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Jimin does not usually wake up when sun rises but much later instead. Soft bed sheets surround him and they still carry the smell of the bath he had taken before going to sleep. He does not want to get out of bed yet and is, admittedly, way too lazy in that particular aspect. Still, he knows the erratic knocking won’t stop–Not until he rises, throws off the covers and answers whoever is rapping on his door.

He does so. When he slides open the door, the servant’s fist is still raised in the air, movement frozen as though he didn’t expect Jimin to actually open any time soon. The witch doesn’t bother hiding any signs of his exhaustion. Just to gnaw on the servant’s conscience a bit, he even overplays said exhaustion, blinks slowly and doesn’t even bother hiding a yawn. Considering the frown and the downturn of the boy’s lips, he succeeds.

“What is it?” Jimin asks, because no matter how urgent, no servant is supposed to speak without being asked to. It’s stupid, really. Just that somebody else’s outward expression of a lower hierarchy makes every royal’s dick rock hard. Bummer Jimin’s not a royal.

“His majesty requests Aide Jimin’s presence in his quarters,” the boy lets out, then bows his head to show he’s finished speaking. Jimin dismisses him and turns back to his own quarters, dragging the door shut behind him.

It’s safe to say that Jimin has sort of an honorary position at court. Officially, he’s the King’s counsellor, but he’s barely fit for giving adequate advice. Well, mostly that is. He’s not the best at tactical warfare, trading, and understanding the kingdom’s economy, but there are some things nobody but Jimin could advise the king in—nobody who isn’t a witch as powerful as Jimin.

He leaves his chamber not long after the servant’s interruption of his sleep. The walk to the king’s living quarters is as long as always, but he hurries because he feels like he’s already late. The sun is beginning to rise when he knocks on the king’s door frame and is promptly ordered inside.


There are perks that come with being of a certain lineage. The king knows this just as much as Jimin himself and they both get to experience quite comfortable lives due to their ancestry. King Namjoon’s blood is royal, and Jimin’s blood is magical.

At the lazy wave of his hand, Namjoon can get almost everything he desires. The most expensive fabrics, the most fashionable clothes, stones rare enough they cost what an entire family earns in a year. Concubines, exotic food and the sweetest wines are in reach at all times, yet no matter how luxurious his life might be, there is one thing that could never really have before he found Jimin on the other side of the world.

Eternal youth.

There’s only so much a witch can do in that aspect. Jimin knows that and, being the honest person he is, reminded Namjoon countless times before they made their little deal.

Jimin only has the power to delay outwards ageing. The wear and tear of a body does not only show on the outside, though, and whatever else age might bring with it, Jimin can’t stop.

It’s not really eternal, either. Sooner or later, age will show on Namjoon’s face. It will put spots on his hands and skin, and make his hair turn a blinding white. Unfortunately for the king, neither Jimin nor any other witch walking this earth is powerful enough to halt outwards ageing completely, or at least on their own.

Admittedly, Jimin had hoped the day Namjoon discovers the very first wrinkles on his otherwise smooth skin would be later, and not sooner, but he can already feel Namjoon’s anger radiating off of him in waves when he steps inside his chambers. The only logical explanation he has are the thin, barely visible lines around Namjoon’s eyes. It was really only a matter of time.

The king sits wrapped up in expensive fabrics, all regal and put together. The crossed arms in front of his chest and the downturn of his lips look just as childish as Namjoon acts when it comes to the topic of his age. His clothes and his attitude give him the charm of a son of rich parents, those that spend time at court and not at work, those that play dress up with their child. Those that show no interest in their offspring besides the way they make the family appear. Jimin knows Namjoon is sensitive, pampered, spoiled and all that, but he sees it now even more than usual. He braces himself for a booming voice, for physical violence he will choose not to fight, for Namjoon forgetting he’s oh so dependant of the witch.

Namjoon just drags his hand down his face with a sigh matching his actual age. It’s a shame. He wipes the anger right off his face, leaving space for resignation.

“Jimin, you know you can only be here as long as you do your work. You’re in a special position, yes, but as far as I know there are witches out there that can do what you’re supposed to do, but properly,” he says, fixing Jimin with a stare. Lies, lies, all lies. “I do not wish to threaten you, but you must know what would happen to you if you were accused of witchcraft by the king himself.”

“No witch will ever be able to completely stop ageing. It is against our nature, since we are an extension of the earth we walk upon, an earth that’s mortal and flawed. You know this, Namjoon. I’ve told you many times, and I will tell you again. You will age, and no witch can stop it.”

The resignation on Namjoon’s face makes way for a disappointed anger once more. “I’m sure among all of your kind there will be at least one whose capacities aren’t lacking,” he spits. Jimin lets out a breath, a quiet one, and closes his eyes, collecting himself.

There is one thing he can do, but he’s not sure whether he’s ready for such drastic measures. “There is a way,” he starts, and immediately sees Namjoon’s head tilt in interest. “There is a way for a witch to maximise their power, but as far as I know it has only happened once or twice ever since Earth’s creation. There is nobody to consult in but books.”

“What is it,” the king says in somewhat of a conspiratory whisper.

Jimin shakes his head, drags his fingers through his hair, pulls. “You’d have to summon a demon that’s willing to bind with me.”




Jimin could laugh at how easy this all seems. He knows what kind of hassle magic usually is: it’s fickle and picky, limited to certain periods of the day, the lunar cycle or the year, and almost everything is paid in blood or life.

It’s only logical for the summoning of a demon to be expensive, complicated and dangerous, yes?

Turns out, that’s not the case.

Maybe it’s because demons are not bound to the earth, like Jimin is, which is why their powers reach beyond anything mere witches like him can imagine. If a demon’s not kept in check by nature’s laws, if he is just as much another nature as heaven, or hell, why bother with sacrifices to get around nature’s laws?

Multiple sources tell Jimin he needs blood, magical, human or even animal, the bones of a murderer a piece of jewellery.


Something living, something dead, something precious. It’s wonderfully plain.


The thing with magic is that every effort is rewarded and every sacrifice paid back. The more complicated the potion, the rarer the ingredients—the stronger the spell, the better the result. Naturally, Jimin figures if demon summoning is any similar to the magic he practises regularly, he’ll need the best of the best for the strongest demon to appear, since he knows deep in his gut that he needs the most powerful demon he can possibly get for whatever Namjoon has in mind.

Regarding blood, Namjoon’s might be royal, but Jimin’s is magical, which trumps human blood any day. So his blood it is.

The jewellery is a piece of cake, since Namjoon kindly offered his most precious piece, both in symbolic and materialistic value: his parents’ wedding rings.

A king isn’t bothered by robbing others’ graves, so retrieving a murderer’s bones is easy as well. After resting beneath the ground for two centuries, a man whose hands killed multiple whores in the most brutal fashion was ripped out of his eternal slumber.

Collecting everything took Jimin little more than a week. He draws his own blood last, after he has ground up the bones of two hands into bone meal and after he has memorised the spell he’d have to say.


The day of the ritual, Namjoon is just as fidgety outwardly as Jimin is on the inside. He worries and thinks and plans, and all in all he comes clean with the realisation that he does not really want to give up the life he has at court just yet. It’s obvious for him to try his best—witches are just as unwilling as human when it comes to the giving up of one’s privileges. Still, he reminds himself again and again: He’s summoning a demon, who he shall be bind to for the rest of his life, to make him more powerful than any witch who is walking this earth. This will make him the strongest he’ll ever be.

They choose to perform the ritual in Namjoon’s quarters, since it’s the place where they’re less likely to be interrupted. The sun sets and throws timid, red rays of light into the room before they close the door and cut themselves off from the outside world.

Then, only candles cast the room in a soft glow. Jimin sits on a cushion in the middle of the room with a couple bowls in front of him. His torso is bare, he’s only covered from the hips down. His nerves feel tight like a bowstring, ready to snap, as he takes the bowl filled with his own blood in his hands. He dips his finger into the liquid, which has long since cooled off. It’s thick and gooey and smells strongly metallic as he puts the digit to his lips to draw a vertical stripe across them. Then, he puts a spot on top of where he feels his heart beating rapidly in his chest. At last, he draws another stripe down his happy trail, until there’s fabric in his way. He feels horribly—exposed.

He takes a handful of the bonemeal, which sticks to his skin in a particularly nasty way, and sprinkles it into his own blood. He repeats words he doesn’t understand, speaks a language he’s never heard before, and shuts his eyes tightly as he cleans off his hand with a silk handkerchief.

He knows magic. In and out. Which means he really shouldn’t be surprised when he opens his eyes again and his blood starts to literally boil in his hands, when the rings he placed in front of him start spinning wildly, clattering about. The dread that fills him is stronger than any he has ever felt before. It’s helplessness in the wake of the most horrible thing, and knowing you’re the only one unaffected. Knowing you’re glad about that, too.

For a second, the candles collectively stop burning, as if they had been blown out forcefully. Just as fast, they light up once more.

They light up, and cast a ghostly glow onto a figure now standing in the middle of the room, wordlessly. He looks Korean, and he’s rather small. His face looks defined and strangely sculpted, especially paired with the lack of movement. He looks like a work of art, and eerily inhuman. His black robes are thick and still silk-like, and they don’t look like they belong to any time Jimin has witnessed in his life, and they make his pale face stand out strongly.

The most unsettling thing is how he stares Jimin down. The witch feels positively pinned to his place and if it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage one could think he’s just as much mimicking a statue as his opposite is.

There’s a burnt smell hanging in the air heavily, but it’s not repulsive in any way. Instead, it’s sweet and alluring, like Christian churches, like the rituals hidden deep inside the forest of his childhood.

A shiver runs down his spine, icy cold, when he suddenly hears a voice running through his head. It’s just like the smell. It fills every single crevice of Jimin’s mind, crawls into every hidden part of his being, reaches out for what’s kept deep within.

He goes rigid.

“You called?” it says, mockingly, trying to break him apart from the inside out.

Jimin answers “yes.”

Seconds might have passed, or maybe hours, but the man moves for the first time after Jimin has spoken aloud. He tilts his head, still fixing his gaze on the witch. Then there’s a small smile playing on his lips and the room grows increasingly warm. Jimin feels a heat in his lower abdomen, a clench, a longing. The blood leading down his stomach turns pleasantly warm.

Suddenly, it’s Namjoon, oh so impatient Namjoon, who breaks whatever hung in the air apart.

“I want you to bind to him,” he says, and Jimin desperately wants to look at him, plead with him, yell at him to just shut up

But then there’s the voice again.

“I don’t care about what you want,” it says, and Jimin’s heart skips a couple beats in fear. The man hasn’t even opened his mouth to speak to them.

He believes Namjoon is furious, but the demon just looks at him, blankly. The room turns cold, and Jimin shivers. The king must be clenching his jaw, since no remark follows the demon’s.

Instead, golden, glowing eyes fix on the witch once more and his blood runs just as cold as the room. “What do you want?” it asks, slowly, and Jimin swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I want to be bound to you,” he says, meekly, and even though he wants nothing more than to avert his gaze, he–can’t.

He thinks the man smiles, although it’s barely more than an upturn of his lips. “Tell me your name, dear,” he whispers. His words play Jimin’s nerves like an instrument. He hums, deep inside, harmonically.

“Park Jimin,” he answers, little more secure than he was before. He’s still kneeling on the floor, legs numb. He’s so cold, cold with fear and intimidation.

Then, the demon moves. Not just a miniscule movement of his head or eyes, no. He actually moves, towards the witch, whose heart feels like it stopped beating altogether. It’s so very unnatural, the way the man closes the distance in between him and the witch. Jimin’s body shivers with the energy rolling off of the demon in waves, so very potent and alluring. He stands before him and looks down. He barely has to raise his hand to put his thumb underneath Jimin’s eye. He sees the black, long claws before he feels them, but the touch is so careful, as though the man tries his best not to hurt Jimin by touching him with those sharp, sharp claws.

The hand moves towards his hair. The witch feels long, slender fingers card through his locks, feels them grab and pull

“I’m Yoongi,” he says, and the smile on his lips is warm, but his eyes are hungry.

“Yoongi,” Jimin repeats, tasting the name on his tongue. The grip in his hair loosens.

Then, those golden eyes aren’t fixed on him anymore, but surely on Namjoon behind him. Jimin can’t see well, but he thinks Yoongi has lost the smile playing on his lips while looking at the king. He seems cold, although the hand moving through his hair is wonderfully warm, just like the whole body standing in front of him.

“I will bind with him,” he says, mouth still unmoving. He’s in their heads. “But I want your soul, when you die eventually,” he adds.

Namjoon, poor, naïve Namjoon, chooses to snort. He doesn’t even realise he’s digging his own grave. Jimin winces, worried. He’s so sure Yoongi’s ready to rip the king apart, and it’s not something he wants. “I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. The only reason Jimin’s here, is to stop me from ageing. He alone is not strong enough for that, which is where you come in,” the king then says, and Jimin curses soundlessly. “So fine, take my soul. But be ready to wait a long time.”

Yoongi smiles. Yoongi smiles, and Jimin doesn’t believe it, until he understands. He understands. Outward ageing, is what Namjoon fears, but the body ages, and no spell protects him from natural—or unnatural—death, for that matter.

If he’s poisoned, he dies, if he chokes on something, he dies, if he’s stabbed, he dies, if he’s sick, he dies—

and Yoongi knows. He knows all the loopholes, knows Namjoon’s soul is his for the taking, knows Jimin soon belongs to him. “I have eternity,” Yoongi answers.

The dread and the relief flooding Jimin’s veins make him dizzy. A tear runs down his cheek. He feels defeated, face to face with a challenge he can never win.

“When can you bind with him, then?” Namjoon asks impatiently. Yoongi’s smile widens.

“Whenever you say, human,” he responds, voice saccharine and way too erotic.


The hand in his hair drags him upwards, and his knees wobble worryingly. Then, there’s a hand resting warmly on his waist, pulling him closer to the heat of Yoongi’s body. “Your wish is my command,” he mocks, only to capture Jimin’s mouth in a kiss. He swoons.

The hand in his hair positions his head to Yoongi’s liking, and he’s moved like a ragdoll, subject to the demon’s pleasure. The entire room grows hot and the smell of incense multiplies itself. Strong hands start wandering until they grope his behind through thin fabric, and Jimin feels hot, hot, hot. They pull apart his cheeks, play with the flesh, and a sudden finger dragging over his cleft and his rim with only the thin fabric in between makes him gasp into the kiss, moving impossibly closer towards the demon.

His own hands scramble for Yoongi’s robes, pulling at them, frantically. Yoongi then hoists him up easily, and the claws suddenly break through both the fabric, and the witch’s skin, drawing blood. He moans at the sting, wraps his legs around the demon’s back. He’s carried towards Namjoon’s bed as lips leave his own in favour of his neck. Yoongi’s energy glows for Jimin to see, and they both ignore hurried footsteps and the bang of a door closing.

Yoongi feels better than anything Jimin has ever felt before when he nips at the skin of his neck, grabs his thighs where they meet his ass and then lowers him onto the bed.

He mouths at his chest, laps up the blood smeared where his heart is, and growls. He growls, still in Jimin’s head, and he thinks that maybe, Yoongi either can’t speak, or simply won’t. His tongue feels hot and slick, and his saliva is much more slick than Jimin would have expected.

Yoongi drags his hands down Jimin’s sides, and all blood in his body rushes downwards. Claws lightly love across his skin without breaking it, this time, until fingers carefully hook around the fabric covering up the witch’s groin, and pull it off swiftly.

He feels hot, when Yoongi rips off his own robes and moves down Jimin’s body, eyes following Jimin mischievously. “Let me taste you,” he whispers, and Jimin is gone.


“Let me make you feel good.”