#witch!reader

You were a good witch—phenomenal, even.

Your elderly professors at the Academy of Decelis still sang praises of you, even now, even after years had passed.

Despite your young age, despite how you used to spill half your potions on the floor or set feathers on fire because you misread a measurement, you excelled where it mattered:

You helped people.

Humans, elves, dwarves, dragon hybrids, even that one overly beautiful succubus who would saunter into your workshop during your academy days.

The one who asked for energy potions and always made you fumble the swan feathers with bright red ears because she thought your flustered panic was amusing.

You could handle all of that.

But nothing—and absolutely nothing—prepared you for hosting a housewarming party with half the witches from your district crammed inside your new home.

The kitchen alone felt like a bustling marketplace.

Your oven hummed with warm enchantments, the smell of barbecue ribs filling the entire house and drifting lazily into the living room. Pots floated overhead, levitating spices drifted like tiny stars, and animated brooms swept crumbs with attitudes.

You hummed under your breath as you pulled a fresh tray of brownies from the oven. The chocolatey scent instantly made two witches nearby perk up like cats offered tuna. You transferred the brownies onto a wide platter, careful not to burn your fingers as you moved.

Laughter and chatter filled the space, bouncing against the tall windows and wooden beams overhead. Colored lanterns flickered with soft witchlight, casting dancing glows on the countertops.

Hana—your tall, sharp-tongued, beautiful fellow witch—leaned over a giant slab of ribs with a dramatic sigh.

“Now that is a beef rib,” she declared, eyes sparkling.

You snorted softly, brushing a bit of flour off your apron. “Thank you,” you said, watching her wave her hand.

The massive pan floated off the stovetop, shimmering with Hana’s spellwork before landing gently on the counter. “My husband would die for something like that,”

You raised a brow at that, instantly remembering the orc who had come into your shop three days ago asking for something to help his cooking, “Wait, what?”

She grinned. “He tried to cook dinner for us.”

You gasped. “He actually cooked?”

Hana crossed her arms with a dramatic huff. “Not only did he cook, (Y/N)—it tasted really good.”

You raised a brow, impressed. “So you’re telling me the cooking potion bundle worked that well?”

Hana gave you a look that was half amusement and half exasperated fondness.

“That just means you’re really good with potions, (Y/N). Your stuff actually works. Which is terrifying, but also very helpful.”

You couldn’t help the warmth that spread across your chest. Your ears tinged pink as you placed the platter of brownies down next to the ribs.

“Oh, stop that,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed you.

You grabbed the platter again, circling around the counter. Hana trailed after you, balancing the massive tray of ribs in her arms like it weighed nothing.

Together, you set them down on the long dining table—already overflowing with dishes, spell-cooled drinks, enchanted fruit bowls, and pastries that periodically refilled themselves.

Three witches sat on the right side of the table, chatting loudly. Two more nestled on the left, whispering over steaming mugs. As soon as you and Hana took your seats, the chatter grew louder.

You huffed dramatically. “Are we feeding the whole town?”

A witch with silver-streaked hair—Haneul—laughed, waving a fork in your direction. “Well, it’s only necessary for us to welcome you properly. You’re new, after all. This is tradition.”

You untied your apron, letting it float away toward the kitchen rack with a soft shimmer of purple smoke. Bam immediately hopped onto your lap, curling up like a warm loaf of dough. You stroked his head, and he purred deeply, bell glowing faintly.

Miyoung, seated across from you, lifted her glass high. “I’m proposing a toast!”

A collective cheer rose around the table as every witch—yourself included—raised a glass. The scent of rich wine drifted up as Miyoung swirled hers dramatically.

“To (Y/N). Thank the gods and goddesses for bringing her to Vamfield. We needed another witch in town.”

You smiled sheepishly as murmurs of agreement rippled around you.

“And congratulations on opening your shop,” Miyoung continued, pride sparkling in her eyes. “I heard business is already booming.”

Your smile widened, chest tightening with a warm, fizzy feeling.

Before you could respond, Hana leaned in with a wicked grin. “And we hope she finds a husband soon—before some werewolf pounces on her.”

Your face went hot instantly. “Hana! I’m fine being single, thank you.”

The table erupted in laughter. A few witches clinked glasses together, others giggled behind their hands, and someone muttered something about werewolves being ‘terrible at subtlety.’

You took a quick sip of your wine, flushing even deeper at the implications. Bam flicked his tail in amusement.

You clapped your hands softly, trying to bury your embarrassment under hostess mode. “Please, enjoy the food.”

Dinner went on smoothly—smooth enough that you almost forgot how flustered Hana had made you earlier.

From small talk to loud banter to repeated compliments about the ribs, the evening mellowed into that warm glow only good food and good company could bring.

You had taken a particular liking to Sujin’s gravy mashed potatoes, sprinkled with fresh parsley leaves. You ate three small bowls before anyone noticed, and when they did, they only laughed and pushed the dish closer to you.

Eventually, as was natural when witches gathered, everyone drifted upstairs.

The next part of the night unfolded on the carpeted floor of your main bedroom. The soft purple glow from the enchanted lights hanging above your bed frame mixed with the warm, flickering glow of your chandelier, painting the room in shades of lavender and gold.

You sat in a circle with them, each holding a goblet of wine—goblets that had been refilled far too many times judging by the four empty bottles resting sadly near the foot of your bed.

Hana took a massive gulp of her wine and plopped her goblet down with theatrical flair. “Well,” she said, throwing her hands up, “he was a shy fellow despite his stature.”

Sujin nudged her, laughing. “Oh please. He’s been into you for the longest time! Don’t act innocent.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with one hand—partly from amusement, partly to keep the drunken smile off your face. “How long have you two even been together?”

Hana tapped her chin dramatically. “Hmm… oh, about five years? More or less.”

You nodded as you took a sip of wine… then paused mid-swallow. Four—no, five—emptied bottles sat near your circle, glistening like witnesses to your collective demise.

“Gods…” you murmured, staring at them. “How are we still alive?”

The women burst into laughter.

Haneul, leaning fully onto Yunhee’s shoulder, raised her goblet with dangerous confidence. “You can’t blame Hana. They say orcs are the best in bed.”

You instantly spat your wine back into your cup.

You folded forward, coughing into your hands as Yunhee rubbed circles on your back. “Are you okay?”

You nodded while coughing, eyes watering, face burning—and the more flustered you got, the harder the women laughed.

Hana scooted closer, cheeks rosy from alcohol. “Say, (Y/N)…?”

Your head lifted slowly. “…Yes?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with drunken curiosity. “Have you ever had sex?”

Your whole face flushed, your ears burned, your throat closed up—and you actually pulled your knees to your chest. The motion hiked your dress just an inch higher on your thighs, the soft fabric slipping upward without your permission.

Your skin prickled from the contrast: the cold air of the room against your legs… and the heat of the wine blooming through your chest.

Hana slapped her own forehead lightly. “Sorry! That came off so direct—gods, I’m tipsy. I meant… have you?”

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “N-No.”

Sujin reached over, gently tugging your skirt back down so it no longer exposed half your thigh. “There, there,” she cooed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Your face burned even hotter.

Hana blinked at you in pure disbelief. “Really? But you’re so pretty.”

Haneul jabbed her with an elbow. “Oh come on. Just because you have a husband doesn’t mean everyone needs to get dicked down.”

Sujin groaned into her hands. “Haneul…”

“What?” Haneul lifted her chin proudly.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Sujin asked.

Haneul perked up instantly. “I do! And he’s a werewolf. And they have the best knots ever.”

You let out a noise that could only be described as a tiny, strangled mouse-hiccup of horror.

Sujin dragged a hand down her face. “Ladies, please, not in front of (Y/N).”

You shook your head frantically. “N-No, it’s okay! I’m fine! Really!”

You hugged your knees tighter, trying to hide the fact your entire body felt like it was overheating. “It’s just… embarrassing to talk about.”

Miyoung leaned forward, brows raised. “How is it embarrassing?”

You slumped fully this time, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s weird because I haven’t experienced it.”

Hana took a slow sip of wine. “Not even with any of your ex-boyfriends?”

You inhaled deeply… and took a giant gulp of your wine for courage. “Never had one,” you admitted, voice small.

The collective gasp that erupted shook the room.

A strange, heavy, wine-thick silence that wrapped around you all for a few long, suspended heartbeats. Your flushed cheeks, your curled knees, the warm pulse of embarrassment in your ears—everything held still.

Until—Yunhee snapped her fingers.

In the very center of your small circle, three black candles materialised out of thin air, their smooth wax bodies glinting under the chandelier light.

You blinked. The wine haze in your head didn’t distort a thing—you saw that correctly.

“What… what’s that for?” you asked, eyes narrowing in wary confusion.

Hana turned toward her slowly, a grin stretching across her flushed face—one that promised trouble. Yunhee grinned back with the same exact expression, like their brains had merged the second the candles appeared.

Your brow lifted. “Okay, what are you two thinking?”

Sujin sighed, already massaging her temples. “That does not work.”

You blinked harder. “What exactly does not work?”

Miyoung gave you a sheepish smile, cheeks rosy, eyes sparkling with just enough alcohol to make her bold. “We do this little thing. As a joke. Mostly. But it never actually works—”

“It never does,” Sujin interrupted firmly, coughing into her fist like she refused to be associated with whatever foolishness was forming.

Miyoung shot her a glare sharp enough to slice through stone. Sujin avoided eye contact immediately, pretending the enchantment papers pinned to your pegboard were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Miyoung continued, voice softer now. “We basically try to summon something—anything. But none of us are seasoned enough for real conjuring. They say it only works when you truly need a companion.”

You stared at her—then slowly nodded, your brain trying to swim through the wine to reach the meaning behind her words. “I’ve done summonings before…”

Collectively, all the women turned to look at you—eyes widening, wine-bright, glittering with instant mischief.

You sighed, waving a limp hand in defeat. “Like small things. Missing stuff I can’t find. Or Bam. Even when he decides to go sleep back in whatever realm he crawled from.”

You sighed again. “It never works on mythical beings.”

Sujin burst into laughter. “But aren’t we mythical beings?”

Hana swatted her arm. “You’re not a dragon or a prince of hell, you idiot.”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. A soft, tiny, tired smile. Their banter was ridiculous. Loud. Sloppy. Endearing.

Your mind drifted—not fully by choice.

The mansion was beautiful, yes, but vast. Echoing. Too quiet. Too cold.

You often found yourself wandering through the gardens at dusk, the air thick with the scent of the dark red roses and white lilies you’d planted to make the place feel less… hollow. Less lonely.

Even Bam hissed when your room got too cold at night, forcing you to curl up in your silk blankets alone, the emptiness heavier than the darkness.

Maybe that was why the idea didn’t sound so insane.

You blinked down at your wine again—then lifted your head. “Let’s do it.”

“Hm?” Sujin’s head shot up. “(Y/N)… you know you really don’t have to.”

You shook your head, pushing your goblet gently aside. “But I want to. It sounds fun.”

A pause, a flicker of something bold beneath your embarrassment.

“Plus,” you added, looking at each of them, “you said it never works on anything big, right?”

Hana leaned in, whispering, “Correct…”

You inhaled as the wine emboldened you, the loneliness hummed beneath your ribs, the candles flickered—almost expectant.

“Well then,” you said slowly, your voice soft but certain as you placed your hands on your knees. “Let’s try summoning a Prince of Hell… shall we?”

You pushed yourself up from the plush carpet, your dress slipping slightly along your thighs with the movement, heat crawling across your skin despite the coolness of the room. The soft purple glow from your hanging lights draped your figure in a dreamy haze as you crossed your bedroom.

To the right—tucked beside your working table—was a single dark oak door.

You wrapped your fingers around the cold brass handle and pushed it open.

The enchantment responded immediately.

The door swung into a space far larger than the physical room allowed—a neverending storage that stretched into a twilight horizon. Shelves floated without touching the walls. Bottles glimmered like trapped stars. Failed potions shimmered in dusty glass, long-abandoned academy experiments lined up like trophies.

Your bare feet stepped onto the hardwood floor enchanted to look like the night sky. Indigo, navy, scattered with tiny glowing points—every step sent ripples through the illusion, as though you were walking through constellations.

Your eyes scanned shelf after shelf.

“Come on… where are you…” you murmured, fingertips grazing jars filled with swirling blues, bubbling purples, pulsing reds.

“Aha.” your lips curved softly. “There you are.”

Your hand closed around a tall crystal jar, the black salt inside glowing faintly—like ink infused with stars, shifting and restless under your touch.

You nudged the door shut behind you with your foot as you walked back toward your waiting circle of witches.

The moment they saw the jar, they straightened like children spotting candy.

Haneul whispered, “Is that…?”

“Black salt,” you confirmed, lifting a finger.

The lid popped open as though obeying your gesture. The salt rose in a soft swirl, forming a tiny suspended cloud before pouring itself gracefully onto the carpet.

The room fell into an expectant hush as the dark particles traced glowing lines across the floor—curves, sharp points, intersecting edges—until a summoning pentagram began to form between your group.

Miyoung hummed nervously. “Are we sure this is going to work this time…?”

You shrugged, entirely too honest. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. This is going to be my first time summoning a living being. Besides Bam.”

The jar finished emptying and, with a soft tink sound, dissolved into particles of black light before disappearing into the air.

You clapped your hands together, smile gentle yet tinged with uncertainty. “Am I missing something…?”

Yunhee raised her hand immediately like a student asking to speak. “A circle of protection?”

Haneul snorted. “We… don’t normally do that.”

“That’s because you always summon dust bunnies,” Sujin muttered.

Haneul scoffed, crossing her arms and jerking her head to the side in an offended posture. “Because I need something to eat the dust in the corners I can’t reach. You know my werewolf of a husband is so allergic to them.”

You let out a soft giggle—light, honest, not even bothering to hold it back.

“I… didn’t think dust allergies were a werewolf trait,” you murmured, tilting your head as you raised one hand.

At your gesture, a thin trail of white salt lifted from nowhere, swirling gently before cascading down in a soft ring around all of you. The protection circle formed effortlessly, a glowing band settling outside the much larger summoning circle.

Every grain of salt fell with a tiny sparkle of purple smoke—your magic flowing through each particle as it touched the hardwood floor.

“Do relationships usually end up with this much… bickering?” you asked softly, eyes following the final drifting grains. “Because I don’t think I’d enjoy it very much.”

The witches all paused—tipsy smiles blooming across their faces.

Sujin reached out, touching your arm lightly, careful not to break your focus as the salt sealed itself with a shimmer. “(Y/N), honey… you will. I promise.”

Miyoung coughed into her palm, trying to hide a smirk behind her wine goblet. “Says the single witch.”

Sujin shot her a glare sharp enough to cut a broom in half.

You flicked your fingers again, summoning the last of the ritual components: five tall black candles appearing in the pentagram’s corners, two more rising from the air as if grown from shadows.

You lit them with a twirl of your wrist, fire blooming from your fingertips in warm, golden sparks that made the room glow.

Sujin’s voice softened when her attention returned to you. She brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek—one you had styled perfectly earlier but had fallen loose in all the laughter.

“What I’m trying to say is that the gods and goddesses will answer your wishes, you know? You may never know… you might be married, and you’ll finally get to share easy birthing tricks with Hana in no time.”

Hana perked up instantly. “Hey, we’ve been trying, you know. I feel like I’ll get pregnant soon enough.”

Haneul sighed dramatically. “If you didn’t work so much, you’d probably be well-rested enough to conceive one.”

“Excuse you,” Hana shot back, smacking her lightly with her goblet. “Not all of us can rely on our boyfriends’ supernatural stamina.”

You smiled at the soft banter—warm, fond, something inside your chest loosening at the sound of it.

You turned your gaze toward Sujin again, your voice gentle. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot.”

She gave you a small, teasing but affectionate smile. “Oh please. I’m only doing my job as a good friend. Witches need to stick together after all.”

You laughed under your breath—quiet, sweet—before clapping your hands softly, loud enough to pull everyone's attention back to you.

“Now,” you said, letting your eyes linger on the glowing rune circle, the candles, your friends’ expectant faces. “Where were we?”

Miyoung moved forward immediately, the hem of her velvet skirt brushing the hardwood as she approached the shimmering ring of salt. She set her wine down with the softest clink, eyes fixed on the glow like a moth to flame.

“May I?” she asked, her voice suddenly steady—clearer than it had been all night—gesturing delicately to the protective circle you’d created.

You nodded.

Sujin and Haneul moved closer at the same time, though both hesitated the moment your hands lifted. Still, they reached for you—Sujin on your right, Haneul on your left—each of them lacing their fingers with yours like you were holding something fragile.

Hana and the other witch stepped in as well, their hands connecting around the circle until all five of you were linked, breath syncing, hearts thudding.

Miyoung inhaled deeply. You watched the rise of her chest, the way her lashes fluttered—she almost looked sober like this, stripped of her giggly exterior and dipped into something ancient.

“Great Ones above… Great Ones below…” Miyoung began, the words rolling out of her like she’d rehearsed them in dreams.

“Hear us as we call. Blood of earth, breath of moon, flame of the first spark… guide us. Open the veils you have woven. Let our intentions reach you—unbroken, untouched, unbound.”

You felt it immediately—magic tightening like a silk ribbon around your ribs.

The room’s music faltered into silence.

A hush pressed against your ears.

Miyoung continued, and gods, you couldn’t help staring. Her eyes had gone wide—glassy, childlike—like she was seeing the magic physically respond to her for once, bending and breathing differently under your influence.

The other witches kept their eyes shut tight, afraid of even blinking. Everyone knew this kind of magic didn’t appreciate sudden movement. Shadows could slip the wrong way. Candles could go out. A spark could—

Barely—a tremble in the atmosphere so light it could’ve been imagination.

It wasn’t Bam, you knew his presence like you knew your heartbeat.

He hadn’t been there since dinner ended, vanishing back to the Familiar Realm with a flick of his tail, wanting peace instead of dealing with you drunk-summoning gods at one in the morning.

Miyoung drew in another breath, her voice dipping lower, the candle flames tugged toward her like they were bowing.

“Divine Mothers… Watchers of fate… hear our sister’s longing. Let her wishes be carried to you on threads of light and shadow both. Let the path meant for her unfold.”

A ripple skated across the salt like wind over water.

You felt Sujin squeeze your hand tighter. You could practically feel her trying not to look at the pentagram—witches always said the quickest way to get a lash of magic to the eye was to stare directly at the center.

And as much as Sujin liked you, she liked her eyesight more.

The shadows on the walls had begun moving.

Tendrils—slithering, curling—stretching like fingers, twisting with the violet glow of your hanging lights, making the entire room look like something out of an ancient storybook your grandmother would’ve warned you not to read.

The chandelier flickered.

The enchanted flames—supposedly eternal—shrunk as if frightened, dimming until the crystals were bathed in almost-night.

“Let her heart be known,” Miyoung whispered, “let her name be marked. Let the future she seeks be brought forth with grace.”

Another shadow curled around one of the candles. A violet spark sizzled.

You gasped—sharp and involuntary—as the air in the room suddenly changed.

Cold. Not winter cold. But the cold of forests and damp earth and moss crushed under invisible feet—the faint smell of pine, of night fog, of something old as time walking through the bushes surrounding your mansion.

The shadows responded instantly as they slithered closer.

From the corners of your room, from under the shelves, from behind the curtains—streaks of black stretching, lengthening, thickening. Growing larger with every second, as though something was inhaling them like threads being pulled into a loom.

The chandelier above you flickered violently.

The black candles—already burning faster than any candle had a right to—began melting like they were racing toward nothingness, wax dripping in long, frantic streams.

But not a drop hit the floor, every droplet froze mid-fall. A black tear suspended in the air, turning solid the moment the cold touched it.

The temperature dropped again—ice sliding down your spine.

Sujin cracked one eye open, “Look—” she whispered.

Your gaze snapped back to the center of the circle.

Black smoke was forming—twisting upward like a vine climbing an invisible pole, sparkling under the dim lighting—little flecks of starlight embedded inside the darkness.

It didn’t look like smoke, it looked like the night sky itself was leaking into your living room.

The others opened their eyes, one by one, breaths caught in their throats, their faces illuminated by the shifting gold and purple glow in the room.

You whispered, barely breathing, “It’s… beautiful.”

And terrifying, beautifully terrifying.

The smoke glittered like cosmic dust, or crystals mined from the deepest caverns—sharp and shimmering.

“That’s either your future husband,” Sujin muttered, “or Bam playing tricks on us.”

You blinked for the first time since Miyoung started speaking. Your voice came out soft, but sure, “Bam’s smoke is purple. He stems from my magic. This… there’s no way this is him.”

Miyoung swallowed, then continued the last of the spell, her voice trembling with reverence more than fear, “By star and stone… by thread and time… let what is destined answer. Let what is chosen appear.”

Her eyes squinted sharply at the shape forming in the smoke.

Shadows stretched across every surface, soaking your walls, your carpet, your faces in a wash of twilight—deep purples, molten golds, streaks of shadow dancing like they had minds of their own.

And then—in a single blink, a single heartbeat, a single terrifying, breath-snatching moment—the shadows slithered away.

Pulled back like liquid being sucked into cracks of the walls, like your home was drinking them in, swallowing them whole.

The warmth of the candles returned too quickly, too unnaturally—as if the darkness had only been a hallucination you all agreed upon.

And the smoke—the star-flecked, shimmering, impossibly ancient smoke rising in the center of the pentagram—vanished.

As if it hadn’t been reaching toward your chandelier just seconds ago, as if none of it had ever happened at all.

You stared at the empty space, bewildered, breath stuttering in your chest. Your eyes slowly drifted back down to Miyoung, who stared at you with the exact same confused crease between her brows.

“What in the world…” you murmured.

You broke your hands free from Sujin and Haneul’s grips, stepping directly into the summoning circle.

“(Y/N)—” Hana called after you, alarm tightening her tone.

But you barely heard her, your gaze was fixed on something glittering on the floor.

There were specks of black dust—not sand, not salt, not ash. It sparkled—tiny flecks of starlight, too dazzling, too alive to be anything from your jar of black salt.

You crouched, fingertips brushing the particles. They clung to your skin like they had chosen you.

“Huh,” you whispered, lifting your hand closer to your face. “Well… that was weird.”

You stood, the dust still shining between your fingers.

Miyoung stepped closer, leaning in with narrowed, fascinated eyes. “I’ve never seen that kind of dust before,” she whispered. “Not even in cross-realm summoning.”

You shrugged, though your heart was still sprinting inside your chest.

“Well, that just proves that summoning beings doesn’t really work,” you sighed. “At least not for me.”

You rubbed your fingers together to shake off the glitter, but the dust clung stubbornly—refusing to fall, refusing to fade.

Turning back to the group of women, you mustered a wry smile.

With a soft snap of your fingers, the entire mess of the failed summoning—salt, wax, lingering energy—burst into a small puff of purple smoke and vanished beneath you.

“Are you lot staying for the night,” you asked lightly, brushing your hands off, “or heading home before you sober up and regret everything?”

You stepped beside Hana, rubbing her shoulder despite the fact she was comforting you all evening.

Hana laughed under her breath, shaking her head at herself while leaning into your touch like she needed it more than she wanted to admit.

Yunhee spoke first, her pout dramatic enough to rival a teenager punished for breathing too loudly.

“As much as we’d love to,” she sighed, eyes soft with apology, “we have homes to get to.”

You waved a dismissive hand, your smile gentle.

“No need to apologize. I already bothered you ladies enough with this whole housewarming dilemma.”

Haneul let out a long sigh, stepping forward with her arms already open.

“Don’t say that,” she scolded softly. “We’re always welcome to help you. You know that. You’re part of the community now.”

Before you could respond, she wrapped you in a tight hug—warm, comforting, almost motherly. You let go of Hana’s shoulder to return it, pulling Haneul closer as if she was the one who needed reassurance.

“I’ll stop by your store tomorrow,” she mumbled into your shoulder, pouting. “Okay? I’ll make you my famous hot chocolate.”

Before you could tell her she didn’t have to, Yunhee grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her gently back.

“And give her chocolate poisoning because you’re too sad about what happened tonight?” Yunhee said, deadpan, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think (Y/N) would appreciate that.”

Haneul gasped dramatically. “H–Hey!”

You couldn’t help it—a soft, helpless laugh spilled out of you as you walked toward the door, your steps light on the carpet.

You wrapped your fingers around the dark oak handle and pulled; the wood groaned in that familiar old-house way, a soft creak that echoed down your long hallway.

“Okay, Haneul,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a teasing smirk, “let’s get you back home before you start crying for your boyfriend, yes?”

Her pout deepened instantly.

Before she could fire back, Yunhee—ever the menace—grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her upward from her kneeling slump on the floor.

“Come on, you big baby,” Yunhee sighed, grinning, dragging the older witch up with a grunt.

“I am never drinking that much wine ever again,” Haneul grumbled, leaning about half of her body weight onto Yunhee. “My head is spinning, my ribs hurt, and my soul feels sideways.”

Sujin arched a brow as she rose to her feet, Hana joining her with a snort.

“So we’re cancelling our girls’ night at your place next week?” Sujin asked, brushing off her skirt.

Haneul gasped as though her reputation, status, and bloodline had just been insulted.

“No we are not!” she barked, wobbling, pointing a very shaky accusing finger at Hana. “I will be there with cookies and a face mas, don’t test me!”

You burst into another soft laugh, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“You sure you ladies don’t want to stay?” you asked, raising a brow.

Miyoung—already half off the floor—snapped her head toward you. She didn’t even hesitate to stride past your summoning circle as she crossed the room with her wine glass dangling between her fingers like an accessory.

“Oh, we wouldn’t want to impose,” she said with a small smile, brushing past you and heading down the hall.

Sujin groaned dramatically. “Oh for Goddess’ sake—Miyoung, wait up!” She caught up quickly, stopping just beside you with a sigh.

She turned to you again, softer this time, “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

You blinked—just a little caught off guard by her sincerity—before a small smile curled onto your lips. “Not my first failed summoning,” you said lightly. “Don’t worry too much about me.”

Sujin’s features softened. She gave a gentle nod before trailing after Miyoung, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Now it was just you, Yunhee, and—

“Move,” Yunhee muttered under her breath, pulling Haneul back upright by both arms like she was handling a drunk, overly affectionate scarecrow.

Haneul’s pout remained immovable, glued to her lips like a curse.

“Well,” Yunhee sighed, adjusting her grip, “we better get going before she plants herself on your floor again.”

You shook your head—not enough to steady your own tipsiness, but enough to pretend—before pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“I better see you ladies out,” you said, stepping into the hallway. “Haneul might ram her broom into my trees again.”

“That happened once!” Haneul barked defensively, nearly tripping over her own feet. “You have a literal forest around your house, how was I supposed to see?”

Yunhee tightened her hold, dragging her away from your priceless framed paintings. “Exactly why I’m holding her,” she muttered.

You laughed, the sound echoing warm and soft through your dimly lit halls, the kind of laugh that bounced against polished wood and old portraits like it had lived there for years. Your hand slid onto the brass doorknob beside you, cool under your palm, as you let Yunhee and Haneul shuffle a few more wobbly steps forward.

But as they moved away, the smile slowly slipped from your face.

Your eyes flicked back—just once—towards your room, where the summoning circle had been.

Where you had removed every rune, every scatter of dust, every drop of wax. Nothing remained—no glow, no pulse, no faint hum of magic.

The shadows weren’t dancing on your walls anymore. The black smoke had thinned into nothing—air, only air. The room looked exactly how it always did: calm, untouched, like magic had never tried to claw its way out of the stones.

Your gaze swept over everything, slow and searching.

Your bed—pillows neatly stacked, silk sheets smoothed as if nothing chaotic had ever brushed against them. The delicate vines climbing your bedposts, still green, still perfect, not a leaf out of place.

You stood there longer than you meant to, squinting slightly, your brows pulling together as if you could force any lingering distortion to reveal itself. But the room remained silent.

You finally blinked, letting out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“…Everything seems normal,” you murmured. Not quite convinced. Not quite reassured.

Your fingers tightened around the doorknob as you pulled, shoulder bracing against the weight of the heavy wooden door. It swung shut slowly, the hinges groaning in that familiar old-house way.

The moment the lock clicked into place—the chandelier in your room, kept alive only by old magic and older stubbornness, flickered sharply. Once. Twice. Like a dying heartbeat trying to restart.

And then the shadows moved.

Not the way normal shadows sway with candlelight—these stretched, peeling themselves off the walls, sliding across the room as if reacting to the absence of your presence.

Right where the summoning pentagram once burned into the floor, the air trembled.

A thin line of darkness split between the wooden boards—then widening, the edges warping, pulsing.

Black smoke curled upward in slow, sinuous coils, climbing like fingers searching for something to hold onto. It crawled across the floorboards, swallowing the moonlight, growing thicker, heavier—like ink swimming through water.

Then came the sound.

Soft nails at first—barely whispering against the floorboards. Each scrape crawled up the walls, and into the hollow center of the room where the smoke churned like a living thing.

Right at the center of the dark mass, something pressed outward.

First the shape of knuckles, then slender fingers, then—a hand.

A pale hand, deathly white and impossibly clean against the rolling black smoke, shot out of the shadows with a sudden, jerking lunge—fingers splayed, nails long enough to carve lines directly into the wood as they hooked downward.

The nails curved like the talons of something that had never been human.

The hand clawed against the floor, pulling, dragging, searching for purchase as the rest of the arm trembled behind the veil of darkness, straining to push through.

And you—

You were blissfully unaware down the hall, your soft laughter echoing faintly as you walked your drunken friends toward the stairs, the warmth of their complaints and teasing filling the air.

You hum softly to yourself, a little tune that's half-forgotten from some old grimoire melody, as you brush away the stray strands of hair that had already dried and clung to your face.

Your raised finger dances in the air, commanding a gentle gust of wind that swirls around your head like a playful breeze, teasing the locks into place.

As you lower your finger, the small puff of purple smoke curling from its tip dissipates into nothingness, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and ozone that always lingers after your minor spells.

Leaning closer to the fogged mirror, you run a hand over your damp hair, feeling the cool silkiness against your palm, and mumble to yourself with a tired sigh, “Yeah, I'm not gonna do my face mask tonight.”

A small yawn escapes your lips, stretching your jaw as you adjust the thin straps of your nightgown.

The light purple material clings just a bit from the humidity, ending teasingly just above your thighs, and your eyes flick down to scan the delicate lace cupping your breasts, the fabric whispering against your skin with every subtle shift.

Pushing your hair behind your ears, you let the soft strands cascade over your back like a dark waterfall, brushing against the silk of your gown in a way that sends a faint shiver down your spine—not from cold, but from that post-bath warmth settling into your bones.

Your bare feet meet the cold tiled floor of the bathroom, and you shudder at the chill seeping up through your soles, toes curling instinctively against the smooth surface.

With a casual push, you swing open the wooden door, the hinges creaking faintly in the quiet night, and call out into the hallway, hoping to spot your little black-furred rascal.

“Bam?”

No usual response comes—no playful meow or the patter of paws that you're so accustomed to, the ones that always demand your attention whether you want to give it or not.

You glance back into the bathroom, eyes scanning the empty tub and the shower curtain hanging limp and still. He wasn't curled up in his favorite spot by the sink, either.

Shrugging it off for a moment, you call out again, just in case the little furball is lurking somewhere out of sight. “Bam?”

You step a bit further into the hallway, the only sounds breaking the silence being the soft sway of your hair against the silk of your nightgown and the distant, mournful howl of the wind slipping through the open windows in your bedroom.

Nothing else stirs—no scamper of claws, no inquisitive whiskers twitching in the shadows.

A sigh slips from your lips as you mutter to yourself, “Seriously, that little rascal,” the words laced with affectionate exasperation while a tiny knot of worry begins to form in your chest.

You flick a finger behind you, and the chandelier in the bathroom flickers once before fading to a soft, enveloping darkness, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoes in the quiet.

Another step forward toward your room, and then—you freeze.

The air thickens around you, heavy with something unspoken, as a voice you don't recognize slithers into your ears, low and humming like the rumble of thunder far off in the forest.

“For a seasoned witch, you sure are bad at detecting other creatures’ presences, no?”

Ice prickles down your spine, that familiar coldness from your earlier failed summoning ritual flooding back, sharper this time, like frostbite nipping at your exposed skin.

Your nightgown feels too thin suddenly, the air in the hallway turning clammy and oppressive against your arms and legs, and it's not the chill from Bam’s magic that he always trails around like a mischievous aura, making rooms feel brisk and alive.

No, this is something else entirely—darker, heavier, coiling around you like invisible smoke that steals the warmth from your veins.

Your breath hitches in your throat, chest tightening as the voice speaks again, closer now, laced with a mocking lilt. “Don’t tell me you're scared, little witch?”

The air leaves your lungs in a rush, as if whatever this creature is has reached out and squeezed the breath right out of you.

That faint breathing—his breathing—feels heavy and pressing, like a weight settling on your shoulders, sucking the oxygen from the room and leaving you lightheaded, heart pounding erratically against your ribs.

You force yourself to tilt your head just the slightest bit, afraid to move too much, afraid this thing might strike if you show too much fear—or too little.

Your eyes dart toward the window in your bedroom, and there, silhouetted against the moonlit glass, is a shadow that doesn’t belong.

He’s tall, towering really, with broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist, the moonlight carving sharp lines along his form like it’s afraid to touch him fully.

His hair sways gently against the soft howl of the wind outside, dark strands catching the silver glow, while the shadows of the forest beyond your home—twisted trees and whispering leaves—seem like a mere joke compared to the darkness he brings.

Slithery tendrils of shadow swirl around your walls, creeping like living ink, dimming the candlelight from your bedside and making the room feel smaller, more confined.

You gulp, throat dry as sandpaper, summoning the courage from somewhere deep in your gut to whisper, “What are you doing in my home?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, trembling just a fraction, but you hold your ground, fingers twitching at your sides as if ready to summon a spark of magic.

He pauses, his long fingers that had been idly toying with the edges of your open curtains stilling for a beat.

Slowly, he turns his head, and those eyes—red, almost orange, glowing like embers in the heart of a dying fire—pierce right through the dimness, locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

He hums, a low vibration that you feel more than hear, resonating in your chest. “Not a very welcoming host, are you?”

His voice is as soft as the silk of your nightgown rubbing against your skin with every shallow breath, smooth and inviting in a way that sends unwelcome tingles across your flesh, but the sarcasm drips from his words in thick, unrelenting waves, sharp as a blade hidden in velvet.

‘Gods, what have I let into my house?’ Your mind races, thoughts tumbling over the failed ritual earlier that evening—the incantation that fizzled into smoke instead of summoning power.

Now, with this… thing standing in your bedroom, shadows dancing at his command, you wonder if her success bled over into your failure somehow.

The air grows thicker, charged with an electric undercurrent that raises the fine hairs on your arms, and you take a half-step back, the cold floor biting into your heels.

His eyes narrow just a touch, amusement flickering in their glow as he fully turns toward you, his form unfolding from the window like a predator uncoiling from the dark.

The wind outside picks up, rattling the panes, but inside, it's his presence that stirs the real storm—oppressive, intoxicating, pulling you in even as every instinct screams to run.

“Who—or what—are you?” you manage, voice steadier this time, though your pulse thuds wildly in your ears.

You glance around for Bam again, willing your familiar to appear, to lend his chaotic energy to chase this intruder away, but the room remains eerily silent save for the soft rustle of curtains and the distant call of night creatures in the forest.

He chuckles, a sound like gravel wrapped in silk, stepping closer with deliberate slowness, his shadows trailing like loyal hounds. “Ah, straight to the questions. How charming.”

Those glowing eyes rake over you, lingering on the way your nightgown clings to your curves, the lace edging your breasts rising and falling with your quickened breaths.

The cold from before intensifies, but it's laced now with something warmer, deeper—a heat building in the pit of your stomach that you can't quite name, or don't want to.

“Let’s just say… your little ritual mishap opened a door. And I walked through. Courtesy of your friend’s success, perhaps? But don’t worry, little witch—I’m not here to harm. Not yet, anyway.”

His lips curve into a smirk, teeth glinting faintly in the moonlight, and the sarcasm in his tone sharpens, cutting through the tension like a ritual knife. “Unless, of course, you make me.”

Your skin prickles under his gaze, a thousand tiny needles dancing across your arms and the exposed curve of your neck, as if his eyes are tracing invisible runes that burn without heat.

He pushes off from the window with a fluid grace that belies his size, each step deliberate, the shadows at his feet rippling like disturbed water as he closes the distance.

The only barrier left between you now is your bed, its rumpled sheets and scattered pillows a flimsy divide in the moon-drenched room. He leans against one of the sturdy posts at the foot of the bed, the aged wood creaking softly under his weight, protesting the sudden pressure like a sigh from the house itself.

Half of his body submerges into the silvery moonlight bleeding through the open windows, casting him in stark contrasts—light kissing one side while darkness clings greedily to the other.

His skin, where the light touches, is pale as fresh-fallen snow, looking utterly soft, almost inviting to the touch, like velvet stretched over honed muscle.

But it’s the tail that snags your attention, swaying lazily behind him—a sinuous length that you can only describe as echoing the lore of incubi and succubi from your forbidden tomes, yet his is longer, sharper, the end curling into a heart shape that's wickedly pointed, like a barbed arrow ready to pierce.

It flicks idly, brushing against the edge of your bedframe with a whisper of sound, sending a fresh wave of chills racing up your spine. His face, though, remains concealed in the lingering shadows, a deliberate veil that heightens the mystery, making your pulse stutter in your throat.

You swallow hard, words tumbling out in a stutter as fear and confusion tangle on your tongue. “W-What do you want from me?” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper, echoing faintly off the wooden walls lined with your spellbooks and dried herbs.

He laughs then—loudly, the sound bursting from him like thunder wrapped in velvet, dark chuckles rolling through the expanse of your room and vibrating in your chest.

It’s seductive, that laughter, laced with a timbre that coils low in your belly, and you feel a sharp pang of revulsion at yourself for the way your body responds.

Heat blooms unbidden across your skin, flushing your cheeks and seeping downward, warming places it has no right to amid this intrusion.

‘No, this isn’t right,’ you think, clenching your fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself against the treacherous pull.

He uncrosses his arms slowly, the motion drawing your eyes to the way his shirt strains against his chest, and those glowing eyes—red-orange embers—intensify, pinning you in place.

“Wasn’t your little friend the one who summoned me here?” His voice dips lower, teasing the edges of your resolve. “What was it for, hmm?”

He lifts a finger to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully as if savoring a memory, his lips quirking in mock contemplation. “The one named Miyoung, was it? Didn’t she ask for a husband… for you?”

The words hit like a hex, your knees buckling under the intense weight of his stare, the room tilting as you sway on unsteady feet. Magic or not, his presence presses against you, an invisible force that makes the air thick and your thoughts scatter.

“W-Well, I mean, she didn’t exactly—” you start, the denial spilling out in a rush, your mind flashing back to Miyoung’s giggly insistence during her ritual, the way she’d woven your name into her chants with your full consent.

He cuts you off with a soft laugh, the sound gentler this time but no less disarming, slithering through the space like smoke from an extinguished flame.

He straightens from the bedpost, moving away with that predatory ease, his bare feet silent on the creaking floorboards as he walks toward you.

The moonlight bathes him fully now, and gods, it’s an understatement to call him gorgeous—he’s breathtaking, a vision carved from midnight and desire.

His dark hair catches the light in flashes of ginger, like embers woven into silk, falling in tousled waves that frame his face. Fox-like eyes, sharp and slitted, stare into yours with an intensity that strips you bare, promising secrets and sins in equal measure.

Full lips, glossed as if kissed by dew, curve in that perpetual smirk, and the sharp horns curving from his forehead—ebony and elegantly twisted—only enhance the otherworldly allure, crowning him like a dark king.

A fitted black shirt hugs his torso, the fabric clinging to the defined lines of his shoulders and abdomen, while matching black pants taper tightly at the edges, accentuating the lean power of his legs.

His bare feet leave faint trails of shadow in their wake, as if the darkness itself bows to his passage, tendrils curling up from the floor like eager pets.

He walks closer, invading your space until his breath mingles with yours—your heart hammers wildly, the silk of your nightgown suddenly too constricting against your heated skin.

His fingers—long, cool, and deceptively gentle—capture your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully.

The touch sends sparks skittering across your jaw, and he leans in, lips brushing so near to yours that you can taste the whisper of his words against your own.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be my wife, (Y/N)?” The sound of your name on his tongue—smooth, possessive, rolling like a spell—unravels something deep inside you, a thread of resistance snapping as surrender flickers in your core.

You give in then, a soft gasp escaping as his other arm snakes around your waist, strong and unyielding, pulling you flush against him.

His body is a furnace beneath the cool facade, hard planes pressing into your softer curves, the heat of him seeping through the thin barriers of fabric.

Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, fingers splaying against the shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat—or whatever pulses in a being like him—syncing with your own erratic rhythm.

The pointed tip of his tail brushes against your calf, a teasing graze that makes you shiver, while those glowing eyes bore into yours, daring you to pull away.

Your breath shudders as his gaze trails slowly from your lips back up to your eyes, scanning every inch of your face for the slightest sign of resistance.

But there’s none—just wide-eyed curiosity mixed with that undeniable spark of heat building in your core. He hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the air like a dark promise, as he feels your magic pulsing against him.

It’s weird, though; you’re nothing like the others he’s stalked through shadows for fun, just to feed on their fleeting fears and desires before vanishing into the night.

No, you and your little set of witch friends had summoned him with that botched ritual, pulling him straight into this moonlit room, and now here he was, entranced more than he’d ever admit by a fragile little human like you.

A wicked grin spreads across his face, his sharp fangs brushing teasingly over his lower lip as he leans in closer.

His warm breath fans over your ear, sending another shiver racing down your spine, and you can’t help but press your thighs together, trying to quell the ache starting to throb between them.

“Usually, people run away in fear,” he murmurs, his voice a silky rumble that wraps around you like smoke, “but tell me, why are you shivering in pleasure?”

You bite your lip hard, not trusting how your body is responding to him—the way your skin flushes under his stare, the fear in your eyes warring with this pull that makes your pulse race.

“But that’s impossible,” you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper, “the ritual didn’t work.”

The demon chuckles softly, his fingers capturing your chin in a light grip that belies the danger in his touch—his nails glint sharply under the moonlight streaming through your window, a reminder of the power coiled in his frame.

He pulls you closer, so close that your breaths mingle, and gods, he smells incredible—intoxicating, making your head feel hazy and your body warm all over. You press your thighs together again, the friction doing nothing to ease the growing wetness you feel.

His tail rides higher now, the pointed tip caressing the back of your thighs, sliding up just high enough to tease the delicate lace trimming of your nightgown.

The sensation is electric, making your breath hitch as it dances along your sensitive skin. “What are you doing?” you mumble, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and that forbidden thrill.

He hums again, deeper this time, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he leans down even closer. Those glowing eyes have dimmed to a smoldering ember, still far from human, piercing and predatory as he smiles down at you.

His other hand finds your waist, caressing it softly despite the firm grip that pins you in place, your chest pressing flush against his solid one.

He doesn’t even try to hide the way his body reacts—the satisfied rumble in his chest as your soft curves mold to his harder lines, the subtle shift of his hips that presses his growing arousal against you.

“Can’t I enjoy my future wife’s presence?” he says, his tone laced with teasing possession, those words hanging heavy in the air.

You blink up at him, flustered heat flooding your cheeks. “A-are you shitting me right now?” you stammer, your heart pounding wildly.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound rich and genuine, echoing softly in your room before he dips down to press a singular peck to the side of your head.

You curse yourself inwardly—you’re not supposed to enjoy this, not the touch of a demon who spawned from a failed ritual meant to bind something lesser.

But he’s already making you feel safer than you have in ages, your body melting effortlessly under his hold, pliant and warm. A grumble escapes your lips as you try to summon some defiance.

“Don’t you incubi usually just suck the energy out of your victims with kissing or sex and then run off?” you manage, raising a brow even as your voice wavers.

He laughs again, pressing his forehead gently against yours, a glint sparking in those unearthly eyes as he smiles widely, both fangs on full display in a way that should terrify you but only sends another shiver of heat through your veins.

“I hate to break it to you, darling,” he purrs, his breath ghosting your lips, “but demon princes usually mate once in a lifetime.”

You blink at him incredulously, your mind reeling from the implication, the weight of it all crashing over you like a wave.

Before you can form a response, he releases more of his scent, letting it flood the room—thick, enveloping, like velvet darkness wrapping around every corner, seeping into your skin and making your thoughts fuzzy with desire.

Then his lips are on yours, the kiss soft yet scorching hot, inviting in ways that make your toes curl.

Both his arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, the hard planes of his chest pressing into your softness as your hands fly up to brace against him, fingers splaying over the warm fabric covering his skin to steady yourself.

His tongue teases the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart just enough to taste you, and you whimper softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the deepening press.

He pulls back slowly, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips, glistening in the moonlight. He pecks your lips once more, light and teasing, watching as you flush deeper, your cheeks burning.

Tilting his head, he studies you with that predatory amusement. “First time getting kissed?”

You look down, avoiding his gaze, but that’s all the confirmation he needs—your shy nod, the way your fingers twist in his shirt. His grin turns triumphant, and in one fluid motion, he grabs your thigh, forcing it open with a firm but careful strength that makes your breath catch.

He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to your bed as if you weigh nothing, then sits down on the edge, settling you to straddle his lap.

The position presses you right against the evident bulge in his pants, the heat of him seeping through the thin barriers of fabric, making you squirm instinctively.

“I don’t want to keep calling you ‘stupid demon’ in my head, you know,” you say, pausing as your fingers fiddle with the fabric of his shirt, tracing the edges nervously.

“What’s your name?” you mumble, your voice soft against the pounding of your heart.

A real, genuine smile takes over his lips this time—less wicked, more warm, softening the sharp edges of his demonic features.

“Sunoo,” he says, his voice a gentle murmur as he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses along your neck, each one hot and lingering, nipping just enough to make you gasp.

“My name’s Sunoo.” He pauses, his lips brushing your pulse point as he mumbles again, “And I’m mated to you now, apparently.”

The words hang in the air like a spell, warm and binding, as his fingers gently sweep your hair away from your shoulders, exposing the delicate curve of your neck to the cool night air.

The silky strands cascade down your back, and before you can process the weight of his declaration, his mouth descends—soft bites trailing along your skin, each one a teasing nip that sends shivers racing through your body.

Your hands instinctively rise to his chest, pushing lightly against the firm planes of muscle beneath his shirt, a half-hearted attempt to create some distance.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yield even an inch; his body remains an unmovable force, warm and insistent against yours.

“A-aren’t we going too fast?” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of uncertainty and the growing heat pooling in your core.

The words tumble out as his lips hover near your collarbone, the sensation of his breath ghosting over your skin making your heart stutter.

He pauses at that, his amber eyes flickering up to meet yours for a brief moment, a spark of something hungry in their depths.

Then, without a word, he leans in and softly bites your shoulder—not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to draw a sharp mewl from your lips as pleasure-pain blooms across your flesh.

Your hand grips his shoulder tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if steadying yourself against the wave of sensation crashing over you.

A tiny bead of blood wells up from the mark, warm and metallic, and Sunoo’s tongue darts out to lick it away with deliberate slowness, the wet heat of it soothing the sting while igniting something deeper.

“I’m afraid I cannot wait anymore, darling,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you.

He gazes up at you then, those amber eyes glowing back to their intensity, like embers flaring in the dim light of the room. The glow holds for a heartbeat, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, before it fades just as quickly, leaving his expression softened by desire.

“Waiting for your husband for centuries isn’t exactly such a nice thing to do, no?”

Before you can even form a response—your mind reeling from the casual drop of that word, husband—his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

Your bodies press flush together, the heat of him seeping through the thin silk of your nightgown, and he resumes his ministrations on your neck with renewed fervor. His lips and teeth work in tandem, sucking and nipping along the sensitive column of your throat, leaving behind blooming marks—reddened bites and deep bruises that throb with every heartbeat.

Little moans escape your lips unbidden, soft and breathy, as the sensations build, your body arching into him despite your earlier protests.

“S-Sunoo,” you gasp, testing his name on your tongue for the first time, the syllables tasting like forbidden fruit—sweet and sinful.

The sound of it seems to unravel something in him. The demon beneath you licks his lips slowly, a predatory gleam in his eyes, before his warm tongue traces a languid path down the exposed valley of your breasts, dipping into the shadowed cleft where the nightgown clings to your curves.

He hums deeply, the vibration rumbling against your skin, clearly loving the way you seem to melt under his touch—your body going pliant, boneless, as heat floods your veins.

His hands roam freely now, caressing the swell of your hips and the dip of your waist, fingers squeezing the soft flesh there with just enough pressure to make you whimper, possessive and reverent all at once.

Your hands slide from his shoulders to his neck, wrapping around him in a desperate bid to hide your flushed face, burying your burning cheeks against the crook of his shoulder. The scent of him—intoxicating, like spiced smoke and dark honey—fills your lungs, making your head spin.

Sunoo clicks his tongue in mild disapproval, the sound sharp and teasing. “Hiding from me already, darling?”

His hands trail lower, cupping the full curve of your ass through the silk, then pushing the fabric up inch by inch until it bunches at your waist.

The sudden exposure makes you squeak, cool air kissing your bare skin. “W-Wait—” you stammer, but the protest dies on your lips as his palms meet your naked flesh, reeling at the discovery.

His nails press into your skin—firm, teasing scratches that send sparks of electricity racing up your spine, but not deep enough to draw blood. He hums teasingly, the sound vibrating against your chest as he explores.

“Really? No panties? Are you witches always this so obscene?”

His voice drips with mock scandal, but there’s an undercurrent of delight, of hunger, as he pushes the fabric higher still, bunching it at your stomach to fully expose you to his gaze.

You feel weak under that stare, your mind hazy, clouded by the way his scent wraps around you like invisible chains, pulling you deeper into this haze of desire. Every breath you take draws more of it in, making your thoughts fuzzy, your resistance crumbling like ash.

He pulls away just enough to tilt his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place.

“May I?” he asks softly, one finger tapping the bunched-up fabric of your nightgown, a gentlemanly gesture that contrasts sharply with the fire in his touch.

You huff lowly, pouting despite the flush creeping down your neck—which he finds more than adorable, if the way his lips twitch into a fond smile is any indication.

“Do I have a choice?” you mumble, your voice small but threaded with reluctant curiosity.

He hums thoughtfully, pretending to mull it over as his thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip. “Well, you do, wife.” The nickname hits like a spark, making you flush even deeper, heat blooming across your cheeks and chest at the intimate claim.

“Do you want this?” he presses, his tone turning earnest as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there as if savoring your warmth.

You blink down at him, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his gaze—those glowing eyes, still shimmering with that otherworldly red-orange hue, but softened now, almost human. Admiration shines through them, raw and unguarded, despite having known you for mere minutes. It’s as if he’s seeing something precious, something he’s waited lifetimes for.

As if to underscore the moment, his tail—sleek and sinuous, tipped with a subtle spade—slips around to rub the expanse of your ass, the textured length gliding over your bare skin in slow, soothing strokes.

The sensation is electric, intimate, and combined with the overwhelming pull of his intoxicating scent, it takes over your senses completely. Your vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing to just him—the heat of his body, the possessiveness in his touch.

Hazy, yes, but not unwilling; your body responds on instinct, leaning into him as the last threads of hesitation fray.

You nod slowly, the motion feeling foreign yet right, letting him know in no uncertain terms that you were more than willing to try this out. You didn't trust your own voice right now, certain that it would emerge as a pathetic, breathless whimper.

Sunoo’s grin is immediate and devastatingly handsome, a flash of sharp canines in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Lovely,” he purrs, the single word a caress. In one fluid motion, he stands, taking you with him as if you weigh nothing.

A startled squeak escapes your lips as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the fabric of your nightgown bunching up around your thighs.

He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your hair. “Don’t fret, my love. I’m not a fool to drop my own wife.” The word wife sends another jolt through you, a fresh wave of heat blooming in your cheeks as he softly lays you down against the cool softness of your sheets.

Your head sinks into the pillows, and he follows, settling over you. He’s careful, supporting his weight on his arms caged on either side of your head, not crushing you but surrounding you.

He lowers his head and presses a kiss to your lips, then he lets go, far too soon for your liking. A soft sound of dismay escapes you before you can stop it.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound you feel in your own chest. “I’m not going anywhere, darling. Patience.” His kisses trail downwards, a hot path against your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat.

He nudges the thin straps of your silk nightgown down, one by one, his fingers brushing your shoulders and leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulls the material down, exposing your breasts to the cool air, and your hands fly up to cover yourself on pure instinct.

Sunoo hums, a sound of gentle disapproval, and presses his lips against the valley between your breasts. The feeling makes you moan, a soft, broken sound.

“Don’t hide yourself from me, wife,” he whispers, the words vibrating against your skin. He slowly, gently removes your hands, his touch firm but not demanding.

As soon as your chest is bare to him, he dips his head, taking one pebbled nipple into his mouth. The hardened peak tingles, warm and wet against his tongue.

You gasp as you feel it—his tongue is long, forked, and it effortlessly swirls around the bud, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core. His other hand comes up to play with your neglected breast, long fingers kneading the soft flesh.

Your hands reach down, tangling in his soft hair, tugging lightly. He groans against your skin, the sound a deep, primal vibration.

In response, he pinches and rolls the nipple in his hand, the slight, sharp poke of his nails adding a delicious edge to the pleasure that makes you arch against him.

He lets go with a soft pop, grinning down at you, his eyes dark with lust. His hands find the bunched-up material of your nightgown, and with a single, decisive motion, he pulls it completely down your legs and throws it roughly somewhere across the room. It lands with a soft thud.

He licks his lips, his gaze raking over your now completely naked form. “Satan, you smell so good,” he breathes, his voice thick with hunger.

He presses kisses against your stomach, going lower and lower until he is settled between your thighs, his face level with your glistening, aching pussy. He runs a single finger down your slit, retracting his sharp nails so he won’t hurt you. The touch is so light, so teasing, it makes you mewl.

“F-feels weird,” you manage to stammer out, your hips twitching.

He grins, a wicked, knowing smile as he looks up at you from between your legs. “Worry not, my little virgin wife,” he says, his tone a mix of taunt and promise. “I’ll make you feel good.”

You don’t know if he’s mocking your inexperience or simply teasing you, and before you can even form a retort, his forked tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your folds.

The sensation is electrifying. He’s quick to focus on your clit, abusing the sensitive bundle of nerves with relentless, swirling motions.

You moan out, loud and unrestrained. “S-Sunoo, oh fuck—”

Your hand grasps his hair, holding on for dear life as he groans against your pussy, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming pleasure.

His fingers slowly stroke your slick folds before one, then two, slide into you with shocking ease thanks to the juices spilling out of you. He curls them inside, caressing your inner walls in a way that makes your fingernails scratch against his scalp.

He could almost mock you for the softness of your fingers compared to his own, but he’s already too drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you clenching around him. He groans against you, his tongue circling your clit relentlessly, making you squeak.

Your hands, desperate for purchase, find purchase elsewhere. They wrap around the base of his horns, which seem to be growing longer with every passing second.

The moment you touch them, he stills, letting out a guttural moan. As your fingers caress the base, you feel the pleasure spark through him, a jolt so intense it makes his hips twitch. His fingers scissor in and out of you, stretching you, preparing you.

He smirks up at you, his eyes hazy with lust. “My darling wife sure does her research, huh?” he pants out, his voice strained.

The pleasure coiling in your stomach is unbearable, and you moan, “I’m close.”

And then, suddenly, he pulls his fingers away. You look down at him incredulously, the desperate need for release making your vision blur. The shit-eating grin on his face does nothing to satisfy you.

In a flash, he moves up, his mouth crashing against yours. You moan into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, a musky, sweet flavor that is intoxicating. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

He pulls away just enough to speak, his lips brushing against yours, a triumphant smirk in place. “Didn’t I tell you to have patience?”

You groan in frustration, the sound a mix of desperation and annoyance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing the collar of the simple black shirt he wore.

“What kind of husband are you,” you pant, tugging him closer, “if you won’t even give into your wife’s desires?”

Something in Sunoo snaps. The air crackles, and for a split second, you see his eyes glow with a deep, crimson light. The clothes he had on—the shirt you were just clutching, his trousers—they simply burned away into harmless, flickering flames that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

In a matter of seconds, the lean, sculpted muscles of his body are revealed to you. His skin is smooth and unblemished, marked only by the faint, elegant lines of what look like demonic runes that trace his hips and disappear down his thighs. You stare, eyes wide, your mouth slightly agape.

“Is… is demonic magic really that strong?” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

He grins, a truly predatory sight, and lowers himself back down, pressing his bare chest against yours. The skin-to-skin contact is electric, making you gasp.

“I’m a prince, darling,” he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble against your lips before he kisses you. “I’m better than those who live in this town.” He presses his body down against yours, his hands pulling you closer by the waist, molding you to him.

You wrap your arms around his neck, letting him devour you whole. His long, forked tongue plays with yours, a sensual dance that has your head spinning. He then nips down on your lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you reel at the sharp, stinging pleasure.

He pulls away just the slightest bit, only to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. With each press of his lips, you feel a tingle of magic, a burn that isn’t enough to hurt you but is more than enough to sting, to leave a trail of fire in its wake.

“Oh, gods,” you moan, arching your back against the sheets as the sensation overwhelms you.

Sunoo smirks to himself, but the expression quickly shifts to a hiss of pure pleasure as the soft skin of your inner thighs brushes against his hard, leaking cock. He presses his kisses back up your body, a slow, torturous journey, until he reaches your lips again, pressing a soft, almost chaste peck to them.

You stare up at him, your eyes wide and doe-like, glossy with unshed tears of pleasure. Your long lashes flutter against your cheekbones as you blink, and he grins down at you.

“The things you do to me, dear wife,” he breathes. He grabs the base of his cock, thick and heavy in his hand, and guides it along your entrance, not pushing in, just rubbing himself against you.

He uses your own slick juices as lubrication, the glide of him against your sensitive folds making you moan and writhe. His other hand finds yours, his long fingers intertwining with your own, squeezing lightly as if to calm you, to help you through it. He continues to press soft kisses to the side of your face.

“Relax for me,” he murmurs against your temple.

You try your best, taking a deep breath, but the moment the bulbous tip of his cock begins to press into you, you bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a whimper. It’s not enough. “S-so big,” you stutter out, your voice trembling. “Too big.”

Sunoo hums, a low, soothing sound that contradicts the relentless pressure of his hips. “You can take it,” he whispers, his voice hypnotic as he sinks in another agonizing inch. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You moan, a long, drawn-out sound, as he pushes another thick inch into you. The stretch is searing, a delicious pain that borders on too much.

“T-too big, please, I c-can’t,” you whimper, your hands tightening where they’re intertwined with his.

Sunoo takes your mouth in a heated, demanding kiss, swallowing your protests. His hand, which was resting on your waist, slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, to your thigh. He hooks his hand behind your knee and lifts it, pushing your leg up and out, giving him deeper access to your weeping folds.

He keeps kissing you, his tongue a hypnotic distraction, as he continues to press forward, bullying his cock into your tight heat. You moan his name into his mouth, “Sunoo—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, and mutters directly into your lips, “That’s not my name.” The possessive claim makes you gasp against his mouth, and in that moment of shock, he enters another inch.

You can practically see stars behind your closed eyelids by the way his cock bullies into your folds, hitting spots deep inside you that you couldn’t reach with your own fingers, spots that often left you feeling unsatisfied and wanting.

But now, now you can’t help the lewd, broken sounds that leave your mouth.

With one final, decisive roll of his hips, Sunoo pushes all the way into you, sheathing himself to the hilt. You cry out, a string of profanities falling from your lips.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so full—” you babble, your mind going hazy from the overwhelming sensation of being so completely, utterly stuffed.

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you.

You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

“Sunoo! Oh my gods

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you. You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

Sunoo looks down at you, a dark, intoxicating mix of sadism and admiration in his eyes. His gaze trails lower, to the place where your folds are stretched around him, sucking him in greedily. He can’t help himself; he presses down on your lower stomach, just above your pubic bone, just to feel himself inside you. You whimper at the pressure, at the sheer knowledge of how deep he is. Your senses are all on high, the way his scent—something like sandalwood and spice and ozone—keeps leaking into the air, filling your lungs and making you feel more hazy, more pliant than before.

He presses down on your thigh, pushing it back against your chest, changing the angle. With one sharp stroke, the head of his cock slams directly into your G-spot. You see white. Your arms fly up, wrapping around his neck as you hold on for dear life.

“I’m going to move now,” he mutters, a warning and a promise.

He starts thrusting almost immediately, a punishing, deep rhythm that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a few strokes. The sheer pleasure running through you is blinding, a tidal wave of sensation brought on by your demon husband.

“Sunoo—oh my gods—fuck, right there!” you scream, your voice cracking.

Sunoo chuckles, the sound deep and seductive, vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Aren’t you just such a darling for me?” he purrs.

He clicks his tongue, sticking it out and letting it drag across the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a cooling trail of saliva. His hot breath fans against you as he continues, his voice a low taunt, “We barely even started and you’re already squeezing me so tight.”

He thrusts, the force anything but soft. It’s a deep, punishing rhythm that steals the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips. His hand grips your intertwined fingers tightly, his own composure beginning to fray as he gets lost in the overwhelming pleasure of your pussy sucking him in.

He finally understands now, fully, when incubi from the human world would return to their realm with satisfied grins and an aura that didn’t quite suit the hot, barren lands of Hell. This—this was what they found.

With the way you moan out his name, your fingers scratching desperately at the nape of his neck as you hold on for dear life, a string of profanities falls from your mouth that even surprises him.

The whispers from the shadows had told him you were shy, meek, a quiet little witch. But with the obscene, wet sounds of your pussy greedily sucking him in, it seems that was far from the truth.

His other hand lets go of your thigh, his sharp nails retracting so he won’t hurt you. His fingers find your clit, pressing tight, merciless circles against the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, just like that—fuck! Don’t stop, please,” you moan out, arching your back against the sheets. Your body is pressed against his, hot and slick with sweat, despite the howls of the wind from your open window.

Sunoo hisses, reveling in the way your pussy sucks his cock in with surprising ease. Despite his size, you take him perfectly, your walls clenching around him like you were made for this, made for him.

He groans, the sound raw and broken. “Fuck, you’re doing so well for me, wife.”

You moan directly against his ear, the sound hot and desperate. “C-cumming!” you squeak out.

Your body seizes, clenching around him like a vice. Sunoo hisses at the sudden, tight pressure, his rhythm faltering for a beat as your juices gush around him, coating the base of his cock with every thrust to help you ride out your high.

“Fuck, my darling wife,” he breathes, his voice laced with awe.

You pant beneath him, boneless and spent, your hands moving from his neck to his back, leaving small, red scratches across the pale skin of his shoulders.

The feeling makes him moan, a low, guttural sound. His hand goes back to your thigh, pushing it forward so close that his chest is almost flush against yours. His thrusts slow, becoming deeper, more deliberate, and you breathe out in a sigh of relief.

“S-Sunoo, wait,” you whimper, oversensitive. “I’m still sensitive.”

He slows down just a little more, his movements almost languid now, and presses a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s soft, a stark contrast to the brutal pace he just set. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own gaze dark with a hunger that is far from sated.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” he says, his voice a low, sincere murmur that sends a shiver down your spine, “but I fear I have to disobey you.”

With those words lingering in the air, Sunoo shifted his weight ever so slightly, his hips drawing back with a teasing slowness that left you gasping.

The sudden withdrawal stretched you taut with an aching emptiness, his thick length pulling away until only the very tip remained nestled inside, pulsing with heat that made your inner walls clench futilely around nothing.

Your chest heaved beneath him, each ragged pant escaping your lips in warm bursts against his skin, the silk sheets beneath you twisting as your body instinctively arched, craving the fullness he’d so abruptly denied.

His hand, which had been firmly pressing your thigh against your chest, slid away with a gentle glide—fingers trailing fire across your flushed skin before intertwining into yours, mirroring the way his other hand already held you so possessively.

Your thoughts swirled like mist as you blinked up at him, curiosity flickering in your wide eyes despite the fog of pleasure clouding your senses.

Sunoo’s gaze met yours, his irises swirling with that familiar red and orange glow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he squeezed your hand tighter, his voice a husky whisper that brushed over you like velvet.

“You feel it, don’t you, my beautiful human wife? That pull, that need…” his words trailed off, his breath hot against your cheek, even as his hips surged forward without warning, plunging his full length back into you with a brute force that shattered your world into stars.

The impact drove a broken moan from your throat, raw and unrestrained, as waves of pleasure crashed through your body, radiating from the deep, insistent stretch of him filling you once more.

Your toes curled against the cool silk sheets, your back arching sharply as he hit that perfect, devastating spot inside you, his heated body pressing flush against yours in a way that made your skin sing with friction and fire.

Sunoo’s lips found the side of your face, peppering soft, lingering kisses along your jawline, his voice a low growl against your ear. “That’s it—let go for me.”

His horns, already imposing, seemed to enlarge with every beat of your shared rhythm, the air around them shimmering with his mounting magic, fueled by the intoxicating grip of your body clenching around him.

You moaned out his name, “S-Sunoo, oh fuck—” your eyes rolling back as he maintained that relentless pace, abusing that sweet spot with inhuman speed that left you utterly lost in the torrent of sensation.

is own breath hitched, a deep moan escaping him—“Shit, you feel so good”—as he buried his head in the crook of your neck, his elongated canines grazing your skin with a teasing promise.

Then, with a grin that you felt more than saw, he bit down just enough to draw a bead of blood, lapping at the metallic droplets with a satisfied hum, his tail coiling tighter around your waist to hold you impossibly close.

Whispers fell from his lips to the shadows, too faint for you to catch, but the glow in his eyes intensified, his magic thrumming like a living thing between you.

“My darling wife, where do you want me?” His head lifted slowly, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the faint, otherworldly glow of his eyes.

He brushed away the stray strands of hair clinging to your sweat-dampened forehead, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long against your skin, cool and commanding yet gentle in their touch.

Your breath hitched, a mewling whisper escaping you, “I—inside, please, I want you inside,” the words tumbling out in a rush of vulnerability and yearning, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

He grinned against your lips, the curve of his mouth wicked and knowing, “And what kind of husband would I be to deny you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

He pressed a hot, searing kiss to your lips, his tongue delving into yours with an exploratory fervor, tasting and teasing as if savoring the very essence of you.

The world narrowed to this singular point of connection, his body shifting, inching closer, the pressure building until he pushed himself to the hilt inside you.

A guttural groan spilling from his mouth into yours, the way your body clenched around him like a velvet vice, drawing him deeper despite the overwhelming fullness that bordered on exquisite pain, his hips stuttering in that first, profound thrust as if the very act unraveled him.

Heat bloomed within you, his essence painting your core with thick, pulsing waves, the intimate rush of it mingling with your own release, your juices blending in a shared crescendo that left you both trembling, your highs ebbing slowly as he continued with shallow, languid thrusts, each one a gentle aftershock.

All the while, his kisses softened against your lips, light and reverent, a stark contrast to the storm he'd just unleashed, before he finally pulled back with a sigh, collapsing toward your chest, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged heaves that warmed your skin.

Your hands, still tangled with his, slowly untangled, fingers weaving through the silken strands of his hair, tracing the curve of his horns as they receded to their original, elegant size, no longer the imposing spires they had been in the height of passion.

His tail, once coiled tightly around your waist, slithered down to wrap around your thighs, its cool, scaled surface a startling counterpoint to the burning heat of his body pressed against yours, the sensation making you shiver anew as you caught your breath.

“Sunoo,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and laced with affection, and he groaned in response, burying his face deeper into the curve of your chest, the sound muffled and content.

Raising a finger wreathed in tendrils of orange smoke, he summoned the discarded blanket from the foot of the bed with a lazy flick, letting it drift down to envelop you both in its soft embrace.

“That’s not my name, dear wife,” he teased, his tone playful despite the weight of his breathing, the words brushing against your skin like a secret shared in the quiet aftermath.

You rolled your eyes fondly at the demon you'd encountered just an hour ago, the absurdity of it all mingling with the lingering glow of intimacy.

Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to the top of his head, the faint scent of brimstone and something uniquely him filling your senses.

“Dear husband,” you murmured, and he looked up at you, his fox-like eyes reclaiming that predatory glint from earlier, though softened now by satisfaction.

“What is it, my darling wife?” he asked, his voice a velvety purr as he adjusted the blanket around you both, the fabric settling like a cocoon.

You huffed lightly, the question bubbling up from the haze of your thoughts, “Did you intoxicate me with your scent earlier?”

He smiled, that guilty-as-charged expression playing across his features as if he’d been waiting for this, “And here I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

Your hand moved instinctively, softly flicking his forehead with a finger, the playful reprimand making him catch your wrist in his grasp, his long nails grazing your skin with a thrilling edge.

“Don’t do that,” his voice was a low, teasing growl that vibrates through the air between you, his grip on your wrist firm yet careful, the sharp tips of his long nails grazing your skin just enough to send a shiver racing up your arm.

You huff softly, the sound escaping your lips in a playful mix of frustration and affection, your fingers twitching in his hold as you feel the slight sting from his nails—not painful, but electrifying, a reminder of his otherworldly nature.

“I was just asking,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying the weight of your curiosity as you turn your head slightly to meet his eyes, the dim light of the room casting shadows that dance across his sharp features.

His tail, now loosely draped over your thighs, twitches lazily, its cool, smooth scales brushing against your warm flesh in a way that makes your breath catch, the sensation both soothing and oddly arousing amidst the haze of exhaustion.

Sunoo—or rather, your dear husband, as you’ve come to call him in this whirlwind hour—moves fractionally, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that fan across your collarbone, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of amber and spice that had enveloped you earlier.

It lingers in the air like a spell, making your thoughts swirl as you search his face for answers. His lips curve into that sly smile again, the one that had drawn you in from the start, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“And what if I did, my darling wife? Would that make you any less mine?” the words hang between you, his free hand trailing lazily up your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip with sensual slowness that reignites the embers of desire deep within you.

You smile despite his answer, the warmth of it blooming across your lips as you draw him closer, your arms draping languidly around his neck and shoulders, pulling the solid weight of his body flush against yours.

“No, it won’t,” you murmur, your voice a husky whisper that vibrates through the space between you, your fingers threading into the silken strands of his hair, where the subtle ridges of his horns press gently against your palms.

He smiles in return, a lazy curve of his lips that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he snuggles deeper into you, his head nestling against the curve of your shoulder with a contented sigh that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

“Remember to thank your friend for me, yeah?” he says, his voice low and teasing, the words brushing warm against your ear as his tail tightens just a fraction around your waist, the smooth, scaled surface gliding against your bare skin like a secret caress.

You laugh then, the sound bubbling up from your chest, light and genuine, as memories of Miyoung’s wide-eyed panic during that botched summoning flicker through your mind—and how it all culminated in this demon, now your husband, tangled so intimately in your arms.

You shift ever so slightly, the movement minimal but deliberate, and call out again, your voice softening to a tender murmur, “Sunoo?”

He opens one eye, the deep amber iris glinting with feigned annoyance and unmistakable affection, his gaze locking onto yours to signal his full attention.

“Where’s Bam?” you ask, your words laced with a mix of curiosity and amusement, picturing your feline familiar’s sleek black form perched somewhere safe.

He hums in response, the sound a low rumble against your chest, his breath steady and warm as he replies, “Up on the roof. He wouldn’t leave there the moment he sensed me.”

You roll your eyes playfully, tugging just the slightest bit on his hair, feeling the soft give of it between your fingers, and he groans, the sound half-protest, half-pleasure, as he mutters, “I told you not to do that.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you lean in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Remind me to get you two acquainted later—might do Bam some good to see you’re not so bad after all.”

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Y/N considered herself a more traditional witch. She enjoyed people calling her a witch, saying she dressed funny. Calling her a stereotype. She fed into it, letting them get so wrapped up into their own minds that they didn’t truly believe she was a witch, just a girl with a silly fantasy.

But Klaus was curious form the first mention of her. He’d been in a local bar when someone muttered: “stupid witch.”

He turned around curiously, his eyes finding her quickly. Klaus couldn’t help but smirk to himself at the sight of her. The blood coloured bra that peeked out over the top of her long black dress. Boots hidden beneath the skirt and rings lining her skinny fingers. A soft chuckle left him at the rosary around her neck, a healing crystal hanging just above. All she needed was a pointed hat and Klaus would have thought it was Halloween.

She came to the bar, right beside him. Klaus tilted his head back to look up at her, though his eyes soon drifted down, admiring her body. The skirt flowed but the waist and bust was fitted. The cross swung gently against her breasts as she leant against the bar top.

“I’ll pay for whatever she’s having.” He nodded to the bartender and Y/N glanced his way. She glanced him down only once before her brows furrowed.

“Hello.” She said simply and he chuckled.

“Hello.” He raised a brow and pulled the stool beside him closer for her to sit. Without fuss she sat down and accepted her drink, taking it into her hands. Klaus smiled at the nail varnish that matched her brassiere.

“What do you want?” She asked and he scoffed lightly.

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want?” She asked again, more annoyed this time and he frowned.

“Can’t I buy a pretty girl a drink?” He questioned and she rolled her eyes. Klaus scoffed again, confused by her demeanour. “Well, if we’re being blunt, love, I’d like to take you back to my hotel, strip you naked and-“

“Oh- fuck okay!” Y/N nearly spat out her drink and Klaus folded his arms. “Gods…I thought you wanted like a spell or something.” She muttered and he blinked at her.

“Well, I can keep you in mind for those too.” Klaus shrugged, a smile pulling back at his mouth. He glanced off for a second before he became confused again. “Do you know who I am?” He suddenly realised and she smiled sweetly back at him.

“Maybe.”

“That’s why you assumed…how did you know? You haven’t even touched me yet.” He frowned and she shrugged.

“You have the look.”

“You’re one to talk.” He chuckled and she smiled.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Klaus was charmed by her lack of secrecy over the supernatural. He found amusement in how she tried to tell the other locals that Klaus was a vampire trying to become a hybrid. Their faces were priceless, many told her she should go to a mental hospital and yet if only they knew how un-crazy she was.

“So, which hotel are you staying at?” She asked, when the bar began to close and he paid their combined bill. “Not the one in town, I assume. It’s a little…well it’s little.” She laughed and he smiled, tucking his wallet back into his jean pocket.

“I’m staying in the city, thirty minutes or so away.” He nodded and Y/N furrows her brows.

“And you came all the way out here to drink?” She asks and hummed.

“It’s quiet here. I prefer it that way, instead of people dancing all over each other.” He chuckled and Y/N looked at him playfully.

“And yet you still immediately told me that you wanted to sleep with me. Seems like that kind of bar might’ve been your scene.” She jabbed and he rolled his eyes.

“Mm, but I got to talk to you. I know you better now,”

“And?” She questioned.

“And I definitely want to sleep with you.” He grinned and she laughed.

“Well the cities a whole lot further than my house, so…” she trailed and Klaus didn’t need her to say anything else.

He drove them just down the road, stopping outside the house she claimed as hers. He stared at it for a moment. Red paint had been thrown at it, the letters ‘WITCH’ spelled out across the magnolia walls. Smashed pumpkins across her lawn. He frowned and glanced at her.

“It’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” She muttered and he looked back again. “Don’t worry. They only did it yesterday so they wont be back until I clean it up.” She undid her seatbelt. “I promise no pumpkin will get on your dick.” She teased before getting out the car.

Klaus followed her, his jaw clenching when he saw one of her downstairs windows smashed, the hole covered with cardboard and duct tape. He knew it didn’t bother her, or at least she didn’t act like it did, but he didn’t like it.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, taking his hand to pull him in when he hesitated. Klaus pushed the door closed, being encased in darkness for no more than second before hundreds of candles lit up the house. He looked around, finding them everywhere, all around the edge of the floor, on the table, all shelves. It was beautiful.

“It’s cheaper than electricity and they generate warmth too.” She nodded and headed through to her kitchen. “Wine?” She called.

“Please.” He agreed and she poured him a glass. He continued to snoop a little. He looked over the rest of the shelves quietly, noting the exhausting amount of spell books. His head snapped up the second he smelt blood and he frowned. “Y/N?” He yelled, finding himself rushing to the kitchen only to see her wiping fresh blood from her hand and heeling her herself.

“Yeah?” She turned, looking at him with a smile. “I thought you’d like some in your wine.” She handed it to him and accepted it. “I don’t really like it when vampires take it from the vein so…”

“You didn’t have to.” He murmured, though he drank it down eagerly. “No vervain?” He questioned and her head shook.

“I don’t need it.” She shrugged. “If you try to bite me, I’ll just shock you. And if you try to compel me, I’ve learnt to resist it.”

“Still, it’s best to have it in your blood. Just incase.” He frowned, and she tilted her head.

“You worried about me? We only just met, remember? Besides, you’re supposed to be all evil and stuff.” She smiled and brushed past him, her hand grazing his chest making him follow her without a thought. Y/N laughed softly as she ran up the stairs, feeling him right behind her.

Klaus wrapped his arms around her waist, spinning her around and hearing her squeal before stumbling into the closest room with her. He tossed her onto the bed, but she grabbed his shirt, pulling him down on top of her. He chuckled and looked around, candle light there too. Fabrics were everywhere, more spells pages too.

“Christ, love.” He mumbled. “This must be a full time job.”

“Well I work at a restaurant as a waitress too.” Y/N smiled but he didn’t like that.

“A waitress?” He scoffed and she glared slightly.

“Problem?”

“No, no love, sorry.” Klaus cleared his throat and looked back down at her. Her eyes narrowed at him and he finally paid some attention to her face. The sleek black eyeliner that highlighted her eyes. The sharpness of her eyebrows, the redness of her lips. “You must make a lovely waitress.” He murmured, picturing her in a little uniform and smiling.

“Well, I get tipped pretty well so” she winked and he hummed. His eyes glanced at her cleavage, that definitely helped. Her forefinger and thumb took his chin, tilting his face back to hers. “You’re looking and I haven’t even taken anything off.” She whispered and he felt his fangs extend with excitement. “Put those away.” She smiled as she reached down and pull her bra off under her dress, pinging it at his face with a laugh.

Klaus let out a playful growl and clutched it in his hand. “I’ll be keeping this.” He muttered, tucking it away somewhere before pulling her dress over her arms and head. Klaus wetted his lips, looking down at her breasts. Her nails raked through his hair and scratched his face gently.

“You act like you’ve never seen a woman before.” She whispered, amused.

“I’ve seen millions.” He mumbled back, though his gaze didn’t falter. Y/N reached down, tugging his Henley off too and scratching down his chest to watch his body shudder.

“Why are you getting shy now?” She purred, dragging her nails down to the top of his jeans.

“I’m not…” he muttered, his eyes closing slightly when she undid the button and pushed the zip down. Klaus groaned, his hips thrusting forward when her hand snuck into his boxers. Her palm was warm, touch firm as she stroked him. He heard her hum before his back hit something soft. His eyes opened, seeing her over him now. Her hand teasing him until his back was arched like a cat.

“You’re nothing like I thought.” She whispered, and Klaus looked at her. He tried to think properly but her touch made his mind fuzzy. A moan left him and he felt his face go red at the sound. “What happened to stripping me naked and-“

“Shut up.” He mumbled out, “fuck…just-“ his hands reached for her wrist, pulling her grip away from his cock. He looked down, about to push his trousers off, but they were already gone.

“Magic, remember?” She smiled and cupped his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah…” he looked back at her. She was like pure magic. “Where…” he looked around, seeing his clothes folded onto a chair across the room. Klaus blinked, he hadn’t encountered power like this in a long time. Especially not tamed power. She seemed to have complete control and he could feel her taking his control too. He just couldn’t tell if she was doing in on purpose or not. But when she stroked his face again, and he felt himself weaken he clenched his jaw and grabbed both her wrists, pinning them above her head. “Stop that.” He snapped and she grinned.

“Why? It’s fun.” She giggled, squealing when he flipped her onto her back again.

“It’s infuriating.” Klaus whispered and she laughed.

“Don’t you like it? When you take people’s power.”

A stupid question. Of course he did. But he didn’t like it being taken from him. His eyes narrowed.

“You’re dangerous.”

“So are you.” She countered, a scoff leaving her as she sat up and grabbed the blankets, pulling them over her. “You’re not as fun as I hoped. I figured you’d at least be good in the sheets.” She joked though the amusement wasn’t there as she hid herself away. Klaus felt himself at a loss. He wouldn’t apologise. It was her who had been in the wrong; controlling him. But he also knew she would be the most valuable living thing he could lose. And he’d offended her. Embarrassed her.

Klaus looked at her. Her face pink, her arms around herself, eyes glossy.

“Love…” he mumbled, his hand running through his hair. He sighed and settled beside her, wrapping his arm around herself side. She pulled her knees up to her chest and glared down at the bed.

“Did I do it wrong?” She whispered and he frowned. “Did I grab it too hard?”

“No…” he breathed out, a soft laugh almost leaving him. He looked at her, confused before he seemed to realise. She was outcasted. People literally threw things at her house. Everyone in the bar looked at her like she was a freak. He was probably the first to want to talk to her, touch her.

“I promise not to take any more.” She mumbled, her hands rubbing up the sides of her arms as if trying to comfort herself. Klaus took over, caressing her gently.

In many ways, this was mess. But for Klaus, this was also an ideal situation. A very powerful witch, with a very big insecurity and therefore weakness to exploit. It was unusual for him, but he stayed there and looked after her until she fell asleep. He packed her things up and helped her move.

“Nobody will pick on you here.” He promised, setting her up in one of his mansions stashed away somewhere.

“There’s nothing for miles.” She mumbled and he hummed.

“Exactly. You can stay in: study, paint, play an instrument, garden or whatever for as long as you like.”

“And what do you want in return?” She asked and Klaus felt a grin pull at his lips.

“You to be ready for when I need you.” He answered somewhat vaguely. Y/N stared at him, her gaze unreadable before she looked back at the big house.

“You never actually liked me did you?” She asked, not bringing her gaze back to him. “You planned to use me like this the whole time.”

“No.” Klaus answered, and his words were true. “You’re gorgeous, and when I met you I didn’t realise you were actually a witch until you mentioned the spell. I wanted you and I enjoyed the way you touched me. I enjoyed it so much that you made me feel unstable.” He explained to her, his voice steady and firm. “One day, I’ll be ready to face your power. It’s just not today.”

“Maybe when you break your curse?” She wondered and he hummed.

“Perhaps.”

So he kept her away on standby. He would call her each day, make sure she was still there and happy. And she was. Klaus realised that when he met her, she was just an excited girl who thought she’d finally made a friend, someone who took interest in her. In some strange way, he was that friend.

He’d go over to the house when he needed her magic. He would walk in, past all the candles and up the stairs. Y/N had taken to painting. Klaus admired it often, he’d come up behind her and watch quietly.

“It’s late.” She whispered and he sighed softly. She was in pajamas, paint all over.

“I know…” he gently took the brush out of her hand. Y/N turned to face him, she still didn’t like looking him in the eye anymore. Klaus caressed her face gently, she truly was beautiful. “It’s just a little spell I need.” He murmured, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Okay.”

She would always say okay.

Whether it was the tiniest of tasks or a spell that nearly drained the life out of her. Klaus could never anticipate how much power some spells could cost.

Once, she completely collapsed and seized on the floor. Klaus was on his hands and knees, unsure what to do, calling out desperately. When her body relaxed and she went limp, he let out a breath and hugged her body to him. Klaus couldn’t believe the feel of a tear on his cheek as he pressed his ear to her chest to feel her heart beat.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He mumbled, kissing her skin gently.

It was from that moment that he realised he didn’t want her to die. That he cared about her. Klaus couldn’t let anyone else know that or she’d be used to exploit him instead.

Which is why he didn’t bring her to Mystic Falls to start off with.

“But I want to help break the curse.” She whimpered, and he sighed softly. He pulled her closer on the couch and kept his arm around her waist.

“The doppelgänger has two vampires who are very keen to keep her alive. I need a backup everything incase they all die. I’m not putting you out on the front when I know you could die.” He explained, keeping his voice firm.

“Where will you go after?” She asked quietly.

“I’ll need to look for werewolves to make hybrids.” He mumbled, looking down at her sad face. “I’ll make sure to visit you before and after, okay?”

“Will it be months?” She asked and he sighed because of course it would be.

Klaus didn’t say yes, instead he just nuzzled her gently. His fingers caressed her face and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her mouth. Y/N’s eyes fell closed and he held her close. She melted easily under his affectionate, he knew how badly she wanted it. When he pulled away she was already tugging his shirt to bring him back. But kisses always escalated, he’d always end up with her legs around his hip. Each time, whether she meant to or not, she’d start to feed off him and he would have to stop.

“Love…” he mumbled, his body suddenly exhausted.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffed, helping him lay down as she tried to give it back but it never worked. It only happened when he touched her like that. He knew she couldn’t control it, but he also knew he could pass out if he let her do it.

“S’okay.” He slurred and she whined, trying to make it better.

By morning he would be fine and he’d give her just one kiss before leaving. Y/N would watch him leave from the window, disappointed in herself again. It was the only time she couldn’t control her magic.

And to haunted her.

By the time Klaus brought her to Mystic Falls, he had a bunch of people wanting him dead and all of his family being held captive.

“I thought it was dangerous to come here.” Y/N whimpered, holding his hand tight as he guided her into his mansion, making sure nobody saw them.

“You know I’ll keep you safe.” He murmured, cupping her face and resting his forehead to hers. “I just need you to help me, sweetheart. They have my mother in her coffin. If she somehow gets out, hell on earth will become literal.”

Y/N nodded and hugged him quietly. Klaus breathed in her scent for a moment before pulling back and smiling at her.

“Come, I’ll show you your room.” He led her upstairs and she frowned.

“We won’t share?” Y/N questioned, confused as whenever he came over he would sleep beside her.

“It’s just so you have your own space.” He explained, tugging her hand gently into her new room. “You can come sleep in my bed whenever you choose.”

And of course she did. He was the only human contact she knew. Klaus pulled her close, letting her nuzzle close until her power began to drain him. Sleep fell over him quickly. In the morning she was apologising but he had learnt not to get frustrated with her.

“It’s alright, love.” He murmured, kissing her head and sitting up beside her.

“Thought you might be able to resist it when you unlocked your wolf.” She whispered and he hummed softly.

“It’s just more energy for you to feed off.” He had concluded and she nodded quietly.

Within a few days she silently helped him get his family back. Upon Elijah’s return and instant attack on Niklaus, Y/N had him flung against the wall and bleeding from his eyes ears and mouth. It was only when Klaus came in front of her, hands on her arms.

“Love, Y/N. Let him go.” He murmured to her, voice gentle. “It’s just Elijah.” And within seconds, the suited original was gasping on the ground.

Klaus took the time to explain to Elijah after Y/N went to bed. There was a sense of unease through the elder brother, he was nervous about how she might react to his plan to wake his siblings. But still, he went on with it.

Not even Kol managed to touch Klaus when Y/N was in the house. Rebekah loved her and found her frustrating at the same time. Esther just moved with caution.

And then there was the ball.

“Has Niklaus asked you yet?” Esther asked and Y/N glanced her way.

“No.” She answered quietly. “He’s taking someone else.” And Esther knew she had found a sore spot.

“Now why would he do that?” She tilted her head and Y/N glared.

“Why not? I’m not his girlfriend, I’m his witch.” She snapped and left. Klaus had assured her that it was all part of a plan. He needed someone in that group to think he had a soft spot. And as much as Y/N tried to nod along, she couldn’t help but cry a little when she watched from the terrace as he held another woman so close.

After a little while, she came down. Dressed in a long black dress, low cut and a slit up to her thigh. Klaus hadn’t been looking but the sound of her laugh made his head turn. Caroline was quickly disregarded when he saw Y/N talking with Damon. Damon’s hands were broken and Y/N was swiftly taken back to his room.

“I told you to stay here.” He sighed, brows pinched and jaw tense.

“I wanted to have fun.” She whispered and he pulled her close why the waist.

“You wouldn’t like it. And if you did, you’d end up siphoning off of everyone and ruining-“ he cut himself off, his eyes closing as he realised his wording. Y/N was just quiet. “I don’t want people to hurt you. If you siphon them, they will see you as a threat.”

She didn’t say much for a few days. Even after saving him from his mother’s wrath, even when he laid in her bed and kissed her face. Klaus knew he’d struck a nerve, said the wrong thing at the wrong time but it wasn’t like he could go back in time to fix it.

“When can I go back to my house?” She asked one evening and he frowned.

“You want to go back?” He questioned and she shrugged. Klaus only held her tighter and refused to say any more.

Y/N was too powerful. If she were anyone else, Klaus would have eliminated her but instead he’d been able to use her. But Klaus was stupid, he knew his behaviour was making her think, making her frustrated with him. She’d turn on him before he knew it if he didn’t do something soon.

So he put on his charming act and made her dinner, gifted her an ancient amulet he’d collected centuries ago and kissed her deeply in front of the fire place.

When the flames roared, he didn’t pull away. Klaus didn’t protest when she siphoned, he just leaned on her more. Y/N was a powerful mess. The curtains were aflame, the room hot and bright as she rubbed against him. Klaus urged her onto him.

“Take it, love.” He whispered, voice weak as he helped her hips over his. His eyes shined gold as her tight heat gripped his length. She was full of energy, his energy. Klaus could barely form a thought as he held onto her, trying to help guide her until she was a mess.

Klaus had never felt anything like it. His body twitched and shook, his eyes heavy as he tried to watch her. But soon enough, he was out like a light.

Y/N came to a worried halt and only then did she realise the way the fire burned their skin. She calmed it down and used her magic to lay Klaus in his bed before locking herself away in her own room. Her face in her knees and hands tugging her hair as she cried.

She couldn’t be with Klaus, she’d end up draining him; killing him.

When Klaus woke, he knew that too.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he says, pushing back the chair his boot is resting on. “Good of you to stop by, drive safe.” He stands.

“Dean,” Sam says and his brother turns to him, raises his eyebrows.

“She said there’s nothing she can do,” Dean says, extending his hand to point at you without looking your way. “No magical solution, no grand old spell, no last-minute super mojo.”

“Well,” you say, both men looking at you, “I didn’t say that.” Sam steps around the table, towards you, eyes wide. 

“So there is something?” he asks. You press your lips together, then sigh.

“It’s…” you start, throw a look at Dean, “dark. And old. And dangerous. And there’s no guarantee it’ll actually work.” Sam steps closer, his eyes pleading, his expression desperate.

“My brother has an archangel trapped inside his head,” he says. “We’ll try anything.”

“Sammy–” Dean says, but his brother raises a hand, shutting him up.

“Please,” he says and the softness of his voice makes you swallow. Your eyes go to Dean again.

“You’re gonna hate it,” you say, then look back at Sam. “And you…” You stop, let your eyes roam over him once. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, strong arms. A handsome, masculine face.

“Well,” you say, then reach for your glass, hold it out to the tall man in front of you. “Better freshen me up.”

“Sex magic?” Dean says and you sigh, then nod again.

“Yes,” you reply, reaching into the box of supplies, inspecting some dried hibiscus blossoms. 

“Sex magic?” Dean says and you look up, narrow your eyes at him. “Like the… like the Red Hot Chili Peppers album?” You drop a small bag of colorful powder in the box, pretty sure that it’s just crushed up M&Ms. The Winchester’s stash is surprisingly pretty pathetic. Then you turn to Dean.

“Yes, Dean,” you reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just like the Red Hot Chili Peppers album.”

Dean’s self-satisfied grin drops off his face as he blinks and looks away.

“Look,” you say as Sam walks over, putting another box in front of you. “Basic principles of magic. Everything has energy. You can’t create it and you can’t erase it, physics got that right. But you can channel it.”

“Channel?” Dean asks. You shrug, point at the ingredients before you.

“You take what’s already there,” you explain, “find the right balance.” Dean shifts around.

“So where does the sex come in?” he asks. You purse your lips, hiding your smile at his sudden interest.

“Humans,” you say, looking past him, “are worlds of energy. Everything we do just… drips with it. That’s why bodily fluids are so often used in spells. From a magic perspective, blood and sweat and semen and everything else, they’re pretty much the same thing.” Dean raises his chin, nods. You sure hope that doesn’t mean he thinks he’s gonna be involved in the spell.

You’d be surprised if Dean suddenly let all of his preconceived notions about you go. You’ve known the brothers for a while now. Dean was reluctant to believe that you could be a witch that wasn’t out to harm others, but Sam did. He’s sweet like that. He’s a bit of a freak himself, and you assume that has something to do with it.

“So what needs to happen?” he asks now, brushing off his hands. You look up at him.

“Masturbation works,” you say and you see Sam blink, a light, adorable blush appearing on his cheeks, just like you maybe sort of hoped it would. “But it’s better if I have a… conduit.”

“A conduit, huh?” Dean asks and you look at him, your eyebrows drawing together when you see his suggestive smile. 

“Luckily for you, Dean, you can’t be a part of it,” you say. “Since you’re the target of the spell, you can’t also perform the ritual.” Dean tilts his head, shrugs.

“Didn’t want to, anyway,” he mutters, sounding petulant. 

You let your eyes wander up to Sam, who is looking at the ingredients he brought you. He notices you’re looking at him and it takes him a second to understand what you’re implying. He shifts, clears his throat, his gaze going to your chest once, quickly, before he looks away, swallows, Adam’s apple moving under stubbled skin. You can’t help but imagine your lips on it.

“Listen,” you say, voice a little lower, just for him, “I can pick up some schmuck in a bar, I don’t mind. I’d have to explain the pentagram and the blood thing to him, but I can be pretty persuasive.” Sam shoots you a quick look that tells you he doesn’t doubt it, and you give him a soft smile.

“But with you it would be much easier, and quicker,” you continue, then shrug one shoulder, not missing the way Sam moves from one foot to the other. “Well, hopefully not too quick.”

It’s definitely an advantage that Sam and Dean have so much space in the bunker. It means the large pentagram fits easily onto the floor of the basement room, all furniture pushed against the walls by the two men. You’ve sent Dean to his room after he gave Sam the expected amount of grief about getting it on with a witch to save his bacon. You’re changed into a dark satin robe with nothing underneath. 

You’re just lighting the last of the candles when you hear Sam clear his throat behind you. You turn, can’t help the amused smile spreading over your lips at the sight of the tall hunter, awkwardly fidgeting his hands. He’s put on a grey robe that you think you heard him mention is Dean’s. You can see his naked legs, lean but muscular calves. There’s just a little bit of his chest showing where the robe closes, a spattering of hair visible. 

Sam widens his arms, then lets them fall to his sides, and it makes you chuckle. He is just too adorable. He steps closer, looks around at what you have prepared.

“Got everything you need?” he says and you nod. Sam’s eyes fall on the black obsidian knife that’s lying on a folded towel on the floor in the middle of the pentagram. He clenches his jaw and you take a step closer to him. 

“I know what you’re worried about, Sam,” you say and he looks at you. He told you of his history with demon blood. It’s not something that shocks you, really, but it did intrigue you. “But this isn’t going to be anything like that. I promise.” Sam looks into your eyes and you look back, hope he can see your assurance there. 

“So what do we do?” he asks, then tilts his head to the side. “I mean, besides the… sex.”

You turn to the side, reach for the small bowl with the yellow powder you’ve crushed up, mixed with goat’s milk. You take it with both hands, then hold it out to Sam.

“You drink this,” you explain. “Just some tribulus and some other stuff.” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Tribulus?” he asks. “Isn’t that–”

“Nature’s viagra,” you say and one of Sam’s measured breaths comes quicker than the one before. It’s almost unnoticeable. Except to you.

His lips part and then the corner of his mouth twitches, and to your surprise a slightly self-assured smile appears on his face. It’s not one you’ve seen often on him.

“I don’t really need any help in that regard,” he says, and your teeth find the inside of your lip without you meaning to. Who knew. Sam Winchester can be a cocky son of a bitch.

“Okay,” you reply, not breaking the eye contact that suddenly feels more intense than it did before. “I just thought I’d… offer.” 

Sam slowly nods, chin low, dark eyes gleaming, before he tears his gaze away, looks back at the bowl. You turn, put it down again. A delicious shudder going through you when you feel his eyes on you even as you're turned away. You turn back to him, watch him as he takes in everything you’ve done. His expression is intensely awake, his senses keen. 

“Oh, before I forget,” he suddenly says, hand going to the chest pocket of the robe. He takes something out of it, holds it up.

“Oh, no,” you say, and Sam looks at the condom he’s holding, frowning. “There needs to be no barrier. The essences need to… combine.” Sam gives you an unbelieving look.

“I don’t think that’s a very smart idea,” he says and you chuckle.

“Don’t worry,” you reply. “I’ve got it under control. There’s a tea I drink once a month, way better than any modern contraceptive.” Sam looks at you for a second longer. You can see his reluctance, and then you can see it slowly disappearing. You’ve never met a man who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to do it raw. With a small laugh, Sam puts the condom back into the pocket, shaking his head. 

“Dean’s not gonna let me hear the end of this,” he mutters. You frown up at him.

“You and your brother often exchange the details of your sex life?” you ask, and Sam huffs. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’m not trying to babytrap you.” Sam cocks his head.

“No, I know, I–”

“I mean, really, what’s there to gain, you know?” you interrupt him. “You guys have one old, shitty car and, like, three nice flannels between you two.”

Sam’s lips move, like he doesn’t know how to react for a moment, and then he breaks out in a beautiful small laugh, looking down, all bashful, the tension disappearing off his face. You feel the warmth of pride in your chest at putting him at ease.

Both of you are quiet for a moment. Sam looks around the room, like he’s lost for what to do next. You study him. He really is very handsome. Not that that’s news to you. You’ve noticed, of course, but the details of his face are slowly sinking into your awareness. Sam turns back to you, catches you looking.

“What?” he asks. You shake your head a little.

“You’d really do anything for him, huh?” you ask, and you don’t have to clarify what you mean. Sam’s expression changes and he looks serious.

“He would do the same for me,” he says, his voice low and somber, before he pulls up his shoulders. “Besides, there’s definitely worse things to do.” He looks at your face, suddenly seeming shy.

“Wow,” you say, expression neutral. “You’re a master of flattery, Sam.” He laughs again. It makes a host of butterflies explode in your belly.

“Should we…?” you say, motioning to the pentagram. Sam looks at the floor where you’ve painted the symbols, then back at you. 

“Okay,” he says.

You walk over to the middle of the pentagram, then get down on your knees. Sam follows you, slowly, carefully, and when he sees you only want him to sit, he loses some of his hesitancy. He does, moving in place until he’s comfortable.

Your hands move to the front of your robe as you begin opening the knot there. The smooth fabric runs along your fingers. You look up, see Sam staring at where your hands are moving. Only he doesn’t look nervous anymore. Or shy. 

His gaze snaps up at your face and a second later he blinks himself out of it. But you saw it. Lips slightly parted, eyes narrowed. Pupils wide. That doesn’t go away, but that unsure expression returns to his face.

“Don’t fight it, Sam,” you say, becoming suddenly very aware of how your nipples are hardening, how your mouth feels drier. You pull the robe off you, let it pool on the floor behind you. “It’s a natural reaction. Just let it happen.”

Sam’s eyes stay on your face for a moment longer, and then they begin to wander. Down, over your neck, your chest, like a soft caress. Further down, to where your legs are still pressed together from your kneeling. He stares at that part, curious, hungry, a strange mix of both.

“Take your robe off,” you say, and Sam raises his hands, broad, big hands with a brush of hair on them that you suddenly can’t help but think about feeling against your skin, and he undoes the knot, opens it. 

You let your eyes wander, too, just like Sam did, over his hairy chest, his taut stomach. Sinewy, muscular arms, veins pronounced, His legs are parted a little where he’s kneeling, and you see his penis between them, not entirely soft, you notice to your utmost satisfaction. It looks like him - long and veiny, pretty in a way that you might not notice at first glance, but once you do, you can’t unsee it. Need to keep looking, staring, the urge to know every inch of him suddenly overwhelming. Your eyes wander up, and you notice Sam is looking at your face, watching you watch him. 

To distract yourself, and to move things along, you reach to the side, pick up the knife. The black blade flickers in the light of the candles, and when you look at Sam again, you see the same light reflected in his eyes. You hold out your hand and after a moment, he lays his in yours.

You can tell he expects you to go for his palm, but you’ve never understood that. Instead, you nick him just below his wrist. Only a slight twitch of his lip gives away that you’ve even pierced Sam’s skin. He blinks just as red beads start appearing, then looks at you.

You put the knife down, between you two, bring your fingers to the cut, collect what is there, then look at Sam.

“Try to remember,” you say as you bring them to Sam’s forehead, then slowly run them down his nose, “the symbols I showed you earlier. It’s important to get them right.” 

Sam nods, barely, not disrupting your work, as you continue painting the pagan symbols on him. You bring your fingers back to the cut, agitating it a little so you can get more of his blood. The next place you draw on is Sam’s cheeks, the way your fingertips scratch against his stubble making you bite your lip. More blood goes to Sam’s arms, long stripes down tanned, warm skin. You look up from your own hand, at Sam’s face. He’s still watching you.

When you’re done, you pick up the knife again, turn it around to hold the handle out to Sam. He hesitates.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” you say, your voice low and raw. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

He takes your arm, which you’re already holding out, presses the knife against the same spot you did. The pain is sudden and sharp, and shoots right down between your legs. Sam puts the knife down, brings two long fingers to the cut. His touch is electrifying. When he moves to your face, even more so.

He concentrates on what he’s doing, but you can see the slight sheen of sweat collecting in the dip below his throat while he avoids looking into your eyes. Saw the violent twitch in his cock when he opened you up, watched your life essence well to the surface.

He’s done soon, and as far as you can tell he did a good job. Not surprising. He’s a smart boy after all.

But he’s still holding your arm, looking down at the cut, eyes pinned. You know what he’s going to do before he does it, and you don’t stop him. You want him to.

Sam lowers his head, presses his mouth against the cut. His lips create a ring of suction around it, and you can feel his tongue, strong, wet, insistent, press against the wound. Your eyes flutter shut and a moan escapes you. It hurts, stings, and it’s perfect.

Sam detaches from you, a moment later, and he doesn’t have time to open his eyes which have fallen shut before you grab his face and drag him in for a hot, needy kiss.

Your lips crash against each other, Sam’s tensed for a moment until you push yourself forward, and then he loosens up. You feel the tingling in your fingertips, the slight pull as if a storm is brewing, barometric pressure bearing down on you. The feeling of magic flowing. But it’s not all you feel.

Sam’s arm slings around you and he pulls you in. It’s uncomfortable, your knees still against the hard ground. But you couldn’t care less when Sam pushes his tongue into your mouth, just as demanding and strong as it was on your cut. There’s the metallic tang of your own blood mixed in with his spit.

You moan again when he pushes you back and then it’s only his arm holding him up, thick muscle tensed against you as Sam lays you down. Your back meets the hard ground and Sam climbs over you.

He must be able to feel it too - the pentagram below you, it’s like standing too close to a huge gong that’s just been hit. Sam keeps kissing you and you run your fingertips over his arms, his back, feeling the strength there. One hand leaves him, goes out to the side until you find the cool handle of the knife.

You turn your face a little, the only way to get Sam’s attention. When he opens his eyes he blinks, then sees the knife where you’re holding it up - holding it out to him.

“Do it, Sam,” you say, breaths coming fast and hard. “I know you want to.”

There’s just a touch of doubt on Sam’s face still but he must see the assuredness in yours, because after a moment of hesitation he reaches for the knife. Takes it from you and then brings it to the skin over your collarbone.

There’s a second before it happens, and it’s like the room holding its breath. Then Sam moves the knife, drags it over you, the blade too sharp for the pain to arrive immediately. Just as it begins, the knife goes clattering to the side and Sam presses his mouth down against the gash.

You lean your head back, moan, Sam sucking hard, rounding his back. He grunts, low and deep, his body tensing and untensing, his cock bumping against you and then he presses himself down, seeking out the friction. He’s hard as steel, as though the blood he’s sucking from you is helping to make him heavy and full.

You reach down, blindly, between your legs. Find him, run your fingertip over one of the crisscrossing veins for a moment, then take him into your hand. Bring your legs up, wrap them around his narrow hips. His head bumps against your folds, once, and then Sam moves and is pressing into you.

He slides in, smooth and deep and quick, and you bring your hand to the back of his head instead. Take a fistful of his hair, press him harder against you, his lips against your open part while he’s opening you up in different ways down below. You don’t have to tell him what to do next.

He pulls out, then pushes himself into you again, hard. It makes you see stars. You moan, grab his hair harder and he does it again.

Sam starts fucking you and after a few thrusts, his lips drag off your chest and he looks up. They are blood smeared, and the cut must be bigger than you thought it was, but you can’t seem to care. Not with Sam rolling his hips against you, not with that perfect drag, the fullness, the ebb and tide of him. You drag him towards you, kiss him, swirl your tongue over his lips so that none of that power is wasted.

One of Sam’s arms pushes under you, and then he’s dragging you up. He sits back, legs going wide, holding you up and you grab on to his shoulders. Sam looks deep into your eyes and a moment later, you begin moving again, drag yourself up and then down, let him drop most of the way out of you then push him into you again. 

He feels perfect. His eyes are the colors of the cosmos, of the heavens above and the earth below. You lean forward, kiss him roughly. He flinches when you bite his lip, hard enough to open skin. You look into his eyes, then run your tongue over his mouth. He tastes salty and hot and like life itself. He tastes himself, realizes what you’ve done. It makes him wrap his arms tighter around you before he starts thrusting up into you, deep and bruising and perfect.

It’s like the humidity in the air being cranked up. Everything is thick around you and Sam is thick within you, relentlessly driving into you. You’re buzzing with it, the power.

“Sam,” you pant, “you need to come, I need you to come, for it to– oh gods!” You lean backwards, Sam’s arms holding you and letting you slowly sink down onto the ground, hips still rolling, still keeping that perfect dance up with Sam’s movement. Your back is arched and Sam grabs on to your hips, pulls you against him so he can go deeper, your hands landing on his to keep feeling him. 

You continue looking into his eyes but then the high hits you and your head presses back, your back arching further as Sam fucks you right into a mind-shattering climax and through it, his groans loud and uncontrolled at the way you’re enveloping and gripping him.

You grab for his strong lower arms, press your fingernails against him. Sam throws back his head, a deep and animalistic sound leaving him.

“Yes!” you gasp. You can feel it. The roll of it. Like staring down a tsunami. You drag down your nails. Pierce skin. “Yes!”

The blood sings. No, it screams. Gathers like a storm cloud over the two of you as Sam drops forward, kisses you again while both of you nearly drown in it. He goes faster and harder, a volley of thrusts so intense you can only rip open your mouth in a silent scream. He starts coming and the next second the whirlwind takes you both. 

Ecstasy, unlike anything known to man.

“He’s still there,” Dean says, and only your hand going over your eyes and the sigh leaving you mean you miss the disappointment on his face. You don’t miss it on Sam’s, though, when you look up at him. The deep desperation that yet another ploy to save his brother has failed. When he looks your way, he gives you a soft but sad smile.

“We had to try,” he says and it moves you, that he’s looking to your feelings first. 

“He’s just too strong,” you say, voice quiet. “I underestimated him.” Dean stands, straightens, and walks out of the library. No goodbye, no thank you, not even an: I told you so. You can feel the grief pour off him.

Sam looks after him, and you know he wants to follow. Not like it’ll do any good. He seems to think the same and turns back to you.

“I appreciate your help,” he says, looking down, all shy and gentlemanly again. You move your head so that he looks at you.

“Are you gonna be alright?” you ask. Sam raises his shoulders as he takes a deep breath. 

“We’ll figure something out,” he says, not an answer. Still, you give him a soft smile. 

Your hand goes out without meaning to. Lands on his jaw, gently caressing it, his stubble scratching under your fingertips. Sam swallows, his eyes misting up.

“If you need someone to talk,” you say, then close your mouth. Press your lips together. “Well, you have my number.” Sam nods slowly.

“Thank you,” he says. You nod.

Then you turn around, and leave.

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