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moondirti · 2 months

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )

DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3

please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.

warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.

inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss

Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.

But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.

So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…

He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.

Disgust. Terror. Reverence.

Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.

The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–

Small.

Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.

But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.

But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.

(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)

And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.

Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.

For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.

Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.

The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.

Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.

Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.

You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.

You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.

You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.

“Under the couch.”

This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.

Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.

Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.

But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.

“Enough of tha’, now.”

Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–

Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.

But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.

Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.

“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”

“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.

“I don- I don’t–”

“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”

You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–

And then it comes flooding back to you.

(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)

“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.

(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)

“Or something.” It answers.

A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.

(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)

The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.

Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.

He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.

It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.

“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”

The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.

So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.

“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”

She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.

The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.

Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.

Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.

In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.

Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.

Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.

That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.

The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”

She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.

It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.

The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?

Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.

But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.

What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.

So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.

Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.

There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.

It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.

He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.

The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.

Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.

Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.

When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.

But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.

Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.

(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)

It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.

Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.

She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.

“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.

“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.

“I didn’t tell you to do this.”

The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”

“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”

“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.

“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”

He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.

“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.

“Shut up.”

“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.

It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.

“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”

When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.

“Hm?”

“N-No.”

“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”

He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.

When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.

What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.

“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.

He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–

“Ghost.”

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casuallyimagining · 6 months

Text

Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.

It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days.

But who’s counting?

There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified.

What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.

You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.

“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”

“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”

“I know.”

There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.

“Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I…”

I want to apologize.

I’m so sorry.

I miss you.

It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”

He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.

“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise.

“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”

Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.

You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.

Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.

You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.

The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.

“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”

Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”

You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”

“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”

His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.

Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…

Now he wanted you gone.

“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”

“Wh-”

There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’

Kinder for whom?

The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering.

Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”

“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger.

He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.

There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up.

Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.

You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.

Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.

It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.

I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?

At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.

Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you?

Would you still be there if I had?

You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left.

The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic.

You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.

Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.

“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees.

His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”

“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”

“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables.

You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.

“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.

Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.

But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too.

He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled.

That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.

You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.

Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.

You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors.

The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).

As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.

Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-

“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.

“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.

Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.

A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”

The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.

A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.

He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park.

It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died.

At least they’d had each other during it.

You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…

“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert.

His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.

You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.

At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism.

For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.

It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.

Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.

“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.

“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”

Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?

You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.

The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.

“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”

You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”

“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.

“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”

“That’s really cool.”

Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.

But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.

“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”

If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”

Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”

“It’s only like an hour a night-”

“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it.

He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him.

Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.

You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”

The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them.

Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.

You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know.

Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in.

But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.

The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.

I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…

I would like to see you again. Someday.

How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.

The other is from the day he turned 25.

A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…

I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.

I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…

I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.

I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.

Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.

I hope I see you again.

Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.

For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”

“I-”

“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.

He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”

“I never said-”

“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”

“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”

You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.

You’d never considered that he would miss you.

But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“How long are you here for?”

Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.

He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”

You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel.

Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”

Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.

You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.

The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand.

But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.

“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”

You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward.

A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.

A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.

You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.

Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue.

One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.

“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”

“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom.

She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”

“But-”

“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”

For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”

“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”

You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”

Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick.

It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room.

You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty.

But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly.

You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”

It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter.

“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”

“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.

“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets.

“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”

Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.

Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see.

“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.

“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”

He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”

“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”

He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”

“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”

Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”

Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face.

“Right,” you said softly.

“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading.

You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.

Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent.

“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”

“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”

And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.”

And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.

“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.

He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…

Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar.

You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you.

Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.

Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.

Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.

You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.

Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.

“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.

“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.

You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.

“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”

“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”

“Were you right?”

He chuckles. “Not exactly.”

You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.

“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”

“I get it.”

“What?”

“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”

“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”

“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”

“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”

“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”

Yoongi groans.

“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”

For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.

You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.

“I’ll text you,” he promises.

You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.

“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.

It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.

“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.

“I will. I promise.”

And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform.

You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.

As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.

Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug

“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.

“Dangerous,” you joke.

“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.

For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you.

The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.

“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.

He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.

You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”

“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”

He laughs. “What rules?”

“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”

“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”

You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.

“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“What about work?”

He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”

“Yoongi.”

He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”

You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.

The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for.

In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.

After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting.

The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.

He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey. How was the train?”

He groans. “Long.”

You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.

You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.

It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.

Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.

He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.

“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”

Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.

“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.

An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…

You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.

“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him.

“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”

“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”

“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”

At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.

“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.

Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers.

And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.

For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause.

We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space.

At least, you think you are.

But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable.

Oh no.

You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again.

His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger.

You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest.

Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”

You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”

He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…”

You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed.

“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”

“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.

“We drove for an hour!”

You shrug. “Big city.”

He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing.

He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand.

So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.

The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.

It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.

You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response.

There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.

For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.

You’re still holding his hand.

Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.

You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”

“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”

Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”

It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy.

“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”

“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”

“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.

“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.

You push him. “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”

Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”

“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”

Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.

You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible.

You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone.

“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.

“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”

“He seems…”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”

Oh.

Well.

That makes sense.

“So they…”

You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”

Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings.

He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.

“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”

“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”

“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.

You laugh, and something inside of him warms.

He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.

A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful.

“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”

He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.

The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.

“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him.

He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch.

There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.

Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden.

He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.

But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring.

His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you.

When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.

For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.

12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.

Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms.

okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #suga fic #suga fanfic #bts fanfic #bts fic #min yoongi fic #min yoongi fanfic #myg x reader #bts soulmate au #bts supernatural au #set me free

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blackleatherjacketz · 28 days

Text

Give In

Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Klaus shows up out of the blue to remind you who you belong to.

Warnings: Mature Content, Mild Violence, Alcohol, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Klaus and his Mouth

Word Count: 1.4k+

Raucous voices from the drunken patrons on the patio echo against the vastness of the parking lot as you walk away from the crowd, having had enough of the holiday scene inside. Hand in hand with someone you’d only just met an hour before, you make your way out to your car until a feeling of dread suddenly washes over you. Unsure if it’s from all the green beer that you know you shouldn’t have drunk, the sensation intensifies as you get closer, tugging at your insides and prickling the fine hair on the backs of your arms with each step you take. You hear a heavy thud and a light moan, the alcohol dulling your senses just enough to keep you on your path as you turn toward where you had parked your car before you finally see him.

What the hell is he doing here?

“A local pub on St. Patrick’s Day? That’s very unlike you, now is it, darling?” Klaus licks the fresh blood off his lips as he approaches you and your guest, his hazel eyes aglow with a mixture of hunger and satisfaction before returning back to their natural hue. The limp body of the poor woman he had drained dry is just barely visible beneath the undercarriage of a Jeep as you attempt to take in your surroundings, damning the extra shot you took at the bar before walking outside with the man who had bought it for you.

“Who the hell is this guy? You know him?” Your new friend looks over at you, oblivious to the danger he’s in as a jealous shade of pink paints his cheeks.

“Klaus,” is all you can say as he steps closer, that all too familiar blend of fear and excitement tingling its way through your spine as if it’s your very first time seeing him.

It’s as if he’s capable of infecting the air around him with his mere presence, drawing out an innate response from your body every single time. You wish that you could blame it on compulsion, that you could somehow pass the buck onto his supernatural powers, but you both know he’s never had to use any of them on you before. You hate yourself for how weak you are for him, hate how your body instantly reacts to the mere sound of his voice or the glint in his eye like a dog in some sort of sick Pavlovian response. He could take whatever he wanted from you at any time he pleased, and you’d thank him for it.

And he knew that.

“The real question is… who the hell are you?” Klaus focuses his attention on your potential new bedfellow as he closes the gap between them, ignoring you for the moment as his fists find their way into the thin fabric of his novelty green t-shirt. With very little effort, he twists his grip on it, lifting the young man high into the air before staring menacingly into his eyes. “Well?”

“Alex.” He answers immediately, his voice shaking in sobering trepidation.

“And just how long have you been seeing my little witch, Alex?” His eyes darken as he compels the young man to tell him the truth, his dark tone just as threatening as it is curious.

“Witch? We just met tonight, I swear!” He lifts his hands up in surrender, not even bothering to look back at you for confirmation.

“You swear, hmmm?” He laughs to himself, that subtle amused chuckle rumbling in his chest before turning into a low growl, catching in his throat. “And just what were your intentions in bringing her out here like this, huh? Were you hoping to fuck her?”

“Klaus!” You scold in protest and take a step toward them, stopping only as he shoots you a deadly glare.

“Y…yes!” Alex admits freely, all the confidence and charisma he’d shown you inside disappearing in an instant.

“Good.” A sly grin slowly creeps across Klaus’ lips as Alex divulges his obvious intentions with you, fear trembling through his entire body and into his fingertips as they tremor sporadically. “She is rather tempting, isn’t she?”

Alex only whimpers in response, too afraid to say the wrong thing.

“You’re a bit young for her, don’t you think?” He grabs hold of his jaw and squeezes, turning his face from side to side to get a better look at his youthful features as he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“I didn’t care about that.” Alex cries.

“No, I know. ‘Age is nothing but a number’ and all that, but she needs someone older, someone with experience who can take care of her, someone who can really give her what she needs... Do you think you’re that someone, Alex?” He raises an eyebrow as his grip on his chin tightens, making sure to cut the inside of his cheeks against his molars.

“No,” he can barely whisper at this point.

“Good boy, now why don’t you go back inside, have another drink and forget that you ever met her; forget all of this?” He brings him down closer to his face, their noses mere inches apart as his voice lightens just the slightest bit. “Now run along back inside and find someone your own age, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Alex mutters with a nod, scurrying off the second Klaus lowers him down and releases him from his grasp.

“Nose ring really does it for you, huh, love?” Klaus finally addresses you as Alex’s hurried footsteps fade off in the distance. “I didn’t take him as your type.”

“What are you doing here?” You fold your arms across your chest to put some distance between you, as if that will somehow help protect you from his deadly charms. “I thought you’d left town.”

“Well, now I’m back.” His tone shifts completely, his voice now like slowly melted caramel, dripping with the confidence you swear he was born with as it warms every inch of you, those perfect lips of his curling into a knowing smirk. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“And I thought you would have at least called,” you counter coldly.

“Oh, you always fight me tooth and nail don’t you, darling?” He laughs to himself as he slowly saunters toward you. “Always trying to convince yourself that you don’t want me, that you don’t need me.” His hypnotic gaze grazes over your resistant frame before he gently brushes his knuckles against your cheek. “That you don’t belong to me.”

“Belong to you?” Your lips part as your heart begins to race beneath your nearly heaving chest, pumping your cheeks full of blood as the effect he has on you grows more urgent than you care to admit. “I don’t…”

“Shhh…” He stops you before you can finish your thought, grabbing hold of your chin and lifting it to face him. “Let’s drop the charade, shall we?” He takes his time to take in your features, his nearly blown out pupils dilating even more as they linger on your parting lips.

“Mmm hmm,” you try to answer as his intoxicating scent surrounds you, the sweet smell of cinnamon coated with smoky notes of bergamot flooding your senses.

It’s all over now.

“You’re my little witch… not his, not anyone else’s… mine,” he growls. His hand moves from your chin down to your throat, squeezing gently as he ghosts the promise of a kiss while opening his mouth against yours. He stares at you as his tongue languidly traces the outline of your lips just long enough to stifle your breath. “Right? Show me you understand.”

Your lips quiver as they glisten in his spit before you lean forward just enough to lick his in return, slowly savoring the hints of iron and salt until you can’t help but kiss him completely. You breathe him in, forgetting about how long it’s been since you’ve last touched him as he embraces the kiss with an unmatched fervor. You gasp as he presses his hips into yours, nearly knocking the wind out of you as a satisfied groan vibrates in his chest. You moan into his mouth as he clumsily backs you up against the nearest car as you try to catch your breath, that moisture already collecting between your thighs.

“That’s it, love,” he whispers, pressing those pouty lips of his against your chin and jawline as his other hand starts unbuttoning your jeans. “Give in to me like you always fucking do.”

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Read more KLAUS!

#niklaus mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #the vampire diaries #the originals #joseph morgan #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaelson x reader #niklaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson fanfic

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ki-yomii · 13 days

Note

helloo! could you recommend your favorite jungkook and yoongi fics? thank you and have a lovely day ♡

hey there~ 💛

... tbh i haven’t read too many fics for my boys lately 🙈

i've been trying to work through the books sitting on my shelf collecting dust + i got sucked back into fallout now that the show is out lol.

but i do have some all-time favorites!!

please mind the warnings/tags - you're responsible for your own reading consumption. that said, all of these fics are 🔞

i hope you have a great day nonnie and if you have any recs send them my way 🥰!

JUNG KOOK FICS

the crimson shell series by @angelicyoongie

mermaid aus are my lifeblood istg. and this is one of the best one's i've ever read!! it's dark, it's creepy, it's foreboding - and tantalizing. everything i love about mermaid/siren aus crammed into one series.

you had always found comfort in being at the beach, often spending hours just watching the waves lap against the shore. but unbeknowst to you – something had been watching you back.

make you mine two-shot by @colormepurplex2

i'm a sucker for abo, and as such, have read a looot of it over the years. its a genre that's very easy to descend into wtf-how-are-they-still-alive-after-THAT territory but this fic does it very well in a way i haven't seen too often. i loved the world-building and set up.

Alphas might rule the world, but Jungkook finds himself being ruled by the need to make you his. Omegas are rare, precious, and pliant. At least, most are. When you present late, well into your twenties, you're already set in your headstrong ways; a challenge even for a commanding alpha like Jungkook. Add to that the centuries-long feud between your families and the last thing anyone expected was for him to claim you as his soulmate.

a sea of indigo series by @foxymoxynoona this was the first BTS fic i ever read... and is a big reason as to why i got into the fandom in the first place. i had no clue who they were before then. i'd heard of them + listened to agust d without knowing it was yoongi 💀 but this fic made me check out BTS RUN and now here we are 🤪

Pitbull Hybrid Jungkook has finally been freed from the fighting rings, and now finds himself at Marigold Sanctuary & Transition Estate, a place for healing and self-discovery for rescued hybrids. It's stupid, dumb, cheesy, and hell-bent on helping Jungkook "heal" and "find himself" and "decide the course of his life." And right at the center of it is Y/N, a nurse who's got everyone bamboozled that she's like some awesome person. She's not that great. Jungkook hates it here.

YOONGI FICS

witch oneshot by @sailoryooons

this is easily one of my top 3 yoongi fics. the world building, the tension, the relationship between yoongi and reader. it ticks all my boxes and vividly paints a picture of this universe. i adore the concept, and love the way this fic is brought to life through sailoryooons storytelling.

For years, you and Yoongi have played cat and mouse. It’s his duty to rid the world of witches, but he always finds a new excuse to let you slip through his fingers. When you find yourself at his mercy, you wonder if the great witch hunter will finally end your game of chase, or if there’s something that will stay his hand.

desolate series by @angelicyoongie

one of the first hybrid fics i've read for bts 😭 i love my lil meow meow and the set-up for this fic is amazing. it takes a fresh direction with the hybrid trope and builds a relationship that feels organic and progresses very naturally💛

you just wanted a cute little normal cat to keep you company. so you're not really sure how you ended up with the grumpiest hybrid on earth that seems hellbent on making your life difficult.

ps. i woof you oneshot by @gimmesumsuga

this one is just so so cute and asjhdjsghfjs!! i adored remi and thought about having yoongi and holly as neighbors for days after reading this lol.

The one with a happy accident of the furry, four-legged kind - “Are you calling my dog a slut?!”

first and last and always oneshot by @floralseokjin

i'm not one for holiday fics/aus usually but there's something about this one that i absolutely adored. it felt very realistic and drew me into the relationship within the first few paragraphs. the angst is so well done and heartfelt, it made me cry lol.

You and Yoongi broke up two months ago. It was mutual, you’re positive, but there’s one teeny tiny issue... You never told your parents, and now they’ve invited you back home for Christmas. Both of you. You can’t say no, but you also can’t bear to go alone, so you do the only thing you can think of, plead with Yoongi to come with you and pretend like everything’s okay...

go send these authors some love!!

#asks #get recc’d 📚#fic recs #jungkook x reader #yoongi x reader

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when-pigsfly · 2 months

Text

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light.

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl.

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment.

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did.

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper.

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of.

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up.

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!”

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm.

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said.

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous.

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it.

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today.

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you.

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?”

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it.

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest.

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it.

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees.

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum.

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better.

Awful timing, that man.

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact.

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look.

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat.

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt.

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.”

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ”

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough.

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.”

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze.

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post.

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?”

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else.

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance.

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice.

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet.

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—”

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all.

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.”

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.”

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—”

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #witching hour

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storiesbyrhi · 5 months

Text

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: It's time to wake up. 2292 words.

1986

Eddie remained still as he watched over your spell-induced sleep. Your eyes were darting back and forth behind your eyelids and your lips parted to allow fast shallow breaths to pull in and out. After twenty minutes, Eddie moved from under you so he could scoop you up and take you to the bed. He laid you upon it like a knight with a princess, then crawled in next to you.

He remained vigilant. Vigilant and hopeful.

Precisely one hour after you drank the rosemary potion, your eyes fluttered open. He didn’t know what he had expected exactly, but it was not nothing. You said nothing. Did nothing. Just stared up at the peeling paint of the trailer’s ceiling.

As softly as he could, Eddie said your name but gained no response. A second attempt, cooing, “My little witch? Are you there?”

You blinked hard a few times. Slowly you pushed yourself into a sitting position, the movements so heavy it looked like it hurt. With some hesitation, your gaze settled on Eddie.

He took one of your hands in his and while it was grounding, it wasn’t enough. He watched as you crumpled, face twisting with sadness and body curling in on itself. You sobbed so hard your body shook as if it was the epicenter of an earthquake.

Between the cries and the hyperventilating, you couldn’t catch your breath. You pushed away from Eddie and tried to stand, but fell to the floor. Eddie was immediately at your side, but you forced him away again and stayed where you were on all fours.

Body convulsing, brain short-circuiting, you were a mess quickly deteriorating into something worse. Once well-trodden neural pathways that had been gated away were suddenly walked. Old emotions were raw and new. Knowledge that felt dangerous when only a hypothesis was now proven and true, and it was like poison in your veins.

You threw up on the carpet, then backed away, scurrying into a corner and hugging your legs to your chest. As you began a self-soothing rock, everything got louder and louder until you could no longer process any of it. The cup was running over. The volume could not be turned higher. There were too many colours and now all you could see and feel was white hot white.

When you went still in the corner, Eddie was relieved for only a moment before the fear set in that you’d not recover from this. He stood and got to work cleaning the puke from the floor as a distraction. You didn’t watch him, your eyes glazed over and unfocused. Dead, almost.

The glass of water Eddie brought to you did nothing to stir you. When he took your hand, trying to get you to at least hold the thing, he found your body was limp and pliable, like a sad ragdoll.

With one of your mixtapes on, Eddie sat by your side and held your hand. A human would have given up earlier, not out of a lack of will, but by the demand of their body. Sitting still for hours on end was not natural. Eddie, though, could play statue well.

…

The day had been long – grieving teens in the morning and spellcasting in the afternoon. Now, a little before midnight, Eddie was swallowing the feeling of panic. You’d been catatonic for a little over five hours.

With no words spilling from your mouth to tell him how you felt, Eddie had to make do with other hints. He could hear your heartbeat. It was steady, calm. At least you were not in the fits of a panic. However, the rhythmic pulse was an uneasy thing – too normal in an entirely abnormal situation.

Your skin did not feel any hotter than usual. No fever setting in. Similarly, you weren’t shaking anymore. No trembling hands.

It was your scent that told him the most. Almost overpowering your baseline of sweetpea and black birch was the smell of fear. It was a sad kind of fear. Nectar from a melancholy flower. Then, the sharp smell of urine. Any power you had over your own body was gone.

Eddie clenched his jaw and swallowed a whining sound of misery. “I’ll run you a bath, my love,” he whispered to you before leaving you alone.

Out in the night, Eddie picked wildflowers and collected leaves from a sassafras tree. He returned in minutes, filling the tub with hot water for you as you once had for him. He brewed a bath of petals and Epsom salt.

Although it came as no surprise, it still hurt to find you exactly how he’d left you. There was no resistance as he began to undress you, but Eddie still asked for permission and told you what was happening. He didn’t know if you were conscious, if you were there behind those unfocused eyes. So, he narrated it all.

“I’m sorry. We are almost done,” he said. “I’m going to take these off then we’ll put you in the bath. Does that sound good?”

Eddie peeled your underwear off with a clinical sort of tenderness. He picked you up like a bride and brought you to the bath. Before lowering you into the water, he checked the temperature again. If it was too hot, you would probably boil before crying out.

He watched your face for micro expressions and checked your skin for heat. When he was sure you were okay, Eddie began to talk.

“I believe you would be proud of me,” he started. “Salt and yarrow to help you heal. You had those stocked in your little apothecary. The flowers are all fresh. Both the woundwort and vervain are healers too. You once told me that plants have many names, but often their use finds its way into the names too. Heal-all is another name for woundwort, and vervain is the holy herb. Lastly, the leaves. I forget the name of the tree, the one that smells nice. You said it was good that it grows easily, for its usefulness is endless.”

Eddie was struck by his ability to remember these details. He felt as though he could hear your voice, your lessons, come through his own as he recalled knowledge of the natural world.

“I left them whole,” he said, picking up one of the sassafras leaves and twirling it by its stem. “They’re a nice shape. And, if they do nothing to help, at the very least they have provided some coverage.” Eddie glanced down at the water where your body was mostly hidden beneath the green.

After some time in silence, Eddie carefully pulled your body back up from where you had slipped into the water a little too much. The water was lukewarm, and he considered what he would do next.

“I wish I was powerful like you. I wish I could recite a spell and bring you back.”

When the water lost its heat, Eddie took you back to the bedroom. He gently dried you with the softest towel he could find, then dressed you in what he had observed you wearing to bed. Under the covers, Eddie pulled you close to him, holding your back to his chest and keeping you safe.

At 3:00 am, the witching hour, your eyes closed and you fell into an exhausted sleep.

…

The light was blinding. You instinctively closed your eyes, raising a hand to shield yourself from the brightness. Someone said your name, but it sounded like all the names you’d ever had. From the first – to Amabel – to the one you wore now. Then, the light was blocked by a figure standing before you.

When you dropped your hand and looked at them, they looked like every witch that had met a fate riding a white horse. The Witches Who Came Before. All of them, all at once.

“You cannot stay here,” they said. It was strange to hear their voice. Voices. A chorus of women singing a singular note.

“It hurts,” you told them.

“Of course it hurts. Still, you cannot stay here.”

You looked around. Where was here? You could focus on any one thing, your gaze fuzzy and the light obscuring your view of your surroundings.

“This changes everything,” you tried to explain. “I didn’t know there could be this kind of… betrayal.” If a witch did something bad it was usually brutal but simple. Black magic. Conspiring. It changed the fabric of your understanding of the world to know a witch could do to their sister what had happened to you.

“Are you to abstain yourself from guilt and agency?”

“I… I never meant…” but your argument trailed off. No, you had not intended to hurt anyone by spending time with Eddie in 1836. Yet, had you been wrong about him, your coven and the humans would have been put at an even greater risk than they were already at. Regardless of your intentions, you did lie to your coven.

“And they only meant to protect, as is a witch’s calling,”

“If I had gone to them from the beginning. If I had told them there was a vampire who was not like the others. That he could love and be loved. That, in the war, he could be an ally… Do you think they would have listened?”

“We are not to know what may have come to pass. It is done. History will not-”

“Repeat itself. I know. You’ve said,” you interrupted them. “And lore will be rewritten,”

“And so, you must leave. You cannot stay here.”

For a moment, you gazed in awe at the ever-changing face. Monstrous and magnificent. Then, it slowed and stilled to a recognisable image. “Penelope?”

“Amabel.”

You genuinely didn’t know what you wanted to do more – throw a punch or a hug.

Like she could see the internal fight written all over you, she smiled and said, “I know, child. We are not to know what may have come to pass. But in our duty to learn from history, we concede error. The Witches were not consulted in 1836. This was an error.”

Before you could say anything, Penelope was just another face in the mix. You figured that was as close to an apology as you were ever going to get.

“I miss you,” you told her. “I miss you all so, so much,”

“You cannot stay here,” they said again. “There are loose ends to thread.”

In a split second, the bright had gone dark and you were left in the cold.

…

The first thing you sensed was a heaviness holding you in place. Eddie. You were in a vampire cage, enclosed in his arms as he held onto you for dear life. Then, the bedroom, as you had left it. Everything seemed normal. As if you had simply woken up on a normal morning with your normal boyfriend in a normal life.

You took a sharp breath in, deliberate and controlled. It propelled Eddie to action. He said your name once, twice, then a third time as he let you go and flipped you to face him. His eyes darted across your features, searching for signs of recognition.

It was an uncanny feeling, laced with malaise. There was a part of you that naturally went to react as you would have before you recovered your memories. You were just a witch who came to Hawkins to help. He was just a lost vampire you saved. The other part of you though, the one who could feel herself becoming whole again, she wanted to react very differently.

You didn’t act on either impulse though. Instead, you let Eddie hold your face and pat your hair and make that big wet eyed look at you. He said your name for the fourth time.

“Are you there?” he asked. “Are you with me?”

You nodded.

His worried expression broke out into a grin then he kissed your forehead. “Yes? Yes. I… You…” He didn’t know where to start. Couldn’t work out what was vital information. What were the easy questions?

Your throat was scratchy, your mouth dry. Although you felt a small headache coming on and some achy muscles, a calmness washed over you.

Finally. Finally, you were where you ought to be.

“My sweet, lonely vampire.”

Eddie whimpered and pulled you into another tight embrace. “Little witch? My little witch? Are you-”

“I’m here,”

“You’re here?”

“I’m here.”

It happened so differently from how you would have guessed. How you would have written it, if your life had been a story in a book about witches and vampires. There would have been a deep and passionate kiss. You would find yourself in the taste of Eddie’s lips. Maybe, he’d bite down and speak the binding words, blood of my blood, into your red mouth. And, if the story was for adults rather than children, which you certainly hoped it would be, you would curl naked limbs around each other. You would find equilibrium in the space between fucking and making love.

But it wasn’t like that.

With your foreheads pressed together, you both closed your eyes. Eddie had one arm wrapped under you. His free hand found yours, threaded fingers together, and held them between the two of you. That’s how you stayed for a long time, nuzzling against each other, quiet and happy.

There would be time for words and sex and action. Supernaturally sweeping lifespans and eons to spend together. In the wake of the newly understood 1836, all you wanted to do was simply exist with him. With Eddie, your uncursed creature of the night. Your soulful vampire. Your star-crossed lover. Your blood. Your heart. Your home.

End Note: Thank you to @jo-harrington and @munson-blurbs for helping with this chapter. So.... THOUGHTS? FEELINGS? What do you think she wants to say to her coven now? What would you want to do, if you were in her position?

Fic Taglist: @paranoidmunson @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel @dashingdeb16

#Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Reader Insert #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Witch!Reader

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pochapal · 4 months

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Umineko Liveblog: Thoughts/Theories [Episode 1 Chapter 14 Edition]

Umineko Chapter 14’s thesis statement was “let’s take these patterns and conventions we’re establishing and blow them all up with gleeful abandon”. Less than an hour from the Second Twilight, we’re forced to bear witness to twilights four and five, and not necessarily in that order. The Witch Narrative is off the rails. The most important character in Umineko to me died, and Beatrice may actually well and truly be real for once. Whatever’s going on here is one hell of a mess.

So let’s try and untangle whatever the hell went down here. The Chapter 14 writeup tour includes the following stops: the hot mess formerly known as the Witch Narrative, Kinzo finally being totally super dead for real, the world’s nastiest most evil twink death in human history (Kanon), identity and furniture and roulettes, Beatrice the Golden Witch’s understated grand entrance into the story, the 19th person conundrum (part 7123748296), and some downright funky stuff happening beneath the story’s surface.

Let’s get this going.

To start, we need to talk about the Witch Narrative. So far, the Witch Narrative has been the term I’ve given to a very clearly established phenomenon and set of actions. When there are characters who have some kind of vested interest in encouraging you to view Rokkenjima as a supernatural incident rather than a crime, then that’s the Witch Narrative. The person painting the magic circles is perpetuating the Witch Narrative. Characters such as Eva and Hideyoshi talking about how frightful and demonic things are is also the Witch Narrative. If you’re thinking “maybe this is Beatrice after all” or if things are aligning a little too well with the worst interpretation of the epitaph riddle, then that is without a shadow of a doubt the Witch Narrative.

So what happened? Kanon being gouged in the chest and also killed mere minutes after the discovery of the torn-apart pair who are close is not right. Skipping to twilight five (for the trolls) straight after number two is not good Witch Narrative etiquette. The sequence of murders and horrors is crucial to authenticating this slaughter as folded within the ritual to revive the Golden Witch and/or reach the Golden Land. Everything so far has dictated that in order for the witch to revive and none to be left alive certain steps must be carried out in a certain order. If this performance is thrown out of sequence for its audience, the song goes funky. Suddenly you’re aware you’re watching people playing pretend on a stage and this world you’re buying into is only ephemeral. If the sequence of deaths doesn’t matter, then this isn’t an occult ritual at all. It is in fact a disguised butchering.

Showing your hand like this this early makes things very difficult for those peddling this narrative. Deaths happening out of sequence takes this from a supernatural force happening beyond everyone’s control to something that could easily done by a human desperate to make everybody believe. If my theories about how this performance is happening ring true, then it becomes infinitely harder for Genji to make any further moves with the simultaneous blow of his most useful pawn kicking it early and the order of events getting all scrambled. How can the stomach, leg, and knee get gouged in a way that still works in service for this narrative now?

Given what I’m thinking, Genji is likely moving on his own now. Kumasawa and maybe Nanjo are complicit in the spreading of the story, but they are almost certainly unable to be as useful to any kind of scheme as Kanon was. They are older, less mobile, less physically able. Kumasawa can scream about magic circles all she likes, but does she have the strength to move and mutilate corpses? Very unlikely. The options to carry things out have been severely limited to an almost unsalvageable degree. Every crime so far has been a type of locked room that works via tricks that could only be carried out by two active parties. Being on your own can only get you so far.

Which leads you to an immediate conclusion: Kanon dying in the basement boiler room was not part of the plan. Or, not part of the Witch Narrative at least. His death marks a point where this scheme has totally gone off the rails, and Genji’s script has been rendered worthless. The presentation of the death is obfuscated, but the truth beneath it is that something went deeply wrong that shouldn’t have.

This is a bold claim I’m making, but I also think I have enough proof in the story to substantiate it. I think, going by everything, the next incident following the deaths of Eva and Hideyoshi was to involve the basement in one form or another. I also think that this was being prepared in parallel with the Second Twilight – Genji and Nanjo leave the kitchen at the same time as Kanon and Kumasawa, but the two men don’t reach the scene until after Kanon has already unlocked the room and Eva and Hideyoshi have been found dead with the stakes in their skulls. Enough time to, say, take a trip down to the basement and set some dominoes in motion.

As to what I think was part of the Witch Narrative, I think everything was on track right up until the moment Kanon set foot in the basement. The foul smell filling the hallway was almost certainly set in motion by Genji and/or Nanjo (perhaps by turning on the boiler while Eva and Hideyoshi were being found in order to time it to make the smell the strongest at the perfect time – this may also have precluded moving Kinzo’s body there depending on where he was before now). Kanon acting bizarrely freaked out was part of the plan. As was Kumasawa screaming about hearing a noise, and the two of them breaking off from the group to rush ahead to investigate. Everything falls apart when Kanon sets foot in the basement and Beatrice shows up and he dies.

So what was the intended plan in the basement involving Kinzo? I think, if I were to hazard a guess based off of pre-existing patterns, the boiler room in the basement was going to be used as another locked room, this time featuring Kinzo. I think this would have been a play in two acts. The first act would have Kanon and Kumasawa chase the noise to the basement and “find” the head’s ring on the ground. The family would search the boiler room and find the back door exit locked up, and no sign of Kinzo anywhere in sight (there would be efforts taken to keep anyone from investigating the boiler). The ring alone on the ground in an empty room would stand in for the Third Twilight – Kinzo is without his headship and authority, so it must therefore fall to everyone to praise Beatrice’s noble name in his stead. Dissatisfied and creeped out, everyone leaves the basement – the back door is locked from the inside, and the front door locked with a key placed in Natsuhi’s possession.

From here, this would likely have led to another discussion chapter about how the ring got there. The setup of the scene would be enough that Battler would question whether or not a nineteenth person placed the ring there, or if Kinzo himself actually dropped it there as part of some other ploy. The servants would be questioned and swear up and down there was nobody else in the basement when they entered. The sound would be discussed, as would the impossibility that anybody known to be alive could make that noise. The conversation would then turn to Kinzo as the likely suspect and Natsuhi, who’s been complicit in covering up Kinzo’s death for some time already, would start sweating as this truth grows closer to being uncovered. It’s up in the air as to whether or not the servants would help or hinder Natsuhi here, but I think it’s likely Battler would have started to think on Eva’s words from earlier. More fuel on the Natsuhi culprit fire that she can’t fight because she can’t admit to knowing what he knows. Maria would then cackle and say to everyone that this is obviously Beatrice manipulating things with her magic, and boom, scene.

Something would then happen in the next chapter to turn attention back to the boiler room. Perhaps the smell grows stronger. Perhaps the conversation about Kinzo grows to a fever pitch. Perhaps a servant fakes hearing another noise from the basement. Whatever the case, we would return to the boiler room a second time. There would be a point made of showing Natsuhi pulling out the only key to the boiler room and everyone stepping inside to find Kinzo’s body on the floor, burned up with an icepick stake in his forehead. The inner lock for the back door would still be set. Genji and Nanjo would confirm the body’s identity via the polydactyly. Somehow, Kinzo’s dead body appeared in the middle of a perfectly locked room.

Likely there would then be discussions of who could have killed Kinzo, given that at the time of his “death” everyone was yet again together (minus Kanon/Genji slipping in and out of the parlor to get food and drinks). The assumption would be that Kinzo was alive in there all along, and then killed himself for some reason – contradicted by the fact that if he launched himself into the boiler, how did he drag himself back out into the middle of the floor? The mystery would stump Battler, because the only major solution would be to assume a nineteenth person was also already hiding in the locked basement, and killed Kinzo and displayed the corpse, but Battler would chessboard himself out of leaning on that option. Out of options and stumped, we would stay at another stalemate where there’s no proof that Beatrice exists, but no way that the surviving humans could have set up this scene (there are of course ways, such as a back door that wasn’t really locked or a second key/master key with which to return to the boiler room and set things up, but nobody will think of them). The horrors would escalate. The Witch Narrative would persist. And so on. And so on.

This scenario, believable as it is, never came to happen. Instead we got what we got, and we need to figure out why. Why did Kinzo show up like this? Why did Kanon die, despite all known logic and reasoning stating that the contrary would be ideal? Why are things speeding up at such an exponential rate? I think we can get a good shape of what was supposed to be with Kinzo, but understanding what happened with Kanon is almost certainly the linchpin driving this deviation from the Witch Narrative.

So, let’s review: Kanon and Kumasawa head to the basement after “hearing a noise” that nobody could have possibly made. Kanon speeds off ahead of Kumasawa and encounters… something in the boiler room. He has a conversation with this something and comes to a revelation about his status as a human being, and then he gets gouged in the chest and killed. The presentation is straightforward: Kanon sees butterflies in the boiler room, he identifies it as Beatrice, he stands in defiance of her, and dies as a result. Except, of course, that it really isn’t that simple at all.

The tonal shift is introduced through the phrase “a fantastical scene”. Fantasy has been a phrase thrown about a few times in the story so far by characters in reference to very specific things, people, and concepts. The siblings call Kinzo’s story of the gold ingots “fantasy”. Beatrice is “fantasy”. The occult symbols around Rokkenjima are “fantasy”. Maria’s behaviour is “fantasy”. Straight away, we can draw parallels between the use of the word “fantasy” and the term “existence”. To be fantasy is to “exist”, is to be something that is propped up by narrative and belief irrespective of the material reality.

In that case, what does it mean for a scene to be fantasy? In a story about storytelling and about fantasy and about “existence”, there is surely nothing accidental about the prose describing a series of events as “a fantastical scene”. Two things are immediately happening here. The first is that we are stepping into the framework of fantasy, of belief without proof and immateriality fuelled more by ghosts than flesh. The second is that we are entering into a self-conscious scene capable of describing itself as such. This is a narrative unit that knows what it is, a story told by a teller with an agenda.

I think to explain what’s happening here, it’s worth circling all the way back to some of the metafictional stuff I was entertaining back before people started dying. More specifically, the notion that there are narrators with agendas involved in the construction and presentation of Umineko. This is most passively seen in the less-reliable third person scenes where we can be shown metaphor and falsehood to convey a deeper emotional truth – Kinzo has most likely been dead all along, and yet he has also made numerous appearances in his study over the weekend of the family conference. However, the “fantasy” of these moments is never explicitly highlighted. These scenes are a type of “fantasy”, but not a fantasy that you need to be told is the case. You can understand Natsuhi and Genji’s hearts and feelings towards Kinzo regardless of whether or not you think the family head is alive or dead.

Here, though, to be directly told you are witnessing a fantasy is tipping the scales. The arbitrator of this fantasy, of whatever might be going on in the narrative beyond the framing confines of Rokkenjima, is much more actively and directly introducing the concept to Kanon’s final moments. On their own, they would be in the same vein as whatever was happening with the Kinzo scenes if a little more heavy handed and obtuse, but we are not left to puzzle out whether or not we can trust what we are seeing. We are told outright this is fantasy. We are forced to acknowledge from the outset that there is something untrustworthy and unreliable about this chunk of the story.

Why?

I think that this is glaring evidence of some kind of discrepancy between the narrator(s) and the actors in Umineko. Something happens in the boiler room which the narrative feels the need to paint over with a depiction of swarms of butterflies and cackling murderwitches – the need to plaster fantasy over this scene matters more than upholding the story’s rule that Beatrice remains a possibility in shadow. Just as I argued that the Witch Narrative went off the rails here, I think the same thing applies to the Umineko Narrative as well. If there’s a metafictional “game” going on here, then Kanon in the boiler room knocked that off kilter, too. The zero on the roulette threatened to ruin not only “Beatrice”, but also Beatrice and also the fabric of the text itself. Whatever Kanon did or almost did rattled a lot of people all at once.

But what is this thing, actually? What we’re shown is Kanon having enough of being bound to the whims of Kinzo and Beatrice and their bastardised excuse for “magic”, and him deciding as a result to abandon his position and furniture and ruin the demon’s roulette in motion. In real terms, this is hard to parse as meaningful outside of its fantasy context. Kinzo, as we know, is not the one setting the roulette in motion in the way we’re led to believe. Beatrice is a dubiously-extant entity represented by so many different people wearing her name instead of a concrete person. Magic is anything belonging to the realm of metaphor or anything that happens on a non-material level. And the Demon’s Roulette is the catch-all term for the epitaph ritual, the Witch Narrative, and maybe also the layers of abuse going on on Rokkenjima.

The only term that has a direct material representation is “furniture”. Luckily, this is probably the most important part of Kanon’s moment of defiance, so it is extremely fortuitous that we can more easily define furniture in a way that makes sense in order to more deeply understand what’s actually going on here.

To recap, “furniture” is the label applied to servants on Rokkenjima within Kinzo’s inner circle. Three servants in the story use this label – Shannon, Kanon, and Genji. From Shannon’s backstory that we got in chapter 8 during the proposal, it is very likely that “furniture” is a term foisted upon the teenage orphan servants that come and go on Rokkenjima as a kind of degrading, abusive brand. We see this most keenly through Shannon, who submits to Battler’s sexual harassment because she is furniture and thus lacks the will to deny anything. These vulnerable abused kids are forced into a new name and a new role where they are little more than living objects for people more powerful than them to use and abuse as they see fit. To be furniture is to be totally under the thumb of Kinzo’s abuse, serving those needs even when it goes against all morality and all that you are.

Genji’s positioning with the label is less clear, given that he was, at some point at least, on more equal footing with Kinzo. It is likely that Genji adopted the “furniture” label for himself as a kind of expression of his feelings – he is nothing more than an extension of Kinzo’s will, and all he does is in service of his master. He does not have a life outside of servitude. However, the difference here is that Genji willingly stepped into the label versus Shannon and Kanon who had it forced upon them. To an outside perspective, this creates an unfair impression of equality between the three of them, when Genji absolutely has more material autonomy and personal rights than either Shannon or Kanon. Genji feels bad about Kinzo and about how all he can be to the man is his butler. Shannon and Kanon are cruelly abused and dehumanised every second of their lives. It is a false equivalency. The only commonality here is that to be “furniture” is to occupy an undesirable position within hierarchy.

Under this light, Kanon’s declaration that he is no longer furniture can immediately be read as Kanon deciding in that moment to cease existing as an object to be used by people with more power than him – power “exists”, and in a closed environment ruled by fantasy, power can be denied with more ease than would normally be available. Kanon decides he is no longer an extension of another’s will, but instead his own person. He decides this because Shannon is dead, and the least he can do is take revenge against the systems that killed her.

That said, such an explanation is deceptively simple. If denying your status as furniture comes when you cease to adhere to the whims of power, the boiler room scene carries with it the implication that this is the very first time Kanon has done anything of his own will. Kanon has been deeply involved with the Witch Narrative thus far, and if this scene is to be trusted then this is an admission that he has had zero autonomy in the prior events. Or, to expand this further, Kanon is not where he wishes to be and is only now realising this desire. He steps out of his role as a pawn in the augmented fiction around him, and Beatrice kills him for it.

You can view this as happening on multiple layers, each one perfectly able to feed into the “fantasy” hanging over everything. On the level of the Witch Narrative, this is Kanon partaking in an act of defiance and getting killed for it. On a more abstract level, this is Kanon threatening to ruin Umineko and being taken out of the story as a result. To be killed by Beatrice so explicitly comes with much deeper ramifications given the state of Beatrice's presence in the story thus far. If a ghost-myth-metaphor appears in the flesh to kill you and turn you into a prop for the next part of the story, what does that mean?

It was not enough for Kanon to just die. He had to be gouged and killed and transformed into the victim of the next twilight – you can easily make the argument that under the terms of the story being turned into a gouged/killed victim is yet another, more severe form, of being rendered furniture. With the Ushiromiya siblings, this concept can easily exist as a form of poetic irony – these powerful abusive individuals are all left as butchered pieces of furniture to be used and deployed however Beatrice sees fit. You are never as powerless as you are when you're a mangled corpse being manipulated by your own killer.

Except Kanon was already furniture – in his own words, even, this is a servitude that applies to Beatrice as much as it does Kinzo. The reversal of fortune works less well on Kanon; his death is an act of rebellion that is transformed into a reinforcement of his inescapable position. He tries to become human and fails at the first hurdle, and thus goes from being furniture to once again being furniture.

I think this situation is worth examining through the lens of the dichotomy of self framework to yield more information. To recap, almost everybody in Umineko struggles with the gap between who they want to be and who they're forced to be. This is a near-universal constant, seen with Natsuhi as much as it is with Shannon. Everyone desperately desires to be somebody else, and hardly anybody can reach this dream.

Kanon is a curious wrinkle in this pattern in several regards. Up until now, as a servant Kanon has been markedly less furniture-like than Shannon. At every turn he has been prickly and begrudging and making no secret of his own feelings to himself, unlike Shannon who leaned so far into the mask she ended up cutting herself off from herself. With Shannon, Sayo almost certainly feels more complicated and unpleasant emotions, but this is completely partitioned off from her servant self. With Kanon, there is an emotional authenticity to his character, but unlike Shannon, Kanon's “Sayo” is nowhere to be seen.

Kanon is not trying to become his desirable self. He is attempting to transform his undesirable self. Where Shannon/Sayo was looking for an exit from being furniture through George, Kanon's actions promise no such escape. He never discards his furniture name, only the label. Kanon does not multiply himself. Kanon reduces himself into a singular concentrated point within the story.

To Beatrice, an entity that thrives on multiplicity and iterative selfhood, an individual who not only defies her rule of power but also eschews his own identity complex in the face of self-actualisation would be something to be loathed. In Chapter 14, Kanon stands for everything Beatrice is not: painfully human, and painfully material.

By rejecting the status of furniture, by holding true to the only name he’s gone by in the story, Kanon is fraying the edges of the hard rules of the fiction governing Umineko. Everyone in this story is duplicitously in tension between their perceived and ideal selves. This tension allows for a rife breeding ground for secrets and uncertainty. This grey area turns everyone on Rokkenjima from human beings into murder mystery characters. This nebulous state of being is the genesis for “existence”. This is how Beatrice asserts dominion.

Kanon chooses a position that is neither, essentially queering the witch-human dichotomy. He is not Kanon the performer in Beatrice’s narrative of magic and murder, but nor is he Kanon the servant in Kinzo’s narrative of power and abuse. His moment of empowerment coming as it does throws all this off the rails, just as this sequence of events throws the epitaph ritual off the rails.

Kanon, in real terms, deals a potentially fatal blow to the Witch Narrative through his “zero on the roulette” gambit, and Beatrice’s only recourse is to clumsily plaster over this act of rebellion with fantasy before any Detective-oriented observer can bear witness to what could be this entire pantomime’s undoing.

However, what happens in the boiler room is not a simple act of metafictional housekeeping. There is a strong and prevalent sense that whatever Beatrice does, she does it spitefully. Shortly before Kanon’s death, there is a bizarrely=presented exchange between himself and the witch, curious for myriad reasons.

Two things which immediately stand about the moment in question are firstly that this serves as our introduction (allegedly) to Beatrice’s presence in the story, and that it tips us off to the fact that there may be an element of hypocrisy to the impartiality of the so-called indiscriminate murderwitch. Kanon’s reward for his defiance is subjecting the Golden Witch Beatrice to the mortifying ordeal of being known, and so we owe it to him to see what we see when the curtain is tugged at even just a little bit.

The immediate thing which jumps out is that Beatrice addresses Kanon not with annoyance, but with loathing. There is something personal and vindictive about the retribution she inflicts upon him. It’s not enough to simply kill him with the stake and set up another Twilight; there is a mockery and a derision. Before Kanon is killed by Beatrice, Kanon is made aware of how much Beatrice hates him. The why in the moment is mostly clear - Kanon threatens to undermine Beatrice’s narrative, which applies simultaneously to all Beatrices and all narratives in play - but we are told in as many words that this rage is specific and personal.

Earlier, we have a comment from Kanon that he refuses to be led astray “again” by either Beatrice or Kinzo which is. Interesting and revealing wording to say the least. Especially when we try to consider who the person behind Beatrice may be in this scene.

If, somehow, we had confirmation that the Beatrice in the boiler room was a metaphor for Genji, then this exchange would make more sense. Kanon the begrudging accomplice making one act of rebellion too many, and Genji’s facade of professionalism slipping to show a hint of what may be true emotions below the surface. Except Genji is not in the basement with Kanon very much on purpose, so whatever materially happened to Kanon did not directly involve Genji, the most likely living target for these emotions.

It’s not even worth pretending Kinzo is alive enough in this moment to not only hear Kanon’s words, but also respond. Even in my initial hypothetical “narrative-compliant Third and Fourth Twilights” outline, for any of it to work Kinzo has to be dead at this moment. And more than that, Kanon specifically makes sure to distinguish between Kinzo and Beatrice in his speech. He has not only been led astray by Kinzo, but also by Beatrice. In this interaction, to Kanon, Kinzo and Beatrice are separate entities.

So the question becomes, as it has been from literally the start: who is Beatrice?

I don’t think it’s possible to answer this question in the direct sense of “what is the identity of the person behind the witch that killed Kanon”, but I think we can explore “what this figure we are calling Beatrice like as an individual?”. The Detective’s truth on the matter remains obscured to the point where any guesses at this point would be meaningless, but the Romantic’s truth remains a valid option. We don’t need to unmask Beatrice to get a sense of her character.

What we know about Beatrice in this chapter is thus: she appears via a cloud of butterflies, she is associated with the fantastical, and she makes the active choice to kill Kanon and wrap his death into another Twilight. From this, we can extrapolate a few things: this Beatrice operates at least in part in adherence to her own mythos, even if she doesn’t necessarily strictly uphold the Witch Narratives in the terms that the culprits have set out. She is not in total alignment with whatever scheme is going on with the Witch Narrative, and she has on some level a personal, spiteful disdain towards Kanon.

When Beatrice kills Kanon, she puts him down as the “furniture” he is. When he attempts his self-actualisation, there is a moment where the narrative insight we get into Beatrice condemns him as foolish and futile and vulgar. It is not simply annoying that Kanon is stepping out of his role. It actively repulses Beatrice on some level. From what we get of Beatrice, there is the impression that Kanon’s decision deeply violates some kind of taboo to the point where Beatrice’s mode of operation leaves the fantastical and dips into the visceral, even if only momentarily.

So what we can claim to learn is that there is something irreparably offensive to Beatrice about people stepping out of the confines of their pre-ordained roles, which is something incredibly interesting to consider. She holds a deep loathing towards Kanon for daring to defy his fate, more so than someone like Genji would if this were a mere case of Kanon messing up the Witch Narrative. Beatrice takes Kanon’s transgression personally, not in the sense that this is a specific attack on her, but in the sense that it upsets her sensibilities more than anything else could.

So why would that be? What about some small little servant choosing to throw off his symbol of abuse and oppression is so offensive to a mighty witch such as Beatrice? She’s centuries old, an accomplished alchemist, and brimming with supernatural power. According to all we know of the Beatrice mythos, she should be able to toss Kanon aside with a snap of her fingers. But there is a mockery towards him, a taunting and a toying coming from a personal degree of loathing.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Kanon got under Beatrice’s skin, but it’s something close. She takes something out on him for his transgression towards her - in his speech, Kanon marks out both Kinzo and Beatrice as individuals he is defying, and that has to be important. It’s clear to see why a furniture servant abandoning the degradation would upset fascist abuser supreme Kinzo, but what about this would be so upsetting to Beatrice? Why would she care at all?

I have some idea, but to elaborate on that I first need to talk about one other curious feature of Beatrice’s presentation in this chapter. She has as tangible a presence as you can get in this chapter, except for one detail: in her “conversation” with Kanon, Beatrice never actually speaks. Her “dialogue” is relayed through the narration and through Kanon’s own responses, but Beatrice herself remains voiceless.

The immediate effect of this is that Beatrice remains in obscurity even as she shuffles around the spotlight. We know in this chapter that she gets mad at Kanon and kills him, but we don’t get anything concrete about Beatrice. No face, no voice. In other words, Beatrice is not given an active presence in the story. She is relayed to us second-hand, even though she plays a crucial role in the events in the boiler room.

There is something to this beyond the benefits to the mystery narrative that keeping Beatrice obscured entails. Of course this presentation keeps us guessing about several elements of Beatrice’s existence - we can’t say either way what Beatrice’s physical form looks like or what it could mean. Revealing Beatrice definitively as either a human or a witch would run counter to Umineko’s narrative worse than anything Kanon could ever dream of.

However, that does not necessarily mean that the only way Beatrice could have appeared in this chapter was in this way. It’s not enough that she’s a hidden presence. She’s also a passive one. She performs no direct action. She never directly tells us anything. Beatrice is kept in check by the narrative as a spectral entity. The only “active” thing we see of Beatrice happens to be her own feelings towards Kanon’s desperate stance.

Beatrice is held in fantasy and only fantasy. The one exception to this is still little more than a gesture at Romantic examination. Beatrice has no tangible, material, Detective’s presence to her. Even in death, Kanon’s murder is not described as someone plunging the stake into him. The stake appears and he is impaled by it - passive voice for emphasis. The only “active” step taken in the death sequence is when Kanon pulls the stake out of his chest. Nothing is directly manipulated by Beatrice’s hands.

Technically, we can’t actually say Beatrice does anything in this chapter. This is something that in truth ties into the broader presentation of Beatrice as a figure in Umineko. Going by the stories told by the servants about Beatrice beyond the Witch Narrative, there is a common thread in all these tales: Beatrice shows up and then something happens. Even in Shannon’s story of the injured servant, her tale is not “Beatrice pushed the servant down the stairs”. It is “a servant disrespected Beatrice and then fell down the stairs”.

There is a very understated and very curious denial of agency seen with Beatrice, on reflection. All she’s really allowed to do is sit there as a cloud of butterflies and be an emblem for misfortune happening that is later accredited to her. I’ve referred to Beatrice as a murderwitch throughout this liveblog, but what’s interesting is that while this reputation is there, we aren’t ever shown more than the reputation itself.

The excuse so far has been that the literal witch Beatrice has been unable to do anything on account of needing to be resurrected in order to return to the material plane first. But even that narrative is something contradicted to the point where it can’t be trusted. Kinzo’s scenes make it clear this is all an attempt to summon Beatrice from a place nobody can normally reach, yet he is also convinced in some scenes that Beatrice is already there, watching him with amusement from the sidelines.

This could be explained away with the whole “Beatrice lacks a physical form and thus she isn’t really there” line of reasoning, except that in chapter 14 she appears to quite literally orchestrate Kanon’s death, and prior to that she allegedly had the means of injuring a servant who disrespected her. How can Beatrice cause harm to servants and yet also be so far removed from the physical world that a violent occult ritual is needed to ensure her presence?

Beatrice is not there, and yet Beatrice is there. In other words, Beatrice “exists”. It’s not just that Beatrice “exists” but that the act of being Beatrice is to inherently inhabit a position of “existence”. Beatrice is a passive entity, strictly defined by indirect non-involvement.

In other words, from a certain angle, Beatrice The Golden Witch is just as restrictive a role as “furniture”. To be Beatrice is to be unseen, voiceless, inactive. No matter how much you may feel or hate or rage you are not given the cathartic release of wrapping your hands around someone’s throat. For all her loathing of Kanon, the only tool at Beatrice’s disposal is to continue to perpetuate her own myth-narrative, merely folding Kanon into the pattern. And at this stage, the Witch Narrative is more akin to a process than a personal action. There is something very distanced and abstracted about killing for the Twilights; it is about continuing to engage with the horror-mystery and not about yourself and your own feelings.

Even through the metaphorical allegories of Beatrice this mode is seen. Genji is bound to the role of Beatrice, defined as his tragic and terrible devotion to Kinzo. Genji couldn’t have escaped this fate if he’d tried. Kanon is coerced into upholding the Witch Narrative through his position as furniture, thus conflating both states of being into one and the same thing. Even further back, whoever is behind the story of the alchemist that gave Kinzo the gold is reduced to a portrait of a white woman in the mansion’s hallway, stripped of everything but a confining ideal. To be Beatrice is to be contained by other people’s demands and expectations.

When it’s laid out like this, it is no surprise that Beatrice reacts to Kanon’s rebellion with outrage. This choice is the one thing she can never do because her whole existence as Beatrice is predicated on that not being an option. Beatrice, no matter the form she takes, is trapped in her role. To cease being trapped by the role of Beatrice is also to lose the power granted by being Beatrice. She is the demon’s roulette. Anyone who risks becoming something more than their assigned category is anathema to her entire nature.

Kanon rebels against Kinzo’s will where Beatrice never could. No wonder she kills him for it.

But, of course, now we need to think about how Beatrice actually managed to kill Kanon in the first place. And to do that we need to revisit the next most obvious from the start question: how many people are on Rokkenjima?

The 19th person issue is one that at times feels too blatant to give more than a cursory amount of attention to: there are nineteen people “existing” on Rokkenjima because Beatrice is an immaterially real shared identity construct. There only being eighteen physical bodies is irrelevant to this count - the number of “people” increases further if you start thinking about people’s multiplicitous selves as their own entities. Witch Maria and Human Maria, adultsona George and kidsona George, Shannon and Sayo, Natsuhi and Ushiromiya Natsuhi, et cetera. Beatrice being an additional facet of the peddlers of the Witch Narrative is merely this mechanism brought to an extreme point.

Except, cutting past all the fantasy and obfuscation, Kanon does still in fact get killed in the boiler room. At the time of this murder, either eight or nine people are already dead by this point. And of the eight other survivors, seven of them very conspicuously are not in a position to murder him at all.

So this dilemma boils down to a singular issue: either Kumasawa killed Kanon, or a nineteenth individual did. The story goes to great lengths to ensure that this is the setup we’re working with here. Where Eva and Hideyoshi were allegedly killed in a way only a witch could have done, Kanon could have only been logistically killed by a witch and nobody else.

There is of course a third angle here, and that’s that Kanon killed himself. It’s technically an option on the table, but one I am not sure has much, if any, basis. The entire scene hinges around Kanon choosing to act out in defiance in a space devoid of observers. There is nobody save for the reader for Kanon to convince of the authenticity of his words and motives. For this premise to work, it would almost certainly necessitate a level of metatextual awareness from Kanon that we have not seen at all.

Kanon acts and reacts to a threat in the room. Kanon makes it clear that his goal is to take this person down with him if he can’t save himself. Everything points to there being a second person in the room with Kanon capable of inflicting harm on him. A person that would, then, hypothetically, flee out of the back door and into the night before being found.

At this point in the story, even Battler is fairly on board with there being a 19th person moving around on the island. After all, nobody among the group of survivors could have been responsible for killing Kanon, save for maybe the incredibly frail Kumasawa. The options are pared down to Kumasawa, suicide, or a 19th person. This person’s identity is unknown, but the fact of their existence is, on the surface of things, pretty undeniable.

This, however, feels like a trap. The existence of a 19th person is part and parcel of the Witch Narrative. To readily agree that there is a 19th person on the island is to buy into the same immaterial theatre spawning the magic circles and the demonic stakes and letters speaking of alchemy. You either accept all of it, or you accept none of it. It’s already been established that the occult artifacts at the murder scene are little more than decoration placed by somebody doctoring the bodies. If this fact is true, then the existence of a nineteenth person must therefore be false.

But if Kanon was murdered by somebody, that somebody was not among the eight survivors. Thus the contradiction making this yet another “impossible” mystery. The only two points of data we have are totally irreconcilable.

Save for one read on the situation: Kanon was killed by somebody outside of the group of survivors, and this individual is also not a 19th person. There is exactly one way in which this can be true, and that’s to consider the possibility that the person that killed Kanon is among those presumed dead.

This is something that’s not impossible. The obvious objection is that for a person who we think is dead not being dead is that that would invalidate the epitaph murder ritual, but we’ve already established that the sequence of events only has value as far as convincing the survivors of something inescapably occult. If twilights can happen out of order, then there’s no reason why we need to assume that a victim has to actually be dead. It’s all about the affect.

If this were true, it would allow somebody outside of the group to move around and kill without disrupting the premise of the eighteen on Rokkenjima. This would mean that Kanon’s killer is one of the victims of either the first or second twilights.

From the outset, both pools of suspects are problematic. Eva and Hideyoshi, even if they weren’t dead somehow, were both physically in the guest room at the time of the murder - there’d be no way for either of them to sneak by the others down into the basement to kill Kanon. The six on the first twilight, beyond being mangled past recognition, are stuck within a locked room to which only Natsuhi has the key.

I still think that if we’re to entertain this possibility, the culprit must be one of those assumed to be inside the garden storehouse. Which means we’ll need to interrogate the function and construction of this reverse locked room.

It’s an established fact that the shed is locked from the outside. It is also an established fact that there is only one key, and this key is held by Natsuhi who has not had a single meaningful opportunity to sneak off and unlock the storehouse.

The only way to interrogate this setup without contradicting the physical facts of the story is through a Detective/Romantic examination of chapter 10’s narration. What we know are the above datapoints. Everything else is extrapolation and assumption, especially if we abide by the non-Battler POV = Romantic obfuscation logic.

So, extending that line of thinking leads us to distrust anything that can’t be immediately verified by the scenes in the parlor. The most crucial fact, and the one that the argument I am making hinges on, is that everybody that was killed still being in the storehouse when it was locked up cannot be trusted with absolute certainty. The only people on the scene during the locking of the storehouse were those involved in the Witch Narrative to some degree, and Natsuhi, who by her own admission could not stomach to look upon the scene for longer than necessary.

Who is to say that, during this period of uncertainty and unreliable perspective, somebody playing dead inside the storehouse slipped out while Natsuhi was looking away in disgust? This would facilitate the existence of an individual who is not part of the group of survivors, yet who also does not contravene the 18 person premise.

There are holes in this, of course. It’s a huge leap to assume that Natsuhi somehow missed a whole person getting up and leaving the storehouse, and there are numerous questions as to how the narrative-peddling servants would permit someone to roam free who would then later betray the occult illusion and murder Kanon. But the basis of this theory is not impossible, so perhaps there are ways to work around this.

We already know Natsuhi’s perspective is highly unreliable, as proven earlier in that exact chapter. She so desperately wants to hide the fact of Kinzo’s death that she starts to buy her own lies, having imagined hallucination conversations in a most likely empty study to verify her own beliefs. If brain ghost grandpa can “exist” through Natsuhi, then it is much less of a stretch for her to willingly or unknowingly let something like this slip. Maybe she was in her own head. Maybe she tuned it out in an act of extreme denial. Either way, it is theoretically possible for Natsuhi to overlook something that big.

As to the servants permitting this, the obvious answer is that this person was allowed to let go as a contingency by Genji in the event of a Witch Narrative stalemate. An additional body roaming around that the audience of this theatre has already written off would be a huge boon in authenticating his own crimes. This person killing Kanon, then, would not necessarily be the end of the world for Genji - as per maybe-Kinzo’s words regurgitated through a hallucinatory phantom, total annihilation is as valid an option on the table as any other outcome. A roulette can land on many outcomes, and an “impossible” killer taking Kanon out transforms this individual into Beatrice in the consciousness of the survivors, furthering the plan either way.

Given that, the question then becomes: which of the dead six could theoretically do this? Who here would pretend to be dead, skulk around the island for a time, and then end up killing Kanon?

I think there are a few suspects we can eliminate off the bat. Krauss and Shannon, the half-face corpses, most likely don’t fit here. As individuals, it does not track with who they are to imagine them acting this way - going by my theory, this would place Krauss as someone who played possum to survive his own assassination attempt backfiring on him. There is absolutely no way that someone like that wouldn’t have immediately come out of the shadows to expose Eva and Hideyoshi; Krauss didn’t even have it in him to keep his embezzlement bragging on the downlow. As for Shannon, the victim in this situation is Kanon. There is absolutely not a single scenario in which Shannon would kill Kanon for any possible reason - he is probably the only person in her life towards whom she feels unconditional love and trust. We’ll never know for a fact how Shannon/Sayo felt towards Kanon’s desperation to save her, but even in the most emotionally complicated interpretation, it still makes no sense for Kanon to be killed by her in retaliation, and it makes no sense for Kanon to have done anything he did in the intervening twilights had Shannon actually survived somehow.

More than that, I have always thought that Krauss and Shannon’s faces being half-destroyed is as close to cast iron proof as you can get that they are definitely, totally, for real dead, for the simple fact that a mystery story’s base assumption is that anybody with injuries that buck the trend are suspicious. Instead, I think this is more likely a case of a tree hiding itself in a forest.

Which turns our attention to the three failsiblings and Gohda. It’s not Gohda, because narratively it makes sense for Gohda to be as much of a victim of circumstance as Shannon in the end despite his bullying of her - middle manager and minimum wage worker alike are insects before the CEO. His abuse of a shred of worthless power cannot save him, therefore he must be dead. Rosa, likewise, would not work narrative-wise to survive. She had a complete character trajectory highlighting the revolving wheel of abuse within the introductory chapters. Her character was never destined for anything more than being doomed by the systems she never managed to do more than perpetuate - surviving the First Twilight would give her licence to try to escape the cycle, which would undermine the whole point of everything that came before.

So we’re left now with two candidates: Rudolf and Kyrie. Both of whom are understated characters with ulterior motives that were never fully elaborated on before they met their ends. Kyrie’s conversations with Battler hinted at the existence of a strategist’s mind with a scheme of her own separate from the gambit Eva strongarmed everyone into going along with. Rudolf, meanwhile, has the lone dangling thread of his “tonight I think I will be killed” comment, the sole thing that, as of this point in the story, we have no clue as to what he could have really meant by that. All we can glean is that the “murder” comment was most likely not a literal portent, but a fear of his that whatever secret he carried would see many people turn against him - either way, there is a Big Thing with Rudolf that never got elaborated on at any point ever.

For this reason, and a couple more, I am inclined to think that if there is a person playing dead, then that person is Rudolf. It would give us room to explore this abandoned plot thread, and it would create a full circle parallel with the comments earlier in the story about how much Rudolf acts like Kinzo - the dead father pretending to be alive, the alive son pretending to be dead. And more than any of that, more than any narrative or thematic reason for this working, is the fact that there is something associated with Rudolf that has otherwise only come up with the discussion of dead bodies.

I am, of course, talking about makeup.

There is a point made of highlighting that Rudolf wears makeup in the earlier chapters as a means of highlighting his superficiality and vanity. He is the pervert covered in glamour. He is, quite literally, bringing a false face to the family conference. Rudolf’s face, his true self and his secrets, have been concealed from the start. Makeup as an image is tied to Rudolf and used as a reinforcement of the fact that this man is not to be trusted.

The word “makeup” is also used in exactly one other context: the mutilated bodies. First we are told that all this gore has ruined the immaculate makeup on Rudolf’s face, and then further down the line we are treated to the description of blood described as "makeup” plastering the corpses. It’s a very curious word to throw into Battler’s panicked monologue, incongruent enough to stick in your mind more than most details.

Given that, it is not much of a stretch to assume we are seeing the literal masquerading as the figurative - this is the whole MO of the Witch Narrative, after all. In a sea of real blood and guts, who would notice that one person in the group was instead pained with makeup? We already know that there is an artificial substance in abundance on Rokkenjima that can be used to mimic the appearance of blood - if it can be painted on doors to create the illusion of a magic circle, then surely it can also be painted on a human face to create the illusion of a corpse.

So in this scenario, Rudolf sits pretty and painted in a sea of bodies, and slips out at the last possible moment. He then hangs around somewhere unseen for a while, before being the one to murder Kanon.

On several levels, this makes sense - whatever schemes Rudolf and/or Kyrie had cooking were derailed by the Witch Narrative, and as someone firmly cemented in the Ushiromiya hierarchy his first instinct would be to take it out on Kanon. This would serve as an explanation for the loathing and disgust conveyed by Beatrice in the boiler room scene, but it does still leave several elements unanswered.

If we assume the Beatrice stuff to be a fantastical plastering over a mundane killing, then we need to ask why Kanon would think and say the things he does if the person before him was Rudolf. Rudolf is emblematic of several kinds of power and abuse, but he is not directly a literal or metaphorical figurehead for Kanon’s oppression. Rudolf is most Kinzo-like when his face is full of makeup - it is an insincere mask with no substance to it. Rudolf is someone Kanon only sees once a year. It makes no sense for Rudolf to be someone Kanon feels the need to take a stand against like this. Rudolf doesn’t really have it in him to be a satisfying Beatrice.

Unless, of course, something changed during the time the surviving Rudolf was off-screen. There are eight whole hours he is unaccounted for. Enough time, perhaps, for someone dedicated enough to solve the epitaph and learn of whatever grim truths lie alongside the gold vault? Perhaps something that relates to his final unspoken secret? There’s still a lot of ground to cover in that area. There’s every possibility the answer lies there, that somewhere down the line we’ll find out how someone could so easily embody a Beatrice position.

That said, this is not the only option for explaining things. Beyond the idea of bodies not being dead and blood makeup and failsons turning into witches, there is something else very weird that goes on in this chapter that absolutely needs looking at, and might even take us to a stranger place than that.

Structurally, chapter 14 is strange. It is a chapter with several oddities - the appearance of the otherwise ephemeral and totally unseen Beatrice, and it is a chapter without a defined timestamp. Every other chapter in Umineko tells us when it happens and goes out of its way to make sure it doesn’t tip its hand too soon with the Beatrice enigma. So for Kanon’s death chapter to feature a lack of time and an abundance of butterflies and other witch-related happenings is more than a little suspect.

Namely because this is not even the first time this has happened in this story. There is one other chapter in the story which deprives us of a timestamp and shows us a golden butterfly, and that’s chapter 9. Which is also, curiously and alarmingly, Shannon’s final chapter.

I spent a lot of time going over chapter 9, highlighting the strangeness of its structure and what that could mean. My conclusion at the time was that we were witnessing something doctored and unreal - to borrow terminology I’ve learned since, my conclusion was that chapter 9 was a “fantastical scene”. I also spoke about how Shannon and Kanon have the curious quirk of being the only ones to ever actually see with their own eyes evidence of Beatrice’s existence, a fact which continues to hold true even in chapter 14.

Now, you could argue that this “disruption” is evidence of the metatextual ripple effect Beatrice’s manifestation is having on Umineko’s reality, but even that wouldn’t be a satisfying answer, because there is also one other time Shannon and Kanon have had structurally identical scenes, and that example was completely devoid of any hints of Beatrice or magic.

Way back at the start of the story, Shannon and Kanon have basically the same introduction scene: they awkwardly present themselves before the family, they fumble their duties and drop something, one adult berates them while another adult berates the first for being too harsh on them, Battler makes the same comparison to a waitress dropping a fork for both of them, and then they have a debrief scene afterwards that hints at deeper, more complicated feelings towards the situation.

Shannon and Kanon enter the story using the same narrative beats with a slightly different retexture. Shannon and Kanon also leave the story using the same narrative shape with a slightly different retexture.

Both walk off on their own going directly against their assigned duties - Shannon heads to the mansion instead of the guesthouse, and Kanon runs off on his own instead of sticking with Kumasawa. Both have a conflict between their “furniture” and real selves - Shannon calms the Sayo inside her to prevent causing a scene, and Kanon attempts to cast aside his furniture role in order to directly cause a scene. Both witness glowing butterflies on their own in a dark corner, and both are heavily implied to have been directly murdered by Beatrice more than any other person in the story. The only difference is that for Kanon, we see it happen, and I can’t help but wonder that had chapter 9 been a full length chapter that we wouldn’t have seen something very similar unfold with Shannon.

This is yet another heap of stuff to add to the pile of “weird parallels and symmetries between Shannon and Kanon” that keeps growing throughout the story. This still isn’t even really touching the bizarre relationship they have to Beatrice and all the ways that that’s played out - both having the ghost story in common, both occupying an odd proximity to the role of “Beatrice”, Shannon as vessel and Kanon as performer. There is a lot of this kind of stuff swirling around the two of them, and I think it really comes to a head with Kanon’s death.

After all, one way of reading this chapter is that both Shannon and Kanon end up suffering the exact same destiny. Neither escapes being furniture, and Beatrice kills them for it. Shannon buried Sayo where she shouldn’t have, and Kanon’s casting aside of being furniture came too little too late. Different textures, but the same shape. This, combined with the fact that both are notorious Witch Narrative spinners in their own ways, paints a very bizarre picture full of question marks with no clear answer.

Nobody else in Umineko shares this level of direct parallel, so it has to mean something deeply significant that Shannon and Kanon are entwined like this. I don’t have the answer yet, but I do think that this is not the end of it. I think that as soon as the metafiction stuff really comes into focus that all of this will become extremely relevant. These two are wrapped around Umineko’s core story structure in a way nobody else is, narratively weird in a way that is only otherwise seen with entities that “exist” in the story. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but there very much is something going on that cannot and should not be ignored.

And one final thing, one final deranged detail that’s worth pointing out that threatens to possibly undermine several thousand words of this very writeup, is that the word “makeup” appears in the description of Kanon’s death. He lies there, hole in his chest, blood makeup dribbling down his body. I previously asserted that this was indicative of a surviving Rudolf taking up the mantle of being a threatening individual acting outside the group, but Kanon also has this word applied to him. A hint towards his killer, or something else?

If Kanon’s death is tainted with the word “makeup”, this means we should suspect something about it. Perhaps it is merely drawing attention to the fact that the stake to the chest is just decoration and affect - to get really tinfoil with it, Kanon managed to pull the stake from his chest before collapsing. If everything is fantastical, perhaps so too is the assertion that the stake was ever in his chest in the first place - perhaps for whatever reason his assailant did not have the time/means to set this up exactly like an epitaph murder. Or perhaps something more is going on. After all, Kanon leaves the chapter mortally wounded, but he is not actually confirmed dead. There’s wriggle room here for something else to happen.

Maybe, just maybe, what we saw here was merely another farce. Kanon taking the chance to fake his death and take himself out of the story while he still can - killing “Kanon” the furniture so the human beneath the mask can survive. Notions of Beatrice and a 19th person and an impossible murder as theatrics to cover up the fact that the tragedy at the heart of the scene is without substance. If so, the question would be whether or not this was intended by The Plan or if this is indeed Kanon acting out on his own. Has Kanon gone behind the scenes to be Genji’s “ghost” because there is no miraculously-surviving Rudolf? Are there two people in this position now? Is there any true substance to any of these theories at all?

I don’t know. I think the truth lies somewhere among all this noise, but I do think it’s starting to come into focus.

#umineko #umineko liveblog

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dnickels · 7 months

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"The house is a character" goes without saying, on Ghosts and other shows about people trapped in an old crumbling house that hates them (by God, is that Julian Fellowes' music?), but Ghosts makes good use of the house as a site of contention. It is a very old pile of bricks and masonry in disrepair, that's what it is, but it means to various people-- who live in, who live around it-- is a much thornier issue. Robin, who predates it by millennia, doesn't really give a shit, and to Allison and Mike by the end of the first episode its a huge liability they would bulldoze if given the chance. A windfall, an asset, a stone around their necks etc. But to the people who lived there it was/is a world unto itself. We get to see just how much history that place has, which is a meaningless thing to say, because any square foot of Earth outside of Antarctica has untold millennia of human history, but its a history that's real and alive and present because people remember it, and live out that remembering.

Who does it belong to? Legally to Allison and Mike, by the vagaries of fortune and inheritance law. But what does it mean to try and share the place where you live, currently, with centuries of past inhabitants? The show makes the issue literal but its an ideological struggle that happens constantly when it comes to preservation. People do have to live. Not every beautiful old building can be preserved as it was forever with no changes or updates, although it doesn't stop me from wincing when a new block of 5 over 1s goes up. If you wanted to talk about the long arc of the show, its from episode one where the Ghosts can only watch in horror as the wrecking crew comes in to the last (penultimate?) episode where they make a negotiated peace with the idea of change. (I haven't! Not a golf course! Allison noooo its so bad for the environmeeeeent etc).

I am a little surprised the blue plaque issue got such a brusque treatment-- I was wondering when the Coopers would come up against whatever local heritage society objects to them putting in modern plumbing, or tearing out the old lathe-and-plaster, to say nothing of the government agencies who hand out historic protections etc. But on the other hand, maybe the history of the house feels "more important" than it is because we, the audience, got to experience it so closely. Yes it was the site of a duel, a witch-burning, a murder, a WW2-era weapons development project, a plot to murder Queen Elizabeth-- but so were lots of places. It's not, in the grand scheme of things, an especially important house and yet it means so much! What do you mean, Cap doesn't get a blue plaque for having a very minor homefront position from 1939-1945! What do you mean Fanny doesn't get a memorial for being pushed out a window! Those are my friends!

There could have been a season-arc about someone outside the house trying to 'save' it, make it into a museum etc, but maybe that would be a more byzantine and thorny issue than the half-hour penis joke format would allow. I do still cringe whenever they sell off pieces of 'the collection', or destroy a painting etc, but the point is that its not a collection-- its furniture. People are still living on it, using it, etc. i do hope that any future plans (in the canon of the show) include some kind of way for people to learn about the ghosts' stories-- Allison could write one hell of a book, though how she would source it is a nightmare to think about. But maybe its for the best that the house doesn't become a stagnant museum that's locked up at night. If nothing else, the ghosts would get bored again.

#the themes are rich is what I'm saying!#I could keep going but I am about to be so late for work #bbc ghosts spoilers #ghosts season 5 #bbc ghosts

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loggiepj · 1 year

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FORBIDDEN

Part 6 | Part 7

Part 8

Winter finally came. Temperature dropped down degrees below zero. The lake solidified in two days; the eerie sound under the waters filled the silent hours of the night as it turned into ice.

Most of the population anywhere in the world would stay indoors at a time like this. But the Avengers' camp wasn't like any other normal village.

The pavilion and other facilities of the camp remained tolerable, even warmer, enchanted by numerous spells to keep the cold away. Most of the campers carried on with their daily tasks as if it was any normal day, as if it wasn't just snowing an hour ago.

Winter would mean less attacks from Deviants. It was as if the two divisions had agreed on a temporary truce, a festival, an occasion even, to celebrate the entire season without touching any weapon, without unnecessarily shedding more blood.

The snow was already ankle deep, yet it didn't stop the children from starting snowball fights against each other. The sun had now begun to set; the night sky more visible like a mirror magnifying a painting of an entire universe. The stars even looked like salt accidentally sprinkled on a dark veil.

The older ones stayed comfortable in their seats, watching the young have the time of their lives while drinking hot cocoa served by Bruce.

"This doesn't even taste that good," Vision said, catching Y/n's attention. She looked at where said witch was sitting, irritatingly close to the beautiful witch who had occupied most of her thoughts.

Y/n's grip around her mug tightened as she witnessed the scene before her, immediately looking down once Vision seemed to chase Wanda's lips with his own, not seeing how Wanda aggressively shoved him away.

Y/n was too stupid to think that whatever was going on between her and Wanda would end up to be something more.

Who wouldn't? Ever since that night the two had shared under the stars, they became fast friends. Y/n entertained the witch with myths, fables and even folklores about the universe every night and Wanda would savor every second of it. The barrier between them was completely broken. Wanda even built Y/n an archway without a door to give the human a grand welcome.

Y/n had taught Wanda some of the constellations she knew and how to find them. Wanda was a good listener. She had never been attentive to any of her classes when she was a kid. But with Y/n as the teacher, it would be impossible to stray her focus away from the human.

"What's your favorite?" Wanda asked in a whisper, face so close to Y/n as they laid on the cool grass. It was still nearing Winter that time, and the perfect weather made the stars more visible like a clear painting in full display.

Wanda had performed a spell around them to keep them both warm. Y/n had never been more grateful, even though she didn’t need warming up. The lack of distance between the two of them was already heating up Y/n's entire body, heart skipping a beat whenever their gazes met. And their gazes would always meet.

"Orion," Y/n answered. She gently pulled and held the witch's hand as she drew the constellations up above. These were the times Wanda love the most. The human's touch ignited a spark within her that no amount of magic could ever explain. "Those three bright stars in the middle are its belt." Y/n held Wanda's fingers, tracing the constellation in the air. "Orion is known as the Hunter, with the way the stars are perfectly aligned like someone ready to attack with a bow and arrow."

Their heads pressed together so their eyes would be looking at the same thing. Wanda's scent infiltrated Y/n's nostrils and she couldn't get enough. Y/n could breathe her in forever.

"Like you," Wanda muttered. A small smile crept unto Y/n's face, blushing.

"I doubt that. I'm not much good of an Avenger compared to anyone here. And my archery skills would be far in comparison to Orion," Y/n replied, putting both of their hands down on the ground where they laid.

Wanda smiled, knowing the human was being modest. "I find that hard to believe. You know, campers here look up to you."

Y/n swallowed a lump in her throat before she gave a nervous laugh.

Before the normie could respond, Wanda went on. "How did Orion end up in the sky?"

"There are stories in Greek mythology, where Orion the Hunter was killed by Artemis, a goddess, daughter of Zeus. Zeus, being the king of all gods, immortalized Orion by putting him in the sky and maybe to honor him. . . ."

Y/n then began to tell a story about the goddess Artemis and other gods she could remember. All the time, Wanda listened. Her eyes focused at the way the color of Y/n's eyes change when her gaze travelled between the witch and the sky.

Wanda suddenly found herself praying the human wouldn't let her hand go, skins molding as one as if Y/n was a part of her. And Y/n didn't let go the entire night they spent together.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into a month.

Both of them, unconscious of what the other was concerned, always looked forward to the end of the day, where they could spend time together talking about the moon and the stars and everything else. Even Pietro grew wary of this sudden change of behavior, wondering what his sister was up to.

And when Y/n thought about seeing Wanda during the day, she'd always stopped on her tracks because of the other man's presence. Vision.

Y/n needed reminding that Wanda wasn't a free soul. She was promised to be married to that awful man Y/n had only encountered seldom times.

Vision never apologized for his behavior. Y/n thought he should had been grateful at least for getting sanctuary when he needed it the most. What Y/n couldn't understand though was what Wanda had ever seen in that man.

Y/n had considered the possibility that Wanda could like a woman like her. But if that possibility didn't exist, she was sure there were other far better men than Vision out there in the world, better and worthy for someone like Wanda.

Most times, Y/n would understand. She'd tell herself that maybe underneath all those arrogance Vision was showing off, was a kindhearted sensible person only Wanda knew.

But one night, Y/n had enough. That night was the time Vision made fun of Bruce's hot cocoa, making the anger in the human's body boil, which brought her back to the present.

"This doesn't even taste that good," Vision said.

The scene made Y/n retire early for the night, not even waiting for supper.

The human was oblivious to Wanda waiting for almost an hour in their spot after dinner, wondering if Y/n forgot about their nightly rituals, if Y/n forgot about how they were going to talk more about Aurora Borealis.

The Aurora Borealis was the most beautiful thing Wanda had ever witnessed in her entire life. It only appeared during Winter. Green strings danced into the night sky, giving light and wonderful aura to everyone looking.

Wanda kept thinking about that night Y/n told her the beauty of it wouldn't compare to the green wonders found in the witch's eyes, making her blush the entire night even as they parted their separate ways.

When Wanda found out some time later, that Y/n had already gone to bed without even telling her, the witch cursed to the silent night and to the ugly sky above. Damn her heart for trusting humans!

BACK WERE the days the two had begun ignoring each other. It was only until they were sent to a mission together with Yelena and others, which was to meet with Steve, the leader of a neighboring camp bordering along the town of Wakanda where the latest attacks had happened, when Y/n and Wanda finally spoke a word to each other.

They met at one of the distinct taverns across town, one where Deviants seldom visited. It was a safe place for both normies and witches alike. But witches preferred to hide or pretend, just to avoid any casualties. The place was known to serve the best ale in town. The Avengers conducted some of their meetings in the place, known for its atmosphere of not minding every drinker's own business.

Steve also talked about the recent developments of the weapon they were making. Yelena took note of the chemicals to use. They even exchanged supplies under the table, slipping inside the satchel Yelena had beside her foot.

When the conversations turned to somewhat light, what with the amount of alcohol involved, they began talking about the female witches Steve and his team had rescued and how they were a master of seduction and love spells on certain nights. Yelena laughed at this, asking whether she could visit some time.

Wanda, on the other hand, was fuming, when Steve suggested to bring Y/n along with her too, for Y/n might find the women exhilarating and fun to be around with.

Y/n only shook her head, laughing, before turning to look at Wanda, who had not even touched her pint of ale.

"Do you want to drink something else?" Y/n asked, ignoring the ongoing conversations beside her.

"I'm fine. I don't drink intoxicating liquors," Wanda complained. "Need I also remind you that we shouldn't be even drinking right now."

"Wanda, relax. You deserve to have a little bit of fun. And their ale is the best, aged perfectly well," Y/n retorted. "A bit malty and strong but sweeter than lager—"

"I said I'm fine."

"Oooh, lovers' quarrel?" Yelena asked, hearing their heated exchanges. Y/n and Wanda only glared back at her.

"Did you know that ale is more flavorful than lager?" Y/n went on to convince the witch to start drinking. "They tend to be fruitier and aromatic, whereas lager is just plain and dry."

But the information only sent Wanda into spiral.

"Why can't you stop being a know-it-all?"

Yelena erupted in laughter, while Y/n scoffed. But they abruptly stopped talking when the conversation in front of them became louder.

"It's completely barbaric," the bartender, an old bald man with a protruding belly, said in a low yet noticeable voice. He placed the half-empty pint glass of ale hard on the table. "They capture and burn these innocent witches as if they're nothing. I know they're scum in the earth. But burning them until they turn to ashes is a bit beyond the works of the devil, don't you think?"

The other customers he was talking to in the tavern agreed in murmurs. Y/n turned to look at Wanda beside her, who was trembling in rage.

Wanda couldn't bear to listen anymore to the outrageous cruelty being done by Deviants to her own kind. Burning witches? What did they ever do to them? Why couldn't they accept witches as equals?

The witch's heart thudded so loud in her chest, heated blood surging through her veins as her mind almost lost it. No. She can't get out of control. No.

Her sight began to appear blurry; noises surrounding her echoed inside her head like low pitched maniacal sounds.

And then she could hear the helpless cries and agonies of those hunted, of her own kind, mercilessly tortured by heartless humans.

Help! They cried, children, women and wounded men. Wanda felt she'd explode any moment now as the screams grew louder.

And then it was gone all of a sudden. As if someone blew the flame of a lit candle. Wanda could see clearly again, the voices gone, replaced by the noise inside the tavern.

Wanda wondered what happened, as if someone miraculously performed a magic to calm down the wild beast in her. Then her eyes travelled to her lap, where a hand was enclosed hers. Y/n's hand.

Y/n gave her another squeeze before linking their fingers together. When she looked at Y/n, the human's eyes were filled with concern and sincerity that warmed the witch's heart. Relief flooded into Wanda, hoping it would be enough to keep her uncontrollable power at bay.

Wanda survived the entire night, listening to other updates that she couldn't bear to listen, trying to remember that they're good humans too. Not just the evil Deviants.

It was a hard task.

WHEN THEY got back to their camp, Y/n broke the silence. "Are you okay?"

Yelena had already left the two to give some of the supplies she received from Steve to Pepper.

Wanda shrugged her shoulders. "Why wouldn't I be? Witches around the world are being slaughtered every second."

"I'm sorry," Y/n said. She didn't know what to say to make the witch feel better.

"Why can't you save everybody?"

"Wanda—"

"Never mind," Wanda scoffed, walking past the human.

"Look, we're doing the best we can—"

The witch stopped as she turned back to face Y/n. "Well, it's not good enough! We shouldn't be even sleeping peacefully right now if witches out there won't witness another day in their lives."

Wanda broke into a sob. She was trying too hard to stay silent so as not to wake the sleeping campers, but she found it difficult to breathe without making a noise.

Y/n slowly approached her, wrapping her arms around the shivering body. The witch calmed down, letting herself be hugged as she buried her face into her chest.

"We're going to save them, Wanda," Y/n promised. "All of them. Day by day. I swear to you."

Eventually, Wanda's arms slithered around Y/n's body, underneath the coat the latter was wearing, feeling the human's heat as the source of life she needed to breath. The hug tightened. Wanda could hear Y/n's heartbeat, the sound calming the storm brewing inside of her.

"It will be okay," Y/n said. And Wanda believed her.

Taglist:

@bibliophilicbi @swiftie1-0-1 @whitewidowsbite @aliherreraaa @smromanoff @wandanats-goodgirl @supaheroine @eliii1sblog @bananasplits-world

Author's note:

Follow me on my social media accounts. Thank you. ❤ Facebook : loggiepj | https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100089779552892&mibextid=ZbWKwL Instagram : loggiepj | https://instagram.com/loggiepj?igshid=NDk5N2NlZjQ= Twitter : loggiepj | https://twitter.com/loggiepj?t=EiFoKQyY1L-HCAMkBV2qCg&s=09

#wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda #wanda angst #enemies to lovers #elizabeth olsen

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widowshaze · 2 years

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yes ma’am | n. romanoff

pairing: ceo!natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary: rule number one in the workplace, never get on your bosses bad side.

warnings: 18+ only! minors dni! daddy kink, heavy swearing, major degradation, abuse of power, strap-on use (r receiving)

word count: 2.8k

authors note: i haven’t posted in ages so i may or may not have gone feral, but ceo!nat just really does something to me, i hope you enjoy <3

you do not have permission to translate, copy or post my work elsewhere!

navigation | natasha romanoff masterlist

“Y/L/N!” Your boss's voice rang through the silence of the work floor, the only sounds of fingers typing on keyboards and pens scratching along the lines of the countless forms you were assigned to fill out daily.

Your head snapped up from the current report you had been working on for the past hour, your brain foggy and an impending migraine making its way to the forefront of your brain as your eyes read over word after word of your report.

“Ooo, someone’s in trouble,” a quiet snicker emitted from your cubicle mate and now best friend, Carol. You being paired to share with her when you started only six months ago, a friendship blossoming over the agreed annoyance with your boss and the countless, unnecessary paperwork she always gave.

With a shove of her shoulder you grumbled, “Shut the fuck up, Carol.” You dropped your pen as your hand came up to rub at your temple, aggravation beginning to surface as you wondered what your boss could possibly want now. You were called into her office almost once a week, being chastised over the smallest mistake that only one who was a perfectionist would notice, and unfortunately for you, your boss was one of them.

“Better act quick, the witch is coming,” Carol whispered over to you before turning back to her paperwork, and it was then that your ears picked up on the clicking of your bosses perfectly clean heals echoed across the linoleum floor as she approached your cubicle.

You didn’t dare look up from your paperwork until the clicking of her heels stopped, and a throat cleared from behind you. You slowly peered your head up from your paperwork and turned in your chair, your eyes immediately downcast towards the floor, taking in the perfectly shined heels. “Y/LN,” a voice spoke above you, that had you slowly lifting your head to meet the piercing green eyes of your boss, the most renowned CEO of any corporate business in the tri-state area.

You gulped as you felt your bosses gaze on you, her jaw hardened and set, the look of annoyance painted all across her face. “Yes, Ms. Romanoff?” She crossed her arms across her chest, unintentionally pushing her breasts up more, not that they already weren’t bulging out of the low v-cut of her blouse enough, and you couldn’t help but spare a glance at the cleavage before turning your gaze back to your boss.

Sure, she was worse than the devil himself but the woman was hot, and well, you were very gay.

“Care to explain the excuse of a report that I found sitting on my desk this morning?”

“Ms. Romanoff, I-“

“I don’t want to hear your excuses Y/L/N, I gave you plenty of time to write that report and what you gave me was absolutely mediocre!” Her voice raised on the last few words of her tangent, and you could feel the lingering gazes of your co-workers staring at the scene that she was making. “You have two hours to write me a new report, and I expect it to be hand delivered by you before lunch.” You opened your mouth to speak, but she had turned on her heel and walked away before you could even mutter a word.

“Yes Ma’am, anything you want ma’am.” You groaned out as you rested your face in your hands, hiding yourself from the sheer embarrassment you were ultimately feeling. Carol tried her best to comfort you, but you shrugged her hand off of your shoulder and turned back around to your desk. “If it makes you feel any better, she’s a total bitch.” Your friend tried to lighten the mood but all you did was grumble in response.

“She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. She’s cruel, unsympathetic and expects me to write God’s work while being paid only minimum wage!” You ranted while you rubbed at your temple.

“Wanna go to Joe’s tonight for celebratory drinks?” Carol inquiries and you were sold at the idea of getting blackout drunk. So you begrudgingly got to typing up a new draft of the report with the lingering thought of tequila in your mind pushing you through.

—

As if you couldn’t have timed it perfectly enough, you finished the report just as the clock struck the two hour mark as you were neatly putting it into the folder to give to Romanoff. You stood from your desk, folder in hand, as you prepared to enter the devil’s dungeon.

With a thumbs up from Carol for good luck, you begin the short trek from you desk to your boss’ office. You were thanking the stars when you noticed that her blinds to the office windows were drawn and she wasn’t able to see you panicking as you reached a hand up to gently knock on her door. A quiet spoken “come in” was spoken from inside and it took every ounce of courage for you to open the door and step foot into her office.

No one was just allowed inside of her office, those who did step foot into it were either being fired or they never came out, and you always wondered what happened to those who never did. You quietly took a few steps into the office, taking in the foreign place, noticing that it was simple, yet elegant, a few bookshelves were to the left, filled with books that you couldn’t even decipher the name of, a few fake plants littered the room to give it some life and sitting in the middle of the room was her desk, dark wooden with paperwork scattered all about it, and behind the desk sat the devil.

“Close the door.” She spoke sharply and you immediately obliged, reaching a hand behind you to pull the door shut. “It took you long enough. Give it here.” She demanded as she held her hand out with her perfectly manicured fingernails. You gulped again as you closed the distance between you and her desk before setting the folder in her grasp. She quickly took the folder from you and flipped it open, eyes scanning the pages as she flipped through them quickly.

You chewed the inside of your lip nervously as you watched her scan every word, on every page, letting out hums of disapprovement the further she got into the report. By the time she has finished the report and slammed it shut and placed it onto her desk, you knew you were fired. “It’s better than before, but it’s still poorly written. I’ve given you six months to prove yourself worthy to have a position in my company and you have proven nothing.”

You immediately looked down at the ground, your eyes fixating on the few scuffs on your shoes to avoid her harsh gaze. “I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff, I’ll do better next time, I promise.”

“Apologies will get you nowhere Y/L/N,” she spoke harshly as she got up from her chair and rounded her desk to stand next to you. “It seems as if I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so this doesn’t happen again.” She whispered in your ear, and the sudden closeness of your boss has you gasping in surprise. You quickly lifted your head to look at her, but she was quick to grab a fist full of your hair and slam you down against her desk.

“You’ve done nothing but put shame to the name of the company I created,” she spoke gently as she kicked a foot between your legs to spread them apart. “You’ve failed countless times at such intern level work that sometimes I forget why you still have a job here.” She continued as she moved to stand between your patted legs, pressing her front against your ass, and you could feel the bulge of what she was packing beneath her trousers, and it took everything in you to suppress the moan you so desperately wanted to let escape.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty, hm?” She said as she pushed your skirt up to rest around your waist, revealing the not so work appropriate black lace thong you decided to sport that day. “Walking around with your skirt, showing off those beautiful legs I’ve thought about burying my face between multiple times before.” Her hand came against your ass cheek, and you let a cry out in pain, your hands gripping the edge of her desk. “Or the way you wear those low cut blouses leaving nothing to the imagination.” Another slap and this time, a moan escaped past your lips.

“So pathetic, and I haven’t even touched you yet.” She snickered from above you, as you felt her hand cup your heat and you couldn’t help but buck your hips against her touch, a silent beg for more. “Is this what you want? You want me to touch you whore, hmm? Fuck you right so maybe that way you can do your job properly?” She asked as she pressed her thumb roughly against your clothed clit and you couldn’t suppress the deep moan that escaped you as you nodded quickly. “Please Ms. Romanoff, I-”

You were cut off by her hand wrapping around your neck, pulling your body up flush against her own. “Don’t worry darling, daddy’s going to fuck you so good, and then maybe, she won’t fire you.” You whimpered at the nickname she had given herself. You could feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, your underwear completely ruined and all you could think about was her hands on your body and wanting nothing more than to be fucked into oblivion.

She turned you around in her grasp quickly, before grabbing under your thighs and lifting you up on her desk, your legs immediately spreading open for her, a dark chuckle escaped her as she moved herself to fit perfectly between them. “God look at you, spread out for me like some dumb whore. Is that what you are baby? Are you daddy’s dumb whore?” You whimpered and nodded, as she looked down at you with an almost predatorial gaze. “I’m daddy’s whore, please.”

It was like you didn’t have control over the words coming out of your mouth, she had you in a trance, she had you right where she wanted you to be. The smirk that etched itself on her face was almost devilish as her fingers hooked into your underwear and slid them off your legs, revealing your glistening folds to her. Her gaze burned into you, her eyes drinking in every bit of skin they could see, the way she licked her lips as her eyes fell to your cunt had even more arousal dripping from you, and you whimpered. “Daddy, please, touch me, fuck me, please.”

You begged from below and she chuckled, as she unbuttoned her blazer and tossed it aside, before working on the button of her pants, her eyes never leaving you. “Such a needy little slut, begging to be fucked.” She spoke as she pushed her pants down, the red strap she had been packing slapping up against her stomach, and you moaned at the sight of the large, silicone toy. Your legs spread even wider as you wrapped them around her waist, pulling her flush against you as the tip of the toy nudged your clit, causing you to whimper.

“Ah ah ah, there will be none of that.” She reprimanded as she grabbed your legs from around her waist and pushed them open more, and you were unsure as to how your body was able to bend in the positions that it was. “Gonna be daddy’s good girl and take my cock, hmm?” She questioned as she slid the toy between your folds, soaking it in your juices, earning a moan from you at each nudge against your swollen and throbbing clit.

You nodded fervently, “I’m gonna be daddy’s good girl, I promise.” You whimpered as she pressed the tip against your entrance. “That’s what I thought.” She snapped her hips against yours in one swift movement, fully bottoming out inside you, your mouth fell open in a soundless moan, the sudden intrusion taking all of the breath out of your lungs. Her hands gripped your waist once she was fully inside you, barely giving you time to adjust to the intrusion before pulling her hips back and thrusting back into you once more.

A loud moan escaped you this time as the smirk etched on your face turned into a devilish grin as she began drilling the toy into you with brutal force. Whimpers and moans were the only coherent sounds you could form as the faux cock was filling you in all of the right ways, hitting every spot deep withing your walls almost perfectly.

“Look at you, so cock drunk already aren’t you slut?” She said breathlessly as she continued to pound into you, all you could form was a nod as the toy continued to be pounded inside you, a feral moan escaping you once it hit that spongy sweet spot deep within your slick walls. Natasha took note and angled her hips to hit the spot over and over again with each thrust, watching you fall apart under her touch and it was the most ethereal sight she had ever seen.

“Such a good girl, taking daddy’s cock so well.” She muttered out, her grip on your waist tightening as the toy nudged her clit with each thrust she made, the sight alone of you all fucked out on her desk was almost enough to send her over the edge, but she wanted to see you fall apart first before she allowed herself to.

“Mhm, I’m daddy’s good girl.” You spoke between moans, the coil building in your stomach, threatening to snap with each thrust of her hips, your knuckles bleeding white with how hard you were gripping the edges of the desk.

Your moans grew louder with each thrust of Natasha’s hips and she knew you were seconds away from your orgasm. “Are you going to come sweet girl? Gonna come all over daddy’s cock?” She questioned sweetly and you nodded quickly. “Please daddy, m’ gonna come, please let me come.” You begged, because you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on. Your brain was fuzzy and you were completely fucked out, every thought, every sensation was on Natasha and all you wanted to do was please her.

“Well since you asked so nicely,” she almost teased as she leaned down to press a kiss against your jaw before whispering in your ear. “Come for me,” and that’s all it took for you to reach your release. Her lips pressed against your own to silence your screams as your orgasm washed over your body, your back arched off the desk as you tried to kiss her back, but your brain wasn’t able to function as the most earth shattering orgasm ripped through you.

Her thrusts didn’t lighten as you began to come down from your orgasm, her hips stuttering slightly as her own impending orgasm was on brink of releasing. You reached a hand up and slid it through her deep red locks, pulling her gaze to meet your own. “Want you to come for me daddy,” you whispered as your grip tightened on your hair, pulling her face down to meet yours. “Let me make you feel good.” A deep moan ripped from Natasha’s throat as her hips stilled, the silicone toy buried deep within you as her own orgasm washed over her.

Her body fell limp as she collapsed on top of you, and you were quick to wrap your arms around her to comfort her as she rode out her high. Her face buried within your neck as she breathed deeply, trying to catch her breath, as your fingers continued to thread through her locks. She placed a few open mouth kisses along the base of your neck as her breath evened out, before lifting herself up to look down at you.

“Think you’ve learned your lesson yet Y/LN?” She questioned as she pulled the toy out of you, a whimper of protest leaving you at the loss of fullness, but a sharp look from her had you silenced. You nodded as you shyed away from her gaze as an answer to her question, “Yes da- I mean Ms. Romanoff.”

Her hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her as she smiled sweetly, the complete opposite of the predatorial gaze she once had. “Oh sweetheart, don’t you worry, I’ll be having you calling me daddy much more in the near future.” And with those final spoken words, she pulled her pants back up and fixed herself in the mirror before sparing one last glance in your direction before exiting her office without another word.

And it was in that moment, you knew, you were under the complete control of Natasha Romanoff.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

general taglist:

@gae4redheads @in-my-body-bag @inluvwithfictionalwomen @underwatersworld-blog @justyourwritter69 @strangegardentaco @louderfortheback @dumbbitchesanonymous @lovelyy-moonlight @bentleywolf29 @itsyourgirlmalise @peggycarter-steverogers @itty-bitty-scarletwitchy @ratzyy

➳ join my taglist here!

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader smut #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #au fic #black widow #black widow x reader #black widow fic #black widow x you #marvel #lesbian #lgbtq+

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feyofmay · 8 months

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The Righthand Man

Laurie x March!Reader Summary: Assisting in making the costumes for Jo's upcoming show, Y/N, who is love with Laurie, is forced to spend time with Laurie, who is in love with Jo. Angst ensues. word count: 2.8k Warnings: Fluffffffffff, all platonic, angst, reader gets called "Ducky"

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3.

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

A trickle of syrupy scarlet begins to pool and form a bubble on the tip of the young girl’s finger. However, the sight of blood does not squeeze even a squeal out of her. Rather, all she does is sigh and place the finger between her lips. Between her lips, a row of pins rest beside her finger like a line of spiked fences, a warning to wandering souls. With her free hand, she guides the loose fabric to curl around her waist.

“I must be the prettiest. I am the princess,” her younger sister declares like true royalty as she remains still under the middle March’s touch. Humming in agreement, she pulls her finger from her lips and leads the needle down a familiar trail. Although the house is always a little bit of a mess, in the most recent days it has grown into a beast of its own. Pieces of fabric are strung about everywhere, and loose pages of noted and edited scripts cover the floor as a gray and white layer of snow in autumn. A sheen of dust and the stink of old paper and musty fabric smothers in the autumn air. Without a knock, a boy enters, carrying the autumn breeze on the edges of his footsteps. Lost in her work, the middle March doesn’t pay any mind to anything outside of the glimmer of her needle as she works to avoid the wrath of her younger sister. If the needle is to even brush against her skin, the younger March will inform the whole neighborhood of the atrocity her sister has committed. Adorning a heather gray wool skirt, of which some other sisters have surely worn in seasons past, her heather purple bolero pinches around her collar and floats over her white collar shirt and black bodice.

“I’m sure you will-” She begins, speaking around the pins in her mouth.

“Ducky, how’s the costume coming along?”

“- be. Just don’t paint the fabric without asking me first again,” Ducky continues while their older sister speaks around her. Like a knight in battle, the eldest of the three forces through the chaos of their home.

“Jo, you better have removed the part where I have to kiss a toad!” the youngest of the present sisters yells out to Jo. Ducky places her palm against the youngest’s stomach as a way to calm her and tell her to refrain from moving.

“Amy, you have to stay still, or I’ll poke you,” Ducky reminds her before returning to sewing the draping robin blue fabric. All of their conversation overlaps and forms a symphony of dissonant harmonies.

“I’m nearly finished with Amy’s, and all I have of Meg’s is final fittings, she’s putting hers on right now -” Ducky begins as she begins looping the thread into itself, forming a knot.

“Perfect, we’re just behind schedule!” Jo continues her own tangent while she stations herself besides Ducky and begins to digest Amy's appearance.

“- and then all I have left is to make your jacket, and figure out Laurie’s ensemble, and I’m unsure what you want for me, regarding ‘my part’ in the show, itself,” Ducky trails off as she picks up her scissors and frees her needle from the taut thread caught in the knot of Amy’s dress. A heap of tulle the color of a robin’s egg and a mellow baby blue silk cascade from underneath her beaded white bodice like a waterfall. Hours and hours have been spent on beading the bodice, alone, and, with sweat, time, and a minimal amount of blood, the middle March has managed to piece together the costumes for Jo’s newest and best show.

“You’re going to be the wise old witch who lives in the forest -” Jo starts to fall into her tangent as she waves her hands. In her right hand, the newest version of her script resides.

“I’m only acting because Marmee’s done getting involved in your shows,” Ducky confirms.

“- Well, yes, but that doesn’t make your role any less important,” Jo reminds her as Ducky rises to her feet and brushes off her skirt. Blood rushes into her legs and feeling finally slips back into her feet after sitting for hours on the rickety wooden stool. As the teen boy discards his jacket, Jo is alerted of his presence and her attention shoots over to him. Rushing over to him, her arms shoot out to greet him.

“Teddy!” Jo shouts when she’s engulfed in a hug. The two prattle on in a quick back and forth of banter and quips, and Amy waddles off to the mirror so she can properly admire herself. Leaving Ducky all by her lonesome, she sets down the pins between her lips and straightens up her makeshift sewing station. As she collects the spools of thread that had attempted to escape the nest of odd bobbins and spools of an assortment of colors of thread, she can't prevent her eyes from glancing over at the teen boy who’s attempting to swallow Jo in a hug. While she’s too young to wade deeper into her own emotions, she’s perturbed by the small pest named Envy that nips at the walls of heart. She’s not mad, not angry at either her sister or the boy, but she wants to be hugged like that. She wants to be seen & touched with the same feeling of “I feel you, and, therefore, I know you”. For a brief moment, the stories of far fetched courtship and romance are a faint taste on the tip of her tongue, real and tangy. Seeing her younger sister and being old enough to swim in the depths of her own feelings, the eldest March strolls over as a wreath of wisdom hangs around her head. With a knowing gaze and sturdy smile, she bends down so her lips are the same height as Ducky’s ear.

“Do you think he’s handsome?” she whispers to her younger sister as her words bubble up into a giggle. Ducky’s head shoots around to look at her older sister. A similar shade of red to the wound on her finger soaks into her entire face. Her nails dig into her palms, and her chest shutters from the pounding of her heart.

“Shut it, Meg!” she mutters out while gathering the last bobbins and placing them back into the small heap of thread. Laughing over the embarrassment of a young lover, Meg presses a hand against Ducky’s shoulder before gliding over to assist in admiring Amy’s dress by the mirror.

“Ducky, what have you planned for the right hand man to the hero, the protagonist, of my tale?” Jo enthuses as she rushes over to the younger sister’s station. Scooping up a pile of concepts and measurements all messily scrawled across different sheets of paper in looping, unfocused handwriting, the middle March digs through the loose scraps of paper until pulling out several ideas all scribbled on with a stick of graphite and colored pencils. Jo leans over to peer at the drawn figures, and the teen boy mirrors her movements. Sketched onto the paper in coagulating shapes, a drawing of a man clad in a puffy nectarine orange jacket in gold trim and forest green waistcoat dawns the garments over a pair of orange slacks in a matching shade and white high collar shirt with a forest green and orange striped cravat.

“Perhaps the costume will make up for the fact that you can’t act,” Jo quips out as the two gaze at the young girl’s sketches. Teddy whips his head around to glare at the elder sister as she begins to leap away. Never does Jo simply “walk”, rather, her spirits carry the heels of her weathered leather boots just an inch above the physical Earth. To Ducky, Jo is beyond what any human can promise to be. After all, no mere human of flesh and blood could survive carrying the weight of tenacity and creativity like her sister does. Jo flings her body around and contorts it like a hanging rag left to dry in the wind, and the taupe skirt of her dress wrings her as she flips around to face Teddy.

“You wound me so,” he replies with a filling smile. Jo’s hand flies up to smack Teddy’s forearm.

“Good, make use of that anguish in scene fourteen,” Jo quickly snips back as she starts to float away with the spirit of genius, her true paramore, “Now, stand here and do whatever Ducky tells you to do without any complaint.”

“What if she stabs me?” Laurie whines while he finds his place where Amy had recently stood before him.

“I don’t want to hear any of it! You most likely deserve it, anyways,” Jo declares before rushing away to join her two other sisters by the mirror. A squeal of delight leaves Amy’s lips as she scampers away, chasing a distant thought that rattles around in her head.

“I’ll paint my shoes to match!” Amy giggles as she rushes off, leaving the two other sisters to follow her in quick pursuit. With a small smile, Ducky attempts to silently apologize for her sisters’ behaviors.

“Never a dull moment, eh?” Teddy eases her with a knowing glance, and she shares the look while flipping to a blank page in her notepad. Grabbing her measuring tape from around her neck, the middle March brushes back a few strands of hair that had escaped from her makeshift updo, kept together only by a single piece of loose, pale pink ribbon. Lightly gripping his forearms, her fingers sink into the billowing fabric of his watery gray shirt.

“I’ll need to take your measurements. If I touch you in any way that’s discomforting, let me know,” she explains to him as she guides his arms up to extend out like a child’s when they’re pretending to be an airplane. The tips of his fingers brush against the fading cream and pink flowers that orner the sage green background of the wallpaper that, over the past years, has been dented and scraped from calloused yet tender fingers of youth. Nodding in reply, he stands stalk still as she wraps the measuring tape around his arm before jotting down the measurements in her small notebook.

“Jo told me that you're some sort of expert seamstress,” Laurie informs her, speaking to try and swallow the silence that the two of them are sinking in. As the tips of her fingers brush against his, a pursed smile tucks itself into her lips.

“I’m nothing close to that, but I do sew,” Ducky corrects him while she slips the tape around his neck, continuing her work.

“Is that your big dream? Jo will be a writer, Meg will act, Amy will paint and Beth plays, and you’ll sew?” he asks with a sense of genuine inquisitiveness, tilting his head back as she leans in to better see the faded numbers, leaving about a hand’s width of space between his face and hers. However, as she’s consumed by her work, she isn’t sent awry by the lack of distance between the two. Whispering the measurement to herself, she ushers back to her notepad and copies down the digits, pausing from the conversation to focus on her craft.

“No, no, that’s Jo’s dream for me,” she admits while shuffling to loop the tape around his bust.

“Well then, what will you be?” Laurie continues as he raises his hands above his head to allow Ducky to reach around him comfortably. She pauses for a moment, both engulfed in her work and unsure how to answer his question. Tendrils of sunlight begin poking through the window as the sky starts to fade to a rusty hue.

“I’m not quite sure,” she begins as she turns to copy more digits before adjusting the tape to next measure his hips, “Far. Free, not depending on any man to live how I want to.” Listing off her floating aspirations, Teddy gazes down and watches her precise fingers whisper a secret against the rippling powder blue, silk fabric of his waistcoat.

“What about you? What’s your dream?” she swings the question back to him, and he’s slightly taken aback by her forwardness. Often entranced by Jo and her wild acclaims of the future, he’s yet to think about what it is that he wants. Pursing his lips, the boy considers several archived visions of an ideal future that he’s contemplated in the past.

“Well, I want to marry a woman. I want to spend my days free from tutoring, content to do whatever I please whenever I’d please. Maybe I’d settle down and put my musical talents to some use, as they’re the only talents my grandfather thinks has worth,” Teddy admits, and, as he discusses his aspirations for his future, a dull ache washes over Ducky, and she’s faced with an answer that’s unfamiliar to her. When her sisters are faced with the question “what do you dream?” every single one of them has a secret truth that is inlaid in the very foundation of their mind. They dream of safety. Of a home that is good enough, and a husband that is kind enough. Of a life that is fulfilling enough. They dream of the brink of enough, of simply a little more than bearable. A man can dream of happiness, but a woman only hopes for enough. Only has Jo honestly strayed from this path, as even Amy, with age, begins to share the three other March’s mindset. Jo continues to strive for greatness, and Ducky can do nothing but admire her for it.

“I sincerely pray for a safe and speedy recovery to any woman who falls for your ‘charms’,” Ducky retorts, and, for a second, her own tone reminds her greatly of Meg. The eldest sister always spoke with a sense of grace and intellect that Ducky found surreal. How could one speak like a bubbling brook flows? For a moment, as the words dribble out from her lips, Ducky is filled with the same rush of ease that she often feels when Meg is teasing Jo. As if called on by a greater divinity, just as Ducky finishes her measurements, Jo and Meg rush back over, with Meg sporting a new, oily black mustache painted onto her face.

“Teddy, come quickly,” Jo commands to her companion, snatching his arm and dragging him along before he has time to digest her words. There’s no goodbye or reply as he follows behind Jo like a puppy on her heel. As he’s hurried away, Ducky’s eyes linger on his stumbling frame as the timid smile from her lips falls. The middle March begins to curl into herself as the eldest ushers across the dining, over to her sister. Meg rests her cheek against the side of Ducky’s head as, with her embrace, she shields Ducky from the world’s eye.

“Ducky, tell me plainly and you mustn't lie. Do you fancy him, Teddy?” she asks her younger sister, but both of them already know the answer without speaking. Closing her notepad, Ducky doesn’t even glance up at her sister as she presses her weight into her older sister’s frame. The younger March curls up into her sister’s embrace and folds herself into the young girl that used to hide in Meg’s nightgowns as shrieking thunderstorms raged through the night.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel. He’s already in love with Jo,” she mutters into her sister’s chest as she wallows and wades in her own misery. Of course he loves Jo, who couldn’t fall in love with Jo? When she’s basking in the light of her own flowing talent and erudition, everyone falls in love with her. Jo is everything every mother never wants her daughter to be, and, in that right, she is what every mother prays her daughter becomes. She has never changed and, yet, is constantly born anew with each day. Never a lady, but yet an adult, wise yet naive to the weight of the world, everybody is in love with Jo, and this love holds no romantic intention. Rather, it is a deep well of devotion to a person that fills a lover’s stomach and renders one completely whole. To love someone entirely is to find peace within yourself and be content with one’s nature when in the presence of the one you love. So, in this manner, Ducky is entirely in love with Jo.

“It matters a great deal to me how you feel,” her older sister reminds her while strands of Ducky’s hair begin to curl around and hug Meg’s finger, “I’ll always want to hear about your feelings, no matter how large or pointless they may seem.” Silently, the two of them bask in each other’s embrace, and, without a word, Ducky knows her older sister understands her emotions inside & out. In her arms, she feels protected from everything, come snow or hail. In her arms, she is safe to be a young, scared girl.

Please comment & repost, & check out the whole fic :)). If you want me to add u to a taglist, lmk, & please send any laurie x reader drabble/fic requests my way!! I'd love to hear y'alls ideas! Have a lovely rest of your day, friends! <3

#timothée chalamet #theodore laurence x reader #laurie x reader #little women 2019 #laurie laurence #laurie laurence x reader #louisa may alcott #little women #timothee chalamet fanfiction #little women fanfiction #laurie laurence fanfiction

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casuallyimagining · 7 months

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Set Me Free || myg

min yoongi x female reader

Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always.

Posting October 21, 2023, 8pm EDT

new teaser under the cut

It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block, the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.

But who’s counting?

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

it's finally here! I'm so excited to share this with you. I'd love to know your thoughts and whether or not you're excited!! there's so much more I wanted to include, but maybe (hopefully) there will be a part 2 somewhere down the road.

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bluelightning16 · 9 months

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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.)

#twisted wonderland #twst #ask response #silver twst #lilia vanrouge #malleus draconia #sebek zigvolt #witch au

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ashwithapen · 8 months

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dissociative disorder? uh yeah, i sure hope it does

and so suddenly, it's just me here. the bright, life-filled wonder i lived within for just a day has faded out with the music and so suddenly, it's just me here.

today is wednesday august 30th and i have school in two days. i turn an adult in a little less than five months and still don't feel so much older than 14. i'm still a kid with a keyboard clacking beneath their fingers, painting a dimmed screen with miserable lines of text. i'm still a kid so full of fantasy that when my unfiltered joy is met with the expectations of my age i crumple from the bottom up and top down in one breath, debris colliding at my heart where a fire is doused.

whose skin is this, pinched questioningly between foreign fingers? whose neck is bleeding from a sharp hangnail and whose scalp is stale and parched for shampoo? who is popping their joins in the middle of the witching hours, the sound ever so distant?

a laugh track plays on repeat behind my staggered breaths: one too shallow and the next too deep and so on, a group of the most mindless trying to perform the dance of life and keep the oxygen moving. i hear her laughing, 14, and i pity her and her rainbow drawings, waxed into the in-between pages of a forgotten notebook. she isn't going to college. the only future she has will also be waxed into the in-between pages, breathing that sweet summer oxygen only every other moment, like my staggered breaths: one too short and the next even shorter and so on until some end comes of it.

the cogs and whatnots keep the fan turning up there on the pitched ceiling, every part of it so old and scary that the child of the forest is resigned to crying yet again into a pair of unnamed arms. a creak and a crick and a squeal and a swill and a dip and with a yell the whole ceiling comes down and sends baby right back where she left.

and oh we are hungry, starving, gnashing our teeth at every flash of fresh meat, starving. wet dog on the porch, half-blind, twice my size, and he is starving. a hand misses his teeth by accident, its fingers young and untrained. the watcher prays this is not another falsehood of its memory. when the child pets the starving dog, everything stills, and then she laughs. and then the ceiling comes down, and the porch is made wider, and the rain meets skin, and there are two wet dogs, starving.

and so suddenly, so shortly, so quickly, with the same fading of the music, the same clacking of the keys, the same fan and same dog and same me, it appears that i am alone. here, in the dark where both the world sleeps, i find the waning of noir in its countless hues to be it all. so many memories, so many scared faces stuck in a game where everyone is unsure just how long they've been playing. the world could end and who's to say the turns wouldn't keep coming and going so cyclically, one day so bright and the next so dull and the whole thing just one digit different in an expanse of noir, something so vast that these precious words in between are born to be forgotten—you find comfort in that: that even your words exist on borrowed consciousness.

and to just keep going, drawing a word and another and so on how you just love to, repeating yourself on that borrowed consciousness, repeating yourself because you are only yourself, repeating yourself, repeating, repeating, repeating, into noir again.

have you ever been in love?

i don't think i have, not really.

i think words like "i love him" or "i love her" or "i love you" and i never say them, because that would be too far. i mean them how they mean to me, in that indescribable way. i don't say them because you won't know love how i have come to, and so those three words will sound different when they leave my lips and fall to your ears. do not mistake my loving you for me being in love. i love you, plain and simple, and it's a thing of honour to look no further into it. in my own way, in my own space, on my own terms, i love you.

soft. oh to be held so softly. unnamed arms cradling so close, light brown hair, and a deep, warm voice.

i can nearly see you, but you just won't show me your face. i could just call out to you, but alas, you are ever so unnamed.

i stare at the woods, cold and dark and creeping, and i mouth the words "thank you". i see the demoness, i see her glowing eyes, i see her flowing robes, i see her antlers. i hope your house is warm, wherever exactly it is. i hope she eats well and isn't afraid to cling to your arm or laugh as loud as her little lungs allow. she never got what she deserved. please. give her what she deserves.

#ash writes #life writing #drabbles #writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #writers #writers and poets #writerscommunity #poetsandwriters #dissociative system #actually dissociative #osddid #did osdd #osdd system #osdd #osdd 1b

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storiesbyrhi · 1 year

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Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Chapter Summary: When is a man, not a man?

1986

The elecampane was easy to find, but for the hawthorn less so. You had to spend the next day’s afternoon driving around Indiana looking for a store that might sell it. Eventually, a herbalist gave you the address of an off-the-grid botanist. They had all sorts of non-native species.

She had invited you into her house. “A witch is always welcome.”

You didn’t ask how she knew and she didn’t tell you. With hawthorn berries and spikes in hand, you drove back to Hawkins, arriving too late to cast any spell other than slumber. The bat would have to wait one more day.

The sun had barely begun to warm when the bat climbed onto your head and nipped at the tips of your ears. He wouldn’t be stopped, your attempts to swat him away failing.

“Alright, alright,” you said to him, sitting up. He flew circles around the room, then headed out the bedroom door and disappeared into the trailer.

The bat chittered at you as you started a fresh brew of coffee. “No,” you warned him, finger pointed like you were scolding a child. “Coffee first. Then witchcraft. They’re the rules.”

Coffee, a piece of toast, and you got to work.

“I’m kind of… winging it here,” you explained to the bat as you squashed hawthorn berries and elecampane petals with your mortar and pestle. “This has to have a healing base, because that’s where my strength is. And I’m going to try to tailor it to both animal and human… Since we don’t really know what you are.”

The bat had sat on your shoulder, his apparent favourite place.

“But we also need the magic to see the truth… In this case, the truth of what you are. Which is why we have these.” A small mirrored circular plate and a piece of sodalite.

“The hardest part is the spell itself, the words. But like Kelsey said, if our intention is set, then you know, we should be okay.” It was reassurance for the bat, but it helped you to say it out loud too, like a good luck omen.

With the petals and berries, you mixed in a drop of witch’s blood harvested through the hawthorn plant’s sharpest thorn, some dried four-leaf-clovers for luck, moon water, honey, and some of the bat’s fur.

On the carpet of the trailer, you painted a devil’s trap. “Sorry,” you offered to the bat. “If this works too well, and it turns out you’re a demon that should not have been turned back, I need a safety net.”

At each point of the trap’s pentagram, you placed a candle. In the center, the small mirror. You took the potion and tinted the mirror’s surface, covering it entirely.

“You’re up,” you instructed. The bat glided down from his fridge-top perch onto the mirror. “Hold this.” His little claws curled around the sodalite.

You closed your eyes, focused your energy.

“Hear now the words of this witch,

secrets hidden in the night.

The oldest of Gods are evoked here;

the great work of magic is sought.

On this day and in this hour,

I call upon the ancient power.

The truth of this life is to be revealed,

And let the damage be healed.

So shall it be.”

You opened your eyes and gently pushed the bat backward off the mirror, but not out of the circle. As you wiped the potion off the surface, you repeated the final line of the spell twice more.

“So shall it be.

So shall it be.”

With trepidation, you closed your eyes again and in unsteady hands, you flipped the mirror so the bat’s image would be reflected at himself.

Only a second of silence, maybe less than, before a sharp and loud intake of breath forced your eyes open.

The bat was gone.

In his place, a man with pitch black eyes and wild waves of hair. He looked terrified. Disorientated.

You stared at each other and as you parted your lips to speak, his eyes darted to the door and he leaped for it.

“Wait!” you called after him. You followed him out the door but he was gone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He couldn’t have gone far, you figured. He was naked and the trailer park was still packed with people.

You ran up and down roads and weaved between RVs. There was not only no sign of him but no sign that anybody else had seen him either. The surrounding woods were quiet and still. It was like the man had vanished into thin air.

When your search failed, you took to your car and spent a second hour looking for him. The only thing keeping you from all out panic was the fact that the man was not a demon; he’d passed through the devil's trap easily. At least you’d not brought more death and destruction to the town of Hawkins.

As you drove back to Forest Hills, you considered calling Kelsey and telling her your spell had worked. There was a nagging thought in the back of your mind though. Small but itchy. Whatever happened to the bat and the man, it wasn’t over. The circle had not come full.

…

The first thing he felt was hunger. Agony. Then he bolted and the sunlight outside your trailer burned. He moved too quickly for anyone to see, but he didn’t go far. He crawled under the trailer through a path cleared by raccoons and other animals.

It was dark but not enough. He dug at the dirt with clawed fingers, pushing the soil until he could burrow in and curl up. Motionless for hours, he searched his mind for any sort of explanation or sense of identity. There was nothing.

He didn’t know who he was. What he was. Vaguely, where. The same place he’d watched for all those years. When he was different. Smaller.

When the sun fell low in the sky, an old opossum trotted under your trailer. The man, entirely still, could hear its heartbeat. He listened as the animal sniffed around, its hairs bristling at the smell of raccoons. The opossum didn’t know it had been grabbed. The man moved too fast, breaking its bones and ripping it open to slurp at the blood inside.

He’d not been that kind of bat. He scared himself, his eyes wide as he looked down at the carnage. After, he crawled back into his hole, fated to repeat the murder with any living thing that found its way under the trailer.

…

“What were you doing yesterday, running around like a chicken with its head cut off?”

One of your neighbours was particularly… observant. When you got up first thing in the morning the next day, you did another lap of the trailer park. Still, no signs of the man. Just signs of you going mad, apparently.

“My, ah, cat… got out. Was looking for him,”

“Your cat?”

“My cat,”

“Michelle know you got a cat?”

“I don’t. Anymore.”

There was a three second stare-off, then you went on your way.

All day, while you helped make sandwiches and organise donations at Hawkins High, you half expected the man to show up. You kept glancing at the open doors, trying not to feel disappointed when it was a regular citizen looking for help.

It had been weeks since Vecna had opened the ground. Most people had either been moved to hospitals across the state and beyond, or had their smaller injuries attended to already. It left you with less healing to do, but your help was still welcomed.

Hawkins was through the worst of it, according to most people. You had to admit, it was calm. Perhaps too calm. You felt a sense of impending doom. Vecna would not go down without a fight, and you doubted the fight could be hidden from the townspeople entirely.

Still, you said nothing and did nothing. Healing Erica had already seen you cross a line. Maybe Hawkins was in the eye of the storm, but you couldn’t be the one to sound the alarm.

…

Scratching. Gentle at first, then claws against glass causing high pitch noises that made your body physically cringe. Awake, you sat and looked around the dark room. What time was it? Scratching. Scratching. Window.

The bat was at the window.

“What the fuck?” You hurried out of bed and pushed the window up, letting the creature into your house. “Are you…” When you opened your palms, he landed on them. It was most definitely him. “Fuck! Okay… Okay… Fuck.”

…

1836

“Those are not your apples,” you stated.

The boy spun on the spot, his hair whipping around. It was rare for anyone to sneak up on him. He grinned, all teeth and menace.

“Are they yours?” he countered.

Not a boy, you noted. A man. Young, but old enough to know better.

“No,”

“Then I won’t tell if you don’t.” He tossed the apple up in the air, catching it with ease. He put it in a sack that sat at his feet. There were a lot of things in there that were not his.

“I do not agree to that.”

He picked up the sack and slung it over his shoulder, moving closer to you. You stood your ground, entirely unafraid. Up close, the moonlight reflected in his eyes, which were as dark as the night sky itself.

“Then name your price,” he said, head falling lopsided dramatically, playfully.

The man was beautiful. Maybe, in all your years of living, he was the most beautiful human you’d seen. There was something about him. It wasn’t just that his beauty was disarming. His long hair was not common for men of the era. His skin looked soft too, like he came from royalty rather than the families that tended to the fields and fought in the wars.

It was when he took one more step toward you that you both figured it out.

The man’s easy expression dropped, a suspicious and cruel looking one taking its place. He made a hiss-like sound and let go of the sack of stolen things. He crouched low to the ground.

“Witch,” he spat.

You held your reaction in with far more grace than him. “Are you alone?” you asked him, voice measured.

He did not answer.

“Or, are there more of you?”

You took a step closer to him and leaned down to pick up an apple that had rolled from the sack. You took a bite without breaking eye contact. He stayed frozen to the spot as you chewed slowly and swallowed.

“My name is Amabel,” you told him. “And this land is not mine, but nor is it yours. My coven has dominion here. Make no mistake, we will protect this land. We will protect every human on it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed at the mention of humans. He stood, sure you weren’t offering violence in that first meeting.

“What was your name before? And what will it be after Amabel?” It was not what you were expecting him to say. “Is that not what you do?” he continued. “Live among the humans, love them, watch them die, then start all over again?” You couldn’t tell if he was taunting you or genuinely asking. His tone was far more disarming than his beauty had been. “Do you not feel alone?”

Your lips parted and your eyes glassed over. He’d trapped you in a truth and to what end, you didn’t know.

A dog’s bark cut through the silence, and you briefly looked out beyond the apple orchard, then back. He was gone.

…

1986

“So shall it be.

So shall it be.

So shall it be.”

If the spell worked a second time, it would likely be of short-term effect yet again. You said as much to the bat, but as he returned on his own, you drew the conclusion he was still looking for help. The spell a second time was all you could offer immediately.

As you held the mirror up, eyes closed, you whispered, “Please don’t run. Please.”

All was silent. You were almost too scared to open your eyes, but you’d not heard the trailer door slam. He was still there.

You both searched each other’s eyes for recognition or explanation or anything even vaguely familiar. Perfect strangers, you thought. Imperfect circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” you told him, still whispering. “I’m sorry it didn’t… work… completely. I can figure this out.”

The man said nothing, tearing his gaze from you to look around the trailer. You watched him for a few seconds more before standing. The man flinched at the movement.

“It’s okay! It’s okay. I’m going to get you something to wear.”

You didn’t have a lot of spare clothes, but one of your old t-shirts would work, and some sweatpants that absolutely would not fit properly.

He was still sitting in the center of the devil’s trap when you walked back out from your bedroom. He took the clothes from your outstretched hands, and you hoped he knew what to do with them.

You turned to the kitchenette, pouring a glass of water with your back to him while he stood up and dressed.

You turned and held the glass out to him. He took it. He looked awkward, skittish. Very much like a bat turned human. Fascinated at his general weirdness, you watched him take a sip and hold the water in his mouth. He looked panicked, yet he swallowed. Almost immediately he started to cough, then he threw the water back up onto your kitchen floor.

“It’s okay,” you tried to reassure him. He was staring down at the liquid, brows pulled together.

In the two seconds it took to grab a cloth from the kitchen sink, the man was gone. The trailer door swung wide open.

You sighed but decided to not go after him. All in all, you considered what happened as progress.

…

The smell was putrid. It seemed both obscene and histrionic to have piled all the corpses in the middle of the road.

For two days in a row, dead raccoons, opossums, cats, and dogs had been found. They’d been attacked, but not really eaten. The residents and guests of Forest Hills were concerned. They were already dealing with so much, and now a rabid animal?

You stood with a few neighbours, watching Michelle boss around a couple of teenage boys, making them find all the corpses.

“Lot of them under your trailer,” she’d said, nodding at you.

“Under it?”

“Yep. Got it boarded up but the little bastards always find a way under there. Lot of room between the trailer and the ground. You don’t hear them?”

You shook your head.

Michelle shrugged. “I’ll get one of the boys to come patch the holes.”

When you’d conversed with neighbours about the horror of it all for an appropriate amount of time, you excused yourself and hurried to inspect your trailer. Around the back, behind some trash cans, you found the hole.

On your hands and knees, you peered into the crawl space. Sitting in the dirt and mud were some clothes. You didn’t need to go any further to know they were yours.

There was a word on the tip of your tongue but you didn’t dare speak it because it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t a demon, but maybe…

No. No, they had been eradicated. The species itself extinct. You’d had a hand in it yourself. There was simply no way.

Back inside your trailer, you paced from the bedroom to the lounge and back again.

Why were you in Hawkins?

What had been calling you there?

A wounded creature?

An enemy in disguise?

Had it all been a trap? A trick. A rouse to bring back the only thing you’d ever truly feared.

You cycled through options. Call Kelsey. Automatic writing to seek guidance from The Witches Who Came Before. Bite the metaphorical bullet and tell your coven what exactly you had done. Run away from Hawkins and pretend none of it had happened.

Sitting on the couch you buried your face in your hands.

No. No, you would not run. You would stay on the path you'd chosen for yourself. You would see this thing through. If a group of children could fight an impossible battle somewhere in an Upside Down Hawkins, you could right this wrong. Whatever that meant.

End Note: Don't forget to visit the Grimoire and timeline! I am so excited to bring you to the 1836 events...

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#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Witch!Reader

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