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birdstooth · 2 years ago

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So many parts in this story were my favourite , but I drew the most family friendly one so you guys can comfortably look at it on a crowded bus surrounded by strangers 🙃

*also I know technically Lloyd shaved the stache in the previous part but when I erased it he looked hella weird so I put it back lmao

stop all the clocks

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x F!Reader x Six (Court Gentry) Wordcount: 8.5K Warnings: smut. threesome. gore. torture. hair. rough sex. dp. Knife play. Summary: Aside from all the murder, their new life is like a damn Thomas Kinkade painting.

A/N: follow up to only the lonely but i wouldn’t say you have to read it

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood

WH Auden

In the mornings, there is magic hour. Six wakes before dawn, Lloyd just as the red sun peeks above the horizon. Six jogs. Lloyd runs. Both are washed and dressed as they cook up enormous American breakfasts. Greasy. Diner-style.

You follow later, resentful at their ability to survive off a scant few hours. You’re not a morning person, but perhaps you’d be more of a morning person if they weren’t keeping you up all night.

They pour you juice as you hunch over the kitchen table. When Six drops a pan, it clatters so loudly that you hiss like a feral cat. The boys exchange amused looks, and you wonder when the fuck they became so chummy.

“Somewhere between you sucking Court’s cock while I jack off or, you know when we have to strategize double-teaming your ass.”

Lloyd’s tone is playful - full of mirth, and you hadn’t realized that you’d spat the chummy question out loud. Your mouth drops open, and Six shoves a croissant into it. You sputter, swatting him away, kicking his ankle under the table.

Fucking idiots.

Still - your chest gets tight. Your heart rate picks up. The first snow is beginning to drift outside, and the kitchen is swelling with this amber-golden glow. It’s Colorado. It’s another safe house. It’s theirs.

Aside from all the murder, their new life is like a damn Thomas Kinkade painting.

***

It’s sort of normal, or what Six believes to be normal. He has never had a regular life. He had gone to prison young. He had only ever understood orders. Death. He was good at death, masterly at killing precisely. He wasn’t crazy about dragging out a mission, hated chaos though it followed him.

Lloyd was the expert at pain.

These days, Six comes home, not knowing what he will find. Sometimes it’s you on the couch, resting your head on Lloyd’s shoulder as they watch Netflix. Sometimes he will find you barefoot and propped on the counter, slurping soup. Chicken and Stars.

“Are you hurt?” Your tone is ripe with accusation like Six hadn’t just gone out and done his fucking job.

“A little.” He figures he shouldn’t lie.

“C’mere,” you order before placing your bowl in the sink, the metal spoon ringing. He moves toward you, and you assess him with clear eyes. The moon shuffles its cool, pearly sheen through the window, over the tile floor. “Your shoulder,” you conclude before gently taking his wrist in one hand and placing your other against the inside of his elbow.

“Stay still.” You peer up at him, and he meets your gaze openly. You’re terribly distracting, which he knows you're counting on. You rise on tiptoe and press your lips to his before abruptly stepping away and throwing your weight into his arm. An audible pop followed by a sharp, familiar pain. He groans, knees nearly giving out, but you are right there. His beautiful, anchoring weight.

***

Lloyd supposes that this is his definition of normal. The sweetness of everyday living combined with the blood-soaked missions that pluck at the vital disturbed string inside him. It’s crepe Suzette and club sandwiches and then nighttime trysts in a strange cold dungeon where he tortures the information out of some sad sack.

Or he watches you torture the information out of some sad sack. An image he savors deep in his breast.

This is very much theirs.

Back in the CIA, Lloyd remembers sharing his broken pieces with you. The disturbing things he thought and believed. His inability to collar his rage. You had seen it and not flinched. You melded so well with him because he gave you his truth, and you handed your own over.

Such a thing applied to his brand of extracting information. Most of the time, he is successful with the violence. The teeth and fingernails and pounds of flesh. But there are other times when that just doesn’t do the job. He has to be charismatic. He has to share his vulnerabilities (or at least vulnerabilities that sound legit) to connect with whoever he’s interrogating. I show you mine, and then you show me yours. I promise promise you’ll live. Pinky fucking swear.

Lloyd had told you things that he had never told anyone else, and as a result, there was nothing but naked truth between them. No need for an inquisition. No need to worry that his secrets would ever be used against them.

You know me, baby.

With scorched veins, he watches you. Your eyes glitter as you lean over the guy they’ve got strapped to a chair. You murmur to him, whispering about how the pain will stop if he just tells them where the Prime Minister’s daughter is.

Once the info spills from the blubbering mess, Lloyd pays him back with a bullet.

“Jesus, duchess,” he practically sings. “That was hot.”

You laugh, waving him off as you move toward the door. Lloyd has other ideas. He advances on you, hand clamping down on your arm as he forces you against the wall. “Not so fast,” he purrs, flicking the button on your jeans. “Let me give my sweet girl something for working so hard.”

Your eyes widen, and your tongue wets your lower lip. Bingo. He sneaks his hand down the front of your jeans, gliding his fingers through the pillowy, soaked heat between your folds. He rubs and strokes, nudging that silk-soft entrance that leads to your cunt. You’re pulsing around the tip of his fingers - the throbbing furious as his own heartbeat while his gaze trails over your pleasure-ridden face. There’s some blood splattered across your cheek. You grip his shoulders, digging your thumb into the muscle.

“Lloyd,” you breathe, hips lifting as he watches you come apart. He knows that they will go home after this. He will curl around you as they watch some shitty reality show. It will be perfectly calm. The secret of this dungeon will be a memory they bury somewhere else. He lowers his head to kiss you sweetly - as he would at the end of a fairytale.

His chest expands. His stomach flutters. He thinks it might be love.

***

The darkness inside Lloyd and 33 lingers, bleeding into everything they do. It’s good that the government no longer controls them because sometimes the job requires a bit more sparkle. A bit more pizzazz.

Still, Lloyd would like to state that this was your fucking idea. Lloyd has to pretend to be a crime syndicate’s hired hand for torture while you pretend to know shit that you don’t. Infiltrate to gather information for an enemy gang. They’re paying you a startling sum.

“I’m not a huge fan of hurting you, bunny,” Lloyd admits, leaning his back against his dove-gray headboard. He rubs his chin, feeling torn. “One thing to hurt you in bed when you ask for it, another to actually do it when you’re tied to a chair.” He frowns. “Helpless.”

You’re standing at the foot of his mattress, hands on your hips. You narrow your eyes before suddenly climbing onto the bed and crawling toward him. He sits up, cock already stiffening at the sight. You straddle his lap, easing your ass down on his very hard erection. “Lloyd,” you murmur. “I trust you. It’ll be like foreplay.”

“Breaking your fingers isn’t hot,” he grumbles. “If you want me to make it look real, it will be bad. I can’t just scratch you and call it a day.”

You lean into him, your tits crushed against his chest as his hands fly to your waist. “I trust you,” you repeat, rubbing your nose against his cheek like a big cat. It’s disarmingly adorable.

He sighs. “I don’t like it. Six will nuke my ass.”

“But I trust you.”

“You keep saying that like it makes a difference.”

You pause, and he can tell you’re ruminating over something - hopefully a damn better idea. After a moment, your smile widens, and your tiny pocket knife appears out of thin air (where do you even keep it?). You press it into his hands. “Fuck me,” you demand.

Lloyd startles. “With the knife??”

You laugh. “No, dumb ass.”

You snatch his wrist and force his hand with the knife to the skin over your heart, your perfect tit. “Fuck me,” you repeat.

Oh.

He smirks.

Kinky.

With his other hand, he reaches up to grasp the nape of your neck to hold you steady. You bracket your thighs around his own, squeezing tightly, and he flips you onto your back in a flash. He’s already naked, and you’re not wearing panties. Just some lacy little nightgown. He shoves it up, slotting between your legs, cock nearly breaching you as he holds that blade right beneath your throat. He notches right at your opening, teasing the warm, wet slit of your pussy. Your mouth parts, and he savors the way the head of his cock kisses your clit - your sensitive folds. “Okay, baby,” he drawls. “Okay, whatever you want.” He bears his weight before filling you to the hilt. He grinds deep. He thrusts hard.

You’re panting, cradling his sides, nails skating down his ribs. “I trust you, I trust you, I trust you.” It slips from your mouth like a prayer before it wraps all the way around him.

***

There are days when the absurd greets Six when he returns to them.

“We found kittens!” you loudly exclaim as you skip in front of him with two small fluffy creatures pressed to your breasts. “Come kiss!”

Lloyd is right behind you with four of them in his muscular arms. He’s grinning like a maniac.

Six doesn’t want to tell them he’s allergic, so he smiles. Later, they have to give them up for adoption anyway due to the nature of their job. They can’t settle. They can’t stick to a single place.

The only constant is themselves. 33. Lloyd. Six. Their unit. Their fucked-up triad.

Sometimes, he is forced to meet up with them in some dank, dark basement in some desperate city. He always loudly opens the front door, just in case they’re on edge. He doesn’t need to get shot. Not again, at least. 33 will stomp up the stairs to see who’s arrived. Black latex gloves glistening with new blood. Your eyes land on Six momentarily, surprised to see him standing there as if you hadn’t texted him to plz come help.

You offer him a sheepish smile. “Lloyd’s on one,” you explain. There are screams behind you, down in the depths of whatever Hell Lloyd has created. The shrieks gradually trickle into whimpers before going silent.

“Shit,” you bristle. “He better not have fucking killed that dude.” Then, you’re gone, rushing back down into the purple dark. Six doesn’t go down there unless asked. It’s their thing.

He doesn’t mind. He prefers to have them in the light. All exits available to him.

***

In November, Six returns to the safehouse in London. The air is cold and wet, the black streets coated with damp leaves. Everything smells like rain.

“Don’t freak out.”

That’s the first thing that bursts from Lloyd when Six steps through the front door.

Don’t. Freak. Out.

Six narrows his eyes as the hair on his neck prickles. They had kept him in the dark on this mission. The specifics. He’d been given a role that he later realized had been a distraction. A total milk-toast assignment, and he should have known.

You and Lloyd had been planning something without him, which meant they felt he’d disapprove.

“What do you mean don’t freak -”

The words die on Six’s tongue the second Lloyd disappears back into the hall and reappears with you. His arm is around your waist as he gently guides you out of the shadows. In the light…in the fucking light…it’s so bad.

“Jesus Christ,” Six growls as he shoots forward, shoving Lloyd out of the way. His hands find your face, and he tips it up. There are abrasions around your throat and bruises along your arms. Blood has turned your silk dress to something stiff, and it practically cracks when Six brushes against it. Your lower lip is terribly swollen. Your fingers are visibly jutting from the wrong angles.

They were going undercover at some gala. At least, that’s what they had claimed. There are pearls in your ears, and the ruined dress is expensive, so perhaps that had been true. Had they been ambushed?

“Who -” He has to clear his throat because he’s seeing red. There is fury whipping into a fucking cyclone between his ribs. His adrenaline soars. His muscles tense. He finds his voice again. “Who did this to you?”

You try to smile, and it quickly becomes ghoulish with your bloodied gums. “It’s okay, Six.” You struggle through the statement, your lips cracking. You’re hoarse, probably from some goddamn son of a bitch strangling you.

You dart a glance toward Lloyd, who has gone particularly pale -paler than normal. Almost sick.

“Who did this?” Six demands. Lloyd grimaces, and you open your mouth before abruptly shutting it. It takes him a moment before it falls into place. You didn’t. He thinks. You wouldn’t.

Six goes rigid; his heart stills to a steady thump. He steps backward so he can inspect you from top to bottom. He knows exactly how Lloyd hurts people. This may be just a shade of it, but it’s a shade nonetheless. Slowly, he rolls his neck before settling cool eyes on Lloyd.

“You did this?” Six’s words are bathed in ice. He’s surprised at himself. Surprised that he cares this much, but he does. Lloyd says nothing, but his features twist, and his grimace deepens.

“He didn’t do it,” you cut in, staggering in front of Lloyd. “I mean, he did, but it was part of the plan. We didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Six snaps. “I highly doubt torturing you was the only option, sweetheart.” He snorts. “Look at you - you’re fucking bleeding everywhere. Your hand - Fucking Christ, Hansen-

Lloyd clears his throat, pressing himself to your back as he stares at him. “Everything I did is easily fixable. No weird brakes. Very shallow cuts. I’d never scar her-”

“You are both out of your fucking minds,” Six snarls, and the two of them have the decency to look cowed. Six doesn’t usually lose his temper. He can bludgeon a man’s head with his boot until it explodes like a swollen piece of fruit, and not a single facial feature will change. Not a wrinkle. He steps toward you, grasping your chin and lifting it. His breath huffs against your mouth. “Do not ever leave me out of the plan again. Maybe - next time, I can convince you not to do something so laughably stupid.”

You bite your lip and then wince from the pain of it.

“Are we clear?” he hisses. Both 33 and Lloyd automatically nod in unison, and, for a moment, Six feels as if he’s tamed some force of nature - some uncollared beast.

***

“I need you to do this,” Lloyd tells you. “I want it.”

It’s his penance. He’s been a sulking baby since Six let him have it for torturing you.

It was my idea. I talked you into it.

I don’t care.

He led you into this dim room beneath the house. A place normally meant for his victims. The cement smells like antiseptic, sweat, and blood. Lloyd’s tied to the chair. Naked as the single bulb above them drips yellow light across his milky skin. He’s got his thick thighs spread. His dark hair blunt against his paleness. His pink nipples. His dick standing upright - red and weeping.

He’s beautiful. The chestnut scratch of his beard tinged with a spark of gray. The blue eyes. The sculpted body. The muscles in his biceps twinge from the uncomfortable position. He stares at you like you’re the sun - the blood-scented air in this room that threatens to engulf them. He knows your darkness better than anyone.

Better than Rake? The thought pinches at the back of your mind. Memories fall loose as scraps of paper in the meat of your head. Where the fuck did that come from? You bury the thought just as you had buried Rake two years ago.

Lloyd makes a clipped, frustrated noise, demanding your attention. He says your name, and it trails down your back like his talented fingers. Calloused. Full of intention. You know what he wants. You slink forward, wedging yourself between his legs before straddling his lap.

You grasp the bobbing length of his cock, circling your fingers right under the head. “Beg me,” you whisper as you press your lips to his brow. “Beg me, Hansen.”

His hips buck up underneath you, jutting forward, desperate for more friction. “Please,” He grunts as he tips his head back. He slides his lips over yours, his tongue delving into your mouth. “Please.” It comes out muffled, bouncing against the thrust of your tongue. It’s a frantic kiss - sloppy and uncontrolled. It tastes delicious. It tastes wonderful to have Lloyd so submissive for you.

“Please?” you echo, skating your nails across his scalp.

“Baby.” His eyes are big and blue as the Pacific as they stay trained on your face.

You position yourself over him, hitching the crotch of your underwear to the side before slowly impaling yourself on his cock. He groans, nearly choking as the room echoes with the wet noise of your cunt taking him. It burns - an ache that momentarily stings before it flares out into something else entirely. His hands are locked behind the chair, the muscles in his shoulders straining. You draw back to look at him, enjoying how his cock twitches and throbs inside you. The band of your panties digs into his length and tugs at your hips, cutting into the flesh of your ass.

You gently rock forward, lifting yourself only an inch before dropping down. “Fuck, fuck,” he stammers. Carefully, you nip his jaw, his throat, and shoulder. You sink your teeth deep just so he can feel it. He shivers and moans, jerking as the head of his cock punches up against something soft and tender inside you. You yank at his chest hair, causing bright pain spots across his surface. It’s a lovely chest - broad and well-shaped. You’ve rested your cheek against it more times than you can count, simply listening to the battering drum beat of his heart.

You fuck him slow, teasing him with each roll of your hips.

“Don’t tell Six,” you murmur, leaning forward to steal another open-mouthed kiss from him. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“No - he wouldn’t.” He agrees, his lips twitching before they morph into an O when you clench around him. The chair creaks, and there’s no doubt you’re going to break it.

It’s a messy kind of love. Fucked up. But - they’ve always been that way. Always stuck between two existences and somehow finding each other. He ripped down your walls and found your nerves, screaming cells, and raw places. He found them, grasped them, and held them up to the light.

“Make it hurt,” he demands as he thrusts up into you. “Please.”

***

The thing is, 33 is not him. Not in any way, shape or form. You feel guilt profoundly though you try to act like you don’t. He thinks it occurred somewhere after you got older. Vienna? Fucking Gentry’s sneaky little influence? An unknown tipping point that suddenly made you feel morose.

Admittedly, sorrow looks beautiful on you. It is just your flavor; just as a genuinely happy smile is devastating when you choose to present one.

You’re already gorgeous, but that soft, aching grief that churns quietly beneath your features? Yeah - that does something to Lloyd.

They’re in Gstaad when he finds you alone in the library with a bottle in your hands. You’re drunk - fingers sliding up and down the neck that reminds him of you sucking his cock this morning.

“Shit, baby,” he’d grunted. “Eyes up. I want you to know who is fucking that pretty little mouth of yours.”

Gentry had been none too pleased, storming inside while you had Lloyd’s dick down your throat. You were running late, and Gentry was nothing if not punctual.

“We have to fucking go. Wheels up at 0600 remember?”

“C’mon, Six,” Lloyd said. “She’ll suck you off too.”

“No.”

Court Gentry might be a robot. He compartmentalizes everything, including his sex drive. His cock can stay limp, his heartbeat stuck on an even line, even when their girl is ass up in front of him. Lloyd’s New Years' Resolution is to corrupt the son of a bitch.

You’d swallowed his come like a champ before running after Six. They were supposed to take out some oligarch, which had turned into a spectacular mess. Gentry had called Lloyd ahead of time, which is why he isn’t completely surprised that you’re deep-throating a bottle of Gray Goose.

“You know how to handle this shit,” Six had said. He could hear him pacing, the rustle of gauze and bandages.

“I’d disagree.”

“You’re good with her,” he argues, which makes Lloyd stop in his tracks. He is thoroughly floored at this rare praise. He didn’t expect this from Six - this hesitant declaration that he was a decent person with the woman they treasured.

Lloyd cocks his head, regarding you with something. Tender concern, perhaps? He’s not sure. He hates when you go all broody and tragic. He doesn’t understand because he so rarely feels regret. Another reason he thinks Six is off his rocker for thinking Lloyd is good with handling 33’s mood swings.

When you catch his eyes, you glare at him. Absolute defiance. Very you. You tip your head back to swallow more vodka, and Lloyd smoothly snatches the bottle from your hand. “No more, bunny.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s fair.”

You open your mouth before shutting it again. Unsure how to respond when he’d so readily agreed with you. He knows you want him to fight.

You wrap your arms around your knees. You look like a child.

He gives you silence, waiting patiently for you to confess what you need to confess.

“There was a kid….” you finally offer. “A kid in the way. The bomb-“

“Yeah,” he cuts you off. He crouches down and touches your face, thumb catching on your lower lip. “Six told me.”

You nod, seemingly relieved not to have to rehash what occurred. “He left - ran off after. I think he’s mad at me.”

Shit. Lloyd would have to talk to him about this.

“Not true,” he protests. “You know how our Courtney gets. He’s a softhearted fuck and doesn’t do so well with the comfort.”

“I don’t want to feel.” You’re slurring, your eyelids are heavy, and your nose is swollen.

You reach for him - arms encircling his neck as you yank him on top of you. You’re nuzzling his cheek - mouth smearing hot and wet on his chin. “Show me how to stop caring.”

You turn his head and catch his lips, pushing your tongue fully into his mouth, and for a minute, he returns it. He nips your jaw; he squeezes your hips. You whimper - shaking and frantic and his name burning in your throat.

He is full of fucked up shit, and so are you, but you’re really beginning to struggle with the guilt. There are invisible hands clasped around your neck as you drown in it. Lloyd needs to get you above water.

Reluctantly he pulls away, untangling you from his body as you make a soft, desperate noise. “We should tell Court to come back,” he suggests. “Maybe, make you dinner.”

You shrug, deflated, and then your eyes begin to fill with tears before you turn away from him. It’s the alcohol. It has to be. You rarely cry.

Horrified, Lloyd pats you lightly on the cheek, offering soft, coaxing sounds of comfort like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. You cry harder. Finally, he gives up and collects you to him.

“We’re feeding you,” he announces. “Then you’ll feel better.”

***

Six falls ill. Very sick. Potentially poisoned, and you’re a mess over him. He’s wilting with fever, his tongue thick in his mouth. He can’t see straight. The ceiling blurs and distorts, and you cradle his head in your lap and hold a cool washcloth to his brow.

“Shhh,” you murmur as he tries to roll away. I’m fine.

I'm fine. I'm fine. He wants to say this, but it won’t come out.

You stroke his cheek, allowing him to soak your clothes in sweat. “Tell me what hurts,” you whisper, reminding him of his mother. His mom had fled that household long before he turned 13. But she had once been a mother. His mother, regardless of the short period of time.

“Chest,” he mutters. “Throat. Stomach. Fuck. Everywhere.”

“Lloyd is getting a doctor,” you reassure him. You brush his hair from his forehead, and another sharp pain shoots through his belly. He lurches, his hand around your wrist, squeezing bruisingly rough as he groans. “You’re okay,” you hum sweetly even though he’s probably hurting you. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He vomits over the side of the bed, and you wipe the dregs from his chin. It’s startling. It’s so fucking strange. You can be so terrifying when you’re working - so calm and deadly even with your face splashed in blood.

He thinks of unconditional love. He thinks about the people who were supposed to give it to him and didn't. You, Lloyd, and himself had been denied this as children, as human beings, until their environment had morphed them into perfect putty ripe for training. Hard. Cold. Weapons.

This isn't your nature. It’s not his.

And yet…

You won’t leave him. He realizes this as he drifts away. You hold him like his mother, and you won’t leave him.

***

Six starts dreaming, which is never a good sign.

It’s a lot of you fucking Lloyd in front of him, which should be considered normal, except it’s always on a blood-drenched bed. They’re coated in it, writhing around each other, Hansen’s brunette head between your legs or his hips pistoning against your ass as you whimper and snatch at the soiled sheets.

He often wakes up sweating, his lungs catching on short, unsteady breaths. He finds himself requiring you in a way that confuses him. He wordlessly walks down the hallway until he reaches your bedroom. He enters, quiet and stealthy, and sneaks into your bed.

The first time, you’d nearly shot him in the face. The second, you almost stabbed him. Gradually, you grow accustomed to his naked presence in the middle of the night.

Six spoons you, burrowing his face into your hair, inhaling your scent: woodsy, musky, powder violets and sandalwood.

He grasps the back of your thigh from behind, opening your legs before he slides forward and into you. You inhale sharply, your body locking tight around him. Your hand snakes back to fist his hair. It starts slow before gaining speed. There is the muffled noise of their skin slapping, the mattress creaking. He’ll grab your chin and tilt your face to the side, his lips capturing yours, stealing your breath for his own.

“Like that,” he murmurs as you whine low. You clamp down. Your pussy is soaked and warm as he surges into it with all the aggression his nightmares have left in him.

Sometimes he gets ugly about it. Sometimes he hates feeling something for you - this scorching, terrible emotion for another person.

What if you die? They see it every day. They touch it. Taste it. It’s possible. It’s probable.

“Court,” you moan, grinding back into him, taking his hand and shoving it between your legs to feel where you’re stretched around his cock. He allows you to call him by his name. His real one. He doesn’t totally mind it anymore.

He’s grateful for the distraction. He sucks up every minute he has you alive and fever-hot underneath him.

***

You are a smooth fighter. You dart out of the way, stabbing in quick short strokes. You are fierce and lethal. You never overdo it. Every move is calculated. Lloyd burns for it, but Six groans at the sight. Six mumbles your name when your enemy drops, and you turn to look at him.

It could be a god damn hallmark film. Their eyes meet, you smile, and then Six surges forward, taking your face between his battered hands and kissing you desperately.

It is so out of character for him that Lloyd is momentarily stunned.

Finally, he shakes himself out of it. “Hey,” he growls. “Stop that.

They are deaf to him. Their lips moving against each other in a frenzy.

“Give her to me!” he demands - tone sulky. “I want-

Tightening his hold on you, Six flashes Lloyd a thunderous look before lowering his face to yours.

“Fine,” Lloyd grumbles. “I’ll just go fuck myself.”

***

It’s a mission to be handled on the dance floor. An underground club in Berlin where red light streaks across Six’s eyes and blinds him. He doesn’t want to do this, but their mark will be there, and it’s loud, busy, and chaotic. A perfect spot to slide a needle full of toxins into an arms dealer’s throat.

33 is buzzed or pretending to be, at least. Your body is clad in this sequined corset-top shaped like a butterfly. Held together by strings. Pink and pale blue and lavender. You’d chosen jeans and dark sneakers as opposed to stilettos. Still - it’s a ridiculous outfit and entirely distracting.

“Jesus Christ, you look fucking sexy,” Lloyd had crowed as he gripped your waist and hauled you into his arms. He crushed his lips to yours while Six tried to go over the plan. Ignoring him, Lloyd had lowered you onto the table - spreading you out all over Six’s maps of the venue.

“Can you not? We have to focus.”

“After I eat her out, Courtney. You can join. C’mon.”

Six hates clubs. They’re difficult to navigate. The exits aren’t reliable, and people can’t be trusted to act accordingly, especially people on drugs.

He monitors the crowd from one of the catwalks. You’re dancing, tossing your head as some techno beat pulses and shakes the walls and floor. You certainly have a presence. Few people have tried to touch you as if there is a barrier between you and the restless masses. He wonders if they sense your danger - that you are an apex predator by all definitions. Sleek. Untouchable. A silver bullet. All teeth.

One man does try to grind up against you, and Six hears Lloyds huff through the coms. It doesn’t phase you; you dart away from the man. Your smile glittering under flickering lights and confetti.

“Good girl,” Lloyd growls. “Thank god I made her come all over my face before this.”

Six tries not to smile. “Yeah - I’m sure she would have cheated on us with some random dude because you didn’t give her an orgasm.”

“Ha ha,” Lloyd returns, his tone dry as bone chips. “33 requires a lot of handling. Chicks like her need to be pleasured daily.”

“I heard that,” you hiss.

“Aw, baby, hey,” Lloyd croons.

Six decidedly does not join in. He’s got to focus.

After a minute or so, Hansen speaks up again, a whine in his voice. “We should have just bought a table and handled this down there. I’m so fucking bored.”

“Yeah,” Six deadpans. “The three of us together in front of hundreds of people would have been a swell idea.”

“Did you just say ‘swell’?”

Once again, Six ignores him. He keeps himself still above the ground, monitoring every last detail of the club and the arms dealer sitting by the DJ booth. This is his specialty. He’s already thought up twelve other strategies to take this dude out should Plan A fail.

“Who’s that?” Lloyd mutters into the coms, and Six glances down at where you’ve suddenly stilled. You’re staring at something on the east side of the dance floor, and when Six follows your line of vision, he spots a tall, shadowy presence. The figure is in a black t-shirt and jeans. A haircut that Lloyd would probably attempt. Six squints, sneaking closer because he can’t tell what’s wrong with you. You’re frozen.

“33,” Lloyd says. “Talk. What’s up?”

Nothing.

“Bunny,” Lloyd tries.

Nothing.

“33,” Six barks. “Respond.”

“Sorry,” you reply quickly. “Thought I saw something.”

Your voice is audibly shaken. Six turns back to where the figure had been. He’s gone - the crowd had swallowed him up.

***

You dragged them into your room the second they’d gotten home. Lloyd and 33 start fucking like the world is ending. He’s pinning you to the mattress, flipping you onto your stomach. He says something dumb, and you slap him, and then he sinks his teeth into your neck, but it seems you’re enjoying it.

“Damn,” Lloyd laughs. “Baby’s desperate.”

You are. It’s weird. Not totally out of the ordinary, but your touch is lined with panic. A frenzy. Something upset you tonight, and you’re not saying what.

Six thinks of the man. The scrawl of dark tats up his neck. He had disappeared and vanished into the shadows, which was a feat for a man of that size. There were other people considered “gray men,” of course. It wouldn’t be a revelation that you knew them.

After they’d taken the mark out, SIx had pressed you for information.

It was raining by the time they escaped the screaming maw of the club. You’d snatched a cigarette from Six’s back pocket and stuck it in your mouth. He helped you light it, watching as you inhaled deeply before scrunching your nose. “I hate smoking - I just -“

“Who was that?”

“No one.”

Six knew to stop there. You were a steel trap. You gave nothing if you did not want to give it.

“Court,” Lloyd yells as he manages to get you back on top of him, his knees curved over the end of the bed. “Get over here.”

Six steps away from the window to admire you: the arch of your back as you cling to Lloyd, the soft, trembling whimpers as he stretches you a little too wide. There’s still glitter in your hair and on your skin. It drives heat to his groin and makes his head heavy with it.

Six undresses and then stalks toward them.

You’re on your hands with your knees spread on either side of Lloyd’s hips as he finger fucks you right in front of Six’s face.

“She’s good,” Lloyd rumbles. “So wet. You can just slide right in.”

Six palms your ass, gripping the sweat-damp fat of it. He takes himself in hand and sinks inside you, not even caring that Lloyd’s fingers are already there. Hansen grunts, stroking and petting you while trailing blunt nails along Six’s plunging shaft.

It feels good. Better than good.

They’ve all coalesced into one thing. A single mass of flesh and limbs and mouths. Cock and cunt. There are no longer boundaries between Lloyd and Six. They go with it, unafraid to touch and savor It’s half a fight anyway. They’d tried to kill the other at one point. Now - they’re trying to ruin each other in new ways. Sometimes Lloyd and Six find themselves pressed together in the dark as you nip their jaws and tell them to kiss.

“For me,” you whisper when all three of them know it’s for Lloyd and Six also.

Now kiss and make-up.

Is this some fucked-up Barney episode?

Shut up, Lloyd.

Fine. C’mere, Ken doll.

Six leans over you, bracketing your body, pinning you to Lloyd, His hips are slamming against your ass, and your cunt is wet - dripping from Lloyd already having fucked and filled you. It eases the way. It makes it messy. Six looks at Lloyd, who meets his eyes. Dark. Hungry. His brow furrows, pink mouth parting.

Over your shoulder, Lloyd grabs him hard by the back of the head and forces their mouths together. There is the click of teeth, the slick of spit. It’s erotic. It’s hot, to say the least, especially when the audible noise of his cock driving into you rings out again and again.

“Shit,” you whine. “That’s so sexy.”

Lloyd draws away, his lips tugging into an arrogant smile. “You want us to take you together?” He nuzzles your cheek, his gaze still boring into Six’s. “You want us to fuck you at the same time?”

You shiver - your pussy fluttering around Six’s cock.

“Please,” you beg. “Please - fuck - I want it.”

The words are thick in your throat - almost upset. Once again, Six thinks of the man in the club. He keeps getting distracted by the sex. You’re choking his cock, and Lloyd sticking his tongue in his mouth. There’s more to this. He can feel it in his gut. Something is wrong.

“Get the lube,” Hansen orders as he bands one muscular forearm around your back to pull you further up his body, so you’re nearly straddling his stomach.

“For?” Six asks.

“Don’t play dumb, sunshine,” Lloyd quips. “Fuck her ass.”

Okay. That shoots straight between his legs. The command. The concept of having to fit inside you like that. They haven’t tried it together before.

“Yes,” you melt, your hand shooting back to grasp Six’s thigh. “Make me forget.”

Six frowns at your choice of words.

***

You saw him. You’re positive. You saw Rake.

You think of India. You think of the green-yellow river rushing beneath them. Rake being a stupid damn martyr for some stupid fuck’s kid. Red had bubbled in the seam of his lips, and you had felt your heart stop. Your hand had slammed down on his own, trying to block the blood spouting from his neck. Innately, you knew that no one could have lived from that kind of injury even though you had hoped. You had stood there crying and begging him.

“No…no, Tyler,” you whispered as you shook like a leaf. You were cold. Frigid despite the white-sun beating down on your head. Sweat and grime and bullets. You couldn’t breathe. Gasoline was all over the road. Your vision was going dizzy. Vomit climbed up your esophagus.

His head had lolled forward like it was too heavy for his neck. His brow met yours as he slurred out that it was okay - get the fuck out of here, and then he shoved you in the direction of the rescue helicopters with his gun raised. He took out whoever was left. He had been soaked in his own blood and had managed to kill a few more bastards. The last glimpse you had of him, he had flipped over the bridge and sunk like a stone. Dead. At least, you were certain he had died. His handler Nik had told you as much.

Whatever you saw in the club had to have been an illusion.

Even though you weren’t drunk. You’d been very sober. Maybe, a contact high?

You’re already fucked up from this. You’re drained. You haven’t slept. In London, you buy blow off some kid down the street and take it home. Six is on recon, but Lloyd is home, and Lloyd would gladly get coked out and drunk with you.

You find him watching a basketball game in the living room. His team is losing, so you skip into his eye line and then toss yourself into his lap. You cradle his cheek and reveal the vial of white powder from your cleavage. “Want to party?”

Lloyd lifts an eyebrow. “We talking junior year spring break booze cruise or sophomore year homecoming?”

“Homecoming,” you answer, tone growing serious. “We’re talking me finding you railing Hannah McDermott in the frat bathroom.”

He grins. “There’s booze in Court’s room.”

***

It’s all fun and games until Lloyd gets soft.

“What’s wrong?” He suddenly asks. His features shift into tender concern. The lower half of his face is wet from your cunt due to eating you out on the washing machine. His broad hands still hold you open, grasping under your knees before he stands to his full height. Your pussy is bare to him, and he wants to talk feelings. “You’ve been off since Berlin.”

You groan and try to kick out of his iron grip. “I don’t need new and improved and self-aware Lloyd. I need asshole Lloyd.”

“Sometimes you don’t get what you want, duchess.”

Lloyd is nothing if not persistent, whether it’s trying to get them to take a trip to Rome or attempt some complex sex act.

But - you’re stubborn, and this wound is not one you care to open. Ever again.

You punch him hard in the chest, and he releases you, grunting with surprise. You drop off the laundry machine and escape to your room.

***

The message on your phone tells you nothing and everything at once. It’s one of the guys from an old job. Not exactly an enemy, but not a friend. The man claims to have information on Tyler, and, foolishly, you cling to it. It’s too coincidental. How would he know? What does he know?

Rake is fucking haunting you, and you want to be done with it. It’s getting in the way of your work. You’re so damn distracted that you can barely function. Lloyd and Six miss nothing, and you’re certain you will have to come clean at some point.

I loved someone before you. I loved them a lot.

So focused on receiving intel on Rake, you miss all the signs. The bright red flags. You go to a storage facility in Croydon, where an enormous bald man awaits you. Tons of rings. A sharp suit. There’s a startling prick against your neck. You fall forward, pain exploding across your face when you make contact with the hard floor.

“Huh,” the man smirks. “It really was that easy.”

They trap you.

It’s so embarrassing.

***

33 is covered in a thin film of blood. It’s all over your face. It’s in your hair and slinking down your arms and chest in branching rivulets. You’re tied to a chair; your lower lip is swollen. One eye is drooping. Your shoulder is out of its socket.

“Jesus Christ,” Lloyd hisses. “Jesus Christ - that better not all be hers.”

The words out of his mouth are pointless. Or what? He thinks. Or what? How would he make up for it? They’d allowed you to get hurt.

It’s definitely yours. No fucking doubt.

Six places a hand on his bicep. It is firm and warm, and grounding. “Calm down,” he instructs. “She needs us on our shit.”

You need us. You need us. That little expression circles around Lloyd's head like a carousel: lions, unicorns, and brightly-painted dragons. The smell of popcorn and they’d gone to a carnival a few months ago. The most normal thing he’d ever done with you. A fucking date.

Six appears implacably cool, but Lloyd has learned his tics and tells. He’s nervous - his eyes darting from 33 to the mass of guards around you. One has a pretty big knife, and another has a rope. There are more outside this room - flooding the facility.

“You don’t think they-“

“No,” Six growls - his tone harsh. The first time it’s jumped an octave since they found you. He pauses - swallows thickly. “I mean, I don’t think they would…this wasn’t about that.”

“How do you know what this is even about?” he snaps back.

They watch and wait. How did this happen?

You’d left the house saying you were meeting someone. You’d seemed flustered, but otherwise fine. You were capable of taking care of yourself, and it seemed implausible that you’d go do something so fucking dangerous without telling them.

Then you disappeared for days after Lloyd and Six had torn the city down. Your boss called - thunderous.

“An old enemy has her,” he explained. He clears his throat before continuing. “A few things have popped up again. A few surprises. This is being used against her. My contact is already on this, but I want you both there. Here are the coordinates. Get her back.”

What the fuck had any of that meant? The boss spoke in vague turn of phrase that drove both Six and Lloyd insane. Only you were really able to translate.

They had little information, and now they were sprawled on a catwalk above an enormous cement room, watching you shiver and bleed everywhere.

We have to be patient. We have to wait for the opportune moment. 33 would be pissed if they blew this.

This is what he tells himself. One of the guards punches you hard enough that your chair rocks backward. Something inside Lloyd cracks.

***

How this resolves is a strange sort of miracle.

There’s this lipless piece of shit guard that won’t leave you alone. He’s getting too intimate about his touches. Lloyd can feel Six begin to lose it. The usually calm mercenary starts to twitch and grunt. His hackles rise. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

When this fuckface caresses your lips, a dirty thumb digging into the tissue of it, Six curses. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

The taut string of caution and hesitancy snaps and Lloyd and Six drop down from the second level. You gingerly lift your head and the corner of your mouth tugs.

“Hey honey,” Lloyd remarks casually even though they’re fucking surrounded.

It should have been a potentially fatal situation. It should have been bad. They hadn’t thought this through, which was unheard of for them.

But they were mad. They were upset. Emotionally compromised.

Then an act of God happens.

The lights go out followed by the distant shriek of several grenades. The floor trembles. Dust flutters down from the ceiling. Screams. Shouts. The world goes wild. When the Emergency lights flicker one, it bathes all of them in a ghoulish purple-red. The alarms are buzzing. Another bomb explodes.

For a moment, Six catches Lloyd’s eyes.

Did you?

No. Of course not.

Then who fucking did?

The bullets start flying.

They fight dirty. It’s not as smooth as they’d like because it means something. They’re pissed. Someone took their girlfriend if that’s what she even is. Sometimes Lloyd thinks you are more than that. Not to get sentimental, but you had become his damn second chance. He’d be dead or in jail if you’d left him in that fountain in Croatia.

He ducks and weaves, slamming his blade into a chin until hot blood coats his forearm. He whirls around, whipping his gun from his holster and shooting three bullets through another’s cheek. Bone shards flying. A gurgle of blood. Brain matter. Everything is hot and smoky and smells of cordite.

It makes him hard. Kind of. The chaos of the whole situation shudders through him, warms his heart.

He glances at Six who is taking people out just like Lloyd. In fact, he’s never seen Six kill with this sort of ferocity. It’s beautiful. It’s devastating. He breaks a man’s arm, the bone jutting out from the skin. He shoves that bone right into the guy’s jugular.

My god.

It is a symphony of violence and when it’s all said and done and the floor is coated in gore and gristle, they can breathe again.

“Wow - that was impressive,” you utter hoarsley before coughing. It sounds wet, which isn’t a good sign.

Six curses and rushes toward you. Lloyd follows. He swipes the keys for the cuffs from one of the bodies on the floor. The top of the guard’s head is cracked open like an egg.

He moves behind you to undo your bindings, his fingers are feather-soft against your scraped wrists. Six leans down - hand under your chin before he covers your mouth with his own. “Hi,” he murmurs against your lips and then whispers something else too low for Lloyd to hear.

When he gets your cuffs off, he massage your wrists. You pull them away from him, haltingly turning around and opening your arms.

“Lloyd,” you call to him - your big eyes watery, red, and full of need.

Let me make you better. Let me fix you.

“Bunny,” he replies quietly. “Duchess.” He grabs you by the hinge of our jaw and kisses you so hard their teeth click. He can hear Six grunt about Lloyd being too rough, but you cling to him harder.

“We need to get out of here,” he tells you, nosing at your cheek, embracing you closer.

You’re trying to even out your breathing. Your chest slightly hitching from the pain.

He wants to know where you had gone. Who had fucked you over and stolen you from them? Do they need to ransack the place? Do they have time? Opportunity? It all runs through his head. All of his CIA training still hitting its marks.

Your fingers snag in his shirt. “You guys rigged explosives?”

“No,” Six says. “That wasn’t us.”

You shake your head. “This - this wasn’t about me,” you stutter, licking your lips. “I was bait.”

“For us?” Six replies, bewildered. He kicks a corpse's torso, and it crunches wetly. “Well - that failed.”

“No,” you hiss. You’re working yourself up, your eyes darting all over the room. To Lloyd’s dismay, he notices that one of your pupils is bigger than the other. “You’re concussed. We have to get-”

Your grip on his bullet-proof vest tightens. “I think - I think I know who rigged the bombs - they told me they wanted him to come for me - they thought-”

The door at the end of the room creaks open, and Lloyd and Six whip around, guns raised. Lloyd shoves you behind his back. It’s a man - tall and broad and covered in blood with an M60 in his hands. He’s familiar in a way that pulls at Lloyd - dislodging a memory. It flickers away before he can snatch it.

“Oh,” you whisper, and the man’s mouth twists, his brow furrows. His gaze knifes right past Lloyd and Six to land on 33. You make a startling sort of noise like you’re dying. Six and Lloyd share a confused look.

The man’s attention remains openly fixated on you. His expression is indecipherable. Did it momentarily soften with relief, or did Lloyd imagine that? There is no doubt that something is passing between this tall son of a bitch and 33. Alive. Raw. Heavy with an implication that kind of freaks Lloyd out.

This encounter is running too long for Lloyd’s liking, and he bristles. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man glances at him, visibly annoyed, before once more staring at the girl cowering at Lloyd’s back.

At last, the stranger speaks.

“Should I be hurt that you didn’t tell them about me?”

The words are thin and ragged like he hasn’t spoken in a long while. His accent is Australian. But Lloyd doesn’t focus on that, he focuses on the inflection. The question is both an accusation and not. It comes out a shade uncertain or even awkward as if there’s a laugh beneath it.

Lloyd understands human facial tells better than anyone. This man is trying to be restrained, but he can still read him. He’s also nervous.

Lloyd frowns.

He looks to Six again, who has remained silent, regarding the man with guarded vigilance. Sizing him up. Taking stock. The newcomer was bigger than both of them.

“You died,” you finally whisper, your broken body sinking into Lloyd’s spine, going slack against him.

Died?

Reflexively, he reaches his arm back to steady you. You’re shivering. Teeth chattering. He needs to call their boss, get doctors to you, get you out of here. They had hurt you badly. It had been personal and he was beginning to suspect that this blood-drenched Australian was in someway responsible.

Lloyd is done with this.

“You uh - you want to explain, bunny?”

“Bunny?” The man wrinkles his nose, his tone affronted.

Back the fuck off, fucker. She likes it.

You say nothing, and Lloyd turns around. You’re sweating, your skin cold and clammy. Your lashes flutter and your pupils burn out before you collapse in a dead faint.

***

To be continued obvi. Lmk what you think!!

If you’d like to see what Lloyd did to 33 to get Six so mad then read this

#lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #court gentry #court gentry x reader #sierra six x reader #sierra six #the gray man #comics and doodles #fic art #charnelhouse #meow #cats

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the-midnight-blooms · 4 months ago

Text

all i wanna do | jyh

pairing: scholar!jeong yunho x wife!reader AU: arranged marriage, historical au (Joseon dynasty) word count: 11.4k warnings: heavy angst, suicidal thoughts, mentions of suicide

masterlist

The rain thundered down from the sky on a sullen morning, the clutter of dishes and whirring of teapots stirring one awake from their slumber. At once the household was buzzing with activity, the slap of sandals against the cool marble floor as a weary middle-aged man retreated to the dining table. On one end, the seat at the top of the table reserved for him, sat his boiling cup of tea and newspaper, his wife soon trailing in after him. Afterwards was his daughter, and they all greeted each other with polite “good mornings” before settling down to eat, a comfortable silence held among them.

Mr Hwang, a renown land owner found that when he left his home, he was able to find a line of servants bowing their heads to him in respect. He was, by any means no aristocrat and did not preach claims of nobility but his knowledge of literature, politics and art had allowed him to extend his name into upper class society. He was proud to claim that his name lingered on the tongues of scholars, dukes and the general along with other important men in the militia. Such men were seen as gifted in society, how could it be that a poor man who had never had the privilege of receiving satisfactory education proved to be more astute than any scholar of Joseon. It was down to sheer luck, and god, he thought that he was able to claim a reputation such as the one he now held.

About three months ago, on a Wednesday evening, Mr Hwang kissed his wife goodbye- leaving his home to travel four miles east to the large estate on a hill that he had been invited to. Every Wednesday, scholars from nearby towns had gathered to invest in the latest literature and scribble their thoughts in the margins of transcripts that had been thrown their way. They were settled within the library- men walking up and down the aisles searching for novels of interest some men sipping on cups of tea. Around three hours in, the ripple of quiet murmuring would transcend into loud chatter. Like clockwork, on that Wednesday evening, Mr Hwang settled down his quill cracking his fingers to relax the tense fibres in his muscles. He sat opposite the esteemed Mr Jeong, a loyal civil servant to the King and a member of the Royal Council.

Despite the ongoing of chatter surrounding them, the two men worked on their studies with minimal conversation. Mr Jeong was the first to break the silence.

“How is your wife and daughter, Hwang?”

“They are in good health, sir. How is your son? How is he finding his duties as a gentry scholar?” Jeong beamed at the mention of his son’s position within the royal court.

“He is too in good health. The prince informs me that he performs his duties excellently.” Hwang nodded, sending a polite smile his way before raising the cup of tea to his lips. A comfortable silence held among them but a thought provoked at the back of Jeong’s mind. “Actually, I am looking for a bride for my son as he is now of marriageable age.”

“That you should have no problem seeking, Sir. He is an impressionable young man, is he not?” Whilst Jeong felt implied to agree with his friend, there was more to his son than meets the eye. Yet for what he wanted to confess, it was better to stay quiet and agree to Hwang.

“I think I had better be open to you, my friend. I was hoping to ask if you would so kind to extend your daughter’s hand in marriage, for my son.” Hwang, taken aback almost choked on his tea for a split second quickly placing his cup down giving his friend a wide-eyed stare. A surge of emotions overcame him. Jeong was not the type of man to joke about serious matters such as marriage.

“My daughter? Wedded to your son? With all due respec-,”

“I understand that this is no conventional way to propose but you know better that I am not a man of custom. I have met your daughter. She is patient, kind and intelligent too. It seems that you have shared the gift of knowledge with her and my son does not want a wife that he cannot converse with. He is not asking for scholar but an understanding woman as such. I believe your daughter would make the perfect wife.” Jeong reasoned. The truth being there were many intelligible women in Joseon but the problem being they were either haughty or impatient. Either too vain about their looks or just purely selfish.

“If you allow me, I must discuss these details with her mother.”

“Of course, take your time. We are in no rush.” Which wasn't by any means true, but he could not exactly tell his friend to hurry up and make an on-the-spot decision.

That same Wednesday evening, Mr Hwang rushed back to his home as fast as he could running through the double doors- panting and out of breath. Without pausing to sit to down and breathe, the words spilled out of his mouth without caution astounding his wife in the process. Breaking from her momentary paralysis, she escorted her husband to the nearest chair-summoning the closest maid for a cup of tea to be brought to the study.

"We have to say yes, you must send Jeong a formal letter of proposal." Hwang nodded eagerly. Mrs Hwang thought about her daughter and what she would think. She would say no, of course.

Mr Hwang was not as ignorant as his friend thought he was. He had his eyes and ears everywhere- he knew his son's true nature. Perhaps if he was a better father, he would have declined the offer as soon as the words left from his mouth. After all wasn't this marriage an opportunity to extend his lineage into nobility? He could be richer, more reputable, more well known. How could he decline this offer?

"Begin the preparations, but do not tell her. Not yet." Reluctantly, his wife nodded.

Miss Hwang, daughter of Mr Hwang- the noble landowner, knew something was being plotted behind her back. She spent the last three months in and out of the dressmaker's, her measurements being taken for hanbok's of every colour, in silk, satin and in every other expensive material she could think off. A plethora of jewellery and fabrics were being sent to the house and as the months went by the atmosphere of the household became much more busier and chaotic. It brought her much annoyance that she wasn't able to find out- she even tried to provoke Min Cha but the youngest maid was not prone to bribery. She stared at her father at the top of the dining table, as his eyes scoured down the page of the newspaper reading the contents of the latest news in Joseon. Clearing his throat, he meticulously folded the paper discarding it to the side before making eye contact with his daughter.

"Minister Jeong and his son, Yunho will be joining us tonight for dinner. Make sure you are here and not hiding in your room" he instructed, giving her a pointed look before lifting his tea cup. A sudden thought rushed to her head. It could only make sense that perhaps they were coming over to propose. The gifts being sent at the house, the fancier clothes she was forced to wear, the hushed whispers of the maids as she walked by and their talks of marriage and children. They never bothered before, they knew how indifferent she was towards the notion of it. It could only mean that they were coming over to propose, or maybe they already had- besides she didn’t need to say yes, herself. Her father could on her behalf and it could be perceived as her approval. That was a thought she did not want to entertain, being a woman devoid of many choices was hard enough. If she could have a chance of falling in love and being loved as deeply and constantly the way that one wanted to be loved- she would grab at it. Though grabbing at it was like reaching out for a feather, its fibrils caress her fingertips only for it to slip through her fingers.

A few hours after the breakfast table had been cleared, the bustling sound inside the house had significantly quietened, doors to the kitchen quarters had been slammed shut so no sound seeped into the rest of the home. Warmth trailed the surface of the study, perched on the windowsill, head leant against the glass pane she gazed at the town below outstretched beneath the three miles of grasslands- a small cobbly path paving the way for carriages and palanquins. A creak infiltrated the room, her head snapping the other way watching a small figure stumble into the room and an older maid following after her. Tea settled down on the table, the maid scurried to the fireplace continuing her cleaning duties whereas Min Cha sat beside her on the window sill. Her hands reached to caress the younger girls face, pulling her towards her-nuzzling her in her arms. With a comforting quietude held among them, in the far distance the swaying of carriage treaded towards their home.

"Do you think that's Mr Jeong and his son?" Miss Hwang hummed carefully, fingers stroking Min Cha's dark hair. They watched the carriage come to a sudden halt outside their home; several moments later an older man walked out. The servants ran towards him, offering their greetings. After him, a taller man appeared out of the carriage, moving eloquently across the lawn. His dark hair was strikingly shorter than most young men of the common day and age, his brown wide eyes scanning his surroundings. Their eyes locked, he tilted his head slightly as if scrutinising her. Jumping away from the windowsill, she pried Min Cha off with her scurrying away to her room- to hide- exactly like her father told her not to.

Yunho noticed her eyes first. He felt like he was staring into his own when he discerned they were that they were burdening with inquisition, the length of her lashes softening a look that could have been perceived as threatening. It was her, wasn't it? She’ll make do he thought- there had to be reason for his father’s persistency. He was perfectly satisfied with being unmarried but then again his father probably wanted a grandson to carry the lineage, the establishment of this matrimony purely founded on both his father’s and Mr Hwang’s pride. For now he needed to refrain from looking ignorant for the next few weeks. Granted, he was stuck with her for life but as long as she knew her place he’d make do with her presence. They had moved to Mr Hwang's study where they had been seated around the fireplace, the cold winter air still clung to their skin, the heat of the spitting embers easing the chill that ran down their spines. His ears became heedless to the conversation the two older men shared, moulding his face to look interested with the occasional vocalisation to please his father's friend.

"I must finally introduce you to my daughter," Hwang cheered, clasping his hands together in enjoyment. Yunho forced a smile onto his face, preparing himself to meet yet another bratty daughter of a rich man. Calling for the maid, Hwang then proposed that he made his way into the garden to share a private interaction with each other.

Miss Hwang let out a small whine, shoulders slumped with an exaggerated frown etched on her features as she ambled down the steps and moved into the front lawn. Letting out a sigh of exasperation, she straightened her posture entering the garden with a sheepish smile. He was much taller than she had anticipated in the glimpse of their eye contact, the closer she moved the more intimidated she felt by his slender, towering figure. Though his features were soft and inviting, his wide eyes particularly held such a kindness in them that she had not seen in the eyes of other men. She wanted to speak in that moment, but neither of them had any idea what to say. Instead, she decided to saunter through the garden; Yunho following her. Yunho cleared his throat, her attention drifted from the garden flowers to him-she turned around to stand in front of him his movements halting as he sent a look of confusion her way.

"Why exactly are you here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I asked. What is the purpose of your visit? What are your intentions? What do you and your father intend to gain from your being here?" He cocked his head to side, and scoffed at her questions yet the look of seriousness on her face had thrown him off. He was half expecting to start the conversation flaunting about something, talk about her riches, or maybe even throw herself at him. Not question the nature of this visit, was Mr Hwang detaining the knowledge this arrangement from his daughter? If so, why?

"You are to be my betrothed." He stated, though it came out as more of a question as her eyebrows creased in scepticism. "Which I thought you would've known as you accepted the proposal-" she ran back in the direction of the home, abandoning him by burgundy dahlias. All the pieces had fallen into place now, it was dowry that was being sent to the house, all the preparations were for her matrimony. How could she have missed all of this? Storming into the study, the door banged open the abrupt dissonance making her father jump from his seat; Jeong raising an eyebrow in inquisition.

"Father, can I talk to you?" Her voice both breathless and desperate for answers. Before he could speak, she exchanged her position with Jeong- who the nearby maid had guided into the parlour. “Why have you been hiding this proposal from me?” Silence hung among them, as she glared into his eyes.

“Do you think if many months ago I approached you with this proposal you would have said yes? You would’ve spat in my face. This is for your own benefit. Did you even talk to Yunho? What must he think of you?”

“Who cares what he thinks of me? What I care about is how you’ve tried to dictate my life for me.”

“Everything I am doing is for your own benefit” There it was. That same old phrase. The same phrase that she had heard when her father pulled her out libraries and schools, pulled away from the fields and forced her into passivity and domesticity. She had gotten gone used to it finding partial amusement in embroidering, cooking, drawing while occasionally reading the odd novel but there was no satisfaction in a life where she only existed for the sole purpose of serving a man. Her whole life she listened and obeyed, her only desire being to at least choose who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Now she couldn’t even have that- her only last grasp for autonomy was being snatched away from her.

“You will tell Mr Jeong that we cannot move forward with this marriage, or I will tell him myself." She claimed threateningly, her hands balled into fists.

"No, I will not. You will marry Yunho and that is that! Do you understand me? Your wedding is in two weeks so I suggest you start preparing for your departure."

"You planned all of this, and didn't once think to ask for my consultation?" With wide eyes in disbelief at the fact that she only had two weeks left in her childhood home before her name was tied to someone else’s.

"What does your opinion matter? I am your father, I know what's best for you." He moved closer to her, she winced as the tone of his voice rose, at this point it was better to think about what the Jeong family thought of him rather than her.

"No. You know what's best for yourself. You have always prioritised yourself over your own daughter and wife. You have never cared for me. It always what Byungchul Hwang has wanted and never-" his palm connected with her cheek, the slap sending a stinging pain through the supple flesh. His coarse grip latched onto her shoulders shaking them roughly; her body oscillating as he screamed at her many of the words sprinting through her head, the echo of his strident tone ringing in her ears, vision clouding as the line of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Something along the lines of 'ungrateful child', 'worthless', 'wretched' and any other invective he forced upon her. Nothing she hadn’t heard before. What was hearing them once more, before she succumbed to his despotism?

She could not recall how long he had endlessly been screaming at her, until her mother had stormed into the room calming her father, before sending her to her own room. The hallways of her childhood home seemed to restrict her now, the windows had been tightly sealed shut due to the wind- they seemed make the whole house feel smaller. Closed doors felt like shackles binding to her feet, restraining her. Her room was no solace, not anymore as she collapsed onto her bed a familiar numbness gnawing at her.

The two weeks had skimmed by faster than she would have hoped, the duration of them spent packing away the contents of her room into boxes. She dismissed the help of the servants wanting to savour the last parts of her childhood alone, structurally moving from one side of the room to the other. In the end there were many things that she had to throw away, keeping only the items closest to her heart. Min Cha informed her that Mrs Hwang told the Jeong family that his fiancée could not attend the dinner due to “feminine problems” to which this made both of their cheeks flush red. They shared a laugh, a genuine smile that bled into sadness soon after as it dawned on her that she wouldn’t share many more laughs with Min Cha for a long time. On her last evening at the home, she kissed the younger one before dismissing her for the rest of the night holding her a little longer, and a little tighter than she usually would have.

The creak of the wooden door, hauled at her attention head snapping up from the suitcase as her mother treaded into the room, steady but with graceful steps. She could never be as regal as her mother, she never understood how her mother maintained such a façade even after so many years of suffering from social abuse. How did one not break?

“Would you like some help dear?” Shaking her head, her hands glided over the clothes methodically stacking them one on top of the other. “I never thought the day would come, and so soon at that.” She sensed a smile on her mother’s lips, her awkwardly joyful tone striking a nerve.

“It wouldn’t have come so soon if you didn’t leave me with much of a choice.” Miss Hwang scoffed, avoiding her mother’s gaze as she continued packing her clothes into her bags. Am I ungrateful for thinking that I want a love that never dies?

“My love-,”

She shook her head furiously, pausing the words that came out of her mother's mouth. Of course she knew that her whole life she wouldn’t be allowed to have a say in her father’s decisions. She knew that eventually she’d be pawned off to the richest man that asked for hand but for a long time those were thoughts that were yet to become real. Tomorrow she’d be married off to Jeong Yunho, the minister’s son and be nothing but his trophy wife. The bearer of his children and an extension of his property. A pretty macabre way to perceive the situation that she was put in but she didn’t see any other way going about it.

“Today I am your daughter, tomorrow I will be just an object-not even worthy of being called a woman. What is a woman anyway, mother? A commodity, right? A baggage to be passed from one man to another?” She pondered as her mother gasped, tears rushing to the front of her eyes. How could her daughter have the courage to say that to her? “Don't look at me like that mother, you never once fought for me.” She bent down to knees, arms extending to grab the number of boxes that she kept beneath her bed. Her own tears pooled at her eyes. Attempting to keep them at bay, she remained on the floor sifting through boxes of jewellery, letters, books composing them into piles of what she did and did not need. She would give them all to Min Cha, with the exception of her a few sets of her mother’s pearls and diamonds. After several minutes, Mrs Hwang left from the room, she released a painful sigh. When the sun sunk beneath the horizon paving the way for the moon to rise upon the night, she had finally finished packing all of her belongings leaving them by her bedroom door for the butler to pick up and take downstairs in the morning. Glaring at the green hanbok draped on the dressing table stool, placed there by one of the maids- unbeknownst to her- she rested her head down on the silk pillow. Pulling the comforter over her eyes she shut her eyes, wishing and praying this was all a long and horrible dream.

A horrible dream it was not, she was rudely awakened from her peaceful slumber. Washed and dressed into a traditional green hanbok, hair brushed back and combed held into place by a bejewelled headpiece. The maids had painted red dots on her cheeks symbolising her youth but to also "ward off evil spirits" as the elders claimed. They left in her own room for a while, as they patiently awaited for the groom's family to arrive. The oldest maid appeared at her side, stroking her hair gently with an abating smile that even her mother failed to provide for her.

“I don’t know how to be a daughter and he’s expecting to be someone’s wife.” Her whisper transcended through Ji Hye's soul, a cry so quiet as if she was hanging onto the edge of an abandoned precipice with nothing but the rush of a hollow sea waiting to invite her death.

“Marriage is all about compromise, dear. Love him the way you want to be loved, men don’t know anything about affection- they need to be led the way. Hold his hands and promise you’ll be a devoted wife. He’ll hold yours and protect you with his life,”

Before she knew it the entire wedding ceremony had come to a close, she couldn't remember anything much other than staring into Yunho's eyes, his face hidden behind a fan as he entered their garden. It was tradition for grooms to give their brides a wild goose during the wedding ceremony, the flapping of its wings as it entered her father's arms provided her with temporary amusement. She remembered the exchange of their vows, formalising their union over a cup of wine. The few guests had eaten their food, blessing the newlyweds with nothing but happiness and prosperity in their marriage.

Entering the palanquin, she jerked at the white curtains before the bearers could, avoiding her mother's eyes through the translucent fabric. Maybe she was just being dramatic and unnecessary, but still it hurt to be used as a tool to extend the Hwang name into nobility. Not to mention Yunho had barely spared her a single glance other than when he was forced to play the role of a loving husband in front of their relatives. Leaning her head against the palanquin, exhaustion dominated her; she gave into her body’s demands to sleep.

“Ahem” a low grumble had stirred her awake from her slumber, an obnoxious yawn almost startling the servant who had been instructed to awake her. Rubbing her eyes, she stepped out of the palanquin the air burning her warm skin.

Two large black wooden gates opened to reveal the Hanok poised at the centre. It was not the largest house she'd seen a noble have but it was certainly a beauty with its glistening purple glazed tiles that decorated the curved roof and the dark brown walls of timber that structured around the home. A small set of stairs led to the porch revealing the salmun, a door made of wood panels and thick paper, allowing them entrance into the home, the path there littered with greenery that she made note to water every morning. Lifting the fabric of her hanbok she treaded up the stairs lingering by the porch as both her father-in-law and Yunho welcomed the servants to place the luggage in the front yard.

“I’ll have the maids take the rest in.” Yunho reassured his father, stood by the doorway with a questioning look of their presence, or rather absence. With a warm smile, Jeong laid a comforting hand on his daughter-in-laws shoulder.

“I’ve left this home in your hands, my dear. Yet should you need anything- I’m only one letter away.” His words held more tenderness than what was in her father’s being alone. He soon dispersed from the estate. With ease, Yunho grabbed hold of the luggage, sliding the door open to disappear into a corner of the home within seconds. All without a single word. Hastily, she followed after him; the interior of the home was almost empty, the translucency of each door feigned an impression of massiveness. She learned quickly that there were in fact no maids in the home, so then why did he lie to his father? Did Mr Jeong not know that Yunho kept no servants in his home? Not even as much as one maid?

There was little to no furniture, as she peeked her around the living space, the dining room, then she found herself wandering near a bedroom adjacent to a study and washroom.

“These are my quarters. Follow me, I’ll show you to yours.” His glacial tone had startled her, she felt her veins pulsating as blood sped through her body like scarlet rivers. Trailing after him, she noticed that the further they moved in, the colder it was wrapping her arms around her shoulders to keep her warm. The hallways seemed to be narrower in this part of the home too. Her quarters were similar to that of his with the rooms the same size and similarly furnished except in the far corner of the room there was a dressing table with a small stool. Adjacent was a washing room, however to compensate for the missing study there was a door that led to a porch extending straight to the garden. With her luggage held at the foot of the bed, her peripheral vision caught Yunho loitering by the door fiddling with his fingers as if he was unsure of what to do with himself.

“I thought we were supposed to be staying in the same room.”

“I like my own space.” She nodded in agreement. Unsure of what to do, she reached for his hands to place in her own as Ji Hye had advised her to do. Hold his hands and promise you’ll be a devoted wife. Yunho looked down at her in confusion.

“I promise I won’t let you down, I'll be a devot-."

"Dear god, stop this absurdity." Roughly, he shoved her hands away from him, "Stop this foolish act." The coarseness of his words stunned her, an uncomfortable warmth spreading across her cheeks as she looked down at her feet in embarrassment wanting nothing more than the ground to engulf her and take her six feet under. "Here's my promise. Do not expect me to be a doting husband and kiss you goodnight. This marriage is at the expense of both our parents. You’re nothing but a baggage to me, weighing me down.” He snarled, bitterness hanging heavy on his tongue. "Oh and stay out of sight- I can’t stand looking at you.” He grimaced at her appearance before stalking off in the other direction, leaving her alone in the desolate hallway. What great sin must she have committed for her to be have been cursed with a man like him? Barely even a day into their marriage and he was abandoning her as one did to a wounded animal in a slum. A sharp pang penetrated her heart as she slumped down on the bed. Tucking in her knees she bit her lips refusing to let out a sob. The worst was yet to come so it was futile crying now, she’d save her tears for when he had finally deconstructed her will to live as of now if she obeyed his rules she could survive.

As expected of her, she stayed out of sight and adhered to every command. Every morning she woke up at dawn rushing to the kitchen sweating over steaming soup, chopping vegetables as fast as she could before he woke up. The simultaneous roaring of the boiling pots of rice and whistling of the kettle often made her panic, the halls becoming used to her running down it as she frantically organised the table. The last few times she was late to set the table, she was subjugated to his yelling. He did not even end up eating the food in the end, surging out of the house in anger, speeding after him she tried to reason with him but Yunho left the front gate too soon and there was no point in causing a further commotion.

Not long ago her mother had sent a parcel to the house: a gorgeous traditional dress made from chiffon and silk, with an abundance of letters. A short note from her father, a page from her mother, and about three lengthy sheets from Min Cha updating her on all of the missed gossip of the town. Yet the final line of the letter had made her stop in her path as she strolled across the garden. 'How is your husband? Does he make you happy?'

'He is in great health. Yes, he makes me happy. As happy as the sun makes the earth when it arises from the suffocating dark.'

She wore the dress to one of the dinners that Yunho had been invited to by his good friend, and fellow scholar, Kim Hongjoong and his wife. For the first time in a long time when she looked in the mirror, she was complacent with her appearance the dress accentuating her figure in all the right places- she even wore a ribbon as she tied up her braid. Patiently, Yunho stood by the entrance of their home. Mrs Jeong walked up to him; on observing her presence he did not care to give her second look guiding her out of their home and down the village to Hongjoong's estate. Her esteem had dropped a little, she would’ve taken so much as a glance her way though he wasn’t obligated to give her even that much. Additionally, it hurt that many of the wives, at the party, had their husbands fixed to their sides while Yunho seemed to never be present. Even when the husbands had formed a congregation, some of them would glance affectionately at their spouses meanwhile Yunho never cared for a second to see if she was still in the room. For a while she just hid in the garden, away from the social gathering like she used to at the Hwang estate- enjoying her own comfort amongst nature. Except this time it was not comforting at all, not when the wives told her how lucky she was to have a handsome and intellectual husband like Yunho. Simply she smiled although a pit formed in her heart that only really seemed to dig deeper each time she was reminded of the reality of her miserable marriage. If only they knew, if only someone cared enough to ask her if she was happy instead of telling her how lucky she was. If only they noticed her distance and the sadness veiled beneath the façade of contentment.

Hongjoong, who had initially been making his way to the kitchen to check on how much longer they had to wait until the food was served, noticed a feminine figure standing alone by the white chrysanthemums her fingers brushing over the surface of the petal.

“Jagiya have you seen Mrs Jeong, I can’t-,” Mrs Kim followed his line of sight to find her target. The couple shared a look before Hongjoong made his way to the garden, Mrs Kim fixing her spot by the window.

“Mrs Jeong, are you ok?” The voice of concern cracked her immersion away from the chrysanthemums to Hongjoong who held a friendly demeanour.

“Yes, I’m just not very social at big gatherings.” She admitted, dipping her head in embarrassment.

“Ah, you’re quite the wallflower. Opposite to Yunho, he’s very talkative. I wonder how you put up with him when you feign such quietness.” Forcefully, she smiled. He never spoke to her; when he did it usually out of necessity. “You should come in now, the night will be settling in soon and dinner is about to be served.” Hongjoong had left her to her own devices but as soon as he turned, the hospitable appearance had dropped and he felt a wave of fury. He could see it in her eyes, the sadness she was suffering from, he noticed the longing looks she sent him and Yunho barely acknowledging her presence. How could he be so nonchalant? Mrs Jeong returned back to the house just in time for dinner to be served, the men and women had naturally been segregated from each other enjoying the delicious dishes cooked by the servants with the help of Mrs Kim. The lady of the house occasionally peered over her bowl to see Yunho’s wife who was crammed into the corner of the room avoiding conversation. When she was dragged into one, she engaged enough to not be seen as ignorant before excusing herself to use the restroom. She hid in the bathroom until she was sure that dinner was over, it had turned out that she came back after desert but nobody paid much attention to her absence. Silently, she thanked god for their disinterest.

Meanwhile, on the other end of the table the males had been interrogating Yunho on his life as a newlywed husband. For all they knew he was smitten with his wife and treated her as if she was the Queen Consort herself, taking his distance from her at this gathering as an act of shyness.

“Thank god you settled down, I was getting worried that you were going to be taking up courtesans for the rest of your life.” Mingi, his closest companion, imputed.

“Well that option wasn’t too bad either.” He aimlessly joked, receiving a mixture of responses. Some awkwardly chuckled while others gave him a pointed look latching onto his pending lassitude to marriage. The rest of the evening flew by in a breeze, at the end all of the couples drew back to their respective pairs- thanking the Kim family for their hospitality before dispersing out of the estate with linked arms and intertwined hands.

“You have got to be more attentive towards your wife Yunho. It’s what makes the moments between you much more candid.” Hongjoong advised as Yunho came to bid him goodbye. For the first time during the evening he searched for his wife, finding her conversing with Hongjoong’s spouse by the doorway.

“What do you mean, hyung?” Yunho questioned, that great big grin of his faltering slightly.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you should be able sense her emotions towards you at this point. Do you ever stop to think that for a married woman she looks incredibly lonely?” His tongue poked the inside of his mouth, he cocked his head as he focused his attention towards her.

“I think you’ve got it all wrong. She’s just never been much of a social butterfly.” Hongjoong begged to differ but he did not want to pry, he had his attempt at trying to get Yunho to see how stoic he was being- whether or not he wanted to understand his sobriety was his own problem. The pair approached their wives, Yunho snaking an his arm around her waist, drawing her closer to him-he sensed how stiff she had gotten from his touch.

“…and be sure to visit me whenever you’d like! I would enjoy the company, Mrs Jeong.” Mrs Kim offered. The newlyweds smiled, bid their final goodbyes and whisked themselves away from the home. Yunho kept his arm around her waist, gripping his wife to his side all really because he saw the evident scepticism whenever he spoke about his marriage, the wool could not be pulled over Hongjoong’s eyes.

“Complaining about me to Hongjoong?” Her back pressed against the wooden panel as he inched towards her intimidatingly.

“What? No, there’s nothing to complain about-” He grabbed the bottom of her chin, her neck snapped back as she looked at him her jaw paining from the intensity of his coarse grip.

“I’m starting to get sick of you,” He yanked her head backwards and forwards, a breath catching in her throat. In that moment he looked like her father, inflicting tethers of abuse to assert his dominance. With a thumping heart that beat too quickly for its own good, her vision became cloudy, breaths exhilarating as he continued to yell at her. This time, the words whirled over her head- her mind clogged with everything and nothing at the same time as the walls of the room began to shimmer, caving in on her. Ripping away from his grip, she pushed past him stumbling to her quarters as tears rushed to the front of her eyes, her mind filling with all of the trauma she had endured from her childhood, as he called after her. She broke into a sprint, tearing through the open space. Her back slumped against the door; she gripped her lips to prevent any sound from coming out as hot tears streamed down her paling skin. Irrational thoughts began to infiltrate her mind.

I can’t do this anymore.

He called out her name through the door, skin leaping of her muscles at the unusual gentleness.

“Let me come in, what’s going on?” No, he’d only mock her. She couldn’t let her guard down. Darting her eyes to the drawer on her bedside table, the hurricane of voices in her mind seemed to quieten.

No one would miss me, right?

The tears stopped, the pace of her heart regulating back again, quickened breaths slowing as she edged closer to the drawer. Chewing on her lip, she felt a roar of emotions tackle her as she gripped the cold metal handle this time not bothering to glue her mouth shut as obnoxious tears escaped her.

Min Cha would miss her. Her mother would miss her. Maybe not her husband or her father. Her husband could move on, wives were replaceable after all. Though killing herself would be a way at getting back at her father, she had no siblings- there would be no one to elevate the Hwang name. Suicide was socially unacceptable, so she’d be digging a grave for both herself and her family. The thought had crossed her mind too many times than she’d liked to admit but she lacked the strength to commit the sin. Instead she'd clasp her hands together and pray to god for a way out of this torment. Fatigue overpowered her at last, crawling to the bed she lifted the covers slipping underneath as her arms wrapped around herself to feel the warmth she was entitled to. When she slept, she dreamt of a fantasy- a life where he loved her and she loved him. As deeply and constantly as one wanted to be loved.

He stood on the other side of the door, tempted to slide it open to see if she was ok. Her eyes had held a certain type of horror that had haunted him. Yunho was too proud to admit that he had been treating her terribly, in an attempt to rebel against his father for the way he'd been forced into this marriage with no way out. Despite this remark, he was still too shallow to see that she was in the same position as himself suffering worse at the hands of his tyranny.

"My dearest Min Cha,

I lied to you. I lied to you when I said he makes me happy. How can I be happy when I have to beg for him look at me? If God permitted I ever crossed his mind it would be a blessing for he torments me with his harsh words and aloof stare-"

He called out her name.

For the first time in a very long time, since that night he stood outside the door for hours as she sobbed herself weary. The sound of him calling her name echoing the beat of her heart, every octave was every rhythm silencing the sorrowness in her soul. Even when he subjected her to his ferocity, she grappled onto the moments when he called for her because even being used felt like loving.

"I was going to go on a walk, if you'd like to join me?" His eyes darted to sheet in front of her, "if you're busy-"

"I'd love to," Maybe she said that too quickly, but he gave her a sheepish smile. Slipping the sheet inside the drawer and closing the pot of ink, she rose from her seat following Yunho out of the home.

The neighbourhood was quiet, as the sun began to sink beneath the sky. Some of the neighbourhood’s children scuttled back into their homes- all of them reminding her of her own dear Min Cha. They’d ventured out of the town centre, towards the outskirts where a large park was situated. She’d never gone there herself, but saw it on her way to Mrs Kim’s house. The park itself was desolate, the grass waving eloquently as few birds soared through the sky. She wondered what it was like to be free. Was she not free? Perhaps free from her father’s wrath, but instead subjugated to even worse at the hands of her husband. In that moment she envied Mrs Kim- and envy was a foreign feeling to her- for having someone as caring as Hongjoong as her husband. Whilst she was so whisked away in her sorrows, she didn’t notice Yunho draw his fingers closer to her- before encapsulating her whole hand within his. The sudden warmth perpetuated through her, her heart fluttering at this sudden affection. Was he starting to appreciate her now?

"Hongjoong-nah!" he called out, summoning the attention of the couple sat beneath a tree, a large number of metres away from them. Oh, that's why he held my hand. Everything was an act to him, she bit her lip to stop it from quivering. No affection was ever really genuine and no amount of praying to God would ever make it real. Hongjoong and his wife waved back, Yunho stepped forward to make his way across the fields towards them but she tugged at his arm pulling him back. He looked down at her confused, attempting to tug her along with him but her feet anchored to the ground.

"I think you should leave them be, they're having their own moment." she offered, her faint voice infiltrating his ears. Processing the thought, he pursed his lips and then nodded. They both waved at the couple, turning away to move- she half expected him to let go off her hand at that but their hands remained clasped together, Yunho tightening his grip as they walked away from the fields back to their home.

Undiscovered to them, when Hongjoong waved back he almost made a gesture to invite them over to him when his wife tugged at his arm.

"Let them be, Joong. They're having their moment." He agreed, retracting his hand, watching as his best friend walk away from him.

As suspected, Yunho’s sentiment stemmed from his guilt. After that day where they walked through the park together, he never invited another moment of closeness. Ignoring the agonising pang that struck through her, she moved on with her chores, simply deciding that she would have to live it the same way that her mother did.

Her father-in-law stopped to visit a few times. Yunho had hired maids, for the week that he stayed over. For the first time it felt odd to not be doing something, she was not at comfort with it. However, she had to manufacture a façade for Mr Jeong; so she did. Much to Yunho’s dismay, her mother had sent a letter saying that she too was passing through the town and wanted to visit her daughter.

She knocked on the door to his study, his head perked up at the sight of her. Inaudibly she handed the letter to him, to which he quickly scanned over the page releasing an annoyed sigh.

“You couldn’t have told me earlier? I wouldn’t have to dismiss the maids.”

“I only got the letter today.” Rolling his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, exercising his strained fingers. “Go.” He ordered.

“Would you like me to get you-,”

“Go.”

Her mother, meekly, ambled through the gate a small bag of luggage in hand. Yunho had not been at home when she arrived, but when he came back she had to scuttle to the doorway and make him aware so that her mother wouldn’t have to hear any of his harsh words. With a short nod, he retreated to his room to change out his scholars robes, before greeting his mother-in-law in the dining room.

“You’re so lucky, dear, to have a husband like Yunho. Tall, handsome, clever. What more could you ask for?” For him to care for me, to treat me as his equal. To not just treat me as a toy, picking and dropping me whenever he wishes. Mrs Hwang’s hands outstretched for her daughter’s, jerking immediately once she had surveyed them. They were not soft like they had used to be, but coarse-as if struck by labour. “These aren’t a wives hands. Those are tender and full of care. These are overworked.”

“He’s overworked my love for him.” She joked. Mrs Hwang gave a detailed stare before cracking a forced smile, fear rushing through her. Perhaps she was just overthinking, maybe her daughter had taken up studying again and was spending her free time writing away with her husband.

“I almost forgot. I came to hand the keys to your grandmothers estate in Hahoe. Take it as a wedding gift. You ought to visit, to see if it’s still intact or has been run over by the villagers.” Accepting the keys from her mother, she opened up her bedside drawer, waiting for the rush of sombre emotions to subside before throwing them in.

Sometimes I envy you, at least you were seen even if it was to be hurt.

A low hiss escaped from her lips as she carried the heavy tray to the dining room, a sharp stab penetrating through her lower abdomen almost disabling her ability to move through the vast hallways. After many months, the frigidity of her quarters had finally gotten to her, waking up with a stuffy nose and an abrasive tickle in her throat. Much to her dismay, Yunho was sat in his seat as she rested his food in front of him. She bit her lip as she kneeled to set out his dishes, restraining a grunt. Her hands moved quickly, partly so she could withdraw to her room, roll up into a ball and wallow in her own pain. Yunho noticed her paling skin and the beads of sweat forming above her lip as with a shaky breath she poured his tea, his prolonging beam burning into her skull. Hastily, she rose up grimacing before turning to leave. He shot out his hand, grabbing her wrist, fear bleeding onto her face.

“You should stay and eat with me.” He suggested. The words somehow warmed her heart, yet the two forces of pain and comfort repelled against each other. Tugging at her wrist, it prompted her to sit aside him Yunho moving the plate between them. "Eat up, you look really weak. Are you eating properly?" With furrowed brows and pursed lips he lifted his spoon to feed her, her hand lifted to grab the handle of the spoon but he jerked it back. "Open your mouth." he spoke light heartedly. She accepted his spoonful of food as if he hadn't subjected her to months of distance and cold words. As if a few months ago their marriage was menial and meant as much as servant meant to a king or wheat meant to a lion. What had caused this sudden change? They spent rest of the duration of breakfast taking in turns eating; she spent the whole time clutching at her stomach- and avoiding eye contact at that. He wanted something from her, her nerves jolting at the thought of being used. At the end, she picked up all the dishes to clear them from the table, scurrying out of the room so he would be unable to notice the blush forming on her cheeks when he attempted to assist her and their skin touched sending a tingle through her fingers. Though he did notice, a blush crept upon his face- even he couldn't understand the change in heart despite knowing that his indifference towards her was unjustified; he could not blame the cruelty he beguiled her to on his father and a marriage he did not want.

A sigh of relief escaped her once he left the house; she limped to her room, the pains in her stomach unfaltering. Closing her eyes, she slipped into a deep slumber. When she had awakened to a soft nudge, no light streamed in through the windows. Her eyes widened in realisation, grunting to sit up.

“Are you ok?” She jumped slightly, shifting her line of sight to find her husband kneeled beside her. Oh god. An intense consternation seethed through her blood, her heart wavering with anticipation as if waiting on his judgement. What would he do? Shout at her? Maybe grab her forcefully as he had once done? Deprive her of food? He hadn’t done the latter as of yet, but what was stopping him? His despotism held no bounds. Yet, to her surprise, he did none of it. Instead, he placed the palm of his hand to her forehead, feeling the burn of her skin against his. “Goodness, stay here. Don’t move.” Her vision wavered, as a result of her drowsiness. Tucking up her knees to her chest, she waited for him on her bed. After a while, he reappeared in her room with a tray holding an assortment of things. A bowl of hot soup, some tea, a spoon. His affection astounded her. Yunho did not even let her pick up the bowl, raising the spoon to her lips to feed her the soup.

“Have you eaten?” She asked. He shook his head.

“You must be hungry, I can prepare you food.”

“Don’t bother, you’re staying here. Besides I’m not hungry. How long have you been in pain for?” Was this the same Yunho she was married to? Actually, was this all a dream?

“Not long, it started today.” His lips fell into a polite frown. She had always agreed when others told her that Yunho possessed a handsome face, yet today those features became particularly distinguished to her.

“I can call the Physician I’ll go-,”

“There’s no need. I’m-,” He arched an eyebrow in inquisition. “I’m on that time of the month.” His ears tinged red in embarrassment, an endearing smile fell on her. Then it had dawned on her. When was the last time she smiled? Truly, and not forced?

“Would you like a heating pad then?” Nodding her head, she beamed again, to which he immediately dispersed out of the room to obey her request. Yunho had realised how much he enjoyed being affectionate, hating himself for the torture he inflicted upon her. Every touch was still staggered, every kind word had come off less fluently than he would have liked.

“You have a thing for staring into space.” Yunho’s eyes met hers. “You’ll look at anything but me.” He sat in her room again, he liked it there. There was a comfort in her quarters that could not be found elsewhere in the home. Though she found comfort in the garden. He had never paid much attention to it before, his scholarly duties often prevented him from venturing into the garden- sometimes he stayed over the nights at the office, scribbling away in journals fulfilling an endless piles of tasks submitted to him by his superiors. He found himself looking at her whilst she was staring intently out of the window.

“Is that a problem?” She provoked, playfully.

“Yes. I require your attention.” She focused on his wide brown eyes for a second before raising her eyebrows in a questioning manner, one that read ‘Well what do you want from me?’ She knew better now than to interpret this sudden interest in her, as affection. “Is it too bad for me to want to you focus on me instead?” Hesitantly, he enveloped her smaller hands into his the warmth of his palms easing the tension of their embrace. Then with all the courage he had, he shifted his body to rest his head on her laps, her hands flinging upwards at the shock of the sudden display of affection. He closed his eyes as she feebly combed her fingers through his soft black hair. Were these the small moments of affection that made a happy marriage? Moments where they were basked in each others embrace, nothing but the comfort of silence draping over them.

“How was your day?” She whispered, a small smile formed on his lips.

“Pretty dull if you ask me, meetings after meetings but no progression. How was yours?”

“Also dull. But the kitchen and garden keeps me occupied.” His eyes snapped open and she halted her movements for a second.

“I could hire the servants back to help you, if it’s too much.” She shook her head as if to disagree. In all honesty, she liked the domesticity. It brought her a sense of security- if she could not entirely stable a place in his heart, she could at least have a place in his home. He made himself comfortable in her laps, flipping his head as if to indicate he was about to sleep.

“Right you can get off me now, your big head is weighing down my legs.” He snickered, that beautiful smile crawling across his defined features, plaguing her own heart. She snickered with him, sharing a small laughter between them. He did leave her that night, but not without placing a chaste kiss on her forehead leaving with her smile that fell with her when she slept.

“She just wanted a few pieces of literature. I write a few things in the margins.” On her way home from Mrs Kim's she sought Yunho stood outside of their home with another woman. A beautiful woman at that, wrought with elegance and grace. Her movements so poise, she even matched Yunho's insatiable beauty. He caught her discontentment through his peripheral vision. Picking up a book from the night stand in his quarters, where they both sat on his bed, he flipped through a few pages showing her his detailed annotation. “Most people just like to read my notes rather than the actual novel.”

“It’s very profound.” She noted, reeling through the words. He had a poetic way of writing, reflective of his image and movements. Yunho was looking at her again, whilst she was flipping through the pages in his book. He caught the long curve of her lashes, blinking as soft as a child’s blow across a face. Like the way he used to blow on his mother’s eyes to steer her awake from her sleep when he was hungry.

“You’re beautiful.” He blurted. And she was. She always was. He was just too cruel to deny himself the pleasures of being in love to admit that to himself. “I’m sorry.” A second confession, yet this one hung tensely in the air. Without looking at him, her palm settled on his cheek. She did not have the strength to say it was ok, because none of it was.

“Can you look at me?” Their eyes connected in an instant. His lips drawing nearer to her own. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, before meeting her lips, drawing her into a passionate kiss fuelled from his melancholia. I’m sorry. And they met again, in the darkness of his room, heads falling onto the pillow, kissing away their sorrows until the stars ignited in the night sky.

He had not come home for a while, his absence tormented her. She knew of his increasing number of hours at the Royal Office, regardless she launched into a fit of worry as she strode down the street to his workplace. If he wasn't going to come home himself, she would have to drag him from there. Upon reaching his workplace, piles of scholars rushed out yet Yunho was still nowhere to be seen.

“Are you ok, Miss?” A scholar had asked.

“I’m looking for Jeong Yunho.”

“In the library. Just down the hall from the entrance.” Nodding she quickly thanked him before he could question her further. Her eyes ran down the aisles, letting out an exhale when she noticed his appearance, at the bottom end. Though before she could take a step forward, the same noblewoman appeared from before. A pleasant smile graced his lips as she handed back one of his books. It had all appeared slow from then on, the way that she grabbed his collar down towards her.

She watched him kiss her.

Did the Earth stop orbiting the sun? For everything in that moment felt incredibly still, like the wind had an hitch in its throat, the delicate leaves outside had stopped swaying; the birds had stopped flapping their wings. When a dissonant gasp had escaped from her lips, the world had resumed all the same, soul thriving with vigilance. He had kissed her the same way she had once been kissed: with such raw emotional intensity, his hands settled on her waist bringing her closer to him. She couldn't watch, tears blurring her vision her sweaty palms balled into fists at her side. Tearing away from them she sprinted back towards her home- her body wracking with tears. Was it even her home anymore? It wasn't enough that she walked through the desolate alleyways, her sobs were loud enough to wake an animal from hibernation but she couldn't care less. Not when his love felt like a feather floating towards the ground, away from her and she was unable to clasp it, feeling its fibres caress her skin. It's touch was no longer satisfactory, it was addictive and she wanted more. Yet it was not hers to have, and not his to give.

All of it was a lie. She wasn't just a noble woman interested in some reading. She wasn't just an acquaintance. After all, Mrs Jeong wasn't just his wife- maybe on paper but had there ever really been moment in their relationship where his love hadn't reached after a period of hurt? There was no continuity to his affection and there never would be. The sadness within her transgressed to anger, she slipped into her quarters through the back garden- her tears ceasing as her body gushed with a familiar numbness.

How long- No.

There would be no more 'How long?' because with each passing second as she prayed for him to return to her and her alone, Yunho took advantage of her desperation to keep her looped to him. Impulsively, she yanked at her drawers grabbing at every article of clothing she possessed and shoving them into the same bags she had entered this cursed home with a never ending stream of tears soundlessly pouring down her face as she did. Her heart tugged at her when she slid the bags under her bed so he would not see if he entered her room. Residing to the table, she began to scribble at the sheet of paper, the wounding scratching of the quill against paper creating small dents.

He never returned home that night. And she didn't long to see his face, the memory of it disgusting her. She felt so tainted, marked, by his touch- is that all he wanted her for? Her body? And her, a fool she was to give it to him like it meant nothing to her. When the dawn seeped into the sky she placed a letter on the mahogany table of his study, taking the envelope containing the key that her mother had given her and fled from the estate-taking the doors at the back of the home. Her chest burned as she stormed up the hill, and when she reached to the top of it the chilling air suffocated her lungs- her eyes flung back to the home, her yearning for it ever so strong. A final look; she tore her eyes knowing that if she went back she'd only get hurt even more and there would be no one to blame but herself.

"Jagiya, I'm home!" He called into the foyer. There was no pattering of footsteps stumbling his way to greet him home. Neither was she in the kitchen, in her quarters-or his own. In replacement of her absence, in the study a crisp, folded up note sat on his desk. His heart thumped in his chest as he picked it up.

My love,

I find I cannot bring myself to say the things I want, to your face. So as the coward I am, I say them through this letter hoping it reaches your heart instead of your eyes. I’m sorry that I married you. I’m sorry that she’s not yours. I’m sorry that even though I tried, and tried and tried that I wasn’t enough for you. So I’m setting you free from the shackles of this marriage. Whilst a divorce is not an option, I wish for you to take my departure as a blessing to move on with the woman you love.

I cannot stand in the same room as you, knowing she stood there too. I cannot bear your touch knowing she felt you too, in a more sincere way than I have ever felt. I cannot and will not hear you say you love me, not when you don’t mean it. Perhaps you feel you must say it out of obligation. Now you have no obligation to me, so say it to her in all the ways I wanted to hear them.

Lastly, thank you. Whilst I could not be entitled to your heart, you gave me the comfort of your home, your money and somewhat your time. For that I’ll always be grateful. I wish you the best of luck for the future.

Sincerely,

Miss Hwang

The letter in his hands trembled, tears billowing at the front of his brown eyes. How did he lose her? Did she somehow see the kiss? The way that the noblewoman had forced herself onto him, fixing her lips to him so tightly, he was paralysed on the spot. He could have sworn he felt her presence looming in the room, he couldn’t do this to her. He had hurt her enough. Roughly pushing away the noblewoman he ran to the bathroom, scrubbing at his lips as if it would remove the cursed action in itself; take the unremovable stain off. A weak sob escaped from his lips, sinking to his knees to cry out to the moon. It was all a mistake. He needed to find her, he needed to make his way to back to her.

A little body dashed across the front lawn, parading around the bushes as his mother stood in the kitchen, stacking away the dishes back into the cupboards. Thunder cracked the sky once more as a tall figure dashed up the hill to find comfort from the rain in the house settled upon the hill. He found that a child ran around the outside, who having sought him transcend tiredly, slowly inched towards him. Having been sent to Hahoe to retrieve scrolls and various pieces of literature, he had been let out of the carriage too early left to venture his way into the town. Normally, Yunho’s navigation skills were precise though with his mind wrought with numbness- it severed at his ability to think rationally. Yunho did not find her. He had searched the whole of Joseon too. From Hongjoong’s home all the way to her parents. Every possible place he thought she could be, he checked. Her mother cried out her soul, his father taunted him. A fool he was to let a diamond slip from his hands.

Si Won watched a man walk up the hill to his home, cocking his head in inquisition. His mother, Mrs Jeong, stalked to the doorway to call her child back into the home. A few weeks after she had reached her grandmother’s home in Hahoe, she was attacked by a wave of sickness every morning, tiredness gnawing at her muscles and had suddenly manifested a large appetite. She met with the towns physician, quickly learning that she was pregnant. She came back home to cry herself to sleep, so much so that she had almost lost her child in the midst of her grief. He became her anchor, giving her a reason to wake up every morning and to survive.

“Si Won, get back inside.” The toddler nodded before dashing down the hills to satisfy his interest in the peculiar stranger. Yunho’s movements halted as he met with the boy, who had shyly stopped less than a metre away. With a kind wave, the boy smiled- one that eerily mirrored his own.

She stopped as the stranger lifted up her child, walking in the direction of her home. There was something about the way that he moved that magnetised her, though the rain beating down on them, had her rushing back into the doorway-poking out her head. Yunho’s heart stopped for a split second in his chest.

It was her.

The child released himself from his grip, squirming to be put down. Gently, Yunho set down the boy who rushed into his home and passed his mother, frozen to the ground. He called out her name, a pained sob releasing from her as she turned to grab her child.

She had left the door open, Yunho ran in. Facing away from him, her child’s head buried in the crook of her neck by the light force of her hand. All so he couldn’t see her in this moment of vulnerability. No child should ever see their mother cry. It hurt more for them watch, than the mother to endure.

“I searched the whole of Joseon for you, but I couldn’t find you.” His wavering voice, reached out to her from the other end of the hallway.

“Close the door. Take off your shoes and go into the living room.” She ordered, passing up the steps to settle her child down to sleep. Persisting through his whines to not go to bed, he shrunk into a ball under her hard stare; huffing as if that would change her mind.

“Is he mine?” The soft covers blanketed his tiny frame, her hands caressing his cheeks. She got up to face him, nodding.

“I think you should leave, Yunho. When the storm subsides.”

“You have to listen to me. It’s not what you think. I know you saw us-,” His pleads were interrupted by the shutting of the door, descending the steps she entered the front room. “It was a mistake. She grabbed me, and forced herself onto me. I would never do that to you.”

“Would you not?” She argued. “You had no problem in hurting me when we first got married. In fact, in the entirety of our marriage you have hurt me more than you have loved me.” He went quiet, panting in the air as he held back sobs. He wanted to reach out and hold her again.

“I was sincere in my apology, I realised how wrong it was of me to subject you to punishment over something that was not your fault. I hadn’t realised that you never wanted this marriage in the first place- the same way that I didn’t. I hadn’t realised how cruel your father really was, until I told him that you had left home and there was not even so much as a scent of emotion on his face.” Breathlessly, his hands shook by his sides. Taking in his face, it no longer held the youthfulness that it once did. It was spun with tiredness and sorrow, his face sunken as if he hadn’t eaten in years. She wanted to dote on him again, hold him, feed him with her own spoon. Tell him how much she loved him, but hadn’t he hurt her so much already? Was he worth the endless amount of love she held for him?

“I had to beg for you to love me. Nobody begs for love Yunho. And even if you couldn’t love me, you could’ve tolerated me but you didn’t even want to do that.” A shaky breath escaped from her lips. His heated stare burned holes into her skin, her hair stuck to the back of her neck as sweat pooled under the guise of every humiliating emotion felt to man.

"Let me be yours again, please." he went down on his knees wrapping his arms around her stomach; tears staining the front of her dress. A stream of her own pearl tears soundlessly scurried down her face as she ran her fingers through his thick, black hair.

"Oh Yunho, why can't you understand? You've always been mine. It's me who's never had the privilege of having you." Falling to her knees, she plastered both of her hands to the side of his face, lifting it up gently so she could bore her eyes into his.

“Let me have that privilege again, let me have you in all the ways that you deserve. To have you and hold you in my arms is all I want to do. I will lay down my life for you just to have you again.” A solicitude remained suspended in the air, his staggered breaths pulping the palpable tension- attempting to calm himself.

“I’ve been hurt enough. I really don’t think I can go on being hurt.” He nodded his head understandingly, a look of dejection flooding over his perfect features. Hesitantly, she reached for his hands encasing his larger palm in hers- to grab at his attention. Patting her lap, she motioned for him to draw closer to her. Slowly, he drew closer falling into her laps. “Don’t say anything. I just want to hold you.” To hold you as if I’m going to lose you again. To drink you in as if this the last of drop of water to ever touch the earth.

With his face buried in her torso, his eyes fluttered to a close. Her knees tucked up, hands roaming through his hair as if it were uncharted lands. Wind rushed into the room, the sky dimming to a stony grey.

She knew now. Her worth was void of value but her love for him transcended deeper than the earth, vaster than the seven seas. Her hurt prolonged centuries, an immortal root that would transgress generations. Her heart limped towards him, through ruptured arteries and severed limbs.

“Get up, dear. Si Won-ah is waiting for us.”

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

‘hwang’ meaning yellow

A/N: I was hyping up how sad this would be, so I hope this actually lives up to everyone’s expectations 😭 I did catch myself crying but I am overly emotional sometimes. This has been sitting in my drafts for a good four and a half months, it’s such a relief to finally get it out.

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

#ateez #ateez fanfic #yunho x reader #yunho x you #historical au #arranged marriage #ateez x reader #jeong yunho #kpop #ateez angst #ateez yunho #yunho

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sunvmars · 1 year ago

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｡･ﾟ･ღ¸.✻´ fic masterlist `✻.¸ღ･ﾟ･｡

*navigation/directory | request box | taglist | old masterlist

-updated: 01/15/24

-writing and taking requests for marvel, bullet train, the gray man, stranger things

✮ smut | ♡ fluff | ❄ angst | ❀ general romance | ☽ misc.

Bucky Barnes

one-shots:

stars around my scars ♡ ❀

during a day off, you and bucky reminisce about how you met and your past experiences.

sunshine ♡ ❀

you and bucky host a get-together for the team, an expected surprise causes you to confide in steve.

you showed me how ♡ ❀

bucky was never one for love, unsure he was even capable of it- but then there’s you.

Steve Rogers

one-shots:

tangled ♡ ✮

(archived for revision)

honeybee ♡ ✮ ❀

steve knows everything about you, his best friend, and he strives to make you happy. you make the first move and steve wants to learn how to please you in other ways.

sunday morning ♡ ❀

a rainy day ruins your date plans, so steve brings the date to you.

if i could give you the moon ♡ ✮ ❄ ☽

your relationship with steve is nothing more than a string of lies and promises in a hearty affair.

only you ♡ ❀ ❄ ☽

on a night out with the team, only shortly after you and steve’s breakup, you end up drinking a little too much and refuse to go home with anyone but steve.

afterglow

06/20/24-06/27/24

a quiet hue ♡ ❀

you meet steve during a creative block, and he eases you out of it.

two-shots:

01. fireworks ❀

everyone but you and steve realize you like each other.

02. sparks ♡ ✮ ❀

just steve fulfilling his craving of you.

01. a quiet hue ♡ ❀ ☽

during an extreme case of art block, you meet steve on your apartment's rooftop. he helps cure your blocked creative flow, and sparks something else along the way.

02. a brighter hue ♡ ✮ ❀

you and steve go on a date, deepening your connection in ways you couldn't have even dreamed of. (01/20/24-01/25/24)

wip series:

bitter sweet series you've grown to resent steve after he breaks up with you and you give him the cold shoulder for weeks. you soon discover you're pregnant and show back up on his doorstep to tell him the news. he tells you the real reason for his leaving forcing both of you to work together and cooperate. will things go back to how they were, or is it forever unfixable?

01. bitter sweet ❄

02. sour ♡ ❄

03. tart ❄

04. citrus ♡ ❄

05. sickeningly sweet ❀ ♡

06-1. as sweet as cake ♡ ✮ ❀

06. fresh start ♡ ❀ ☽

rogue series

01. rogue

timeweaver (mini-series)

01. coming soon

Wade Wilson

one-shots:

i love you, wade wilson ♡ ❀

a simple, lazy weekend with wade. (coming soon)

Billy Hargrove

one-shots:

remember ❄ ♡ ❀

billy's first and only love returns

you're so good ♡ ✮ ❄

you and billy connect, forming a close bond.

Steve Harrington

one-shots:

i missed you ♡

{steve confesses after nancy leaves}

Tangerine

one-shots:

kyoto ✮ ❀

tan stumbles (literally) upon you on the way to kyoto

Ladybug

coming soon

Six/Court Gentry

coming soon

Lloyd Hansen

coming soon

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elsewhereuniversity · 1 year ago

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A culinary arts/Art double major with many cats and many names. Often stays away from the gentry and human alike but has made contact with the gentry before, offering milk and honey in exchange for her dreams. Many self-done paintings of things, among them a crumbled tower and a waterfall. Autistic with a very delicate sense of touch. How does she fare at Elsewhere, darling Archivist.

The first time you found your way Underhill, you took the trees of brass and bronze and gold as statues, a cold facsimile of life that would be laughable if it weren’t so beautiful. But November rolls around, and the color drains from the world as if someone has pulled the plug on a bath. You are left with silver bark and iron grey skies and a carpet of copper leaves. A world that seems at times almost inorganic in its austerity; forged rather than grown. It is some time before you find your way back to the Autumn Court, but you often find yourself thinking of the jewelled forest, and the love that went into it - not as a replica of life, but as a portrait of autumn’s final days. When next you walk below those unmoving boughs, it is with a reverence that sets you apart from your peers, who arrive brash and bright and still flush with summer’s warmth.

#students #Anonymous

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racefortheironthrone · 8 months ago

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A Guildsman Goes Forth to War, Inciting Event and Main Characters

Inciting Event:

The city of Brugghe is one of the largest and richest in all of Europe. It is a center of vertically- and horizontally-integrated textile production in wool, cotton, linen, and silk, and the people wear their reputation on their richly-dyed, patterned, and embroidered backs. As the northernmost of the cloth fairs that stretch all the way from Gallia to the southernmost reaches of the ancient Kingdom of Lotharingia), and the confluence of the North Sea and the Rhine, Brugghe is a natural entrepôt between the merchants of the Hansa and the commercial republics of the Lega, and thus one of the leading financial centers on the Continent.

A bustling cosmopolis of two hundred thousand souls, with a lively Foreign Quarter representing merchants and bankers from Portugal and the Basques to a half-dozen Lega republics to representatives of the Sublime Porte. In Brugghe, even the poorest and least educated rural migrants are bilingual (even if they insist on speaking only Gallician or Imperial), a respectable burgher is expected to speak at least four, and a man is considered educated only if he speaks six. A center of the printing trade (and thanks to its dyeing industry, a lively art scene), it is an unusually literate city, only more so thanks to the recently-established University.

For the last thirty years, the city has been ruled by the tolerant but firm hand of Baron Froederick van Zonder Vrees, although for the last ten the day-to-day governance has been conducted in his name by his significantly younger wife due to a long and lingering illness that has forced the Baron to a sickbed and (accoridng to reports) to his deathbed. Although by all reports a loving and capable partnership, the Baron and Baronness are childless. If the Baron should pass, what shall become of Brugghe?

Main Characters:

Margrit van Zonder Vrees (née Marguerite de Corbenic), Baronness of Brugghe

The daughter of a noble family from Brittany (with extended ties to Cornwall and south Wales) with a strong Gentry heritage of elfkind, Margrit (or Marguerite, depending on whether she's speaking in Gallician or Imperial) was sent to the Burgundian court following a romantic indescretion in her youth, where she became one of the court beauties and a poetess beside, reknowned for the strength of her Glamour and wit alike.

At the age of twenty, she was married to the significantly older Froederick van Zonder Vrees as part of diplomatic efforts to maintain Gallician/Imperial harmony in the Low Countries. Despite the age gap between the two, Froederick came to respect his bride's surprisingly well-educated mind and supported her patronage of the newly-founded University and the city's cultural industries, while Margrit came to admire her husband's commitment to light-handed and tolerant governance that had seen Brugghe reach heights of prosperity that it had not seen since the collapse of the Flemish revolt.

When Froederick began to fall ill, Margrit smoothly gained influence within the Baronial Council of State that governed the city until she became the Regent in all but name. At the outset of A Guildsman Goes Forth to War, Marguerite's dilemma is that she has no child to pass the title to upon her husband's death - and due to the complicated mix of family intermarriages, there will be claimants from both the Kingdom of Gallia and the Sacrum Imperium.

[Need to find a good picture]

Ludovico "Malasangue," Captain-General of the Bonafortuna Mercenary and Insurance Company, graduate of the University of Padua, and guildsman of the Arte dei Giudici e Notai of Florentia.

The younger son of the Bilancia banking family, Ludovico was the subject of considerable scandal, for from birth it was quite clear that he was Gentry-born of some rare and unknown lineage, while neither his mother nor his father had any such connexions. A brawler of violent temper, Ludovico was packed off to Padua by his decidely chilly and aloof father to avoid embarrassment - and to ensure that he would have a career that would avoid any interference with his older (some would say "legitimate") brother's inheritance of the family business.

The curriculum at the great university of the hills seemed to calm the intemperate youth and Ludo proved to be quite adept at both the Old Learning of the trivium et quadrivium, the New Learning of the studia humanitatis, and his chosen degree in Law. It was widely expected that, upon his graduation and return to the city of his birth, he would take up a respectable and conventional career in the leading Arti Maggiori. Thus, it came as something of a surprise when instead Ludovico and some of his university friends announced the formation of a new kind of mercenary company.

The Bonafortuna Mercenary and Insurance Company would be made up not of impoverished noblemen and ambitious peasants, but entirely of urban guildsmen recruited from among the Lega. In times of peace, the Company would make its income from providing a comprehensive suite of services from messenger and parcel post to commercial and residential insurance to private security, to individual and municipal clients alike - with significant discounts for joint customers of the condottieri side of the business.

#renaissance fantasy #fantasy genre #a guildsman goes forth to war #creative writing

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comasuart · 7 months ago

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Bloodsport

twitter: comasuart

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firstaidspray · 1 year ago

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As I said I would do, here I am inflicting catboy Sierra Six on you guys 🐈‍⬛

#sierra six #the gray man #courtland gentry #court gentry #ryan gosling #my art

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scifrey · 2 years ago

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Listen.

If you've read my fics, you know that I love history. I love pageantry. I love symbolism. I love beautiful clothes, and art, and jewels. I love going behind the scenes and seeing into castles and manor houses. I love parades, and the hidden meaning behind coronations, and the fairytale unreality of the lives of the gentry.

I believe, however, that all of these things should be ARTIFACTS.

I believe there is literally no point in upholding a monarchy or commonwealth any more.

Allow commonwealth countries become republics. Allow Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales to return to being seperate nations if they vote to become so. Allow those republics to create their own network of mutual support, should they so choose to. There's no reason to not keep up Commonwealth ties and festivals even if there's no Commonwealth.

Repatriate artifacts, art and jewels to their nations of origin. Offer monetary compensation/support for cultures violated and impoverished by colonialism. Help establish democracies where needed, and butt the hell out where they're not. (And especially don't establish puppet democracies, ew.)

Let the British royal family become symbolic tourist attractions, let them fund their own charities, and throw their parties, and knight their artists, and uphold their royal orders of garters and baths, and maintain their personal properties--and make them do it with their own wealth and real estate investments. They're multi-billionaires. They can afford it. They'll be fine.

But remove them from the machine of governance. Detach them entirely from public spending, dependance, or influence.

And if they do participate in traditions of parliament (like the Opening, which is actually really cool and fascinating panto, which I quite like and hope they WOULD continue), man, do it without the silly hat. If the King wants to wear the silly hat, make him pay for the upkeep of the silly hat out of his own pocket. It's HIS silly hat, after all. It's not like we all get a turn with it, even though we do pay for it.

(Actually, the Crown Jewels are owned by the British Public so like... if they want to take them along when they go, make the royal family buy them. And then let them charge museums a fee to loan them for exhibition, just like privately owned paintings by famous Masters are loaned to art galleries.)

Let the royals continue to do all the things the royals do, if they want to do them. Just… make them pay for it themselves. Dissolve the Sovereign Grant, and use all that money to pay for things like restitution, repatriation, and hey maybe increasing public spending on health care and social infrastructure.

Turn the public-owned properties into, yeah, tourist attractions in part (gotta fund their upkeep somehow). But also put public offices in there. Maybe some social housing. Maybe hospitals, with well-paid front-line staff. Event spaces. Seniors care homes. Something.

If Hampton Court Palace can do it, so can Buckingham.

Balmoral and Sandringham are privately owned, there's lots of land and buildings for the family to occupy. They won't be homeless.

Keep the royal family, if the royal family wants to be kept. Include the royal family if the royal family wants to be included. Just make them pay for their own stuff with their own money. And do BETTER things with the savings.

Yes, I'm aware that this may be wishful thinking.

Yes, I'm aware that unscrupilous people may take advantage of monetary support given to commonwealth nations and keep it for themselves. (And I'm not unaware that it would happen in ALL the nations, yes, even Canada where I live. There are a LOT of currently-serving politicians who are vile, scummy, self-serving arseholes.) Yes, I'm aware that mutual support between nations of the commonwealth is all that is preventing famine or religious war in some places.

Yes, I'm aware none of this is as easy as I'm making it sound.

But I think it's time to stop celebrating and upholding centuries of brutal militaristic colonialism and the destruction and subversion of so many beautiful cultures for the sake of some tourist bucks. I especially think it's time for the public to stop PAYING for it.

I love history. I love symbolism. I love the stories of royalty and treachery and gallantry and seduction. I love the architecture of great houses, and the meaning behind golden spoons from over a thousand years ago, and the fascination of birthrights and bloodlines. I love paintings, and balls, and the gorgeous work of exceptionally talented artisans that go into making all the amazing silly hats.

I write historical romances for goshsakes.

And I also think it's time to stick it all where it belongs -- in a museum.

#Canadian #Settler #Coronation #King Charles III #Cling Fast adjecent #History nerd #fantasy

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themerlinlibrary · 3 months ago

Text

Favourites Friday (July 2024) – All Time Favourite

TML Favourites Friday round-up! July 2024 round 1

What is Favourites Friday? – The Basics

a different theme is announced on Friday each week; FF recs must match the theme of the week

only one FF rec per person per week/theme

FF recs must be unique within that week/theme; no double-posting the same fic for one theme!

no self-recs during regular rounds

only self-recs during self-rec rounds (last Friday of each month)

Theme for week 1: All-Time Favourite!

Imbolc by MerlinLikeTheBird G, 145k, Merlin/Arthur Canon AU

Sorcerer's Bane by BeautifulFiction E, 265k, Merlin/Arthur Canon divergence, Abduction

Once and Future Pride by Papysanzo89, Pinky_Wisteria, Snarky_Ship (Pinky_Wisteria) E, Series of 8 art works, Merlin/Arthur Modern AU, Comics, Pride

The Crown of the Summer Court by astolat E, 24k, Merlin/Arthur Merry Gentry fusion

The Hands We Use To Catch Each Other by scripps T, 10k, Merlin/Arthur Canon Era

From Shadows to the Light by PeaceHeather T, 16k Post-Canon Fix it

My Significant Bother by evaelisaa, Leandra E, 96k, Merlin/Arthur Modern Era, Royalty, Friends with Benefits

wanna be your end game (my youth is yours) by ladililn E, 63k, Merlin/Arthur Modern Royalty AU, Series

Twitch Your Whiskers and Pull My Tail by BlueSimplicity E, 62k, Merlin/Arthur Modern AU

Avalon by s0mmerspr0ssen E, 133k, Merlin/Arthur Modern AU, Escort!Merlin

All lives are (love)stories by amithia E, 193k, Merlin/Arthur Canon Era, Soul Bond, Fix-it

Dower the Stars by RurouniHime E, 41k, Merlin/Arthur Canon era AU, Golden Age

Parchments by BlueGrassSax E, 33k, Merlin/Arthur Canon era

Let's Be Winners by Mistake by Seravia E, 48k, Merlin/Arthur Modern AU

A Challenging Hostage/A Challenging Quest by wryter501 T, 390k, primarily Gen with background ships Canon AU

A masterlist of all round-ups can be found here.

If you want to make sure you never miss a FF rec, or would like to participate and share your own favourites; join us on the Discord TheMerlinLibrary! Happy reading!

About the FF round-up lists:

Recs are listed in the order they were posted on the Discord; the order does not imply any sort of ranking.

The pairing given in this list is the main pairing of each respective fic – please read the tags for any possible minor or side-pairings, as well as any potential warnings or triggers.

Pairings and Eras are given as tagged in each respective fic. (?) signifies that the tags were unclear and I do not know enough about the fic to fill the gaps.

Round-ups are compiled on the weekend of the week after the respective theme of the post (when the new theme has already been anounced), to avoid omitting potentially belated FF recs.

The weekly round-up is not a guarantee! I'm running this alone, so it can only be posted for weeks when I have enough time on my hands to compile a list. If you'd like to help out, feel free to contact me on Tumblr ( @zaharya ) or Discord. Thanks to @ravenwilds for helping me out with these round-ups, and to Chel for making a whole-ass bot to make it easier!

#the merlin library #tml #favourites friday #ff #merlin #merlin discord #favorite #recs #fic recs #all time favourite

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birdstooth · 2 years ago

Note

Omg idk why I didn’t really notice the title until now haha

Alexa, play

Anyway, the inspo for this doodle is the fic obvi, plus that meme of the stick figure foaming at the mouth, plus that scene from Trainspotting with the baby on the ceiling

i would kill for another lloyd x six banter! you wrote them so perfectly

A/N: Lloyd Hansen x F!Reader x Court Gentry (Six). Mentions of sex. Follow-up from this lil drabble.

What really irritates Lloyd is Six's impenetrable calm. He's a statue - a totem in a forest fire. Lloyd has watched Six walk off three bullet wounds and reset a break in his own leg without making a sound.

He’s positive the man is a droid. You disagree.

“He was trained to handle pain, Hansen,” you remind him. “He’s never had anything soft. He’s just as fucked up as you are, but he doesn’t show it.”

“Wow,” Lloyd grumbles. “So basically I’m a sentimental baby?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“I’m going to wreck you, princess.”

The thing is Lloyd really fucking admires Six. He’s got street cred. The man has dragged himself out of the most dire of situations.

Still - they bicker like an old married couple.

Or Lloyd needles and Six just takes it, which is incredibly annoying.

For him, it’s always a competition. For Court, it’s not. St. Courtney cares about three things:

Getting the job done.

Remaining anonymous.

The rest is frosting.

Even tonight, Lloyd is full of adrenaline that he does not know where to put. He's fucked you three ways from Sunday and he still can't temper the electricity bounding through his blood.

Let me bother Courtney.

He stalks into the kitchen where Court is cleaning his oversized sniper rifle.

The blonde shoots him a passing glance, his mouth lifting at the corner as he returns to his gun. “Finally come up for air?”

Lloyd smirks as he throws open the fridge door. He’s in nothing, but his boxer briefs. His pale skin is marked in love bites and scratches. “She needs sustenance, you know?” He combs through his sweat-damp hair. “Fluids that aren’t my jizz.”

Court grimaces. “Thank you for that visual. I didn’t know the word “jizz” was back in style.”

Lloyd turns toward him, one hand clutching a stained Chinese take-out box and the other wrapped around a bottle of pedialyte. “You wouldn’t know what’s in style seeing as you were in jail for like 75% of your life.”

Court chuckles and shakes his head. He slides a blue cloth along the barrel of the rifle, his fingers light and fluttery. Lloyd’s tongue darts across his lower lip as he’s reminded of just how good Court is with his hands. His stroke game is peak. Hand jobs next level. “It seems like hickeys are, too,” Court remarks as he gestures to the purple-red bruises along Lloyd’s chest and throat.

He shrugs. “She likes branding me, what can I say?”

Court tuts. “Nah, Hansen - you like when she brands you. It’s like your security blanket.”

Lloyd’s mouth drops open before he abruptly shuts it. Looks like Court was in a mood. He wasn’t normally this...sassy.

Fuck. Yeah.

Leisurely, he strolls toward the table. He plops the brown-stained take-out box and bottle of blue liquid on the hard wood before placing both palms flat on the surface and leaning forward. “Is someone grumpy that they weren’t invited to September Fuckfest ‘22?”

Court frowns. “No?”

“I think you are,” Lloyd taunts. “I think you’re pouting out here because we locked the door.”

Carefully, Court places his gun on the table. He leans back in his chair, lifting his dark gaze to Lloyd which causes a new heat to blossom under his skin. Sometimes - Lloyd cannot distinguish between wanting to fuck St. Courtney and wanting to be him.

There’s no one like Lloyd Hansen, but there is equally no one like The Gray Man.

“Lloyd,” Court uses a tone fit for a teacher explaining calculus to a five-year old. “She told me you two needed some one on one.” He cocks his head, wrinkling his nose. “I think she wanted to make sure you weren’t all depressed over fucking that Russian chick.”

Lloyd blanches. “I did not fuck her.”

Court scrapes a hand over his jaw, his expression thoughtful. “Mmm not sure - kind of looked like you did.”

“What?!” That is a fucking lie. Either the footage was grainy or he’s being set up. “I fingered her - that was it! It barely counts. We just kissed and I wasn’t even that hard. Jesus Christ - I didn’t want to do that stupid fucking mission in the first place - you should have-”

“Hansen,” Court laughs, holding a palm out. “I’m fucking with you.”

Lloyd pauses, his thundering heartbeat is still popping in his ears. It takes him a minute to register Gentry’s words and then he scowls. “Fuck you, Court.

Court crosses his arms over his chest, his teeth glinting beneath the warm kitchen light. “If it’s any consolation - she did want you to herself. I think she was jealous.”

Oh? Well - that changes things.

A bolt of pleasure slides through Lloyd. It’s hot and comforting as it unfurls within his chest. It’s a bit of truth he’ll nurse for a long damn time. 33 wasn’t so impassive. You cared.

“Really?”

“Mm yeah,” Court replies before pinning Lloyd with a roguish grin that illuminates his ken-doll face. It’s disarming. It’s rare and it really fucking works for his roughened handsomeness. “She rode me while we reviewed the surveillance footage.”

Lloyd blinks at him. He can’t even be mad.

#lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x court gentry #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #fic art #charnelhouse #comics and doodles

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nandysparadox · 3 months ago

Text

A Wish Your Heart Makes - Ch.2 ♡

Whatever you wish for, you keep

Prev - Chapter Two - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Rated T - CW: fantasy discrimination, drinking mention, swearing - WC: 7205

@bitterpoison's art for this chapter - here!

Someone knocked at the door. Swift and sharp, it rang dull across the wood. Roman let out a muffled curse, nearly wrapped up in a knot of his own clothing as he struggled to put on the day’s outfit.

“Your Highness?” they — a servant, most likely — called. “The King and Queen have called for you. Breakfast has already been served.”

“I’ll be there shortly!” he answered quickly, as he threw his shoulder back in an attempt to fit his arm through the sleeve of his shirt. Once again, his wings blocked the way. Roman groaned. Wretched, fickle things that wouldn’t simply slip into the slits sewn in the back as they were meant to — he grumbled — got him all twisted up in fabric. After struggling for a few seconds longer, he managed to pull the shirt on properly, then he buttoned up his waistcoat as best as he could. With a quick glance at the mirror, Roman brushed his hair back into place, pinning the stray locks behind his pointed ears.

Getting ready in a hurry was an awful hassle. Although he supposed that was his own fault. You just had to oversleep, Roman chastised himself. He knew he should've taken it easy with the honey mead at the festival. But the allure of the equinox had been far too strong — a colorful, joyous celebration of his season and himself. Oh, how could’ve he resisted indulging a little? It helped that his siblings finally deemed him of age enough to not hover whenever he drank as much as a few sips. But — Roman wrinkled his nose as he shimmied on his cape — mayhaps he… overindulged. He remembered little of the later parts of the evening, left to only hope he hadn’t let too loose in front of the Court. They’d surely comment.

Ugh. Why’d his parents schedule such an early meeting?

With practiced speed, Roman slipped on his boots and laced them up to his ankles — then he left his chambers. He scurried past the palace corridors, crossing the East Wing as fast as he could manage without looking ridiculous. He paused when he reached the Main Hall. Instinctively, his eyes fell on the portraits that hung on the walls.

The King and Queen — his father and mother — came first, framed in ancient, ornery gold. Then came his siblings, in rough order of age, all posed elegantly for painting (except for, well, Remus), donned in dark clothes befitting of rulers, along with their consorts. Their image was intimidating, grand — grand enough to make Roman feel small next to them.

He touched a blank patch of wall next to Remus’ portrait. He didn’t have one, as was natural. He was only a prince. He hadn’t been crowned yet, hadn’t joined the Council. And he couldn’t help but think he’d look rather silly up in that wall — with his nymph-like flowers and his wings, it wasn’t much of a royal look. He doubted it’d fit well with the others.

But those were far away worries. For now, he had a meeting he was very much late for. Roman picked up the pace in his steps, enough that when he took a turn later down the hall, he almost ran right into a pair of fae. The two gentry, whose faces he could only fit in a vague picture of the Court, sent him sideways glances for his rush. Straightening up his posture, Roman dropped his wings firmly to his back — as was proper to do — and gave them a smile worthy of a charming prince while he slipped past them. He sighed with relief when he managed to reach the dining room with no other setbacks. A guard stationed at the entrance allowed him in and announced his presence.

Set out across the large table was a feast of a breakfast, per tradition. Bread, sweet rolls, fruits, jam, milk — all mouth-watering. He had a sweet tooth, who could blame him? His parents and his siblings gathered around it, nine chairs placed around the dining table — aside from Roman’s, two others unoccupied, as they often were. It was expected the eldest heirs couldn’t leave their duties to visit. The rest of his family ate in silence. Awaiting him, Roman presumed.

One of his siblings, Rhys, glanced up from the scroll they had on their lap.

“It seems the Rose Prince has finally deemed it appropriate to arrive,” they drawled, leveling Roman with a profoundly annoyed look. When he didn’t respond, they huffed. “Will you take a seat?”

He mumbled out a meek apology as he scurried to his chair, seating himself between Rome and Remus. A chuckle came from across the table. His mother.

“Oh, Rhys, lay off your brother,” The Queen said, flipping her hand down. She turned to look at Roman, warm and doting. “He had a big day yesterday — didn’t you, my wildflower? You must be so tired.”

He shook his head with abashed laughter, gingerly placing a slice of sweet bread on his plate. He reached for the pitcher of raspberry juice and poured himself a cup. As he did so, he glanced at his brother. Remus seemed totally preoccupied with building a… contraption out of his food. Was that… a catapult? Roman huffed out a laugh, taking a sip of his drink.

“Tired, yes,” snickered Romulus, startling him. “So very tired, I reckon — at least he had enough energy to slink into the palace gardens halfway through his own party.”

Roman choked. Snitch.

The King, who’d been silent at the head of the table until now, lifted his gaze from his own plate to stare directly at Roman.

“The gardens?” his father asked, raising an eyebrow. “Roman, tell me you haven’t been sneaking through the fairy rings again—”

“Father!” Roman cut that line of questioning quickly, snatching a napkin to dab the juice of his lips. He lowered his voice. “Please, I haven’t done that in years.”

His father narrowed his eyes, but hummed. “Very well,” he said. “In that case, since you’ve arrived, the meeting can officially start.”

Roman nodded, holding back a sigh. They wouldn’t ever let his brief little journey into the human world go, would they? He sent a withering look to Rome, who, in response, only smirked and leaned close enough to whisper.

“There’s still petals in your hair,” he teased, ever the one to try to get a rise out of Roman.

Flushing in embarrassment, Roman hurried to run his fingers through his hair and brush them off. Romulus cackled at him, only hushed by Rhys, who seemed beyond irritated. Their sibling sighed and began reading off the agenda.

Roman stubbornly turned his attention back to his food and tore a small piece out of his sweet bread. He brightened after taking a bite. The bakers had truly outdone themselves! Still, he made sure to pace his eating, slowly chipping away at the sweets, and to maintain a proper posture.

They started the meeting by speaking of the matters that ought to be discussed with the Court later that day, nothing that heeded his input — he didn’t usually attend those sessions unless his tutors forced him to. So he stayed quiet, having his pick of fruit instead. They addressed the dealings in the forest, the ‘situation’ with the merpeople of the Halidale River, whatever that referred to, and a conflict brewing between the wild fae. Unrest between the older court members, or something of the sort — things Roman didn’t usually concern himself with, nor had an interest in. He took another sip of his drink, tapping his fingers against the table as he listened to his siblings drone on and on about the state and affairs of their domains.

Eventually, the word ‘equinox’ thrown around in the conversation piqued his interest. Roman tuned back in.

“—and truly, the Equinox Festival was something incredible to witness this year,” his mother said, “Roman did such a stand-up job preparing all of it by himself! Quite impressive — you know, they say the Rose Prince is all the buzz with the young gentry nowadays.”

“Why, I only did the best I could!” he chimed in, smiling brightly. “I cannot help but dazzle the folks with all my talent.”

Rhys and Rome rolled their eyes, nearly synchronized. Hmph. It wasn’t as if Roman paid any mind to what they thought.

“Yes, yes, it was quite special,” his mother chuckled, laughter like ringing bells. She then turned to face Roman’s sister, Reina, who’d been until now quietly snacking on jam-filled biscuits. “Though, that wasn’t all that was special about it. As you all know, Reina had the opportunity to participate in the reading yesterday, officially, with us seers, and oh, we have the most wonderful news. We wished to tell you all early, before the Court knew of it. Will you do us the honor, dear?”

Reina nodded, standing from her seat, hands intertwined in front of her legs, a picture of poise and grace. For a moment, Roman wondered just how important the news could be. She stood tall as a willow, long dark hair cascading down her shoulder in an ornate braid, tied in jewelry and golden rings that matched well her warm beige skin — similar in features to him and his siblings, but so different in posture.

Reina was as elegant and sophisticated as the Spring Court ruler and apprentice seer was meant to be. An open-backed dark green gown flowed down her chest and over her shoulders, and it would’ve been perfect if she had wings, but she didn’t. None of them did, except for Roman. Her ears were pointed but longer. The flowers that bloomed beneath her feet were refined and not juvenile. She was the perfect image of a noble, gentry seelie.

“Last night, beneath the moonlight and the stars we gathered where the running water blended our realms as one. The spirits of the earth, kind as they are, have spoken our fortune to us,” Reina said, and she folded her hands together, directing her gaze to Roman. He straightened up. “And they so declared: At the first light of Beltane — whereupon the May Day Revel will be held — the Rose Prince of Spring shall be crowned into his domain and thus join his siblings in the Council as a ruler.”

If a feather had fallen in the dining room, you’d most certainly be able to hear it among the shocked silence of all present. Roman’s stomach dropped and he bunched up the tablecloth under his fingers. Glancing around, he found his siblings were almost as incredulous and slack-jawed as he was — even Remus had looked up from his grape catapult in surprise. That was… impossible. It could not be so, surely… Crowned? Him?

Roman considered pinching himself for a moment.

Rhys broke the spell first, hesitant in their tone. “…I don’t mean to question your capabilities as a seer, Reina, but this, it’s—,”

“Crazy!” Romulus said, bringing a hand to his temple. “Our Ro’s barely a seed out of the ground!”

Roman couldn’t help but huff, though his mother spoke before he could interject.

“Now, your brother is quite young, yes, but he’s grown fast too, faster than your father and I have ever seen,” the Queen said. Roman looked away. They always spoke of it this way. As if it was strange, unusual, as if he had aged wrong, somehow. When for him, it had been perfectly natural, even if he’d grown much faster than any of his siblings. It felt right. His mother continued. “Why, next to Remus, they almost look as if they could be twins — and Remus has over a century on him.”

Undeniably, that was true. Somehow, the pair of them had settled in appearances of the same maturity. Mayhaps he’d surpass his brother, even. The thought made him uneasy.

“And the spirits of the earth do not steer us wrong,” Reina added, with a glare so icy it was more befitting of a winter. Even Rhys cowered.

The King cleared his throat.

“Spring brings change, it is only natural,” his father said, then nodded. “Let us not hide from it. It is final. Roman must so choose a consort, and when May Day comes, they shall rule together.”

Oh. He’d nearly forgotten about that. Roman swallowed dry, fiddling with the fabric of the tablecloth. Find a consort. Oh, how he imagined this moment, dreamed of it but to hear it… he wasn’t ready at all, was he? He bit the inside of his cheek. Not for this, not to rule. Stars above, what would he do?

“Are—,” Roman started, meek, glancing down when his family’s eyes fell on him. “Are we certain this is a good idea? I mean, it’s just so little time and—”

“Roman,” the King spoke. Roman clicked his mouth shut. “Will you come here?”

Sheepish, he slipped out of his seat and walked to the head of the table. His father took his hands and held them.

“All—,” he began, then sent a look to Roman’s siblings. “—and I mean all of us believe you are ready, and so does the magic of the earth. It is meant to be.” he said, soft.

His father brought a hand to Roman’s hair and ruffled it a little, smiling.

“Perhaps this will do you some good, even, to spend some time outside of your thoughts.” He then lowered his voice to a whisper, so only the two of them could hear it. “Passions can be an incredible force, but you must learn to keep them at bay. I know how curious you are, son, but it is for the best our realms are left separate. Humans aren’t all you’ve made to be from your stories, they’re a threat to our magic.”

“But—”

“Your place is here, Roman, in Fairyland, with us. I know you have it in you to be a wonderful ruler, but eventually, you will have to let these fantasies of yours go.”

Roman sighed, squeezing his father’s hand back. “Yes, father.”

—♡—

Despite his mother’s insistence, Roman had spared the Court of his presence that evening. What need did he have to see their reactions, when he knew very well how it’d go over? He could already hear the whispers, the hushed words they spoke when they thought he was absent. The princelet. The wild one. The gentry-sized pixie. What could he know of this?

By then, he reckoned the news must’ve spread far through the castle, anyway, with just how subtle his family had been in their pestering of him.

As soon as he’d left the dining room that morning, Roman had been practically hounded into talk of alliances and suitors that only served to highlight his cluelessness about such matters. He managed to grin and bear it, though the sinking feeling in his chest only worsened with each passing comment about his inevitable fate. And now, there he was, being escorted through the palace halls by his aide, Lógos, and Remus — to yet another lesson he had little actual interest in attending.

He glanced at his brother a few steps ahead of him, particularly, the delicate silver circlet that sat atop his persistently-wet hair. For what felt like the umpteenth time that day, Roman groaned.

“Man, I must’ve not been paying attention cus’ I missed the part where ‘being crowned’ meant a death sentence,” Remus jeered, turning around to raise an eyebrow at him. “You look like you're on your way to the gallows. What’s got your wings so twisted about it? Isn’t it a good thing?”

“Maybe it would be if—” I was ready. He held those words under his tongue — instead, throwing a hand in the air. “Ugh! Do you understand just how close May Day is? I only have a little more than a month. How on earth am I meant to find a consort in so little time? That’s– unthinkable!”

“Right, listen, I know Rhys already talked your ear off about politics and choosing wisely and whatever else,” Remus waved his hand dismissively. “But there’s really no need to be dramatic. It’s simple!”

“How so?”

Remus grinned and dropped an arm around his shoulders. Damp clothes and mud sticking to his skin. Roman wrinkled his nose.

“You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em!”

“Easy for you to say! You met yours when he tried to kill you!” Roman scoffed, pushing his brother off him with a grunt. “I loathe the day I follow any of your advice — because there goes any chance I have of ever finding my true love.”

“Hold. Pause.” Remus twisted himself around to stare at Roman with narrowed eyes, as if searching his face. He tilted his head. “Is this what this is about?”

When Roman remained silent, Remus' lip twitched, and in a second he doubled over and cackled, his shrill laughter racketing off the corridor walls. Roman pouted and contained the urge to stomp his foot petulantly.

“True love?” Remus giggled. “You're kooky. All those ooey-gooey love stories must've really gotten your brain scrambled. You know a consort isn't about that, right?”

“Don't laugh at me,” Roman grumbled, blushing.

He knew, of course, in the back of his mind, that life did not often follow the notes of love ballads and epics. And yet, that did not quell the way his mind grabbed onto them — the tales of fated lovers who joined as rulers, of silver tiles in the paved path of his future. He wished for it, and for so long it had been such a faraway thought that he’d not even considered it might not happen so.

“You’re a real hoot, you know, true love,” Remus said, not even trying to contain his laughter. Roman crossed his arms with a huff, making his brother raise a hand in surrender.

“Okay, okay, sorry, but I still don’t get why you’re moping. It might not be your consort but it’s not like anything’s stopping you from gallivanting around to find your soulmate later. Y’know, V never stopped me from having flings,” he smirked. “Quite the opposite.”

“As if there’s anything normal about you two.”

Remus ignored him, instead flicking Roman on the shoulder. “Buuuuu-t,” he drew out the word, grinning. “Since you’re so worked up about it, I’ll help ya find Prince Charming. The plan is simple. We’ll need honey, roses, and a fuck-ton of feathers–”

“What did I just say about taking your advice–”

“Your Highnesses,” said Lógos, the raven fae still dutifully a few steps behind them. They both fell quiet, turning around to face him. Truthfully, Roman had been so wrapped up in the banter he nearly forgot his aide was even there.

Lógos continued. “If I may speak freely,”

He nodded, while Remus simply waggled his eyebrows. Roman delivered a swift kick to his brother’s ankle.

“Of course.”

“I apologize if this is rather blunt, but, sire, you must understand the ceremony is not a matter of marriage,” Lógos said. “The vows you make will not be to your consort, but to the kingdom. You will rule together, first and foremost, and your domain will be intrinsically linked to them.”

Roman couldn’t help but bristle. “I do know that.”

Lógos adjusted his sleek dragonfly shades, peering down at Roman behind the blue crystal lenses. The feathers that blended into his raven-black hair rustled.

“Be that as it may,” he continued, “It is a serious matter. I do not wish to pressure you, but I urge you to think about it carefully. As a ruler, your responsibility lies with your people. It is power, and you should not use it carelessly.”

Roman nearly puffed up in defensiveness, but that fire died down quickly. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course, I understand this is all quite sudden,” Lógos added, wringing his talons — was he nervous? “And it must be rather stressful, but you must remember you are not alone in this. I…” He paused. “Perhaps I should’ve started with that.”

Roman couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. “No, it’s fine, I–” He shook his head. “You’re right, in any case. I’ll… consider your advice.”

He heard Remus grumble beside him.

“Very well,” Lógos smiled — a small, but noticeable, curl in his lips. “Now, I do believe you have been scheduled for a lesson this afternoon, one you are nearly late for.”

Roman dragged a hand down his face and groaned. His brother fell into laughter all over again.

—♡—

The lesson had lasted until near sundown. By the end, Roman’s hand cramped from diligent notetaking, and his head rang from hours of listening to his tutor blather on and on. His fingers crackled when he stretched them. This time he had truly put in some effort, but he wondered if it had been worth it. No matter, at the earliest convenience he’d slipped away, before anyone could assign him another task, to a place where he felt he could finally breathe. His garden.

Periwinkle and rose pink blended together in the horizon line, streaked by wispy clouds. Shadows already began to silhouette the trees and hedges that surrounded him. And he might’ve been tired, but the sight of his flowers bathed in a warm sunset glow was enough for that exhaustion to ebb away. He smiled, taking it in as he made his way to the centerpiece of the garden: a large beech tree with wide-spanning branches and gold-trimmed leaves. Roman circled around the base of the trunk, where — between the ground and thick roots — there was a decently sized burrow, that mayhaps would’ve been perfect for a small gaggle of animals to hide in. He’d be more cautious of that, if he didn’t know.

The tree hollow was rather unassuming, after all, for what it was — and so, for his purposes, it had been perfect.

His siblings rarely, if ever, wandered into his garden. And even if they did so, he doubted they’d notice anything amiss. Roman himself likely would never have given it a second thought, had he not stumbled into it. Quite literally.

Kneeling down, Roman tried his best to not dirty his outfit too much as he crawled inside the hollow, careful with his wings so they wouldn't get stuck. A pleasant feeling washed over him, suddenly — like the warmth under blankets on a chilly day — and when he stood back up on the other side, there were wooden tiles rather than dirt beneath his feet. He felt around for the lamp that should’ve been near the entrance, and when he found it he pulled on its cord until the crystal inside began to shine. It lit up a room far more spacious than a tree could’ve possibly allowed. The sort that looked as if it belonged in a cottage.

Roman touched a familiar spot on the wall, feeling a mark made by blade under his fingers. He had never found any more clues as to where that place had come from, nothing except from worn carvings on wood. Whoever had enchanted that tree must've done it a long time ago. Perhaps before the garden had even grown around it. Had it been there, Roman wondered, for him to find it? His eyes fell on the satchel he kept on a coat hanger, and he moved to pick it up.

Then again, he always did have a penchant for slipping through hidden portals when he was younger, didn't he?

Roman smiled at the memory, smoothing his thumb over the leather — a souvenir, of the first time he’d ventured away from home. Oh, what a day that had been. He’d only wanted to explore, as children often did, but a little adventure in his brother’s garden led him straight into a fairy ring, and next thing little Roman knew, he stumbled into a forest unlike any he’d seen before. Strangest of all weren’t even the leaves — only green and occasionally brown in color —, or even the rigid, carved paths on the ground, no, but that young man he met in a clearing that fateful afternoon. Not a faerie, but a human, who spoke in notes and stories, and recited his ideas for the winds to hear.

Roman’s parents had, of course, caught up to him eventually, and he’d been dragged out of there as fast as he’d arrived. They’d been worried sick, and he’d gotten an earful that lasted for days. Roman looked away. He never did return after that.

His people were not… fond of humans, and wasn’t that a massive understatement? He knew what the other fae said, that their world was dangerous, but… he did not understand. His gaze flitted to shelves that lined the walls — once bare but now filled to the brim with all manner of trinkets, collected under the cloak of his midnight getaways. Artifacts, knickknacks, anything from the human realm he could get his hands on.

He drifted from the entrance and reached out to pick one from the shelf. He turned the wooden gadget around, feeling the weight of it in his hand. By far, he owned more of these things than any other. Ticking boxes — that was what he’d taken to calling them in his head, at least, though they weren’t all shaped that way. Still, they were all of the same in different sizes, a pointer that spun round and round a marked circle, and the noise — tick-tock, tick-tock. It rang around the room. With a smile, he put it back in its place, turning to survey the rest of his collection.

Pots and cases with ink-stained ceramics. Jewelry, made of brooches, pendants and chains. Strange gizmos with metal teeth and levers, that burned with traces of iron behind them and left rashes in his hands.

His heart soared just from imagining where they might’ve fit into the tapestry of the human world. What were they made for? How did they work?

He spotted a little wooden box behind them, and reached to fetch it. He cranked the tiny lever and let go. It chirped back at him, an adorable stilted melody. His wings fluttered in delight before he could help it. A singing box. Roman giggled, pulling it close to his chest.

How was it that a world that made such wonderful things… could be bad?

He glanced down at the satchel still in his arms, the start of his little hoard. Roman huffed out a laugh at the idea — it would be a rather meager hoard, for a dragon — and pulled out a chair to sit down. He opened the satchel and spread out its contents on the table. Loose parchment, quills, envelopes, a journal. The true weapons of a poet. Roman could only hope the human writer hadn’t missed them too badly. Snatching it up before he could be dragged back to Fairyland had been a boyish instinct. He flipped the journal open, flitting through its pages. Ink sprawled into verses, notes, ideas, stories — words Roman had poured over time and time again. Somehow, he thought, if that human just knew how the journal had kept him company, he’d be forgiven. He remembered being acquitted of worse, that day.

“Tell me more stories!” he’d demanded, as he’d jumped out of his hiding spot. His voice, youthfully squeaky, certainly hadn’t carried any authority, but it had worked.

The edges of that memory had blurred with time, but one thing remained burned in his mind: a smile. Just as he got over his shock, despite Roman’s rude display, the young man had smiled, bright and kind. “Of course.”

The poetry had been unlike anything he’d ever heard. A dance of words, not just rhymes but verses weaved into draperies of meaning. Roman had never quite grasped the silver tongue that other fae had, but this, he understood — even if he could never quite picture the imagery as intended. He wanted to, desperately. How incredible was it, to wield such untruths and yet strike the deepest chords of the heart. And the tales that had spilled from the poet’s tongue, how they managed to take Roman’s mundane and make it beautiful.

Before he could close the journal, a note came fluttering out of it. Roman blinked, then smiled in recognition when he caught it between his fingers. He’d drawn it himself, a loose charcoal portrait, a few years after the fact, so he wouldn’t forget all of it. The human — only a little older than Roman was now — and his dark hair, his stubble, the feather tucked behind the round shell of his ear.

Following the charcoal lines with a finger, Roman paused at a detail that still confounded him to this day. The strangely shaped pixie shades the human wore atop the bridge of his nose. And by that, he didn’t even mean the dragonfly-winged ones, that, while not as popular, still had its fans. No, he meant it as they had no wing shape at all — the human’s were rectangular, and they didn’t shimmer with color either. He tilted his head.

Without crystal lenses, how’d the enchantments work? Maybe it was just a resemblance — were they meant to correct vision at all? Curiosity burned inside his chest, buzzing with questions he’d pondered over many times. Roman leaned on his elbow. Oh, how he wished he could simply ask. All the human treasures in the world wouldn’t amount to anything if he couldn’t understand them. What wouldn’t he give to know more, about their world and their lives? To hear the endings to the verses left behind in the journal, to run through that forest, noting down every minute detail. How he yearned to cross that threshold again — stand with them, find the answers to all his questions, be met with more than just disapproving glances.

He wanted a sliver of the freedom the poet had penned down on paper.

With a sigh, Roman slipped the note back inside the pages of the book and shut it. He gathered everything into the satchel and hung it back on the coat hanger. He knew quite well how ridiculous that sounded. A fae prince, wandering through the human realm? Roman gripped his forearms. It just wasn’t what was meant for him, was it? No, his path had been laid down stone-by-stone and all that was left for him was to will his feet to follow it.

And he’d do so. In about a month, he’d be the noble, gentry prince his people needed.

But, in the dawn between sleep and consciousness, when dreams blurred his vision, he’d still have those fantasies, for himself only. He’d still have his collection. The rivers damn him, but he couldn’t simply let them go. And, just maybe, if the earth willed it, someday he’d manage to catch a glimpse of the human world again.

Roman slipped a blood-red cloak off the coat hanger and fastened it over his shoulders — he unpinned all his brooches and any jewelry that could be taken as too extravagant and placed them in his pockets. Well, at least, for now, he had time — and he intended to use it to its fullest.

He crawled under the tree hollow again, and when he came to the other side, the sky had already darkened into a light shade of indigo. The wind blew his hair over his face.

“Your Highness?” called out a voice. Roman’s eyes snapped up. There, in front of the burrow, stood his aide — peering down at him with crossed arms.

“Out in the gardens at this hour, sire?” Lógos shook his head, clicking his tongue. He adjusted his sleeve, which had been cuffed up to reveal the streak of black feathers that ran across his forearm. “Why, someone might just get the wrong idea.”

“What sort of idea?”

“That you’re shirking your duties, Your Highness,” He leveled Roman with a stern look, but the glint in his eyes betrayed it.

Roman snorted at his attempt at teasing and rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you, L, you can drop the ‘sire’s and ‘your highness’s if we’re away from prying eyes.”

L extended Roman a hand and helped him stand. He glanced around, cautious, then smiled, dropping the act. “Alright. I suppose you are ready to depart then, Florian?”

Roman patted his hands over his clothes, then twirled — his cloak fanned out in a blur of scarlet behind him. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered with a bright grin, brushing his hair back into place, “Where will you take me today?”

“Since we’ve long past exhausted all the closest fairs we could find, I figured it would do well to extend our reach. There’s a near-nightly market south of Arnbury, we might just find something new there. Although I must warn you, it is not a usual haunt for gentry,” L said, offering Roman his arm. “It is a bit of a journey, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Roman chuckled as he linked arms with his friend. “I have no doubt I will.”

If it got his mind off of everything else, if only for a moment at least, it would be worth it.

—♡—

“When it comes to shiny objects, you truly are like a moth to a flame, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” L looked up at him, as if he hadn’t even heard what Roman said. Roman chuckled, shaking his head. L had flocked to this booth as soon as it was in sight — entranced by the glossy stones and silver rings, in true corvid fashion. He examined all the glittering trinkets with a sparkle in his eyes. An odd sight to see, coming from someone usually so formal.

The market gleamed like a jewel inside the clearing, a bright show of blue and silver light that rivaled the stars themselves. It bustled with activity, although it couldn’t quite compare to the fairs that happened in the palace’s courtyard. Roman always did find those to be a bit overwhelming, anyway, so that wasn’t much of an issue.

By then, when the sky had reached its darkest, he’d already wandered around plenty, marveling at all the booths. Strung-up flask-lights in all colors adorned most stalls, which carried an assortment of the oddest things. And as L had told him, rarely did he spot a gentry in the crowd, it seemed the wild fae were the market’s most frequent patrons. He’d never seen so many of them in one place! Although he supposed that must be because they did not often attend revels. If he was to be honest, he felt a bit out of place, but no one objected to their presence, and if anything, it meant he’d hardly be recognized.

After a few more minutes, Roman finally managed to wrangle L away from all that shiny jewelry and convince him to mill around the tables — where the other fae talked and drank and played luck games. However, while they made their way past a line of makeshift stalls, something glinted in the corner of his eye. He paused to take a look, and nearly gasped.

There, atop the wooden counter, rested a delicate pair of shades — with a bent wire frame bound by ribbons and string and two, perfectly colorless, round lenses. While they weren’t identical to the ones he remembered, surely they served the same purpose. Roman reached out and lifted them up to look closer. He tapped gently against one of the lenses. Glass. And as he’d suspected, he couldn’t detect a hint of magic in them. How odd, he wondered—

“Oops! Sorry, those are not up for barter!”

A hand came into view suddenly and yanked the shades out of his grasp. Before he could even register disappointment, his eyes fell on the culprit and any protest died on his tongue. The merchant, a young man who looked to be as old as Roman was, used a little cloth to wipe off his shades, as if that was entirely ordinary, and then he smiled. It glowed far more than the whole market. His fair skin glittered with silver freckles, scattered across his nose and cheeks like stars, and his ears were long and sharp. When specks of light fell on his caramel hair, the strands shimmered as if they were of gold. Then and there, Roman might just have understood L’s fascination with shiny things.

“I know they’re quite eye-catching—” he continued, with poorly concealed mirth. He pocketed his cloth and then put the shades on. They fit his face perfectly. “—but things just aren’t clear for me without them!”

Roman had been rendered speechless. A barrage of questions raced through his mind — How could that work? How had he found them? Was he, perhaps, free sometime, maybe tomorrow? — but none made it past his throat. A sharp elbow to his side — L — broke him out of his stupor. He stammered, mortified.

“My deepest apologies,” he said, with a bow, then smiled bashfully. “It appears I have an awful habit of acting like I see with my hands.”

The other looked at him in confusion for a moment, but chuckled, flipping his hand. “It’s alright, really! I shouldn’t have left them out with my other wares.”

Roman observed as the merchant turned to straighten things out on the back of the booth, although the stall already seemed rather tidy. He fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, wondering if there was a natural way to word this.

“If you don’t mind my curiosity, your—” Roman motioned to the faerie’s shades, unable to keep the excitement off his voice. “—they are from the human world, yes?”

The young man froze on the spot, pale as a ghost, and then, Roman realized. Of course, he shouldn’t have spoken it so loudly, where anyone could’ve heard! Most fae wouldn’t want to discuss something of the sort so openly.

“I apologize,” he whispered, “It’s just— I’m a collector as well.”

“A… collector,” the other said, blinking at him. “Yes, that’s exactly it, a collector! They’re just — uh, part of my collection!” he tugged on his sleeve and giggled, though it came off strained.

Roman didn’t know why he’d phrase it in that way, though he understood it could’ve just been nerves.

“But— um, there’s other things I do barter for, if you’re interested!” he gestured widely to his booth, as if eager to shift the focus onto it. “Patchwork, embroidery, appliqués — take a look, and let me know if anything catches your eye!”

Though Roman still had questions on the tip of his tongue, the other clearly wished to change the subject, so he acquiesced. He had already disturbed the merchant enough, the least he could was actually look at what he sold. So, he finally turned his gaze towards the items set out on the counter.

He truly had all he advertised and more. Who’d have predicted the glimmering young man would be such a talented seamster? His work was quite beautiful — and well-crafted, Roman would guess, though truthfully, he didn’t have much knowledge of the textile arts. His square pieces captured candid snapshots of nature in thread and stitches — sunsets, flowers, hills — other designs adorned anything from sleeves to collars, waistcoats and skirts. He wondered if he’d sewn them himself. Roman knew plenty of gentry who would’ve donned something of the sort proudly. In fact, L eyed a scarf stitched with silver stars in interest.

As he sifted through all the cloth, Roman caught a shuffle of motion behind the counter, and couldn’t help but spy as the other took something out of his pocket. Small, silver, and… ticking. A faint noise, nearly drowned out by the sounds of the market, but he heard it. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

A gasp escaped him.

“Did you find something?” The merchant asked, chipper, and as he turned to face him, revealed a fuller glimpse at the object. There was it, a thin pointer spinning around a circle.

“In your hand… is that…?”

The other paused and glanced down. He let the gadget go, and it swung around on its thin silver chain. “…my pocket watch?”

“A pocket watch…” Roman breathed, watching it closely as it swayed. Was it named that because it fit in a pocket? How delightful. He tore his eyes away. “I’ve never seen one like it… if I may, could I take a look?”

The young man glanced back down at the pocket watch, holding it a bit tighter, before he nodded and cautiously handed it to Roman.

Roman let the chain wrap around his hand and felt the weight of it against his palm. It was far smaller than any of the others he owned, truly pocket-sized, and it must’ve been pure silver, because it didn’t itch at all to hold it. He ran a finger over the metal frame, the back of it had been engraved in filigree and vines. The pointer still spun, going through its marks in an exact rhythm. He lifted it closer to his ear. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. It took an inordinate amount of effort to not let his wings flutter in joy. It was just so tiny, and it would fit so prettily with the rest of his collection. Suddenly, he burned with the urge to have it. He needed it.

Determined, Roman spoke up. “I’ll trade for it,” he said, closing his hands around the pocket watch. “Name your price.”

“I don’t—”

“That’s alright!” Roman reached into his cloak and rummaged through his pockets until he pulled out a little bag. He dropped it onto the counter, his foot tapping against the ground. “How about this?”

The other hesitated for a moment, before carefully prying the bag open. He peered in, and promptly, his jaw dropped. He glanced between it and Roman, once, twice, looked inside again, and then stared at Roman as if he’d grown two heads.

“Would that be enough?”

“I…” The disbelief was clear in his voice. “This is more than enough. I—” He laughed, shaking his head, a hand coming to cover his mouth.

“Yes. Yes, I guess you can have it.”

Roman grinned, bringing his newest find close to his chest. A pocket watch. All his.

Then, a hand rested upon his shoulder, suddenly. “Now, I do believe we’ve taken enough of this poor seller’s time,” L said, sending Roman a look. “You wanted to fetch a drink, didn’t you?”

“Ah— yes,” Roman answered, rubbing the back of his neck. He smiled at the young man, and bowed with his head. “Your generosity is appreciated, and I apologize for any inconvenience. May your night be joyous!”

L tugged him away soon after, and just as they were to step away—

“Wait!”

He turned around, raising an eyebrow.

The glittering fae had leaned over the stall, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He averted his eyes, clutching the counter, before he sighed. “I have more things,” he said, then lowered his voice. “from the human world. I’ll… trade them with you. If you wish.”

He blinked. “Truly?”

The other nodded. “There’s a small creek, east of this clearing. It’s not far. Meet me there tomorrow, at this same time. I’ll bring them for you.”

Roman smiled. “It’s a deal.”

Song of the chapter: Sparkbird by Sparkbird

Bonus: A Part Of Your World from The Little Mermaid

#sanders sides #roman sanders #royality #sanders sides fic #a wish your heart makes #remus sanders #logan sanders

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