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thebearer · 10 months

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I’m obsessed with your whole account! 🫶🏻

Imagine the first family you go to when you’re newly dating. You sneak into the kitchen and when he sees you he lights up and I know that Ritchie would give him such shit lol

thank you thank you!! this is so cute ahhh!! hope you enjoy!!

Carmen’s text told you to come to the back- but not the left alley, just park next to him in the back, you won’t get towed there. You rang the buzzer, finger jabbing in the tiny button, a shrill ringing from the inside that had you stepping back at the rise in voices.

“I got it! I got it, Chef! Fuck.” You heard Carmen before you saw him, white shirt, blue apron, bluer eyes.

“Oh, h-hey.” Carmen’s eyes lit, dazzling even in the gloomy Chicago day.

“Hi.” You grinned.

This relationship was new between you and Carmen, still exciting, still learning about each other. He felt bad for not getting to see you as much as he wanted, inviting you to ‘family’.

“Uh, shit, sorry, my brain is all over the fuckin’ place. Come in.” Carmen pushed the heavy back door open so you could slip in, taking in the back of the kitchen. Newly renovated and still dazzling.

“You find it ok?” Carmen asked, immediately flinching. “I-I mean, obviously you did. Was- It wasn’t hard to find, right?” He’s blushing already, babbling in that nervous trill he always did around you.

“Yeah, you have perfect directions.” You hummed. “My GPS made it easy too.”

Carmen was burning to his ears. “Right.” He nodded, hands on his hips when Marcus whizzed at him.

“Chef, where is the basil paste- oh, hello.” Marcus stopped, eyes meeting yours. “Are you the new hostess? I’m Marcus-“

“-No, no, she’s not… She’s not a hostess.” Carmen’s cheeks burned more, if that was even possible. Did he say girlfriend? He hadn’t asked, and fuck, he didn’t want a repeat of last time, but this was different. You were different.

“Oh. Right.” Marcus caught Carmen’s eye, grinning knowingly. “Well, uh, it’s nice to meet you. Carmen’s talked a lot about you.”

“Has he?” You giggled, eyes flicking to Carmen’s, amused by his discomfort. “Good things, right?”

“Of course.” Carmen laughed, nervous and breathy.

“Yeah, only the best things.” Marcus nodded. “Uh, Chef, basil paste? For the cannolis?”

“Right, right, uh, in the walk-in top left.” Carmen nodded, Marcus waving at you before walking away.

“So you’ve been talking about me?” You lifted a brow playfully.

Carmen felt like he could melt into the floor. “Yeah, of course.” He muttered, boyish and sweet. “Uh, we should be done soon, if-if you want to look at the front or sit in my office. Or whatever you want to.”

“Wherever you want me, Chef.” You quipped playfully. Carmen could feel his zipper tightening behind his jeans.

“Uh, why don’t you look at the front. I, uh, I hung that painting we got.” Carmen put s hand on your back, hesitantly, leading you through the kitchen. It was so minimal, so sweet, how he was hesitant to touch you still so respectful and a little scared- like you hadn’t spent the better part of last night and early this morning with him between your legs.

“Oh? You actually liked it?” You giggled. “Weren’t just lying to me to impress me?”

“Never.” Carmen grinned sweetly.

You looked at the dimming lights, so elegant and classy. It was a far cry from The Beef, but you loved it. It was so Carmen, inside and out.

“I’m going to go check on everyone, but, uh, I’ll be back, ok? Just-Just yell if you need anythin’, alright?” Carmen nodded, hand rubbing down your arm gently.

“I’ll be alright, Carmy.” You grin. “Go on, Chef. I’ll roll silverware if you need me to. Keep myself busy.”

“No, I- that’d be a pretty shitty date askin’ you to work.” Carmen laughed lightly.

“Had worse. Promise.” You shrugged playfully. “I don’t mind, Carmy.”

“No, we got it covered, but thank you.” Carmen hesitated for a moment, faltering before he let his lips brush over your cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Cousin.” The swinging doors flung open, Richie waltzing in with a wide smirk. “I’ll keep her company. How you doin’, sweetheart? Good to see you again.”

You laughed at Carmen’s horrified face. You’d met Richie once, briefly, very briefly. When he’d bust through the door of Carmen’s apartment unannounced and caught a glimpse of you bent over the counter before Carmen screeched at him to leave. Carmen had been mortified, sure you would leave him because of his stupid not even cousin. You had just laughed, hiding your face in your hands, before you were introduced.

“Oh, fuck, not this.” Carmen groaned. “Cousin, please, don’t-don’t fuck this up f’me.” He muttered lowly, passing Richie in the door.

“C’mon, cousin. Are you serious? It’s me.” Richie rolled his eyes, a statement that did not make Carmen feel any better. “I got it. I won’t embarrass you, Chef.”

Carmen hesitated, the loud clattering of a pot falling the only thing that brought his attention away, turning back into the kitchen.

During family, Carmen made your plate for you, telling you about the dish with so much excitement and care it made you swoon. You couldn’t care less about the ingredients or the history truly, but the way Carmen’s eyes lit up, rambling about every fact he knew made your heart swell.

Tina’s eyes cut, lips rolling in smug satisfaction. “Richard,” She called, catching his attention. She nodded lightly towards the two of you, huddled together and giggling lightly between soft whispers. “She a good one?”

“The best, T.” Richie nodded proudly. He believed it too, he loved how good you were with Carm- for Carmen.

Tina nodded. “Good.” She smiled, beaming at the two of you. “Jeff needs it. Needs somethin’ besides this place.”

Richie snorted lightly. “Yeah? You have no idea.” He muttered, looking down at the two of you. You were good, both of you, good for each other. Richie had a feeling that this wouldn’t be your last family- he had a feeling you’d stick around.

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frostedpane · 7 months

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#breakfast #smoked cheese #oh sweet basil #jalapeno #omlette #green chillies #food diary #homecooking

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travelerbasilau · 1 year

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[First and second drafts of BASIL ROSE ARC, and BASIL BORAGE ARC]

#🌻 📸 one for the album! [art]#🌻🌱 oh gosh that’s me! [basil]#🌻📱it was something behind you… [out of character/admin post]#🌻🪐heart the size of a galaxy! [spaceboy]#🌻🌵boundless energy! [kel]#🌻🌺sweet but vicious! [aubrey]#🌻🚪theres nothing here. [blog spoilers]#|| unfancy tags ||#omori au #omori game #basil omori #traveler basil au #concept art #spaceboy #Aubrey omori #Kel omori

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kitchenwitchtingss · 10 months

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RECIPES I KEEP IN MY ONLINE KITCHEN WITCH JOURNAL #2

I love making these oh my gosh.

Why?

It's really fun

It's been a while since my last one

I get an excuse to try yummy recipes

You all are way too good at what you do

It's fun x2

Teas, Drinks, And Syrups

🍊 Orange Peel Tea 🍊

Violet Lemonade

Coconut Summer Drink

Dandelion Honey

The Best Hot Spiced Cider recipe you’ll ever try

Apple Cider is basically a homesteading spell

Rose Lemonade Syrup

100-Year Garlic (Garlic Honey)

Fire Cider Spell for Winter Protection

Blackberry & Apple Jam

Witchy Recipes - Blackberry Lemonade

Baked Goods + Sweets

Prosperity Bread

Lavender Earl Grey Cookies

Easy Rosemary Focaccia Loaf for Love and Protection

Heavenly Lavender Scones

Honey Vanilla Peach Butter 🍑

Pumpkin Pie Dip 🎃

Vanilla-Pumpkin Cupcakes

Soups, Stews, And Dinners

Super simple secret potato soup

Forest Porridge

Heartwarming potato soup

Perfect Homemade Garlic Bread

Creamy vegetable soup

Springtime Soup

Stuffed Maple dijon glazed roasted butternut squash

Summertime stir fry

Sabbat Stuff

Litha Orange Honey Cake

Litha Thyme Chicken

Stuffed Apples for Mabon

Mabon Mug

Imbolc Pretzel wreath

Oatmeal Bread for Lughnasadh

Samhain Mulled Cider

Samhain Irish Apple Cake

Angel's Best

(my favorite recipe posts I've made over the years, plus backstories that sound like your grandmother's reminiscing over the past.)

LATE WINTER BUTTER ROLLS

My first post I ever made. I was pretty new to the tumblr community at the time. I loved kitchen witchcraft, and I'm the type of person who will ramble on about how much I love cooking and baking. This blog gave me an outlet to express my love of cooking, baking, paganism, and witcraft. And these rolls are very tasty, I make them to this day!

WITCHY TOMATO BASIL SOUP

Tasty, simple, and a crowd-pleaser. It's perfect for a beginner kitchen witch! It was also the second recipe I ever posted.

SWEET CREAM BUNS

It was a recipe given to me by one of my good friends at the time. Every time I make it, it gets devoured in less than 10 minutes. It was also my first recipe to get over 50 notes. I was shocked but ecstatic that so many people would even give it the time of day lol.

WITCHY THUMBPRINT COOKIES

These ones were just fun to make and delicious lol.

A WITCH’S COZY BUTTERNUT WINTER SOUP

A quick soup that feeds a lot of people during the fall season. Fall is my favorite season, so of course I'm very biased lol.

SAMHAIN PUMPKIN BREAD

I love pumpkin bread and apple cider... So why not combine the two? This one was definitely one of my favorites of all time. Moist pumpkin bread and chocolate chips have to be one of my favorite things on this planet. It also makes for the perfect gift for friends and family. Yummy!

ANGEL’S AWARD-WINNING LEMON POPPY SEED BREAD

I love dessert loaves of any kind, so naturally, this would be on the list lol.

MAPLE BUTTER COOKIES

Super simple comfort food! I love any time of cookie with brown sugar.

BRING ME POSITIVITY PECAN FRENCH TOAST BAKE

I love French toast, and I love positivity~

SAMHAIN SOUL CAKES RECIPE

These are really good! And traditional. If you celebrate Samhain, I recommend you make some soul cakes and have friends and family help decorate. I give the littles a bag of orange frosting and let them go crazy lol.

FEEL BETTER CHICKEN SOUP

One of my most recent is my witchy twist on chicken noodle soup!

#witches #kitchen witch #witchy #witch #magick #kitchen witch recipes #food #recipes #witchblr #kitchen magick #foodblogger #sabbats #litha #kitchen witch tips #modern witch #modern witchcraft

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muertawrites · 2 years

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Of Incense and Intimacy (Eddie Munson x Reader) [18+]

Summary: Your roommate's recreational habits tend to wreak havoc on your anxious sensitivities, so you burn a little incense with him to help you both relax. Maybe choosing a scent called "love spell" wasn't the best idea....

Warnings: anxiety, panic attacks, the devil's lettuce, explicit descriptions of secks (minors i fucking see you stay behind the beaded curtain), raw dogging (wear a fuckin' raincoat y'all don't be dumb), mentions of the dirty touch, perv!eddie my beloved, my daddy kink continuing to control every aspect of my life

Word Count: 3.5k (she long and thick this time babes)

Author's Note: i just like incense a lot. ever since i got a backflow burner it's become my entire personality. my room smells amazing.

You hate doing this, ruining his fun. Especially because you know it's how he relaxes; how he deals with his own problems. Still, the tightening of your chest, the shallowness of your breathing, the fear starting to creep its way out of the corners of your mind sends you across the hall, tapping on his door.

Eddie answers in a puff of cannabis smoke, and you instinctively cover your mouth and nose with your shirt. Even in his hazy, glazed-over frame of mind, he knows exactly why you're here, and he immediately apologizes.

"Oh, shit, pumpkin, I'm sorry."

He dashes back into his room, stubbing out the joint in his hand and opening his window a crack, despite the winter chill. You stand in the doorway and sigh.

"No, I'm sorry," you say. "I'm a shit roommate."

"You have clinical anxiety." He annunciates the words as he returns to you, leaning against the door frame and giving your hair a quick, gentle pet. "It's okay."

You grimace as you flinch away, choked by the skunky smell emanating from him.

"That shit reeks," you huff. "You don't have anything better?"

Eddie chuckles, shoving the sleeve of his sweatshirt under your nose to tease you. He laughs as you smack him away.

"The high quality stuff brings in too much money," he explains. "Unless you want me to stop pitching in for takeout."

You roll your eyes and hold a finger up, telling him to wait.

"I'm not living with that stench all night."

You disappear into your bedroom, returning with a couple ceramic dishes and a stack of different sized boxes. Eddie raises an eyebrow as you set them up on his dresser, handing him a few of the boxes and directing him to choose some of the contents. He opens the topmost one, labeled "fairy dust", and removes one of the clay-coated sticks inside.

"Incense?" he realizes. He holds the stick up to his face, the scent so sweet it burns his nostrils. "Is this why your room always smells so good?"

You nod, shuffling through a few of the smaller boxes.

"It covers up the smell of weed," you explain. "I started using it like a week after we moved in together."

Eddie smirks, looking through the other scents you've brought over. Some of them are simple and self-explanatory, like basil and lily, but others are more vague, like "mystique" and "decadence". He pauses when he comes across a box marked with the words "love spell", grinning at you in that impish, borderline perverse way you know too well.

"You trying to seduce me?" he jests, waggling his eyebrows.

"I'd have to do way less than this to seduce you," you laugh. You shriek when his pillow smacks you in the back of the head.

"I'm not desperate," he defends himself. "I've been dry for over a year, y'know."

"We share a wall," you remind him. "I can hear you masturbate. Twice a day. It's like you don't even try to keep quiet."

He scoffs, attempting to play off the fierce blush that burns across his cheeks. You giggle at him; he's way too cute.

"What's weirder is that I never hear you masturbate," he deflects. "I'm starting to worry."

"I masturbate," you state matter-of-factly. "I'm just considerate enough to shut the fuck up about it."

Eddie tries to ignore the way the image of you pleasuring yourself, just feet away from him, makes his cock twitch. He clears his throat as he hands you one of the boxes, choosing at random.

"Here."

You examine it, grinning up at him.

"You picked the one called 'wizard'?" you tease. "Not surprised."

He chuckles, settling himself on the end of his mattress as he watches you place an incense stick upright in your burner and set it alight with the Zippo he keeps next to his stash. The flame flares, searing a thick, smoky path down the tip of the stick before you blow it out, leaving nothing but glowing embers and heavy, fragrant smoke curling into the air. He fixates on the purse of your lips, barely staving off the lewd thoughts that float through his mind.

As the smell of sugar and sandalwood perfumes the confined space, you pop open one of the smaller boxes and remove an incense cone from it, setting it strategically at the top of the second dish. This one is shaped like a pond, beveled with stones, complete with sculpted lily pads and painted koi. When you light the tip of the cone, sweet sage drifts upward on the wisps of smoke, waves of it cascading down the ceramic stones and into the waiting pool below.

Eddie's eyes grow wide, watching the display as if you're performing magic. You smile, curling up on his mattress so you can comfortably enjoy the view.

"That's so fucking cool," he gasps. He lays back beside you, his body fitting nicely next to yours. There isn't much room on his full bed, so you're pressed together, your head falling onto his stomach to compensate for the lack of space.

"Yeah, I knew you'd like it," you muse. "I was gonna get you one for your birthday."

You lay like that for a while, until the incense stick burns out, the silence and shared warmth far too easy between you. Eddie's arm migrates around your shoulders, hugging you close, your leg somehow finding its way between his as you fold yourself more and more into him. The scent of weed still lingers after the incense is gone, so you stand and light another, Eddie whining at the loss of your touch.

Rose petals and musk fill the air as you return to the bed, this time straddling your roommate's lap as he sits leaned against his pillows and the wall. He quirks a brow at you but doesn't protest, his hands falling without hesitation around your waist, keeping you there.

"... Maybe I am trying to seduce you. A little bit," you admit.

He smirks, eyes still glassy from his high.

"You're joking," he replies. There's no way that you - beautiful, intelligent, fiery you - want to have sex with him.

But you shake your head, arms draping over his shoulders as your chest presses to his.

"I think you're hotter than sin, Eddie Munson. And you're my best friend. I can't think of anyone I'd rather be in bed with."

Maybe it's the pot. Maybe it's how pretty you look with your hair up, greasy and messy, a day past needing a wash. Maybe it's the feel of your unconfined breasts pushed against him under your sweater. Maybe it's simply how he loves you, but can't find the words to admit it. Whatever the reason, Eddie closes the space between you with a tender, tentative kiss, his thumb grazing the naked skin just under your shirt. You smile softly against his lips, opening your mouth so they can slot together with yours, tongues finding each other with the gentlest little push.

"You taste good," he murmurs. You peck his lips as he pulls away to speak, gazing dreamily into his honey brown eyes.

"You taste like smoke," you tell him. He chuckles, returning your tiny smooch.

You take your time, savoring each other's kisses and touches in a heated round of sucking face. Eddie's movements are slow and deliberate, his tongue and his lips moving in sync with yours while his large, calloused palms rub loving circles into the skin under your sweater. When you pull away to breathe, he licks teasingly at your lips, grinning as you giggle softly. He presses lazy kisses along your jaw, your eyes falling blissfully closed as he works his way down your neck, nipping and sucking at your flesh. He's hard under his sweatpants, but he's in no rush - he loves having you close, loves having the time to worship your body the way you deserve. You knot your fingers in his hair and he lets out a breathy little moan, the sound so melodic you could listen to it on repeat for hours.

"What do you think about when you masturbate?" he wonders aloud. He thoughtfully licks his lips as he levels his face once again, brushing his nose against yours. His eyes are heavily lidded.

"It used to be Jeff Goldblum, before he gets all gross in The Fly," you divulge. "But since living with you, it's just you. The sounds you make... it's like having my own private porno."

You smirk as Eddie blushes, his hand squeezing gently at your love handle. You've masturbated... to him masturbating? All while he was none the wiser? That can't be right. He must be hearing things, mustering his own fantasies into being.

"You're so pretty..." he whispers, losing track of his thoughts.

You giggle, playfully licking at his lips the way he did yours.

"What do you think about?" you ask in return.

"You," he answers without a beat. "How you look when you walk around in just a big t-shirt. I like to imagine you riding me like that. Or when you're in the shower, I... I sometimes masturbate thinking of you in there."

Your tongue grazes over your bottom lip, teeth sinking into it as the muscle disappears into your mouth and you smile. He's shocked that you're not totally disgusted.

"I want you to bend me over," you confess.

He blinks. This can't be for real.

"What, no missionary first?" he asks.

You laugh, pressing an affectionate kiss against his lips. He returns it reflexively, grinning into you, adoring the sound of your laugh.

"Just fuck me," you whisper. "It's about time we got naked together."

Eddie obliges without further convincing. He lifts your sweater over your head, drinking in the sight of your bare tits without shame. You kiss him again as your hands run under his sweatshirt, groping at his bare skin as he guides the offending fabric up and away, tossing it somewhere to be forgotten. He takes your face in his hands and presses his chest against yours, sighing into your mouth at the feel of your bodies so close, without anything between them. He's warm, his chest broad and firm, his arms forming a protective brace around you. Something so salacious as preparing for sex with your roommate has no right feeling as loving as this does.

"Stand up," Eddie instructs.

You climb off the mattress, giggling as he takes you by the hips and positions you between his legs. He kisses the space between your breasts, his breath fanning delicately over your skin as he eases your sweatpants down your legs, fingers teasing your exposed thighs. Your first instinct is to be embarrassed - you haven't shaved in well over two weeks, and you're afraid he'll be put off by it. But he's unfazed, too enamored with you to really care. His eyes graze over your body with lovelorn grace, still very much under the influence of the drugs, but clear enough to remain totally tuned in to you.

"Undress me."

He stands so he's towering over you, snaring you in another kiss before you make your way downward, trailing your lips languidly over his torso until you're kneeling before him; you pause on your way to kitten lick his nipple, and the sharp intake of his breath at the tease thrills you.

You don't bother taking your time with his sweats, unraveling the drawstring with expert precision and letting them fall, immediately grasping at the base of his cock. It's a pretty thing, long and perfectly thick, the tip poking out handsomely from the hood of his uncut foreskin. You stroke at him gently, grinning up at him with your lip between your teeth.

"You're as perverted as I am, aren't you, sweet little thing?" Eddie chuckles. You don't miss the way he twitches in your palm.

"I learned from the best," you reply with a wink.

His grin doesn't disappear as you run your tongue up the underside of his head, tasting the salt of precum as you gently suckle at the tip. He breathes an airy moan, his hand falling to the nape of your neck.

"Just let me fuck you, baby," he pleads. "I'll use your mouth another time."

You raise yourself up, unable to stop yourself from taking him in for another kiss. He's addicting, the feel of his lips twined with yours almost, if not as good as the sex you've been aching to have with him.

Eddie's hands don't leave your waist as you crawl back on to his mattress, bending down on your elbows and knees and arching your back in a display of catlike sensuality. He's quick to fall behind you, smoothing his palm down the curve of your back before bringing it with a sharp smack down on your ass cheek. You yelp, already dripping through the petals of your pussy in anticipation of his cock.

He runs two fingers through your slick, feeling you out; in the floor length mirror beside his window, you watch him raise those fingers to his lips and suck them clean.

"So sweet," he drawls. "I can't wait to make you cum with my tongue."

"I've never been eaten out before," you mention, catching his eyes in the mirror. They've got a mischievous gleam, not leaving yours as he runs the head of his cock up and down the length of your opening.

"You'll never want anyone else between your thighs once I'm done with you," he promises.

He dips himself inside you, causing you to gasp at the sudden rush of pain that always comes with the first breach of your walls. Your face scrunches, fingers gripping at his sheets as he takes hold of your hips, gently and carefully easing you onto him.

"It hurt?" he questions. The concern in his voice is obvious, and it makes you want for him even more.

"Only for a moment," you assure him. He gives a little nod, pulling out slightly before slipping back in, his cock stroking against you and relaxing your muscles. You breathe out a sigh, the pain fading into delicious fullness.

"Fuck, Eddie," you gasp. "Why didn't you mention you have the dick of a porn star?"

He chuckles, giving you another playful spank as he bottoms out, his head just kissing your cervix.

"Same reason you never mentioned your pussy was so perfectly deep and tight, I guess."

He grips you by the waist and starts to fuck, moaning as he sets a steady pace so you can both savor the feeling of each other. You stretch your torso out on his mattress, curling your body so he's hitting you right at your deepest point, an angle that has him groaning and mewling the way you're all too familiar with.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you look so good for me," he praises. "Taking my cock into that sweet little pussy..."

He brings his hand down once again, causing you to moan with the pleasurable sting of his palm against your skin. He continues to spank, thrusting in time with each hit until your cheeks are rosy and tender with the imprint of his palm. Your tongue rolls out of your mouth as he picks up his pace, eyes closing as you smile with bliss.

"Oh, that's my good girl," he growls. "Loving the way daddy uses her as his little fuck toy."

One of his hands raises to curl around the back of your neck, holding you in place as he starts to pound ruthlessly into you, your legs shaking as the sensation of him filling you reaches high into your stomach.

"You're so good baby... so good... mmmm, fuck, shit, heck, you feel incredible on my cock... Fuuuuuuuck, baby... Fuck...!"

You giggle at his intonations, mewling sweetly as his hips snap against yours, the sound of your thighs slapping together echoing off the walls. You can hear your sticky wetness clinging to his shaft, a harmony to back the loud groans he releases every time he thrusts.

"Right there, Eddie..." you coax. "Fuck, babe, right there... Make me cum..."

He guides your body forward, laying you flush against the blankets as he positions his body prone above yours, his arm wrapping around your neck to steady you. He doesn't stop railing into you, panting heavily in your ear, the thin plastic of the ever-present guitar pick around his neck bobbing against your back. You roll your hips into his, meeting his thrusts, and he lets out sound so sweet you think he might actually be crying.

"Oh, god, sugar, yes..." he snarls. "Keep fucking yourself on my cock... fuck, fuck, yeah, just like that... oh, love, you feel so fucking good..."

His relentless pace has built up a knot in your abdomen, one that releases with an explosion throughout your entire body. You cry out in ecstasy, your limbs fizzling with the shock of your orgasm, your toes curling as you ride the wave of indescribable pleasure out for its impossible length. As soon as Eddie feels you tighten around him, he clenches the base of his cock, staving away his own release as he fucks you through to the end. Once you relax, he gingerly unsheathes himself; you roll so you're facing him, repositioning yourself with bended knees so you can curl your fingers around the handsome appendage and stroke him, savoring his enamored cries as he cums onto your stomach and breasts. His breathing is ragged as the thick, pearly strings of semen cease to erupt from his slit. He collapses onto the mattress beside you with a satisfied huff.

For a few minutes, all you do is lay beside each other, filling each other's space while your breathing regains its normal rhythm and your bodies come back to themselves. Eventually, Eddie gets up and disappears, returning with the pack of baby wipes you keep in your room. He cleans you off, removing every trace of the depravity you've shared and kissing your stomach once you're pure again. He wipes himself off as well, pitching both the used cloths and the ash left in your burner into the little trash can beside his nightstand. The incense has long since burnt out.

Eddie crawls back into bed with you, lifting the blankets over you both and slipping between them, placing a kiss on your shoulder as he presses his chest to your back. You're laying with your heads on the foot of his bed, but that hardly matters; he's actually holding you, close and tight and with his face buried in your hair. It's such a small thing, but you've never been treated with this much tenderness before.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He can read you like a book and it makes you want to cry.

"... You're just being really good to me," you whisper. "You're not... You're not done with me."

"Of course not," he murmurs. He brushes a few stray wisps away from your face, clearing a space for his lips to press a light kiss into your temple. "If I just wanted you for sex I'd have made a move a long time ago. I... I kind of feel things for you. Like... a lot of things."

You turn to face him, hugging him close and hiding your face in his chest. He kisses the top of your head, his fingers making a delicate trail down the length of your spine.

"Thank you for putting up with me," you say. "And for driving me to the hospital that time my contact high gave me a panic attack."

Eddie chuckles, giving your love handle an affectionate squeeze.

"Any time, pumpkin. That's still the best date I've ever had."

You smile, letting out a breathy laugh into his skin.

Over the next couple weeks, Eddie slowly migrates his things into your room, making a habit of sharing a bed even when you're not having sex. His old room becomes a studio, and the other members of Corroded Coffin are excited when he tells them they finally have their own recording space. They're sprawled out on the floor, sharing a joint in celebration when the new setup finally dawns on Jeff.

"Did your roommate move out?" he inquires.

"Not really," Eddie responds with a shrug. "More like I moved in."

Jeff and Gareth share a skeptical look. As if on cue, you appear in the doorway, wearing a pair of Eddie's boxers and tossing him a pack of basil-scented incense, which he catches without so much as a flinch.

"Put it out, please," you request. "I'm starting to get jitters."

"Yes, dear. Our apologies."

He flashes you a giddy, awestruck smile as he reaches for the ashtray. He then blows you an exaggerated kiss, to which you just roll your eyes and grin.

"You're a fucking dork," you tell him.

"Love you too, angel babe."

💀🌹 masterlist 🌹💀

#muerta's works #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x reader fluff #fluffy smut #perv!eddie munson #perv!eddie #roommate!eddie munson

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songbirdofthenight · 3 months

Text

Good Things Come in Threes

Good things come in threes

WC- 1677 Pairings- steddiexfem!reader

Warnings: dom!steddie x brat!reader, polyamory, voyeurism, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, anal sex, cock warming, aftercare mentioned

Summary: Steve and Eddie have you over for a Valentine’s dinner and movie, which takes a rather interesting, horny turn.

“This has to be perfect,”

“Perfect for our perfect girl.”

Steve and Eddie had the scene set perfectly. Dinner on the table, a few candles out and music humming through their living and dining space. The two watched the clock on the stove tick minute after minute in anxious woe. Eventually, a knock on their door snapped them out of their worried haze. Eddie jumped up, grabbing the door. “Hello, gorgeous, you look…” “Wow…” Steve piped in from across the room. “Hi Eddie, hi Stevie.” You smiled, hands held behind your back. Dressed in a soft pink, long sleeve top with flowy sleeves and a white skirt with matching white tights decorated with pale pink flowers. Steve and Eddie welcomed you in, excited to share the night. You slipped your shoes off at the door, leaving your coat and small purse on the end table. Steve and Eddie hurried to embrace you,encasing you in their arms. “Happy to have you here baby,” Stevie mumbled, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head.

“We made dinner!” Eddie exclaimed, practically pulling you two towards the dinner table. “All this for just me? You guys are too sweet.” You blushed, squeezing Eddie’s hand. Eddie shook away rushing to pull a chair out for you. “You made pizza?” you giggled at the fancy display. “Well, yeah, but its the fancy kind with mozzarella and the little leaf.”

“Eds, basil? You mean basil.” Steve giggled alongside you. “Yeah yeah whatever.” “No, no don’t do that, I’m sure it tastes wonderful baby.” You reassured him while grabbing a slice and setting it on your plate. Several slices of pizza later you all migrated to the sofa for a movie. Eddie and Steve sat on either side of you, arms wrapped around you. Steve leaned over, whispering in your ear, “What if we move this elsewhere?”

His hot breath in your ear caused goosebumps to explode all over your skin. His lips moved closer and closer to your ear until he bit your earlobe softly. You whined softly under your breath, these boys had you hooked with a capital H. There was no shaking the effect they had on you. Steve’s tongue flicked your earlobe, circling up and around the back of your ear. Your thighs pressed together tightly, squeezing Eddie’s hand as it slid between them. “Something got you worked up, pretty girl?” Eddie spoke, giving your thigh a squeeze. “No, n-not at all.” You wavered as Steve bit with more pressure. “I don’t think you’re telling us the truth.” Steve whispered again. Little electric currents shot through your body. “I think we should take her to the bedroom, maybe she’ll tell us then. What do you think, Stevie?” Eddie sweetly mocked your tone as Steve nodded in agreement. Both boys jumped up from their seats, extending their hands out to pull you up. You placed either of your hands into theirs letting them peel you from your spot. Eddie wrapped his arms around your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder. “HEY!” you shouted in protest. Eddie walked you down the short hall with Steve trailing behind. “Somethin’ wrong?” He smiled watching your head toss from side to side with each step Eddie took. You stuck your tongue out at Steve, “oh come on now honey, that’s no way to talk to us when we know there’s something you so desperately need.” Steve emphasised each consonant of need as if he were embarrassing you in front of Eddie. Eddie tossed you onto their king sized mattress that nearly took up the whole room. You sat up beneath their looming figures. Suddenly you were small, fragile, easy to ruin. Steve and Eddie exchanged glances, as if to have a conversation with just their eyes.

In a second, Steve and Eddie were pulling their clothes off. Taking each other’s shirts off and undoing the buttons of their jeans. You watched in awe as the boys undressed each other, observing as they left themselves in nothing but socks and boxers. They looked down at you, “So which one of us is going to show you what happens to pretty things when they don’t tell us what they want, hm?”

Eddie’s words were striking, almost cold. “My choice?” “Your choice, pretty girl. Who is it gonna be?” You were silent.

“Well, Eds I think we could both show her.” Steve suggested. “I think we should, actually.” You stared up in bewilderment at whatever Steve meant by that. “C’mere pretty boy and give me a kiss.” Eddie practically sang, pulling him close. Eddie’s lips collided with Steve’s, their jaws engulfing one another. You sat, fully clothed, watching as the two boys above you made out with each other. Jealousy quickly took over as they pivoted towards the bed. Steve pressed Eddie down onto the mattress beside you and kissed across his jawline down his neck. Eddie turned his face towards your side, whimpers fell out of his shaking lip.

Your legs pressed together tightly, Steve let up and looked towards you. “Oh honey this could have been you, yeah?” You nodded. “Should have just said so.” Steve picked up where he was, nipping at the sensitive spots of Eddie’s neck. Eddie’s hand wiggled up towards your waist, under your waistband. His fingers slid between your panties and skin, finding your clit. He pressed soft circles against your clit, causing a hitch in your breath. Eddie’s fingers circled faster and faster. Suddenly you couldn’t hold moans back anymore. You and Eddie huffing out in sync for more. Steve’s ears perked, unlatching his lips from Eddie’s chest. “Oh no, Eds what is this?” Steve’s hand traced over Eddie’s arm reaching his wrist. He pressed hard against Eddie’s wrist pushing more pressure onto your clit. “Eddie, baby, I can’t believe this. You gave in hm?” Eddie sighed, “I did. She just looked so, so, desperate.” Desperate. Steve shook his head, “Eds, we were teaching her.” “I learned, you taught, please Stevie need to feel you both,” you cried out. “Did you hear that Steve, she wants us both? Let's give our girl what she needs, yeah?” Eddie pleaded. Steve smiled, “two against one I guess. C’mon pretty girl tell us what we have to do.” “Gotta take these off.” You grabbed at your shirt and skirt. Eddie and Steve quickly shifted positions scrambling to strip you. They pulled off all of your remaining clothing, leaving you completely nude. Steve’s hands made their way to your knees, pushing them apart. You lay backwards as the boys examined every part of your naked figure. “Look at her glisten Eds,” Steve hummed. Eddie’s head popped beside his, “God look at how wet you are.” Steve dipped his finger into your wetness, letting it coat in your slick. “Please need you.” “Good girl using your words.” Eddie smilied. “Lets get you situated,” Eddie stood, pulling your legs off the edge of the bed, whispering something to Steve. He stripped from his boxers and socks, leaving him nude. Steve laid himself beside you, reaching over to pull you on top of him. Steve turned you around so you faced Eddie. “Be a good girl for us and ride him.” Eddie commanded. Steve forced your hips down onto his cock as a languished moan flew from your mouth. His hand snaked up your back, pushing you forward. You caught yourself on your arms, coming face to face with Eddie who stripped himself from his socks and boxers.

Steve’s hips bucked up, rocking you with him. His cock reached deep in your core, easily hitting your g-spot. Your jaw hung open, quickly being stuffed full with Eddie’s cock. The two boys abused your holes, fucking you full. The three of you, moaning in unison. You clenched around Steve’s cock, gagging on Eddie’s. You screamed out a muffled cumming and came around Steve’s thick cock. They fucked you through your orgasm, chasing after their own.

Steve pulled out, pushing the plush of your ass apart as you dripped onto his abdomen. Eddie tossed his head back, tangling his hand in your hair. Tears streamed down your face as Eddie moaned blissfully cumming into your mouth. His hips slowed their jerk, pulling his cock from your mouth. You swallowed his seed, letting your jaw hang open for Eddie to see. “Think we can get more out of her?” Eddie smirked. “Oh yeah.” Steve spoke breathlessly. Once again the boys switched positions, Eddie took to the bed, laying you between them. Eddie, who you now lay face to face with, kissed the tears on your cheeks. “We had her crying Stevie,” Steve’s large hands wrapped around your chest. He groped your tits as Eddie pressed his cock to your entrance. Your leg rest on top of Eddie’s, letting him easily slide in. You and Eddie moaned, the stimulation from Steve’s fingers on your breasts to Eddie’s cock bullying its way through your folds. Steve pressed his cock against your tight ass, prodding at your rim. Both boys pushed deep into your holes earning elicit moans and whimpers from you. “S’ too much, so sensitive. Please,” you choked out. Eddie and Steve refused to let up their pace, forcing another orgasm to rip through you. Your body rocked in rhythm with theirs, as waves of pleasure ran through your veins. Steve and Eddie stayed still, leaving their cocks to plug your poor abused holes. The three of you huffed, gasping for breath. “You did so good for us baby,” “So so good, sweetheart” Eddie agreed.

“Thank you,” you croaked out horsley. “Any time sweet girl, want us to stay here?” Steve asked slowly, starting to pull out. “Need you in, stay in.” You begged.

“Gonna fall asleep on our cocks baby?” Eddie smiled, stroking the hair from your face. “Mhm,” you nodded, nuzzling into Eddie’s chest. Steve wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close. “We’ll clean you up a little later okay?”

“Okay Stevie,” “Sleep well sweet girl,” “I will, Teddie.” You mumbled, drifting off in their arms.

#songbird singing #steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #stranger things smut #steddie #steddie smut #eddie x steve #steddie x reader

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caffeinewitchcraft · 2 years

Text

Berthe the Green Witch

Summary: Traditional witches and green witches don't always see eye to eye. With a life on the line, Berthe is very persuasive.

The egg timer in the window over the sink ticks busily. Berthe watches it from the table, her hands wrapped around a mug of fresh basil tea. She made the mug a few months ago with clay she refined from the creek running through the backside of her property and the basil is from her garden.

She sighs into her tea, eyes closing. The wind rattles her kitchen window, the oncoming storm announcing itself by throwing the first dropped leaves of fall against her house. The air is sweet and spiced - apples in her creaking oven covered in sugar and cinnamon.

She’s meant to answer letters today. They’re sitting on the other side of her crème table, the pile teetering. Notes asking for advice, missives from Councils she doesn’t remember joining, well wishes from former coven sisters who’ve gone on to build their own covens far away.

Her eyes open a moment before her besom - made from the twigs of her oldest apple tree - chatters against the wall and flings itself across the foyer.

“Oh,” she sighs, setting her mug aside, “there’s no reason to be so dramatic about it.”

The besom rolls over until it can tuck itself under her shoe bench.

Her doorbell chimes and, with a sigh, Berthe rises. She dislikes company on storm days, though she shouldn’t have expected any different. If Clayman visits her, he visits her on storm days. No exceptions.

Ring ring ring

Berthe falters, looking between the shadow behind her stained-glass door and the egg timer. Clayman hates being kept waiting, but her apples can be very delicate…

“One moment!” Berthe calls over her shoulder. She turns off the timer and bustles over to the oven. “I just need to pull something out of the oven!”

“Seriously?” Clayman’s voice is muffled by the door, but no less incredulous. “Berthe!” He knocks again.

Carefully, Berthe pulls the sheet pan from the oven. Red apples cut thin, laid in a spiral, with spices and sugar dusted over the top. A thin layer of puff pastry shows golden at the edges and she hums in pleasure. She loves when she gets the timing right.

Knock knock. “Berthe!”

She transfers the tart to her cooling rack and, after some consideration, moves her breadbox in front of it. Clayman’s gaze can be rather cold. She wouldn’t want all the warmth and care she’s put into her treat to go to waste.

Clayman is knocking constantly now, and muttering. Her wards don’t react so she knows it’s not a spell, but she frowns anyway. There he goes again. On someone else’s threshold no less!

She wipes her hands on her apron, dusting off flour and cinnamon, and opens the door.

Clayman is a scarecrow. She doesn’t think so because he’s tall and thin, though he’s both. It’s not because of his straw-colored hair, neatly combed away from his face and held in place with rosemary oil. It’s not even because of his coat, a long duster-like affair done in softened leather.

It’s because, as soon as she opens the door, the man is smiling. He is always smiling, his eyes mellow and shoulders loose, no matter his tone of voice. It’s as if the expression is painted on his face, forever fixed. She thinks that he’d cry smiling.

Unsettling.

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He takes off his wide-brimmed hat and holds it to his chest. “May I come in?”

“Be welcome in my home,” Berthe says, stepping aside to let him in. He has to duck a little to avoid the dried rosemary she has hanging over her doorway. A full head shoulder, Berthe doesn’t need to show such consideration. “I have coffee brewing.”

Clayman hangs his hat on the hooks above her shoe bench. He knows she doesn’t drink coffee. Smiling, he asks, “And you still couldn’t come to the door any faster?”

The cuckoo clock upstairs crows in protest. Berthe shrugs. “I suppose not.”

“Hm,” Clayman says and follows her into the kitchen.

He’s able to keep any further needling to himself as Berthe clears him a spot at the table. She sets her daisy coaster down - to lighten his mood - before she places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. His mug isn’t handmade. SHe got it on sale at the grocery store. It says Bright and Early on one side. On the other it reads Unfortunately.

Clayman drinks so the Unfortunately is pointed at Berthe. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

“My pleasure,” Berthe says. And it is. Under normal circumstances. Despite his prickliness, Clayman is a friend to her even when he denies it. But these are not normal circumstances. “There hasn’t been any improvement?”

“No.” Clayman accepts the sugar Berthe slides to him. He always insists on taking one sip without any sweetness. Then he dumps nearly half of the sugar in the tin into it. “Ms. Rayne is dying.”

Berthe presses a hand over her heart as if to soothe the sting. The Rayne family may not favor her magic, but they have always been kind to her. “I am so sad to hear that, Clayman.”

Clayman smiles, like always. But his aura is distinctly sluggish and tinged a faint blue. Rachel Rayne is his student. “As am I.” He breathes in deeply. “I got permission to have you see her.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. Then, when it sinks in, “Oh.”

The Raynes are a traditional witch family, despite having not produced one in two hundred years. They proudly trace their roots back to 16th century Italy. All of their beliefs and teachings come from grimoires older than their name and alchemical texts that have to be translated by scholars to be read.

Clayman, a traditional witch, is the man they go to for spells. They tolerate Berthe’s practice so long as she keeps her actual workings to her house and her orchard.

“I’ll get my bag,” Berthe says, standing. She feels like her eyes are spinning. She never thought she’d be invited. There are poultices and salves to make, herbs and petals to collect, wands and crystals to choose. She dives for the drawer closest to her and pulls out her favorite wooden spoon. “Do they have pine incense? Should I bring some pine incense?”

“You’re going?” Clayman asks. When she turns, he’s not smiling. His mouth is dropped open in shock. “After what they’ve said about your practice, I expected to have to convince you.”

This is why she doesn’t like traditional witchcraft. So many grudges! So many perceived debts! She’s never called Clayman her friend to his face. She thinks he’d combust.

“Of course I am,” she says waspishly. She dumps her spoon and several jars onto the table in front of him. “Check these to see if they’ll clash with the Rayne estate’s wards, will you? I need to run upstairs.”

Clayman is smiling. “Are you asking me to cast magic in your house? I always knew you were crazy, I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Berthe dashes upstairs without answering him. He may think her stupid for her trust in him, but she knows he’lol follow her orders anyway.

“Ouch!”

Berthe grins. Of course Clayman’s mug didn’t take kindly to his snide words. It has a tendency to heat up something awful whenever Berthe is insulted.

————.

The Rayne Family Estate is massive. Situated on top of the only hill in town, the driveway winds through wild oaks and pines for a good half of a mile before reaching the house. The house looms over the town like a castle, white walls and slate roof and black curtains over the windows.

The woman waiting on the front steps is like the house. Severe and colorless with gray hair pinned securely under a white handkerchief, black blouse tucked into a long, black skirt. Her weathered hands are folded neatly in front of her and her dark eyes track Clayman’s car as he pulls up and parks.

“Hello!” Berthe hops out of the car, waving with one hand. The other is full of the apple tart she’d grabbed at the last minute. “I brought a tart!”

“Berthe,” Clayman says out of the side of his mouth. “Shut up.”

“It’s apple,” Berthe says.

“Berthe Steighart,” Mrs. Rayne says through thin lips. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Yes,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne makes no move to accept the apple tart. Berthe shoves it on Clayman and bustles around to get her bag out of the trunk. “I suppose you’d like to get straight to the point then? Clayman’s already checked my things. Is Ms. Rayne upstairs?”

“There are rules in this house,” Mrs. Rayne says as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “We believe in the pure magics, those that come from study and self-reflection. There will be no calling on - on beings while within these four walls.”

Berthe throws her bag over her shoulder. It’s an old carpetbag she forgot she had and she sneezes when a plume of dust puffs off of it. It’d been the only bag big enough for her things. “Beings? You mean gods? Or other? I don’t have a patron god currently, so that won’t be a problem!”

“Currently?” Clayman asks.

“Never close off future possibilities,” Berthe says. She weaves past him and squints up at the house. “Is that Ms. Rayne peering out the window up there? Hello, Ms. Rayne!” The young girl with hair as black as a raven’s wing ducks back behind the curtain. Berthe frowns. “She looks very pale.”

She is dying, Clayman said. It looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.

“What I am about to tell you is a Rayne family secret,” Mrs. Rayne says. She turns on her heel and, lifting her skirt slightly, climbs the stairs to the house. “It must never leave the walls of this home without our permission.”

Berthe follows the older woman into the house. It’s as austere as its owner. The foyer is minimalist, a dully patterned carpet running the length of the hall to the grand staircase. There are paintings of ancient witches and confusing landscapes of places that can’t possibly exist on earth.

“I will not intentionally reveal your secrets,” Berthe says. Mrs. Rayne is moving quickly without looking behind her. Berthe huffs and focuses on keeping her heavy bag from dragging along the carpet. She eyes the main staircase with some trepidation, but says nothing. She already gave Clayman the tart. She can’t give him her bag too. “I swear.”

With a sigh, Clayman plucks her bag from her hands. “I vouch for her, Madame.”

Madame? Berthe has to work very hard not to laugh at that. It’s 2022 and he’s calling his employer madame.

“Rachel has magic,” Mrs. Rayne says. She stops in the middle of the stairs to glance at Berthe pointedly. “Significant magic.”

“Oh,” Berthe says. That’s it? She knew that much since Clayman is Rachel’s teacher. Clayman told her so himself - oh. He wasn’t supposed to tell her. Something warms in Berthe’s chest. Maybe Clayman does see her as a friend after all if he’s sharing secrets with her. “Congratulations, Madame.” She shoots Clayman a warm look.

Clayman hisses. When Mrs. Rayne isn’t looking, he darts up the stairs so he can whisper in her ear. “It’s not what you think.”

Berthe grins and winks.

Clayman’s eye twitches. “It’s not—“

“We are very proud of Rachel,” Mrs. Rayne continues. She takes them down the right hall and past several busts of important looking ancestors. “Perhaps we were too zealous with her power. She’s been training since she was young in the ways of witchcraft.”

Berthe sobers. “How young?”

“I first became Rachel’s teacher when she was ten,” Clayman says. His voice is even more mild than usual when he says, “I am her third teacher.”

Ouch. Alchemists probably. Witches like Clayman at least know enough about magical cores to wait until they develop before testing them. Alchemists are always so barbaric about it.

Berthe can’t show her disapproval here. She hums. “She must be very accomplished then.”

“She is,” Mrs. Rayne says. There’s no pride in her voice. It’s a statement of fact. She stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, the one that overlooks the driveway. She looks down her nose at Berthe. “Or was. Two weeks ago, Rachel’s magic began to fail. Her core drained and never recovered. I am told that, when it empties completely, my daughter will die.”

Berthe looks at Clayman.

“I made the diagnosis,” Clayman says, smiling. His aura beats with guilt. “I have tried every healing spell I know, every restoration charm, every ward to catch her magic before it fades. Nothing has worked.”

“Several attempts slowed the progression,” Mrs. Rayne says. To Berthe’s surprise, she sounds like she’s consoling Clayman. She reaches around Berthe to pat him on the arm. “And we are thankful, Clayman. She’s been so happy since you became her teacher.”

Clayman nods stiffly. “I appreciate your words, Madame. And I am grateful you’re allowing me to bring in…unorthodox assistance.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rayne says, eyeing Berthe’s apron and the flour that still stains it. “Well. Hardly any harm now, I think.”

She opens the door.

The smell of fading hits Berthe full force. Her eyes widen and she steps back into Clayman without meaning to, nearly knocking the apple tart from his hands. The room, like the rest of the house, is bare. A white carpet, black bookshelves, sheer white curtains around the bed and heavy black ones over the window.

The girl sitting in bed - Rachel Rayne - is too weak to sit up on her own. She leans back against a mountain of pillows. She has to be fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Her gaunt cheeks make her look much, much older.

Rachel stares.

Berthe regains her footing. Blindly, she reaches out to grab Clayman’s forearm, eyes never leaving Rachel’s. “The apple tart.”

“Yes, and I have your bag,” Clayman says.

“Leave the bag,” Berthe says.

“What?”

But Berthe is already slipping past Mrs. Rayne and towards Rachel. “Oh, my dear. How tangled you are!” She keeps her voice as soft as the breeze through the orchard. “You must be having dreadful dreams.”

Rachel’s black eyes widen. She doesn’t protest when Berthe takes one of her thin hands in both of hers. “I am. How did you…?”

“You must tell me all about them,” Berthe says. “Clayman, cut the tart, would you? We can talk and eat.”

“With what?” Clayman asks from behind her. There’s a thud as he sets her bag down.

“There’s a knife in my bag.”

Clayman chokes. “You want me to cut a tart with your athame ?!”

“Traditional witches,” Berthe tells Rachel, rolling her eyes. “Always so formal.”

“You know what’s wrong with my daughter?” Mrs. Rayne demands. She comes up beside Berthe, looming with her hands a knot in front of her. “You can fix her?”

“I can untangle her,” Berthe corrects. She smiles at Rachel and pets the back of her hand. She doesn’t think she imagined Rachel’s flinch when her mother used the word fix. “Now, your dreams. I’m sure you can tell me one while Clayman struggles with a very basic task.”

“It’s a ritual dagger, how am I—“

But his words are interrupted by Rachel.

Rachel’s eyes are glued to Berthe. Her voice is small and shaking and she speaks as if caught in a trance. “I dream I am underground. I am trapped there. I can hear Mom walking on the earth above me. She is calling for me. I try to call back, but there’s dirt in my mouth. I think I’m suffocating but it doesn’t hurt. But the more I try to call out, the colder I get. It’s a cold dream.”

Berthe feels the other two adults go still behind her. They’ve never heard about Rachel’s dreams. Why would they? Traditional witches like Clayman don’t divine in dreams. They have mirrors and flames and pools of water for that. She hums. “That must have been frightening.”

“Sometimes,” Rachel says, “I am in the sky. I think I must be a bird, but I don’t have any wings. I fly above the house and I can see it like a heart. When it beats, the streets in town glow an awful red.”

“Awful?” Berthe asks. She accepts the slice of tart from Clayman. The underside is crispy and still a little warm. She holds the tart to Rachel’s lips. “Try it! It has cinnamon.”

Rachel’s eyes are foggy. She’s still seeing her dreams and, like a doll, she follows Berthe’s command. When the taste of sugar and spice touches her tongue, she blinks. “That’s apple.”

“From my orchard,” Berthe says, chest swelling with pride. “It’s nice, yes? Seven apples from my seventh tree.”

Rachel’s gaze drifts from Berthe to the tart Clayman’s still cutting on her bedside table. She frowns. “There aren’t seven apples in that.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Berthe says. It’s technically made with three apples, both of which she picked seventh at some point or another. She’s not bothered by technicalities, though she can see why Rachel is. Imagine having Clayman as a teacher! Or, worse, an alchemist. “Now, tell me. Why is the red awful?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel says. She furrows her brow and chews another bite of tart. Warmth is coming back to her face already. “I guess because it’s alive.”

Berthe hums. “Why is being alive awful?”

“Because it’s a town. It’s not supposed to be alive.”

“Why?”

“It—it just shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Our town is laid out into a magical grid. Workings can’t be made with living things. So it can’t be alive.”

“Why not?”

“Because— because it just can’t!” Rachel cries. “That’s not how magic works. There is no spell that can twist something living and if the town is alive then how is it a magical grid? So it’s awful because it’s not true.”

“But it is true,” Berthe says. She can feel Mrs. Rayne ready to protest so she speaks quickly. “What is life? We do not say that a dead bird is alive, do we? It’s dead.”

Rachel stutters. “Necromancy is taboo—“

“I’m not talking about necromancy,” Berthe says. She squeezes Rachel’s hand. “Every living thing has a body. When it is no long living, it is a body. So what is the living part of it?”

“The soul, but that’s—“

“There is an inert part of all of us,” Berthe says. “We do not know it because we are alive. We claim our bodies and our souls so completely that they become one. The town, however, is not alive in the same way. It has a soul but does not claim its body the way we do. It can’t. It exists simultaneously as a soul and also inert. So why can’t there be magic on its body? It is alive and it has working on it at the same time. Why can’t both be true?”

The silence in the room is loud. Berthe takes the opportunity to eat some of her slice of tart. She got the amount of clove just right.

“What does this have to do with my daughter being sick?” Mrs. Rayne is the first to break the silence. “Dreams and life and bodies— what does this nonsense mean to Rachel?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Berthe says. She sighs and sits back on her heels, not relinquishing her hold on Rachel’s hand. The girl’s skin is only just starting to feel warmer. “It’s magic. A different sort of magic to Clayman. Or, rather, the same but through another perspective.”

“Please,” Clayman says when Mrs. Rayne goes to protest again. “Madame, I understand your opinions on Berthe’s practice. I even share some of them. But she is a witch that I respect regardless and I would like to give her the chance to explain.”

He respects me?, Berthe thinks. But it makes sense in a way. He wouldn’t have come to her if he didn’t.

Mrs. Rayne thinks for a long moment, staring at her daughter. Her lips thin and her dark eyes flash as color comes back to Rachel’s cheeks. Finally she says, “Then explain.”

“Rachel,” Berthe says, “is a green witch.”

“No,” Clayman says immediately, before Mrs. Rayne can do more than scowl. He stands abruptly, his hands fisting at her sides. “No, her core is structured traditionally. I checked when I first came on as her teacher—“

“She was trained by alchemists,” Berthe says simply. Mildly. She smiles at Rachel. “They’re a little rigid, aren’t they?”

Rigid is an understatement. Berthe can imagine the torment Rachel went through, trying to force her young magic to conform to archaic arrays and clumsy runes. Her growing power has been stifled and gnarled by the crucible her studies forced it into.

Berthe herself has never been fond of traditional spellwork. She finds the ritual chants and offerings uncomfortable with the way they bend her magic. And Rachel’s been going through that before her core even fully developed.

No longer, Berthe thinks.

Rachel’s lip trembles. She darts a glance at her mom and then back to where Berthe’s hands are wrapped around hers. “Yes,” she whispers. “I—“

“There’s no such thing as green witchcraft,” Mrs. Rayne snaps. She looks like she wants to tear Berthe away from her daughter but, after a moment of hovering, paces away instead. She stalks from one side of the room to the other. “See, Clayman? This is why I didn’t want to call in this— this charlatan. Our family follows the sacred texts for a reason and I don’t want—“

“Charlatan,” Berthe repeats. She lets Rachel’s hand slide from hers so she can stand and face Mrs. Rayne. Berthe is patient. Berthe is not that patient. “Who are you to call me charlatan? It must be easy considering you have no power of your own to sense me with.”

Mrs. Rayne turns red with rage. “You insolent, horrible charlatan—“

Clayman slides between her and Mrs. Rayne, one hand up and warding. “Berthe, you can’t hold her to her words. Traditional witchcraft is rigid in nature. She means no harm—“

Berthe barks a humorless laugh. “No harm? Her daughter is dying from the strength of her beliefs! Why, no one would blame me if I were to spirit her away here and now.”

“Dying?” Rachel asks.

Berthe sucks in a breath, backing away so she can see everyone in the room. Rachel is already fading without Berthe’s magic, sinking back into her pillows. Mrs. Rayne’s lips are pressed into a thin line and Clayman’s smile looks robotic. “You didn’t tell her?” Berthe asks. She looks at the other witch in the room, the one who knows what a crime it is to withhold such information. “Clayman.”

“I didn’t think it was her core,” Clayman defends. He rubs a hand over his straw-colored hair. “I would have if I’d known. I thought it was a curse. Maybe a sickness I didn’t know of.”

He means he thought it was something irrecoverable. He thought it kinder to leave Rachel in the dark as her magic drained, her soul emptied, her body withered.

Traditional witches, Berthe thinks with carefully disguised disgust. Always seem to need an essay to know what’s in front of their face.

“You’re not going to die,” Berthe tells Rachel. She dusts her hands against her apron reflexively, the way she does when she’s finished kneading bread. She lifts her chin, daring Mrs. Rayne to contradict her. “You’re coming into your magic. All we need to do is untangle you before the new moon and you’ll be right as rain by the next full.”

“The new moon is tonight,” Rachel says.

Berthe blinks and then grins. “Oh! And there’s a storm tonight, how perfectly lovely. We can go to my orchard, it’s far enough from the city that the light pollution--”

“No!” Mrs. Rayne thrusts herself between Berthe and Rachel, holding out her hands as if about to throw a spell at Berthe. Her black eyes burn. “No, there will be no going anywhere! My daughter is sick. She needs rest not to go gallivanting about your orchard chanting made up spells and- and eating grass!”

“With all due respect,” Berthe says, “that’s exactly what’s going to happen.” She pauses. “Except for the eating grass part. Where on earth do you traditional witches get things like that?”

“Berthe,” Clayman says. He’s hovering beside Mrs. Rayne now, eyes nervously flicking from Berthe to Rachel and back. As always, he’s smiling. It is particularly ill fitting now. “You were invited here to help. Maybe if you explained a little more, we could come to an agreement on Rachel’s treatment.”

“No,” Mrs. Rayne says. “Clayman, that’s enough--”

“Madame,” Clayman says. His eyes don’t leave Berthe but he addresses Mrs. Rayne. “I beg you for a bit more of your understanding.”

Mrs. Rayne must trust Clayman an awful lot. She settles back on her heels with a huff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Very well.”

Berthe studies Clayman. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He’s saying the right things for Mrs. Rayne. He doesn’t want her to panic and do something silly like attack Berthe. But he knows that there aren’t any other options. Rachel is a green witch.

They both know who has jurisdiction here.

Berthe sighs and props her chin in her hand. She cocks her head to one side and clicks her tongue. “What part of my explanation did you not understand, Mrs. Rayne? Perhaps it would be better to start there.”

Clayman covers his eyes with his hands. “Berthe…”

“The part where my daughter is anything but a Rayne,” Mrs. Rayne says. She gestures to Rachel. “She is a pureblooded Rayne! Her powers manifested in the traditional manner.”

“Which is?”

“Telekinesis,” Mrs. Rayne says proudly. “She was two and lifted one of her toys into her crib.”

Of course the woman thinks the most common way to manifest is traditional. “That may be so,” Berthe says, “but the power of a child is pure. It doesn’t have a preference or a shape. That comes later or, in Rachel’s case, now. She is a Rayne, but her magic is green.”

“Green witchcraft isn’t--”

“Your daughter dreams,” Berthe interrupts, losing patience. Truthfully, she isn’t as kind as Clayman. She doesn’t understand why she needs to explain herself to a human. “She dreams she is in the soil, like a seed. Well, it’s time to sprout. She must sprout before the winter chill freezes the ground and she suffocates.”

Clayman’s smile is pinned in place. “Berthe--”

“Mrs. Rayne,” Berthe says, propping her fists on her hips. She glares at the older woman. “The matter is very simple. Your daughter is dying because of the teachings you enforced on her. That’s fine. You’re magicless and you thought you were making the right choice.”

“I may be magicless but my family’s power runs through--”

“BUT.” Berthe stomps her foot and Mrs. Rayne’s mouth slams shut. The older woman doesn’t have time to panic at the silencing spell before Berthe is continuing. “But, it’s not too late to undo what has been done. I will help your daughter untangle herself. It must be today. It must be tonight. Once we do, she will recover her strength and her magic will bloom fuller and deeper than it was before.”

Mrs. Rayne rubs at her throat frantically.

Clayman mutters under his breath, pulling and swishing his oak wand in one motion. With the sound of a bell, he breaks Berthe’s spell. He is not smiling now. “Berthe. I must ask you not to lay workings on my employer.”

Mrs. Rayne is shaking with rage. “You--you dare? I am Elizabeth Rayne, matriarch of the Rayne Family and Coven--”

“And I am Berthe Steighart,” Berthe snaps. “Arbitrator of the Light Council, mediator of the Dark and North American Representative of the Green Witches.” She glares at Clayman from her peripherals. “I do not need permission to silence a human, Clayman.”

Mrs. Rayne squawks. “Human--”

“Berthe,” Clayman says, “I invited you here. She is under my protection.”

Berthe breathes out through her nose. Clayman is brandishing his wand like he’ll actually fight her. What he’s saying makes sense though. Along with being rigid, traditional witches tend to be awfully noble. “She may be under your protection, Clayman, but her daughter is now under mine. I won’t allow a green witch to wilt in front of me.”

“I know,” Clayman says. He lowers his wand and rubs a hand over his face. “I know. No one is trying to stop you, Berthe. I am asking you to have sympathy. The Raynes are an established and well-respected family. Their magic has been dormant for so long that no one would’ve been able to anticipate it would resurface, much less as a green witch. Can you understand Mrs. Rayne’s denial? Admitting Rachel is a green witch is like admitting the Rayne Family’s traditional magic is dead.”

“Nobody,” Berthe says, throwing her hands into the air, “nobody is saying that Rachel can’t practice traditional magic anymore!”

“What?” Clayman asks.

Mrs. Rayne gapes. “Yes, you are! You’re saying my daughter is like you--”

“Her core is, yes,” Berthe says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Her head is beginning to throb. “The death of a family’s magic, Clayman? Really?”

“Well,” Clayman says. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “...isn’t it?”

Berthe wants to scream. Sometimes she forgets that Clayman, for all his power, is so young. Berthe was born onto her path. Clayman’s only been practicing for a decade. “Very, very few grimoires are specific to a certain magical core. The Rayne family’s grimoire is advanced, yes, but it’s broad. It’s not that the Rayne family has never had a green witch before. It’s that they’ve never had a witch with a strong enough affinity for it to matter.”

“Ah,” Clayman says. He clears his throat. “I may have misunderstood something.”

Berthe forces herself to calm down. “You’re a very powerful witch, Clayman. Your core is traditional, but that’s unusual. Traditional is usually a practice, not a state of being. Most witches tend towards green, light, dark, or deity magicks. I understand how you made a mistake when evaluating Rachel’s core - she had an unusual upbringing - but now you have the correct information. It’s time to help Rachel now.”

Clayman rubs the back of his neck. His smile creeps across his face. “You think I’m powerful?”

Berthe swats at him.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns to Rachel. Oh dear, she nearly forgot the young lady was there. “Yes?”

Rachel grimaces as she adjusts herself against her pillows. “This untangling…will it cure me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll be able to use my family’s grimoire after?”

Berthe pouts. “If you want to. But you have such a lovely green soul. I think you should--”

Rachel is already shaking her head. “I am a Rayne. I want to use my ancestor’s spells.”

Mrs. Rayne presses a hand to her chest. “Rachel.”

“Mom,” Rachel says. She reaches out a hand and sighs when her mother grabs hold. “I know it’s against what you believe. What I believe. But if it can help me, I want to do it.” She tries for a smile and ends up with another grimace. “If I’m going to rebuild our family’s coven, I need to be alive to do it.”

Berthe sucks her teeth. “Oh, that’s a good argument. I should have led with that.”

“Plant for brains,” Clayman mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Berthe slaps his shoulder.

--------------------.

Thunder rolls through the sky. There isn’t any rain - yet. Berthe stands between two of her oldest trees and tips back her head. She smells power in the air, lightning and rain and magic. She grins up into the night.

New moon.

“Ms. Steighart?”

Berthe turns. Rachel wrings her hands together, eyes darting nervously from the shivering treetops to the stormclouds to Berthe. Behind her, Berthe’s house is well lit. There are two figures in the kitchen window peering anxiously out to them.

Rachel is dressed in a simple, linen gown. Her long, black hair is loose down her back and, in the dark, the stress of the past few weeks fades away. She looks young (as she should) and alive (as she should). Magic sparks in her aura as the thunder rumbles around them.

“The ground,” Rachel says. She looks down at her bare feet and wiggles her toes in the soil. There’s awe in her eyes when she looks back at Berthe. “The ground is breathing.”

Berthe grins. There is nothing better than a new witch learning to see. She holds out her hand. “Come on, Rachel. It’s starting.”

Lightning cracks the sky and Rachel takes Berthe’s hand.

-----

Thanks for reading! It’s Halloween season which means there will be witches and horror on this blog for the foreseeable future!

Next week’s short story: Marigold Fletcher is a good witch. However, when her dark past comes knocking, her reputation is on the line.

You can read the story now on my Patreon (X) where I post all of my stories a week early!

Also thank you everyone who bought my anthology, Being Heroes, Being Villains (X) and to those who reviewed it! I’ll be making a post this weekend about the reviews which have been so kind :) Thank you!

#my writing #short story #third person #witches #my witchcraft #writeblr #long post

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