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Each time you have to make the trek to Rasmodius’ tower, you curse him under your breath for deciding to build his home so far away from town. On one hand, you get it; the man appreciates his solitude, and the townsfolk would certainly complain about the strange smell that wafts from the tower when he sets to making potions. But on the other, it’s a 40-minute walk one way to visit your partner.
Your life would be so much easier if you could just teleport like Stardew Valley’s local wizard.
When you finally reach the tower that looms over the surrounding forest like a stone sentinel, you’re already sweating from the summer heat. If Rasmodius doesn’t want you looking like a sweaty mess every time you show up, he can visit you for a change! Or move his damn tower closer! That’s probably something he could do with a snap of his fingers, you figure.
At this point in your relationship, and one too many times where he hasn’t heard you over the fierce bubbling of his cauldron, you don’t bother with knocking. Rather, with a great heave, you push open the swollen wooden door.
You’re greeted by the caustic smell of… something you won’t even try to identify simmering in the large cauldron. Past the pink-tinged haze that fills the circular room, you make out two figures. Squinting your eyes, it’s easy to identify the silhouette of Rasmodius and his curious wizard hat. Beside him is a woman. Stepping further into the room, you see that she has blonde hair that reaches down to the small of her back. Clad in her own set of dark robes, you recognize Camilla, the witch of Castle Village. They’re standing before a small desk and talking quietly to one another.
When the door creaks shut, both of them jump. Rasmodius whirls around, his shoulders dropping when he recognizes you. There’s a brief look of adoration that crosses his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but it’s quickly masked by what you’ve come to recognize as his stern “work face.”
“Ah! Welcome! I suppose it is Wednesday, isn’t it?” says Rasmodius with a knowing smirk. “You’ve already met Camilla, the witch of Castle Village, yes? I’ve asked my colleague to assist me with a task. Please wait for me in the library downstairs. I’ll be along shortly, just as soon as we’ve finished here.”
Camilla cuts in, her voice exaggeratedly high, “Oh, hush, Razzy! She's welcome to join us. You don't have to hide your paramour in the basement.”
“I'm not hiding anything. Rather, I need you to focus, Camilla, and I know your attention will wander if she's in the room.”
“You think you know me so well…” Camilla rolls her eyes and sighs.
You look between Camilla and Rasmodius, who has yet to look at you for longer than three seconds. Instead, he stares down at the parchment spread across the table, mouth moving silently as if reading to himself.
You clear your throat. “That's okay. I'm fine waiting. I can—”
“Nonsense!” says Camilla. “Come, join us over here. I was just helping Razzy decipher this scroll. He may be more experienced than I, but did you know I speak ten more languages than him?”
“I… did not know that.”
“It’s true! Come, join us.”
You look to Rasmodius for input, who quickly glances in your direction. Hunched over the table, you see his grip on the edge tighten, blanching his knuckles. Feeling a little helpless—who are you to tell a witch no?—you scoot closer to the duo, still giving them the space they need to work. Peering between them, you see that there are strange symbols unlike any language you’ve ever seen scrawled in red ink across the parchment. It must be something especially ancient or otherworldly if even Magnus, the smartest man you know, is having a hard time deciphering it.
As you try and make sense of the writing, you feel Camilla’s blue-eyed gaze burning into you. When you look up, she winks.
“Your farmer is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” she says.
Oh! You give a half-hearted smile at the unexpected compliment.
“Indeed,” replies Rasmodius, his voice flat. “Focus, Camilla.”
“Boo, you’re so boring at times. I’m over here singing your partner’s praises, and you’re still so focused on that scroll. There will be plenty of time for us to decipher that together—have some fun! Chit chat!”
“I’ve invited you to my tower to assist with this article, not socialize.”
“And we can do both! Taking breaks is good for the soul.”
Rasmodius inhales deeply, his shoulders rising. You can tell that Camilla is starting to test his seemingly infinite wells of patience.
“I don't see a ring on her finger yet. You should get a move on, Razzy, before someone else swoops in and snatches her up.” Camilla steps closer to you, deliberately bypassing the wizard. “You’re even prettier when you’re embarrassed,” she says in a sing-song voice. “No wonder he’s been hiding you away in this dusty old tower. Tell me, is he still muttering in his sleep about runes and celestial convergences?”
Heat rises into your cheeks. “Sometimes. But it’s endearing.”
“I suppose,” Camilla purrs. She tilts her head, one delicate finger tapping her lips. “Or maybe a little tragic. You do realize he’s significantly older than you, yes?”
Magnus bristles. “Camilla."
She ignores him, eyes glittering with mischief as she leans slightly toward you. “I mean, I get the appeal. Power. Mystery. That whole ancient and unknowable thing. But you’re a woman in her prime. Don’t you get tired of all the brooding?”
Your smile falters. You open your mouth to answer, but Magnus steps forward, placing a firm hand at the small of your back.
“That’s enough,” he says. His voice is low, but something pulses in it—magic just barely leashed. “You are a weaver of the arcane, not a gossiping poppet. Act like it.”
Camilla raises her hands in mock surrender, though her eyes linger a beat too long on the hand he’s laid possessively against your spine. “Very well, old friend. Let’s get back to deciphering your scroll, then.”
“No. I believe we are done for today.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. You may go now. Thank you for your efforts.”
She tilts her head, considering Rasmodius for a beat. She replies, softer, “It seems my teasing has struck a chord. Apologies to the both of you if I’ve offended.”
Rasmodius’ face twists into something akin to anger. It’s gone in a blink, replaced with his typical stoicism once more. “Good night, Camilla.”
“Good night, you two. Take good care of her, Razzy.” She gives him a wink before raising her right hand high. The smell of ozone fills the tower. In a flash of light, Camilla is gone.
The echo of her teleportation magic rings out a little too loudly in the tower’s circular chamber. It’s followed by a deafening silence.
You give a sigh of relief. At last: peace and quiet. You wheel around to face Magnus. “Well, she's… spirited.”
Rasmodius’ body is tense. He stares at the spot where Camilla had been standing as if trying to set it ablaze with his mind. His voice is tight when he speaks. “She's insufferable."
“Insufferable but helpful, by the looks of it. Did you get the answers you needed about your artifact?”
“No. Her usefulness ended the moment you walked through the door and she began her… her tirade. I refuse to call on her again; I'll decipher the rest of the text myself,” he mutters. Stiffly, he walks back to the desk. He picks up the scroll and holds it in front of his face, but you can tell by the way his eyes don't dart across the parchment that he's staring through it.
“You okay?” you ask with a tilt of your head.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine, Magnus.”
Still staring through the parchment, Rasmodius says, his voice growing louder with each word, “She has no right to talk to you like that! She may call me diminutives all she likes, but to bring you into it? It’s despicable! Deplorable!”
“It didn't really bother me,” you admit. ”The weird flirting, anyway. Could have done without her insulting you, though.”
Rasmodius’ lips press into a flat line. “I didn't like how Camilla looked at you. I didn't like how you smiled at her.”
Your smile fades. “I was only being polite. I’m sorry. I'm working on the whole people-pleasing thing.” A realization hits you. “Wait, are you jealous?”
“No!” He grimaces. His green eyes meet yours. “...Yes. It is hard not to. I recognize that by the standards of most mundane folk, Camilla is attractive and I am not. As she reminded the both of us, I am but an eccentric old man.”
“That's not how I see you.”
“I know, my heart. But there's still that cursed niggling doubt—” He hesitates. You watch him wrestle with something invisible—something heavy and old.
Rasmodius suddenly places the scroll back onto the table, his eyes burning into yours. He steps forward abruptly as if something has broken loose in him. He crosses the room in four long steps until you can feel the heat radiating off of him. “You were mine long before she even knew your name.”
He grabs you—not harshly, but firmly. His lips find yours, rough with urgency, with all the emotion he swallowed while Camilla’s words stung and her eyes lingered too long. Your hands tangle in his black robes, pulling him closer to you. His hands cradle your face, then slide down to your waist, gripping like you might vanish if he loosens his hold. You gasp into his mouth, and that sound seems to snap the last of his restraint.
He gathers you into his arms and carries you to the small wooden table in the corner. Moonlight spills in from the high-arched window. He lays you down on the only part not covered in books like a ritual offering—sacred and his.
A trembling hand brushes your cheek. “Do you know what it does to me?” he asks, voice ragged. “Watching her speak to you like you’re something she can pluck out of my hands?”
“I’m not,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands begin to move—slowly, reverently—undoing the fastenings of your shirt, the buttons slipping open one by one under his practiced fingers. He pulls the fabric aside, exposing your collarbone, your chest, your belly. Goose flesh ripples across your arms as cold air rushes to meet your heated skin. Rasmodius’ mouth follows, lips ghosting over the curve of your breast.
You arch into him with a soft gasp. “Magnus…”
“Wretched witch…”
You pluck his hat from his head and toss it aside. “Wanna let out some anger?”
Something in your words sobers him. Rasmodius lifts his head and blinks. “Hm? Oh. No, I-I…” He inhales sharply. “Never do I want you to be on the receiving end of my emotions, my heart—unless that emotion is adoration, of course. Apologies. I usually excel at keeping my emotions in check, but—”
“Magnus,” you give a breathy chuckle. “You’re okay. Jealousy is a good look on you. Brings out the fire. It's kinda hot.”
His brows furrow. “Hot.” Rasmodius says the word slowly, as if it's the first time he's ever heard it.
“Attractive. Sexy.”
“Oh! Well, um…” With one hand, he rubs the back of his neck. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Would you like me to continue, then?”
“I’m already lying here with my shirt open, aren’t I?”
He chuckles. “I suppose so. And what a sight you are—moonlight silvering your skin, tracing the curves of your body... You’re stunning.”
“And you’re a dork!” you respond, your words light and teasing.
He leans in, nose brushing yours. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love that about me.”
“I do,” he admits, voice dropping. “I love everything about you.”
You run your fingers through his violet hair, cupping the back of his neck. “Then stop thinking about her and show me.”
Rasmodius laughs—rough and genuine—and you feel it vibrate through his chest into yours. “Insufferable and demanding.”
“I learned it from the best.”
“Flatterer.”
“Possessive old man.”
He growls at that and claims your mouth again. You wrap your arms around his neck to drag him down on top of you as you lie back on the table.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse, mouth trailing down your throat.
“Yes,” you breathe, fingers already tangled in his robes. “Yours.”
Rasmodius reaches down to push your pants down. Lifting your hips, you kick them and your boots the rest of the way off, leaving your legs bare. He’s already in the process of unfastening his own pants.
A look of irritation crosses his face. “Curses. Give me but a moment, my beloved.”
In a flash, he’s gone. Another flash, and he’s between your legs again. Heat rises in your face at the realization that he’s now holding a condom.
“One of these days, I shall craft a spell that serves a similar purpose and negates me needing to keep these wretched things on hand…” he murmurs.
Feeling cheeky, you reply, “They already have a spell for that. It’s called a vasectomy.”
“I would trust the arcane any day over a scalpel near my manhood,” Rasmodius chuckles. Already hard, he pulls himself out and rolls on the condom before lining himself up with your entrance. “Are you ready?”
You nod; if he keeps you waiting any longer, you feel like you might explode. Steadying you with one hand on your hips, he nudges the tip of his cock inside. That initial push blurs the line between pleasure and pain as your body stretches to fit him. Sweat beads along your chest. The two of you sharply inhale in unison—for different reasons.
Seeing you bite your lip, Rasmodius pauses. “Are… a-are okay, my moon?”
“Yeah, just… give me a sec.”
“Of course.” He leans forward to rub small circles around your clitoris, swollen and hot, with his thumb. Your back arches off the table. His touch sends pulsing warmth through your lower body.
Once you’ve gotten used to the feeling of him inside you, you wrap your legs around the wizard’s waist and pull him deeper. His eyes widen, almost comical on his typically stern face. When he bottoms out inside you, hips pressed flush against your thighs, they quickly become half-lidded.
The two of you stay locked like this for a breath, his thumb never slowing, just savoring the feeling of being so full, the way his length twitches inside you. You roll your hips, and he takes it as his cue to start moving. Patient and gentle at first, but soon picking up pace when even his composure begins to unravel. The table bangs against the stone wall with an obscene rhythm, causing stacks of books to fall over; Rasmodius hardly seems to care.
“Maybe—” You curse. “Maybe, hah… Camilla needs to come over more often if it gets you this riled up.”
“I fear I might polymorph her into a toad if she so much as touches you.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“Professionally and interpersonally? Yes. Would it be gratifying? Also yes.”
You reach up to knead your breasts, drawing a thumb over your left nipple. “You’re hot when you’re mad.”
The tips of his ears turn red. With his hand firm on your hip, he pulls you into the next thrust—hard. “If you want me to ravage you, beloved, you need only say the word; no need to play these games of anger and jealousy. Stars know it already takes all of my restraint not to take you in public.”
You let out a laugh that borders on a moan. “Promise?”
“Yes. Salacious minx…” Rasmodius bends forward, wrapping one arm under the small of your back and the other under your shoulders to hold you close. He smells of the forest, of pine needles and cedar. A comforting scent.
You wrap your arms around his back and hold on for dear life while he pounds into you. You can feel your pleasure building, threatening to tip over the edge at any moment. “Magnus… Don’t stop, please!” you cry into his shoulder. Your nails dig into his back.
“I couldn’t,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Even if I wanted to.”
Your pleasure reaches a cloying peak, exploding red-hot just behind your stomach. It leaves you trembling and groaning something that sounds like his name as wave after wave of heat surges through you.
Past your own heavy breathing, you hear Magnus’ breath hitch. His grip around you tightens. He hisses something in a language you don’t understand—a swear, maybe—before his cock pulses inside you. He crushes his lips against yours, claiming your mouth once more as his orgasm takes him.
By the time he pulls away, you’re both sweating and red-faced. His damp hair sticks up at odd angles, and you’re certain that yours can’t look much better. Rasmodius hardly minds, looking down at you with a goofy half-grin.
“You are breathtaking. Every time,” he murmurs.
“That was… Wow,” you agree.
Rasmodius pushes a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. Far gentler this time, he kisses you again, slow and warm. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, the rise and fall of his chest finally beginning to slow. For a moment, the tower is still.
Just the two of you in the quiet hush of moonlight and dust motes.
“I should be upset the scroll remains untranslated,” Rasmodius murmurs, voice low, “but I find I no longer care.”
You laugh and swipe your thumb over a smudge of ink near his temple. “Plenty of time to worry about arcane artifacts tomorrow. Tonight, you’re mine.”
He leans in again, his smile soft and boyish despite his lined face. “And you are mine.”
You curl against his chest as he helps you off the table, his cloak wrapping around the both of you like a blanket. He guides you to the back room where he sleeps—where you sometimes sleep, too, when you’re both too tired and the walk home feels too far.
He pauses before stepping through the doorway.
“I meant it, you know,” he says. “I love everything about you.”
You rest your hand over his heart. “I know. And I love the way you tend your garden, the way you speak to your books, how you’re the wisest man I know—yet somehow always misplace your tea. I love you, Magnus.”
A beat of silence. And then:
“Well,” he says, eyes twinkling, “that settles it. I’m moving the tower closer to the farm.”
You laugh, heart full. “The mundane folk such as I might suggest moving in together instead,” you say, taking his hand in yours. “But I guess moving an entire building works, too.”
“You’re right; the potion fumes would probably get to you eventually.”
Hand in hand, the two of you retreat to his bedroom, the night wrapping gently around you as you drift toward sleep.