way, Eddie. Always.”

Lavender and lemon balm. Fairy circles and magic mushrooms. Serpentine and Australian opal. The Sun and the Moon and the stars and everything under and beyond them. Infinitely, Eddie and his sketchy tattoos and pick necklace and his scars. You were obsessed.

End Notes: I poured my soul into this one and it means a lot. I’m usually chill about reblogs but I would really appreciate your support and feedback for this one.

Find me on AO3 here. My Eddie Munson zine is now on sale here.

If you want more witchy fics, here's a rec list.

Taglist of cool people that wanted to read this even before it was finished: @apolixyan @rgbsona @pink-hufflepuff @hocuspocuscrocus @nightless @httpsunflowers @draguta @moon1ightdreams @dreamlandcreations @veiellis @blackwood-asylum @lunarielevesque @pistachoz @munsonsmel0dy @fic-for-readers @wtvbabes

magic of the night | myg

⇒ summary: there is a witch you go to for spells and potions whenever human nature is not enough for things to go your way, and he loves you more than anyone else ever will.

⇒ witch!au, halloween!au

⇒ pairing: yoongi x female reader

⇒ word count: 5k

⇒ genre: horror, angst

⇒ warnings: ft. obsessive characters and actions

⇒ a/n: this is my contribution to the wonderful stories no one dares to tell collab i’m doing with some other very lovely writers!!! i was given yoongi, and witch yoongi is just smth i can’t resist ;-;

People always say never to make deals with the devil, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make deals with witches. Witches who are more than willing to strike up a bargain with you so that the both of you get what you want.

Seguir leyendo

Did I use a Witch AU as an excuse to buy a new Tarot deck??

Witch Denki and Ochako because yes

cabinet duo but they’re witches and they run a little magic supply shop send tweet

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

Author: vyduan Pairing: Min Yoongi | Reader, Min Yoongi | Park Jimin Genre: one shot, witch au, arranged marriage au, slow burn, friends to lovers, angst Word Count: ~23.6k Rating: Explicit Warnings: swearing, legal consumption of alcohol, light mentions of domestic abuse, explicit descriptions of masturbation, use of sex toy in masturbation/sex, m/f oral sex (female receiving), explicit descriptions of consensual m/f sex, woman on top, light mentions of consensual mxm sex, discussions of difficulty achieving female orgasm, sex is considered a part of their duties (but is all consensual) AO3

Summary: You didn’t mean to fall in love with your husband and fellow Witches’ Councilmember Yoongi, but here you are: in love. (How gauche and not the thing. You’re co-workers, not lovers.) It’s particularly inconvenient since he is in love with someone else.

Notes: Written for the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Halloween collab for @colormepurplex2. I hope you like it!! Happy Halloween!!

World inspired in part by melodiousb's "Trust in the Weather."

Special thanks to @hamsterclaw, @sugalaritae2, @thatlongspringnight, @minisugakoobies, @booboobutt, supertaster, lawyerjin, and superstars for your handholding, encouragement, and quite frankly, for listening to me complain and cry and whine and just throw a tantrum every five minutes because this fic was supposed to be about 5k and here we are at almost 5x that. (This is actually the second fic I had started for this fic exchange. I had shelved my original idea because it would have been too long. The irony is annoying.)

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

Love As Soft As a Distant Star

You awaken to the smell of eggs and bacon. The soft morning light filters through your sunshine yellow curtains and you hear the birds and burbling fountain outside your open window. You allow your awareness to sink back into your body and stretch. You had slept restlessly in the night and there is a crick in your neck and a twinge in your shoulder.

There is a tap at your door and you mumble a blurry, “I’m up.”

Your husband, colleague, and fellow witch opens the door just a tiny bit and peeks in, his button nose and dark eyes glittering underneath the black wave of his fringe. It’s too early for you to see him full in the face so you pull the gray and green checkered duvet over your head.

“I made breakfast,” Yoongi says, his voice a pleasant low burr. “Come down before it gets cold, Y/N.”

“Mmmph,” you grumble in reply. “You could just spell it so that it doesn’t.”

You sound whiny even to your own ears. You don’t know why you’re so grumpy except a sudden memory of Yoongi and Jimin’s desperate panting and grunting traveling through the open windows last night reminds you.

Even now, the mere recall of their fucking leaves you burning and breathless. It doesn’t help that Yoongi had been so out of his mind with pleasure that his control over your psychic link had slipped and his orgasm had reverberated through you, leaving you wanting and weeping. If that had been merely an echo of Yoongi’s release, you can only imagine how mind-blowing it had been in reality.

You feel an ache behind your eyes.

“You know if I did that, you’d stay in bed all day,” Yoongi reasons. “Come on, Y/N. Jimin wants to see you before he leaves.”

Your gut twists and you choose to blame it on needing to relieve yourself. “Gimme a few minutes,” you say carefully.

Yoongi chuckles. “Alright,” he says and shuts the door.

You hear him pad down the wooden hallway and thunk down the stairs. His footfalls are surprisingly heavy for such a slight man (although you suppose he isn’t as lean as he used to be — years of physical and magical labor have filled him out nicely). You throw your covers off yourself and reluctantly swing your legs off the edge of the mattress and set your feet on the carpeted floor.

You shiver even though it’s still the beginning of autumn. The morning carries a slight chill, but you know it will burn off by mid-afternoon once the shadow cast by the forest is behind your cottage rather than over it.

You quickly grab the burnt orange sweater you were wearing last night from its resting place over your wooden desk chair. You head to the bathroom and get yourself both physically and mentally ready for the day. You wonder how long you can delay, but then you remember how Yoongi will have no qualms about dragging you downstairs by the ear.

You remember how much you also love Jimin, that it is neither Yoongi nor Jimin’s fault that you had been foolish enough to fall in love with your husband.

You are once again grateful that early in your marriage, you’d mutually agreed to keep the boundaries of your psychic link tightly wrapped around yourselves. It allowed you to maintain the privacy of your feelings (both emotional and sensational) and only in moments of extreme duress would they leak through to the other person.

The two of you are only married because that is part of the job description as Tranquil Valley’s witch representatives to the Witches’ Council. Every town or village’s witch representatives are married regardless of gender or sex. Such unions are perfunctory and pragmatic. Like all coworking relationships, some matches are lucky enough to eventually fall in love, but they are few and far between. More often than not, councilmembers just take on lovers or companions. It is a much simpler solution (and one which Yoongi has clearly availed himself).

Sometimes, marriages have to be dissolved due to irreconcilable differences between two parties. (And sometimes, sometimes, they have to be dissolved due to abuse. The Witches’ Council tries to keep these cases hushed lest humans and regular witches lose the respect they feel is their due.)

(Jimin was one such case though he never spoke of it. His husband had been removed from the council and their marriage sundered years ago, though Jimin had refused to keep his seat. He’d balked at the inhumane requirements for him to be re-bound to another person almost immediately after in order to retain his position as witch representative. The council had wanted to save face and Jimin had unceremoniously told them all to fuck themselves. You had not blamed him.)

“Y/N! Sometime this century!” Yoongi calls from below, effectively pulling you out of your reminiscing. You’d taken too long.

You dash down the wooden stairs and sheepishly slide into your small kitchen. Jimin is already seated in the nook, happily occupying the sunny spot. The sunlight reflects off his cotton candy pink hair and though your heart is sore, your eyes drink him in anyway. You marvel at the sly curves of his lips, the round of his cheeks, the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Jimin is so, so beautiful.

“Take a picture. It lasts longer,” Yoongi teases in his gravelly voice from the wooden kitchen counter as Jimin preens and bats his dark lashes at you. “It’s not like we’re living in the olden days.”

You feel your face heat at being caught, but you push through it. “Pictures can never fully capture our Jiminie’s beauty,” you say as you slide into your seat at the table opposite of Jimin. There is, after all, no point in denying what you were doing. Jimin knows you appreciate his appearance. So does Yoongi. He’s found you looking at Jimin often enough in the past. (Jimin is looking especially fine and soft this morning in a fluffy sky blue sweater that allows peeks of his collarbones.)

“Hmmm,” muses Yoongi, “just so.” He hands you a cup of coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk), chopsticks, and a plate of eggs over medium, bacon, kimchi, sourdough toast with ample butter and jam, and a peeled tangerine. Despite how long you took upstairs, the food is still warm (except for the tangerine) and your coffee is still hot.

You thank him and wonder if Yoongi has ever discovered you looking at him, and if he would tell you to take a picture. If he knows you appreciate his looks. If it causes Yoongi to preen. (He is in an oversized black hoodie and low slung pajama pants and looks delectable.)

You mentally shake yourself off this line of thinking. What does it matter if you find your husband attractive? The two of you have a duty — and you do it.

You consummate your marriage during every harvest moon to honor the moon and as thanks for a bountiful year. You consummate your marriage on the winter solstice as prayer for the grounds that lay fallow and the grounds planted with winter crops. You consummate your marriage on the vernal equinox to symbolize the literal sowing of fields. You consummate your marriage on the summer solstice to honor the sun and its life-giving force.

You do your duty. You never shirk it (though you are not quite sure you ever enjoy it either).

(You tamp down the disappointment that Yoongi always enjoys it enough. You remind yourself that releasing his seed, too, is part of his duty.)

You wonder if Yoongi loves Jimin because consummation with him has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with pleasure. You wonder why you do not seek out the same for yourself, except the thought of consummation with someone you do not know down to the depth of your bones is repellant. That and it rarely ends in climax for you anyway so why bother?

You decide for the countless time this morning to divert your thinking. “You wanted to see me, Jimin?”

Jimin beams a smile at you, his crooked front tooth charming you as always. “Jungkook has been asking after you, Y/N,” he says.

Your stomach churns. Jungkook is pleasant enough, but his energy is too bold for you. He feels like a puppy and it makes you tired to be around him. “Oh?” you reply.

You can tell Jimin draws the incorrect conclusion from your muted response when his face morphs into delighted calculation. “Yes,” he says. You can practically see the glee vibrating off his compact form. “He was wondering if you were going to attend Namjoon’s councilmember ascension event next month.”

You grimaced. You had known Namjoon when you were both young witches and though you had ascended to your position with Yoongi at Tranquil Valley more than a decade ago, no township or village had ever fit Namjoon quite right. Though most of the witch population chooses to settle somewhere and become part of that community by marrying as humans did and starting families, he had become a traveling witch (much as Jimin was) and wandered from territory to territory, apprenticing himself to many different talented witches until he chose to move on again.

Jimin is friends with him through his wanderings so you know more than you care to about Namjoon and his eclectic tastes and penchant for absorbing as much magical lore as possible. You secretly contend that Namjoon is petty and tedious (though competent enough), and that’s why he is constantly passed over. Perhaps he’s finally found a place as tiresome as he is.

“I had no intention of doing so,” you say harsher than you had intended, “Yoongi already agreed to go. The event doesn’t require both of us to be there.”

Yoongi shoots you a puzzled look because you hadn’t yet told him of your intentions to stay home, but you ignore him. When Jimin quirks his head at Yoongi, your husband merely shrugs so slightly that you almost miss it were it not for the fact that you are always aware of him when in his presence. It was not always so, but ten plus years working and living with a person will do it to even the most self-absorbed (and you are not self-absorbed — or at least, no more than the average person).

But as much as Yoongi knows how to read you, he still doesn’t know all of your story — only the bare bones of it. You prefer it that way and had taken the position years ago as a chance to start over. You do not wish to be reminded of your past, let alone revisit someone you find obnoxious.

Besides, you also aren’t going because you can’t stand the idea of Yoongi leaving you alone in your shared quarters while he is off fucking (or being fucked by) Jimin. Though you know distance doesn’t mute your psychic link — what good would the link serve if that were the case — you hope being at home will distract you enough so that you won’t notice as much if Yoongi’s control slips again. It doesn’t happen often and for that, you are exceedingly grateful.

“Jungkook will be disappointed,” Jimin remarks, his expression sneakier than you like.

You wave him off as you take a sip of your coffee, grateful for something to occupy you before something uncharitable slips from your lips. “He’ll get over it,” you say after you get your mouth under control. “I’m sure there will be plenty of witches who will be willing to take his mind off of me when he’s at Namjoon’s ascension afterparty.”

“Oh, I’m sure, too,” agrees Jimin. “But they won’t be you.”

You sigh. “He’ll eventually figure out that I’m not interested,” you say and dig into your eggs with feigned gusto.

“Well, if it’s not Jungkook, do you have your eyes on anyone else?” asks Jimin. He leans in as if this crafted intimacy will divest you of your secrets.

You do not bother replying and Jimin wisely keeps any additional comments to himself (but not before shooting Yoongi another glance).

The three of you continue breakfast and Yoongi changes the subject to the library re-opening that he knows you won’t object to. You allow yourself to settle into the safety of town administration and Jimin pipes in occasionally with observations and advice of his own. You know your contribution to the discourse is half-hearted at best, but your thoughts are scattered and you want to sulk.

You do not understand why you want to sulk. You do not sulk; that is not a thing you do.

Soon enough, breakfast is over and you clear the dishes into your kitchen’s farmhouse sink as Jimin goes to gather his bags from Yoongi’s room.

You are staring at the mess debating whether you will do the dishes with your own two hands because you need something to do or if you will expend the requisite energy and magic to spell the dishes clean when Yoongi says, “You’re moody.”

“Am I?” you murmur distractedly. You turn on the water and pull on your teal dishwashing gloves. You need the meditative task today.

Yoongi ambles to your side and bumps your shoulder in a friendly gesture. “You’ve seemed moody a lot lately.”

You turn, startled to see him peering at you with such scrutiny. “Have I?”

“Yes. Have your courses been bothering you? I know some months the pain is considerable,” he continues, the picture of solicitousness. “Are you nearing the change? Or perhaps you are with child?”

You are surprised. Jimin is still here (though in another room) and Yoongi is casually discussing your work-related duties as if Jimin can’t just waltz back into the kitchen at any moment. As if he is also part of your marriage. It is inappropriate.

“That’s unlikely,” you glare at your husband.

“Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean you can’t be,” Yoongi says.

“As you know, our last consummation was mere days ago,” you reply coldly while you turn back to the task at hand, “and I was menstruating then. I doubt I am pregnant.” You scrub a plate with more force than necessary. “Also, I resent the insinuation that I’m anywhere near perimenopause let alone menopause.”

You know Yoongi thinks that should be the end of it, and you normally would stop, but a frisson of fury forces itself up, emerging from your normally impassive waters.

“This line of reasoning is outdated and sexist,” you continue. “Should I blame your intrusiveness on your testosterone rising thanks to an increased proximity to Jimin? Too much fucking is stirring up your baser emotions?”

Yoongi sucks in a breath, sharp and astonished. You know it’s out of character. The two of you were chosen for Tranquil Valley because of your temperaments: calm and steady, even-keeled. Though you are the grumpier of the two, no one would ever call you hot headed let alone spiteful.

Your last comment was spiteful.

Your day is doomed to be one unacceptable humiliation after another when you sense more than hear Jimin as he comes back into the kitchen and tries unsuccessfully to go back out.

“Jimin and I are concerned,” Yoongi continues. You can tell he is trying very hard to dredge up as much civility as he can.

You resist the overpowering need to smash the plate in your hand. Breaking dinnerware is only satisfying if you cannot magic it back together, the evidence of brokenness swept away and hidden by a neat party trick.

You do not wish your cracks to be temporal, tempered, or temperate.

“You’ve discussed me with Jimin?” You turn to face him in full.

“I’m worried about you,” insists Yoongi as if he’s in the right. “And of course we talk about you. You and I talk about Jimin all the time. You’re our friend.”

“But I’m your wife,” you hiss, your gloved hands dripping over the floor as you gesture between you. “Our marriage is none of his business. Tranquil Valley is not his town. He is not our superior. He isn’t even a councilmember anymore.”

Anger rushes across Yoongi’s face and his eyes dart to where you know Jimin is frozen by the kitchen entrance. Of course his primary concern is for Jimin’s feelings. You wonder if he even realizes you have any.

You feel strangely vulnerable, ashamed of the ugliness you never suspected was buried within you.

You don’t need to see the younger man to know you have breached trust. You know why Jimin is no longer on the council with you two anymore. You and Yoongi had been his staunchest advocates, documenting the abuse and providing refuge for your friend.

You are uncertain whether Jimin will still allow you to call him as such.

“I guess I should be grateful you chose to be nosey then, hmmm? I can’t imagine what would have become of me had everyone continued to mind their own fucking business.” Jimin’s voice drips with calm though you know he is not. He whips you with his dignified composure.

“That’s not what I mean, Jimin,” you protest, “of course we couldn’t allow that man to —”

“I know what that man did,” Jimin bites, cutting you off. The air cracks and shudders with Jimin’s magic. “I was there.”

Yoongi crosses the kitchen to Jimin’s side, leaving you to stand alone against the sink. He approaches slowly and fissures spread across your heart as you witness the way Yoongi asks and Jimin permits with just subtle inclines of their heads. Theirs is the language of lovers, the casual intimacy of people who know each other’s bodies thoroughly. Yoongi wraps his strong arms around Jimin, his forehead kissing Jimin’s forehead.

You cannot bear to look. You cannot bear to look away.

The electric hum recedes as Jimin allows Yoongi to soothe him. You watch as they hold each other with a devotion you never before begrudged but now find yourself doing so.

The water is still running and it is too loud, too alive, too clean.

You break your gaze and move to turn off the faucet. When you turn back around, Jimin is gone and Yoongi is alone.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

In the days following, you and Yoongi assiduously avoid one another. You hide in your workroom and Yoongi goes out in the field early and returns home late.

He no longer wakes you for breakfast, except when you finally go down after he heads into town, your food is always still warm and your coffee is always still hot.

It shames you.

Though you know you need to apologize to him, you cannot bring yourself to do so. (You can’t even bring yourself to think about Jimin.) You know if you do, your husband will try to get to the root of your outburst and you do not have the emotional wherewithal to discuss it at length with him.

You do not know if you will be able to keep your dignity intact, if your jealousy of Jimin will only spotlight the unfortunate happenstance of you being in love with Yoongi. It is embarrassing and gauche.

You presume Yoongi avoids you because he is angry on Jimin’s behalf (though he doesn’t take it out on you because that is not his way). He has every right to be, and for the first time since your ascension day, you are afraid.

What if Yoongi chooses Jimin and leaves you? What if he quits his position and you no longer have a husband or a friend and have to consummate quarterly with a new husband — one who would be a stranger? (You recoil at the thought.) Or worse yet — what if he reports you to the Witches’ Council and asks to have you removed?

(It is irrational. It is extremely difficult to depose a sitting councilmember. You know from seeing how they dragged their feet when Jimin was actively being harmed and controlled.)

You’d spent your childhood dreaming of being a councilmember, of working so hard to be at the top of your classes and excelling not only at spellwork and potion making, but also at management and administration. Namjoon had been your main rival for top marks, but he had never seemed to care for the trappings of success.

You’d had no choice but to be outstanding. Your family lacked the connections and wealth to influence the Witches’ Council into providing a position. (Unlike Namjoon, but you suppose if he had really wanted a seat, he could have prevailed upon his family to procure him a spot. You reluctantly allow for this point in his favor.)

When you and Yoongi had been selected for the sleepy town a few hours out from Tech City, you’d been so anxious, desperate to please both him and the councilmembers you would be replacing. It was rare for both councilmembers to be replaced at the same time, but Chirawan and Saanvi had served the town as wives for more than four decades and were waiting for Yoongi and you to finish your apprenticeship before retiring. The two witches had been kind and patient and you and your fiance had thrived under their tutelage.

Yoongi was the better people person and better at raw magic whereas you were the better administrator and loved intricate spellwork and practical potions. Chirawan helped Yoongi get to know the citizens of Tranquil Valley as he learned how to visualize what they needed (and wanted), and then used his raw magic to create it — sometimes in conjunction with local craftsmen, sometimes without.

The sheer power and magnitude of Yoongi’s abilities had always seemed more useful than your own, but Saanvi had helped you see the need for both of your talents. Your wards kept shops and streets safe from crime, your potions helped the local witches with supply issues during the heavy cold and flu season, and your knack for administration kept the town government in good working condition. Saanvi had even shown you how the townspeople liked you just fine (and they still do).

Though Yoongi had been a stranger to you at the start of the apprenticeship, by the time of your ascension day, you two had become good colleagues and friendly enough. You’d found him restful and hardworking, and he had not seemed to object to your company, even occasionally seeking it out during your downtime. Your practice consummations had been textbook (if not very exciting), and overall, Saanvi and Chirawan had assured you both that you would be fine.

Up until now, it has mostly been fine. The two of you, like all people, argue and differ in opinion, but eventually, you two usually come to some sort of accord.

This detente does not feel like one of those moments.

But when the days turn into weeks and your superiors have not fired you and you each have resumed speaking to one another (albeit stiltedly), you hope that perhaps given enough time, Yoongi will remember that you are not the monster you’d shown him. You hope he will remember that as much as he knows Jimin, he knows you, too. That there is also an intimacy between people who have steadily lived and worked together for over a decade with minimal friction.

You may not know Yoongi’s body like a second skin, but you know enough.

You know the slow, steady rhythm of his days, how he wakes before you and starts breakfast, does an immediate triage of any bureaucratic fires that have erupted overnight before leaving the long term solutions to you, and then heads out to make the public appearances and networking events around town he knows you hate.

You know his favorite stews and soups, how he takes his coffee and whisky, his favorite sweaters and slippers, his favorite playlists and sports teams, and most of what he is going to say before he says it (especially when it comes to the town and its residents).

You know the way his shoulder aches in the winter and the exact pressure points to push so his pain can ease. (It helps that you can feel an echo of the pain in your own body when he is too tired to shield you from it.)

You know the way he will hum under his breath as he prepares your cozy cottage for winter and the way he likes to peer into the forest behind you, smiling softly at the deer and tiny foxes that wander into the clearing around your home.

You know the way his weight settles over you during your consummation rituals, the way his eyebrows scrunch and his breath hitches right before he spills into you and onto the fertile soil below.

You know by the way he comes back from Namjoon’s ascension ceremony just as weighed down as before that he did not spend his nights with Jimin in heartfelt reconciliation and joyful celebration.

You know the way he will hover near the windows to check the road into town on days he anticipates Jimin making an appearance, even so.

You know the way Yoongi shrinks into himself as the days pile into weeks and then into months, and Jimin never appears.

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When Yoongi finally returns to his tiny cottage after a long day of clearing snow from blocked roads and parking lots, he is relieved to see the warm lights through the windows. He is exhausted, his left shoulder aches, and his magic needs replenishing with one of your reconstitution brews and hopefully, his mother’s kimchi jjigae that you learned to make years ago. Instead, he is met with an unfamiliar sand colored Toyota Highlander parked on the side of their driveway.

Yoongi sighs and checks his phone to see if you’d texted him about the guest and absent any, sighs again. Maybe it was a last minute drop-in from the locals (they try to discourage such drop-ins, but sometimes, it just can’t be helped). He hopes that whoever it is will take the hint and leave as soon as possible, but Yoongi isn’t confident.

He stomps into the mudroom, flops onto the simple wooden bench, and slips off his muddy boots, debating summoning the energy to spell them clean. He ultimately decides against it. After all, tomorrow will be more of the same shit. At least his thick woolen socks are dry. Not only are they made with some sort of fancy dry-weave sweat-wicking technology, you have painstakingly stitched in spells to make doubly sure his socks stay dry and always maintain his preferred temperature level.

Yoongi sheds his gloves, woolen beanie, checkered scarf, and his thick, shearling lined flannel jacket, hanging them from the wall hooks. He checks the convenient mirror you’d hung and ruffles his hair so it doesn’t look quite so matted down. His cheeks are ruddy and wind-chapped and his eyes are lined with weariness. Yoongi doesn’t bother to straighten his flannel shirt or the thermals underneath. If his guest is offended at his appearance, they shouldn’t have dropped by so late in the day.

He sucks in a cleansing breath, holds it a few seconds, and then whooshes it out his lungs. Though Yoongi does not mind dealing with people, he is still an introvert and he is all peopled out. That’s in great part why living with you used to be so soothing and comfortable. You, too, are an introvert and content to leave him to his own counsel.

Yoongi is sad as he realizes that you no longer seem to be his resting place. He doesn’t know why — has given you ample chances to open up and tell him, has even given you months of space — but you never say anything. That combined with Jimin refusing to answer his calls and texts has made this fall and winter season the worst he’s weathered in years. The lack of sun always makes him feel a little down, but he’s usually had you and Jimin to help him through.

Yoongi is worn out and he hates that he doesn’t even know how it happened.

He forces himself into the kitchen and is pleased to see kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. He doesn’t know why he didn’t smell it when he got in. He idly wonders if he’s catching a cold and reminds himself to ask you for one of your immune boosting teas before he goes to bed.

Yoongi hears lowered voices and when he pops into the common room, is stunned to see Jimin — now with gunmetal gray hair — sitting on the couch in the arms of a beautiful man. Beautiful is an understatement. Yoongi thinks this might be the most arrestingly attractive man he’s ever seen — and he grew up with Seokjin Kim. The otherworldly man is saying something in a low baritone (which would be distracting enough) except he is also nuzzling Jimin’s face with his own and playing with Jimin’s tiny fingers.

The stranger’s dark brows are sensuous slashes above smoldering brown eyes, and they lift when Yoongi grumbles a greeting.

“Oh, Yoongi,” you say as you scoot over on the forest green loveseat to make room for him. It’s the first time in months he’s heard you address him with anything but passive politeness, and yet, he hadn’t even realized you were in the room until you’d spoken. “Jimin requested a last minute meeting and he brought a friend along. This is Taehyung Kim — they are old elementary school friends.”

Yoongi finally takes you in. You are in your favorite tangerine colored angora sweater and soft, gray lounge pants. Your face and body language are forcibly placid and he sees pity in your eyes. Suddenly, he hates you.

“Hello, Taehyung,” Yoongi says, remembering his manners. What he does not remember, however, is Jimin ever mentioning this Taehyung. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting,” he adds, though he had no idea to expect guests tonight. He used to consider Jimin family — but since his radio-silence and this surprise Taehyung, Yoongi doesn’t know what Jimin is to him anymore. “Clearing the smaller roads took longer than I thought.”

You make some small sound of commiseration and then pour him some tea from the tea service on the coffee table. Yoongi must be out of it if he didn’t even notice how you’d taken care to bring out his favorite tea set with the little cartoon cats. He can’t even smell what he’s sure must be his favorite valerian root tea and when he notices the beveled honey jar, he knows he is right. He must be coming down with something if he didn’t even smell the bitter, earthy tea.

Yoongi sits down on the loveseat and nods a thanks as you hand him a cup with a cat eating tangerines. He scoots as far from you as possible without it making it seem as if he’s doing so. He can tell from the way Taehyung’s eyes bore holes into him that he is unsuccessful.

“They showed up about fifteen minutes ago,” you say, acknowledging not giving him a head’s up. “Said it was urgent but wanted to wait for you before telling me. I had just started apologizing to Jimin right before you got home.”

Yoongi almost spills his cup of tea. He waits for you to say more, but you do not. He peers at you and Jimin but does not see any of the previous comfort and love you used to share. He only sees strain on both of your parts as Taehyung hugs Jimin tighter (if possible).

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

He is gratified to see your grip on your teacup tighten just a fraction before you release it. He’s glad you haven’t apologized yet. He’s glad he gets to witness it. Yoongi doesn’t care if that means he’s a bitter, petty person. He is feeling bitter and petty.

You turn to face Jimin, your face contrite and nervous. “I’m sorry for throwing your status as a non-councilmember in your face, Jimin. It was not only classist and elitist, it was also cruel considering both your history and our friendship.”

Jimin considers you for a few long beats. “Is that how you really see me? As someone who doesn’t have a say in your life because of my status?” His face is strained, and Yoongi can tell he’s holding back his hurt.

“Oh, no, Jimin. I was just lashing out, and you were there.” Your face crumples. “Of course I value your opinion — both on my personal life and about our Tranquil Valley duties. I truly am so sorry.”

“Why were you lashing out?” Jimin asks, “and what’s to stop you from doing that again?”

Yoongi thinks he sees genuine pain and hurt in your eyes, but before he can wonder why you are hurt when it is Jimin and him who were the injured parties, you answer.

“I suppose that’s fair.” You seem distinctly more ill at ease, as if you’re trying to figure out what story to spin them to make this line of questioning go away as quickly as possible. “I — I was upset at the idea of you two discussing me. I know you were both concerned, but it felt — I don’t know how to explain it. It felt like I was on the outside, like you two were a team and I was not.”

“That’s stupid,” Yoongi says before he can stop himself.

Your head snaps up and he cannot decipher your expression. He suddenly realizes that as much as he knows you, there is still so much he does not.

“Well, sorry you have such a stupid wife,” you say so matter of factly that it takes Yoongi several beats before your sarcasm registers, “but that’s the reason, or as best as I can explain it.”

Jimin and Taehyung keep glancing back and forth between you and Yoongi. It is clear that there are also unresolved issues in his marriage and he is somewhat embarrassed that this is being carried out in front of a stranger. He wishes again that Jimin had come alone, and his gut tells him that Taehyung is here for more than just emotional support.

You refocus your attention on Jimin. “I’m sorry it’s not more specific. But truly, I love and care about you so much. I’m so sorry that I’ve hurt you and I understand if you can no longer trust me.” You pause and grimace as you look at Yoongi. “I’m also so sorry if what I said has ruptured your relationship with Yoongi.”

This time, Yoongi looks away. He does not want you to know just how angry he still is at you. Instead, he watches Jimin. He misses Jimin with his entire being.

Jimin does not move for several long moments and to your credit, you do not rush him or pressure him to accept your apology.

Yoongi hopes (even though he knows that perhaps he has none).

“I see,” Jimin finally says.

A look of regret flashes across his angelic face and Yoongi knows. He knows Jimin does not love him in the same way Yoongi does (and perhaps always will).

“Taehyung asked me to be his husband. I agreed.”

Yoongi hears himself gasp. You tentatively place your hand on his arm, but he shakes you off. He feels as if he’s underwater.

“I thought you said you’d never get married again,” Yoongi spits. He knows he is being ridiculous. Plenty of non-married councilmembers fuck each other. There is no rule that prohibits it. Except, some foolish part of him had hoped that perhaps one day, when Jimin wanted to settle down, he would settle with Yoongi and you. “Is this because of what Y/N said? Did you miss running a city that much? We could have made space for you here.”

Yoongi doesn’t turn to look at your face even though he can feel you freeze by his side.

He knows he has never discussed this with you — and truthfully, it’s not common for there to be triad representatives in a marriage, but it’s not unheard of either. Usually, triads and even quads are reserved for large, bustling metropolises, not sleepy little townships nestled in picturesque valleys.

Either way, the point is now moot. Jimin is marrying Taehyung.

“I realized recently that if I hate the council so much, I can change it,” Jimin says, his voice trembling with emotion, “but the only way to change it is from the inside.”

“So this is a political move?” Yoongi asks.

He asks because though Jimin has never said so, Yoongi has always hoped the wandering witch returned his feelings. He has always hoped that one day, when Jimin was ready, they could all settle down together in Tranquil Valley.

“It is political,” confirms Jimin as he straightens himself, as if his body could lend his voice resolution, “and it is also more. Taehyung loves me.”

Yoongi cannot bear it. “I love you,” he grates out, uncaring that you and Taehyung are witnessing the first outward confession of his heart.

Grief steals into Jimin’s eyes right before he glances away, refusing to meet Yoongi’s gaze. His Jimin, who when they’d made love, would force Yoongi to look him in the eyes as he came.

You and Taehyung avert your eyes, too. As if your not looking provides him the dignity he’s abandoned. As if your not looking makes the fact that Jimin does not want him anymore less true.

It is not enough.

“I know,” Jimin says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Yoongi tries to salvage the situation. Jimin has not said he loves Taehyung (though he also has not said he loves Yoongi). Perhaps, they can at least continue their arrangement.

“Where is Taehyung’s city?” Yoongi hates how his voice is so raw and hopeful.

Jimin winces. “It’s in the Southern Territories,” he says to the floor, “a 5 hour flight from Tech City. There are talks of the Witches’ Council forming a southern council and letting the Southern Territories self-govern.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yoongi does not bother hiding the hurt in his voice. He is reeling and all he wants is to go back to thirty minutes prior when he was driving home, anticipating some kimchi jjigae and sinking into his mattress, lonely but still dreaming of companionship with Jimin. “I thought we were at least friends?”

“I — I’m telling you now.” Jimin stutters. Yoongi has never known the younger witch to stumble. Perhaps, this is affecting Jimin more than he is letting on. “I know it seems sudden, and I suppose it is,” he explains. “But after what Y/N said — how I wasn’t part of your Tranquil Valley, how I wasn’t even a councilmember anymore —”

Jimin cuts himself off and stares at his hands which are currently hidden in the frayed sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Yoongi vaguely registers that it’s one he gave Jimin years ago.

Taehyung leans in even closer to Jimin and whispers in his ear. Jimin’s dark lashes flutter and Yoongi feels twin daggers twist in his heart and gut. Jimin used to flutter his lashes for him, his cock heavy in Yoongi’s mouth, his hooded gaze pinning Yoongi down while he thrust. Yoongi hates how he remembers exactly how Jimin’s lush lips used to glisten, parted to pant his name or pinched between Jimin’s teeth.

A wave of despair crashes over Yoongi and he grits his teeth. He’s flustered and frustrated at his reaction. He is normally not so emotional. He knows that love is not usually in the cards for witch representatives, that the nature of their duties prevents them from what the rest of their world considers normal, healthy relationships.

Yoongi’s younger self had not cared, had been more than satisfied to run a town in his parents’ footsteps, to have meaning in his work, to have companionship with you and his carnal needs met by other people. He had thought Jimin would be a convenient melding of friendship and physicality. Yoongi had not expected to love him, had not expected for love to come in his thirties when Yoongi had never before loved anyone.

Yoongi did not love until he did and now that he does, he regrets. He thinks that perhaps you have the right of it, never attaching yourself to a particular person or even seeking a paramour.

He reels himself in, forcing himself to call upon over thirteen years of dealing with irate citizenry or pompous councilmembers trying to lure him into pissing contests. Yoongi forces himself to remember that it is not about him, that though his heart is breaking, it’s Jimin’s life, and ultimately, he wants Jimin to be happy.

He gentles his voice. “Jimin-ah, if you think this will make you happy, then I’m happy for you.” When Jimin lifts an eyebrow in disbelief, he adds, “I wish you had told me when you were considering this, but a lot of it is because I hate the idea of you struggling with this alone.”

“Taehyung helped,” Jimin says.

Yoongi pretends that it doesn’t cut deep. He can make it through the next few seconds, the next few minutes, the next few hours.

Taehyung has the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t do much,” he mumbles in a deliciously low voice. Yoongi hates that he can’t help but notice. “Whatever my family can do to help you in spearheading change, we will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Your family?” you ask. “And who is your family?”

It is only when you speak that Yoongi recalls that you are still here. You have been so quiet, so still — almost as if you wanted to disappear and give him as much privacy as you could.

Taehyung’s honey-colored skin deepens. “Ah,” he says as he clears his throat. “I’m from the southern Kim clan.”

Your eyes widen. “As in Kim Magus Industries and Kim Thaumaturgical Enterprises?” Your face suddenly screws in suspicion and Yoongi cannot help but be grateful. “How did you end up at Jimin’s elementary school? He grew up in the Western Territories.”

Taehyung hesitates before deciding to share. “There were some succession issues when I was small,” he explains. “They sent me with my mother’s youngest sister to live somewhere far away to protect me.”

“Her youngest sister?” you scoff. “Sounds like they weren’t particularly concerned.”

“My imo is Seong-Min Chae.”

“Oh, shit,” you breathe, immediately recognizing the name of one of the most powerful elemental witches in modern times. “I stand corrected.” You sweep your eyes over Taehyung as if with renewed respect.

Yoongi takes this moment to more carefully look over Taehyung in his brown cabled sweater, maroon corduroys, and black woolen socks. His hair is a white blond with a centimeter of black roots. He doesn’t look like he’s from one of the richest and most powerful witch families of the last century.

“And is the succession issue adequately resolved? Will Jimin be in any danger?” you doggedly continue, as if trying to make up for your prior behavior.

Taehyung regards you approvingly even as Jimin rolls his eyes. Yoongi knows that Jimin is likely chafing at your protectiveness. Jimin hates being perceived as weak, hates showing any sort of weakness.

“You have my word that Jimin will be more than safe and secure with me. No one will dare fuck with the Kim heir and his husband,” Taehyung says, his soft tone belying the steel in his words. “My family would annihilate them.”

“That, um, seems adequate,” you choke and shake your head ruefully. You sigh. “Well, I did ask.”

Yoongi wants to hate Taehyung, but even he cannot deny that is more than Yoongi could ever hope to provide. And if Jimin truly wants to change the council from the inside, the Kim clan would be the muscle and money influencing decisions. Loath as Yoongi is to admit that outside powers have any sway over councilmembers, everyone knows that is patently untrue. The only reason you and Yoongi are generally unaffected is because Tranquil Valley is too small to be considered worth affecting.

“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Yoongi finally offers, “but you have to tell us. No more shutting us out, Jimin.”

“He can shut us out if he wants to, Yoongi,” you interject softly. “We hope you don’t. We hope to be worthy of your trust, but I understand if there are times you cannot or choose not to. For all the changes you wish to push, you will have your own city to worry about and consider first.”

Yoongi wants to glare at you, to scowl and throw a tantrum like he did as a child. Except he knows you are right. He knows that once a witch ascends to the council, they are no longer their own. Their people, their land, their city — they all clamor for priority so much so that Yoongi sometimes forgets that he is his own person. It is a huge reason why he’d found such solace in Jimin.

Jimin had just been for him.

Jimin nods and accepts your offer graciously. “I will do my best.”

His face rifles through expressions so rapidly that Yoongi only recognizes them because he has spent so many hours studying Jimin’s ethereal face. Yoongi cannot decide if he prefers Jimin vulpine and predatory or tender and vulnerable. He is unsure if he has ever seen Jimin truly with his guard down and Yoongi’s heart pangs.

Jimin clears his throat. “We’ve taken enough of your time.” He picks up his neglected tea cup and gulps down a few tepid sips. “Thank you for your apology, Y/N,” he adds for your benefit and something in your posture loosens, sagging in relief. It is a small thing, but Yoongi notices. “And Yoongi,” Jimin starts before stopping, his tenor voice hitching with emotion.

You suddenly stand. “Taehyung, would you mind helping me clear the dishes?”

To Taehyung’s credit and Yoongi’s surprise, Taehyung unwraps his body from Jimin, collects a few cups and then follows you into the kitchen.

Yoongi shivers.

Jimin reaches across the coffee table for Yoongi’s hands and Yoongi lets him. He does not want to admit that he is busy memorizing the feel of Jimin’s smaller hands in his larger ones. He does not want to cling, to beg for one more night of mapping out Jimin’s body with his palms and tongue.

Yoongi is afraid to make eye contact, but he is more afraid to lose this chance to drink in Jimin’s warm, brown eyes. He wills himself not to tremble, to not reveal himself as he did so gracelessly before.

“Do you love him?” he inquires before he can stop himself. There goes Yoongi’s resolve to not reveal himself.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Jimin says, all honey and regret. “I was a coward.” Yoongi notes that Jimin does not answer his question. “I was afraid you would talk me out of it.”

Yoongi flinches. He removes his hands even though he immediately wants Jimin to regrasp them. “Do you think me so selfish?”

Jimin shrugs. “I know how love goes,” he tosses carelessly.

“That man did not love you,” Yoongi snarls. At Jimin’s nonchalant waving off of his words, he feels a throbbing build at the base of his skull. He does not want to argue. (It is an old argument, at any rate.) “I’m sorry,” he utters, though he is not sure what exactly he is sorry for. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and he means it.

Yoongi watches as Jimin gets up from the couch and settles next to Yoongi on the loveseat. Jimin wraps his arms around Yoongi and nestles his face in the curve where Yoongi’s neck meets his shoulder. Yoongi hates how weak he is. He hates how he cannot help but embrace Jimin, desperate to have the man he loves enfolded and clasped to his chest.

Yoongi breathes Jimin in, letting his scent of light gardenia and tuberose wash over him. He hates how even now, even knowing that you and Taehyung are in the next room over, Yoongi wants. He wants to run away and use his magic to construct a fortress or castle or both and sequester himself with Jimin to love and to fuck for the rest of his life.

For the first time he can recall, he despises their societal strictures. He hates how his foolish, younger self dismissed love out of hand, consigning it to lesser mortals who did not have his sense of duty (filial or otherwise). He does not think his parents ever loved each other, though they had seemed congenial enough. They have long since retired and gone their separate ways and Yoongi hates how what had seemed so normal to him at the time now strikes him as cruel.

He suddenly realizes he does not want the life his parents had and set as an example for him. Yoongi does not know what this means. He only knows that the love of his life is holding him (or is Yoongi holding Jimin) and the thought of living the rest of his life with you and no prospect of Jimin makes him want to scream.

Yoongi chokes back a sob and Jimin leans back to cup his face, using his thumbs to wipe at Yoongi’s cheeks. Yoongi had not even noticed that he’d been crying this whole time.

“If I could love, I would have liked to love you, Yoongi,” Jimin says.

It is cruel. It is merciful.

Yoongi does not think it is remotely true though perhaps Jimin doesn’t want to leave him with nothing. Perhaps this is the best Jimin can do.

“I’m glad Taehyung loves you,” Yoongi says, shocking himself even as he realizes it is true. “You deserve love, Jimin-ah,” he continues, “and I hope even if you don’t love him, that you can feel it deep in your bones. I’m glad he already told you and didn’t hide it like I did. You should be loved. You should know that you’re loved.”

Jimin huffs. “I never knew you were such a sentimental sap.” He aims for light and teasing except somehow, he misses the mark. Instead, Jimin sounds full of wonder and confusion.

“I guess that’s your effect on people.”

Yoongi wants to curl up and die. How can such ridiculous words flow from his mouth with all sincerity and no irony whatsoever?

Jimin lifts his hand and places a finger lightly on Yoongi’s lower lip. Yoongi resists the overwhelming urge to flick out his tongue and taste Jimin one last time. As if reading his mind, Jimin slowly cants forward and places a soft kiss over his own finger and Yoongi sighs at the slight contact on his mouth. Before he knows it, Jimin has slipped his finger away and deepened the kiss and Yoongi, greedy fool that he is, drinks Jimin in one last time.

All too soon, Jimin pulls away, his eyes glassy and hazy with want. Yoongi swallows and desperately wishes he could swallow Jimin and keep him for himself.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” Jimin whispers and then heads to the kitchen.

Yoongi is alone.

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Yoongi moves as if in a stupor for the next few days. You don’t say anything and though he thinks he keeps his feelings tightly wrapped, thinks none of his devastation leaks down your psychic connection, there is one moment after he’s awakened from a particularly heartbreaking dream where he thinks he feels comfort and consolation pulse down to him. He immediately falls back asleep (though now that he thinks about it, that seems odd) and Yoongi later tucks that memory away to examine when he’s in a better headspace.

He struggles to get out of bed and he vaguely recalls you taking on all his in-person meetings and going into town on his behalf. It’s something you only do when he is too sick to meet safely with people, and because he is rarely sick thanks to your brews, you’ve rarely had to do so.

Yoongi is not sick now, but still, you go.

His meals magically appear (literally) and tisanes are pressed to his lips when he wakes, boneless and dried out from all his tears. And then on the fifth day, he wakes up right after sunrise, runs a steaming hot shower, and then plods downstairs to make you breakfast.

When you show up about ten minutes later, eyes half open and hair in a messy pile on your head, you pause in confusion. Your sleeping shirt is wrinkled and your flannel pajama pants are slouchy and clearly too long. (In fact, he suspects those are actually his missing ones. They look familiar.) You grunt something that resembles a garbled “morning,” plonk down at the nook and promptly cradle your head in your arms, closing your eyes as if you’re in pain.

Considering how much you hate mornings, Yoongi suspects that might actually be the case.

When he slides a plate of french toast, sausage links, and cut fresh fruit in front of you, you finally stir and show some signs of life. You prop your face up with a reluctant palm and your cheek is adorably squished. You groan and make grabby hands in his direction and Yoongi finds himself amused for the first time in days.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got your coffee,” he says agreeably and carefully sets a mug of your chosen poison (no sugar, a splash of oat milk) in your impatient hands.

He brings his own plate of food over along with his iced Americano (it doesn’t matter how cold the weather is, he always has his coffee cold and black) and sits in his regular seat across from you. It’s a bit jarring to have you with him in the morning, but he finds that he does not mind.

Yoongi has missed you.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he begins to say but is unable to continue when you grunt and grumble what he guesses is “Let’s never speak of this again,” and so he does not finish.

He smiles and eats in companionable silence with you.

When he gets up to clear the dishes, you wave him away with marginally more energy and remind him of the meeting he has with the Garcias in town. You hate the Garcias. (You find them way too pushy and entitled, but Yoongi just thinks they’re enthusiastic and invested. The truth is likely somewhere in between.)

He goes upstairs to his room, changes the sheets and then changes into his “town” uniform of thick lined jeans, heattech shirt, and a black and gray flannel shirt. He snorts when he realizes the ungodly amount of flannel he owns and then shrugs because it’s winter. Of course he has to wear flannel. He smiles when he pulls on a pair of socks and hears you in his mind griping about how he should wear socks first then pants.

His heart is still sore, but he remembers that he chose his life and when he’s not moping over Jimin, he actually likes it.

Yoongi fishes around for his favorite beanie and startles when he realizes you knit it for him years ago. If he looks carefully, he can see the warmth and dry spells you neatly stitched into the charcoal gray hat. Though you do not accompany him into town, you cover him all the same.

When he comes home late that night, covered bowls of galbi jjim, steamed rice, and various banchan are laid out on the kitchen table, spelled to stay at the right temperatures for him. He putters around and finds you in your workroom, bent over the heavy wooden work table, peering at some bit of machinery under a warm, yellow lamp.

“I know you already ate, but do you want to join me for dinner?” he asks from the doorway.

You blink owlishly when you look up, the magnifying loupes on your spectacles ballooning your eyes to cartooned proportions. Yoongi suddenly feels a rush of affection for you. He wonders why he had thought the two of you strained, but then he remembers and his smile falters.

Your eyes narrow and you remove your glasses quickly, settling them on your table, heedless of all the assorted gears and gadgets scattered on the surface. “Just gimme a sec to wash up,” you say, and Yoongi heads back to the kitchen to wait.

When you show up a few minutes later, you seem to debate whether or not to ask how he is doing. Yoongi knows you are curious, but he also knows that he can’t handle that sort of intimacy right now. You seem to read the sentiment on his face and ask instead how the meeting with the Garcias went and the tight knot in Yoongi’s stomach settles.

He tells you about how the Garcias want to close off one of the main streets and form a short promenade on weekend nights.

He eats the galbi jjim and slurps up the soup.

He is warm.

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When he shuffles downstairs the next morning, you are already there, glasses sitting crooked on your nose and doggedly trying not to yawn (but failing) as you make jook. Yoongi ambles to the family room, grabs his laptop, and brings it to the kitchen table, taking care of the more urgent emails before he puts it away and sets the table.

When he gets home later that evening, you have two servings of grilled cheese and tomato soup at the table.

He goes to your workroom and invites you to dinner.

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It goes like this for days until it is no longer out of the ordinary, until it is now the new way of things. Yoongi recalls how the two of you had spent the early years like this until it slowly hadn’t been. He muses you two must have been slowly but surely drifting away like this new routine is slowly but surely coming together. You’d likely slept in one morning and then, one morning became two and then became all of them. He’d likely come home late for dinner one night and then two nights, and then it was many of his nights.

It has worked fine until now. It likely still would have been fine had it continued (except Yoongi is glad that it has not).

Yoongi likes how the two of you have always been attuned, circling and touching each other at the edges of your daily living. Except now, now the two of you are recalibrating your schedules, attuning them to each other in the new normal.

He knows not everything is magically fixed. He knows that one day soon, you two should address what happened all those months ago, but he also knows that it is unlikely to happen. Whatever it was that had you so upset and emotional all those months prior seems to no longer be an issue.

He is not sure why his subconscious whispers for him to pay attention, but he once again shelves it for another day.

His subconscious still whispers too much at night. His dreams are still sad and he still wakes up with tears tracking down his face. He still falls back asleep with a strange sense of comfort that reaches through walls and the edge of consciousness.

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“Y/N, do you enjoy our consummations?” asks Yoongi one day as the two of you are cleaning up after dinner. It’s been at least half a year since Jimin’s left and he doesn’t know what has come over him.

That is not quite true. Yoongi knows.

Yoongi hasn’t had a truly good orgasm in almost a year and he’s going to go crazy.

It’s not for lack of trying. He knows he cleans up well, that men and women alike go sort of crazy when he pulls his long locks into a half ponytail. He knows that despite his soft and snuggly insides, he projects a sort of savagery that he doesn’t dispel when he is on the prowl. He leans heavy into his inner asshole and it’s like a beacon, drawing all sorts of options to him.

Except, well, it’s been thoroughly unsatisfactory.

Yoongi is desperate.

“What?” you query from your spot at the farmhouse sink. You are up to your elbows in suds and your spectacles are once again askew.

Yoongi wipes down the kitchen table and repeats himself. “Do you enjoy our consummations?”

“I mean, I guess?” you reply, quirking your head at him.

“If you don’t know, that means you do not.”

“I don’t not enjoy them,” you say after a few more moments of thought. “I’m not sure why that matters though. Unless there is new research that shows enjoyment makes for better harvests?”

Of course you would consider the harvest first and not your own pleasure. Yoongi isn’t sure if he’s proud of how responsible you are or aggravated that you don’t seem to care much for your own physical gratification. He briefly wonders if you perhaps have never had an orgasm and thus, it doesn’t matter because you don’t know what you’re missing. Then he rebukes himself. He knows sexuality is a spectrum and not everyone derives pleasure from the act. As long as he doesn’t hurt you during your quarterly consummations, he should be satisfied.

Except he finds that he is not. It seems criminal that you do not particularly enjoy having sex with him (though if he is honest, he doesn’t particularly enjoy having sex with you, either).

“No, there’s no research,” he acknowledges.

Yoongi wants to lie, but there are no new studies he can cite (at least none that he knows of). He’s not even sure if consummations are anything other than a holdover from the old ways. He is not convinced they make any difference to the harvest, but he is not bold enough to risk his town’s food supply on a hunch.

He decides to let the matter lie and gathers the broom to sweep the floor.

“Do — do you find our consummations enjoyable?” you ask hesitantly.

You seem concerned, and Yoongi feels somewhat ashamed for causing you to question your performance. He also cannot bring himself to lie. He is flummoxed.

“I find it enjoyable enough to complete the ritual,” he says.

You rinse off the remaining dishes and Yoongi thinks that’s the end of that. Your brow furrows. “That’s not quite the same as finding it pleasurable though, is it?”

Yoongi returns the broom to the mudroom attached to the kitchen. “No,” he says when he re-enters the kitchen. “No, it’s not.”

You shake water off the teal dishwashing gloves and slip them off, folding them over the lip of the sink. He watches as you wash your hands and dry them on the checkered dish towel. You shift to lean against the wooden counter as if you need to brace yourself.

“Is — is pleasure during the ritual so very important to you?”

Your face is carefully blank, and Yoongi realizes that you are hurt though he is not sure why. After all, he is not hurt by your lack of pleasure.

“It’s not a criticism,” he says quickly, but your face remains withdrawn. “Your performance is within our ritual parameters. I have no complaints.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “Yes, I can see that.” You seem to shrink inside your peach colored sweatshirt and knee-length lounge pants and Yoongi’s heart contracts.

“I’ve hurt you,” he says. You do not react to his statement and Yoongi is unprepared for just how sorry he feels. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to.”

You turn your face so he can only rely on the way your back is ramrod straight to give you away. “You haven’t,” you say, except Yoongi knows you are lying.

You are quiet and Yoongi doesn’t know what to say and so he, too, remains quiet.

“Are you not receiving sufficient physical pleasure in your supplemental activities?” you finally ask, still not quite facing him. “Is this why you suddenly ask about my pleasure after almost fifteen years? Surely if it were that important to you, you would have mentioned it sooner?”

Yoongi is chastened.

“I’ve tried,” he says defeatedly, knowing he is caught. “But it’s — I can’t — I hate it.” He hangs his head and slumps into the kitchen nook. He resists the urge to sink his head into his awaiting palms. Instead, he swallows his pride and regards you with his dignity in tatters. “Do you think we could — that is, would you be willing to — maybe if I made it good for you —”

You flinch imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, Yoongi,” you say, cutting him off.

He is marginally grateful you do not allow him to finish his request. It is humiliating. He is not a man with so little self-control, but he’s also never had such difficulty slaking his needs.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer we keep our consummations as is,” you disclose. “You receive adequate satisfaction as is required, and I am satisfied when the ritual is performed correctly in accordance to our duties.”

You make to move closer to him but change your mind.

“I’m not Jimin, Yoongi,” you add, a tremor in your voice. “I can’t be Jimin even if I knew how.”

This time, it is Yoongi who flinches.

“You think I don’t know that?” he unintentionally snarls. It’s been so many months and yet, still, he is heartsore and heartsick. Your presence has helped, but you are right. You are no Jimin. Jimin is the blaze of a wildfire, an inferno that turns him into kindling. You are the muted warmth of a candle, a comfort in the dark. “You think I’m not trying to get over him?”

You sigh and cross the room to join him at the table. “It’s all my fault,” you confess faintly. “If I had not reached for more than was my allotment in life — if I had not coveted — if I had only been content with the status quo, this would have never happened.”

Your words tickle a memory but Yoongi can’t quite seem to place it.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

He takes a strange sort of satisfaction at seeing you visibly quail at his demand for clarification.

“Jimin was — is — the love of my life,” he states evenly though he wants to wail. He lets anger and frustration sink their hooks into him. “I deserve to know what you mean.”

You regard him, eyes veiled even as you meet his own. “Hasn’t this last year or so between us been nice?” you ask feebly. “I mean, other than the thing with Jimin.”

“You mean other than my heart breaking?” cries Yoongi. Confusion and hurt swirl in his chest, and the pressure makes his lungs feel too tight.

You remove your glasses and fiddle with them instead of looking at him. You take a deep, steadying breath. “I was jealous,” you finally divulge, and it is the last thing Yoongi expects to hear.

“You were jealous?” he repeats.

“And insecure,” you say. You flick your wary eyes to him. “I always feel that way around Jimin.”

That niggling feeling that he’s forgetting something is back, but Yoongi can’t think and listen at the same time. “But you love Jimin.”

“They’re not mutually exclusive.”

You pull the sleeves of your vermillion shirt down over your palms. It is not quite time for the harvest moon consummation, but there is already a slight chill on some nights and the kitchen window is open.

Yoongi gets up to shut the window. He leans against the sill instead of sitting back down.

“Why? What could you possibly have to feel insecure about? You’re an amazing witch,” he observes, genuinely puzzled.

You shiver despite the window being closed. “Because you love him.” Your voice comes out as a ragged whisper.

Yoongi cannot compute your words. He hears what you do not say, but his mind balks. “But we’re married.”

“Now you’re just being purposely obtuse. You know it’s not a choice I would make.” Your face is agony. “It is inconvenient at best. Ruinous at worst.”

“And so, what? I don’t love you like I love Jimin and you wanted to hurt me for it?” Yoongi is being unfair, but he seems to have temporarily lost control of his filter.

Your countenance shatters. “That’s not — I would never —” You pause.

He hates how you can rein your tongue now. Why could you not have done so that horrible, horrible day?

“It hurt, okay?” you spit out. “It was mortifying for me to hear you discussing my poorly hidden emotions about Jimin with Jimin and I lost it.” Your outburst fizzles out as quickly as it flares up. “I’m a person, too, okay?” you continue plaintively. “I have feelings and they’re messy and I didn’t want to hurt Jimin or you but it happened and I have to live with that.”

Yoongi feels sick. It’s as if you’ve suddenly snapped into focus, and the change in his emotional depth of field unseats him. You’ve tilted his world, and he can’t right himself quite just yet.

He rests his hands on the sill and grips them, the wood digging into his palms. The bite grounds him.

“I’m sorry I wrecked everything.” You sound and look miserable.

Yoongi is torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting you to suffer. He needs to get his shit together. “I think I need to process all of this and go to sleep. I need to help with the harvest again tomorrow,” he gruffs. “We can discuss it another time.” He pushes off the wooden sill and brushes imaginary lint off his heavy duty work pants (work pants you spelled with durability and stain resistance).

You nod, your face a grimace. “Ok,” you agree meekly.

It is your meekness that angers him the most.

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Tomorrow comes, but despite you waking up early to eat breakfast with Yoongi as you are now accustomed to doing, he has already left. You tell yourself that he just wants to get a jump on the day’s work, but you don’t believe it.

You stare at the bowl of grits, the two eggs over medium and sausage crumbles Yoongi had added on top along with some wilted greens. You stare at your coffee (no sugar, a splash of oat milk). You mechanically eat and drink your breakfast. It is warm and hot and though it is filling, you taste nothing.

You go about your daily tasks and prepare a large batch of bath bombs for Yoongi to use and soak his weary muscles. You brew restorative potions and prepare salves for his bad shoulder.

That night, you wait up for him and fall asleep at the kitchen table. When you wake up the next morning, your back aching and head all cottony, you see last night’s beef and Guinness stew, wild mushroom tartlet, and Yoongi’s tonic untouched before you.

It is still warm.

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On the morning of the harvest consummation, you drag yourself out of bed. The sun is already high in the sky and you would feel guilty, but there is no one to apologize to. There is no one waiting for you in the kitchen.

You only know that Yoongi will be home tonight because he has never been unable to fulfill his equinox and solstice duties.

You are busy with finalizing details for the upcoming harvest festival and tell yourself that once the busyness passes, you and Yoongi will return to normal. Not for the first time are you grateful that modern consummation rites do not require an audience of townspeople.

You would not be able to bear it.

By the time late evening rolls around, you have already gathered the offerings of grain, meat, fruit, and wine. You have purified your body in the ceremonial baths and have slathered all the sacred oils and emollients on your body. You have lined your eyes with kohl and slipped into the perfumed robes. You go to the back of your cottage near the holy copse of trees and light fires in the deep bronze bowls of the ceremonial fire pits.

You lay down a thick sheepskin on the grass in the center of the circle of braziers. On the ground by its side, you place a flask of clove oil, some small washcloths, and two bottles of water.

Yoongi is late.

You normally would not be worried except these past few weeks, you have barely seen him and when you did, he wouldn’t speak to you. It was worse than the cautious avoidance of last year. At least then he had been worried about you in addition to being angry.

This time, however. This time, it feels like hate. Or worse: indifference. It feels like neglect. It feels like dereliction of duty.

You wrack your brain for consummation protocols for instances of a lone witch representative. You know you and Yoongi have lucked out over your term, neither of you ever being too sick to perform. (You also know that you have somehow dodged pregnancy all these years and part of you is melancholy and part of you is relieved. You are not allowed to prevent conception during the rite. Its power stems from fertility, and so many councilmembers conceive during these quarterly congresses.)

You check your texts but Yoongi hasn’t sent you any.

The thought that he has abandoned you, has left his position to chase after Jimin, slides its way into your mind, oily and insidious. You don’t think that is the type of person Yoongi is, but you are admittedly not in the best frame of mind right now.

You order your brain to shut up and look up the consummation rituals for a solo witch, hoping desperately that it does not require you to find a partner. After some searching, you find that the main requirement in the ritual is an orgasm — and not even a male one (which makes sense when you think about it, otherwise, how did Chirawan and Saanvi manage all those years?).

You’d forgotten mostly because it’s incredibly difficult for you to climax, especially during penetrative sex. In fact, you’re not sure that you ever have. It is in great part why you don’t particularly care for sex and ultimately, why Yoongi’s orgasm has been your focus all these years. (And even then, you just assume Yoongi knows what to do and you are more of the receptacle than an active participant.)

When the reality of the situation hits you, you lowkey begin to panic. You rarely masturbate and even then, you don’t really see the point because you don’t come more often than you do. (And yes, you’ve tried all sorts of toys and watched all sorts of films. You’re just not wired that way. It normally doesn’t bother you.)

You glance at the time and it’s nearing the lunar culmination. It’s best practice to have the ritual complete as near as possible to when the moon reaches its apex position in the sky and you haven’t even thrown the offerings on the fire.

You run back into the cottage and up the stairs to your room. You rummage through your dresser drawer and finally find a tiny vibrator that you hope still has a remaining charge. You turn it on and the smooth machine quivers to life. You suppose it will have to do.

You go back outside and set the intimate massager on a washcloth. Then you take a few cleansing breaths and try to silence the worry coursing through your veins. It is only the psychic link that prevents you from complete panic. If Yoongi’d been harmed or injured — or worse yet, if he was no longer on this plane — you’d know. You’d feel it.

You offer the grain and throw it in the bowl over the designated fire pit. If Yoongi were here, he’d boost the fire and the grain would roast quickly. As he is not, you wait and when it is ready, you take a few grains in your mouth to eat and then leave the rest to burn.

Next, you place the meat on its designated fire pit and again, because Yoongi is not here to manipulate the fire and heat, you have to wait for the meat to cook naturally. When the steak is at about medium rare, you carefully slice a piece and slip it into your mouth. Again, you leave the rest to burn.

You slice a perfectly ripe pear and close your eyes as you consume it, letting its sandy sweetness wash over your tongue. You place the pear in another fire pit and watch the flames consume the fruit, the blaze flaring and sizzling when the juice evaporates.

Lastly, you pour a cup of pomegranate wine that you’d made from last year’s pomegranate crop. You down the whole thing and lick your lips. If Yoongi were here, he would sip the wine first, then take a mouthful and transfer it into yours. After you’d swallow, he would lick any wine that escaped down your chin or neck, and you would do the same for him. You surprise yourself by missing that part of the rite the most. You pour some of the wine into the fire, careful not to douse the flames. Then you pour the rest out onto the ground before the fire.

You look around your surroundings, hoping Yoongi has appeared since the start of the ceremony, but he has not. You walk to the sheepskin, remove the robe, laying it carefully on the grass. Your bare skin breaks out into goosebumps thanks to the chilly air. If Yoongi were here, he would physically warm the air so that neither of you would be cold, but alas, he is not, and so, you shiver.

Your belly churns with nerves, and you lie down on the sheepskin. You feel cold and exposed, and you hate it. You drizzle the clove oil on your fingers. It’s blessedly warm thanks to the spellwork you’d etched on the bottle. You tentatively stroke your belly and the insides of your thighs, working up the courage to touch your core.

Some time passes and you don’t feel any more relaxed or aroused. You are annoyed that you’d never thought to spell in more aphrodisiac-like properties into the oil, but you suppose Yoongi had never complained and you had never particularly seen the need for it.

You check the location of the moon in the sky above you and are dismayed to find that it has risen considerably. You need to get a move on, but you don’t feel any closer to a climax than you did when you’d started. In fact, it’s quite possible you are even less ready.

You reach for the vibrator and though it isn’t unpleasant, it’s not what you need to complete the ritual. The more you press, the more it starts to sting and hurt. You feel the edges of hysteria start and you turn the vibrator off, casting it aside in disgust.

You remind yourself that there is no actual deadline to your orgasm, that as long as someone climaxes, the ritual is complete.

You reach back into your memory for the calming exercises Saanvi had taught you all those years ago to prepare you for your initial consummation practices with Yoongi. You had been a virgin, having never cared to explore sex prior to your duties, and the prospect of your first time being with someone who you were just getting to know did not appeal at all.

You hear Saanvi’s soothing voice tell you to breathe, and so, you do. You inhale a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, and then let it go in a slow whoosh. You repeat the breathing exercise and again hear Saanvi telling you to notice the way your skin feels alive thanks to the cool air. You slowly run your fingers over your arms, your belly, and inner thighs, the light tickle teasing your senses alert.

The memory of Saanvi reminds you to sink into your sensations, to sit and receive versus chase. You lightly rub circles over your erect nipples, the cold already doing most of the work for you. You think of getting massages after a long day, of your muscles relaxing under Yoongi’s expert hands. Though those massages were strictly platonic, the pleasure of relieving tense muscles is still pleasure, and you grasp onto it.

You think of Yoongi’s hands, capable of great feats of elemental magic and yet so gentle, so nimble, so quick. Your thoughts inevitably slip to the rest of Yoongi. You remember his weight on you, how his black hair framed his kind face in artful waves when he fulfilled his duty and pumped into you. You remember the sounds of his and Jimin’s moans, the creaking of his bed and the smacking of lips and skin. You recall the echoes of his orgasm ripping through you, how you’d lain in your bed gasping and sweaty, burning with desire and need.

You reach for the vibrator again, but this time, instead of placing it directly on your clit, you first run the toy along your belly, your nipples, and your thighs. You add more clove oil and glide the vibrator along your folds, careful not to press too hard. You slowly drag the toy closer to your entrance and allow yourself to feel its vibrations deep in your body.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you begin to grind into the buzzing tool in your palm. You feel a tiny build up of discomfort in your gut, and you hope it is the stirrings of desire and not pain. You focus on the growing ache between your thighs and squirm, desperately wanting it to subside in a way that helps rather than hinders your plans.

The more you pay attention to your body’s pleasure, the more your pleasure builds. Your tentative touches become bolder, more assured, and your anticipation builds higher and more urgent. Eventually, you feel as if you are on the edge just waiting to tumble over, except no matter how hard you try, you can’t tip over.

You are so close, and just when you think you might weep from frustration, you feel a tantalizing breeze lick across your forehead, caress down your neck, swirl around your nipples, and then curl deliciously against your core like a breath.

Your eyes flash open and you see Yoongi kneeling on the edge of the sheepskin, sweaty and covered in grease. You open your mouth to protest when he admonishes, “Shhh, you’re doing so well, Y/N.” The gravel in his voice goes straight to your cunt, and you clench around emptiness.

“Yoongi,” you pant as you reach out to him, your hand clasping his thigh. “I can’t —”

“Let me help, Y/N,” he murmurs softly. “I can’t make the offering for us since I haven’t cleansed myself and we’re too close to the lunar peak, but I can help you. Will you let me help you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes.”

Yoongi shifts so that he is sat directly behind where your head lies. He pours clove oil on his hands and before you know it, his rough fingers massage your temples, ears, and neck.

You melt.

He leans down and you smell sweat and engine oil. He kisses down your hairline and then your jawline and his hair tickles your face. Your vibrator is still working steadily near your core and his hands move down your body to massage the area above your breasts and then your actual breasts.

You arch up to proffer him more of you, and Yoongi takes.

He plants kisses down the curve of your belly and his shirt hangs low from the hem, allowing you to look up and see the flat rounds of his nipples and the dusting of dark hair trailing from his belly button into the heavy material of his work pants. When he travels further down your body and stops at your sex, your nose is level with the thick bulge in his pants.

Your mouth aches but you do not move. He has not given you permission to touch him, and so you close your eyes.

The memory of it all falls out of your brain anyway when Yoongi breathes a low breath over where your vibrator is buzzing and you cannot hold in a tremble. His hands slide under your ass and grab, bringing your cunt closer to his face. He mouths wet kisses over your fingers, your labia, and your toy and you cannot bear all the sensation washing over you.

“May I?” he mumbles into the heart of you and when you gasp your consent, he takes the vibrator from your hand and slowly dips it into your center. You arch again and his wet heat closes over your clit.

He is so warm and hot and wet. The busy throbbing of the toy works you open and you have a sudden craving for something thick and long. Your desire coils in your belly and the grunts and whines he pulls from you would be embarrassing except you are so full of feeling, you cannot think enough to be self-conscious.

Yoongi flutters his tongue over the center of your desire a few times before he sucks and slurps so loudly, so juicily, so steadily, that you finally, finally break. He eats you out through the tsunami of endorphins until you push him away, unable to handle any more stimulation.

He plants another kiss on the inside of your knee and rolls to the side. Your immediate instinct is to cover yourself and hide, but before you can, Yoongi wets and warms a washcloth. He gently wipes your thighs and abdomen before he hands it to you to finish cleaning yourself off.

“I’m sorry, I was late, Y/N,” he says hoarsely.

He grabs himself a washcloth and wipes you off his mouth and face.

You sit up and reach for your robe, wrapping it around you. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t want to be my husband anymore. That this was your way of telling me you were stepping down from your position on the council.”

You hear him suck in a breath. “Even if I were still upset, I would never do that to you,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you say sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I’ve made you doubt my commitment to you and this position. I know I’ve been distant lately,” he says. “At first, it was because I needed space, but then, the harvest and all the extra work our people needed me to help with used up all my energy.”

You pull your robe even tighter and the air around you warms even more. You want to tell Yoongi that it’s okay, that he can release some of his magic because he must be exhausted, but you are wrung out. You allow him to take care of you in this small way. You allow him to make up for his withdrawnness these past few weeks.

“Today’s been the worst day,” he explains even as he’s gotten up and starts clearing the burnt remains in the fire pits. “They needed me to stay late and harvest with magic when one of the combines broke down. Of course, by the time I realized how late it was, I discovered I’d left my phone at home! And then the truck got a bad flat on the way back and somehow, I also got stuck in a ditch and had to first push the blasted thing out.”

You listen, interjecting your small grunts and hums to acknowledge his words. You lean into the familiar rise and falls of his low drawl and somewhere in there, you make a mental note to figure out how to spell his tires without the spellwork fading due to regular wear and tear.

He eventually stops talking and when he does, he gently escorts you back into the cottage, up the stairs, and tucks you into your bed. Alone.

“I promise I’m committed to you, Y/N,” he says quietly. “I get where you were coming from, and I know it must have been so difficult. I’m sorry I couldn’t support you better.”

You can’t decide whether you feel relief or compounded mortification and don’t reply.

Yoongi slips out your door and closes it with a soft click.

It is finally silent, and your mind catches on to what you have done. What you had allowed Yoongi to do to you.

You only know that every consummation in the future will be a mockery. How can you go through the motions of them, lying there bored and focused on the solemnity of the event until Yoongi spills into you when you now know how it could be?

You feel betrayed by your body, this same form you’ve embodied and had never been able to coax into a climax remotely close to what Yoongi did tonight.

You feel robbed.

You are a husk. A hollowed out facsimile of who you used to be.

You pull your covers over your head, curl into yourself, and cry.

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Yoongi staggers to the bathroom and efficiently strips himself. He stares at the hard-on he’s had since the moment he stumbled upon you splayed out in the clearing, close to coming but not able to get there on your own. He gets under the stinging hot water and slides a palm around his length as he closes his eyes. All he can think of is how you tasted, the slight sting of the clove oil on his tongue. He strokes himself to the memory of your softness under him, of your wanton mewls, and the echo of your climax reverberating down your psychic link.

Yoongi comes in thick, white ropes. The water sluices his release down the drain, the only evidence of his orgasm residing in his muddled, pheromone-high brain.

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When Yoongi heads to his truck the next morning after a hurried breakfast, he finds you squatting by his spare tire. You are writing in a very tiny, careful script with a fine-point Sharpie pen.

“I’m just going to replace the tire when I get into town,” he says, amused.

Without skipping a beat, you say, “Then this will take you into town safely. You know spare tires are spindly and worthless little things.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, “just so.” His heart aches in a queer sort of way as he watches you finish up the spell, stand up, and dust off your bottom.

“All set,” you say.

He grumbles his thanks and hops in the cab, settles his bag on the passenger side of the bench, and drives off. He does not understand why he keeps glancing back in the rear view mirror until you finally make your way inside.

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The days pass quickly. Yoongi’s life is an endless cycle of sleeping, eating, and working. His body is spent and so is his magic. He makes marginally more effort to get home early or text you updates throughout the day, but mostly, his mind is consumed with the physical work of harvesting and storing crops.

When the harvest festival finally comes and goes, Yoongi sleeps for a week straight.

Again, he has bleary memories of food and drink magically appearing by his bedside and the emptied dishes magically disappearing when he’s done. He knows the magic is you.

Even in the haze of sleep and rest, his depleted brain tries very hard to make him realize that the quiet ways you care for him should have made your love for him obvious from the start. In his rare moments of lucidity, he wonders if the way he cares for you is also love — and if it is, if it’s the same sort.

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“Are you getting up today or do you need one more day of being completely unconscious?” you ask from Yoongi’s doorway.

“Why?” he croaks as he barely lifts his head from his pillow, “do you need me to open a jar for you or something?”

“As if I need your help for things,” you scoff and then immediately color.

“Hmmmm,” he hums thoughtfully. He thumps his face back on the bed. His mind flashes to that night, of your slick body spread underneath the moonlight, of your desperate need and his offer to help.

You seem acutely embarrassed. “That doesn’t count,” you sputter.

“Cute,” he replies, gently teasing.

Yoongi doesn’t know why he goads you except that your scowl is all the reason he needs.

You tug at the frayed edge of your old sweater, which now that he thinks about it, seems awfully familiar. He thinks it’s one of his that went missing last fall.

“Is that my sweater?” he asks.

“What?” you stammer. “No! This is mine!”

Yoongi sits up, his blankets a mess around him. He squints and peers closer. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s my sweater. I’ve been looking for it.”

You peek down and lift your arms to examine the sweater more closely. “Oh, I suppose it might have belonged to you at one point.” You shift cagily. “Weird.”

“What else of my clothing do you want to steal?” He grins lazily. “Don’t think that I don’t know you also have my favorite pair of flannel pajama pants.”

This time, your expression is absolutely one of guilt.

Yoongi has a flash of mischief. He stretches and doesn’t miss the way your eyes drink him in. Then he pulls off his sleep shirt and throws it at you. “This one’s for free,” he says as he gets out of bed and stalks toward you.

He’s not even a little bit ashamed when you bolt down the hall to your room and slam the door.

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Yoongi’s cackles follow you into your room even as you are desperately trying to banish the images of his bare chest, his strength rippling under his skin. He isn’t buff or hugely muscular by any means, but he is broad and strong and solid.

He is safe. He is secure.

He is a menace.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s mocking you for loving him and needing his help that night, except that seems completely out of character. Instead, you choose to believe that it is his way of signaling to you that your feelings are okay.

Yoongi may not return them, but he’s comfortable with it — and he wants you to be comfortable with it, too.

You sniff his shirt. It is still warm from his body and smells of sweat, earth, and whatever is ineffably Yoongi.

He is a gift.

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“I’m sorry about earlier, Y/N,” Yoongi says as he clomps down the stairs.

You look up from your book. You are sprawled over the couch in the family room, trying to grab the sunny spot before it disappears and you have to turn on a light.

“What exactly are you sorry for?” you ask as you arrange yourself in a less dissolute position.

Yoongi sits down next to you on the sage green sofa. “For teasing you, I guess. About, you know,” he falters.

Apparently he can pester you but he can’t talk about it straight on. Interesting. You decide that you can be an adult about it. Especially if it will make him squirm more than you expected.

“About being in love with you or about you giving me an assist during the harvest moon consummation?” You tamp down your own need to squirm. You don’t enjoy talking about this in the open, but perhaps if you act as if it’s no big deal, Yoongi won’t bring it up anymore.

Yoongi unexpectedly lowers his face into his palms like he is shy all of a sudden. “Um, the ‘in love’ bit,” he replies. “The other night was to help you fulfill our duties. It was my fault for being so late anyway. Truthfully, you were covering for me.”

“That is true,” you say as if you’re considering his point (and you are). “But you were also fulfilling your obligations,” you add charitably.

“Look, I know I reacted poorly at first,” Yoongi expresses, “but at the time, it was all mixed up with Jimin in my mind.”

To your surprise, Yoongi’s words no longer feel accusatory. You don’t know if that is growth on his part or yours. Maybe both.

“And now?”

Yoongi flashes a bashful smile — a heady contrast to his smirky, cocky confidence from before. “Now, well, now I think it’s sweet.” He pushes up the sleeves of his black long sleeve tee and you can’t help but admire his corded forearms. “I keep thinking how I would have wanted Jimin to react to my loving him, and I think even if he didn’t love me back, I would’ve wanted him to be a good sport about it.”

“Yes, that’s what we would all hope for, our beloved being a good sport,” you intone dryly.

Yoongi shoots you a pointed look. “Well, obviously, we want them to love us back, but we can’t control how people feel.”

You hear the dual apology and warning in his words. “Do you still love him?”

“Sometimes, I think I do.” Yoongi shifts in his seat. “And sometimes, I think I love a memory and not the reality of him. We don’t talk as much as we used to, and I know marriage with Taehyung has changed him.”

“He’s different, but he’s still our Jimin,” you say, trying to comfort Yoongi. “Maybe the core of who you love is still there, but he just manifests differently.”

Yoongi leans forward slightly and then crinkles his brow. “I suppose you’re right.” He stands and his sleeves fall past his wrists. You try not to watch as he combs his fingers through his hair. “At any rate, I know how precious loving someone can be. And telling them you love them is entrusting them with a part of your heart.”

You quirk your head. He is perplexing. “I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, Yoongi,” you admit.

Yoongi rakes his fingers through his hair again, a little frustrated and, you think, also a little sheepishly. “I just mean that it means something to me, that you love me. That you trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks heat. You want to look away even as you’re not sure if you can.

“I’ll try to be worthy of your love is all,” he mutters, “to not betray your trust.”

“That — that’s actually really sweet of you.”

He muffles a curse. “Jesus, I’m not a monster, Y/N,” he grumbles and then asks, “what are you in the mood for for dinner?” as if that’s the end of that. At your shrug, he merely mentions he’ll think of something, and then he disappears into the kitchen.

You try to resume your reading, but the sun has moved and you know you should get up to turn on a light. Instead, you shift to the window and look out, wondering what Yoongi thought of when he used to sit here waiting for Jimin.

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Yoongi has been incepted.

That’s the only explanation he can think of even though he knows his favorite movie is merely a work of fiction. Even if such a thing were possible via magic, it would go against so many ethical tenets about autonomy and agency that there is no way the Witches’ Council would ever approve of such a thing.

Nevertheless, he cannot think of another reason why he is suddenly obsessed with you. At first, he thinks it’s because he’s never had someone love him (shocking as that is — the world is full of people with exceedingly bad taste). Then, he thinks it’s because he’s just trying to figure out how to be mindful of your feelings with his actions (he has a lot to make up for). And now, well, now he thinks it’s because you’re adorable.

He’s not sure why he never noticed. Yoongi attributes it to the unfortunate byproduct of living and working together for so long. He has taken you for granted and stopped seeing you as you are. He wonders what else about your work and personal relationship he’s taken for granted (your choice to cede ritual completion to him, for instance).

He wonders if love can manifest differently, feel differently, inhabit his body differently depending on the person he loves. He does not know. He has only ever loved Jimin, but maybe, maybe he has loved you, too. Maybe it was too quiet and soft for him to notice, like the light of a distant star in the sky next to the full moon.

He decides that it’s time to see if a distant star can become his sun.

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“Hey, Y/N,” Yoongi says at dinner about a week before the winter solstice. “I want to try something new for the upcoming consummation.”

You look up from the gaeng ped gai faktong you’ve been shoveling into your mouth. After the day you’ve had, the hearty Thai red curry with chicken and pumpkin is perfect and comforting.

“What? Why?” as you continue eating.

If you’re honest, nothing is more boring than the quarterly consummation duties and other than your out of character breakdown right after the last one, you have given very little thought to it. (Mostly because you’ve been busy, and why brood over what you can’t have?)

Yoongi eats a spoonful of curry and rice and wiggles in happiness. “The last time made me realize that we need contingencies in place in case one of us is indisposed again.”

You level him a look. “Stop being oblique, Yoongi,” you say. You set down your spoon. “We both know that if I’m not available, you won’t have an issue.”

“Ok, fine,” Yoongi sighs. “You’re right. I most likely won’t.” He also sets his spoon down and props his chin on his palm. His fingers tap his cheek. “I just didn’t want you to feel singled out because even though it seems as if it’s your problem, it’s not. It’s our joint concern.”

You cock an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see how it can be anything other than my problem. I’m the one who has difficulty achieving orgasm.”

You are proud of yourself for how matter-of-fact you sound about this, but inside, you want to scream. You know Yoongi is not trying to humiliate you, and technically, this falls within the bounds of work-related performance. He is right to plan for the future in this manner. You just wish it doesn’t make you feel somewhat worthless when it generally doesn’t bother you at all.

“Well, we’ve always gone about it in a rather clinical sort of way,” Yoongi says reasonably. “I can’t imagine that to be very conducive to getting off.”

“You always seem to manage,” you grumble.

Yoongi winks at you. “I do have a rather vivid imagination,” he rejoins, “but it would be a lot easier even for me if we went about it differently.”

You feel awful. “I didn’t realize it was so terrible for you.”

Your husband reaches out and grabs your hand. “Y/N,” he intones gently, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It really isn’t your fault. Your body is your body and it responds the way it responds. I think most people wouldn’t enjoy our consummations much — and if they did, they would most certainly be the male.”

He squeezes your hand in comfort.

“Besides,” he continues, “how come you aren’t upset at me for not making the experience more pleasurable for you? Why are you only focusing on what you perceive as your body’s failure when it is equally mine for not helping?”

You are at a loss for words. “I — I don’t know,” you finally say. “I guess I never really gave it much thought. And since I’ve never particularly wanted to have consummations with other people, I figured it was me.”

“Well, you clearly are capable of being the one to complete the ritual. I think we just need to practice.”

Yoongi states this so nonchalantly that you almost agree. And then, you recall him begging to sleep with you because he’d had a string of unsatisfactory relations.

“Wait, this isn’t because your sexual activities have yielded less than favorable outcomes is it?” you probe.

Hurt flashes across Yoongi’s face. “Y/N, you told me you didn’t want to do that, and I respect your boundaries. I don’t need to trick you to sleep with me.” He withdraws his hand and yours now feels too empty. “I meant that we could try new approaches during our quarterly consummations.”

“Oh,” you reply. You don’t know why you are slightly disappointed, but you don’t stop to overanalyze it. “I suppose that would be alright, although we’ll have to do our best with the timing.”

“There is no restriction on how many orgasms we have, just that it’s better to culminate near the apex of the moon,” Yoongi reasons. “We’ll figure it out.”

You think Yoongi is a touch too optimistic, but you don’t mention it. He changes the subject to the winter festival you’re in the midst of planning (there really are too many festivals but you suppose celebrating and gratefulness are good for town morale), and you fall back into the rhythm of discussing less consummation-related aspects of your work.

Later, as the night winds down and you are both heading upstairs to your respective rooms, he says, “Oh, one more thing.”

“Hmmm?” you hum, mind only on taking a shower and then collapsing into bed. “What’s that?”

“We may want to consider letting our guards around our psychic link drop during the consummation,” he says. “I’ve read that it may help.”

Your mind harkens back to the times Yoongi has lost control — even for mere seconds — and how it left your body roaring with desire. You swallow. “Oh, sure,” you say, even though you feel vulnerable just thinking about it. “I guess we can do that.”

As if he can read your thoughts, he appends, “But only if you are comfortable doing so, Y/N.” He pauses by your door as you head into your room. “It can just be me opening the link, too, or neither of us.”

“How will you opening your link help me if you’re not really getting anything out of it?” you ask as you mindlessly fix your bed covers.

“Oh, trust me,” he chuckles from your doorway, and you can’t help but be drawn to him. “I’ll get plenty out of it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Giving you pleasure will give me pleasure,” he says, laughter still laced in his tone. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You mumble a “good night” and get ready to shower. Your skin tingles and feels hot, as does your heart. No matter that you are apprehensive, you cannot bring yourself to regret.

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When the day of winter consummation finally arrives, you wake up feeling out of sorts. Your tummy will not settle and you keep running to the bathroom to pee or poop. You are glad that Yoongi is out most of the morning and won’t return until the early afternoon for a late lunch.

You occupy yourself with administrative duties for the town and when that no longer effectively distracts you, you lock yourself in the workroom and decide to clean and calibrate all your spell-making tools. When that is done, you inventory your pantries to make sure you’re all stocked for both cooking and potion brewing.

And so, your day passes until your alarm sounds around 5pm. You swing by the kitchen to eat a light supper with Yoongi, and then, before you know it, it’s time to prepare.

“You ready, Y/N?” Yoongi asks after you’ve finished clearing and washing the dishes.

You swallow and nod. “Yeah.”

Yoongi smiles softly at you. “At any point you feel uncomfortable, we can stop. I can just finish the rite on my own like we discussed.”

“I know.” You shudder in a deep breath and then let it loose slowly. “I trust you.”

“This means a lot to me, you know,” he murmurs. He reaches a hand out to you, palm up, and you put your hand in his. “I’ve drawn the bath. Come.”

You follow him into the bathroom and though you’ve done the bathing and anointing by yourself for the last fifteen or so years, you are nervous. You are grateful that despite the cottage being small, the bathroom can comfortably accommodate you both. There is a double sink vanity with ample counter space by the door, a tiny shower stall with clear glass panels, a toilet in the corner, and a giant cast iron clawfoot tub taking pride of place.

Yoongi has already filled the old tub with hot water and the scents of sandalwood, geranium, and ylang ylang fill your nostrils. Your special robes are folded on a wooden stool nearby and freshly washed towels are stacked on another.

You are about to remove your clothing when Yoongi stops you and merely says, “Please. Let me.”

He enters your space and lightly brushes your hair from your forehead. He taps your chin so that you meet his gaze. He runs his fingers down then up your arms and back down your torso before hooking them under the hem of your favorite sweatshirt. He smirks when he realizes that this, too, used to be his.

(Very well, you may have a problem with stealing — though you prefer to see it as reappropriating. Yoongi has a shopping problem, and you are merely helping him keep his closet clutter-free.)

Yoongi begins to lift your sweatshirt and you raise your arms to assist him. What you don’t realize is that he has also pulled off the long sleeve tee you have on underneath it as well. You don’t know why the reality of you standing in a bra and leggings in front of your husband has you off-kilter.

“You okay?” he checks, and you assure him that you are fine.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” you insist.

“That’s true,” he replies, “but I don’t know that I’ve truly looked. You deserve someone to take you in with intention.”

You roll your eyes at the cheesiness of his line, but you also allow his words to seep into your heart just a tiny bit. (You would chastise yourself, except you tell yourself this is for your actual job.)

Yoongi leans slightly against the sinks and pulls you in closer between his legs. He reaches behind you, efficiently unhooking your bra. The straps slide down your arms and they tickle your skin as he pulls it down and places it on top of your discarded garments.

“Wait,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers hover at your waist. “I want to see you, too.”

Yoongi’s mouth crooks in pleased confidence and spreads his arms, bracing them on the counter behind him. “Have at it then.”

You smooth your hand up his stomach and chest and begin to unbutton his yellow and black checkered flannel shirt. When you’re done, he shrugs out of the sleeves and tosses his shirt on top of your clothes. Yoongi’s white heattech undershirt hugs his torso tightly, the contours of his pecs and stomach filling it out nicely while you can just see a hint of the dark brown of his nipples through the material. You unceremoniously tug his undershirt up and pull it over his head.

“Oh,” you breathe even though this, too, is not the first time you’ve seen your husband naked. You cannot resist running your fingers lightly down the trail of fine, black hair down to the low-slung waistband of his joggers.

Yoongi draws in a sharp breath.

Your eyes flit to his. You have never seen his eyes quite so black or gaze so focused. You wonder if this is how he used to look at Jimin. You decide to ask.

“Is this how you used to look at Jimin?”

Yoongi places his large hands around your waist and strokes at your skin idly. “Oh, Y/N, I’m just getting started,” he rasps, both not answering and answering your question at the same time. “May I?” he asks as his fingers start dragging down your leggings.

“Please,” you reply evenly. (It takes great effort, but you manage.)

He first rolls your leggings and panties down your thighs and then kneels so he can finish taking them off. When he slips them off along with your socks (he really is very efficient at skipping steps), his face is level with your mound. His eyes flick first to your sex and then to your gaze. His tongue slips out and then slips back in. His lower lip is shiny with spit.

He slinks back up into a standing position and is about to pull his own joggers off when he instead quirks a brow at you. “Your turn,” he says, like a challenge.

The nerve.

You follow his example and drag down his joggers and black boxer briefs as you sink to your knees. You also pull them off along with his socks and when you dare to look up, you are confronted with his cock right at your face. He’s still mostly soft, but you suppose there is plenty of time before the ritual. You do not take it personally. You know you are nowhere near the main event yet.

You stand back up and make more room between you two so you can take in Yoongi in all his naked glory. His shoulders are broad, his arms are strong, his stomach is flat, and his legs are lean. Yoongi is also drinking you in, his gaze heavy and hot as it trails from your head down to your toes and back up again.

“Come,” he says again, grabbing your hand.

He lifts a leg and climbs into the tub. He settles in and steam rises from the water. He lifts both his hands and runs them through his long, dark locks. They leave his hair damp, and your belly stirs.

“Come on, Y/N,” he repeats, “the water is just right.”

You think this is a bit overdone, but you join him in the giant basin anyway. Your instinct is to sit on the opposite end and face him, but you soon realize that there isn’t a way to do that comfortably. You settle for using him as an armchair, unused to such closeness in such a tight confine.

Yoongi grabs a bathing sponge and squeezes warm water down the back of your neck. You feel your skin prinkle into goosebumps and resist the urge to shiver. He takes the cake of ceremonial soap and lathers the sponge then begins to gently and firmly rub the skin of your shoulders, arms, neck, and back.

You feel the skin of his chest and belly against your back as he leans forward and continues to slather soapy circles at your decolletage, on your stomach and around your breasts, lightly abrading your nipples. You don’t mean to gasp, but you do. Though you don’t hear him laugh, you can feel the light shake in his body and the smug content he allows to travel through your connection.

“Is this alright?” he asks, and you know he is not asking about the physical touch but the psychic one.

“It is,” you reply, the warmth of the bath and the heat radiating from Yoongi’s body putting you at ease.

His mouth is by your ear and pleasure slinks down your spine. “Good,” he murmurs. He adds more soap and then lowers his hands below the water line, softly scrubbing your thighs and only lightly brushing your sex.

You are shocked at the sudden thrill that shoots through your gut from that tiny contact alone.

“Shhhh,” Yoongi shushes, his wet mouth still at your neck, so close to your ear. The sensation is delicious and you draw up your legs to allow him easier access.

You get so lost in the sensations of him washing you that you lose track of time. The fact that Yoongi can keep the water at the same temperature with his magic contributes to that floating feeling. When he holds your hands in his to help wash himself, you are practically boneless. You are certain you’re not doing anything for Yoongi except the curling warmth of arousal pulsing down from Yoongi’s link tells you otherwise.

All too soon (or is it too long), Yoongi nudges you to stand up. The cool air hits your body and your skin awakens after being lulled to sleep. He holds out a fluffy gray towel, pats you dry, and then does the same for himself.

“Sit,” he says, indicating the wooden stool the towels were resting on and fetches the clary sage infused anointing oil.

You feel him drip the oil on your back and shoulders and are surprised when he massages it into your skin rather than just spreading it with his hands. When he is done, he stands naked in front of you, reverently drizzling the oil on your chest. You note that he is no longer quite so soft. You watch as his hands, so strong and veiny, caress your breasts, thumb your nipples, and smooth over your abdomen. You watch as he finishes applying the oil to your thighs, legs, and feet, and you realize that the curl of arousal in your gut is no longer just his.

Yoongi hands you the ginseng infused anointing oil to you and you try your best to mimic what he did earlier for you. His skin is smooth and hot under your palms. You wonder why you had never thought to touch him before during your consummations and think you can get used to this new way of doing things. His arms and legs are hard with muscle and you find yourself stunned that you find even the dark hair on his legs attractive.

When you’re done, you both don your robes and go downstairs to carry the previously set aside grain, meat, fruit, wine, and other ceremonial paraphernalia. You feel as if in a dream except even in your dreams, you have never imagined such a sensual evening.

Yoongi clears a path in the light snow to the ceremonial area. From the look of it, he had gone out earlier in the day to clean and arrange the fire pits in a circle. Yoongi flicks his hands and a low fire alights in the bronze bowls. He pauses at the edge of the circle and turns to you.

“Do you want the ground to be damp dirt or snow?” he asks. “I can make the dirt less wet, but it will take some time.”

You know from experience that though snow is easier for him now, the wetness will seep into the sheepskins much faster than the slightly wet earth. (You could spell the sheepskins, but tradition dictates that they are not. Something about being closer to nature or whatever nonsense.) “Dirt, please.”

“As you wish,” Yoongi says and turns back to the circle.

He focuses and with a few compact and purposeful gestures reminiscent of martial arts (though martial arts were initially derived from elemental witches), the snow in the center of the ring is cleared. You think he even removes some of the moisture from the top layer of earth, but it’s only a little bit.

He was always an overachiever.

You lay down multiple sheepskins and thick blankets. Even though Yoongi will likely warm some of the air around you, you try to make life a little bit easier for him if you can. You set down the washcloths, the warmed oil, the water, and Yoongi readies the offerings.

“Ready?” he asks, and you reply, “Yes.”

Yoongi offers the grain and then throws it into its designated fire pit. He warms the grain quickly and when it’s done roasting, he gathers a few grains in his hand and instead of eating it himself, he brings it to your lips.

“Open,” he suggests. In the low light of the fire, his eyes seem completely black.

You open and his fingers touch your lips as you eat the grain from his hand. He looks at you expectantly so you follow his lead, gather some grains and lift your hand to feed him. His lips part and when he mouths the offering from your fingertips, his lips are wet and you remember them on your cunt.

When he throws the rest of the grain on the brazier to be consumed, you are warm not only because of the flames.

The offering of the meat goes in much the same way. Yoongi sears the meat in the bronze bowl, slices the steak and feeds you by hand. When you return the offering to him, his tongue slips out to lick your fingers. You are so surprised, you almost drop the meat onto the ground. The self-satisfied grin he flashes you stokes the tiny fire that he’s lit in your depths. You will yourself not to look away.

You bring out the persimmons and though you personally prefer them when they’re crisp, Yoongi has chosen ones that are so ripe, the skin almost falls off. You presume he does so because they’re decadent and incredibly sweet. This time, you offer him a slice of persimmon first, the juice running down your fingers and wrist. You expect him to lick your fingers again, but you do not expect him to start licking from your wrist. He sucks the fleshy fruit from your fingers and a shot of desire flares from your cunt to your belly. Though you have not shared your link to him, Yoongi looks as if he knows.

He feeds you your portion and you are not nearly as shameless, but you want to be. You toss the rest of the persimmon into the fire and when Yoongi twirls his fingers to burn the offering faster, you think of his fingers inside you and you long for this part of the ceremony to be over.

Yoongi pours a chalice of ice wine and sips it, licking his lips. After he takes another mouthful, he pulls you in close and kisses you with an open mouth, pushing the wine into your mouth with his tongue. The fact that he thrusts his tongue into your awaiting mouth and doesn’t stop forces you to swallow around him. The guttural moan he makes combined with the flood of pleasure he sends down his connection to you drags a reciprocal moan from you.

Your senses are alight and though you know the air is cold, your body burns.

Yoongi pours some of the ice wine in the fire pit and then empties the bottle into the earth. When he is done, he reaches for your hand once again.

“Come, Y/N,” he says, his eyes intense, and for the first time, you are excited for what comes next.

He leads you to the pile of sheepskins and blankets and quirks his head as if asking permission to remove your robe. You assent and he does so, removing his own as well. You feel the air warm around you (but not before the first frisson of the winter air kisses your skin). He lowers you carefully onto the coverings. Through your shared connection, you feel his desire for you and though you also feel desire — feel it envelop you in its grip — you also feel wonder.

“Still okay with this?” he asks, his body and lips hovering over yours.

You reach for his face and cup his jaw in your hand. “I am,” you say.

You don’t know if you pull him towards you or if he lowers himself of his own accord, but the next thing you know, he is kissing you full on the mouth. His lips taste like sweet ice wine. You can’t recall the last time you were kissed let alone this hungrily. He nips, he soothes, he sucks and at his insistence, you open. He licks into your mouth, his tongue exploring the hidden hollows of your mouth. You think you could kiss him forever.

You feel one of his rough hands palm and knead your breasts, his thumb flicking your nipple lazily. He kisses up your jawline and licks into your ear, nibbles on your earlobe, and breathes hot and heavy at the curve of your neck.

“So sweet, Y/N,” he mouths, “you taste so sweet. Could taste you forever.”

Your first instinct is to retort that it’s the ice wine he’s tasting, except when he moves his hand to your neck — not to choke or hurt you — but to hold you still, to splay your throat beneath him, your brain can’t form words.

Yoongi prowls down your body, his mouth devouring your throat, your collarbones, your decolletage. Wherever you have skin, his mouth and tongue licks and kisses, leaving a trail of hot saliva that cools immediately. When he surrounds your breast with that same mouth and tongue, you arch more fully into him. He suckles you and when the ravening hunger comes down the link, you can’t believe it’s for you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp. You want. You grasp his head between your hands and press him lower, the memory of him suctioning on your heated core spurring you on.

You feel his amusement both through your connection and from the light shaking huffs of his body as he continues kissing down your torso, finally advancing to the heart of your need.

Just before he reaches your sex, Yoongi looks up. His eyes are so blown. “Is this where you wanted me?” he rasps. He flicks his tongue on your clit and your hips jerk. “Is this what you wanted?” He blows lightly over your heat and you almost cry.

“Yes,” you beg, “yes, Yoongi, yes.”

“You sure?”

You see him pull his mouth into a smug little half smile and suddenly, you are wild for him. You don’t know what comes over you, but you grab his hair and steer his face into your center. “Please,” you plead. “Please, Yoongi, please.”

You can tell by the quirk of his eyebrows that Yoongi is amused, but you don’t care. You let loose your guards, allowing your desperation to pulse through your being and into his. This time when Yoongi smiles, it is pure joy, stripped of swagger and stunting.

“As you command,” he croons and proceeds to swipe the flat of his tongue up over your slit.

Yoongi spreads you with his hands and eats you like the sweetest of peaches, like the ripest of papayas. His grunts and groans vibrate against your entrance and when he tongues you, all hot and slippery between your folds, you fist the blankets beneath you. He feasts and you writhe, eager and willing.

He delves his quick and clever tongue deep into you and noses your tight cluster of nerves until finally, your blood boils and you burst, Yoongi’s name tearing from your lips.

“Fuck,” Yoongi moans as he slurps up your release. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the harvest moon,” he says as he kisses back up your body.

You know better than to trust his words. You know he’s been on a mission to seduce you and wring pleasure from your body. “You don’t have to say that, Yoongi,” you say. “You’ve already gotten an orgasm from me — although the moon isn’t high enough yet. I suppose we started too early.”

“When have I ever said things just to say it, Y/N?” Yoongi peppers soft kisses along your face. “I said I’ve been thinking about how your pussy tastes for months, and I meant it.” His fingers smooth down your brows and the slope of your nose. He kisses you again and you taste yourself on him, slightly sharp but mostly neutral with a hint of metal.

“And now that you’ve had it again?” you can’t help but ask.

Yoongi sucks on your lower lip and spears his tongue into your mouth again. “Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m going to go crazy waiting until the next consummation.”

You giggle. “Surely it doesn’t always feel like that?”

Yoongi hums as he nuzzles and fondles your breasts. You can’t quite believe he’s still touching you, but you suppose he still has yet to find his release. There is still the ritual to complete and the moon is starting to close in on its highest position.

“Not always,” he replies, busying himself as if he wants to map all the hills and valleys of your body. “Sometimes it’s better. Sometimes, less so.” He nips the curve of your waist and you cry out in surprise. “That’s the fun of it. It’s different every time.”

“Is that why our consummations aren’t fun for you? They’re the same every time?”

Yoongi sits up and you mourn the loss of his physical attentions. He hands you a bottle of water, and you prop yourself up to drink it more easily.

“They weren’t fun because they felt so sterile,” Yoongi explains. “It was just another duty to perform, like filling out a form or attending a council meeting.”

“It sounds so antiseptic when you say that.”

“Isn’t it how we usually go about it?” he asks, his voice warm against your skin.

“What just happened doesn’t feel antiseptic,” you say with wonder. “It felt alive.” You swallow. “I felt alive.”

Yoongi smiles a true smile, gummy and adoring, and you feel such love and affection come through your link. You are momentarily nonplussed when you notice the love, but you think perhaps it’s the platonic sort.

“I think that’s how the ritual is supposed to feel,” he muses. “I used to think it was nothing but a tradition — that it’s just symbolic. But now, I hope I’m wrong. I hope that feeling of being alive transmutes the ritual into a deeper magic.”

Again, you feel that pulse of love travel down the link from Yoongi to you. You’re not sure if Yoongi realizes his guard is still down, except he’s a meticulous sort. He definitely knew what he was doing when he opened his connection to you. He is not the type to forget such an asset.

You decide to be brave and send out a pulse of your own. You are rewarded with another smile from Yoongi, all fond and tender at the edges.

“What changed?” you ask, knowing that Yoongi will know what you mean.

You suddenly feel shy and a retroactive solidarity with Yoongi about how bashful he’d seemed regarding your feelings for him. You realize he was right: someone loving you is a precious, fragile thing. You don’t know if you are worthy. You don’t know if you can satisfy him — and you really, really want to.

“I thought love was like a wildfire, hot and consuming everything in its path. Instead, it’s socks that stay warm and dry in the winter and my mother’s kimchi jjigae on the stove.”

You push him lightly on the shoulder. “Did you just compare our love to your socks?” You chuckle at his expense even though you know exactly what he means.

“I did,” he admits. “It’s not very romantic, is it?” Yoongi shakes his head ruefully. “Your love covers me wherever I go, Y/N. You’re the interstices of my life, like your spellwork and wards, protecting me and easing my life. Hidden until something breaks to expose its inner workings.”

Yoongi lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms. You go so easily.

“Our love is quiet. You and I are quiet,” he says, “and for the longest time, I couldn’t see it because I thought love was only loud. I thought it should disrupt my life — that love would shine so bright, I had to shield my eyes from the glare.”

You lean your head against his chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. Yoongi is wrong. His love is so loud. It beats so strong, you can hear nothing else.

You suppose you can both be right.

“I love you, Yoongi,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies. “I finally recognized it as a mirror of my own.”

“You can just say it, you know,” you grumble. “It doesn’t have to be all warm breakfasts and subtle gestures.”

He turns to face you. “I love you, Y/N,” Yoongi says, not quite looking you in the eye. He’s staring at a spot just to the left of your gaze, but you’ll forgive him. (It gives you something to tease him about later.)

You brush his black hair back from his forehead and kiss him. “It’s getting near the time for optimal ritual completion.”

Yoongi laughs. “If you want me to see if I can try for a second orgasm from you, just tell me.”

“That’s — that’s not what I meant!” you cry indignantly. “I’m not greedy.”

He shifts you so that you are now more on top of him than not. He pulls you towards him and kisses you. “Maybe you should be.”

Yoongi reaches for the clove oil and pours some on his hand and then yours. He brings your hand to his length, still so hard from before. You find it amazing that he has been unflagging this whole time.

“Maybe you should take me and take from me,” he husks, his voice straining as you inexpertly handle him.

His large hand guides your own and he shows you how tightly he wants you wrapped around him. Yoongi’s breathing gets harder even as his member does the same. Even as he’s guiding you, he doesn’t stop kissing you, his lips molding yours to his, as if you are his very food and breath.

You accidentally graze his balls as you’re stroking him and he jerks. “Shit” he hisses, “do that again.”

You fondle his balls again as he continues pumping into his own hand. Though all he is doing is kissing you, the feedback you’re getting from his side of the link is also stoking your own desires. And then, you realize you are getting wet again. It is as Yoongi said: pleasing him also pleases you.

“You up for riding me?” he entreats.

You straddle him and line him to your entrance in lieu of answering. Though you haven’t tried this position before, you find that your body knows what to do. You sink down on him slowly, not wanting to hurt him. In doing so, you feel the bulbous head of his cock nudge into you, stretching and sliding one delicious inch after another.

You feel so full, like he is deep in your guts.

Yoongi’s face is scrunched in concentration, tiny beads of sweat forming at his hairline. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and for the first time, you realize how much power you have over him. All these years, you’d thought the rite was about him spilling his seed in you, like the farmer sowing the earth. When all this time, it was the earth actively receiving, cradling and nourishing what the farmer gave her.

“You all sorted?” he grits out through clenched teeth.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, I’m sorted.”

“Thank fuck. Please, baby, I need you to move.”

And so you move. You hear the slick squelch of your bodies melding along with Yoongi’s pants and low curses. He has one hand on your waist guiding you and the other kneading your breast and twisting your nipple. His tongue peeks out of his mouth and every now and then, you hear him mutter, “like that” or “take it” as he thrusts up into you.

You think you’ve got the hang of it but you’re nowhere near an orgasm like you had been earlier. Some of your anxiety must leak through your connection because Yoongi moves his hand from your waist to where the two of you are joined. Slowly, his thumb presses low circles in conjunction with his other hand flicking your nipple.

“Look at me, baby,” he grunts. “Let me in.”

You open up your connection fully and not only do you feel your own growing arousal from how he’s playing you, you feel the sensations of your cunt sliding over his cock, the ache in his balls, the coil in his gut. You feel how Yoongi is steadily losing his control, how much he loves you and longs to please you, how wild and delectable you are riding him.

The more you feel your coupling from his point of view, the more you relax and lose yourself in the process. You undulate your hips in an instinctual rhythm and soon, you are close.

“Yoongi,” you implore, “Yoongi, please.”

He shifts his angle just a bit under you and plants both his feet on the ground behind you and thrusts with all his might. You feel every bit of his cock sliding in and then out, in and then out, deeper and deeper up into your cunt. His thumb swirls your mess around your throbbing clit and you brace your hands on his chest.

You want to burst from your skin — not only from your own senses but from his, too. By now, thanks to your link, you are not sure where you end and he begins, and it doesn’t matter because one of you — no, both of you — are coming. You hear the flames in the surrounding braziers blaze higher and crackle, the sudden flare heating the air around you. It is the crash of waves against a cliff, an onslaught of winds in a storm, the silence of deep night and the pounding of your pulse.

You sob his name and yours is a prayer on his tongue.

Yoongi kisses you as if you are the only person in the world and you relish his insistent tongue, his disrespectful teeth, his decadent lips. He kisses you until you both calm down, the first rush of oxytocin dissipating in your blood.

“See?” Yoongi chuckles as you slump over him. He kisses your temples and your hair and smoothes his hands down your sweaty back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I think I’ve been my own worst enemy all these years. I don’t know how you were able to get that out of me so easily,” you say.

“Shhhh,” he mutters even as he captures your lips with his own once more. You’re beginning to think sex for Yoongi isn’t even about physical pleasure so much as it is about an intimate connection. “Even if it takes longer or isn’t easy, your enjoyment is worth the time it takes. You are worth exploring.”

“What if this is not a replicable feat?” you ask, worry rushing back in now that the afterglow is starting to recede.

Yoongi captures your gaze. “Then it’s not a replicable feat,” he says seriously, “and I’ll do whatever I can to make it as gratifying for you as possible even then. You’re not a machine, to perform at whatever whims our job necessitates.”

“All the same, we should still practice outside of our duties — like we used to,” you say slyly.

Your husband grins, crooked and a bit too cocky for your taste, but you suppose he wears it well. “As you say, Y/N. As you say.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Yoongi wakes up, his back aching and eyes squinting at how high the sun is now in the sky. You clearly have let him sleep in even though you, too, are likely exhausted from the harvest festival. You’ve begun to delegate even more aspects of the festivals to your staff, though still take lead on the majority of details for now. You reason that just as the two of you began contingency planning for your consummation rituals, your citizens should also have protections in place for them.

This last year’s fall harvest was more bountiful than Yoongi ever recalls in Tranquil Valley’s recent history. He wonders if it is merely coincidence or if the two of you have actually activated a deeper magic with your ritual consummations. He supposes it doesn’t much matter. Harvest or not, he will still ensure the two of you intimately connect until you both retire (and even after).

Though neither of you are particularly demonstrative in your love for each other, there is something about a clearly stipulated and understood state of affairs that makes your love more concrete. More discrete. More replete.

He pulls on some joggers and heads to the kitchen. Yoongi smiles though you are long vanished to your workroom, it being closer to lunch than breakfast. Despite the lateness of the hour, his morning repast of gyeran-mari and various banchan is laid out and awaiting him in the nook. His Americano is cold with just the right amount of ice, and his breakfast is warm.

~~~~~~~~~~~

For more of my fics, here is my Masterlist.

black magic [m]

credit: x.

❛❛im one of the brightest witches at this prestigious magic academy and ur a human who somehow got admitted and everyone knows u dont ACTUALLY have magic but cant prove it so they hate u for it but i actually like you??? and have a crush on u??????? our paths have just never crossed until ur class blew up n somehow we became class partners and– hold on what do you mean we fucked up this spell so we wanna fuck each other’s brains out??❜❜ AU

COUNT → 18.430

GENRE → smut 

PAIRING → taehyung | reader

WARNINGS → dom and sub tones | mild cum play | explicit language | female masturbation (male if you squint) | oral sex | penetration | graphic dirty talk

NOTE → this was requested and inspired by @blueagust!!!!!! the idea went thru several stages and yelling over kkt but this is the final product :-D im sorry mom

You hated everyone at this fucking academy.

It wasn’t just that they always smelled like unicorn turds—and that wasn’t a compliment because unicorns had the nastiest smelling shit in the entire universe—but they were so arrogant and had this fucking superiority complex when it came to humans. You were sure if they actually lived with them and in human society instead of hidden away at some prestigious academy they wouldn’t pull this bullshit in the first place, but they still despised them.

Or maybe it was just one human they despised in particular.

Keep reading

Witch AU

Hello! Love your latest drawing, is it possible to ask more about the witch au? I was staring at the lights until I looked close enough to see the human heart and the blood lol

Of course!! As with all the rest of my silly little AUs, it's a rather horrific one <3 Fair warning, I got a tiny bit carried away with my writing below…

Basically, Silver is an orphan belonging to a small, impoverished village located smack dab in the middle of nowhere, its only distinguishing feature being the vast amount of forest surrounding it. Though the locals there will never admit it to any foolish outsiders, many of them still believe in their ancestors' paranoid whispers of magic; so much so, in fact, that it's become a staple of their everyday life. Children are taught lessons through morbid fairytales and outlandish stories, miscreants pray desperately to be purged of their demons during Catholic mass, and the town gathers monthly to roast all suspected witches on a stake. Overall, having a holy, united front against the work of the Devil fosters peace and harmony throughout—unless, of course, one were to be born with the unfortunate curse of being different.

On his luckier days, Silver is simply ignored and left to tend to the church’s gardens on his lonesome (the job that has been oh-so-generously provided to him by the orphanage directors encouraging him to repent), with only an occasional titter about his “vacant, nixie eyes” to puncture the silence. However, more often than not, he is sought out by his more vengeful peers as soon as the lunch bell is struck, and beaten to a bloody pulp; their vapid, vulture-like mothers watch on, cruel speculation of his bloodline running as rampant as ever. His porcelain skin is surely vampiric in nature, they hiss between painted lips, those colorless wisps of hair a key part of his lycanthrope lineage. But, perhaps worst of all, are the rumors that deny him even the weakest links to being human—while the other creatures are still, at the end of the day, offspring of former mortals, he simply must be a changeling through and through, what with his unnatural irises, suspicious sleeping spells, and holistically predatory beauty.

…No matter their reasoning, Silver always ends up miserable and alone.

Thankfully, by the time he’s seven, salvation comes in the form of an unlikely trail of lights, bobbing about ethereally under the deep cover of night. Why he decides to promptly clamber over his windowsill—from which he had initially spotted the path, during his nightly Bible study—and venture after them, he doesn’t quite know… There’s just something so homely and beckoning about them, he supposes. (Later, he’ll chalk it up to equal parts desperation and childish fantasies, borne from the happy and friendly and good storybooks that the more mischievous choir boys have been stowing between pews like contraband.) The grass is cold and wet against his feet as he pads across it, pushing past the church gates to make for the dark, all-encompassing line of trees that he found so terrifying only hours before. Strikingly different from the huntsmen’s drunken tales of monsters and human-repelling growth, the forest swallows Silver with a quiet murmur of excitement. Unlike them, he is welcome here.

The lights lead him over a small brook and between luscious vegetation, pulsing brighter with every step he takes onward. At the very end of his journey, he finds a cottage tucked in the shadows of two large, wooded hills. Three figures stand before it, ready to greet him: a slight, beaming man, the horned silhouette towering above him, and a child his age leaning heavily against the former. The first ushers him in with the heady promise of pie, blankets, and crackling fire… and the rest is history.

From then on, Silver works tirelessly for his new family; in exchange for their love, provisions, and tutelage, he cleans up around their cozy little hut, despite any reservations his beloved Papa may have. It’s the least he can do, after all…! Eventually, this gives way to Lilia training him alongside Sebek, versing him in the complex albeit beautiful mannerisms of magic. (At some point, they had revealed to him that they are all a part of the Diasomnia coven; he can’t quite remember.) And although he may not be able to manipulate the delicate fabric of reality himself, he is instructed by Malleus to take pride in how quickly he’s taken to botany and navigating their inventory. Silver soon secures an oath to be taught the advanced art of potionology when he’s older—though he’ll have to be shown how they source their precious ingredients, first! (He assumes that some must come from his old hometown, or other adjacent ones. Why else would his father return smelling of iron and smoke and oil?)

All in all, it’s the most perfect, wonderful, idyllic life he could’ve ever hoped for. With the smooth, comfortable weight of a broom rolling between his palms, he begins to hum as he mops up their latest spill of crimson potion. Crystal stars glimmering overhead, scattering rays of brilliance against their floor with Malleus’ lights dancing in tandem, he pauses mid-task to grace his family—his world—with another smile.

.

..

…

(He was the right choice to make, after all. With a few more years of blissful, unwitting cultivation, they’ll finally have the elements they need: virginal blood, auroral eyes, and the purest of hearts.

And then he shall remain a part of their life force forever.)