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redtsundere-writes · 6 months ago

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Part 6: Harvest Season

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering.Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst.

Word Count: 5083 words.

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The cold morning tickled your toes protruding from the blankets that barely covered your body. You curled into a ball as you slept with your five sisters while the sun peeked through the hills of the green valley. They were squashed together like sardines to make the most of the small bed's cramped space. The room in the cabin where they lived was practically empty, they only had a small closet with all their clothes, some stuffed animals for decoration and a semi-transparent white cloth that served as a curtain. You were in your fifth dream when you felt a hand pulling your foot. You snapped your eyes open to see your mother at the end of the bed.

“Let’s go to the market,” she asked you as you whittled your eyes wide awake.

You nodded in response so as not to wake your sisters. You carefully slipped out of bed to get dressed in a brown dress, you wore it so much that it already had holes in the skirt. Your mother had sold most of your fancy dresses, so your sisters could buy new ones for the dances they were invited to. Your mother was always obsessed with the idea that one of her daughters would marry a rich man and take them all out of the misery in which they lived. Every morning she used to repeat the same thing: “Up my future princesses because men don't flirt themselves.” You quietly left the room and picked up the old worn-out basket they used to carry the loaf of bread and potatoes they could afford to buy.

Since your father died a couple of years ago, money was always tight. Your mother, to keep her hopes up and not starve to death, had slowly sold all the furniture in the house. She started with the living room, then the dining room, then her bed and then the decorations. Little by little, they were running out of options. Someone had to sacrifice in the work field, and your mother would not be one of them.

The sun was barely rising over the green horizon. It was too early to go to the human market, but you just followed your mother without question. The grass crunched under your worn boots and the cool air ruffled your hair. As you walked along the path you had created from the many times you had gone to town, your mother was quieter than usual. She was a hard woman to keep quiet, always having to have an opinion on something. “The mornings are horrible,” “it hasn't rained in months,” “everything is more expensive.” She always prattled on about any topic that crossed her mind, but today she was different. She just looked straight ahead, walked hurriedly and hadn't even wished you good morning. “Maybe she wants some peace,” you thought. You should have realized it at the time.

You knew you reached the main town when the smell of fish intensified. Every morning, fishermen set out to sell their booty among the busy main streets of the Sukuna kingdom. A place full of humans who were ruled by curses. Since King Sukuna had conquered their lands along with his army more than five hundred years ago, the humans who had already lived there for centuries became easy prey for the hideous deformed monsters. Half of the population was eaten, while the other was left alone as soon as their stomachs were full. The only thing that stopped them from eating more was their own limits. From then on, the curses began to coexist with the humans. Only instead of treating them as equals, it was a cow-butcher relationship.

Since the curses owned the main town, it was rare to see so many humans walking down the street. They were all heading in the same direction, the gloomy castle of King Sukuna. A striking architectural structure of charcoal color and huge windows with blood-red roses. It was so large that despite being surrounded by towering walls, you could still admire the rest of the castle and its imposing watchtowers. Your astonished gaze kept going up to admire the terrible place. Your eyes could not continue because the top of its towers were hidden among the gray clouds and the vultures flying overhead.

Unfortunately, they had not arrived at the market but at the gigantic wooden bridge that led into the castle. Several curses in fine armor paraded around the perimeter as you watched two of them lead a lady into the castle. Your breath hitched as you realized what day it was. Today was harvest day. Once a year, King Sukuna asks those who want to work for him to report to the castle and in return their families would be rewarded financially, but everyone knows it's a trap. No one knows exactly what goes on inside the castle, but a tyrant who mistreats his people does not usually offer “work.” All the people know that once you enter his castle, you don't get out. Even though it is known that entering his castle was like entering a torture machine of your own free will. People in need of money or resources send older relatives or children they can't support to get rid of them.

You dropped the basket in shock at why your mother had only woken you up so early and was so quiet. She was about to sell you. As soon as the basket creaked against the floor, you ran away to avoid your painful fate as the daughter who was betrayed by her mother. You didn't manage to run that far, because two curses pinned you to the ground. You screamed, kicked and twisted your body in failed attempts to escape. Your eyes filled with tears as soon as the curses lifted you off the ground to drag you back to the castle. It was the end, you knew that for a fact.

“We must part ways, my adorable daughter,” your mother said goodbye without looking you in the eye.

“Are you really going to sell me to the tyrant? You know what happens to those who enter!” You yelled while tears fell desperately down your cheeks.

“Don't be like that, you know we need money. The king may be a tyrant, but sometimes he is generous,” she said as he showed you the sack of gold coins the curses give her for you.

100 gold coins. That was all you were worth. All your years of life equaled a year's worth of food. Not even luxuries, expensive furniture or beautiful clothes. Your mother had traded you to eat one more year without worry. You hang your head in defeat. She was treating you as if you were a nuisance. One more pitiful mouth to feed.

“I can work at the market, at sea, in mining, in anything!” You protested.

“How are you going to work there? I educated you as a young lady so you could marry a rich man, and you failed me,” she emphasized, spitting in your face the disappointment she felt.

Your chest ached, snot was building up in your nose and your eyes were beginning to redden from the hot tears coming from your sad heart. Your head was starting to hurt, you couldn't believe this was happening to you. You were always a good daughter. You were the perfect daughter, polite and compliant. What have you done wrong? The frustration of not being able to do anything was eating you alive.

“Think of your sisters. With this money, they will be able to buy new dresses to impress rich men. Next week there is going to be a ball, they say King Gojo will be there,” your mother said excitedly.

“Say goodbye to your mother, we must get you to the castle.” A curse ordered you with a harsh voice.

“I don't have a mother anymore,” you mumbled between sobs.

“My sweet daughter, don't be like that…” your mother called you with disappointment.

“And you no longer have a daughter,” your mother gasped, surprised at the minimum act of rebellion.

From the time you were a little girl, your parents knew you would be a good girl. You always did everything orderly, knew what to say to stay out of trouble and educated your sisters when they were wrong. You were the perfect daughter in their eyes. The only thing you weren't good at was talking to men. At dances none of them would come up to you and none of them would catch your eye. While the sister next in age to you, Yorozu, danced with almost everyone, you always stood on the sidelines as you watched the night unfold. Your mother always scolded you on the way home for not being good enough to get a husband, but that never mattered to you. You knew inside that someday you would marry a good man who could see your true potential.

Curses threw you into the parade ground and closed the gate behind you. You felt worse than dirt itself, you wanted to lie on the ground where you belonged. You wished the earth would swallow you up and disappear at that instant, anyway, you had nothing left to fight for. You didn't even have the strength to cry anymore.

A loud sobbing sound reached your ears, causing you to look up. A little blond boy was crying his eyes out as he desperately searched for his mother. You were in the same situation as him, only you didn't have a little teddy bear to cheer you up. In a place full of old people, no one wanted to pay attention to you. No one had enough energy to soothe the crying of a frightened child.

You stood up and dusted off your dress. Quietly, you approached the child with a red face from crying. He was dressed in a torn white shirt and dirty overalls. He couldn't have been more than 10 years old. You got down on your knees to stand by his height and wiped away his tears with your thumbs before shaking off his clothes.

“I want my mommy,” the boy shouted as he sniffled. A lump rose in your throat. You wanted the one you used to have too.

“She'll be back. You just have to be a good boy, alright?” You asked with a weak smile. The boy nodded as he rubbed his watery eyes. “Whatever you do, just behave well and she will come back.”

“Do you promise me?” he asked you between sobs, raising his little pinky towards you.

“Of course,” you answered, intertwining his little finger with yours.

An old woman approached you both. A granny with a cotton head, raisin skin and a sketchy smile, handed him a piece of candy she had in the pocket of her once-white apron. The boy gladly accepted it, forgetting for a second why he was crying in the first place. Children were always easy to please.

“Poor little boy. He hasn't even started his life, and he's already this lucky,” the old woman whispered to you as you watched him eat the candy and play with his teddy bear perched on the grass. You could only nod in sorrow.

After an hour of waiting and watching the curses hurl more sold humans onto the parade ground. The doors of the gigantic castle opened. A white-haired person with a red stripe and splendid white robes made an appearance along with a scroll under their arm. You stepped in front of the boy to hide him behind you.

“Welcome to this year's harvest. Thanks to your relatives or communities, you have been chosen as the most useless beings of this year. So the great king Sukuna has decided to give you the opportunity to work for him as servants,” The person began to read the scroll aloud in front of everyone.

A collective sigh was heard when he read the word “useless”. Most of them, being elderly, already knew that they were only a burden to their families. Therefore, there was no need to stress it further. It was like squeezing lemon on an open wound.

“As every year, we give those who are completely useless a chance to leave. King Sukuna needs real servants and not stupid dogs.” Along with that announcement, the castle gates opened.

There it was, the door that would lead them to freedom right under their noses. Hearing that, most of them ran towards their escape route, desperate to return home to their loved ones. You took the child in your arms and were about to run away until the thought that the offer was too good to be true settled in your mind. “Those who go in, never come back” you thought.

“Come on, dear, let's go,” the kind old woman asked you while she pulled you by the arm to escape quickly.

“If they do this every year, why doesn't anyone come back home?” You asked her. “It's a trap, I can feel it.” The old woman looked at you puzzled at first, but understood your point after processing it for a couple of seconds. She was so blinded by the brilliant exit that she hadn't boasted about it.

Once the first to escape was about to reach the door, the grille slammed shut. The evil laughter of hundreds of curses echoed through the place like a war chant. In less than a second, a gigantic flock of armored curses began to eat all those who were about to flee. A massacre, desperate screams and blood spraying everywhere. You had never seen anything like it in your life. You knew the curses were evil and ate humans, but you never thought it would be such a disastrous sight. You covered the child’s eyes. The lady covered her face as she realized the hell they had been sent to.

“Traitor dogs do not deserve to live,” the white-haired person said as soon as no human who had tried to escape was left alive.

“You were right…” the old woman whispered next to you between silent sobs.

You looked back at the front of the castle while your eyes were still drowning in tears. The person who was summoning you was glaring at you, as if offended by your mere presence. You looked around, less than half had stayed. The other elders were crying, vomiting and some lucky ones hadn't even turned around to see what was happening. Your arms were shaking from the cold of the morning and the terror that consumed you whole. You squeezed the child against your body to protect it. A little creature was not to blame for being in a place like that. You had to protect him, it was the only way he would have a chance to survive.

“I congratulate you for surviving the first round. My name is Uraume, and I am the right hand of your king, Sukuna Ryomen,” they introduced themselves in a loud, monotone voice so that we could all hear them. “Next you will introduce yourselves to the king. He will have the final word as to your fate,” they explained before returning to the castle.

After finishing their feast, the other curses rounded up the survivors to form a line in front of the castle gates. They were sheep being led by shepherds who were also wolves. No one said a word, they only obeyed by bodily proximity to where they were supposed to be. You did not let go of the child at any time, you had already proclaimed yourself as his guardian. Maybe it wasn't the best idea in hell, but you knew it was the right thing to do. You were willing to protect him as if he were one of your little sisters.

Your beloved little sisters. You hid your face in the little boy's hair so no one would see you cry. Once you entered the castle, you would never leave, either by slavery or death. You would never see your lovely sisters again. You would never see them play, comb each other's hair or sing happily after dinner. You cursed the time when you had grown up and were not woman enough not to marry someone. In your mother's eyes you were a disappointment and were to be discarded. You only prayed internally that your sisters would not have the same fate. Yorozu was only a year younger than you. If she did not marry soon, she too would be sold.

The survivors passed 5 at a time into the castle. The walls were so thick that they could not hear what was happening on the other side. There were 5 more people left, and it was your turn to pass next to the old woman, who was repeating the same silent prayer several times. The curse at the front of the line signaled the 5 people to pass, making everyone move in sync.

“The child must enter,” the curse ordered you.

“But they already let 5 in. It's his turn to go in when I go in,” you defended, holding the little boy tightly.

The curse smiled maliciously before snatching the child from your hands. The difference in strength was crazy. You managed to grab the child by his white shirt to prevent him from being stolen. The child began to cry out loud because the curse had hooked its claws into his back. The curse pulled harder on the boy, leaving you with only the torn piece of cloth in your hand. As you tried to reach him again, the curse kicked you in the stomach so that you fell to the ground. Your body fell, and your eyes could only watch as the boy was mercilessly thrown along with the others.

“Just do what they ask you to do!” You shouted at the boy between sobs before another curse kicked you in the face to shut you up.

The last thing you could see was his face full of tears and snot as you bled from your nose incessantly. The castle doors slammed shut as the curses taunted you. You didn't care what they had to say, you just wanted the child to be okay. The woman you had befriended helped you up as your chest closed, and your eyes hurt from crying. You couldn’t do it anymore.

After about 10 minutes, the doors opened again. The curse kicked you in the back to get you inside. The old woman and three other old men followed close behind. A servant with a grim face welcomed you and led you into the king's hall. A room filled with luxuries along the walls, costly works, candles bathed in gold foil and glowing obsidian candelabras. It was a pity that the beautiful room was bathed in the dark blood of your kind. The walls were splattered, some candles had been extinguished because of it, and there were several dismembered bodies all over the room.

Despite being surrounded by light sources, the deepest part of the room was in complete darkness. Where you assumed the throne was supposed to be, there were many curtains that kept the king in the shadows. The only thing you could see was one of his giant feet being struck by the light of a nearby candle.

The servant asked them to stand in a side row so that the king could get a good view of them all. Once they obeyed, the servant retreated at a brisk pace. Everyone was silent. You could only hear their breaths being disturbed by the situation they were in. Your eyes traveled around the room. The bodies of the discarded individuals were cut into hundreds of cubes, making your blood run cold. It was an extremely perfect job, almost impossible to do. Had the king done that or was someone else in the room with them? You didn't want to see, but it was like a morbid exhibition of what an abominable being could do.

Your eyes roamed around the room in curiosity and terror, until they saw a teddy bear soaked in blood. The teddy bear of the child you swore you would protect. The child's head had been cut off, his eyes had popped out of his skull and were held in place by its corneas, and the rest of his body was completely mutilated into perfect rectangles of flesh. You closed your eyes and clenched your skirt to keep from screaming in despair. The frustration and disappointment in you could not be compared to anything else. You could do nothing to save him. You were pathetic.

“5… 4…” The king started the countdown. For what? You had no idea.

You knew you wouldn't have the answer if you asked him because of his reputation as a foul tyrant. You didn't know much about the dastardly king who reigned over the land of your birth, the only thing you knew was that he hated humans more than anything else in the world. You looked around for answers as to what exactly the king wanted. Nothing about the decorations gave you answers, the only thing that kept catching your attention were the bodies. “If he has servants, why are the bodies still here?” you thought the servants would get rid of them before bringing in any more prospects.

“3…” His deep voice echoed through the walls along with a devilish smile.

Sukuna watched you comfortably from his large stone throne, hand carved by the best sculptors in the region. He was amused to see your eyes darting everywhere. “What a fool,” you thought disdainfully. Nothing in the room could help you know what to do.

“2…” You could hear a small smile escape his lips as he approached 0.

You analyzed the bodies before you and they all met the same characteristic. None of the heads were connected to the rest of the body. Their heads had been cut off before they were mutilated. If none of them had heads, it is because they must have been at the same height, that is, they were standing when their heads were cut off. Standing in front of a tyrant? Complete blasphemy. That was it. That must have been it.

“¡1!”

“Get down, ma'am!” you yelled before pulling the lady down to the floor with you so she could kneel.

You knelt with your head on your hand as a pillow while the other still held the lady's arm. A thin slice rang through the room. It was so fast that you didn't hear a scream or even a whimper, you only heard the bodies of the others in the room fall to the floor under their own weight. The blood of the old man next to you began to trickle down to your fingers. You didn't dare look at the result of what had happened. You were just relieved that you were in one piece.

“Finally… Someone with manners,” the king uttered with disdain. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it wouldn't go away. “The one in the middle, come closer,” he commanded. You were dead, you sensed it.

You struggled to your feet and walked towards him without looking his way. You entered his little sacred place in the middle of the dark, but you could see him clearly. His pink legs were gigantic. His thigh was thicker than your legs put together. That already gave you hints of the giant in front of you. Despite being dressed in a large white robe, he still showed enough skin to be considered vulgar. As soon as you approached, his hand took your head easily as if it were a ball, directing your gaze towards him. Your eyes widened at the eerie sight in front of you. A malevolent face split in half that watched you morbidly. His four eyes roamed your body shamelessly. His half-naked body tattooed with different lines astonished you at a closer look.

“How old are you?” He asked you while he moved your joints with his four arms as if you were a doll he could play with. You answered obediently between stutters. “Tell me, did your husband sell you?” he answered with a mocking tone.

“I am not married, my king,” Sukuna arched an eyebrow at that response. You decided to elaborate your answer to that reaction. “My mother sold me because I didn't marry.”

“You are still old enough to get married,” Sukuna said, still not letting go to observe you better.

He turned and moved you around like a globe to inspect you completely. It's been a long time since I've seen a girl of your age, to be always in the castle or conquering lands, she always sees young men but almost never women. For someone of the lowest possible class, you had your certain charm. Sukuna saw you as if you were a strange doll in an antique store, odd but striking in your own way.

“We were starving, my king.”

“It shows,” he replied with a certain mocking tone. “You know… I'm not used to seeing girls like you around here. They always send me decrepit old men or children who didn't die in their mother's womb,” he explained, annoyed.

Despite the terrifying distance and the fact that your heart was pounding a mile a minute, you were glad he wasn't hurting you. He grabbed you by the head as if he were examining a fruit to dictate whether he could eat it or not, but he didn't squeeze you as if he were squeezing you between his claws.

“I keep the old people because they work the hardest for their daily meal and I kill all the children because I hate how loud they can be.” You quickly realized right there that you never had a chance to save the child. An unruly tear rolled down your cheek, taking a second to mourn the little boy in silence. “So tell me, what should I do with you, kill you outright or give you a chance?” he asked you with a sinister smile.

“Dying before I live through hell doesn't sound so bad,” you thought pessimistically. What was the point of going on living? Your mother had sold you, and you trusted that your sisters would marry before you, especially Yorozu, so you didn't have to worry about her. You no longer felt you had any value, but you were afraid of dying. That inexplicable, but useless fear left you frozen. Why did you want to keep breathing if you weren't going to live anyway? Your mind couldn't make up its mind.

“I trust your decision, my king,” you replied in a sigh of surrender.

Sukuna's smile disappeared, he did not expect that answer. I thought you would beg him for mercy for your life, but you had completely surrendered to him, leaving your fate in his hands. He smiled again, this time, satisfied.

“Why?” he asked curiously.

“Because you always have the last word.”

“Interesting,” He answered before pulling you by the neck to bring you closer to his face. “You are someone special, aren't you?” Sukuna asked with eyes full of interest in you. He had found a gold nugget in a pile of shit.

Your eyes slowly drifted to his. Have you heard correctly? Had he, an almighty king, called you special? You no longer knew if your heart was pounding from the flattery or being so close to the king. You were so close that you could decipher what he had for breakfast that morning, probably people.

“Do you know how to cook and clean?” he asked quietly. You just nodded. “Well, you better not let me down,” he reluctantly let you go, making you stumble backwards. “Now get out of here with that old bitch so you get your uniforms,” he ordered with a harsh tone.

“Thank you, my king. I will not disappoint you,” you thanked him with a weak smile as you bowed several times before retreating from his presence.

Sukuna couldn't take his eyes off you. You ran to the shocked lady to help her out of the bloody room. She laid her head on her fist as she followed your anatomy. There was something about you that caught her attention. You were submissive, but you were not stupid. You were perceptive, but not rebellious. He liked what you had offered him so far, he just needed to do a little more observing.

“Thank you very much, thank you, child, you saved my life!” The old woman cried once they left the room into a candle lit hallway. A small smile crept onto your face. You may not have saved the child, but you saved your new friend. “I am forever in debt with you.”

“No need, ma'am,” you said so as not to make her feel guilty.

“Mrs. Inoue,” she introduced herself in tears as she bowed politely, you did the same as you let her know your name.

They both walked until they reached the end of the hallway where the few survivors were. An uncomfortable silence ruled the place. Mrs. Inoue and yourself sat down on a small bench to wait for instructions. Uraume and a group of servants carrying piles of clothes arrived not long after. Sukuna's right hand looked at everyone with disdain as the servants handed out the uniforms to the new servants who would be under her command. “So she survived…” they thought interested of you as you changed out of the old brown dress into the new uniform.

You lifted the wet apron against the sunlight to check it for any unwanted stains. Your first anniversary as Sukuna's servant was a month away. You couldn't believe that you were about to complete one lap around the sun since you survived the harvest and received your maid's uniform. A long black dress with a contrasting white apron with black boots and a scarf in your hair to keep your hair off your forehead. You returned the apron to the sink to continue washing it by hand with soap and water. A small smile crept in as you realized you had survived the worst, you just hoped you had the same luck for the rest of your life. Now, you could rest for a very deserving week.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

Note

Hiii so I was reading your posts about how confusing the dreams are and I was trying to come up with an explanation of my own. What if both Malleus and the dreamers are subsconiously influencing the dreams and that's why no one really understands what's happening? Because we're not always aware of what's going on in that part of our minds.

[Referencing this post!]

That might be the case?? I really wish this was the lore we received from the beginning; it would have saved us a lot of trouble in the long run if the devs had chosen to go with a looser, more vague explanation of the dream worlds.

@/twistedminutia suggested in this post that the dreams may operate like an AI algorithm, which I thought was an interesting concept + is similar to what anon is pitching too. The idea is that Malleus isn't directly influencing the dreams or determining explicit details within them, but rather he has set a definition for what makes a person "happy" and his autonomous magic (ie the AI) is running off of that definition to determine what would be the most efficient path to "happiness". However, the end result tends to be shallow because of this. The commentor then proposes that Malleus might associate "happiness" with being in control, and because of that, it accidentally "colors" or influences the dreams of those touched by his magic. Thinking back on what we've witnessed so far... Malleus associating control with happiness might not be that far-fetched. Several of the dreams we've witnessed so far involve granting the dreamer a sense of control or outright places the dreamers in positions of power. Lilia is restored to his days as a war general, Leona is the unquestioned king of the savanna, Cater is Heartslabyul's dorm leader, Azul leads a Coral Rush team, Vil is Neige's boss, Jamil is student council president, etc. Malleus himself expresses being insecure when he lacks control over a given situation. In 7-29, he confides in Silver:

"There's something my Grandmother has often talked to me about. It's the reason why our family, with our draconic lineage, is so exceptionally powerful even among the nocturnal fae. She said it's to ensure that nothing ever diminishes the happiness of our people in Briar Valley. Yet here I am, incapable of dispelling the sorrows of father and son alike. What good does all this magic do me? ...I'm completely powerless."

Malleus has also previously acted in ways which suggest that he interacts with the world by projecting his own experiences onto others and relating to them that way. For example, he helps out the late ghosts in Endless Halloween Night because he feels a kinship with them as someone who also misses out on celebrations. In his own dorm uniform vignettes, Malleus thinks of what would be most convenient for him to attend dorm meetings and disregards how his classmates would feel at being summoned like objects. This makes sense, as he has a limited understanding of the world beyond his castle walls and of non-fae societies in general. Malleus only has his own experiences to go off of.

Thinking of it like that, it does make some semblance of sense. Malleus's subconscious desire for control might be trickling into the dreams and either influencing or overriding what the dreamers truly desire in their hearts. And while we're on this topic, maybe it also depends on the dreamer...? Like maybe the more emotionally vulnerable the dreamer is, the more of Malleus's subconscious impacts them? For example, Cater has demonstrated confusion over his identity and what he wishes to do for his internships. This lack of self could mean that Malleus's influence projected more strongly on Cater's dream in order to fill in all those cracks, thus resulting in a dream that is very far away from, even the opposite of, what Cater wants. Azul and Vil have had histories where they were judged and rejected by their peers. Leona and Jamil have their "second place syndromes". And Lilia has to deal with the inevitability of aging and leaving behind his loved ones for a foreign land...

But hey, that's just a theory ^^ A gaaaaaame theory--

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tatumrileyslover · 5 days ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbitten forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

Summary: In a grand countryside estate, where roses bloom with unnatural darkness, a mysterious stranger appears seeking shelter. Park Jimin, with his otherworldly beauty and cultured charm, quickly becomes an intimate companion to the Baron's daughter. But as girls in the village begin falling mysteriously ill and strange dreams plague her nights, she discovers his dark nature - and must choose between the warmth of mortal days or an eternal night in his arms.

a/n: ok so this isn’t meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the first part. this was originally supposed to be out for Halloween but god did I get too into it and made it more than double the length I want it to be lol. anyway this is based of the gothic novel Carmilla.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

The house sat like a slumbering beast against the autumn sky, its grey stone walls rising from mist-shrouded gardens that had long since forgotten their original design. What was once carefully manicured grandeur had softened over decades into something wilder, though no less beautiful - roses climbed beyond their trellises to embrace weathered statues, and ancient trees stretched their branches toward leaded glass windows that caught the dying light like caught tears.

It was the last great house for fifty miles in any direction, a fact that both the local townspeople and its inhabitants were acutely aware of. While other noble families had slowly surrendered to changing fortunes, selling their lands and titles piece by piece, the family had endured it all. Their walls remained strong, their cellars remained stocked, and their daughter remained safely tucked away behind iron gates and stone walls.

(Y/n) stood at her bedroom window, watching the road that wound through the valley like a black ribbon. Soon it would bring Bertha, her dear friend from the finishing school in Graz. The thought brought a smile to her face as she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass. Three years had passed since they'd last seen each other, maintaining their friendship through letters that grew increasingly infrequent as distance and time worked their inevitable magic. But now, finally, Bertha would be here - bringing with her stories of balls and suitors and all the life that seemed to exist everywhere except within these walls.

A rap at the door drew her attention. "Come in, Papa."

Her father entered, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Though still handsome, years of solitude had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Since her mother's death twelve years ago, he had devoted himself to his studies and his daughter in equal measure, though the former often seemed to win out over the latter.

"Still watching the road, my dear? It will not make her arrive any faster."

"I know, Papa." (Y/n) turned from the window, her skirts rustling against the thick carpet. At nineteen, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from never knowing hardship - skin untouched by sun, hands that had never known labor, eyes that still held the bright curiosity of childhood. "But I cannot help it. The house feels different already, knowing she's coming. Less..."

"Less what, my dear?"

"Less like a cage," she said softly, then immediately regretted her words at the shadow that crossed her father's face. "Forgive me, Papa. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know everything you do is for my protection."

He crossed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are all I have left in this world, (Y/n). Your mother..." He paused, as he always did when speaking of her mother. "She made me promise to keep you safe. The world beyond these walls grows more dangerous with each passing year."

(Y/n) nodded dutifully, though her heart ached. She knew every inch of this house, from the wine cellars with their dusty bottles to the attic where her mother's belongings still sat in trunks, untouched since the day she died. She knew which floorboards creaked, which windows caught the morning light, which corners held shadows even at midday. The servants were kind but distant, treating her with the careful reverence one might show a precious object in a museum.

Her world was contained within these walls, and while she could not truly miss what she had never known, sometimes she felt like a character in one of her beloved novels - the imprisoned princess waiting for life to begin. Her only real glimpses of the outside world came from her books, filled with adventures and romance, and from her occasional trips into town with her father for Sunday services.

Even those brief excursions felt like stepping into another world. The townspeople would stare and whisper behind their hands - not unkindly, but with the sort of fascination reserved for rare creatures. The family's wealth and isolation had bred countless rumors over the years, though none came close to the simple truth: they were just lonely, the three of them. Father, daughter, and the great house that held them both.

From her bedroom window, (Y/n) watched the winding road that cut through the valley below their estate. Even at this early hour, she could make out the occasional carriage making its way through the autumn mist. Each distant movement caught her eye, her heart quickening before inevitably sinking as they passed the turn that would bring them up towards the Manor.

"Mademoiselle, you're fidgeting again," Madame Perrodon's gentle reproach came accompanied by a firmer stroke of the hairbrush. "How can I be expected to tame these waves if you cannot sit still?"

"I apologize, Madame." (Y/n) forced herself to be still, though her eyes remained fixed on the distant road. It had been three years since she'd last seen Bertha - three years of letters describing balls and suitors and a world so different from (Y/n)'s carefully contained existence. She could still remember their last afternoon together, huddled in this very window seat, Bertha's eyes bright with excitement about the finishing school that awaited her in Graz.

"Your mother's roses are particularly beautiful this autumn," Madame Perrodon commented, her fingers working deftly to pin (Y/n)'s soft hair into an acceptable style. "Though Marcel lets them grow wild as wolves these days."

The mention of her mother drew (Y/n)'s attention to the familiar portrait hanging opposite her dressing table. The smile seemed to hold secrets, her hands painted delicately among the same roses that now grew unchecked below. Sometimes, in certain lights, (Y/n) thought she could see herself in that smile, though her own felt considerably more practiced.

Through the open door came the excited whispers of maids passing in the hallway. "The kitchen's been baking since dawn..." "All the best linens..." "Miss Rheinfeldt's room is prepared..."

On any other Sunday, they would be preparing for their weekly journey into town for services. (Y/n) felt a twinge of disappointment - she would miss her brief exchanges with Catherine and Marie, the milliner's daughters. Their whispered conversations about books and fashion during the fellowship hour were one of her few connections to girls her own age, even if her father and Madame Perrodon watched these interactions with careful eyes.

"There," Madame declared, securing the final pin. "Now you look-"

But (Y/n) had already risen, drawn to her window by the sound of wheels on gravel. Below, she could see Marcel and Emma in the gardens, their heads turning toward the sound as well. How she envied their easy companionship, the way Emma could freely kneel in the dirt beside her grandfather, learning the secrets of the gardens that had once been her mother's pride. On warmer days, (Y/n) would often sit on the stone bench nearby, watching them work while pretending to read. Marcel would share stories of her mother's passion for the roses, how she would spend hours tending them herself despite her station.

The old house creaked and sighed its morning song around her, floorboards protesting beneath thick carpets as (Y/n) made her way down the grand staircase. Carved angels watched her descent from the bannister, their wooden faces worn smooth by generations of trailing hands. Her mother had once told her they were guardians, keeping watch over the family. Now their blank eyes seemed to follow her, as if they knew something she didn't.

The morning light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. Preparations for Bertha's arrival had stirred up the house's usual stillness. Somewhere below, she could hear Mrs. Klaus, the housekeeper, directing maids about the proper arrangement of fresh flowers. The scent of baking bread and autumn spices wafted up from the kitchen - Bertha had always loved Cook's cinnamon cakes.

Memories of their last visit together surfaced as (Y/n) paused on the landing. They had been sixteen then, sharing secrets in the library's window seat while rain drummed against the glass. Bertha, already worldlier despite their same age, had whispered about a young man she'd danced with at her cousin's wedding. (Y/n) had listened, enraptured, trying to imagine what it would feel like to waltz in someone's arms.

The great hall below bustled with unusual activity. Curtains had been drawn back fully, allowing autumn light to illuminate the family portraits that lined the walls. Generations of ancestors stared down at her, their painted eyes holding the same careful reserve she saw in her father's. Her mother's portrait was different though - hung separately near the library doors, captured in the garden she'd loved so dearly. Sometimes (Y/n) would catch her father standing before it, lost in thoughts he never shared.

The morning air had turned peculiar as (Y/n) stepped out onto the terrace. What had started as a bright autumn day now held an odd heaviness, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. The roses swayed in a wind that carried the first real bite of winter, their late blooms scattering crimson petals across the gravel paths.

Marcel and Emma were working near her mother's favorite fountain, their quiet conversation carrying across the garden. The old gardener looked up as she passed, touching his cap with soil-stained fingers.

"The weather's turning, Miss," he called, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Best not stay out too long."

But (Y/n) was already moving toward her favorite spot - the ancient oak that stood sentinel by the pond. Its branches spread like protective arms above the water, creating a private world beneath its canopy. Here, she had spent countless hours reading, dreaming, watching the play of light on water. Here, she and Bertha had shared their last goodbye, promising to write every week.

The oak's massive roots created a natural seat, worn smooth by years of use. Settling herself against the trunk, (Y/n) opened her book but found herself watching the drive instead. The mist had thickened rather than burning off, unusual for this time of day. It crept up from the valley like something alive, wreathing the gardens in white tendrils that seemed to reach for her with ghostly fingers.

The mist continued to thicken, unusual for this time of day, creeping up from the valley like something alive. A chill wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"Please hurry, Bertha," she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter. The weather seemed determined to spoil their reunion. Already the bright autumn morning had given way to something more ominous - clouds gathering above the estate like mourners, the air heavy with unshed rain. If the Rheinfeldts didn't arrive soon, they risked traveling these winding roads in a storm.

The sound of approaching hooves cut through her thoughts. (Y/n) straightened, heart leaping - but no, this was a single rider, not the Rheinfeldts' carriage. Through gaps in the mist, she could make out a figure in a dark coat, riding with the urgent purpose of a messenger rather than a social caller.

From their position near the roses, Marcel and Emma paused in their work to watch the rider's approach. A servant hurried out to meet him, and even at this distance, something in their exchange made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten. The messenger's stance, the careful way the servant accepted what appeared to be a letter...

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Emma's voice carried softly across the garden.

"Hush, girl," Marcel replied, but his tone held worry rather than rebuke.

(Y/n) turned back to the pond, forcing herself to dismiss their concerns. Perhaps it was simply business for her father - he often received correspondence from his associates in Vienna. The water's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting the gathering clouds. A few fat drops of rain began to fall, creating perfect circles that spread and disappeared.

Footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. Her father approached slowly, his usual brisk stride replaced by something heavier, more measured. Without speaking, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the oak's roots - an intimacy so unusual that (Y/n) felt her breath catch.

"Papa?" Her voice sounded very young suddenly, even to her own ears.

He didn't speak immediately, his hands working at something in his lap. When he finally turned to her, she saw he held a letter. The broken seal bore the Rheinfeldt family crest.

"My dearest," he began, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to cover her ears. "I have news about Bertha."

With trembling fingers, (Y/n) accepted the letter. The paper was fine, expensive - the kind Bertha's father always used for his correspondence. But as she unfolded it, the familiar letterhead seemed somehow more formal, more foreboding:

From Baron Rheinfeldt

Castle Rheinfeldt

October 15th, 1872

My Dear Friend,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must write to you, bearing news that has shattered our household and will, I fear, bring great sorrow to your own - particularly to your dear (Y/n), whose friendship meant so much to my beloved Bertha.

I know you were expecting us within the week, and I cannot express the pain it causes me to instead send this letter. My darling daughter, my only child, has been taken from us in circumstances so peculiar and distressing that I can scarcely put them to paper. Yet you must know, if only to spare your household the anxiety of waiting for an arrival that can never come.

Three weeks ago, Bertha began to speak of strange dreams. She would wake in the night, claiming visitations from a dark figure that left her weak and frightened. We dismissed these as mere fancies at first - you know how imaginative she could be. But soon she grew pale and listless, her strength declining day by day. The local physician could find no cause for her malady, though she complained of a sharp pain in her breast and a gradual suffocation that seemed to worsen as each night fell.

Two nights ago, she woke screaming that the figure was in her room, but when we rushed to her aid, nothing was amiss. By morning, she could barely speak, her pulse so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Before the sun set that day, my beautiful child, my darling Bertha, had left this world.

The doctors speak of a mysterious illness, but can offer no true explanation for how a young woman in the bloom of health could decline so rapidly. I write this not only to explain our absence but to warn you - there have been other cases in our region of young women suffering similar fates. Perhaps it is some fever that has yet to be understood by medical science.

Please convey my deepest apologies to (Y/n). I know she and Bertha had been planning this reunion with great excitement. The thought of their joy makes this tragedy all the more bitter to bear.

Your friend in profound grief,

Baron Frederick Rheinfeldt

The letter trembled in (Y/n)'s hands, its meaning somehow both clear and incomprehensible. She read it again, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final.

"But," she said finally, her voice small, "we've prepared her room. Cook made cinnamon cakes."

Her father's hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture only made everything feel more wrong.

"The roses," she continued, the words spilling out like water. "They're beautiful right now - Bertha always loved them in autumn. She said they looked like sunset caught in flowers. We were going to press them in books, like we used to. I saved that collection of poetry she wrote about in her last letter - the one with the blue binding she described. It's on her bedside table, waiting..."

Tears came then, not in great heaving sobs, but in silent streams that seemed to surprise her. She touched her cheek, looking at the moisture on her fingers as if she couldn't quite understand where it had come from.

"She can't be..." (Y/n) smoothed the letter in her lap, focusing on removing every crease. "We were going to show her the new kittens in the stable. She doesn't even know about them yet. And her room - we put fresh lavender in all the drawers, just as she likes. The blue guest room, Papa. Her favorite. Madame Perrodon helped me arrange dried flowers just as she described seeing at that ball in Vienna..."

The afternoon light had begun to fade, the mist curling thicker around the garden's edges. Her father shifted uncomfortably on the oak's roots beside her.

"My dear, perhaps we should-"

"And the piano," (Y/n) interrupted, her voice taking on a peculiar, singsong quality. "We've had it tuned specially. That new piece she mentioned - the Mozart sonata. I've been practicing it for weeks so we could play it together. She was so excited about showing me how her technique has improved since finishing school. She said..." Her voice cracked. "She said we would play it for you, after dinner on her first night here."

A cool wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending dead leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"(Y/n)." Her father's voice was gentle but insistent. "The weather is turning. We should return to the house."

But she shook her head, clutching the letter tighter. "Just a little longer. She might still... There could be a mistake. Baron Rheinfeldt is older now, he could have become confused. If we just wait..."

The hours crept by, marked only by the gradual darkening of the sky and the periodic attempts of servants to coax them inside. First Marcel, pausing in his work to suggest rain was coming. Then Emma, sent by Cook with a tray of tea that grew cold, untouched. Finally Madame Perrodon herself, wringing her hands in distress at the sight of her charge sitting so still in the growing dark.

"Mademoiselle, please. You'll catch your death."

"You see?" (Y/n) seized on the common phrase with desperate hope. "People say that - 'catch your death.' But they don't really die. It's just something people say."

The sun had long since disappeared behind heavy clouds, the mist thickening into true darkness. One by one, lights began to appear in the house windows, warm squares of yellow that seemed to emphasize the gathering gloom in the garden. The pond's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting nothing now but the occasional ripple of rain drops.

Her father had remained beside her throughout, his silence both a comfort and a terrible confirmation. Now he stirred again, his joints surely aching from sitting so long on the hard roots.

"My dearest," he began, but stopped at the sound of distant carriage wheels on the road below.

(Y/n)'s head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. Through the mist, she could make out the bobbing lights of carriage lanterns, weaving their way up the treacherous road that led to their estate.

"You see?" she whispered. "You see? I knew if we just waited-"

The crash, when it came, was distant but unmistakable - the splintering of wood and the high, terrible scream of frightened horses cutting through the night air. The lantern lights jerked violently, then disappeared altogether.

Father and daughter sat frozen, straining to hear through the darkness. The silence that followed seemed to stretch eternally, broken only by the soft patter of rain on leaves.

"Papa?" (Y/n)'s voice had lost its childish insistence, fear creeping in at last.

(Y/n) was moving before her mind could catch up with her legs, her skirts gathered in trembling hands as she rushed toward the road. Behind her, she could hear her father's voice calling out, "(Y/n)! Wait!" but the sound seemed distant, unimportant.

The path down to the road was treacherous in daylight; in the gathering dark it was nearly impossible. Her boots slipped on wet leaves, branches caught at her hair and dress like grasping fingers. The mist had settled thick between the ancient trees, turning familiar paths into something alien and forbidding. Behind her, she could hear the gathering sounds of pursuit - servants calling out, the bounce of lantern light, her father's increasingly urgent voice.

It wasn't until she reached the road itself that doubt began to creep in. The fog here was even thicker, seeming to swallow the weak moonlight whole. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead that blocked what little light remained. Every sound seemed muffled, wrong - as if the fog itself was drinking them in.

"Miss (Y/n)!" Marcel's voice, accompanied by approaching lantern light. "Please wait for us!"

She paused then, her heart pounding, suddenly aware of how far she'd run and how dark it had grown. The crash had sounded closer. Or had her fear made her imagine that?

Her father caught up to her first, slightly out of breath. "Reckless girl," he muttered, but there was relief rather than anger in his voice. Behind him came Marcel and two other servants with lanterns, their light creating strange, shifting shadows among the trees.

A horse's frightened whinny cut through the fog, much closer now. (Y/n) moved forward more cautiously, her father's hand firm on her arm. The lantern light caught something metallic ahead - the gleam of an overturned carriage wheel, still spinning slowly.

As they drew closer, the scene emerged from the fog like a painting being unveiled. The carriage lay on its side, one wheel completely shattered. The horses, still partially harnessed, stamped and snorted nervously, their breath visible in the cold air. This was not the Rheinfeldts' familiar family carriage - this was something altogether grander and stranger, its black lacquered surface gleaming wet in the lantern light, its gilt trim suggesting foreign wealth.

"Hello?" her father called out. "Is anyone hurt?"

A movement near the carriage door drew their attention. A woman's voice, low and melodious, called back in accented French. "Ah, thank heaven. We've had quite the accident, as you can see."

The door, now facing skyward, opened with some effort. A figure emerged - a woman, elegant even in disarray, her dark traveling clothes of the finest quality. There was something striking about her face, though (Y/n) found she couldn't quite focus on its details in the shifting light.

"Allow me to assist you, Madame," her father stepped forward, helping the woman climb down from the tilted carriage. Marcel and the other servants moved to steady her descent.

"You are most kind," the woman said, switching to perfect if accented English. "We were on our way to visit friends in the next county when our driver took ill suddenly. The fog..." she gestured eloquently at their surroundings. "The road proved more treacherous than expected."

"Your driver - is he-?" her father began.

"Gone, I'm afraid. Fled into the woods in some sort of fit. But my greater concern is my son." Here she turned back to the carriage, genuine distress entering her voice. "He was thrown rather badly when we overturned. I haven't been able to wake him."

"Several of my men might assist in extracting him, Madame," her father offered, already gesturing to the servants.

The elegant woman nodded, stepping aside with a grace that seemed out of place in their dire circumstances. The lantern light caught her features strangely - one moment sharp as cut glass, the next oddly indistinct, like a painting seen through water.

Marcel and Thomas, one of the stronger footmen, approached the carriage carefully. The fog seemed to curl around their feet as they worked, making their movements appear dreamlike and sluggish. From within the dark interior came the sound of shifting fabric, a soft groan.

"Gentle, if you please," the woman called out, though her tone held more courtesy than real concern. "He is all I have in this world."

The words were right, (Y/n) thought, but something in their delivery rang false, like an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines. She found herself watching the woman's face, trying to fix its details in her mind, but each time she looked away, the memory of those features seemed to slip like water through her fingers.

"Carefully now," her father directed as the servants began to lift their unconscious charge. The lantern light swept across the scene, and (Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat.

The young man they carried was beauty made flesh - there was no other way to describe him. His face, unconscious and unguarded, held a quality that seemed to transcend mere human comeliness. Dark hair fell across his forehead in elegant disarray, and even in the poor light, his skin held a luminous quality, like moonlight on fresh snow. His clothes, though disarranged by the accident, were clearly of the finest quality - black velvet and silk that seemed to drink in the lantern light.

There was something about his face that tugged at (Y/n)'s memory, something tantalizingly familiar that danced just beyond her grasp. She found herself moving forward without conscious thought, drawn by an impulse she couldn't name.

"(Y/n)," her father's warning tone brought her up short. She realized she'd nearly reached out to touch the unconscious stranger's hand.

"He will be well, I think," the woman said, watching (Y/n) with an expression that might have been amusement. "Just stunned by the fall. What fortune that we should crash so near to such a grand house." Her gesture encompassed the manor, barely visible through the fog above them. "I don't suppose..."

"Of course," her father said immediately, nobility's obligations winning out over any hesitation. "We can offer shelter while arrangements are made for your onward journey."

"You are too kind." Again, that perfect courtesy that somehow felt hollow. "I hate to impose further, but I find myself in something of a predicament. I have urgent business that cannot wait - a matter of inheritance that requires my immediate presence. My son, however, is in no condition to travel."

(Y/n) watched in growing amazement as the woman outlined her request with elegant precision. Might her son remain here, under their care, while she attended to these pressing matters? She would, of course, send word within a day or two of her return date. She had friends in the region she'd been traveling to visit - though oddly, she didn't name them - who would vouch for their character.

"I cannot ask you to take on such a responsibility," she said, in a tone that suggested she expected exactly that.

"Nonsense," her father replied, though (Y/n) detected a slight unease in his voice. "We can hardly turn away those in need, especially of our own class. Your son will be well cared for until your return."

"You ease my heart," the woman said, though (Y/n) noticed she hadn't once looked back at her unconscious son since the servants had lifted him. "I can arrange alternate transport from the next town, if one of your men might assist me that far?"

It was all happening so quickly. Even as her father gave instructions for a groom to accompany the mysterious woman, even as Marcel and Thomas began their careful ascent toward the house with their unconscious burden, (Y/n) found herself struggling to understand how smoothly it had all been arranged. It was only when the woman stepped close to bid her farewell that a chill ran down her spine.

"Watch over him for me, dear one," the woman said softly, her fingers brushing (Y/n)’s cheek in a gesture that felt both intimate and alien. This close, her eyes seemed to hold a peculiar depth, like wells that went down forever. "He can be... difficult when he wakes. But I'm sure you'll manage him beautifully."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the fog with their groom, leaving behind only the overturned carriage and her unconscious son - and a lingering sense that something momentous and terrible had just been set in motion.

The house seemed to stir with nervous energy as they made their way back up the path, lanterns bobbing like will-o'-wisps through the fog. Marcel and Thomas carried their unconscious guest with careful precision, while Madame Perrodon hurried ahead to prepare the blue guest room - Bertha's room, (Y/n) thought with a sudden pang that felt almost like betrayal.

The entrance hall's warmth was a shock after the chill fog, the familiar space somehow changed by the evening's events. Servants whispered in corners, stealing glances at the beautiful stranger being carried up the grand staircase. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, ancient wood creaking under strange footsteps.

"The blue room, sir?" Madame Perrodon called down from the landing, her face pinched with concern.

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten. "Papa, not-"

"It is the most suitable guest room," her father said quietly. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it is... available."

The blue room had always been the grandest of their guest chambers. Its walls were painted a soft cornflower blue that caught the morning light beautifully, making the gilt-framed mirrors dance with reflected sunshine. Now, in the flickering candlelight, those same walls seemed almost grey, the mirrors reflecting only shadows as they carried his limp form through the doorway.

The bed was already turned down - prepared that morning for Bertha, (Y/n) remembered with another stab of grief. The very sheets that had been aired with lavender for her friend would now cradle this strange young man. She watched as they laid him carefully on the blue silk counterpane, his dark hair stark against the pale pillows, his face ethereally beautiful in the candlelight.

"Mademoiselle," Madame Perrodon touched her arm. "Perhaps you should retire. It's been a trying day."

But (Y/n) couldn't move, transfixed by the scene before her. Mrs. Klaus had appeared with hot water and cloths, presumably to tend to any injuries. The housekeeper's usually efficient movements seemed hesitant as she approached the bed, as if she too sensed something not quite natural about their mysterious guest.

"He appears unmarked," Mrs. Klaus said finally, her voice holding a note of surprise. "Not a scratch on him, despite the violence of the accident."

"Providence," her father murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

(Y/n) found her gaze drawn to his face again. In the better light, she could study his features properly - the elegant arch of his brows, the perfect curve of his mouth, the almost translucent quality of his skin. There was something about him that nagged at her memory, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue.

"Look how peaceful he sleeps," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "Like a painting."

"(Y/n)." Her father's tone was sharper now. "To your room. It's not proper for you to..."

He trailed off as the boy stirred slightly, his head turning on the pillow. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze, watching, but he didn't wake. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and again (Y/n) felt that maddening sense of familiarity.

"Come, mademoiselle." Madame Perrodon's grip on her arm was firmer now. "You've had a shock. First the news about poor Bertha, and now this excitement. You must rest."

The mention of Bertha's name seemed to break whatever spell had held (Y/n) in place. She allowed herself to be led from the room, though she couldn't help glancing back one last time. In the moment before the door closed, she could have sworn she saw his lips curve in the slightest smile.

Sleep proved impossible that night. (Y/n) lay in her bed, listening to the house settle around her with unfamiliar creaks and sighs. Even Madame Perrodon's usual soft breathing from the adjoining room provided little comfort. The events of the day swirled in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind - Bertha's letter, the crash, the strange elegant woman, and most persistently, the beautiful unconscious young man now sleeping in what should have been her friend's room.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, hauntingly perfect in the candlelight. That maddening sense of familiarity tugged at her thoughts, like a half-remembered dream. There was something about the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow...

A floorboard creaked in the hallway - probably just Mrs. Klaus making her nightly rounds, but (Y/n) found herself holding her breath, straining to hear. The blue room was just down the corridor. Was their mysterious guest still sleeping? The woman - his mother, though something about that relationship felt odd - had said he might be 'difficult' when he woke. What had she meant by that?

The wind picked up outside, branches scratching against her window like skeletal fingers. The sound reminded her of the carriage crash, of the fog-shrouded road. How strange that the woman had left so quickly, abandoning her supposedly beloved son to the care of strangers. And where had the driver gone? The more (Y/n) thought about it, the more questions arose.

She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself in that strange space between sleeping and waking, where reality blurs at the edges. The moonlight through her window seemed to pool like silver water on the floor, and in its glow, she thought she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A beautiful face looking down at her, familiar yet wrong somehow...

(Y/n) jerked awake, her heart pounding. The room was empty, the moonlight now nothing more than pale squares on the carpet. But the sense of a presence lingered, making her skin prickle with unnamed awareness.

"Madame?" she called softly, but only silence answered from the adjoining room.

Sleep proved even more elusive after that. She lay awake until the first grey light of dawn began to creep through her windows, bringing with it the usual morning sounds of the household stirring to life. She could hear servants moving below, their muffled voices carrying up through the floorboards. The smell of breakfast began to wind its way up the stairs - fresh bread and coffee, the normal rhythms of the house attempting to reassert themselves after the previous day's disruption.

A knock at her door made her start. "Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in."

The French woman entered, already dressed for the day, her face carrying an odd expression. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. Our... guest still sleeps."

The morning light in the breakfast room seemed too harsh, too ordinary after the strangeness of the night. (Y/n) picked at her toast, aware of the unusual tension around the table. Her father sat at his customary place, the morning paper untouched beside his coffee cup. Even the servants seemed to move differently, their usual efficient routines interrupted by frequent glances toward the ceiling - toward the blue room above.

"Has anyone checked on him?" (Y/n) finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Mrs. Klaus looked in at dawn," her father replied, frowning slightly. "Still sleeping, apparently. Quite deeply."

"It's nearly ten o'clock," Madame Perrodon observed, her usual calm manner betraying a hint of unease. "Should we perhaps summon Dr. Werner?"

"The mother said he would sleep unusually long," her father said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Something about a previous illness making him sensitive to travel."

"Did she?" (Y/n) asked, trying to recall the woman's exact words from the night before. But like so much about their mysterious visitor's mother, the details seemed to slip away when examined too closely.

The breakfast room fell silent again, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the tick of the great clock in the hall. Through the windows, (Y/n) could see Marcel in the gardens, seemingly intent on his work but positioned suspiciously close to the section beneath the blue room's windows.

Hours crept by with excruciating slowness. (Y/n) attempted to focus on her needlework, but found herself counting the chimes of the clock instead. Eleven. Twelve. One...

It was well past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Klaus appeared in the drawing room doorway, her usually unflappable demeanor slightly disturbed. "Sir," she addressed (Y/n)'s father, "The young gentleman is awake. He's asked to pay his respects to the household."

Something in the housekeeper's tone made (Y/n) look up sharply. Mrs. Klaus's face held an odd expression - not quite fear, but something adjacent to it.

"How does he seem?" her father asked, setting aside his book.

"Most..." Mrs. Klaus paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Most elegant, sir. Though perhaps still somewhat affected by his ordeal. He's asked to dress properly before receiving visitors."

"Of course," her father nodded. "We shall receive him here when he's ready."

The next half hour was torture. (Y/n) found herself smoothing her skirts repeatedly, hyper-aware of her reflection in the drawing room mirrors. That nagging sense of familiarity had returned, stronger now that their guest was awake.

When the drawing room door finally opened again, the late afternoon sun had begun to slant through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In that golden light, their guest appeared like something from a painting - perfectly composed, unnaturally beautiful. His dark clothes were immaculate, showing no sign of the previous night's accident. His face...

(Y/n) felt her breath catch. In the daylight, that sense of recognition was almost overwhelming.

He moved into the room with impossible grace, every gesture deliberate yet fluid, like a dancer marking steps to unheard music. His dark eyes found (Y/n)'s immediately, and something passed between them - recognition, connection, a current of awareness that made her hands tremble in her lap.

"Sir," he addressed her father with a slight bow, his voice musical and deeply cultured. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality. My name is..." Here he paused, almost imperceptibly, "Park. I find myself indebted to your kindness."

"Not at all," her father replied, though (Y/n) noticed he seemed slightly dazzled by their guest's presence. "We could hardly leave you in such circumstances. I am the Baron, and this is my daughter, (Y/n)."

Those dark eyes returned to her face. "Mademoiselle." He took her offered hand, his fingers cool against her skin. "Your beauty rivals the stars in their midnight dance"

(Y/n) felt herself flush, acutely aware of how forward such a comment was - and how, strangely, no one seemed to mind. Even Madame Perrodon, usually so quick to enforce propriety, appeared captivated.

"You must still be recovering from your ordeal," (Y/n) found herself saying. "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair nearest hers, then wondered at her own boldness.

He smiled - a subtle thing that seemed to transform his entire face - and accepted the seat. "You are too kind. Though I confess, the accident itself is somewhat... hazy in my memory."

"Not unusual, given the circumstances," her father said. "Your mother mentioned you'd been unwell recently?"

Again that barely perceptible pause. "Yes, a recurring condition that makes travel... challenging. Which makes your generous offer of shelter all the more appreciated."

"How fortunate that you were so near when the accident occurred," (Y/n) said, then immediately worried it might sound accusatory.

But he only turned that devastating smile on her again. "Fortune indeed. Though I believe some meetings are destined, don't you? Written in the stars, as poets would say."

The way he looked at her as he said it - as if they were sharing a private joke, as if they'd known each other forever - made her heart flutter strangely. That nagging sense of familiarity grew stronger.

"Do you read poetry, Mademoiselle?"

"(Y/n)," she corrected without thinking, then blushed again. "And yes, I'm particularly fond of the Romantics."

"Ah!" His entire face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Then we must discuss Byron. 'The Dream' has been much in my thoughts lately." He began to recite softly:

"'Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world...'"

His voice seemed to caress each word, giving them new meaning. (Y/n) found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by his presence, his passion for the poetry she loved.

Her father cleared his throat, but she noticed his expression had softened. It had been weeks since he'd seen her truly engaged with anyone, she realized. Not since the excitement of planning Bertha's visit...

The thought of Bertha should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant compared to the magnetic presence of their guest.

"Perhaps," her father said carefully, "you might show our guest the library after tea? I understand you share a love of literature."

Tea had been a strangely intimate affair, their guest, displaying impeccable manners while barely touching his cup. Now, as (Y/n) led him through the manor's winding corridors toward the library, she found herself acutely aware of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to change when he moved.

The library had always been her sanctuary, its floor-to-ceiling shelves creating the impression of a forest made of books. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow in the air. She turned to gauge his reaction and found him already watching her, that same knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Your home is remarkable," he said, moving past her to trail his fingers along the spines of nearby books. "These volumes... quite a collection. Your father's?"

"Many were my mother's," (Y/n) replied, watching as he pulled out a volume of Byron. "She had quite passionate opinions about literature."

"Had?" He glanced up, those dark eyes suddenly intent.

"She passed when I was seven."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face - understanding? Recognition? "My condolences. Though I suspect she left you her love of poetry?"

(Y/n) moved closer, drawn by the way his fingers caressed the book's leather binding. "You quoted Byron earlier - 'The Dream.'"

"Yes." He turned toward her fully then, and she realized how close they'd gotten. His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You must call me Jimin. Somehow 'Park' feels... inadequate. Too formal for what I sense between us."

The way he said it - as if they shared some profound secret - made her breath catch. That nagging familiarity surged again, stronger than ever.

"Have we..." she started, then hesitated. "This may sound strange, but I feel as though..."

"As though we've met before?" His smile held something dangerous now, thrilling. "Perhaps in dreams?"

The word triggered something - a memory trying to surface - but before she could grasp it, he was moving again, graceful as a cat, pulling another book from the shelves.

"Ah, Coleridge. Another poet fascinated by dreams and the boundaries between worlds." He began to read, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality.

The library had grown darker around them, the sunset painting the sky beyond the windows in shades of blood and gold. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His closeness should have made her uncomfortable, yet somehow it felt... inevitable.

"I hardly slept last night," (Y/n) found herself confessing, her voice barely above a whisper. "There was something... strange."

Jimin's expression shifted subtly, a flash of intense interest quickly masked. "Strange how?"

"I thought..." she hesitated, aware of how foolish it might sound. "I woke in the night - or perhaps I was still dreaming - and there was a figure, standing at the foot of my bed. Just... watching me."

His fingers, still lingering near her face, stilled completely. "And this frightened you?"

"No," she realized, surprised by her own answer. "It should have, shouldn't it? A stranger in my room. But it felt... familiar somehow. Like a half-remembered lullaby."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "Dreams have their own truth," he said softly. "Sometimes truer than what we think we know when awake."

Something in his tone made her shiver, though not unpleasantly. She found herself studying his face in the fading light, trying to catch that elusive sense of recognition that kept dancing just beyond her grasp. "Do you dream, Jimin?"

His smile held secrets. "Oh yes. Though sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories. Don't you find them remarkably similar? Both grow hazy around the edges, both feel real while we're in them..." He shifted slightly closer. "Both can haunt us long after we think we've forgotten them."

The library had grown so dark that his face was now mostly shadow, yet his eyes seemed to catch what little light remained. (Y/n) was acutely aware of how improper their situation had become - alone in the growing dark, sitting far too close. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"Tell me about your life here," he said suddenly, his voice gentle. "This beautiful cage of yours."

She started at his choice of words - so similar to her own thoughts. "How did you-?"

"I recognize the look," he interrupted softly. "The way you watch the road from your windows. The hunger in your eyes when you speak of your friend... Bertha, was it?"

The name should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant in the face of his overwhelming presence. "Yes, she was... she was to visit. Before..."

"Before fate intervened," he finished for her. "Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was meant to find you instead."

The presumption of such a statement should have shocked her, yet she found herself nodding. "I've never been able to talk to anyone like this," she admitted. "Even Bertha... there were always proper things to say, proper ways to be. This feels..."

"Different," he supplied. "Real. As if we've known each other forever." His cool fingers found hers in the darkness. "As if we've met before."

That nagging sense of familiarity surged again, stronger than ever. There was something about his face in the shadows, something about the way he looked at her...

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. They moved apart just as Madame Perrodon appeared in the doorway, carrying a lamp that made them both blink at its sudden brightness.

"Mademoiselle, it's nearly time to dress for dinner." Her tone held a gentle reproof. "And the lamps should have been lit an hour ago. It's not good for your eyes, reading in such dim light."

(Y/n) stood, suddenly aware of how long they'd been secluded together, how improper it must seem. But when she glanced at Jimin, he appeared perfectly composed, as if they'd been discussing nothing more intimate than the weather.

"My fault entirely, Madame," he said, rising with fluid grace. "I'm afraid I quite lost track of time, enchanted by your charge's conversation."

Something in the way he said it - so perfectly proper yet somehow suggesting deeper meanings - made (Y/n)'s cheeks flush. Madame Perrodon's expression suggested she caught the undertone as well, though she said nothing.

"Will you join us for dinner?" (Y/n) asked, not ready for their conversation to end.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I fear I'm still somewhat fatigued from yesterday's... excitement. Perhaps tomorrow? The daylight hours particularly tax my strength."

"Of course," she said quickly, concerned. "You must rest."

He caught her hand as she passed, his touch cool and electric. "Dream of me," he whispered, too soft for Madame Perrodon to hear.

Something about the way he said it - half playful, half command - sent another shiver down her spine. As if she could dream of anything else.

Dinner that evening felt like a strange performance where (Y/n) couldn't quite remember her lines. The familiar rhythms of the household - the clink of silver against fine china, the measured steps of servants, her father's occasional comments about estate matters - seemed to come from very far away. Her thoughts kept drifting upstairs, to the blue room where Jimin now rested.

"(Y/n)?" Her father's voice broke through her reverie. "You've been pushing the same pea around your plate for ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Papa." She forced herself to take a bite, though the food held little interest. "I suppose I'm a bit tired."

Her father studied her over his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. "Our guest seems... interesting. You spent quite some time in the library today."

Something in his tone made her glance up sharply, but his face held only mild curiosity. If anything, he looked pleased - the first time she'd seen such an expression since Bertha's letter arrived.

"He's very well-read," she offered carefully. "We discussed poetry, and..."

"And?" her father prompted when she trailed off, remembering the intensity of Jimin's gaze in the falling darkness.

"He understands things," she found herself saying. "About feeling... isolated. Different." The words came out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd meant to be.

Her father's face softened. "I know these past years have been lonely for you, my dear. Perhaps it's providence that brought him to us, especially after..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Bertha's death hung between them, an invisible weight.

"Yes," (Y/n) whispered, though something about suggesting providence in connection with Jimin felt strange, almost blasphemous.

"Still," Madame Perrodon interjected from her place at the table, "proper chaperoning must be maintained. A young man, however well-bred..."

"Of course, of course," her father waved off the concern. "But surely some companionship would do (Y/n) good. And he seems a perfect gentleman."

Perfect. The word echoed in (Y/n)'s mind. He was perfect - too perfect, perhaps. Like a painting of a person rather than a person themselves. Even now, she found she couldn't quite recall the exact details of his face, though she'd spent hours studying it. It was as if his features shifted slightly in her memory, like reflections in moving water.

"Mademoiselle?" One of the maids - Anne - was at her elbow. "You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"

"Just tired," (Y/n) repeated, though tired wasn't quite the right word. She felt... anticipated, as if she were waiting for something to begin. "Perhaps I should retire early."

"A wise choice," Madame Perrodon said, rising to accompany her.

As they climbed the grand staircase, (Y/n) found her eyes drawn to the blue room's door. No light showed beneath it, but she had the strangest feeling that behind that heavy oak panel, in the darkness, Jimin was awake. Waiting. Thinking of her as she thought of him.

"Sweet dreams, my dear," Madame Perrodon said as they reached (Y/n)'s room. Something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the lingering glance at the blue room's door.

Alone in her room, (Y/n) moved to her window. The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamond dust. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began to sing. The sound made her think of Jimin's voice, the hypnotic way he'd spoken of dreams and memories.

Her reflection in the window glass looked strange to her - pale, eyes too bright, as if she were already half in a dream. Behind her, shadows gathered in the corners of her room, and she could have sworn they moved like living things...

That night, sleep came to (Y/n) like a creeping tide. The moon hung full and low outside her window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, time began to slip and stretch like pulled taffy.

She first became aware of her paralysis when she tried to turn away from the moonlight. Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. The air in her room grew thick, heavy with an invisible presence that seemed to press down upon her chest.

Then came the smell - that peculiar sweetness she'd noticed about Jimin, like roses on the edge of decay mixed with something older, something that reminded her of ancient books and midnight gardens. Instead of frightening her, the scent brought an odd comfort, making her mind drift deeper into that strange half-conscious state.

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down with infinite care. Cool fingers seemed to brush her cheek, trail down her neck with exquisite tenderness. She should have been terrified - would have been, in any other circumstance. But there was something achingly familiar about the touch, about the presence that filled her room like smoke.

A weight settled over her, not crushing but encompassing, as if she were being embraced by the night itself. That sweet, strange scent grew stronger, and with it came a sensation of being cherished, desired, consumed - all at once. The moonlight caught something moving above her - a face perhaps, beautiful and terrible in equal measure - but before she could focus on its features, consciousness began to slip away entirely.

The last thing she felt was a sharp, sweet pain just above her breast - two points of exquisite sensation that sent waves of pleasure-pain through her increasingly distant body. A voice might have whispered something, ancient words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood, but by then she was falling into deeper dreams...

Morning came with strange heaviness. (Y/n) woke feeling as though she'd been drugged, her limbs weighted with an unfamiliar lethargy. Sunlight streamed through her windows, yet she felt none of its warmth. There was a peculiar sensation in her breast - not quite pain, but a presence, as if someone had pressed their hand there and the pressure lingered, though nothing showed.

"Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you unwell? It's past nine..."

"Just tired," (Y/n) managed, though 'tired' wasn't the right word. She felt simultaneously drained and oddly euphoric, as if she were floating just slightly above herself.

The morning passed in a dream-like haze. She found herself drifting off during breakfast, her father's voice fading in and out like a poorly tuned piano. The tea tasted strange in her mouth, the toast turning to ash on her tongue.

"Perhaps you should rest today," her father suggested, watching her with concern. "You're quite pale."

But the thought of returning to bed held no appeal. Instead, she found herself drawn to the upper corridor, to the blue room where their guest presumably still slept. The door, she noticed, was firmly locked - Mrs. Klaus's knocking going unanswered as she attempted to deliver tea.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Jimin finally emerged. (Y/n) had taken refuge in the library, attempting to read but finding the words swimming before her eyes. His entrance was silent - she looked up to find him simply there, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes.

"You look tired," he said softly, settling into the chair opposite hers. In the fading daylight, his own face held a similar languor, as if he too were recovering from some midnight exertion.

"Strange dreams," she found herself saying, though she couldn't quite remember them. Just impressions remained - a weight on her chest, cool fingers against her skin, a presence both terrifying and beloved.

Something flickered in his eyes - interest? Recognition? But he only smiled that secretive smile and began speaking of other things. As darkness fell, his lethargy seemed to lift. By evening, he was almost vibrant, his movements acquiring that fluid grace she remembered from their first meeting.

That week settled into a strange pattern. Each morning, (Y/n) woke feeling increasingly drained, yet somehow lighter, as if she were slowly becoming less substantial. Jimin's door remained locked until late afternoon, no amount of knocking drawing response. Their conversations, when he finally appeared, grew more intimate, more intense.

"Tell me about your dreams," he would say, his voice holding that hypnotic quality that made her want to confess everything. But the dreams remained elusive - just fragments of sensation, of presence, of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

News came, carried by Marcel who'd been to the village, that Catherine - the milliner's daughter - had taken ill with some mysterious malady. "Weak as a kitten," the gardener reported, "and her sister Marie looking hardly better."

The information stirred something in (Y/n)'s mind - a half-formed connection she couldn't quite grasp. But then Jimin would appear, beautiful in the gathering darkness, and all other thoughts would fade away.

Their early days together fell into a strange rhythm. Though Jimin never appeared before late afternoon, the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him. (Y/n) found herself drawn to the library as the sun began its westward descent, knowing he would eventually materialize in the doorway like a figure stepping out of a dream.

On this particular afternoon, autumn rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of grey light and shadow. (Y/n) sat in her usual window seat, a book open but unread in her lap, when she felt rather than heard his approach.

"You're watching for me now," he observed, his voice holding that mixture of amusement and satisfaction that made her cheeks warm. "Do I make such entertaining company?"

"You make interesting company," she corrected, marking how the rain-light seemed to make his skin almost luminous. "Though you never speak of yourself."

He settled beside her with that fluid grace she'd come to expect. "What would you know? My histories are long and dark - hardly suitable conversation for a young lady."

Before she could press further, voices in the entrance hall drew their attention. Through the library's open door came the sound of her father greeting someone - a man's voice, educated but unfamiliar, speaking with urgent authority.

"The deaths in the neighboring village..." the voice was saying. "Most concerning patterns... Similar to cases I've studied..."

(Y/n) felt Jimin tense beside her, though his face remained perfectly composed. Something shifted in the air between them, like the pressure change before a storm.

Their visitor proved to be Father Laurent, a scholar-priest from the nearby monastery. He carried himself with the confident air of a man used to being heard, his dark robes still beaded with rain. But it was the wooden box he carried that drew (Y/n)'s attention - ornately carved with symbols she didn't recognize.

"My dear," her father gestured her forward as she and Jimin entered the drawing room. "Father Laurent has brought something he thinks might interest you. Given your recent... fatigue."

The priest's eyes moved between her and Jimin, something knowing in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "Yes, indeed. Though I see you have a guest...?"

"Park Jimin," her father supplied. "A temporary addition to our household after an accident on the road."

"Most fortunate," Father Laurent murmured, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. His attention returned to (Y/n). "My child, I've brought something that might help with your... affliction."

From the wooden box, he withdrew a necklace - a simple leather cord from which hung a small silver charm. The metal caught the grey light strangely, seeming to hold it rather than reflect it.

"An old blessing," the priest explained, moving to place it around her neck. "For protection against... night terrors."

(Y/n) was acutely aware of Jimin's presence behind her, the way the air seemed to crackle with some unnamed tension. As Father Laurent's fingers brushed her neck, securing the charm, she heard the softest intake of breath from Jimin - something between a hiss and a sigh.

"How kind," Jimin's voice was perfectly modulated, yet somehow held an edge she'd never heard before. "Though surely a young lady has no need for such... medieval trinkets?"

In the days following Father Laurent's visit, the charm around (Y/n)'s neck grew to feel like both comfort and burden. Though she often caught Jimin eyeing it with something like distaste, he never mentioned it directly. Instead, his attempts to occupy her attention seemed to grow more focused, more intense.

One particularly languid afternoon, she found herself drawn to the blue room. The door, usually so firmly locked, stood slightly ajar - an invitation she couldn't resist. Inside, Jimin lay across the bed fully dressed, one arm thrown elegantly across his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said without moving, as if he'd been waiting for her. "The sun is so harsh today. Draw the curtains?"

She did, watching how the heavy blue velvet transformed the room into a twilight world. When she turned back, he had shifted to make space beside him on the counterpane.

"Come," he said softly. "Lie beside me. Like we used to."

The words struck her oddly - they'd never done this before - but she found herself moving forward anyway. It wasn't proper, she knew, to be here without Madame Perrodon's supervision, but Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable.

"Why do you always lock your door?" she found herself asking as she carefully settled beside him, the question that had burned in her mind finally finding voice.

His smile widened slightly, though his arm remained over his eyes. "Do I? Perhaps I sleepwalk. Perhaps I have secrets I must keep." His free hand found hers, fingers intertwining with that unnatural coolness she'd grown used to. "Perhaps I'm afraid of what might come visiting in the night."

"You mock me," she said, though without heat.

"Never." He turned then, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The dim light caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "I would never mock your curiosity. It's one of the things I find most..." he paused, seeming to taste the word before speaking it, "...delicious about you."

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, though not entirely unpleasant ones. They lay in silence for a moment, his cool fingers tracing abstract patterns on her palm.

"Tell me a story," he said finally. "Something from your childhood. A memory you hold dear."

She thought for a moment, and then, "I had the strangest dream once, when I was very young - perhaps six or seven. Though sometimes I wonder if it was a dream at all..."

His hand stilled in hers. "Tell me."

"I woke in the night - or thought I did. There was a figure standing by my bed, the most beautiful being I'd ever seen." As she spoke, the memory became clearer, details she'd forgotten surfacing like bodies in dark water. "They knelt beside me, stroked my hair. I felt... loved. Cherished. But also..."

"Also?" His voice had taken on an odd quality, intense yet somehow distant.

"Afraid. Not of them, exactly, but of how much I wanted them to stay. They spoke to me, though I couldn't understand the words. And then..." She touched her breast unconsciously, just below where the charm now lay. "There was a sensation, like being pierced by ice and fire at once. I screamed..."

"And the servants came running," Jimin said softly. "With candles and concerns. But found nothing amiss, save a very frightened little girl."

(Y/n) sat up slightly, looking at him with surprise. "How did you know?"

His smile was dreamy, distant. "Because I had the same dream at that age, watching over you, caressing you. Strange, isn't it? How some souls are destined to meet, how some moments echo across time until they find their mirror?" His cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Perhaps that's why I feel as though I've known you forever."

The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with sudden warmth, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite it. Something about his words rang both true and false, like a bell with a hidden crack.

"How strange," she murmured, settling back against the pillows. "That we should share such a similar dream."

"Perhaps not strange at all," Jimin replied softly. His fingers had moved to trace the line of her jaw, touch whisper-light but somehow burning cold. "Some meetings are written in the stars, dear one. Some souls call to each other across time itself."

The room had grown darker, though she couldn't remember the sun setting. In this half-light, Jimin's beauty took on an almost painful quality - too perfect to be quite real, like a painting that moved and breathed. His dark eyes seemed to drink in her face with an intensity that should have frightened her.

"You're trembling," he observed, his cool hand sliding down to rest over her heart. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she whispered, though her pulse raced beneath his palm. "I should be, shouldn't I? Everything about this is..." She gestured vaguely at their position, at the impropriety of lying together in the growing dark.

"Everything about this is exactly as it should be." His face was very close now, his sweet, strange scent making her head spin. "You're mine, (Y/n). You've always been mine, since that dream, since before that dream. Can't you feel it?"

The charm at her throat seemed to burn, but she couldn't focus on its warning. Not with Jimin's cool fingers trailing down her neck, not with the weight of his gaze holding her like a butterfly pinned to velvet.

"Mine," he murmured again, the word carrying a weight that made her shiver. His fingers traced patterns on her skin that felt like ancient writing, like secrets too old for human understanding. "My sweet, innocent girl."

The endearment should have felt patronizing, but instead it made her feel precious, cherished. His touch remained gentle, yet there was something possessive in it that stirred feelings she had no names for. The charm at her throat felt like it was burning now, but she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is this? What are we to each other?"

His smile in the darkness was beautiful and terrible. "Everything," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "We are everything to each other. Past, present, future - all flowing together like rivers to the sea."

The poetic words made her head spin, or perhaps it was his proximity, the sweet-strange scent of him overwhelming her senses. His cool fingers had found their way into her hair, loosening pins until soft strands fell around her shoulders.

"Beautiful," he murmured, watching the way her hair spilled across the blue silk of the counterpane. "Like night itself made tangible." His thumb brushed her bottom lip, the touch so intimate it made her gasp. "So innocent, so pure. Do you know what you do to me, dear?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Her whole world had narrowed to his touch, his voice, the way his dark eyes seemed to glow in the gathering shadows. This was improper - beyond improper - but propriety seemed a distant concern, as unreal as the world beyond this room.

"Everything about you calls to me," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel as though she were drowning in honey. "Your innocence, your trust, your..." he pressed his hand against her rapidly beating heart, "...life.

The room had grown darker as they lay together, the heavy blue curtains transforming late afternoon into premature dusk. (Y/n) knew she should leave - everything about this situation defied propriety - yet she found herself sinking deeper into the feather mattress, hyperaware of Jimin's cool presence beside her.

His fingers continued their delicate exploration of her palm, each touch sending little shivers up her arm. The simple contact shouldn't have felt so intimate, yet something about the deliberate way he traced each line made her breath catch.

"Your hands are always so cold," she murmured, watching his pale fingers contrast against her skin.

"And yours so warm," he responded, bringing her wrist to his lips in a gesture that walked the line between courtly and something else entirely. His breath ghosted across her pulse point, making her shiver. "Like you've captured sunlight beneath your skin."

She should pull away. A proper young lady would never allow such liberties. But Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable. When he tugged her closer, she found herself yielding, turning to face him on the blue silk counterpane.

"Sometimes," he said softly, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair from her face, "I wonder if you know how extraordinary you are." His touch lingered at her temple, traced the curve of her cheek with exquisite slowness. "How rare it is to find someone who sees the world as you do, who understands..."

"Understands what?" she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes. The room seemed to be growing dimmer still, shadows gathering in the corners like conspirators.

Instead of answering, he let his fingers trail down her neck, each touch precise and deliberate. The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with warning heat, but she could focus only on the delicious contrast of his cool skin against her flushed warmth.

"Your heart is racing," he observed, his hand settling over the rapid beat. "Are you frightened of me, dear?"

"No," she answered truthfully. She should be - everything about this situation should terrify her. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking shade. "Though perhaps I should be."

His smile in the gathering dark was both beautiful and strange. "Wise girl." His fingers had found their way into her hair, carefully removing the last of the pins setting loose luscious waves that spilled across the pillows. "Though I prefer your trust to your wisdom."

The impropriety of her loosened hair struck her suddenly - this was something only a lady's maid or husband should see. Yet when Jimin's fingers carded through the strands, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, propriety seemed a distant concern.

"Like silk," he murmured, watching the way her hair caught what little light remained. His touch became more possessive, one hand tangling in the strands while the other traced patterns on her neck that felt like ancient writing. "Everything about you is so..."

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he shifted closer, until she could feel the strange coolness that always emanated from him along her entire body. His face lowered to her neck, just beside the charm, and she felt rather than heard him inhale deeply.

"Jimin," she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice. It came out halfway between protest and plea.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his lips now brushing her throat with each word. "I love how my name sounds on your lips."

"Jimin," she whispered again, the name falling from her lips like a prayer. His mouth pressed against her pulse point in response, a kiss that felt more like worship.

The room spun slowly around them, or perhaps it was just her head spinning. Everything felt dreamlike - the deepening shadows, the cool press of his body against hers, the way his fingers traced arcane patterns down her arms. She was dimly aware that she should maintain some semblance of propriety, but propriety seemed to belong to another world entirely.

His hand at her waist pulled her closer still, grip possessive yet somehow reverent. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how long I've waited for this? For you?"

The words made little sense, yet sent shivers down her spine nonetheless. His lips traveled up her neck with exquisite slowness, each kiss a point of delicious cold that made her gasp. When his teeth grazed her earlobe, she found herself clutching at his shoulders, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

"My innocent girl," he breathed, his free hand now trailing down her side, following the curve of her waist. "So responsive to every touch." As if to demonstrate, his fingers splayed across her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath her breast. Even through layers of clothing, the touch felt scandalously intimate.

She should stop this. Should remember her position, her reputation, all the careful lessons in propriety that Madame Perrodon had instilled. Instead, she found herself arching slightly into his touch, craving more of that wonderful chill.

"That's it," he encouraged softly, his nose trailing along her jaw. "Trust me. Let me..." His hand slipped higher, and she felt rather than heard his satisfaction when she gasped. "Perfect. You're perfect."

The charm at her throat burned in earnest now, but she barely noticed. Not when Jimin's mouth was leaving a trail of frost down her neck, not when his hands were teaching her body sensations she'd never imagined. Everything felt heightened, dreamlike - the silk beneath her, the weight of him beside her, the sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him now filling her lungs like incense.

His touches grew bolder, more demanding. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat while the other...

Footsteps in the corridor snapped through their private world like breaking glass. Voices approached - servants doing their evening rounds, discussing dinner preparations with comfortable familiarity.

Reality crashed back with stunning force. (Y/n) jerked away, suddenly aware of her state - hair loose and wild around her shoulders, dress rumpled, lips surely swollen from his attention. What had she been thinking? What had she allowed?

"I should..." she stumbled to her feet, face burning with shame and lingering desire. "I need to..."

"Go," Jimin said softly, still lounging on the bed with casual grace, as if nothing untoward had happened. But his eyes burned in the darkness, and his smile held something that made her shiver anew. "Dream of me."

She fled the room just as the servants' voices passed by, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. Behind her, she heard the distinctive click of his door locking once again.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬

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bjds--fantasy · 2 years ago

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Dream Valley Nightmare Constantine MSD Limited for 6th year Anniversary

#nightmare constantine #bjd #1/4 scale #ball jointed doll #asian ball jointed doll #fantasy #dream valley #dream valley limited #msd #fantasy bjd #centaur bjd

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urarakasdiary · 10 months ago

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-LILY OF THE VALLEY

Jjk men as your lover!

GOJO

He's head over heels for you and isn't ashamed of showing it.

Protective but not so much so that you feel controlled. He knows the limits.

Always picking/dropping you off. When you're out somewhere: spending time with friends, clubbing, etc. it doesn't matter, he's always beside you, looking over your shoulder. Staying alert.

Definitely spoils you with wayy too many expensive gifts and if not gifts, date nights, picnics and movies are his thing.

Might be a bit too cocky and touchy but will stop when you ask him to.

GETO

Public show of affection is not his first preference but if you like it, he'll do it.

I can see him being overprotective. He knows it's wrong so he tries not to show it.

Is always on the lookout for bad company you have, and will warn you about them.

Doesn't necessarily spoil you but he'll buy you anything you ask him to.

He can be a bit manipulative sometimes, but he knows his flaws and tries fixing them for your sake.

NANAMI

He's an old money guy. Flowers and chocolates every week. Showers you with affection.

Covers you with his jacket when it's cold, and never lets you open any doors, that's his responsibility. And trips to your dream places every month.

Also a big spoiler, more on the high-end stuff. Designer bags, jewelry, coats, clothes whatever you have an interest in. If you're not interested in stuff like that he'll buy/make anything you like.

Acts cold, more so if his work is stressing him out. Random bursts of anger that surprise you, but he would never, ever hurt you.

MEGUMI

Also a guy who does not like public display of affection. Will try his best to avoid it. But at the end of the day, if you do show affection in public, he'll gladly accept it.

I don't see him spoiling you. Quality time with you is more important than giving gifts.

He would never admit it but he loves it when you play with his hair.

It takes a bit for him to open up to you and express himself freely, but you'll get there sometime.

SUKUNA

I have no words.

This dude will not let you breathe. Hyperfixated on you and you alone.

Going out? where? when? with whom? what are you gonna eat? why? you already have me, why do you need anything else?

Possessive, over-protective, ANGER ISSUES.

Loves you more than you could imagine tho.

CHOSO

He's definitely very shy. Even with you.

Wants you all for himself. If someone even looks at you a bit too much, he's picking up a fight.

Doesn't really know how to express his love so he does everything. Acts of service, Gift giving, Quality time, and maybe even physical touch (sometimes).

Gets upset very quickly but he knows how to handle his temper.

I wrote this in a single day because I want to revive my blog 🥲 Very very sorry if it did not meet your expectations Im trying to get back to writing and English being my second language doesn't help either 😭 Requests are now open :) <3

If you want a part 2 just let me know. I'll try to respond as soon as possible 💗

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yourpenpaldee · 8 months ago

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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ WRITEBLR INTRODUCTION.

I don't usually put myself out there as it makes me nervous. But I've been a lurker for way too long, and it's about time I step out of my comfort zone. So, hello! I'm Dee (she/her), twenty-two, and have found my voice with storytelling.

Writing has always been a passion of mine, and continues to be the tool I turn to when I need an outlet to freely express myself. I have, unfortunately, hit a rough patch with consistency, and I'm here to bring all of that motivation and inspiration back. Especially since there are one too many WIPs sitting on the backburner, and they're all calling my name.

As someone who loves to dip their toes into every genre of fiction, I will read anything that peaks my interest. However, when it comes to creating, my works usually fall under romance and mystery. With practice, I intend on branching out into other genres I don't write often. There's a lot to explore in the world of writing, and I don't want to limit myself to only two categories.

Creating this blog provides me the space I need to accomplish the many goals I often dream of achieving. I acknowledge that it all starts with the ability to hold myself accountable. To show up for myself. To become comfortable with the uncomfortable. Putting myself and my projects out into the world is only the first of many steps, and it feels quite liberating.

I aim to use the voice I've found to not only contribute to the progression of POC representation, but to touch on several topics that remain heavily stigmatized in today's media. There’s a joy that runs through my veins every time I see someone like me on my screen or in a book. I feel seen, heard, and proud. I feel important. But as a creator, there’s that itch that can only be scratched when I create. When I make something that lets the next person know that they’re not invisible. That they're valued, loved, and appreciated. That's what I hope for when someone reads a project of mine. For them to feel the same rush of joy flowing through them as it does me.

Wow, I’m a yapper. I'd like to close this intro off with some fun facts, so here are some of my top five favorites with sidenotes because I still want to yap a bit more about the things I adore.

SOLO ARTISTS:

ARI LENNOX ✧ ˚ · . CHOCOLATE POMEGRANATE — GET CLOSE — GOAT — POF — UP LATE

HALSEY ✧ ˚ · . 100 LETTERS — I HATE EVERYBODY — NIGHTMARE — ROMAN HOLIDAY — THE LIGHTHOUSE

HOPE TALA ✧ ˚ · . CHERRIES — EDEN — I CAN'T EVEN CRY — LEAVE IT ON THE DANCEFLOOR — SUNBURN

MELANIE MARTINEZ ✧ ˚ · . ALPHABET BOY — DEAD TO ME — EVIL — NOTEBOOK — STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE

HALIMA ✧ ˚ · . DOWNTOWN — FORD CARDINAL — IF LOVE WAS GREEN — SAMANTHA — TALK

BANDS:

5 SECONDS OF SUMMER ✧ ˚ · . AIRPLANES — BETTER MAN — KILL MY TIME — LONG WAY HOME — TEARS!

FALL OUT BOY ✧ ˚ · . BANG THE DOLDRUMS — CHICAGO IS SO TWO YEARS AGO — HEADFIRST SLIDE INTO COOPERSTOWN ON A BAD BET — NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER — WHERE DID THE PARTY GO

FLO ✧ ˚ · . CARDBOARD BOX — FLY GIRL — IMMATURE — SUITE LIFE (FAMILIAR) — WALK LIKE THIS

PARAMORE ✧ ˚ · . BIG MAN, LITTLE DIGNITY — CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE — FRANKLIN — MISGUIDED GHOST — PART II

THE INTERNET ✧ ˚ · . DONTCHA — HOLD ON — LOOK WHAT U STARTED — SOMTHING'S MISSING — SPECIAL AFFAIR

GAMES:

CORAL ISLAND ✧ ˚ · . IF I START LISTING NAMES, I'M GOING TO MENTION EVERYONE. BUT I'M A LOYAL MARK GIRL. AND NOAH... AND MILLIE, EVA, BEN, Y—

DISNEY DREAMLIGHT VALLEY ✧ ˚ · . THIS IS SUCH A COMFORT GAME THAT SOOTHES MY INNER CHILD.

DON'T STARVE [TOGETHER] ✧ ˚ · . I MAY OR MAY NOT STILL SUCK AT THIS GAME AFTER A SOLID THREE YEARS, BUT I'M A WIGFRID MAIN.

STARDEW VALLEY ✧ ˚ · . I LOVE SEBASTIAN AND LEAH, AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL IF I HAVE TO.

THE SIMS 4 ✧ ˚ · . WHERE I SPEND A LOT MORE TIME IN CREATE-A-SIM AND BUILD MODE COMPARED TO PLAYING THE ACTUAL GAME.

TROPES:

FAKE RELATIONSHIP ✧ ˚ · . MHM... JUST SAY YOU LIKE EACH OTHER ALREADY.

FATED MATE ✧ ˚ · . I'M A BIT PICKY ABOUT THIS TROPE THOUGH. THINGS TEND TO MOVE VERY QUICKLY BUT I ENJOY IT NONETHELESS.

FRIENDS TO LOVERS ✧ ˚ · . A CLASSIC THAT DOESN'T NEED AN EXPLANATION.

REUNION ✧ ˚ · . ESPECIALLY IF THEY WERE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS AND THEY REMINISCE OLD MEMORIES, OH MY GOODNESS. I EAT THIS TROPE UP EVERY TIME.

SLOWBURN ✧ ˚ · . NO DOUBT THIS IS MY MOST FAVORITE TROPE. THE BUILDUP TO EVEN THE TINIEST PIVOTAL MOMENT ALWAYS MAKES MY HEART THUMP.

TV SHOWS:

CRIMINAL MINDS ✧ ˚ · . YES, I’LL WATCH ALL 16 SEASONS FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME AND FALL IN LOVE WITH PRENTISS EACH TIME. WE WERE ALSO ROBBED OF BEARDED HOTCH CONTENT.

BRIDGERTON ✧ ˚ · . DO I CRY EVERY TIME I WATCH GEORGE AND CHARLOTTE'S STORY? YES. WILL I CONTINUE TO REWATCH IT AND RECITE THE LINES EVERY TIME SOMETHING REMINDS ME OF IT? ASOLUTELY.

THE BEAR ✧ ˚ · . I WISH I KNEW OF AYO EDEBIRI BEFORE THIS SHOW BECAUSE THAT WOMAN IS AMAZING??? LIKE, HELLO???

THE EQUALIZER ✧ ˚ · . *mini spoiler* STILL CAN'T STOP THINKING OF DANTE'S GRIN WHEN HE GOT TO SEE MEL, ROB, AND HARRY'S LITTLE WORK SPOT FOUR SEASONS LATER.

SWEET MAGNOLIAS ✧ ˚ · . HELEN, MADDIE, AND DANA SUE IS HOW I PICTURE MY FRIENDS AND I IN THE FUTURE. MARGARITA NIGHTS, BEING AUNTIES TO EACH OTHER'S CHILDREN, UGH. I LOVE THEM WHOLEHEARTEDLY.

And that concludes this introduction on me and this blog. I would love to connect and befriend other authors, so please don't hesitate to reach out as my DMs will always be open! I'd love to support and read your works, so don't be hesitant to share them with me if you'd like.

I hope you all will enjoy reading my works as much as I enjoy the process of bringing my ideas to life.

divider creds to strangergraphics ♡

#writeblr #blog intro #writeblr intro #writeblr community #writing community #writing on tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing #authors #writers #i did not expect for this to get as long as it did my oh my

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twstfanblog · 9 months ago

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*~Mother's Day, Damn it~*

A/N: Hello all and a happy Mother's Day! Decided to queue this up since I knew I was gonna be hyper-busy the weekend and would honestly forget to post it XD Warnings: Mentions and vague descriptions of pregnancy and childbirth Pairings: YuuxMalleusxAzulxJamil, Mentioned Silver/Sebek, Mentioned Vil/Rook, Mentioned Riddle/Floyd Word Count: 4.3K

MALLEUS

Yuu made sure to apologize to Malleus once the egg was out. Well, once the egg was out, they had a quick bath, and regained mental awareness after a spontaneous three-hour nap. It wasn't their intention to interrupt his birthday party with their water breaking (they really hoped the seemingly ancient as dirt carpet survived it). Yuu didn't remember much from the egg birth. Apparently, Grandmother Draconia had made one of her rare appearances, walking into the room as though Yuu wasn't screaming on their knees and slamming the ornate headboard into the wall in an act of misplaced frustration.

Lilia said she brought them fruit-flavored ice chips, which was very sweet.

Once they woke up, everyone had kept a good few feet away as they congratulated them on a successful birth. (Malleus told them later that night that Yuu had some…vividly creative threats made in their heat of maternal agony. One of which Malleus refused to repeat, only stating it made him physically leave the castle grounds for his own safety).

But now, as Yuu relaxed in a patch of rare sunlight with their egg baby, they felt content. Luckily, their egg wasn't as massive as Malleus's was. Though it had seemed to grow to said size as the months went by. An oil-like black, the shell shined iridescent in the light. The reflective surface was broken up by thin matte black webbing that increased in numbers as time went on. Grandmother Draconia had remarked the few times she'd seen the egg that she had never seen one with such neat growth marks, the pattern almost mimicking broken glass.

Though Yuu had their concerns, (they didn't have magic and dragon eggs needed family magic to hatch) their loved ones were more than willing to pitch in. Malleus, of course, gave the egg magic daily in the form of cuddling and kissing it before and after going about his royal duties. Lilia had given a few sprinkles of his limited magic, whispering blessings and sweet dreams to the youngling inside. Sebek nearly cried himself sick when Yuu offered to let him bestow the egg with his magic, he was one of the godfathers after all (A fact that made Sebek actually cry and hug Yuu tight enough to crack their back). Silver, as the other godfather in question, was more than happy to give his niece or nephew his magic in the form of naptime cuddles.

Even Azul and Jamil had made their way to the valley. Both to visit and to give their donation of magic to the egg. Though they had busy schedules with their own post-graduation lives, Malleus had convinced them to stay a few weeks past their original departure date. If he had to set a harbor on fire to do it, that didn't mean anything.

In the present, a strong gust tiled the egg from its upright position and onto its side in the lush patch of grass. Yuu watched in mild amazement as the egg did what it normally did, wiggling on its side for a few moments before rolling itself back to its starting position. Their child had become insanely active, a fact that Malleus and Yuu took great pleasure in. Nightly, they'd sit on opposite sides of their massive bed and call out to the egg to see who it'd roll toward (Yuu was only a little bitter that they were barely winning).

“Baby. Baby~.” Yuu laughed, watching the egg wiggle around in what could only be called joy at the sound of their voice.

But, their laughter was cut off at the soft sound of something cracking.

They looked at the egg with laser focus, the egg itself had gone deathly still as though the crack had startled them as well. Soon the egg gave another powerful wiggle, a hairline crack forming against the shell.

“...” Yuu turned toward the castle, panic clear in their voice as they screamed, “MALLEUS!”

Malleus had appeared like a bolt of lightning, eyes glowing and ready to kill whoever posed a threat to his mate and child. Only to have his attention pulled to the sound of shell cracking and Yuu's panicked question of “Do I help them!?”

Soon they were back in the castle, the wiggling and cracking egg placed on the ceremonial hatching altar. Malleus held Yuu in his arms, trying to keep them calm as they fought their own need to help their child hatch. Silver, Sebek, and Lilia had appeared after hearing all the noise. While Sebek shouted encouragement to the hatching fae, Silver tried to get his husband to stop yelling at the egg. Lilia was doing his grandfatherly duty of filming everything.

Finally, the cracks along the egg met. From the top, a small purple-tinted dragon poked their head through the opening, fighting against the remaining shell fiercely until they were able to crawl out. They squeaked, almost trying to roar at them with their wings flared out.

Lilia cooed, making sure to capture the scale pattern on the squeaking dragon's forehead, “A little girl! She's much smaller than I-”

The egg tilted on the altar, another small dragon crawling its way from the opening their sister had left. Stepping out and looking around the room unaware of the edge to the altar. Silver had rushed forward, catching the teal-tinted infant before they hit the ground. He held the squeaking dragon in both his hands, unneeded from how small he was but wanting to grip him securely, as he placed him back on the altar, “I...twins? Can there be twins?”

The shock was barely settling in when more cracking echoed in the room. From the bottom of the egg, another head poked out. A frustrated green-tinted dragon flapping their uncoordinated wings to remove leftover yolk. This one was much more tired than his siblings, once free from the egg he had huffed and laid down on the altar.

…

Yuu tilted their head back, giving themselves a high five before moving out of a stunned Malleus's limp arms, “Secured the fuck out of this bloodline! Babies! Babies~!” They gathered the chirping dragon infants into their arms, each of them growing overjoyed to finally be with the voice they always knew.

June 13th, a great blessing was gifted to Briar Valley. Three healthy and powerful heirs born in record time. The country had celebrated for weeks in joy and in blessing of the three new members of the royal family. May Malgona, Malathew, and Malicent Draconia-Crewel live long and be loved.

AZUL

Yuu had fallen pregnant again not long after the triplets' first birthday and it was all Azul's fault. A successful opening weekend of his lounge had made the cecaelian's mood all too happy and frisky. Azul, in a flustered state, claimed that wanting to mate when resources were bountiful was basic biology and he wasn't going to apologize. Jamil started the argument that Azul had done such a thing on purpose to push back his and Yuu's wedding, since Malleus's wedding planning was taken over by grandmother Draconia, and Azul didn't want to marry Yuu until he had a sizable amount of money in his savings for reasons.

While the two bickered, Yuu and Malleus marveled over the ultrasound of a tiny pea-shaped blob.

Malleus would have easily housed Yuu for their pregnancy again; What better place for an expecting mother to be than waited on hand and foot in royal luxury? An idea that Azul surprisingly vetoed, bringing up the fact the triplets would not leave Yuu any time to relax as the one-year-olds had a 6th sense for when their mother was trying to so much as sit.

“They'd run her more ragged than the pregnancy would in the first place…”

While Jamil offered, they all knew Yuu would decline; Since Jamil was currently staying in the Scalding Sands, prepping with his family (and Kalim) for their now pushed-back wedding. Yuu would not last long in the desert normally, asking them to do it while pregnant was cruel and unusual punishment.

So Yuu and Azul made their way to the Sunshine Lands where he had actually inherited a sizable beachfront property from his grandmother. How and why the elder cecaelian had even got her hands on land property, she wouldn't say. But the seaside villa Azul had built on the land was perfect, having a hand in every design aspect right down to the adorable ocean-themed nursery.

And while Yuu's pregnancy tracked along nicely, Azul's sleep schedule and mental well-being had suffered.

Malleus had rarely complained of Yuu during their first pregnancy, but now that Azul was dealing with them first hand he wondered if Malleus was simply…unbothered by the absurdity that escaped Yuu's mouth. The fae had asked how Azul was dealing with Yuu's ‘strange cravings’ during a visit. Jamil had rolled his eyes and jokingly asked if Yuu wanted pickles or ice cream during their pregnancy with the triplets. And Malleus answered she had wanted to drink molten metals, gnaw on gemstones, and wanted to eat a very specific map that was made when his grandmother was a child.

Jamil, having been around more pregnant women than the average person in his life, stated that was…normal…ish. Pregnancy cravings could tilt to the material if the body felt it was lacking nutrients. So Azul was prepared. He had supplement potions of all kinds, he's looked up the most common pregnancy cravings; he had pickles purchased by the barrel and ice cream by the freezer load on standby. Hell, he stocked up on a non-toxic clay that was safe to digest. If Yuu asked him to, he'd crush up shells and pearls into fine dust to mix into their food and drinks to satisfy their cravings.

Instead, he was awakened almost like clockwork every night to make some type of horrific food combination that Yuu insisted would be amazing.

Ground beef and banana smoothies, corn on the cob with a cherry compote and mustard dipping sauce, chocolate-covered pan-fried shrimp. One night they simply asked for a whole, raw artichoke. He watched them eat it like it was an apple and fall back asleep as though they hadn't mentally scarred him in a matter of four minutes.

Azul could put his foot down, he could deny them these hellish cravings clearly caused by some type of demon masquerading as a baby in his date-mate's womb. But whenever he did, Yuu's eyes would fill with tears; sobbing and crying that Azul didn't love them OR the baby.

So Azul would get out of bed and make them their cursed offering. His pride as a chef was strong, but he couldn't last long against his dear pearl's tears…

But, demonic cravings aside, Yuu's pregnancy was progressing as normal. Azul would spend his evenings from the lounge resting gently on his date-mate's stomach and cooing at the tiny being waiting to be born. He had theorized their little girl was in a merform that matched his own; it would explain how they were able to kick him no matter where he kissed on Yuu's stomach. With only a month to go, his child would be the perfect belated birthday present.

Then three days before said birthday, Yuu was rushed to the hospital against their will, once again. The past few weeks they had been plagued with random bouts of false contractions. Each time Azul would panic and rush his pregnant love to their chosen hospital and demand they be looked over. The doctors would humor him, he was an up-and-coming influential member of their community after all. But, Yuu quickly grew annoyed with it, to the point they'd started hiding and waiting for the contractions to stop before even telling Azul they had them.

But now they were back in the hospital, Yuu pacing their examination room as Azul gently grilled the doctor.

“I understand that they're common, but this has been happening for weeks. Is there another test we can do or a specialist we can refer to?”

“Well, Mr. Ashengrotto, as head of labor and delivery and your personally chosen doctor, probably not.”

Yuu sighed, still walking around the room with a hand over their stomach, “Azul, just drop it. I wanna go home and-”

The sound of water hitting the tile floor made them all freeze. Yuu looked down, seeing the ‘water’ had come from them and soaking into the edge of the maxi skirt they were wearing.

…

“Fuck.”

Hours later, Yuu was in a hospital bed and Azul was still on the phone with his mother pacing outside of the room. The mer panicking over the potential health risks of a month early birth and where he could have gone wrong in his prenatal care and how he was a failure-

Yuu spoke calmly into their phone, watching Azul pace past their window again, “Yeah, no. He’s still in the hall crying…I don’t know! The doctor hadn’t said anything was wrong the past few checkups…No, Jamil, I didn’t ingest poison…Why would he give me poison!? Why would I be craving poisons!?...Wanting to drink metal is different.”

Azul had returned to the room after a nurse talked him through his breakdown, sitting at Yuu’s bedside and helping them through the labor pains. He walked them around the room, screened calls from their worried friends and family, and even managed to magic up the fabled fruit-flavored ice chips Yuu had started to demand as the labor continued. Two days before Azul’s birthday the doctor had finally stated Yuu was dilated enough to try their preferred birthing position. With Azul’s hand vice gripped in their own, a few hours into the afternoon, they felt a pressure suddenly rush out of them. The standby nurse quickly swooped in to make sure the baby was fully out and taken to be properly weighed.

Yuu and Azul both sigh in relief at the sound of their little girl wailing her head off. Azul felt tears coming to his eyes seeing she had been birthed in merform, much bigger than any normal mer child but that was to be expected when she had a personal grotto to grow and feed in for eight months; lovingly tucked away to be pampered and protected. He took in his daughter’s form with a tender eye; pale purple skin that ombred into chubby black and speckled tentacles that wiggled around fiercely. A head of stark white hair with delicate newborn curls. Gurgled cries only stopping when the nurse placed her onto an exhausted Yuu’s chest. The infant following her instincts; curling into her mother for warmth and safety, tentacles wrapping around Yuu's arm as an anchor and finally calming.

The doctor smiled at the happy family, both parents cooing over their baby. They moved to exit the room to allow them space to bond, giving Yuu one last glance to ensure there was no ripping that needed immediate attention. The smile on their face quickly fell. At a moment of silence, they moved back to position and gave Yuu a pat on their calf, “Okay! Round two!”

“...” Yuu lifted their head from the pillow, their grip on Azul’s hand somehow getting tighter, “I'm sorry…what?” The loving light of a mother quickly faded into a focused rage.

“...The…There’s a second baby-”

“A second what!?”

Azul struggled to escape Yuu’s hold, feeling his bones trying to liquefy to slip out of what his instincts were screaming was a death trap, “Darling? My pearl? Let go, please let go of my hand-”

“No! I’m gonna eat your fucking arm! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THERE’S A SECOND-”

February 22nd, Yuu uploaded a photo welcoming Charysa and Scylar Ashengrotto-Crewel into the world. Yuu smiled in bed with two identical cecaelian infants curled against each arm, one of them blinking open a dark blue eye to stare at the camera. Azul sitting at their bedside with one of his arms in a sling and bandages wrapping his fingers together. To this day he stands firm on his twins being the best early birthday present he ever received, and all they cost him was a broken hand and a dislocated shoulder.

(Yuu happily called the Leech twins once their arms were free, telling them they could stop fighting over who the godfather was to be since they could now both be the godfather to a baby).

JAMIL

Jamil and Yuu’s wedding was gorgeous.

Kalim took the fact it was a party for extended family and friends and turned his party planning skills to a whole new level, footing the bill and offering whatever venue the Asim family had at their disposal for the event. Jamil tried to deny his friend’s generous offers, but his mother shot him down so hard he physically felt the impact. He and Yuu had the final say in any decision of course, but against his mother’s cold unmoving stare and Kalim’s small suns for pupils filled with hope, Jamil crumbled often. He wanted to hate the end result, but it was honestly something out of a dream. And his favorite part was his bride.

Yuu’s lehenga was made from the finest red silk, embroidered with enchanted gold thread and precious beads that shimmered in the light. Henna was painstakingly painted on their hands and feet in ornate and fine patterns, their hair and make-up done by a personal beautician of one of the Asim wives, Finally they were coated in ruby-encrusted gold jewelry straight from the royal family's treasury that Kalim had gained permission to borrow from. Yuu was presented to him and he felt like he had found an oasis of paradise, no longer searching for a diamond in the rough as the sands had produced a perfectly cut and shining turquoise into his hands. A vision of beauty and now legally his wife.

So though it was only a month after Yuu had birthed Chrasya and Scylar, barely two weeks after their wedding night, they had learned Yuu had gotten pregnant again, much to their displeasure. Jamil’s mother was boosting at hearing the news, stating that her efforts of sneaking a yellow sapphire into their marriage bed had been the trick to such a fast pregnancy (Apparently, she claims that’s how she was blessed with Najma so soon after having Jamil). Now freshly re-impregnated, Azul and Malleus stated that Jamil should be the main one to care for Yuu as they had for their own children's respective pregnancies.

A challenge he accepted with only mild annoyance.

One of Kalim’s many wedding presents to his dear friends had been a townhouse located in a capital city of the Shaftlands. It was placed within a gated community with plenty of resident-only amenities, it was even a ten-minute walk from the downtown area. A perfect location to keep his pregnant, troublesome adventurous wife safe, yet close enough to events to keep them both entertained. One surprise meeting at the local farmer’s market later, Vil and Rook had become frequent visitors along with Azul, Malleus, and their other children to their townhouse home. However, the older Pomfiore duo had stopped visiting at the end of August as they were finally welcoming their own bundle of joy.

A fact that Yuu quickly pointed out as a reason to visit Vil instead.

“I’m allowed to hold his baby. I’m pregnant and basically the blood sister he never wanted.”

“I’ll be honest, from how Rook’s been describing Vil's hyper possessiveness since they brought Finley home, he may actually fight you if you go over there.”

“I'm pregnant, I can do what I want.”

“Yuu, he will body slam you. Stop trying to put your shoes on.”

Once again, the pregnancy was smooth with frequent checkups and clean bills of health. Jamil remained hyper-vigilant during each clinic visit. Demanding the doctor do two or three extra ultrasounds from multiple angles, paying out of pocket for each surplus check. Only one baby was shown on the screen each pass, but Jamil never lowered his guard. Yuu had two pregnancies prior and a total of three surprise babies that managed to slip by completely undetected. Though everything pointed to one baby, that meant little to Jamil from past experience.

Even at their over-the-top baby shower, once again with Kalim as the head of the planning community, he didn’t stop his double-checking. As the triplets and the twins shoved their tiny hands into a cake to show the bright blue frosting inside, Jamil had gripped Kalim by the collar off to the side and demanded to know if the sex reveal had anything pointing to a second child. Kalim had sworn that nothing had stated there was anything out of the ordinary. Jamil had released him, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose before remarking he couldn't handle another kid. It had already taken him so long to pick Kalim as the godfather, he wasn't sure if he could pick a second person ( Kalim burst into tears at hearing Jamil had chosen him as his son's godfather. Picking Jamil clean off his feet in a hug that ended in them both falling into the pool).

Now, on New Year’s Eve, Jamil and Yuu made their way to Vil and Rook’s snowy mansion to attend their party. They had shown up a few hours early, Yuu shoving Vil out of their way once the blonde star had opened the door. Vil scowled as Yuu quickly waddled deeper into the house to coo over a four-month-old Finley, raising an eyebrow at Jamil, “And you say they're easier to handle pregnant?”

Jamil shrugged, slipping the bag of last-minute groceries Vil had asked him to bring from his shoulder and into Vil’s waiting hands, “I can placate them with food and physical affection. They sleep at least 11 hours a day and at some point running becomes a chore to them. I have half a mind to knock them up again the second this one is out.”

“They’d kill you.”

“They can’t do anything reckless or stupid when pregnant, it’s a dream come true.”

By the late evening, the party had calmed from the large soiree it started as to an intimate get-together of the original NRC group. Children were put to bed upstairs while the adults all talked and caught up with personal lives. Yuu had excused themselves to the bathroom, Kalim taking the opportunity to ask Jamil if he was doing ok.

“You’ve been bouncing your leg all night…”

Jamil sighed, leaning forward and placing his nose and mouth into his clasped hands, “...” He pulled his mouth from his hands, “Something is going to happen.”

Vil rolls his eyes, pouring himself another glass of champagne, “Honestly.”

Riddle hummed from his place under Floyd’s arm, fighting off his drunken sleepiness to soothe his former classmate's concerns, “Jamil…from what I’ve been told, Yuu’s had perfect screenings, you’ve kept them on a strict prenatal diet, and you only have two more weeks until their due date. I believe you are as they say…in the clear.”

“That means nothing when Yuu is involved and you know it.”

Malleus chuckles, stroking a hand through Jamil’s loose hair, “I don’t think there’s any need for concern. Yuu hasn’t had any strange cravings this pregnancy, nor early contractions. I agree with Riddle on you managing to conquer these dreaded ‘surprise pregnancy’ events we’ve been having.”

Rook nodded, humming as he stood from his chair to pat Jamil’s shoulder, “Worry not, monsieur multi! You’ve been so vigilant in monitoring your bébé’s status that I don’t believe the poor boy could hope to kick without you knowing about it.”

Yuu walked back into the room, a hand braced under their stomach and the other pointing behind them toward the bathroom, “Hey remember how I went to the bathroom?”

…

Jamil’s eyes moved from looking directly ahead of him to glancing at Yuu, “Yes…what about it?”

“So I thought, I was just actively peeing; which is why I went. Turns out, Aha…my water broke.”

…

Everyone had watched in a shared muted silence as Jamil picked Yuu into his arms and basically threw them into the back of their car, peeling out of the mansion’s driveway in a barely contained manic episode. They had sheepishly continued the party for an hour, midnight barely two hours away before Vil texted Jamil and Yuu, asking if they had safely reached a hospital.

Azul and Malleus crowded around the phone when Vil let out a delighted scream. Jamil had responded by sending a single photo of Yuu in a hospital bed still in their party dress, a bundle of blue blankets in their arms. While Malleus and Lilia had playfully lamented the loss of another January birthday boy, Cater had remarked how Yuu looked to be fighting back the urge to either laugh or fling the baby out of their grasp.

Jamil texted back, ‘We checked into the hospital, Yuu laid on the bed, and he just fucking came out.’

The doctor and nurses had to be called in, no one expecting Yuu to have birthed so quickly since the ink on their forms had barely dried. Luckily, the baby had no health issues, fully formed with feathery wisps of black hair and giving loud cries to show his airways were clear. Once he was placed into their arms, Yuu had jokingly asked the peaceful infant what had been so important that he needed to be born two weeks ahead of schedule in less than an hour. A joke question that the baby had seemingly answered by blinking open his little coal-colored eyes, opening his tiny mouth and burping. With that single act, he closed his eyes and nuzzled back into his mother’s embrace to sleep.

…

“Jamil, get this motherfucker away from me-”

Two hours before the new year, December 31st, Jamil Jr. (J.J) Viper-Crewel decided he was ready to be born.

(“I didn’t agree to that name. We had, like, twelve names picked out, why are you giving him my name?”

“Jamil. Look at him. This is just you, what the fuck else am I supposed to call him?”)

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #holiday fic #yuu oc #malleus draconia #azul ashengrotto #jamil viper #azul x yuu #malleus x yuu #yuu x jamil #fankids

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joelalorian · 2 months ago

Text

Wonder in Winterland - Part I

Hallmark!Joel Miller x f!reader | wc: 2790 | masterlist

Summary: You, a city girl on a cross-country road trip a week before Christmas, find yourself stranded in a whimsical Christmas town. You soon discover there is more to life than big city dreams. Based on the Hallmark movie Love You Like Christmas.

Warnings: None (although the rest of this blog is 18+ mdni). This is utter fluff and whimsy. Limited descriptions of reader and no use of y/n. Enjoy it with a cuppa hot cocoa and a warm blankie. Will post on Sundays throughout December.

Dividers courtesy of saradika-graphics. This magical moodboard is all thanks to @brittmb115!

Part I

A thousand miles from nowhere, you grew weary of driving despite the scenic view of snow-dusted evergreens looming like sentinels along the barren stretch of highway. The old pickup your dad left you ate up the miles like an asphalt sandwich, its engine rumbling almost louder than the outdated radio as it struggled to stay tuned to the local stations. The scent of pine mixed with motor oil hung in the cab, a reminder of just how old the truck was and the amount of time you spent trapped in it so far.

If not for the irrational fear of flying, you’d already be in San Francisco, enjoying a cocktail at Pier 39, watching the sea lions as you killed time before your long-time client’s wedding.

Instead, you were twenty-seven hours into the cross-country trek with too many hours left to go and you had to pee so bad you could practically taste it. Shifting uncomfortably, you casted a glance at the towering mountains lining the valley, the sun fighting to peek through the lingering fog as it rose above the peaks. When traffic ground to a halt, a frustrated groan slipped past your lips, and you threw the transmission into park.

Popping the door open with a loud creak, you took the unexpected break as a sign to stretch your legs. The brisk air outside bit at your skin when you stepped out, breath forming small clouds that disappeared into the winter wind. You weaved between cars to the soundtrack of beeping horns and impatient shouts until coming upon the cause of the delay.

A trailer full of Christmas trees sat partially overturned, half its cargo scattered across the highway like some messed up holiday party. Among the chaos stood a man – tall, broad, and clad in a thick, well-worn flannel jacket that looked as rugged as the mountains behind him. The breeze caught his dark curls, tossing them across his forehead as he worked to pile the fallen trees back onto the trailer. Wholly unbothered by the flustered drivers glaring and honking at him, the man worked with steady, unrushed focus.

“Need any help?” you called out, slipping on a pair of leather gloves as you approached.

The man’s head snapped toward you at the sound of your voice, and he paused, brow loosening and a small smile pulling at his lips as warm brown eyes drank you in with a curious, amused glint. “I’d hate to ruin your pretty little outfit, darlin’.”

Your eyebrow arched. A playful smiled tugged at your lips as you stepped closer, snow crunching under your heeled boots. “You think my outfit’s pretty?”

His expression faltered for a split second, replaced by something warmer. “I think you’re pretty. The outfit’s just window dressing.” His grin widened as he added, “I’m Joel, by the way.”

Your laugh bubbled out, light and unexpected, cutting through the cold rhythmically. Joel’s gaze lingered on you, his cheeks tinged pink – not from the chill, but from something else entirely. Just as your gloved hands were about to clasp in a handshake, some asshole laid on his horn with a shout.

“Can you two get a room or something? Some of us have somewhere important to be!”

Turning to glare at the offender, you opened your mouth and the New Jersey in you came flying out. “Can it, dick cheese! Get off your fat ass and help if you’re in that much of a hurry!”

A bark of laughter drew your attention back to Joel as he shook his head in merry disbelief before going back to moving the trees. This time, you didn’t ask if he wanted help and bent to grab one of the smaller trees to lug it toward the trailer. The cold bit at your cheeks, breaking through your coat that was clearly more for style than warmth. The fresh scent of pine filled your lungs, as you hefted the tree back to the trailer.

Joel stood a few paces away with a larger tree slung over his broad shoulder, watching with an amused tilt of his head as you struggled past him.

“Aw come on, doll. You don’t have to do that.” His voice held a soft, almost pleading quality, but hidden behind that was a flicker of admiration as you ignored him and carried on despite the struggle. His expression shifted – half a smirk, half something deeper – as you hefted the tree onto the trailer and turned to fetch yet another one.

The pair of you continued working, Joel’s eyes flicking toward you now and then, lingering a little longer than they should. Around you, the chaos of impatient honking and shouts became nothing more than white noise.

A few others – including the mouthy asshole from earlier – seemed to get the hint that the roadway would clear quicker if they helped and within ten minutes, two of the travel lines were clear and traffic started to flow once again.

“Thanks for your help. You should probably get going, you look like you’re freezing,” Joel said as the last tree landed on the trailer and he pulled the tie down straps taut. “I’m gonna be here a while waiting for the tow truck. Can’t fix the trailer without some equipment.”

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Joel.” You shook Joel’s hand again, the heat from him worming its way through the material of your gloves, curling around you like the heat from a distant fire.

“You, too, darlin’.”

You hesitated, staring at each other for several long moments, not wanting to leave but you didn’t have a good enough excuse to stay. Flashing one last charming smile, you waved and sauntered back to your truck, which sat alone in the still blocked third lane.

The moment your truck refused to start, panic set in, swirling like winter wind in your chest. You hopped out again, popping the hood with more frustration than sense. Steam wafted from the still warm engine in thin, mocking wisps as you stared at the confusing labyrinth of parts comprising the engine compartment, entirely clueless. The frigid air nipped at your fingers and numbed your toes – why didn’t you dress appropriately knowing you’d be driving through a winter wonderland for half the journey.

The crunch of boots over the mix of ice and gravel sounded behind you, causing a shiver to wander down your spine. “I believe it’s my turn to offer a hand,” Joel said, his voice a deep rumble, sending a ripple of something straight to your core. When you turned, he was closer than you expected, his warm brown eyes softening as he took in your helpless shrug. “Let me take a look.”

He leaned over the engine, his broad and calloused hands moving deftly as though coaxing the old truck into cooperation. You caught yourself staring at the way his jaw clenched in concentration, the salt and pepper scruff along his jaw catching the light when he titled his head. Each frustrated grunt from him made your stomach flip, a feeling you hadn’t experienced in a while. Your thoughts began wandering in a certain direction as you eyed the breadth of him…

After a few fruitless minutes, Joel straightened, wiping his palms along the dark denim covering his legs before running one hand through his dark curls. The movement left his hair deliciously mussed, and you ached to run your own fingers through it.

“Can’t do much out here in the cold. Jimmy’s got the tools and parts we’d need back at his garage. Lemme just call him to give ‘em the heads up he’ll need to tow it back.”

As he spoke into his phone, explaining your plight to Jimmy, you realized how much you appreciated the way he said your name, drawing it out like something worth savoring. The way he stood close, his shoulders hunched slightly, broad body breaking the wind to protect you from the cold as much as he could, didn’t go unnoticed either.

“He’ll be here in a few,” Joel said once the call ended. “You can wait in my truck if you’re cold. I’ll give you a lift into town after.” Joel led you toward the shiny black four by four parked half on the shoulder, opening the door for you like a true country gentleman. Holding out a hand, he helped you climb up into the passenger seat as the sound of large tires on the rumble strip sounded behind you. “Up you get. That’ll be Jimmy. Feel free to start ‘er up and put the heat on. We’ll be done in no time.”

Your hands grasped the ring of keys and immediately stuck the right one into the ignition. The truck growled to life with a simple turn of your wrist and heat poured from the vents, carrying the heady scent of fresh-cut trees and sandalwood through the cab – his scent, you realized, and it was unexpectedly comforting. You adjusted in the seat, your fingers brushing over the fabric of a thick Carhart jacket slung over the headrest, as the warmth of the truck seemed to seep into your very core.

You had just pulled the jacket off the seat to wrap around yourself when Joel opened the driver-side door and climbed in, his movements fluid and unhurried. He glanced your way as he settled into the seat, the corners of his lips twitching upward when he noticed you bobbing your head along to Bing Crosby crooning over the radio.

“That was quick!” you exclaimed.

Joel’s chuckle was low and intimate. “Just needed the right leverage,” he said, resting his hands briefly on the heated steering wheel. His large, strong fingers flexed as though testing their strength after the labor. “Jimmy’s hooking up your truck now. He’ll be right behind us.”

You nodded, gaze drifting to his profile to drink in the sharp lines of his jaw and the pink tinge on his cheeks. Snow started falling outside as Joel shifted the truck into gear and began driving. As he steered the large truck down the highway, you caught a faint, amused glint in his eyes when he asked, “So, road-tripping for the holidays?”

The pair of you made easy conversation as he drove. You told him about your travel plans, and he told you about his farm. The miles passed in a blur before he signaled to take the next exit.

“Winterland?” you whispered upon seeing the welcome sign indicating the town’s name, the word slipping past your lips in wonder.

The small town of Winterland was like stepping into a Christmas card come to life. Lights twinkled on every storefront, reflections dancing off the snow-covered sidewalks. Wreaths adorned old gas-style lampposts, and the faint sound of holiday music drifted through the air from scattered outdoor speakers. Joel slowed the truck as he drove down Main Street, and you leaned closer to the window, the scene outside stealing your breath.

Joel glanced at you, warmth lighting his expression as he watched your awe unfold. “It grows on you,” he murmured, his voice almost too quiet to hear over the hum of the engine.

“You have got to be kidding me!” The urge to stomp your foot like a child nearly impossible to fight, you settled for a frustrated huff instead. “Nearly a week? Really?”

Jimmy the tow truck driver slash mechanic slash owner of the only gas station in town shrugged regretfully, one hand placed on the paunch pulling taut on his coveralls, the other stuck in his pocket. “Between the holidays and the weather, that’s the best my supplier could do. Parts for old trucks like that aren’t common, hon.”

“Can’t you order the parts from Amazon or something? They have two-day delivery!”

“Sorry, ma’am. I checked already and they’d have the same problems delivering the parts. That’s the downfall of small mountain towns, unfortunately, and it doesn’t get much smaller than Winterland.” Jimmy tried to smile, but it came across as more of a grimace on his grizzled face.

“Damn. Thanks for trying, Jimmy. I know you’re doing your best and I appreciate it.” Bumping your fist against the counter twice, you spun on your heels to leave only to turn back around. “Uh, is there like an inn or hotel or something nearby? I’m going to need a place to stay if the truck is going to take a week to fix.”

“That we do. The Millers run a small bed and breakfast down the road. It’s the only one in town. I’ll give you a ride in a minute.”

You waved him off. “That’s ok, I’ll just walk. It’ll give me the chance to take in the town.”

Jimmy eyed you doubtfully, questioning your clothing and footwear, which were clearly not suitable for the winter weather in the mountains. “If you say so, doll. You know it’s still snowing out, right?”

Five minutes later, you regretted brushing off Jimmy’s offer of a ride. Between the salt on the sidewalks, the falling snow, and the biting gusts of wind, dragging your rolling suitcase while trying to keep warm was a huge pain in the ass. That and you swore your toes were nothing more than little ice cubes attached to your feet.

When you finally reached the bed and breakfast, cleverly named the Evergreen House at Winterland, the scent of cinnamon and fresh-cut pine greeted you like an old friend. The cozy warmth of the lobby wrapped around you, the crackling fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows on the walls that mesmerized you.

Everything about this town, including its buildings and people, reminded you of Christmas. What was it like in the summer, you wondered.

“Hi there,” a friendly voice greeted you from down the hall and you glanced up to find a beautiful, dark-skinned woman walking toward you. Dressed in well-worn jeans and a thick ivory sweater, feet clad in fuzzy slippers, your own chilled, damp body quaked with jealousy over how comfortable and warm she looked. “You must be the new guest Jimmy told me to expect. I’m Maria.”

Replying with your name and a smile, you added, “I hope you have a room for me? I’m at a loss for where else to look if not.”

“Of course! We have the best room for you and plenty of food and drink to keep you sustained for as long as you need. What brings you to town?”

Maria led you up the rounded stairway as you shared the story of driving across the country and the old truck refusing to start after a delay on the highway. You spared her the details, though. She stopped in front of dark wooden door, a hand-carved sign on it reading “Blue Spruce”, and opened it to reveal a cozy sitting area and a large bed. “This is your room. We named all the rooms after Christmas trees. It was my husband’s idea – his brother owns the tree farm on the outskirts of town.”

Putting the pieces together, you asked, “Your husband is Joel’s brother?”

“You know Joel?” Maria inquired, brows arching curiously. She seemed delighted by that fact, judging by the smile slowly spreading across her lips.

“Well, yeah, I met him out on the highway. He’s the reason for the traffic jam and why I ended up here in Winterland rather than stranded somewhere else along the road.”

“Well, isn’t that serendipitous!” Maria replied with a clap of her hands. “Joel and Sarah are coming for dinner tonight. You’ll join us, of course.”

Maria’s excitement was infectious, and you smiled in return. You couldn’t help but wonder who Sarah was – a girlfriend or wife, probably, as your luck tended to go – and if Joel’s reaction to your unexpected reunion would be as enthusiastic as hers. Maria left you to get settled in and rest for a bit before dinner. You changed into something more comfortable for napping and barely laid down before something scratched at the door with a low whine.

“What in the world?” you murmured as you shuffled toward the door. A golden retriever sat waiting for you, tongue lolling and a Santa-themed bandana around its neck. “Well, hello there. Who might you be?”

The dog trotted right past you like he owned the place, and you spotted the name Barkley printed on the bandana as he went by. “Barkley, huh? The Miller family really went all in on the Christmas tree charm, didn’t they?”

Barkley jumped on the bed and whined, clearly begging you to let him nap there. Giggling softly, you shut the door and climbed back under the covers, falling asleep with Barkley snuggled right up to your side like your own personal radiator.

tbc

#hallmark christmas movie inspired #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fluff #fluff and humor #ppcu fanfiction

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