Work Text:
The witch hunters tell a story, an old story, a story born from half-truths and pride and fear…
Before the end of magic there was chaos, before the end of magic there was darkness. Mother’s whispered warnings to their children, fathers barred the door with iron and silver, while rumor spoke of neighbors that couldn’t be trusted; every face suspect, every open intention a secret lie.
There were few places that were safe unless you made them so.
The witch hunters know this, they teach it to their children, and their children teach it to theirs.
We are grateful, they tell each other, for the ones who came first, the ones who purged the world of magic, the ones who made the world safe. We are comforted in the knowledge that the god is dead, the covens scattered, the creatures killed. Our legacy is to ensure that it never rises again, that magic remains dead, and the witches and their god do too.
But there is an older story…
It is a story forgotten, a story of a darkling, beautiful world, where wonder and danger lived hand in hand. Where fear was not a commodity traded through word of mouth, but a gift given in order to keep you alive. Where for every monster, every creeping, dragging, fanged and hungry thing there was something delicate, something pure, something made of light and life and hope.
But then the witch hunters killed the god of magic.
Broke their own oaths and bound him with blood and dark power. Tore the godhood from him, rending it asunder, scattering it like so much ash and dust upon the wind.
With his passing, magic died, and the hunters thought themselves triumphant.
Gone was the danger, the darkness, the dread (gone too was the wonder, the light, the hope).
But they were too confident in their triumph.
Magic, for all its vitriol and venom, all its sparkle and shine, is a patient creature.
And a witch, they say, is made of magic.
They killed a god, yes.
But they did not kill his lover.
The First Witch becomes the Last, lingering alone in the woods as he gathers what power he can; wisps and traceries, ghosts of ghosts, memories of magic. The memory of divine blood on his hands and a final kiss on his lips is his most constant company as he weaves a god’s soul back together and waits until the time is right for him to be born again.
☽⛦☾
Jeongguk was an angry child.
Born unto the world screaming, tiny lungs already capable of a magnitude of fury yet unheard of in the town within which he was born. Brought into the world on the cusp of a dying summer, black-haired and dark-eyed and flawless, willful and furious and bold—it should have been obvious to anyone with eyes and sense that he was a special child.
Though how special and in what way, none of them could have guessed.
Yet he did not like playing with the other children, he did not like attending lessons, and he most certainly did not like attending prayer. He rebelled against every rule, and punishment did nothing to curb his wildness. There was a blazing white fire in him, a glittering, sparkling darkness that shone in his eyes and simmered beneath his skin.
He learned quickly not to share or speak overmuch, to hide in the backs of rooms and the shadows of the sun; to not hint at the disquiet he felt in his bones, to never suggest that somewhere in him something smoldered and waited and watched.
Something that whispered to him in his dreams.
Wait and wait and wait, this body must be older, the stars must come home. The song will sing from the shadows and this body will follow. Wait and wait and wait for him, he will find you, he will heal you, he will make you whole. Do not fight it, do not resist, give in, give in and bring back all that was lost.
He grows older and the dreams are forgotten, but the promise of them is etched into his slowly waking soul.
A failsafe, a light in the far off distance, an oath born from blood and crafted from the will of a dying god.
With the will of the Witch and the Wild, he will return.
With the final spell he cast, his death will be avenged.
☽⛦☾
Jeongguk is only ten years old the first time the woods call to him.
He’d run away from evening prayer, the very idea of attending enough to make his skin crawl. Aside from his mother, he wouldn’t be missed, and the scolding he’d receive in punishment was a fair trade for not sitting in the overcrowded worship hall for an hour; listening to a fat man speak in some language none of them actually understood.
The village strays follow him like they always do, another reason the other children are afraid of him, and another thing that makes them whisper and stare. Jeongguk doesn’t care though, he’d much rather keep company with mangy alley cats and flea-bitten mutts than the villagers.
“They’re all so boring,” he mutters as he picks up a stick and begins to draw patterns in the dirt, nonsensical things with no rhyme or reason. A ragged-eared cat twines between his ankles, its purr broken-sounding but still strong. He keeps walking after a minute, staying out of sight of windows in case someone sees him, until he and his little entourage are on the outskirts of the village.
Where he’s been told many times he’s not supposed to go.
That’s never stopped him though, his little mouth twists into a petulant scowl as he kicks a rock and glares at the fence that circles his home. It’s old, worn and a bit broken, easy enough to get over because no one maintains it.
“Don’t need to,” someone had once said, “nothing out there worth being afraid of anymore.”
Jeongguk thinks that’s ridiculous, why did his mother tell him to never step foot in the woods if there was nothing out there to fear? The other children listened, the other children were afraid, but Jeongguk wasn’t—not of the dark or what could be in it.
He’d always felt safer in the shadows anyway.
There’s a single road leading out of town and to the next, deeply rutted and old. No one strays from it, they go from one village to the other and then back again, and that is all. He stares at the road now, wonders where else it leads; if he would hate every village he came across or if the one he grew up in is special and unique in its misery.
He suspects that is not the case.
He stares at the old fence, the rusted iron set into it, words of prayer he doesn’t understand carved upon it. They always made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t say why. Now that he’s older the discomfort feels like a challenge, something he refuses to let control him.
He stands and glares, hating the fence like he hates everything else about this drab, dark cluster of homes and dusty streets.
“I don’t know how I raised such a stubborn brat,” he often heard his mother complain, “when your siblings are so obedient.”
He scoffs at the memory, his opinion of his brothers and sisters no better than it is for any other child of the village— possibly worse, since he was the youngest and his siblings often used that as an excuse to bully him. That had stopped recently though, Jeongguk finally hitting an impressive growth spurt that had left him taller than even his eldest brother.
He forces himself to take a step forward, then another, ignoring the growing discomfort he feels as the distance between him and the barrier decreases. It’s an itch under his skin, a skittering, scampering feeling that makes him bare his teeth and clench his fists even as he takes another step.
No one else feels this discomfort. He’s seen the other villagers come and go easily enough, even if most of them prefer to stay within the confines of the town.
Another step and it feels like he’s forcibly being pushed back until he can no longer move forward, an invisible something keeping him from getting any nearer to the fence.
Frustrated, he growls, the sound tearing out of him and sounding more akin to the dogs who mill at his feet than a human boy. At the same time a wind rises with sudden force from the south, surging over the tree tops towards him.
And he hears it, the first faint strains of a song, wild and calling, whispering and wanting, all nameless desire and madness, all bonfire-bright and cool deep water and moon glow and nectar and poison and promise—
“Jeon Jeongguk! Why are you not at the prayer hall?”
The song stops and the wind dies and the animals around him scatter.
Jeongguk doesn’t wait to find out who has found him, instead he runs as fast as the wind itself. Away from the fence and the forest and the song and the strange feeling of anger-sadness-love that it had summoned within him.
☽⛦☾
Once, when Jeongguk was only six years old, he had gotten in a fight with one of the older village children. Despite his smaller size he had been fierce, nearly feral, and had had the upper hand until his opponent had knocked him hard into the fence that surrounded the village.
He had slammed into it, the wood biting into his skin, bruising him, but it was the iron that hurt the most. It had burned him, searing his flesh to blisters in a matter of moments. The scream it had torn from him was loud and shrill and sent the other children scattering, leaving him to be found by another villager, who had taken one look at him and dragged him home by the ear.
When he’d told his mother what had happened he got sent to bed without supper for lying.
He still has the scars on his shoulder from where it hit the fence years later.
☽⛦☾
Seasons pass, slipping from one to the next in a drab march of cold and hot and brown and gray. Full moons rise and fall, sunrises blaze and sunsets burn and the village remains the same: unchanging, unwelcoming, unhappy.
Jeongguk stays angry.
He doesn’t hear the song again.
But he never forgets it. He thinks of it during prayer, during chores, during meals. He dreams of it and wakes with the echo of it still in his ears and heart.
He is twenty-five when he finally hears it once more.
☽⛦☾
The song will sing from the shadows and this body will follow.
It is night and Jeongguk is restless.
The house is overcrowded and too warm. Two of his siblings are married now, and instead of finding their own place they’d stayed at home, so there are always crying children underfoot, rarely any silence, and no privacy to be found. His mother is glaring at him as he stalks towards the door, the frown lines on her face deeply set and the furrow between her brow now permanent. He barely spares her a glance as he pulls on his boots, making some excuse about visiting the tavern even as she begins to complain.
That’s all she does to him anyway, why should he linger and listen to it more?
He steps out onto the creaking porch and takes in a lungful of the summer-night air, warm and damp and oppressive but still preferable to the suffocating atmosphere of his home. There’s no moon tonight, but he can still see, his vision never hindered by shadow.
A bat swoops by, the sound of its wings loud in the still night.
He has no real desire to go to the tavern, but it’s the most common place for single men his age to spend their time at night. So as much as his family glares and whispers, they let him go because at least he’s doing something expected, something normal. Never mind that he doesn’t have any friends, or that he sits in the corner and glares at anyone who is foolish enough to get close, brooding another night away in this dried up little town.
He knows the villagers still whisper about him, talk about his dark hair and dark eyes when so many in the village are pale and fair. He doesn’t look like anyone else in his family either, and were his mother less devout and his father less controlling, he is sure there would be rumors that he wasn’t theirs at all. But here he is without a doubt as to his lineage, and endless anger at what he was born into.
A slow death in a dying town.
He slumps into his usual spot and the tavern keeper brings him his usual drink and he downs it easily, worn from a day of hard labor and no joy. He distantly wishes he didn’t have to drink to dull whatever misery has made a home within him, because drinking also dulls his dreams, but it’s either suffer through the night recalling all his anger, or hope to sleep and dream of better things, only to wake tomorrow and lose it all to reality.
Lately he’s been choosing to forgo dreams in favor of being numb.
Because at twenty-five he finds himself losing hope quickly, unable to save enough money to leave, unable to find a place in this town where he feels at home. He has no prospects for marriage, and no desire for it either, every woman in this place a carbon-copy of his mother—icy and distant and dead-eyed, staring him down like he’s an abomination.
Not that his opinion of them is any better.
He nurses his second glass slower, doesn’t want to get sloppy in case some of the other villagers decide tonight is a good night to mess with him. He’s had it happen before, and while they haven’t managed to get the upper hand on him yet, he’s not about to hand them further opportunity.
Tonight he’s lucky though, no one bothers him, leaving him to drink and stare out the window into the night and the forest, half-lost to shadows. There’s a few stars overhead, distant and dull, and a waning moon just now cresting the trees. The drinks dull the buzzing in his bones, helping him ignore the restlessness that makes him want to set this world alight and watch it burn.
It’s late by the time he leaves the tavern, having paced himself throughout the hours in order to maintain a constant, steady buzz. Now his feet feel leaden as he drags himself back home, just hazy enough to ignore the disapproving looks he knows wait for him as soon as he opens the door.
But it’s not the door he finds himself in front of several minutes later, it’s the fence that borders the village.
He stands there, swaying slightly, frowning because he doesn’t recall how he got here in the first place.
And then he hears it.
Faint, so faint—almost dreamlike in the way it fades in and out, indistinct, ephemeral, fleeting.
The song.
The song he hasn’t heard since he was a child but never forgot. The song he would find himself humming unbidden, the song that had haunted his dreams since the first time he heard it all those years ago.
There is something painful unfurling within his chest, something sharp as the tip of a dagger, burning with the heat of a brand. The song grows louder, steadier, and the pain intensifies until he is clutching his chest, wincing at the ache that grows and blooms like some dark vine, unfurling and sending him stumbling forward on unsteady legs.
All he can hear is the song, all he can think about is the song. It fills his mind, chasing away every warning and lesson he’d had beaten into him over the years. And without a conscious choice on his part, he climbs over the fence, ignorant to the way the iron burns his skin as he launches himself over it. He lands on feet now steadier than they have any right to be, and follows the sound to the edge of the woods, eyes fixed on the darkness like an old friend.
He doesn’t think about how it’s been years since he was foolish enough to do this, he doesn’t think about the warnings that have been beaten into him over the years. He doesn’t think at all as he stands on the edge of the forest and listens to a song that seems to seep into his very blood.
Below him something stirs in the brittle-brown grass of late summer, and he feels the brush of smooth scales over his ankles as something twines around them. Yet he barely notices, too transfixed by the music and the pull he feels.
Come, someone—something whispers even though the world is silent around him, you know you want to, you’ve always wanted to.
Jeongguk shakes his head in denial, as if he could unhear the words and let go of the little black blossom of temptation that is unfurling within him. He might have hated the village and its people, but it is all he has ever known, the only place he calls home, and the forest is dark and untamed, full of unknown dangers lurking in the shadows.
Nothing will hurt you here, the voice whispers like it knows what he needs to hear, this is all yours, after all.
There is a part of him that doesn’t trust it—doesn’t trust anything, born from a lifetime of never being able to love or believe those around him. But the song is still playing somewhere, maybe just in his own head now, and its haunting melody is calling him, telling him to take another step into darkness, that whatever waits there will embrace him.
Behind him the village glows with torchlight and hearth fire, before him the woods are dark. Come Jeongguk, the voice whispers again.
“How do you know my name?” He asks, or thinks he asks, uncertain if he says the words aloud.
I have always known you, the voice replies, even when you did not know yourself.
He takes a step forward, feeling like he has no control over his body, the song echoing in dizzy spirals through him, lulling him with a promise of peace and rest and embracing darkness. Somewhere in the back of his mind the old warnings echo—promises of danger and death—but he can barely hear them now, too consumed by the song and its pull and the soft voice that knows him.
Yes, I know you, I am yours… I am yours…
Another step into darkness and starlight; around him the forest stirs, things in the shadows watching him, things he does not notice now as the voice, sweetly and softly coaxes him further into forbidden lands.
He does not look back as the forest swallows him whole.
There is no path before him yet he walks without hesitation, the song louder now, consuming him as he moves without hesitation into the darkness. He feels nothing except the pull, knows nothing except the voice and the song, bones and blood full of it.
He isn’t sure how long he walks through the night, the passage of time irrelevant, he will walk as long as he must to find the voice and the source of the song.
Yes, he hears whispered, closer now, almost whispered into his ear, you must find me, listen to the song and find me.
“Find you,” Jeongguk whispers, “yes, I will find you.”
I am further into the darkness, it tells him, I am further into the woods.
“I will find you,” Jeongguk whispers again, consumed by the need now, the desire to find who speaks to him so sweetly, who knows him when he doesn’t even know himself.
Yes I do, it says, I have known you before you were born into this body, known you when the world was all starlight and wonder, knew you before they took you from my arms.
Further Jeongguk flies and falls.
Until he sees him.
Glowing softly, like he is made of moon glow, little points of light on his skin radiating like stars in an evening sky. His hair is darkest black, his eyes unfathomable, his beauty unmatched.
The song is so loud now, devouring him from the inside out until he is a hollowed-out husk of wanting and yearning and need. He has never seen anyone as stunning as this man before him, has never even imagined anyone could be this beautiful. He reaches out once he is close enough to touch, desperate to feel if that skin is as soft as it looks, but just before his fingertips can make contact, the man slips just out of reach, soft laughter spilling from his lips like fluttering moths.
Chase me, he whispers, catch me.
Then he starts to run.
Jeongguk does not hesitate to follow.
Further into the forest he races, following this man made of moon glow and star shine. His body shifts, hunter and hunted, he is a wolf following a white hart, a rabbit, a dove, he is swift and certain as he loses himself, all thoughts of the village and his family gone as he runs.
Time becomes ephemeral, minutes feeling like seconds, reality some unmoored thing he does not care to notice. He reaches out, body now a man’s again, fingers wrapping around a slender wrist, the moon-glow-stranger laughing, turning, falling falling falling into Jeongguk’s arms, sweet lips parted, Jeongguk bends to meet them, they taste like wine and honey and dark promises. The stranger’s weight is familiar, the curves something Jeongguk is certain he has mapped with his fingers countless times before. He swipes his tongue across sugared lips, growling when the stranger gasps and opens for him, body pliant, desperate, warm and welcoming and his and his and his and—
He wakes up.
It was all a dream.
Of course it was a dream.
Anger and heartbreak explode within him, tear him open even as he lies there with his eyes still closed. The taste of the stranger is still on his lips and tongue, his fingertips blazing with the sweet memory of touch, his heart hammering from the chase.
But it was all a dream.
A sharp pain against his shoulder forces him to open his eyes and he realizes with a start that he is not in his bed, or even in his home. But then he processes what is hurting him.
A pure black hart nudges at his shoulder, the velvet on its horns shredded and bloodied as it bends down. Jeongguk stares up at it, unable to move, and it stares back with black eyes full of stars. It bends down again, and the tip of one branch of antlers pierces his shoulder, the pain bright as the wound begins to bleed.
Then the sound of the village bells calling everyone to the prayer hall startles it, its head flying up to stare into the distance just as Jeongguk reaches out, hands shaking, desperation filling him—
It leaps away and into the shadows, leaving a trail of blood and stars in its wake.
☽⛦☾
Wait and wait and wait for him, he will find you, he will heal you, he will make you whole.
The day that follows is pure hell.
His ability to focus is shattered, he feels ill fitting in his own skin, his temper is more frayed than usual and he can’t seem to stop himself from humming the song, even when his mother scolds and snaps at him every few minutes.
“Stop it, what is this nonsense?”
“Your voice is tiresome, can’t you be quiet?”
Jeongguk bristles and snaps right back until his youngest nephew starts to wail and scream and his mother’s glare becomes so heavy he feels like he’ll be suffocated from the weight of it. He abandons the house and spends the rest of the day restless, unable to do much but think of his dream.
He finds he has no appetite, no desire for drink. All he wants is to sleep and dream again, to hear the song that plays on an endless loop in his mind, and to taste the sweet lips of that creature made of moonlight and stars.
And he swears, he swears, that when he stops in his work and stares out at the woods, he can hear it begging for him to return.
He drinks again that night, but the liquor might as well be water for all the distraction it gives him. He finds himself staring at the woods, free hand absently rubbing at the mark the hart had left on his shoulder, which healed quickly but left a scar in the shape of a star upon his skin, something so deliberate and clearly defined that he knows he will be questioned should anyone catch sight of it.
That night he lies in bed for hours, desperate for rest that does not come.
Through his open window he hears distant laughter, soft and beguiling, yet he can’t tell what direction it comes from. It’s seemingly all around him, taunting and teasing as a wind rises and carries the sound away.
You promised you would find me, Jeongguk.
He goes rigid, the words practically whispered into his ear, the voice the same one that had guided him into the forest.
Promised, promised, promised….
Find me, find me, find me…
The words echo in his mind, twisted and tangled like brambles in the hedgerow.
You promised, you promised, you promised—
A sudden, sharp pain flares from the scar on his shoulder and he gasps, clutching at it as he stares into the shadows above his bed, unable to tear his gaze away, the pull so strong he rises without realizing it, the desire to follow through with his promise growing into a need.
He promised that sweet creature he would find it.
He thinks he would rather die than never see it again.
The house is silent around him as he navigates around the sleeping forms of his family, not a single one of them stirring as he leaves, barefoot and bare chested, walking slowly and with a single-minded focus towards the woods.
Find me, find me, find me…
The song sings in his blood as he walks, the shadows reaching out with gentle, trembling fingers to touch him, to feel him. There is not a single light on in the village, every door bolted and every window latched as the townspeople sleep, oblivious to the golden euphoria Jeongguk feels as he gives into the pull at long last and lets the forest claim him.
He feels at peace as soon as he is in its dark embrace once more. There is no room in him for fear or doubt, the only thing he needs right now is to find the one he promised he would find, to taste those sweet lips again, to touch that warm and welcoming flesh. Dark scales at his feet guide him, deeper and deeper into the forest, deeper and deeper into the dark.
Promised, promised, promised…
Find me, find me, find me…
He sees something pale in the shadows, limbs of moon glow and starlight, tempting him further into the woods and away from all he knows, all that he was taught was good and safe and proper.
Waited so long, he hears whispered against his ear, so real it is almost as if plush lips brush against his skin, warm and tempting, waited for you.
Jeongguk should question it, but he finds he can’t— thoughts slipping away like wind or water, logic gone in favor of desire. He recalls sweet lips, soft skin, aching need, he recalls the promise of release, the promise of more, the promise of everything.
He finds him in a clearing, laid out in the grass, naked and glowing and glorious as Jeongguk stumbles to a stop at his feet, entranced as he stares.
Whatever creature this is, Jeongguk cannot begin to guess, he is too beautiful, too perfect. He falls to his knees between the creatures legs without thinking, the rest of the world gone as he cages this beautiful thing in with his body, breathing in his sweet scent as full lips part and a soft voice whispers, “You found me.”
“I found you,” Jeongguk agrees, voice sounding hazy and wrecked as he stares at rose red lips and is consumed with the need to taste them again. There is a distant, quiet thought that says he should be afraid, that what is happening isn’t normal, isn’t safe—that whatever it is that lies before him is dangerous, maybe evil, something he has been warned against and taught to fear.
But fear is the last thing he feels as he leans down, lifting one leg so that it is bent at the knee. He inhales the sweet scent of the creature's skin, dazzled by the little bits of starlight that ignite as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses on his inner thigh. Dark eyes stare at him and he finds he cannot look away, still worshiping soft skin, drunk on the scent of it, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in lust and desire.
“Need you,” the man who is not a man or more than a man whispers, “need you in me.”
Jeongguk needs him too, needs to buried inside of him, needs to feel that divine heat, needs to take and take and take and take and—
He is naked, palming his hard cock as the creature parts its legs and stares at him with hunger in its eyes.
He is pushing forward into tight, wet heat, groaning low in his throat because he has never felt anything like this before.
“God,” he groans as he pushes further in.
The creature wraps him in pale limbs and whispers into his ear, “The only god here is you.”
He recalls nothing after that.
☽⛦☾
Do not fight it, do not resist, give in…
Jeongguk wakes slowly, blinking tired eyes open to find himself somewhere he doesn’t recognize. He stares without comprehending at what he sees, still too out of it to process his surroundings.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a soft voice whispers from somewhere beside him.
He turns, eyelids heavy with sleep, and sees it—him, the creature that has been calling to him from the forest.
Whatever thoughts he might have had are abandoned at the sight of him, luminous in the shadows, white hair hanging loose and soft, eyes all moonlight and star shine. He is beautiful beyond words, beyond real comprehension, and he is every single thing Jeongguk was taught to fear and hate given physical form.
Yet every lesson learned is now long forgotten as Jeongguk stares. There are no prayers to save him from temptation, no god to call upon to protect him from the sight of something far more holy than anything Jeongguk has ever seen. Not that he would have tried anything like that to begin with, not when he carried this beast inside of him, sleeping though it might have been. The creature crawls across the floor with unnatural grace, eyes fixed on Jeongguk like he is prey, “I’ve been waiting a long time,” he whispers. “Why did you make me wait so long?”
“I’m sorry,” Jeongguk murmurs even though he has no idea what he’s apologizing for. All he knows is that he is being pinned in place by wide, heartbroken eyes, and that he would do anything to make this creature happy. He reaches out without realizing what he is doing, and the witch goes willingly into his arms, sweet-smelling and soft, legs tangled up with him as he lies on Jeongguk’s chest.
“I have been so lonely,” he feels and hears whispered into his skin, “do you promise you won’t let me be lonely anymore?”
There is a part of him, a small, distant part of him, that remembers old lessons, old attempts to instill fear. Ones that tell him he shouldn’t agree to anything, that he shouldn’t even be holding this creature to his heart like he is. But just that idea has his arms tightening in response, and the song he still hasn’t stopped hearing grows louder, and all his thoughts are abandoned once more as he whispers, “I promise.”
The kiss that follows tastes like honeysuckle nectar and forever. Jeongguk opens himself up to it, lets the witch sweep his tongue into his mouth and taste him, swallowing around his own broken moans as he feels himself grow hard.
Then the witch is pulling back, one hand holding Jeongguk down as he sits upright and even though he wants to keep kissing him, he obeys the unspoken command without question, lying there and waiting patiently to be told what’s next.
“I have everything I need,” the witch tells him, “and now that you are finally here the returning can begin.” His smile is glorious and radiant and so beautiful that Jeongguk doesn’t even think to ask what he means, too dazzled as he smiles lazily back, hands running up and down the creature's naked sides.
“Everything I need,” he whispers back without hearing himself.
“You stay here,” the witch tells him with a secret little smile, “I will take care of the ritual, all you have to do is relax.”
Jeongguk can do that, sinking back into the pile of furs he lies upon and watching as the witch rises with fluid grace and begins to gather various things from around the cave, singing as he goes. It is the same song Jeongguk has been hearing all these years, the same one that led him out into the forest in the first place, sinking into him like barbed hooks of pleasure and longing and never, ever letting go.
He drifts as he lies there, eyes half-closed as he watches the witch, not a single thought in his head as he stares. There is no room for worry or fear in him, he feels euphoric yet heavy, like his limbs wouldn’t move even if he wanted them too, but luckily he doesn’t want that, the only thing he wants is to stay here and relax.
Just like he was told.
“What is your name?” He whispers when the witch draws closer at one point, a pitcher of water in one hand and a bowl of salt in the other.
The witch sets his burdens down carefully and crouches over Jeongguk, fingers dancing over his lips and stars dancing in his eyes as he smiles, “I was once the first witch, now I am the last, but you may call me Jimin.”
“Jimin,” he whispers, and the name tastes just as sweet on his tongue as the kisses the witch bestows upon him, bursting like summer fruit and chilled wine and falling stars.
“You’re so lovely like this,” the witch laughs, “so good for me.” He leans closer, “I’m sure you’re not so well-behaved for anyone else though, are you?”
He shakes his head and the witch bestows him with another smile, another sweet kiss. “The mark truly took well, didn’t it?” He whispers before he rises once more, and Jeongguk still does not have the presence of mind to ask him what he means.
He just floats and waits and begs for kisses whenever the witch draws near. Sometimes he gets them, sometimes he doesn’t, but he never complains, happy to simply be here, where he is starting to think he was always meant to be.
Then he has a lap full of Jimin again, the witch telling him to lie still as he unbuttons his shirt and pushes the fabric aside to expose his bare chest. He stares up at him as the witch dips the end of one finger into a dark liquid and uses it to paint symbols onto his skin. There is a part of him that would be curious if he remembered to be curious, a part of him that would be concerned if he didn’t have a head full of song and a heart full of adoration for his captor.
The symbols are drawn lower and lower, down his chest and abdomen to the waist of his pants and across his hips. He feels arousal pooling in his gut again as Jimin works, oblivious to the way Jeongguk stares with hungry eyes.
The air is hazy with incense smoke, something heavy and rich that slows his thoughts down even further as he breathes it in, but somewhere in him he finds the presence of mind to finally whisper, “What are you doing to me?”
Jimin looks up from his work with a secret little smile, “Exactly what you want me to,” he whispers in reply. “I told you I waited, didn’t I? And I was so good while I waited, gathered magic and the pieces of your tattered soul and kept myself secret and hidden until I knew it was time.” He bends down, bestows a sweet kiss to Jeongguk’s lips that sends him reeling into the stars before he pulls back and adds, “Now I get my reward, and my reward is you.”
“Your reward is me,” Jeongguk repeats, meaning to but forgetting to phrase it like a question.
Jimin’s smile is slow and certain like moonrise over the hills, like the turning of the seasons, like the falling of night and the death of mortal things. He bends back down and his kiss is just as slow, languid like they have all the time in the world.
And they do, Jeongguk thinks as he returns the kiss, limbs still too heavy to move but body stirring with desire nonetheless; he has never fit in, he never wants to go back, and he wants to stay with Jimin.
Only Jimin.
The witch breaks away, laughing all soft and indulgent when Jeongguk tries weakly to chase it, “Be good,” he says as he pushes him back down, and that’s enough to have him docile again, falling back into the furs to watch Jimin continue his work. He pours something dark into a chalice, lifts it to his lips and drinks deeply before dipping his hand in it and returning to Jeongguk crouching over him and tracing his lips with his dripping fingers, “Open for me,” he says and Jeongguk complies, mouth wide as the witch slides his fingers over his tongue, coating it with something both bitter and sweet.
“For waking,” the witch says as if that is an explanation, as if Jeongguk is capable of questioning him. He retrieves another chalice and repeats what he just did, drinking some of it before feeding the rest to Jeongguk, this time whispering, “For remembering,” before he retreats once more.
Jeongguk floats for a while, he’s not sure how long, too content to care because the entire time he is able to watch Jimin, who speaks to him in low tones as he works, words that Jeongguk hears even if he doesn’t comprehend what they mean.
“I never thought I’d have to wait so long after they took you,” he says. “All alone and hidden, just like you wanted but at what cost?” He tilts his pretty head to the side, “I’ve been so lonely, my love, will you take care of me tonight?”
Jeongguk nods, fervent and devout, “Yes I’ll take care of you. I’m so sorry you had to wait.”
“It’s okay,” Jimin says, eyes all big and full of stars, “I know you’ll make up for it.”
“Yes,” he whispers, “I will, I promise I will.” He would do anything for Jimin, he understands that now, mind unable to comprehend anything except what the witch tells him.
“Mm… you’re so obedient like this,” Jimin hums with a pleased little smile, “but I wonder if I even needed to bespell you to lure you away from the hunters.”
“Am I bespelled?” Jeongguk asks, or thinks he asks.
“Of course you are, beloved,” Jimin says with that same little smile, “though perhaps not in the way you have been taught to fear.” He tilts his head to the side in thought, “I am… as I was before—a culmination of your desires, a vessel for your power, a dream given shape and form and purpose.” He bows, low and sweeping and elegant, “The First and the Last and your most devoted of witches, My King.”
The words echo and rattle inside of him, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand, but there is a part of him, distant and waking, rising and wanting, that listens. His skin feels heated and sensitive, the furs beneath him incredibly soft, the lights around him fractured at the edges of his vision like twinkling stars. Jimin stands before him and his robes fall like water from his luminous body, pooling at his feet and leaving him bare and beautiful beyond words.
“I don’t think there’s much need for clothes anymore,” Jimin tells him, “why don’t you take yours off too?”
Suddenly Jeongguk can move again, stripping himself of his pants and casting his shirt aside, feeling no shame as he lies back down and stares up at Jimin with his cock fully hard and leaking against his stomach, his entire focus on the witch and what he’ll ask for next.
“You asked me what I am doing,” Jimin murmurs as he walks slowly closer, “I am doing what we have always done, what we did when I first fell from shadow and starlight.” He kneels between Jeongguk’s legs and traces a delicate fingertip over his cock, “We are calling your power back, we are making the world anew.” He abandons his touching to climb further up, straddling his waist now and whispering, “It’s time to remember, my love.”
The world tilts and Jeongguk falls, moaning as Jimin rolls his hips, back arched because he’s never been this turned on before, has never wanted anyone as badly as he wants this witch. He’d do anything to make him feel good, anything to be buried inside of him again. He wants to reach up, to hold Jimin close and taste him again, but the witch seems more interested in slow torture, eyes hooded as he teases Jeongguk, their cocks dragging as Jimin moans.
Jeongguk falls forward and crashes their lips together, his turn to claim and conquer now here. With the waking, with the rising, he sees it now, understands that Jimin is his and he is Jimin’s and that they were made for each other from the same wellspring of magic and starlight. Like a man starved, he devours, abandoning Jimin’s lips to kiss along his jaw, to bite and suck at the fluttering pulse under his skin, the taste of magic on his tongue as he pulls blood nearer to the surface but Jimin’s blood is starlight and every mark he leaves shines like the night sky.
He tastes divine under his tongue, addictive and sweet as Jeongguk licks over the glittering marks he’s made, and Jeongguk is hungry for more, for it all. He moves lower, leaving a trail of starlight in his wake as he sucks more of his marks onto Jimin’s chest, pausing at his nipples to tease and lick them until they are both hard and Jimin is gasping and whining, and oh, but his little sounds are beautiful music, making Jeongguk want to see what else he can coax out of him.
Jeongguk does not remember so much as he simply knows—knows in a flash, a flood, a drowning, dawning, burning, blazing rush of eternity that this was how they did it when magic was young and theirs alone to wield. This is how they brought about nightmares and wonder and darkness and light. Jimin is everything, a conduit for his power, a vessel to carry it, a culmination of a newly born god’s desires, and his to love and cherish and worship in return.
And he remembers exactly how to take care of him.
He dips his fingers into one of the bowls left to the side of their bed and comes away with them coated with something warm and slick, then uses them to gently tease Jimin’s rim, urging him into spreading his legs as he kisses along his inner thighs. He still feels hazy, drunk on Jimin’s taste and scent, and the magic coursing through him; no further thought given to anything except the witch—his witch.
Jimin mewls and whines as Jeongguk slips that first finger in, hips twisting prettily to deepen his reach, cheeks flushed and eyes fixed on Jeongguk. He doesn’t need to do this, knows the witch is always ready for him, but he finds he wants to, finds he wants to devote himself to making sure Jimin feels good.
“Do you like this?” He whispers, needing to make sure, desperate to see Jimin nod, lips parted in gasping agreement. He finds his prostate a moment later and the resulting sound Jimin makes goes straight to his cock, and he wants to be buried in that heat already but something holds him back, something tells him to keep making Jimin feel good.
He slips in a second finger, eyelids heavy as he lowers himself down far enough that he can take the witch’s cock in his mouth too, sucking on the end and moaning at the taste in his mouth. There’s a hand in his hair, petting it and tangling gently in his curls and it’s enough to get him moaning around Jimin’s cock because even that feels amazing; sending lightening-like shocks of pleasure down his spine.
How did he go so long without this, he wonders in a daze, how did he survive? There’s no going back now, not that he would if he had the choice, how could he return to the village when everything he wants and needs is right here?
“That’s right,” Jimin whispers like he can hear him, “I’m everything you need.”
Jeongguk groans low in his throat, eyes closing as he continues to pleasure Jimin. He’s so hard it almost hurts, but he’s enjoying himself too much to stop, his needs secondary to Jimin’s, his only want now to make the witch feel good.
A third finger and Jimin is keening, hips grinding down and head thrown back, eyelashes fluttering as Jeongguk stretches him. The witch’s orgasm comes out of nowhere, crashing over him and sending his release over Jeongguk’s tongue, who laps it up like a man starved, somehow becoming even more gone as he drinks it down.
He floats again for a while, somehow shattered even though he wasn’t the one to come. He feels Jimin push him onto his back and he falls willingly, arms open wide as the witch returns each mark he’d left with one of his own. He is a flurry of kisses and bites above him, a storm of fierce worship and it is all Jeongguk can do to lie there and let it crash over him.
“Mine,” Jimin whispers as the world spins and Jeongguk drowns in gold and pleasure.
“Mine,” the witch whispers as he pushes Jeongguk down and onto his back.
“Mine,” he says again as he lowers himself down onto Jeongguk’s cock, his own hard again already. Jeongguk stares up at him, unable to look away as Jimin rides him, back arched, head thrown back, eyes closed and lips parted. He’s a vision, a literal dream given life and Jeongguk feels like he is drowning in pleasure as hot, tight heat envelops him. He cups Jimin’s ass, massaging it as he helps guide him up and down, and he feels so good, so tight and perfect that Jeongguk doesn’t even remember his own name as the witch rides him.
Jimin sinks down to the hilt, grinding in slow circles that make Jeongguk’s eyes roll back, a broken moan falling past his lips as waves of pleasure crash over him. He feels like he’s been edged, the tension and anticipation a fire that has been consuming him for hours, days, maybe years.
“Wake for me,” Jimin whispers somewhere above him, “come back for me.”
He doesn’t understand and yet the words stir something within him all the same. He wants to listen, wants to obey, even if he doesn’t know what it is he’s obeying.
“You promised,” Jimin whispers, “you promised you’d come back.”
“I promised,” Jeongguk whispers back without comprehending, “I promised.”
He grinds up into Jimin and the witch cries out, falls forward so that both hands are braced on Jeongguk’s chest, and where his touch lands the symbols he painted earlier begin to flare with light, warm and bright against his skin. Jimin begins to move again, rolling his hips slowly, hooded eyes pinning Jeongguk in place. “Will you come in me?” He asks, “I need it, will you give it to me?”
“Yes,” Jeongguk replies, fervent and devoted to no one except the witch, thrusting up to meet him every time he lowers himself, Jimin chanting something he doesn’t understand but that is interspersed with his name. It echoes within him, sounding like a calling, a summoning, pulling and coaxing that beast inside him into something sharp and focused.
“Yes,” Jimin whispers, goading him on, his body shuddering with pleasure even as his fingers dig into Jeongguk’s chest, “give it to me, give in and give it to me.”
Jeongguk feels his orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot, the song and Jimin’s words making his thoughts tangle and shatter, the need to give Jimin what he wants driving each thrust, each gasping breath. And when he finally does come, his vision dark, he hears more than sees Jimin reach his climax as well. Walls tightening, body shaking, his seed painting Jeongguk’s stomach as he milks his cock for everything he can get.
“Yes,” he whispers, sounding broken and euphoric, “yes.”
Jeongguk is still shuddering through his orgasm, blinking lights from his vision as waves of pleasure wash over him. Jimin is still tight around him, hips circling and leaving Jeongguk twitching with the aftershocks of enjoyment. “Thank you,” the witch whispers, “but there is still much work to be done.”
“Work?” Jeongguk asks in a daze.
“Yes, my love,” Jimin whispers, one hand cupping his cheek gently. Jeongguk nuzzles into it, the touch comforting and gentle, “so much work, but don’t worry, I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”
Jeongguk can’t find it in him to respond, just nods as Jimin dips down to kiss him again, the sweet ambrosia of his lips sending Jeongguk reeling back into the stars.
☽⛦☾
…give in and bring back all that was lost.
There is something waking in him.
He knows, has known, for days now, maybe years, maybe since he was born screaming into the world, all darkness and anger.
There is no anger now.
There is only Jimin.
Jimin on top of him, Jimin below him. Jimin with his mouth on him or with Jeongguk’s mouth on Jimin. The witch is his entire world, the embodiment of pleasure, giving his body to Jeongguk over and over and over, far beyond what any normal person could do.
And Jeongguk keeps pace with him, dazed and distracted though he is.
“What is happening to me?” He thinks he asks again, or perhaps for the first time.
A gentle kiss is pressed to his cheek, “We are bringing you back, love, and creating the world anew once more.” He feels careful fingers comb through his hair and he melts as Jimin continues, “We had enough time, at the end of all things, to ensure your returning, but you are still weak, still remembering, and… our magic—your magic, is so bound up in us and what we are and what we were, I do not think there is any other way for us to bring all of you back.”
Jeongguk still doesn’t understand, but Jimin’s words feel right and true, the beast inside of him is soothed, quiet and content now that it’s fully awake and the witch is in his arms.
The hours bleed into one another, his grasp of time gone and his hold on reality barely there. He comes again and again, insatiable as Jimin, fed on potions and driven by an aching desire to give and receive. He loses track of where his body ends and Jimin’s begins, their limbs tangled together as Jimin wipes up some of his own release and feeds it to Jeongguk, staring with heavy lids as Jeongguk licks his fingers clean.
Jeongguk remembers now, in bits and pieces and fits and bursts. A god, a wild god, born of wonder and hope and fear and longing, risen from the earth and fallen from the stars. Antler-crowned, worshiped by witches, loved by Jimin.
“I was…” he whispers, words muddled and thoughts unsure.
“You were,” Jimin agrees, “Shaper of Wonder and Terror, Lord of Dawn and Dusk, Witch King, my king, my love.”
Jeongguk’s world shatters, reality tilted on its side as he reels, the beast inside of him roaring from the last dregs of slumber into full waking. He grabs Jimin by the hips, rolls them over and in one swift move, has the witch pinned beneath him, delicate wrists caught in one hand and held over his head.
“First Witch,” he whispers, “you found me.”
Jimin’s eyes blaze white and gold, “Of course I found you, God of the Witching.”
And with that admission comes clarity, a sudden rushing waterfall of it, Jeongguk sees his past, sees the creation and the wonder and the god-life he had led in a newly born world. He sees Jimin, First Witch and bound to Jeongguk by love and destiny. He sees those that follow, born into the world and taught how to use its power. He sees a sweet tangle of time unraveling over the course of centuries, then millennia.
He sees the beginning of the end.
The growing fear, the whispers, the lies. He sees the witch hunters begin to gather in the shadows, claiming magic is evil, wrong, and those that wield it are no better than abominations. He sees the false allegations, the rumors fed in the right places by the right people. He sees a web of deceit spread like ivy and take root in the heart of the towns and villages that had once welcomed witches with open arms.
He welcomes the remembering despite the pain it brings as he lies tangled in his witch’s arms, the lust between them simmering momentarily. He looks at Jimin in all his wild glory, all his delicate, inhuman beauty and thanks fate for keeping him safe all these years while Jimin found the scattered remains of Jeongguk’s soul and stitched it back together.
He sits up in their makeshift bed, coherent enough for the first time since arriving to recognize that he is in the middle of a witch’s circle, the four points of it marked with symbols he now recognizes as ones for waking and remembering.
Jimin shifts beside him, little sounds of complaint falling from his plush lips as he reaches out to wrap Jeongguk in his arms, curling his body around him and burying his face in his side.
He is precious and perfect and dangerous and wild, and though he looks so sweet lying there like that, Jeongguk knows there is still work to be done.
As if woken by the thought, Jimin’s eyes flutter open, hazy and soft for a moment, then bright and shining as they meet Jeongguk’s.
“Do you remember?” He whispers.
“I remember,” Jeongguk replies.
He remembers love lost, he remembers betrayal. He remembers pain and blood and an end of wonder and hope. He remembers losing everything, but most of all he remembers losing Jimin.
“You know there is work to be done,” Jimin says.
Jeongguk glances upward, where a fissure in the cave reveals a narrow streak of sky. The sun is setting, the violet glow of a late summer twilight deceptive in its peacefulness.
He looks back down at his witch.
“Yes, there is,” he responds.
☽⛦☾
Jimin brews a potion as Jeongguk recasts the circle. Stars blossom overhead, a little brighter and a little nearer than they were last night, as though they too wish to witness what is to come.
His work complete, Jimin pours the liquid evenly between two cups, passing one to Jeongguk and keeping one for himself.
“To returning,” the First Witch whispers.
“To being born anew,” Jeongguk whispers back.
They drain the liquid in one fell swoop, the power of it coursing through them swiftly and sending them stumbling into each other's arms.
This is the way they created magic before and this is the way they will create it again. Jeongguk lies down, pulling Jimin with him as he feels the concoction start to take effect. Lust softens the edges of his thoughts, trains his focus back on Jimin and only Jimin. Gone is the memory of pain and suffering, gone is the anger and hate, there is no room for that here between them, no need to worry about revenge when his very returning will tip the scales back to balancing once again.
Fully returned to himself and his power, Jeongguk cradles the back of Jimin’s head and guides him into a kiss, dizzy-sweet and star-filled and then he is gone, gone, once more, lost to the divinity that flows between them. The potion in their veins feeds their natural desire, will keep them hungry and wanting for long enough to begin their work.
It will take many moon cycles for the world to fully heal, but tonight at least it can begin.
He lets the witch have his way with him, just like before, falling back into the furs as Jimin worships with lips and teeth and tongue, biting and sucking and licking, whimpering with need all the while. He’s a feral little thing, hungry for whatever Jeongguk will give him and whatever he can take and when Jeongguk rewards him by beginning to finger him once more, his whole body shudders with pleasure and he crashes their mouths back together, starved and ravenous.
And in the space between them, and all the places they touch—every drop of sweat and cum, every tear of pleasure and gasp of relief births something beautiful. They are tangled and twisted together, encircled with power and protection, and in the shadows and night things begin to stir and the world too begins to remember.
“Need you,” Jimin gasps, and Jeongguk stops his teasing so his witch can ride him like he was born to do. Pale thighs all solid muscle and trembling pleasure as he lowers himself down onto Jeongguk’s cock, a gasping, stuttering moan falling from his lips as his head falls back and hips roll. Jeongguk stares, enraptured as ever by the sight, lust-fueled thoughts reconciling how only a night ago—or was it two? Three? He was going mad within the confines of a village filled with the descendants of those that killed him.
Tight heat envelopes him and he groans, the sound low and rumbling, his pleasure setting the earth to trembling as he meets Jimin’s hips with strong thrusts. He finds his prostate easily now, with his returned memories comes an innate knowledge of every aspect of Jimin’s body and how to pleasure him and he does so like it’s the only purpose for his existence.
Jimin is radiant, like the full moon fell and took residence within him. He comes with a cry that sounds like music and Jeongguk thrusts into him through his climax until he collapses, mewling, onto his chest, tears clinging to his lashes and nonsense falling from his lips.
Jeongguk is far from done though.
Carefully he slips out of Jimin and lays the witch out on his stomach, pressing kisses down his spine as he lines himself up and lowers himself back down, slipping into Jimin with ease as the witch stretches out into the furs, all lithe and pliant and his. He takes his time now, unraveling Jimin with pleasure, leaving him gasping and writhing and grinding into the furs below them as Jeongguk teases him back to full hardness but doesn’t let either of them cum, building up the pleasure until it’s almost painful, then pulling back and leaving them both breathless and hungry.
Too long he went without this, lost without memory, haunted by an anger and heartbreak he didn’t understand. But no more.
No more.
He lies on Jimin fully, pinning him in place as he buries himself as deeply as he can, the moan that falls from him deep and desperate. He’s never felt this good before, this complete, this powerful, and it has only just begun. He pulls back and guides Jimin with him so that the witch is on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder with a glazed expression as Jeongguk massages his hips and eyes him hungrily.
Then he’s gasping as Jeongguk snaps his own hips forward, ready for them both to come again. The pace he sets now is brutal, fast and devouring. He chases his release like a hound on the hunt, pulling cries from Jimin as he seeks his climax and pushes the witch towards his own, goading him on with praise and a finger in his mouth that Jimin sucks on greedily, eyes rolling back as he meets Jeongguk’s thrusts.
Then Jimin is coming again and his shuddering, gasping release tips Jeongguk over into his as well, his climax so overwhelming he can barely keep himself upright as it crashes over him and magic is born anew into a world desperate and dying from the lack of it.
“Again,” Jimin gasps from below him only moments later, “again.”
They stay like that for hours, maybe days, his sense of time slipping, his grasp on reality now that eternity is his again tenuous at best. Nothing matters outside of the circle they cast and no one matters except his beautiful witch, his very existence a spell, an enchantment, a gift.
Jeongguk brings them both to climax over and over and over, tipping them again and again into ecstasy. Spilling into Jimin and onto him, marking him up and letting the witch do the same. And every bite, every bruise, every moment of release brings the world closer to where it once was and what it will be again.
Outside the cave there is a chill to the late summer wind that should not be there, a whisper that warns of darker nights but brighter days. And those that have lived their lives in fear and hatred shudder to feel that chill, clutching their prayer books a little closer, for all the good it will do them.
His vengeance will be slow and certain, spilling out from the cracks of the earth and falling with the night sky. It will consume those who carry the blood of those who betrayed him, it will end the threat to magic and wonder and fear.
The shadows will grow darker, but so too will the light grow brighter. There will be monsters but also miracles, wonder walking hand in hand with the stuff of nightmares and fear.
Balanced, as the world should be.
Jimin kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, a creature made of love and lust and destiny and his and his and his until all the stars burn out and the world ends only to be born anew again.