#ivy canopy

[fairyofshampgyu]

☆ Captive Royalty !

genre: crack, royalty au, fantasy au, smut, fluff

pairing: sub prince ! beomgyu x dom afab poor reader ?

synopsis: desperate times call for desperate measures…so you kidnap the prince of the kingdom and he turns out to be more of a handful than you expected.

warnings: kidnapping !! sub beomgyu, dom reader, beomgyu gets drugged, slight knife play, bondage, ropes, degrading, choking, riding, creampie, hand job, kinda dollification, overstimulation, hair pulling, orgasm denial, finger sucking ? (this sounds really dark from the warnings but it’s kinda unserious and silly and consensual)

word count: 4.6k

Prince beomgyu lets out a long, theatrical sigh, wandering aimlessly and weaving through the bushes and trees of the mystic forest a few metres away from the castle, needing a break from his duties even for just a second of reprieve. The air smelled of damp earth and fragrant wildflowers. Butterflies flitted their pretty wings lazily around him as he stepped over a cluster of bluebell flowers on the mossy floor, where mushrooms were also scattered of all different shapes and colours.

As he ventured deeper into the forest, vines and ivy curled around the tall tree trunks, practically moving and alive, shaking loose pink petals off the branches and falling atop beomgyu’s long hair instead.

He stops when he comes across a small, crystalline pond tucked away, watching as purple dragonflies hover over the surface, lily pads and petals floating on top and, beneath the clear water, koi fishes whose colourful scales practically glowed, swimming and flicking their tails elegantly. Beomgyu stood there for a moment, captivated by the tranquility of the scene. For a small second, it was as if he could finally forget everything.

But then, he mutters to himself, scowling. “I swear to the gods, hate the court, hate those stupid advisors. I hate them all.” Prince beomgyu kicks a pebble rather aggressively into the pond in his frustration.

A tiny fairy emerges out of the water, angrily screaming, hovering and pointing, coming very close to his face high pitched in a language he cannot understand, then vanishes in a puff of glitter.

Beomgyu stares blankly, then merely shrugs.

Instead, he takes a look back at the ethereal scenery, the forest nothing short of enchanted. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back, basking in the golden sunrays peeking through the canopy, inhaling deeply.

But his moment of peace is abruptly interrupted when he feels a cold, sharp blade pressing against his throat.

Beomgyu’s breath catches, eyes snapping open to meet a much less aesthetic view: A dagger, pressed very intimately underneath his jaw and already practically digging into his adam’s apple, “What the fu-”

“Don’t move.” Came the voice behind him.

Oh my god. He’s going to die. This is where prince beomgyu begins to panic, immediately stripping himself of his jewellery and any valuables, tossing them onto the grass, hastily. “Here! Take it! Take all of it! Please! Just not my face! I’m too handsome to die!”

You stare at him, baffled beneath the mask you were wearing, almost forgetting to keep the dagger steadily pointed at him.

“I’m not robbing you.” You say flatly. “I’m taking taking something far more valuable...”

There was a moment of silence as he looks at you cluelessly.

Then he gasps. “You’re taking my hair?!”

“I’m kidnapping you.” Tightening your grip on the dagger, you roll your eyes, grabbing the cloth from your bag, shoving it over his nose and mouth, drugging him.

“Mmfph!” The prince protests, flailing but then his eyes roll back and his limbs go limp, simply falling unconscious.

You warily eyed up the prince who now sat unconsciously tied to a chair in your cottage, head lolling to one side.

Surprisingly, it was much easier kidnapping the prince of the kingdom than you had imagined. He didn’t put up much of a fight, nor were there any guards around him, or any witnesses at all. Quite underwhelming really.

But at least everything was going even smoother than planned, you’d even written the ransom letter and had already sent it off to the king. Now you just had to wait and soon it would all be yours.

You study the prince’s face. You’d never seen him before, too preoccupied and shut away in your cottage in solitude. You didn’t care for them. Besides, what have the royals done for you other than tax you and steal all your money? Why were they even praised anyway? They just sat around doing nothing really. It was practically their fault for your situation right now.

Other than that, the prince was almost achingly pretty. He had quite handsome features, long, thick eyelashes that practically kissed his naturally flushed cheeks, perfectly round, plump lips, messy bangs falling effortlessly over his brows. His regal attire, though a little dirtied from the abduction, still extravagant, embroidered with gold thread and intricate patterns. He looked dainty and fragile all tied up. The prince reminded you of a doll.

A quiet groan breaks the silence and your staring. The prince stirs, lashes fluttering before his pretty eyes slowly blink open, dazed. He takes in his surroundings, strangely without much alarm, gaze sweeping across the decrepit interior of your cottage before landing blankly on your black cat perched menacingly on the window sill. They have a tense, silent stare off before his eyes make their way to you, looking you up and down since he hadn’t seen your face properly before, eyes raking over your figure with a brow raised. He looked almost…amused?

You supposed you didn’t cut the most terrifying figure. No scary scars, no missing eye or other limbs. Just plain clothes, a dagger at your hip, and an unimpressed expression.

The prince speaks up. “Are you part of a rebellion? Do you want to overthrow the monarchy?”

“No.”

He lazily grins, eyes trailing down to the ropes binding him. “Hmm. Then this is… a little provocative, don’t you think?”

“The hell.” You furrow your brows at a loss of words. “No! Ransom. This is for ransom! ”

“Ah.”

“You’re the prince. Your face is probably worth more than my entire life. When your daddy finds out his beloved son has been captured, I’m sure he’ll give me all the money I ask and you’ll go back to your fancy castle.” You lean back, sighing, just imagining how much gold you’ll accumulate soon, “Don’t worry, your kingdom will pay good money to have you back.”

The prince snorts. “Will they?”

You frown. “…Yes?”

He gives you a pitiful look, “I hate to say it but I think they’ll be more relieved than horrified I’m gone, to be completely honest.”

You cross your arms in confusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” He says, shifting in his restraints, “that my father finds me to be an insufferable disappointment. If you think he’s going to shell out a fortune to get me back, you’re sorely mistaken. No one in that castle can stand me, too much of a ‘troublemaker’ or something apparently.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.” The prince replies cheerfully. “You should have kidnapped my brother Prince Huening Kai instead. They would have had a heart attack. If you’d taken him, they’d probably have sent an entire army after you by now.”

“I wasn’t even aware there were two of you.”

“Five actually.” He adds, “Maybe you should have done some research before kidnapping royalty.”

You roll your eyes, “Well, which one are you then?”

“Prince Beomgyu!” He beams, grinning widely, looking proud and smug, his expression entirely too relaxed for someone tied to a chair in a stranger’s cottage.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as you were beginning to think.

It had been days.

And absolutely nothing.

No guards barging down your door, no royal army marching through the forest, no frantic messenger bird clawing at your window with a desperate letter from the king, promising to give you all the money in the land for his poor son back.

Just pure silence.

You were starting to think either something happened to your messenger bird on the way or gods forbid, they really, truly didn’t want him back.

“I told you.” Beomgyu’s voice was maddeningly smug from where he was still bound to the chair. “Face it. They don’t want me back.”

You put a hand to your hip. “You’re lucky I haven’t gagged you.”

“Oh?” The prince raises a brow, smirking.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Gods. You’re disturbed.” You turn away to check the kettle heating by the fire. You were going to need tea. Lots of it.

You take a tea cup in your hand, pouring the earthy, floral brew that you had foraged from the forest, steam rising in swirls and you bring it to your mouth to drink. The warmth seeping through your fingers and into your chest, making you slightly more calmed about this whole maddening situation. Beomgyu’s eyes are on you the entire time. You supposed you could give him some too. “Here. Have some tea.”

“Can’t exactly help myself, can I?”

You huff, rolling your eyes, walking over to him, bringing a cup to his soft lips for him to sip and he looks up at you with a teasing glint in his eyes almost like he’s heavily enjoying that you’re doing this for him.

He swallows, furrowing his brows and smacking his lips together, savouring the taste. “Ooh Peasant tea. I like this. It’s very different to how all of my many chefs have made it for me.”

You cross your arms, nodding in approval, “It’s the best. Practically survive on it.”

He seems amused by your love for tea, nodding, sipping some more until he’s finished and you place the cup back on your counter.

You study him intently, intrigued. “So, why were you sulking around so much by the pond, kicking rocks at fairies before I—well, pointed a dagger at your throat.” There’s no easy way to describe the situation.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to! How was I supposed to know there was a fairy there?” Beomgyu protests, finding it humorous. “But, they’re forcing me to marry some princess from some other kingdom. I don’t even know her. I don’t want to get married at all.” He grimaces, staring at the ground with furrowed brows. “I hate being a prince. I have no freedom or say in anything. It’s so suffocating. I must act in a certain way, all these duties, now marriage. I don’t want any of it.” Beomgyu looks uncharacteristically and genuinely upset about it, the most sad you’ve seen him, and that’s you holding him captive.

You blink, then almost laugh. “Wow. Poor you. You really have the worst life. Must be so hard having all your meals cooked and servants at your beck and call, sleeping in a massive bed with silk sheets. In a castle. Truly.”

The prince furrows his brows at your mocking tone. “You don’t get it. It’s not all that great, you know.”

Your scoff, crossing your arms. “No, I get it. you’re incredibly privileged for those to be your only problems.”

He sulks at you, shrugging. “I guess so. I’d still rather have your life though, a peaceful, mundane, peasant life.”

You give him a flat look, nearly amused at his comical, out of touch words. “It’s far from peaceful. I’m incredibly in debt at the moment and owe money to lots of people, scary people I can’t even begin to repay. I’m doing this because I need the ransom money. You wouldn’t last a day in the real world.”

“I would!” He heavily pouts at you, taking offence. It’s almost endearing. “Anyway honestly, being held hostage has been much better than any day at the castle.”

You shake your head at the prince, sighing.

Beomgyu talked. A lot. About the castle gossip, about the ridiculous scandals of the court, all their carefully polished lies sold to the commoners, about all his other brothers, Prince Yeonjun’s scandalous new affair.

You were very entertained, the tea you make, since it seems to be one of the only things he likes, and these conversations weirdly happening regularly.

“I swear to every god in existence.” Beomgyu had said, with all the endearing dramatic flair of someone telling ghost stories with a candle, “Prince Yeonjun was caught HALF NAKED, sneaking out of the royal astrologer’s tower.”

“No way.” You gaped, sipping on your tea.

He grins, victorious, revelling in your shocked expression. “Swear on my crown. I don’t even know why I’m the one they call troublesome.”

Somewhere along the way, you’d begun to like having beomgyu around, in a way that both irritated and intrigued you.

He was for sure a bratty prince, complaining endlessly about almost everything, the chair, food, the ropes digging into his skin (you had tied them more gently), dramatically whining about a small splinter he got because of the chair (you actually took it out for him and gave him a bandage).

But…for all his whining, very strange comments, and being a royal pain in the ass, (and though you wouldn’t admit it aloud), the strange companionship he offered, despite the messed up predicament, was starting to feel…maybe comforting? when you’d had nothing in the past but your cat, living alone in your cottage.

He’d become company. Real company. It had been so long since you’d had that.

You had one thing in common, you both hated your realities and wanted to get away. And you could, if this damn king would send you the ransom money and come collect his son. You’re honestly astonished. Would they even come for him? What were you supposed to do with him if they never come?

“Ughh.” Beomgyu groans dramatically, wiggling his tied hands pathetically. “I’m suffering.” He says with such an exaggerated pout it was almost impressive.

You turn around to look at him, wondering what it was now.

“My bangs are all in my eyes. I can’t see anything and I can’t move them away.” He blinks at you. Then, very deliberately, batts his lashes, those ridiculously long, doll-like lashes. “You kidnapped me.” Beomgyu says pointedly, deadpan. “The least you could do is brush my hair out of my eyes. Basic courtesy.”

You raise a brow. The audacity. But with a long sigh and contemplation, you wandered over, standing before him. He blinks up at you, the brown strands of his hair over his eye, genuinely a little pathetic and silly looking.

You brush your fingers through his messy strands gently, absentmindedly. His hair was so soft. His pretty brown eyes locked with yours, eyes following your face, unblinking, unusually quiet for once. Close.

And gods, was he pretty.

Your touch lingered longer than probably necessary, tucking the last of his bangs behind his ear, fingertips brushing against his warm skin. You swear the tips of his ears were pinker than usual too.

You finally step back, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest, you could only scowl at him.

Your kidnapping had been, by all accounts, a complete and utter failure. It had not been the most fearsome hostage situation either, your intimidation tactics quite lacklustre, no violence, no torturing, and no damn money.

Even your cat had gotten used to him by now, seemingly liking him, curling up often in his lap, purring contently and napping. And worst of all, You were getting used to him too.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting a warm orange glow in your small cottage. The evening had settled in, quiet and still, except for the rhythmic, repetitive sound of your knife chopping into carrots on the cutting board for a stew.

“Well,” Beomgyu drawls from his usual spot, arms bound behind his back and chair, voice cutting through through the ambience. “you know. You’re not exactly what I expected.”

“Why, disappointed?” Your eyes don’t leave the cutting board, still chopping and unfazed.

His lips quirk into a lazy grin. “Hardly.”

That makes you pause mid-slicing the vegetables, turning around with an incredulous look, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Perhaps. You’re easy on the eyes.” The fire flickers and reflects in beomgyu’s deep brown as you as you stare at him and you catch mischievous glint in them too.

“I’ve quite literally kidnapped you.” You fold your arms.

He shrugs in his restraints, “I know you won’t hurt me. You haven’t tortured me once. Not even a little.”

A slow smile makes its way across your lips, brow raising at what you hear, amused. Instead, you reach for your dagger, making your way towards beomgyu and his gaze follows your every movement.

“Oh?” You slowly flick some of the locks of his soft hair out his face with the sharp tip of the dagger, his breath catching in his throat at that, eyes slightly widening. Then you trace the blade leisurely along his cheek, the prince shivering at the feeling of the steel on his skin. “How are you so sure?” Beomgyu swallows, breath hitching almost looking scared for a second, but then he smirks, thrilled, eyes never leaving yours and yours never leaving his. The two of you locked in a stare now, the eye contact, quite intense.

“You like me.” Beomgyu simply grins impossibly wider.

“Like you?” You echo, sceptically, scoffing at his words. With deliberate slowness, you trace the dagger across his jawline, advancing down his pretty neck, pressing the sharp edge down a little hard—not enough to cut but enough for him to feel it and dip into his soft flesh, his skin prickling up and chest rising and falling, all tensed in anticipation. “Are you sure you don’t like me?”

You point at the now growing tent in his pants that was too hard to ignore. A violent red flush creeps over his cheeks, embarrassed as you cast a deliberate, judging glance downwards with an arched brow. How incredibly absurd. You’re pointing a knife at him and he’s getting turned on.

He purses his lips together for a second, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows but then he runs his mouth again, voice a little breathless, but he grins regardless, “What are you going to do about it?”

Where on earth does he gain this confidence from?

“Leave you. That’s disgusting.” You say, pulling your dagger away in theatrical repulse and moving away from him.

Beomgyu instantly splutters in panic, thrashing helplessly against his bonds, pathetically pleading, eyes wide. “B-but! Wait! Please. It hurts!”

You smile, satisfied, stepping closer to him once again. That’s more like it. “Why should I?”

He just looks up at you so severely desperate, so pitiful. Your eyes flicker down to his slightly wobbly lips and then back up at his panicked eyes. And as if drawn by some invisible force, definitely not of your own doing, you grab and tug at one of the ropes, impulsively leaning down to kiss him, he kisses back instantly, fervently, surging forward and leaning into the kiss as much as his bindings would allow, lips crashing together, all heated and messy, needy and sloppy, beomgyu whines softly into your mouth and gods help you, it does things to you. You bite down on his plump lower lip until he gasps, shoving your tongue down his, dominating the kiss and he just lets you.

You then pull away, he still tries to chase your mouth back even when you pull away but you move to his throat, trailing your lips down his neck, ghosting over, he tilts his head back obediently, warm breath sending him shivering before you bite and suck harshly.

“Please.” He pants, delirious, so worked up already, eyes squeezed shut. “Touch me. Please.”

How could you refute? He squirms in his chair when you begin to palm him through his pants, already embarrassingly hard, gasping so loudly, jaw going slack just from that. Beomgyu bucks helplessly into your touch as you continue to teasingly grind your palm, kissing and sucking on his neck again, he’s all just needy whines and whimpers, pleas falling from his lips for a little more.

You love his reactions and the pathetic noises he makes, so worked up from a little friction on his clothed dick. You want more of it, you want to break the pretty little prince. You sit in his lap, unzipping his pants before him, cock just as pretty as every other part of him, leaky, wet and red, you brush your thumb over his cute tip, spreading the precum teasingly slow, watching his face.

“Oh…” Beomgyu looks down himself, brows knitting together, shuddering and groaning softly.

The sound when you wrap your hand around his cock and glide your hand up and down is impossibly loud over the crackling of the fire in your cottage, sticky and squelchy and the prince already seems far gone from the slow pumping, unraveling at the first stroke, pupils blown wide, glossy lips parted. How dirty.

“Did you seriously get hard from your captor threatening you with a dagger? You’re fucking sick, beomgyu.” You ridicule him in a faux saccharine tone, hand pumping his dick faster, twisting around the tip that he’s panting now, his head dropping forward, resting and falling on your shoulder, you bring your other hand to stroke at his hair. You can tell he’s close, moaning out prettily.

He still manages to bite back though like the brat he is so clearly he’s not that much of a mess you like you want him to be, he lifts his head back to look at you. “You’re the one who kidnapped me. You’re sick.”

“Fine then. If I’m so sick, I’ll stop.” You still your movements on his dick, pulling your hand away. He wails, loudly crying at that, trying so hard to move, pulling uselessly at the ropes to chase your hand but he can’t.

“No! Please. I’ll die.” There he goes being so dramatic again, tears brimming in his panicked doe brown eyes, hyperventilating. The fact that this is the most distressed he’s gotten being kidnapped is honestly concerning. “Please,” He rasps, wrecked, dazed “fuck me.”

You cruelly laugh at the sight, tutting. “Such crude words coming from a prince...”

He just whines frustratedly in response, exasperatedly frowning like he’s having a tantrum.

“Aw. What a poor little prince.” You mockingly coo at him, stroking his cheek but he leans into it anyway, yearning for more, wanting any sort of touch from you now, you drag your teeth against the lobe of his cute pink ear licking, goading him. He shivers at that, sucking in his breath.

“You’re torturing me!” Beomgyu comically pouts.

“I thought you said I wasn’t torturing you at all.”

“Well now you are. You’re killing me. I’m going to die.”

“This is what you call torturing?” You chuckle incredulously.

“Yeah. Fuck me now.” Beomgyu looks like he might combust if you so much as deny him another second, his cock twitching in the open air, painfully red and glistening. You haven’t touched him in what? Seconds? But it feels like an eternity to him. “Just…please—”

You don’t even wait to hear more of his insufferable begging, you lift your skirt and hips up, pushing your panties to the side and sinking down on his dick unceremoniously, it nearly knocks the wind out of him, gasping sharply, mouth hanging open.

“Holy shit.” He groans. “You’re, oh my god—”

Beomgyu throws his head back, practically going cross eyed at the feeling of your warm tight pussy around him. You start to bounce on his cock continuously, riding him and holding onto his shoulders roughly to stabilise yourself., beomgyu moaning shamelessly loud, high pitched and strangled like a girl, dumb and dazed, drooling onto you at the feeling of your pussy.

You bring your hand to his cheek, kissing beomgyu hard, hands tangling in his long hair, tugging, fucking him mercilessly as he sinfully and filthily moans into your mouth. Then he pulls away.

“Choke me.” Beomgyu licks his swollen lips, looking at you sexily, eyes half lidded.

“You’re perverted.” But your hands wrap around the column of his delicate, pretty neck, now marked and mauled. Beomgyu exhales a shaky breath like it was all he wanted.

“Ah…harder.” Beomgyu gulps, pretty Adam’s apple moving as he does so.

You squeeze harder around his neck and he hisses, furrowing his brows, face scrunching up gorgeously, a pretty vein in his neck popping out. His eyes roll to the back of his head, gasping for air, letting out breathy noises, face and neck flushed, you press down just a little more, still bouncing on his cock, deliberately clenching around him. You feel him twitching inside you and then he cums, whole body convulsing, spilling his load inside your pussy.

But you don’t stop, bringing your hand to his shoulders roughly again, digging your nails into him, fucking him through it. He whimpers painfully, straining against the ropes, but he can only helplessly take whatever you give him.

“stop!—ah! too much, too sensitive…” Beomgyu sniffles and sobs, gasping at the overstimulation, babbling incoherently.

“No it’s not. You were begging to be fucked, now it’s too much for you?” You tighten your grip on his shoulders.

He’s about to whine and complain but you take two of your fingers, stuffing them in his mouth to shut him up, he sorrowfully sucks on them like a slut instead, moaning around them whorishly, gazing up at you with teary watery eyes and his pretty wet swollen lips. Gods. Just looking at the state of him, pretty, writhing, helplessly tied up, it’s making you go insane. He still looks like a doll, face red and rosy, dolly lashes thick fluttering and clumped together with tears, soft hair now all messy, bangs damp and all sweaty. A wrecked, cracked porcelain doll, your doll, yours to ruin and play with. He looks divine. What a whore of a prince.

You bounce on his dick mercilessly, riding him faster and faster and faster to get yourself to reach your high too, bringing your finger to your clit, rubbing. One final look at beomgyu’s face, pitiful doe eyes and sucking on your fingers and that does it, cumming around his twitching dick. With a muffled scream and sob, beomgyu’s cumming again, looking like he’s going to pass out, spurting and shooting more of his warm and sticky white ropes of cum into you, cumming so much, it’s all creamy, completely milking him dry, his whole body shaking beneath you and his chest is heaving like a drowning man, gasping for air.

Only then do you reach for your dagger again, slicing the rope, slithering to the ground. Beomgyu falls forwards instantly, collapsing into your arms, gripping and clinging to you, trembling like a leaf, hands roaming all over you and hugging you tight, the first time he could actually touch you. And beomgyu kisses you so desperately over and over, like he’s starved, hands shaking, clutching your clothes, you keeping his cheeks feeling equally starved.

But your kissing is interrupted by a messenger bird throwing a scroll with an unmistakable royal crest through your window. You get up to read it:

An armed procession will arrive by nightfall to collect our Prince Beomgyu in exchange for the agreed ransom.

— His Majesty, the King.

“Are you…going to return me back then?” Beomgyu says quietly, like he already knows the answer and is fearing it, his shoulders are slumped, already looking miserable and like a devastated puppy, thinking about having to return back to living in the castle.

You think for a moment. You fold the scroll neatly, setting in on the table. “No.”

Beomgyu blinks, “No?”

You smirk. “I’m taking something far more valuable.”

Beomgyu’s eyes widen, and then stars. His eyes practically lighting up, sparkling, you could practically see his tail wagging if he had one.

You both start giggling like idiots.

By the time the army reaches your cottage that evening, it is already abandoned.

And somewhere, gods only knows where, you’re running hand in hand through the forest, longe gone, cat tucked under one arm, and just enough tea packed to last the journey.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: do not ask what this is 😭 I know it makes zero sense but thats kinda the point it was just supposed to be unhinged unserious crack smut 😍🫶

[riddlesrizzler]

Greenhouse Seven

summary: When Hogwarts’ weed supply runs dry, Mattheo Riddle discovers the last place he expected to find salvation-a Hufflepuff characters: mattheo riddle. hufflepff! reader. mentions of theo nott and enzo berkshire. warnings: For clarity !!!! while the terms weed supplier and drug dealer are sometimes used interchangeably, there’s a difference. A weed supplier typically focuses solely on the distribution or growth of marijuana, whereas a drug dealer usually refers to someone dealing a variety of illegal substances. This story does not portray the characters as drug dealers. They’re strictly weed suppliers - nothing more. It’s a lighthearted story with a bit of magical mischief (and maybe some smoke in the air), but no involvement with any other substances. IM A CHILD OF THE DARE PROGRAM word count: 1.1k

It started with Theo flipping the stash drawer upside down like the weed would miraculously appear behind a sock.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice muffled as he dug deeper. “We’re officially f-”

“We’re not out,” Enzo interrupted from across the dorm, kicking his feet up onto the arm of the couch as he lazily stirred sugar into his tea. His curls were damp from the shower, and his tie hung loose around his neck like he hadn't decided whether today even mattered. “We’re just… momentarily low.”

“Theo’s right,” Mattheo cut in from the window seat, his tone sharper, quieter. His dark eyes were fixed on the swirling October fog outside, but his attention was clearly locked on the conversation. “We’ve got maybe a week. Less if the Gryffindors keep ordering those massive bundles.”

Enzo sat up straighter. “Okay, so we improvise. I could charm the next few grams into stretching-”

“We’re not selling trash,” Mattheo snapped. “We built a reputation. You want to throw that down the toilet so we can sell watered-down garbage?”

Theo sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “We’ve got to find a new grower. Fast.”

A tense silence fell, thick with the weight of urgency. The dorm, usually buzzing with late-night laughter and the scent of burned parchment, suddenly felt smaller. Colder. Even the enchanted record player in the corner seemed to hum quieter.

Then, like a switch had been flipped in his brain, Theo’s head shot up.

“Wait. Ravenclaw sixth year - Avery - I overheard him talking in the corridor last week. Swore someone was growing the real stuff. Said something about ‘lush leaves in a forgotten greenhouse.’ I didn’t think much of it at the time…”

Mattheo turned to face him fully now, brow lifting with curiosity. “Which greenhouse?”

“I think he said Seven.”

Enzo blinked. “Greenhouse Seven’s a graveyard. Nothing’s grown there since second year. Sprout keeps it locked up.”

Mattheo stood without another word, grabbing his coat and slinging it over his shoulder with a fluid motion.

“I’ll go check it out.”

He didn’t wait for input. The boys had learned long ago that when Mattheo decided something, he rarely looked back.

By the time he reached the edge of the grounds, Greenhouse Seven was almost completely swallowed by mist and ivy. The structure sagged with age, glass panes cracked and grimy, its metal frame creaking against the autumn wind. It looked forgotten - haunted, even - and yet something about it pulsed with quiet life.

The warped wooden door gave with a reluctant groan, and Mattheo stepped inside.

It was warm - unnaturally so, like the air inside obeyed a different season. A faint golden light flickered from deep within the tangled space, revealing rows of chaos: overturned pots, broken shelves, rusted shears hanging from pegs. But further in, where the shadows grew softer, something else came into view.

Nestled in the back, beneath a canopy of hanging fairy lights and softly glowing enchanted stones, was a pocket of vivid green. Neatly lined rows of thriving marijuana plants stood proud and healthy - glistening under the lights like they knew they were special.

And kneeling between them, humming to herself and dusted with dirt and calm like a walking spell, was a Hufflepuff girl.

You.

Your jumper was oversized and patchy at the elbows, sleeves pushed up to your forearms as your fingers gently examined the soil. Your hair was twisted into a lazy knot, strands framing your face where the light caught them. There was a steaming chipped mug at your side, a battered gardening journal open beside it. The entire scene felt… unreal. Peaceful.

You didn’t notice him at first. Not until the door groaned shut behind him.

“Who-?” you stood suddenly, wand half-raised, alarm flaring in your eyes.

Mattheo raised both hands in mock surrender, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Relax, flower. Not here to rat you out.”

Your brow pinched with suspicion. “Then what are you doing in my greenhouse?”

Mattheo stepped further into the light, eyeing the plants with clear appreciation. “Your greenhouse?”

“Well, Professor Sprout doesn’t exactly use it. I… repurposed it.”

His gaze flicked back to you. Cute. Smart. Kind of dangerous.

“I’m Mattheo,” he said simply, like the name should carry meaning.

You arched an unimpressed brow. “And?”

He chuckled, charmed despite himself. “I came on behalf of my… associates.”

“Associates?”

“You could say we supply Hogwarts,” he said, tone casual. “Used to, anyway. Until we ran low.”

You crossed your arms, eyeing him warily. “And now what? You want to steal mine?”

Mattheo shook his head, smile faint. “I don’t steal from artists. I collaborate with them.”

You didn’t laugh, but you didn’t hex him either - which he took as a win.

“Look,” he continued, stepping closer. “We’ve got reach. Systems. Loyal buyers. You’ve clearly got the product. Let’s help each other out.”

You stared at him, brow knit. “You’re asking me to team up with a bunch of Slytherins?”

“Not just any Slytherins,” he replied, voice a little lower now. “The ones who can make sure your secret garden stays exactly that - a secret. You grow. We distribute. We split profits. No risk. All reward.”

You hesitated. The greenhouse was your sanctuary. But you weren’t stupid - you knew how fast rumors spread, how dangerous it could get if the wrong person stumbled in.

“And if someone finds out?”

Mattheo’s expression darkened. “They won’t. Not with us watching your back.”

Silence fell again. A soft breeze rattled a loose pane overhead.

You looked down at your plants, then back at him. “Why should I trust you?”

Mattheo’s expression sobered just enough to make you pause. “Because I’m not the only one who’d come looking. You got lucky it was me tonight.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken.

Then you sighed, brushing a leaf between your fingers. “You’ll keep the location a secret?”

“Cross my heart,” he said, mocking, tapping his chest.

You smiled faintly, then extended your hand, still smudged with soil. “Fine. But you bring me tea every time you come. And no messing with the plants. They like music and gentle company.”

Mattheo stared at your outstretched hand, amused - and just a little intrigued.

“Tea and gentle company,” he repeated. “What a terrifying pothead you’ll make.”

He shook your hand, fingers curling warm around yours.

And with that, a partnership formed - strange, unlikely, perfectly balanced between reckless ambition and grounded charm. A trio of underground Slytherin suppliers and the softest Hufflepuff grower Hogwarts had ever known.

It wouldn’t be the last night Mattheo stepped into that greenhouse - not even close. But for now, the deal was struck. And the smoke was only just beginning to rise.

[solar-sunnyside-up]

I think I like food forests more rather than the current monoculture farming and would rather create a food forest because it feels more like gardening than farming to me. You know?

I much prefer them personally

As long as people are around, we are going to have paths of some kind, and if we want to stay with streets as we currently have them why not line them with food?

Canopies to provide shade and color, with vines like ivy or grapes or beans growing up the sides.

Espalied fruit trees as fences and shrubs so you can grab bassket full of fruit and a handful of berries on the way to the park or neighbors house.

Root crops and ground cover filling in the gaps. Compost bins where we have garbage bins now.

Not only does it sound pretty, it also would be more efficent for food harvesting and distribution. Plus think of how much lower the heat of any given street would be!

So yea, I def dream of food forest streets.

[beloveds-embrace]

(In which you are a witch living in the woods, and yet the crown’s knights, rather than bringing you to be executed, have taken to protecting you in exchange for your services. Inspired by @nightunite, so all credits to them! (I forgor to add this at first im so sorry </3))

The forest had always been a place of mystery, its ancient trees and thick undergrowth concealing stories older than anyone alive. Deep within its heart, where sunlight filtered in golden beams through the canopy, stood your cottage. Ivy curled up its stone walls, and a garden thrived in the clearing. Wind chimes, crafted from bones and stones, tinkled softly in the breeze, their melodies laced with protective enchantments.

You were a witch, but not the kind whispered about with fear and suspicion. The knights of the realm knew you well- not as a threat but as a keeper of secrets, a healer, and a source of quiet, unassuming power- a companion to turn to when things got rough. You gave them charms and potions, warded them against misfortune, and offered refuge when the weight of their duties grew too heavy. In return, they brought you herbs, rare ingredients, and protection from the crown.

And now, that very same forest seemed to hold its breath as Captain Price approached your cottage, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees. You felt the subtle hum of your wards shifting, recognizing the familiar presence and allowing him to pass. By the time his knuckles rapped softly on the door, you were already reaching for the latch with an eager smile.

“Evening, Captain,” you greeted, as warm as the crackling hearth, and stepped aside to let him in. “Come in before the chill settles.”

He nodded in thanks, ducking under the low frame of your door. “Evening, love,” he murmured, setting a small bundle wrapped in cloth on your table. “Brought you some chamomile and wild mint. Picked it near the south clearing on patrol and thought you’d probably have better uses for them than me.”

“Always so thoughtful,” you unwrapped the herbs and inhales their fresh, earthy scent, while John simply watching, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “These are perfect! Thank you, John, truly.”

Your fingers moved with practiced ease as you began sorting the herbs, placing them into jars and tying some into small bundles to dry. The rhythm of your movements seemed to ease the tension in Price’s shoulders as he sank heavily into one of the wooden chairs by the hearth, his eyes on you and only you.

“Tea?” you offered, even though you were already reaching for your collection of loose leaves. You bustled about, waving a hand with a glittery, starry shimer left in the wake of your movements; teapot and teacups toddled around in formation, going to their stations.

“Aye, tea sounds nice. Thank you, love.” He said, removing his helmet and setting it on the table.

You chose a blend of lavender, chamomile, and a hint of rosehip, brewing the mixture in the pot that had seen countless evenings like this. As you poured the steaming liquid into a cup, you murmured a soft incantation under your breath- just a touch of magic to soothe his weary spirit and exhausted body. A soft ting! came as the spell took hold, and for a split second, wispy hands curled around the cup before disappearing.

“Here,” you hummed, handing him the cup. “For peace of mind.”

Price sipped the tea, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling in your hearth that waved at him. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that had developed over years of quiet visits and late nights spent together.

“Long day, John?” you asked gently, breaking the stillness. Your brows were furrowed, leaving creases in the skin of your forehead.

He nodded, hand curling around the cup, and sighed. “Long patrols, longer nights. The crown’s getting twitchy, and it’s falling on us to keep the peace.”

Your face softened. “And yet you still find time to bring me herbs. You’re too good to me, John.”

He glanced at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve done more for us than you realize. The men sleep easier knowing you’re out here, keeping watch in your own way.”

You looked away, focusing on the charm you’d been crafting earlier in the day. Made of braided black thread and adorned with tiny iron beads, it hummed faintly with the protective magic you’d woven into it.

“I made this for you,” you said, holding it out. “It’s for endurance- to keep you strong during the long days ahead.”

Price extended his arm, letting you tie the charm around his wrist. “Thank you, love.” He said, his voice low and sincere. His eyes lingered on yours, a quiet warmth in their depths.

When he stood to leave, you followed him to the door, pausing as he adjusted his armor. As easy as breathing, he tilted his head down as you stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. The bristles of his beard brushed your cheek, and he stilled, letting the moment stretch.

“Take care, John.” You whispered, your hand lingering on his arm.

He nodded, his expression unreadable as he placed his hat back on his head. “I’ll make sure no one stumbles too close,” he said, tone firm- a promise he’s repeated many times, and never once broken. “This place stays yours, and no one will ever know.”

As he disappeared into the trees, the wards around your home seemed to settle, reassured by the promise of the man who had always been your quiet protector. You returned inside, the faint scent of chamomile lingering in the air, a reminder of the steady presence that kept your world safe.

It was not just him, of course, and you eagerly awaited the visit from the other knights who have kept your secret.

Masterlist.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Twisted Disney –

Day One: Beauty and the Beast

The wind howls through the skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of the damned. Snow, thick and heavy, blankets the ground in an unbroken sheet of white, save for the winding path you tread. The village is far behind you now. You should not have left. You know this. Yet, something in the stormy skies and the hush of the forest called to you.

Your boots crunch against the frost-covered earth as you pull your coat tighter around yourself, but the cold has teeth sharper than any wolf’s, biting through the wool and seeping into your bones. You shudder and glance over your shoulder. The road you have taken is treacherous—too far from home, too close to the shadowed mountains where old stories still breathe in the hearts of the fearful. The villagers warn of it often: the Schwarzwald, the Black Forest, is not a place for the unwary.

A gust of wind rushes through the trees, and with it comes a sound that stops you in your tracks. A deep, guttural growl. Not the distant, echoing cry of wolves, but something closer. Something waiting. Your breath catches in your throat.

Then, a shadow moves.

Your first instinct is to run, but where? Back to the village, through the maze of trees that have swallowed the path? Deeper into the forest, where no light touches the ground beneath the tangled canopy? It does not matter. The choice is taken from you before you can make it.

A figure looms from the darkness between the trees—too large to be a man, too monstrous to be anything else. It moves with an unnatural grace for something so massive, its long limbs clad in dark, tattered garments that hang from its broad shoulders. The fur lining its cloak is thick, matted with frost, but it is not the cloak that makes your blood turn to ice. It is the face.

Sharp features, almost wolfish, but twisted into something not quite human. Eyes like molten gold fix upon you with an intensity that makes you feel as though you have already been claimed. A mouth that is neither fully human nor fully beast curls into a smirk, revealing teeth too long, too sharp.

A clawed hand reaches for you.

You try to scream, but a palm claps over your mouth. The beast moves quickly, effortlessly hoisting you into the air as though you weigh nothing. You thrash, kicking against its unyielding grip, but it is like fighting against stone. Snow flies around you in a flurry as it begins to move, carrying you deeper into the forest, farther from everything you know.

The journey is a blur—branches whipping past, cold air searing your lungs, the rush of wind as the beast moves impossibly fast. Darkness presses in from all sides until, at last, the trees part to reveal a structure looming against the white sky.

A castle.

Its towers stretch high into the storm, their jagged spires lost in the swirling snow. It is ancient, its stone walls draped in ivy, its windows like empty eyes staring into the abyss. It should not exist. The villagers speak of ruins hidden deep in the forest, a place where no sane man dares tread, but this… this is no ruin. This place still breathes.

The beast does not slow as he crosses the threshold, pushing open the great wooden doors with ease. The warmth inside is jarring against your frozen skin, the flickering glow of firelight casting monstrous shadows along the walls. Tapestries hang in tatters, their images faded with time, and yet there is something grand about the decay, something timeless and terrible.

At last, he sets you down. Your legs buckle beneath you, but you do not fall. The beast’s grip lingers, steadying you, holding you in place.

“Do not run,” he says, his voice like gravel and thunder. “It will do you no good.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why?” The word slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper.

The beast tilts his head, considering you. Then, with slow deliberation, he steps closer, until his breath ghosts against your skin, warm and unsettling.

“Because you are mine.”

Masterlist

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Monster Mania.

Pairing: Yandere!Vampire!Neuvillette x Reader x Yandere!Werewolf!Wriothesley (Genshin).

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Oral Sex, Mentions of Blood, Non-Human Anatomy, Possessive Behavior, Prolonged Imprprisoment, and Slight Dehumanization.

“Pouting won’t get you out of this.”

“I’m not—” You paused, gritting your teeth as his shoulder pressed uncomfortably into your stomach. In retribution, you did your best to drive your knee into his chest, to let him know he was hurting you without admitting that you were even more fragile than he’d assumed, but if he cared about your attempts at resistance, if he so much as noticed that you’d moved at all, Wriothesley didn’t waver. “I’m not pouting, I’m trying to get away from my fucking stalker and his—” Another fit of thrashing. This time, Wriothesley was kind enough to tighten his hold on your legs. “—fucking dog. Why is that so hard for you two to get that through your heads?”

He hummed, drumming his fingers against your thigh. “Might be how often call us… what was it, again? A stalker and a dog?”

You scowled, crossing your arms. From your current position, slung over his shoulder, the remnants of one of his rope snares still wrapped around your left ankle, you could only see the thin footpath he was following and the dense forest that laid beyond it. The tree canopy was too thick to let you see the sky (something you mourned and Neuvillette adored, considering his fondness for early evening walks), but rays of golden sunlight still managed to pierce the endless sprawl of branches and leaves, marking the first signs of dusk. Neuvillette had still been asleep when you slipped through the door Wriothesley had forgotten to lock when he left for his daily hunting trip, but he’d be waking up soon; you could already imagine him rising from his canopied bed, picture the diluted shock he’d wear as he stepped into your bedroom for his first meal of the night only to find it empty. You weren’t surprised Wriothesley was so eager to get you home. Neuvillette was stoic at the worst of times, but the thought of letting his pet blood-bag get away was one of the few things that could get a reaction out of him.

Not that Wriothesley was much better. He was more level-headed, sure, more likely to let you wear something aside from ivory nightgowns and untangle you from Neuvillette’s arms when his hunger left him in a blood-thirsty daze, but that never stopped him from taking Neuvillette’s side when you found yourself in another petty argument, from standing in the doorway with a smile and a dreamy look in his eyes as Neuvillette fastened a lace collar around your neck, a collar just a touch too small to cover the twin puncture marks at the base of your throat and just a touch too similar to the steel choker that sat at the base of Wriothesley’s throat more often than not. He might’ve been human, something as mortal and as delicate as you were, but he was still a monster. He’d be crushed under Neuvillette’s heel a thousand times before he ever considered showing you mercy.

The shadow of their mansion was coming into view, now – the lonely building just as dark and just as intimidating as it’d been the first time Wriothesley lured inside. It stretched on as far as the eye could see in either direction and towered above you like some awful, looming thing; thick curtains constantly drawn over its many windows and every surface of its exterior constantly covered in a thick layer of creeping ivy. The rotting boards of the front porch groaned under his weight as he approached the front door, and you braced yourself as he cursed under his breath, patting down the pockets of his heavy flannel. You weren’t sure why they bothered keeping the door locked at all – aside from what it took to keep you trapped inside, at least. Neuvillette was the most dangerous thing for the next hundred miles, and Wriothesley was a close second.

The inside of the mansion was just as ominous; any light from the outside world captured and suffocated before it could penetrate Neuvillette’s endless abyss. You squirmed, hoping Wriothesley would at least let you cross the threshold on your own, but he wasn’t so kind, only responding to your silent plea with a playful squeeze to your calf as he made his way past the entryway and down an unlit hall, passing several torn paintings and overturned tables before finally shrugging open the door to Neuvillette’s study. A bottle of red wine sat open and half-drained on his mahogany desk, a small fire smoldering in the stone hearth he only rarely used. Neuvillette sat beside it, dressed in a simple black robe, his eyes blearily focused on the low-burning flames. He looked concerned, but his apprehension faded as Wriothesley carried you into his line of sigh, disappearing completely as you were hauled off of Wriothesley’s shoulder and dropped into Neuvillette’s lap. One of his hands found its way to your waist, its twin cupping your cheek, tilting your head back and allowing him to press a lingering kiss into the top of your head. “Beloved,” he muttered, practically breathing out his pet name for you before turning to Wriothesley. “Thank you, duke. I’m sorry you’ve had to inconvenience yourself for the sake of what should be my responsibility again.”

With a groan, Wriothesley fell onto the foot of the fireplace, shrugging off his coat. Where Neuvillette chose to hide his bloodlust behind a thick veil of unwavering niceties and delicate elegance, Wriothesley leaned into his brutality; broad muscle straining at the confines of his black undershirt, scruff cropping up faster than he could clear it away, his hair an untamable mess of black and grey and his clothes caked in an ever constant layer of mud and wear (save for his metal choker, of course, which was always polished to conspicuous shine). His eyes lit up when he heard Neuvillette ask after him, posture straightening like that of a soldier called to attention. You’d been too generous when you called him a dog. He was a mutt, too mindlessly obedient to ever question his master’s orders. “How many centuries has it been since you’ve had a reason to call me that?”

“It should be four this year.” Another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. You could feel the points of his fangs, still tucked behind his lips but no less dangerous for their momentary concealment. “Don’t you have something to say to him, as well?”

It took a moment to register he was talking to you, another to recognize the hypocrisy of what he was asking you. Your pressed frown fell into an open-mouthed balk. “Absolutely not.” And then, when Neuvillette held strong, “You can’t expect me to thank him for keeping me trapped here—”

“Silence.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t bear his fangs or dig his pointed nails into your thigh – he didn’t have to. All it took was that tone. Assertive, but not quite forceful. Lulling, but no softer than the wood and stone of his hellish mansion. Immediately, you shut your mouth. Neuvillette closed his eyes, letting out a raspy sigh before taking you by the hips and turning you in his lap, so that you faced outward rather than into his chest. That was enough to earn Wriothesley’s full attention, perking up as you were perched on the edge of Neuvillette’s lap. “Why don’t we try that again. Do you have anything to say to Wriothesley?”

You glared pointedly at the floor. “Thank you. For bringing me back?”

“And?”

“And...” This was the part you hated the most. If there’d been an alternative – a dungeon they could’ve thrown you into, a brand they could sear into your skin – you would’ve embraced it with open arms. But, that was the worst part about dealing with an captor. He had all the time in the world to make you bask in your own humiliation, and he never seemed to tire of the pasttime. “And, thank you for making sure I didn’t get hurt in the forest.”

As if there was anything out there that could’ve hurt you more than they did. Still, it seemed to appease Neuvillette, who let out an approving hum as he turned to Wriothesley. “What do you think? Be honest, this time. No lesson was ever taught with a gentle hand.”

He took a long moment to look over you, another to wet his lips. Wordlessly, dependent on the pure desperation in your eyes, you begged him not to listen to Neuvillette, to take your side just this once, but your improvised attempts at telepathic communication proved unsuccessful. “It could’ve been more genuine,” he admitted, with a slight shrug. “Didn’t have much nice to say on the way back, either.”

“Is that so?” His fingertips drummed against your side. “Why don’t you join us?”

Wriothesley didn’t hesitate, practically stumbling over himself as he crawled to Neuvillette’s feet. He came to rest on his knees, hand braced against the rug between his thighs and his cheek only a hair’s width from Neuvillette’s leg, as if waiting for permission to press against him. He always looked at his most relaxed there, on the floor, patiently waiting for an order from his master. It was hard to tell whether it was a skill learned through time, or if subservience was just in his nature.

His obedience was rewarded with a breathy chuckle, a hand run through his unruly hair. Wriothesley was more lax with himself than he usually was, letting his eyes fall shut as he melted into Neuvillette’s touch. “Since your tongue is so uncooperative today,” Neuvillette started, leaning forward just far enough to rest his chin on your shoulder. “How do you think you can show our dear helper how grateful you are?”

A bolt of cold dread shot down your spine. You moved to stand, to get away, but Neuvillette’s arm wrapped tight around your midriff, keeping you pinned against him despite your resistance. “Neuvi’,” you mumbled, squirming against him. “Please, Neuvi’, I don’t want to—”

“Now you’re going to play nice?” His hand fell to your knee, drawing your legs apart. Wriothesley filled the space before you could clench them shut again, his mouth immediately latching onto the inside of your thigh, his dull teeth burying themselves in the plush of your exposed skin. You cursed under your breath, trying to shake him off, but he held tight, fists curling around your ankles to keep you spread and exposed as Neuvillette watched on, his grin pressing into the crook of your throat. “That’s a little cruel, beloved. Can’t you see how excited he is?”

You could. There was a glassy sheen over his half-lidded eyes, a hunch to his posture that meant he was too distracted with you to care about how he held himself. You’d slipped out in a rush, eager to get as far as you could before Neuvillette woke up. In your haste, you hadn’t bothered to change out of the simple, silken frock you were wearing; a choice you only came to regret as Neuvillette dragged the tattered hem to your waist, as Wriothesley’s attention drifted from your thighs to your panties, the lacey fabric torn away with little more than a curl of his fingers and a throaty growl. That, more than anything, caught you off-guard. It wasn’t a threat, but it was more hostile than anything he’d ever directed towards you before. It wasn’t a sound someone like him, someone like you, should’ve been capable of making.

Neuvillette must’ve felt the way you stiffened against him. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the curve of your throat, just a touch too close to the vein he preferred to drink from, then another into the dip of your shoulder. “Surely, you must’ve noticed how scarce Wriothesley makes himself around this time of the month.” He paused, laughing airily. “He’d already be safely locked away in the cellar, if you hadn’t made him run out and fetch you. I suppose it must’ve slipped his mind while he was looking for you.”

“I don’t—” A tongue, broader than it should’ve been, hotter than it should’ve been, ran over your slit. “But, he’s supposed to be—”

“Human?” You refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge what he was doing to you, but you could feel his teeth ghosting over your skin, their usually dull tips beginning to sharpen into something more pointed, more animalistic. His tongue slipped into your entrance, thick enough to stretch you open with little more than its curling tip, and Neuvillette’s focus fell to your clit, left neglected by Wriothesley’s unwavering concentration on lapping up as much of your (humiliatingly, quickly accumulating) slick as he could. His thumb toyed with the sensitive bundle of nerves as he went on. “He is rather young, as far as immortal beings are concerned. He made an adorable puppy, back when creatures of the night were free to roam as they pleased, but he’s matured since his days of village razing and cattle slaughtering. I think you’ll find he’s learned how to keep his fangs to himself.” Wriothesley nipped gently at the junction of your thigh. You winced and Neuvillette added, “More or less.”

You could only bring yourself to half-listen to what he was saying. Wriothesley was growing more wild by the second, his formerly languid movements now hasty and agitated, little groans and growls joining the wet, disgusting sounds quickly filling the study. You felt claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago dig into your ankles, his already impressive build taking on bulk that would’ve been possible for anything natural, anything human. It wasn’t enough to just look away, anymore – you shut your eyes completely, bowing your head and curling into yourself as Wriothesley ate you out like a man— no, not a man, a beast starved. The cool marble of Neuvillette’s chest was almost a comfort when compared to the raw heat of Wriothesley’s mouth. It might’ve been more soothing, had he not been taking so much joy in your suffering.

“He’s always been prone to getting carried away. I used to have to fetch him at dawn – he could never seem to make it home before the moon set and he was left bare and unconscious in the vineyard of some poor nobleman.” He pulled back, letting Wriothesley’s cold nose grind against your clit in his place. You weren’t free from his touch for very long, though. The array of ribbons that kept the bodice of your frock drawn tight were undone, the neckline loosened and allowed to fall to your shoulders. “I’ve always preferred a more direct approach. The occasional drunkard taken off the street and drained was always enough to keep me sated.” He paused, cupped the curves of your chest. “Until I came across you, of course.”

You felt his fangs scrape over your neck, but he didn’t have time to bite down before you lurched forward, the sporadic movements of Wriothesley’s tongue bringing you to a sudden, unsteady climax. It was abrupt enough, violent enough to make tears swell in the corners of your eyes, to steal a ragged gasp from your lungs despite your attempts to swallow back any pathetic sound your weak-willed body might’ve wanted to make. For the first time, you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at him, letting your gaze fall onto the black-furred, oversized thing between your legs. He was unrecognizable, black fur and a wolf-like muzzle swallowing any familiar trait you might’ve latched onto. Pointed ears laid flat against his scalp, a grey-tipped tail brushed over the floor lazily behind him as he moved to keep going, to milk every last drop out of you, but Neuvillette reached down and took him by the metal collar now pressing flush against his throat. There was a low, drawn-out whine as he was dragged up and away from your pussy, but Neuvillette’s cruelty was limited to you.

“We spent hours talking about what to do with you, when he first brought you home.” He spoke absent-mindedly, muttering against your throat as he guided Wriothesley onto his knees. Even at only a fraction of his full height, he was tall enough to loom over you, to replace your limited world with a towering shadow of black fur and white teeth. He was panting, his chin glistening with slick and drool, what was left of his tattered clothes torn away in a few aggerated swipes of his claws. You’d been wrong, again – not every part of him was unfamiliar. His eyes were still there, the grey clouded and his pupils blown out but still undeniably his. Still fixed entirely on you.

“I thought he should turn you as soon as possible, but he protested, claimed the transformation would be too much for you.” He bowed his head, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Between you and I, there might be a chance he’s hoping I’ll give in first. He does his best to hide it, but he tends to sulk whenever I choose to feed from you. I think he’s hoping we might both have to rely on him.”

Clawed hands curled around the arms of his chair, the wood creaking under Wriothesley’s weight. For the first time, you let your eyes drift lower, let yourself take in the massive, pulsing cock standing erect against his lower stomach. It looked too big; like a prop, made to only vaguely resemble the real thing. It looked like it could tear you in half.

“Then again, he might’ve grown fond of the idea of adding another wolf to his pack,” Neuvillette added, as you went limp against him. “We’ll have to see how human you feel when the sun rises.”

It was an awkward position, Wriothesley too tall and Neuvillette too unyielding. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around your midriff as his other hand drifted into the limited space between your body and Wriothesley’s, his pale hand curling around Wriothesley’s thick shaft and carefully lining it up with your dripping cunt. Wriothesley bucked into the stimulation, his body lurching forward and his head nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. You felt his breath, warm and humid, fan over your chest, then the rough reverberation of his voice against your skin. “Mate.” It was more of a groan than anything, one long breath that seemed to escape from some unseen vault. It was his voice, but there was something underneath it, too – something more guttural than you would ever want on top of you. “Mine.”

“Ours,” Neuvillette corrected, tightening his hold and drawing you close. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel it, pressing against your throat as his fangs reclaimed lost territory. “Our precious, misguided little pet.”

Wriothesley thrust into you as Neuvillette drove his teeth into your skin, both men piercing you simultaneously. Too stunned to scream, you could only silently wonder who would end you first.

[chlerc]

the art of noticing ; charles leclerc

pairing charles leclerc x f. reader ( third person story )

every passing conversations, every casual interaction, you might think he never really remembered it. but as they say, to be loved is to be seen. he sees every part of you when you think he doesn’t.

word count 6648.

content 6 times charles showed you that love doesn’t always shout. sometimes, it can just whisper “I’m thinking about you” “you mentioned it before” + some insta stories snippets into their life!

author’s note if you can’t already tell, i think i’m the biggest acts of service person ever. this might be my favourite piece i’ve ever written

song recs for this fic you are in love

— I.

It was the sort of detail that would have escaped most — a minor oversight, inconsequential to anyone else, invisible even to the well-meaning. But not to Charles. Never to Charles.

The evening sun had just begun its slow descent behind the low rooftops, casting a gilded glow over the terrace of the little café they often frequented. Their table was nestled beneath a canopy of rustling ivy, where laughter mingled with the clink of cutlery and the amber hum of street lamps flickering to life. Glasses glistened with condensation, cradled in idle hands, catching light with the easy sparkle of summer. Their friends, an ensemble of familiar voices, were already settled, drinks ordered in advance, good-natured teasing passed across the table like bread.

Charles arrived a touch later, having been caught in traffic on his way from a sponsor meeting. He approached the table just in time to see her lean forward with a soft laugh, lifting her glass — a tall one, rim beaded with droplets and garnished with a curl of citrus, and drink. But not with a straw. And in that single, fleeting moment, something in him paused.

It was such a small thing. A negligible detail. But she always drank with a straw. Not out of necessity, but fondness, an affection for the sensation. The soft draw of liquid through narrow plastic, the idle way she would chew the end as she listened intently or toyed with it while thinking. He remembered the way she used to tuck the straw between her fingers, twirl it absentmindedly, press her lips to it as though the world might slow down just a touch if she did.

Once, he’d asked her why, half-mocking, wholly curious, and she had simply smiled, that lopsided, sunlit sort of smile that softened every part of her face. “Feels nicer,” she’d said with a quiet shrug. “I know it’s silly. I just like it. It makes things feel a little gentler.”

And she’d laughed, then, nibbling at the bendy part of the straw with a grin like moonlight skipping over still water. A laugh that, even now, echoed somewhere in his chest like an afterthought he never quite let go.

So when he saw her now, sipping directly from the glass, without complaint, without hesitation — something curled within him, quietly and insistently. She hadn’t asked. She never would. She adapted so easily it almost hurt. He saw it in the way she tucked discomfort away like loose threads, how she made do with what was in front of her, never demanding more, never even flinching when something was missing.

Even now, surrounded by friends and the gentle cadence of conversation, she said nothing and merely smiled, her fingers cradling the glass as though it had always been enough. But he knew better. He knew her.

So, without a word, Charles rose from his chair, offering a murmured excuse that went largely unnoticed, something about needing the loo, said softly enough to drift into the night air. No one questioned it. He walked briskly through the open terrace doors and into the softly lit interior of the café, his eyes scanning behind the bar until he spotted them, a small glass jar of plastic straws, almost forgotten, nestled beside the napkins.

He reached for one, black, slim, bendable and turned it between his fingers once, thoughtfully. It wasn’t much. But it was something. And perhaps that was what mattered. When he returned to the table, no one looked up, still mid-conversation, caught in the gentle swell of evening mirth. She sat with her chin tilted slightly towards the sky, her eyes gleaming as she listened to one of the others recount something foolish and likely exaggerated. The curl of her hair framed her cheeks, touched by the honeyed light of dusk, and her drink, still half-full, rested at her elbow, untouched since that first sip.

He did not speak. He didn’t need to. With the same quiet deliberation with which one might place a cherished relic on an altar, Charles leaned forward and gently slipped the straw into her glass. It slid between ice cubes with a soft clink, the citrus bobbing in its wake, and then he eased back into his seat with the poise of someone for whom this was entirely ordinary. She looked down and then, slowly, up.

Her smile, when it came, was not performative. It was not polite or surprising or reflexive. It bloomed. Her eyes crinkled into crescents, luminous with unspoken gratitude, and for a heartbeat, she simply stared at him as if committing the moment to memory, as though something in her had softened. The kind of smile that made everything else, the noise, the laughter, the summer breeze, fall away, leaving only the space between them, tender and charged with something wordless.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the straw, lifting it to her lips with a soft sip, and immediately, she began to nibble at the edge in that old, familiar way, the way that told him, without a single syllable, I’m at ease now. You saw me.

He offered a light shrug in return, feigning indifference, his expression unreadable save for the smallest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Forgot you’re intolerable without a straw,” he murmured, his voice so dry it might’ve passed for teasing, were it not for the warmth flickering behind his gaze.

She let out a breath of laughter, low and fond, her shoulders lifting slightly in a gesture that betrayed her embarrassment and her joy all at once. “Shut up,” she whispered, not looking away, her eyes still tethered to him as though the rest of the world had blurred into the periphery. And in that moment, in the simplicity of a plastic straw offered without fanfare, Charles knew what most never would: that love, when it is quiet, when it is observant and enduring, often speaks not in grand gestures, but in these infinitesimal acts of memory. Of knowing. Of seeing someone as they are, and responding without request.

He hoped she understood what he could not yet voice, that he remembered every little thing about her, not out of obligation, but out of reverence. That he noticed when something wasn’t right, even if she would never say so. That her comfort mattered more than conversation, more than appearances, more than anything else that moment had to offer.

That this, this one small straw, was not just about a drink. It was about her. Always her.

And she smiled, with that gentle, grateful radiance he knew he’d carry with him far longer than anything else the evening had to give.

The terrace had emptied gradually, chairs scraped back, goodbyes exchanged with the lingering warmth of familiarity. One by one, their friends had peeled away into the night, swallowed by car doors and street corners and the inevitable pull of Monday morning. But Charles, as always, had remained.

They walked in silence now, side by side, their footsteps soft against the pavement slick with the sheen of evening humidity. The city breathed around them — not loud, not intrusive, but alive. Distant music drifted from an open window above a bakery, the faint scent of pastry still clinging to the air. Her arms were folded lightly across her chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her sleeve, while Charles walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait unhurried, deliberate.

They weren’t speaking, and yet nothing felt unsaid. Her thoughts, however, had not left the café. More precisely, they had not left the straw. It had been such a small thing. Insignificant to the world. But to her, it was everything. Because he had noticed. He remembered.

She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him in any particular way. Hadn’t sighed or hinted or pouted or reached for something she knew wasn’t there. She had simply adapted, taken the glass as it was handed to her and drank without pause. And yet, within minutes of arriving, he had noticed the absence of a thin piece of plastic. And went out of his way to make it right.

And it wasn’t just about the straw. It was never just about the straw.

It was about how much of her he still carried quietly with him. The subtle things, the gentlest of preferences, things she herself sometimes forgot to mention aloud, but which he held onto as though they were sacred. She hadn’t spoken about her odd fondness for drinking through straws in months. And yet he remembered. Not because she reminded him. But because he wanted to.

The thought made something soft unfurl within her, something fragile and aching all at once. She glanced at him now, half in shadow, half bathed in the soft glow of a passing streetlight. There was a faint line between his brows, not from worry, but from thought. As though his mind was elsewhere, tracing the shape of some silent burden he never spoke of. His jaw was faintly tensed, the vein in his temple visible when he turned his head. And yet, when he looked at her, when their eyes met for the briefest beat, there was something quiet there. Gentle. Steady. The kind of softness that made her throat tighten with something unnameable.

“Charles,” she said, her voice a murmur in the hush of the evening, barely above the rustling of leaves in the wind. He looked over at her, one brow arching faintly. “Hmm?” She hesitated, not for lack of words, but because the feeling sat so deeply in her chest, she feared it might splinter if she let it out too carelessly. So instead, she offered a smile, quiet and full of meaning, her gaze resting on his face the way one might rest their fingers on something precious.

“Thank you. For the straw.” His brow furrowed, not out of confusion, but in that way he often did when receiving gratitude for something he considered too obvious to deserve it. His lips curved faintly, and he exhaled through his nose, amused. “Hardly worth a medal, is it?”

But she stopped walking. He turned back to her, and in the pause between footfalls, something shifted. Her eyes were glassy with a sheen of emotion she didn’t quite trust herself to name. “It is,” she said, her voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges. “You remembered. And I didn’t even ask. I didn’t hint. I didn’t even think of it myself until you brought it to me. But you remembered.”

Her hand rose, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down, smiling faintly to herself before meeting his gaze again. “That’s the thing about you. You remember the little things, the soft things. The things no one else thinks to keep.” Charles was still, and in the golden light spilling from a nearby window, she saw it, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his lips parted just slightly, as though he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure he could.

She stepped a little closer. “You always say you’re not good with words. That you’re not the sentimental one. But you are,” she said softly, the words tumbling out now, fragile but insistent. “You don’t make a show of it, but you see me. Even when I think I’m fading into the background, you still see me. And you do these quiet, thoughtful things that no one ever asks for. That I never ask for. But you do them anyway.”

She laughed, self-conscious, shaking her head. “It was just a straw, right? But it felt like... I don’t know. Like you reached into a part of my heart I didn’t even realise was waiting to be touched.” Charles blinked, and for a moment, all the usual retorts seemed to fail him. He looked down, exhaling slowly, his thumb brushing the edge of his palm, a gesture she recognised, the way he often steadied himself when emotion crept too close to the surface.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “I notice you,” he said. “Even when you think I don’t. I always have.” And with that, they fell into step once more, the silence between them no longer hollow, but full, thick with feeling, steeped in the quiet knowledge that sometimes, love does not arrive with trumpets or declarations.

Sometimes, it’s a straw in a glass. Sometimes, it’s a man who remembers how you like to drink, even when you forget to ask. And sometimes, that’s how you know. You are loved.

— II.

Breakfasts with Charles were never grand affairs. Not the way one might imagine in the fantasy of hotel mornings, no ostentatious silver platters beneath cloche lids, no chilled flutes of mimosa or extravagant towers of French patisserie. No, theirs were quieter rituals. Softer. Built not of spectacle, but of knowing, the sort that could only be cultivated over time and tenderness.

The hotel buffet, as ever, offered the usual suspects: lukewarm eggs in wide metal pans, wilted greens, triangle slices of pale toast barely brushed with butter, and a cruel abundance of strawberry-flavoured atrocities masquerading as yoghurts, jams, and jellies.

She had always loathed that particular brand of cloying sweetness, that artificial tang of strawberry-flavoured nonsense that seemed to follow her everywhere. It wasn’t the fruit itself, no, she rather liked that, the way the seeds crackled faintly between her teeth and the juices stained her fingertips. But the manufactured version, bright pink and plastic-tasting, reminded her of childhood medicine and cheap lollipops left too long in the sun.

And yet, even before she reached the table, before the first sip of coffee passed her lips or the sleepy fog had lifted from her thoughts — Charles always knew. He was already seated when she arrived that morning, a page of Le Monde folded neatly beside his plate, his cutlery arranged with the sort of casual precision she’d come to associate with him. His hair was damp, fresh from the shower, and he wore that vaguely rumpled Oxford shirt he never quite bothered to button all the way. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with a faint tan, and there was a small ink smudge on his thumb, always, somehow, there was ink.

As she slid into the seat opposite him, the plate already waiting for her told her everything. He’d done it again. Her toast sat unassumingly on its plate, two slices stacked slightly askew, but without a trace of tomato. Not even a smear of pulp or a rogue seed to betray its absence. They were gone, of course, spirited away onto his plate, nestled beside his eggs. She could see them now, glistening under the morning light, sliced thinly and stacked in that way he did, not for presentation, but for ease.

She didn’t even have to look at him. She knew. He had eaten them for her. Not out of obligation, not because she asked, but simply because he remembered.

She picked up her fork, her gaze flicking to the small fruit bowl beside her napkin, and there, too, was the quiet curation of his affection. No strawberry yoghurt. No pink-tinted jam. Only the fresh strawberries remained, halved neatly, their bright red flesh exposed, untouched. Just the way she liked.

And just beside it, on a tiny plate he’d nudged to her side without ceremony, was his croissant, golden and still warm, along with half a hard-boiled egg and a small wedge of brie he’d quietly abandoned from his own tray. His own breakfast, modest and picked apart, as though it had been negotiated and reassembled with her preferences in mind, not his.

“You know,” she said after a long silence, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep, “you always eat the tomatoes off my toast.” Charles didn’t look up from his coffee. He gave a faint shrug, as if this fact was hardly worth remarking on. “They’re better on mine.” She smiled. “You don’t even like them that much.”

He finally glanced at her then, his eyes soft but unreadable, the ghost of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I don’t dislike them either.” A beat passed, quiet but full. “And the yoghurts?” she asked, nodding at the abandoned strawberry pot still on the serving tray behind him, untouched. “Didn’t fancy those this morning either?”

Charles lifted his coffee cup, the steam curling around his knuckles, and took a slow sip. “They taste like regret and sugar-free chewing gum,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all you.” She let out a laugh, the kind that escaped before she could smooth it down, unexpectedly genuine. “But you used to eat them.”

“I used to do a lot of things,” he replied, setting the cup down with care, his voice dropping just slightly. “Then I realised how much you hated them.” There was something unspoken in the air between them then. Something that wasn’t quite said, but pressed in from the edges like morning mist creeping across a windowpane.

It wasn’t just about the tomatoes. Or the yoghurt. Or the reshuffled breakfast plates. It was about noticing. It was about care. It was about the way he saw her, not only in the big declarations, but in the minutiae most others missed. The way she peeled her fruit but left the seeds. The way she pushed the tomatoes to the side without fanfare. The way her nose crinkled at artificial scents, her disdain for strawberry-flavoured things nearly as strong as her fondness for the real fruit itself.

And Charles — reticent, observant Charles, had made it his quiet mission to preserve her comfort without ever calling attention to it. “You remember everything,” she murmured, almost to herself. Charles didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any easy reply. Instead, he simply met her gaze across the narrow table, his eyes steady and impossibly gentle. “No,” he said, after a moment. “Just the things that matter.”

She looked down then, cheeks warm, her fork idly cutting into the yolk of the egg he’d given her. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full, thick with memory and unspoken affection, like a well-worn book whose pages still smelled faintly of ink and the past.

In that moment, she realised, as she chewed the toast that no longer bore the sting of tomato, drank the coffee he always sweetened to her taste, and watched him quietly refill her glass without a word — that love didn’t always need to shout. It didn’t have to be grand or performative.

Sometimes, it was breakfast. Sometimes, it was the tomatoes he ate so she didn’t have to, the yoghurts he left untouched, the fruit bowls he edited in silence. And sometimes, that was more than enough.

— III.

The paddock was a cacophony of movement and sound — a restless tapestry of camera shutters, overlapping voices, glinting flashes, and the low thrum of engines idling in the distance. Reporters swarmed like bees, each vying for a slice of attention, microphone cords tangled at their feet and press passes flapping in the breeze like fragile flags of entitlement. It was an environment of barely restrained chaos — all gloss and noise and performance.

And she hated it. Not the sport, nor the spectacle, but this part. The part that demanded visibility. The part that left little room for silence. She stood just to the side of Charles, her figure half-shielded by his taller frame, a step behind but tethered to him by presence alone. She didn’t speak, she rarely did when cameras were involved, but her smile, soft and hesitant, held steady for the sake of politeness. She was good at that: presenting a composed exterior, even when her nerves fluttered like moths beneath her skin.

Yet her hands betrayed her. They always did. When there was nothing to hold, nothing to occupy the anxious energy that simmered beneath the surface of her stillness, her fingers defaulted to the familiar ritual of picking at her nails. The edges of her thumbnails were already raw from the morning, tiny crescents of skin peeled back in quiet punishment, and now her index finger circled the corner of her nail with obsessive precision, over and over and over again.

Charles was speaking — something about race strategy and track conditions — his voice low and measured, the cadence effortless, as if the words came from muscle memory alone. But even as he faced the journalist and nodded thoughtfully at their questions, his eyes flicked sideways. Just once. Just enough. He saw her hands. Of course he did. He always saw.

Without a break in conversation, without so much as a change in his tone, he reached down and unhooked the silver bracelet from his wrist, the one she had once described absentmindedly as fidget-worthy during a quiet moment in the back of a hotel shuttle, when she’d spun it between her fingers for an entire hour without realising.

He slipped it from beneath the cuff of his fireproof undershirt, fingers deft despite the constraints of the suit, and turned slightly, subtly, towards her. His voice didn’t falter. His words continued to flow into the press microphone, eloquent and precise, as if he weren’t doing something else entirely with his hands. Then, low enough for her ears only, he murmured, “Here. Play with this instead.”

His voice was a balm — even, warm, without judgement. As though this, too, was simply part of the routine. As natural as breathing. She glanced up at him, startled at first by the bracelet being pressed gently into her palm, the cool metal coiling like a snake across her skin. Her fingers closed around it instinctively, grateful beyond words, and her lips parted, as if to protest, or perhaps to thank him but no sound emerged.

There was only the look he gave her then, fleeting, almost imperceptible, but anchored in a softness that undid her. And so she stayed quiet, as she always did. Smiled politely at the camera. Let the storm pass around her. But this time, her fingers twisted the bracelet between them instead of worrying the edge of her cuticles to blood.

Later, someone would post the clip online, a zoomed-in snippet from the live interview, barely ten seconds long. You could see her, half-hidden behind him, shifting her weight from foot to foot. You could see her hand start to rise towards her mouth before being gently intercepted by his. You could see the bracelet passed between them like a secret. And then, as clear as sunlight, the way her shoulders lowered, her thumb idly tracing the ridged pattern of the chain links, the storm in her spine slowly dissolving.

And Charles? He didn’t look at her again. He simply went on answering questions about tyre degradation and sector times as if he hadn’t just pulled her out of the spiral and placed her firmly back into the world. It was never loud, the way he cared.

Never performative, never dramatic. But always, always present. In gestures small enough to be missed by anyone who wasn’t paying attention. In the accessories he wore, not for style or sponsorship, but for her. In the way he carried her needs like second nature, quietly, without ceremony, without needing to be thanked.

She stood beside him, her fingers wrapped gently around the bracelet that now warmed in her palm from the heat of her own skin, a talisman, a lifeline, a reminder that someone saw her even when she didn’t speak. And for the rest of the interview, while the cameras flashed and the journalists jostled and Charles slipped easily from one polished reply to the next, she didn’t touch her fingernails once.

— IV.

The room was steeped in that peculiar kind of silence that only arrives in the early hours, not emptiness, but a hush thick enough to hear the passing of time itself. Moonlight poured like melted pewter through the gauzy curtains, brushing silver over the bed linens, over the slope of the duvet where Charles lay half-curled on his side, one arm instinctively reaching out, seeking warmth where hers should’ve been. Only to find air.

His hand met the cool, undisturbed hollow of her pillow, the sheets untouched. No warmth lingered. No trace of her sleep-heavy breath or the weight of her limbs tucked close. His brow furrowed in the dark, a slight crease between his brows as he blinked himself more fully awake. There was no sound, no movement, only that unsettling stillness which made the absence of her even louder.

He sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath his weight. His bare feet found the floorboards with a muted sigh, and he reached for the dressing gown slung across the armchair. The air was cooler than expected as he padded quietly through the hallway, passing the soft spill of lamplight under the kitchen door.

There, in the quiet glow of the refrigerator’s faint light and the soft amber cast of the counter lamp, she stood in silence. Her frame, small and pale in one of his old T-shirts, was silhouetted against the darkened kitchen like a figure carved from sleep and shadow. She was cradling a glass of water between both hands, fingers wrapped tightly around it as if drawing heat, though the liquid was cold.

Her gaze was far-off, fixed somewhere beyond the windowpane above the sink, where nothing stirred but the occasional drifting wisp of cloud. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice barely a whisper. “Couldn’t sleep again?” She turned, almost guiltily, her expression softening at the sight of him. Her smile was faint, apologetic, though he needed no apology, he’d long known her sleepless habits, her restlessness once the world went quiet and the thoughts grew loud.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with fatigue, the barest crack threading her words. Charles crossed the room in a few quiet strides. He didn’t speak again until he reached her, until he’d taken the glass from her hands with a tenderness that made her breath catch. He placed it gently on the counter, then reached for her wrist, fingers warm and sure as they circled it.

“Come back to bed,” he said, not a suggestion, but a quiet, unwavering promise. “I’ll read to you.” She blinked up at him, her expression half amused, half disbelieving. “A bedtime story?” He offered a lopsided smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened his usually composed features into something achingly fond. “If it helps, I’ll even do the voices.”

She huffed a breath of laughter, barely a sound, really, but it melted the frost clinging to her bones, enough for her to nod, allowing him to lead her back down the hall with one arm loosely around her shoulders, his thumb brushing absent circles against the curve of her arm.

Back in the dim sanctuary of their bedroom, he tucked her in first — carefully, like something sacred — smoothing the duvet over her legs, brushing a stray wisp of hair away from her temple before retreating momentarily to the bookshelf tucked into the alcove across the room.

When he returned, he held a small, well-thumbed book in his hand. The cover was faded, the corners worn soft by time and use, one of those children’s storybooks she had once confessed brought her comfort, the kind with more whimsy than structure, tales about forest creatures in waistcoats and teacups that could talk.

He settled beside her with the ease of familiarity, one arm behind her head, the other holding the book open against his thigh. She turned towards him, head resting on his chest, and he began to read, softly, deliberately, with a cadence shaped not for theatrics, but for soothing. His voice, though deeper than the tales demanded, wrapped around each sentence with a kind of reverence, unhurried, as though willing each word to guide her gently out of her wakefulness.

“And so the hedgehog, with his scarf trailing behind him like the tail of a comet, tiptoed into the clearing where the moon had woven silver through the grass…” She didn’t respond, but her breathing slowed, gradually, like a tide beginning to recede. Her fingers, which had been nervously twisting the edge of the duvet, stilled, then curled into the fabric of his shirt. He continued reading even as her eyelids fluttered shut, even as her body grew heavier against him, her tension dissolving into the warmth of his presence.

By the time he turned the page, she was asleep, her expression soft now, no longer pinched by exhaustion, the crease between her brows smoothed as though sleep had finally offered her something close to peace.

Charles didn’t stop reading. Not immediately. He read on for a few more pages, his voice a low hum against the quiet, not for her benefit now, but simply to fill the silence with something gentle, something kind.

Eventually, he placed the book down on the bedside table and turned the lamp off with a gentle click. The darkness folded around them once more, but this time, it was not empty. He gathered her closer in his arms, pressing a kiss to her crown, and whispered into the space between them, “Sleep well, amore.”

She didn’t stir. But he stayed awake a while longer, just to listen to the rhythm of her breath, and to marvel at how something as simple as a storybook could coax sleep from the jaws of her insomnia, not because of the words themselves, but because it was him reading them.

Because sometimes, love was not in grand declarations, but in the quiet conviction of a man who would sit in the stillness of 3 in the morning, reading stories aloud just to help her find peace even when he lacked the sleep from his race schedule.

— V.

There were, perhaps, a hundred louder things one could observe in the paddock on a race weekend — the purr and growl of machinery fine-tuned to the edge of performance, the subtle orchestra of radios crackling commands, the thrum of soles against tarmac, and the easy camaraderie threaded through half-spoken jokes and short bursts of laughter.

Yet, amidst it all, Charles sat cross-legged on a bench just outside of hospitality, the sunshine glazing the shoulders of his black hoodie, his head bowed in quiet concentration over a humble collection of brightly coloured sweets.

Scattered across the small table in front of him lay three opened packets of Skittles, their glossy little forms glinting in the sunlight like enamelled jewels. He was sorting through them with a precision that bordered on the methodical, fingertips deftly flicking away the reds, oranges, yellows and greens, setting aside the coveted purples into a separate paper cup with all the seriousness of a jeweller sifting for amethysts.

To the untrained eye, it might have looked absurd — a Formula One driver, whose fingers gripped a steering wheel at 300 km/h with surgical control, now carefully hunched over sugar-coated confections like he was performing some sacred ritual. But there was something ineffably tender in the way he did it. Something unspoken and warm.

The interruption came, inevitably, in the form of laughter. “Mate, what the hell are you doing?” Max’s voice was bright with amusement as he strolled past, his cap pulled low over his brow, eyes crinkled in curiosity.

Charles didn’t even look up, merely plucked another red Skittle and dropped it unceremoniously into the discard pile. “Sorting them,” he said simply, his tone nonchalant. “She likes the purple ones.”

There was a pause. Then, the echo of laughter again — not mocking, but affectionate — as Max was joined by Carlos and Lewis, the three of them forming an impromptu audience for the quiet absurdity.

“That’s commitment,” Carlos grinned, nudging Max with his elbow. “You’re mad, you know that?” Lewis arched a brow, arms folded, a teasing glint in his gaze. “She said that, like, once?”

Charles finally glanced up then, his expression unbothered, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of his mouth. “She mentioned it once, yes,” he replied, brushing a few more Skittles into the growing collection of purples. “But to be loved is to be seen, non?”

The words weren’t said with fanfare or boast. They were simply there, quiet and sincere, spoken in that lilting Monegasque accent of his, and yet they landed like poetry. The kind of sentence that hung in the air long after the speaker had gone back to sorting sweets.

The trio exchanged glances, that same fond amusement flickering in their expressions, before they moved on down the paddock, chuckling to themselves. But Charles remained, undisturbed, content with the small but purposeful task before him. The sun had risen higher by the time she arrived.

There was always something quieter about her presence — not shy, necessarily, but composed, inward. She moved like someone who didn’t need to fill every silence, whose stillness spoke volumes where words might fall short. Dressed in a simple sundress and trainers, her accreditation swinging gently from her lanyard, she smiled as she approached him, her eyes lifting slightly in surprise at the small paper cup he held out in her direction.

“What’s this?” she asked, her fingers brushing his as she took it from him. “Purple Skittles,” he said, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other with an easy air. “You said you liked them, that they’re your favourites.” Her lips parted, not quite in speech, more in that tender astonishment of being remembered. Really remembered.

Not in the grand gestures, not in declarations painted across sky banners or diamond-studded gifts, but in this, in purple sweets sorted by hand on a sunlit morning, because she had once mentioned, offhandedly, that she liked them best. She looked down at the cup in her hands, the colours all the same, her favourites, and then back up at him, her gaze warm, slightly glassy, as though her heart had swelled so quietly it pressed against the edges of her chest.

“You really remembered.” He shrugged, feigning indifference, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth, gentle and unmistakably proud. “Of course I did.” There it was again, that unshakeable sense of being seen. Of being watched with care, of her passing remarks held like rare treasures in the corners of his mind. She sank onto the bench beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and offered him one of the purple Skittles in turn.

“You’re getting soft,” she teased lightly. “No,” he murmured, bumping her knee with his. “Just attentive.” And for a moment, as the bustle of the paddock carried on around them, the clatter of trolleys, the murmurs of engineers, the flash of cameras, they sat in their little orbit of stillness. Just two people, elbows brushing, sharing sugar sweets beneath a springtime sun.

Because to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be remembered in the quietest, smallest ways — even in the sorting of purple Skittles at half past ten in the paddock.

— VI.

There was nothing particularly offensive about spring onions. To most, they were innocuous, the sort of garnish sprinkled with habitual flourish by chefs who sought only to add colour, not controversy, to their plates. A final dusting of green, delicate and insistent, perched atop steaming bowls and glistening noodles like the feather in a cap, largely decorative and often overlooked.

But not by her. She never made a fuss. Not the kind to push her preferences loudly into the centre of a room or send plates back with disdain. Instead, her disapproval was always quiet, a subtle wrinkle of her nose, a pause just long enough before the first bite.

And then, with a kind of resigned patience, she would begin the delicate process of removing them herself, picking at the chopped spring onions with the tip of a spoon or the corner of a serviette, collecting the flecks of green into a tiny pile at the edge of her plate as though they were unwelcome thoughts she was trying to quietly set aside.

Charles had noticed, of course. Not at once, not with any grand revelation, but with the sort of slow-burning attentiveness that came from watching someone you loved simply exist.

He had seen the way she did it every time, never complaining, always careful not to appear troublesome, and something about that unspoken discomfort had stirred something in him. A quiet sort of ache, almost imperceptible, nestled beneath his ribs.

It happened first in Shanghai, in the modest, low-lit restaurant tucked behind the circuit, the kind of place frequented by locals and drivers alike, with steam fogging the windows and the scent of sesame and broth heavy in the air.

She had ordered a simple bowl of rice porridge, and he had watched as she began the routine once again, that tiny, precise extraction of spring onions from the silky surface.

He reached across the table without a word. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, fingers already reaching for her spoon. She blinked, a little startled, as he gently angled the bowl toward himself.

He worked deftly, silently — spooning the offending garnish out with the focus of someone performing a task far weightier than it appeared. It was almost comical, how seriously he took it, how meticulously he gathered every green sliver and flicked it onto a side plate as though defusing a bomb.

When he returned the dish to her, his expression was matter-of-fact. “There. All clear.” She gave him a look — soft, amused, a little disbelieving. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” The way he said it, without bravado, without ceremony, made her chest pull painfully tight. There was something infinitely more romantic in that than in flowers or fireworks. This quiet removal of what she disliked. This small, wordless protection of her comfort.

And so it became a ritual, unspoken but unmissable. In every city, every continent, whether in posh post-race dinners with crystal glassware or street-side cafés with mismatched crockery, he would check her plate first. His eyes would scan for the telltale greens, and if they were there, he would intercept her dish with a casual, “Wait, let me get rid of those for you.”

Sometimes, he would do it even before the server had fully retreated, already lifting his fork to sweep aside the spring onions before she had a chance to touch her napkin. No one else paid much mind to it, perhaps dismissing it as habit or fussiness, but for her, each gesture felt like a quiet sonnet sung beneath breath.

Once, she had asked, her voice hushed beneath the noise of clinking cutlery and background music, “You remember every time. Why?” Charles had glanced up from her plate, his eyes meeting hers with that same unassuming warmth that always made her feel like her heart was caught between its beats.

“Because you don’t like them,” he said simply, as though it required no further explanation. And perhaps it didn’t.

To be loved, truly loved, was not always in the grand gestures. It was not in serenades or showy declarations. It was in the gentle hand that remembered what you quietly endured, and removed it before you had to ask. It was in the bowl of porridge, stripped of its garnish. In the way he handed it back with a soft smile, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to safeguard someone’s comfort, one tiny green sliver at a time.

Because, after all, to be loved is to be seen. And to be seen is to be known, not in the loudness of who we are, but in the quietest corners of what we avoid.

[scarsnfevers]

Amber eyes

Chapter II of Wolfgang

summary: as you took a walk through the forest, you finally found traces of a pack near a lake in the heart of the forest. You quickly realized that the earlier encounter with the pizza delivery guy had not been a coincidence. There was a pack here—hidden, powerful—and now, they knew you had seen them.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader x werewolf!minho

chapter word count: 4,6k

chapter warnings: none

Two days had passed since the encounter. Yet the memory lingered, refusing to fade like mist beneath the morning sun. You could still recall the scent that had hit you the moment you’d opened the door—an intoxicating blend of jasmine and warm, resinous cedarwood. It had caught you off guard, striking a chord deep in your instincts, and you hadn't expected the magnetic pull that followed. He was a Beta, that much had been immediately clear, but there was something more—something in his eyes, in the way he looked at you. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. You weren’t sure.

And now, the thought of him crept back into your mind like ivy on stone. You stood at your front door, breathing in the morning air. The sky was a muted silver, the clouds swollen and heavy, but no rain had yet fallen. There was a calmness in the air, the kind that always came before a storm, as if the world itself was holding its breath. You needed to clear your thoughts, and so you turned away from the house and stepped onto the forest path, drawn by something you couldn’t quite name.

The woods embraced you in their hush, broken only by the wind whispering through pine needles and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. Your boots crunched softly over a carpet of damp moss and fallen leaves. Birds called to one another in the high canopy above, their cries distant and melodic. Here, the air was thicker, scented of loam and pine resin, touched by the wild magic that always seemed to hum just beneath the surface of the forest. The deeper you went, the more the world outside faded—replaced by the rhythm of the woods, by the pulse of the earth underfoot.

Since you’d arrived, the silence had become your constant companion. No distant traffic, no city sirens. And, surprisingly, no howls. For days now, the forest had kept its secrets. No late-night calls through the trees, no signs of others. At first, it had unsettled you, but now... now you found solace in it. For the first time in years, you weren’t surrounded by the press of unfamiliar wolves, weren’t overwhelmed by the heavy presence of other Alphas and their ceaseless energy. You were alone, and that was a kind of peace you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly.

The weight of the past weeks—the move, the adjustment, the unspoken tension of being something other wolves often feared—had finally begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders. Out here, no one expected anything of you. No dominance games. No political maneuvering. No power struggles. Just you, and the trees, and the sound of your own breath. You’d found a rhythm again, a quiet cadence in your days that felt like healing. You were finally beginning to feel like yourself. Your thoughts drifted again—to that moment. His eyes. Dark and striking, holding a question neither of you had dared to voice. You shook your head, trying to dismiss it, but the pull remained, buried in your chest like a spark caught in dry tinder. You’d felt it instantly. That awareness. That connection. A recognition of something you couldn’t quite name.

The trail narrowed, winding deeper into the forest. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks mottled with lichen, their limbs stretching toward the gray sky. Mist had begun to gather, curling around the underbrush like soft fingers. It clung to your clothes and hair, brushing cool against your skin. The temperature dropped slightly, and the scent of rain grew stronger. It was quiet here, but not empty. You could feel the life teeming all around you—birds in the canopy, a fox watching from the brambles, the slow breath of the forest itself. You let your fingers trail across the rough bark of a tree as you passed, grounding yourself. The silence out here wasn’t cold—it was alive. It wrapped around you like a blanket, a sanctuary carved from time and untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. You moved slowly, deliberately, following no path in particular. Just moving, breathing, feeling.

After a time, the path opened up, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a small, mist-covered lake. The water was still, a mirror of dull pewter, and the fog clung low over its surface, thick enough to blur the opposite bank. Reeds whispered against the breeze, and the quiet was so complete that your own breath felt like an intrusion. The place felt untouched, sacred somehow. Like you had stumbled into a forgotten memory.

You stepped closer to the shore, the earth beneath your feet damp and cool. Droplets of condensation clung to the tips of the reeds and to your lashes, and your breath fogged gently in the chilled air. Your eyes scanned the edges of the lake. And then you saw them—prints.

Pawprints, large and distinct, pressed deep into the mud.

You crouched, heart suddenly thrumming in your chest. There were several, overlapping and trailing along the shoreline, disappearing into the trees beyond. A pack. No doubt about it. The spacing, the variation in size—it wasn’t just a lone wolf. They’d been here, maybe only hours ago. The prints were fresh, the edges still crisp. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. You’d come here for solitude, for peace. Not to find signs of a pack moving through your backyard. Yet there was something about the discovery that didn’t strike fear into you. Instead, it sent a shiver up your spine, the kind born not of dread, but of awareness. You weren’t as alone as you thought.

You stood and looked across the mist-covered lake. Somewhere out there, they were watching. Or maybe not. Maybe they had come and gone without even knowing you were near. But part of you doubted that. If they were wolves, they’d know. They’d scent you, feel the presence of another. And if they hadn’t come to meet you... it meant they were choosing to stay hidden.

The mist curled around your ankles like ghostly tendrils, and the breeze carried a scent you couldn’t quite place—earth, bark, something vaguely feral. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. The chill of the mist had crept beneath your clothes, but you didn’t move. You stood there a while longer, staring into the fog, wondering if he—if they—were out there. A bird called sharply in the distance, breaking the stillness, and the spell shattered. You blinked, stepped back, and glanced once more at the tracks before turning away from the lake.

Eventually, you followed the path home, but your senses remained sharpened, your every step more alert. The wind had picked up slightly, rattling the bare branches above, and the clouds had thickened into a deeper shade of gray. You knew you should feel wary. You knew that being a lone Alpha in unknown territory was always a risk. But instead of fear, there was only that persistent awareness. Something had shifted in the quiet. Something unseen. You weren’t sure what it meant yet.

But the forest was no longer silent.

The forest whispered beneath the hush of the early morning, its voice weaving through the trees like a forgotten hymn. Shadows stretched long and deep as the pack moved fluidly between them, shapes of fur and breath and silence—ghosts carved of muscle and instinct. Minho ran near the front, his paws soundless against the moss-carpeted floor, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the thrum of the earth.

The cool air flowed over his fur like water, catching in the thick, dark brown coat that lined his lean frame. The morning sun, breaking through the clouds, pierced the canopy in fractured beams, brushing over him in flashes—amber eyes glinting like embers in the half-dark, always alert, always watching. They’d left the lake behind nearly an hour ago, a still pool of silver mist nestled in the woods like a secret. At the time, Minho hadn’t thought twice about it. The forest was vast, and the lake was only a marker, a midpoint between where they’d come from and where they were going. But now—now something hung in the air.

A scent. Subtle. Barely there. But impossible to ignore.

The wind carried it gently at first, threading through the bracken and pine with almost reverent fingers. Minho’s stride faltered, not enough to draw attention, just enough to let the shift ripple through his limbs. He slowed, lifted his muzzle slightly, and breathed in deep.

Lilac.

Wildflowers crushed beneath rain-soaked footsteps. Lightning split through humid skies. And beneath it all, the unmistakable thread of power—Her. It wasn’t strong, but the scent still lingered, soft and persistent, like a dream refusing to be forgotten.

Ahead of him, Hyunjin’s silver form began to slow as well. The Beta turned his head, ears pricking forward and locked eyes with Minho across the clearing. They didn’t speak—not in words. But the exchange was clear. A subtle tilt of Hyunjin’s head. The way his tail stilled, just slightly. The faint tension in his shoulders, like a bowstring drawn and waiting. Minho met his gaze evenly. His mind, even in this form, was calculating. Curious. Not afraid, not exactly. But aware. The scent wasn’t dangerous—yet it had marked the air like a fingerprint, and Minho didn’t ignore fingerprints. Especially not ones that left Hyunjin looking like that.

They held each other’s stare for a heartbeat longer, then Minho gave a slight twitch of his tail and turned forward again, his muscles coiling before he pushed off the earth with silent grace. Hyunjin followed without hesitation, his silver form a blur beside Minho’s darker frame, weaving between trees with practiced ease. The run carried on, fluid and soundless. Paws whispered over stone and root, and though Minho’s body moved with the same effortless grace as always, his mind drifted.

Back to the lake, still and shrouded in fog. Back to the wind, and the way it had shifted, just barely. Back to a presence that didn’t belong. He hated loose ends. Scent trails without faces. Words left unsaid. And this one—this Alpha—was more than a curiosity. They were an imprint. A question curled inside Hyunjin’s silence. One Minho couldn’t ignore. He knew Chan wouldn’t approve. The other Alpha had made his stance clear two nights ago, at the long table where candles burned low. Strangers weren’t to be engaged—not now, not like this.

Minho understood that. He respected it. He respected Chan. But he was an Alpha as well. And there were times when duty meant more than following orders. And tonight, that meant stepping off the path. At nightfall, he’d know who had touched the wind with wildflowers and lilac and why it had changed everything.

The night had fallen with a quiet solemnity that blanketed the forest in silver and shadow. The trees stood tall and unmoving, their silhouettes jagged against a sky spangled with stars. A full moon hung high above the canopy, glowing like a pale eye in the heavens, casting its ethereal light over the dark woods below. The air was still, holding that peculiar crispness only found in the dead of night, and every sound—every flutter of wings, every rustle of leaves—was sharpened in the quiet.

A lone wolf moved silently between the trees.

His coat, thick and dark as the soil beneath him, shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Muscles coiled beneath his fur with each fluid stride, and his breath rose in faint clouds from his snout, evaporating as soon as it met the cold night air. Eyes like molten amber flicked from shadow to shadow, focused yet alert, as if expecting something to rise from the dark at any moment.

Minho.

Even in his wolf form, the name lived within him. A heartbeat. A thought. A tether to who he truly was beneath the fur and fang. His paws barely made a sound against the soft earth, the thick blanket of pine needles and moss muffling each step. He moved like a phantom—silent, swift, and solitary. And yet, unlike the many times before when he had taken this form, there was something… different tonight. Something he couldn’t shake off, no matter how deep he buried it under instinct, scent and the rhythm of running. A strange tension clung to his spine, like static before a storm. Excitement?

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t explain it. There was no danger he could sense. No prey he hunted. But something within him stirred with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. His thoughts—wild and scattered in this form—kept circling around the same memory. The same scent. Her. The girl.

The one Hyunjin had spoken of in hushed tones and lingering looks. The one John had sold the old cabin to—the same cabin Minho was now moving toward with an urgency he couldn't fully justify. The forest grew denser as he moved further from the path. The trees leaned closer together, their branches tangled like clasped hands, allowing only thin slashes of moonlight to filter through. Shadows danced on the undergrowth as he weaved his way deeper into the woods, his breath coming a little faster now. His ears flicked back for a moment—something in the night whispered to him. Not words, not danger. Just… presence. The forest always spoke, in its own way. Tonight, its voice was hushed and reverent, like it too waited for something to happen.

Minho slowed as he approached a rise in the land. He paused at the crest of a small hill, his body low, ears high, nostrils flaring. The scent was faint, carried on the breeze—woodsmoke, pine, something soft beneath it. Something human. His heart thudded in his chest. He hadn’t realized how fast it was beating until now.

Carefully, he crept forward, the soil damp beneath his paws. He moved like a shadow between the trunks, eyes trained on the thinning line of trees ahead. Then—

A glimmer.

Faint, golden light flickered through the distant branches. There it was. The cabin.

It appeared slowly, revealed piece by piece as he crept closer—first the stone chimney, then the slanted roof, and finally the wooden frame that sat like a lonely sentinel at the edge of the forest. The warm glow from the window spilled across the clearing, a stark contrast to the cool silver of the moonlight. It looked… out of place here. Like a dream. Or a memory. Minho stopped just beyond the treeline, half-shrouded in shadow. His breath caught. Something about the sight stirred something deep within him—an ache, almost. Not pain. Not longing. But something adjacent to both. A memory not his own. A thread tugging at his instincts.

He had never seen the place before. Not in person. And yet, standing here, staring at the cabin with its golden window and smoke curling from its chimney, he felt as though he’d been here a hundred times before. As though something waited for him inside. As though someone did. His ears swiveled forward, and he took another step. Then another. The light from the window cast a soft glow over the front porch, illuminating a worn wooden door and the old rocking chair beside it. There was movement inside—soft, barely perceptible shadows shifting behind the curtains. Someone was there. Awake.

Minho’s tail flicked once behind him. He should leave. He told himself that.

There was no reason to be here. Not really. But something stronger had pulled him here, something that had nothing to do with logic or reason. The scent again—subtle, but unmistakable. Warm. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

Her.

He lowered his body to the earth, lying down just at the edge of the trees, eyes fixed on the cabin. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud, as if afraid the night itself would betray his presence. His ears twitched, catching the faint sounds from inside—the creak of floorboards, the low hum of a voice. A song, maybe. Or a whisper. Time passed slowly. The moon had climbed higher, casting silver light like spilled milk across the forest floor. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, their steady rhythm weaving into the pulse of the woods. Minho remained still. He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

But he waited.

The night wrapped around him like a second skin, cool and constant. His heartbeat had slowed, but the tension remained—a coiled thing beneath his ribs. Why did this matter? Why couldn’t he look away? He blinked, slowly. His gaze softened as he watched the window, the way the curtain moved slightly with the breeze from inside. The glow from the fire flickered and shifted, casting shadows against the glass.

And for a moment—

A silhouette appeared. A figure standing by the window. Feminine. Still. Minho’s breath hitched.

Her?

He couldn’t be sure. But something in him surged forward, instinctually, pulling him to his feet. He took a step out from the shadows, one paw crunching lightly on the frosted grass. The figure turned slightly. Minho froze. Golden light spilled over the figure’s face, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of soft features and eyes that seemed to stare directly into the trees. Maybe at him. She didn’t move. Neither did he. For a long heartbeat, everything was still.

Then the curtain fell back into place, and the figure was gone.

Minho stood alone again, half-shadowed beneath the moonlight. His heart pounded now, thundering in his chest like a war drum. His breath came faster, shallow. His body trembled—not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. Something that left his limbs restless and his mind hazy.

He backed away slowly, vanishing once more into the shadows of the forest. But he didn’t run. Not yet.

He circled the clearing at a distance, eyes still locked on the light in the window, watching. Waiting. Wondering what it was about this place—about her—that stirred something so primal in him. And why it scared him as much as it thrilled him. He stayed until the firelight dimmed. Until the forest was still again. Until only the moon bore witness to the lone wolf who watched from the shadows, silent and waiting, heart thudding with something that felt very much like fate.

And then—

A sound cut through the silence like a blade.

A low, rising howl in the distance. Raw. Sharp. Familiar. Minho stiffened. His ears turned toward the sound before his head did, body going tense from snout to tail. His eyes widened—just slightly—but the recognition hit him fast and deep, like a spark catching dry kindling.

Chan.

There was no mistaking it. No other wolf sounded like that. No other voice carried that weight, that authority, that ache. Even from this far, Minho heard it in every note—heard the disappointment layered beneath the warning.

Chan had found his trail. And worse—Chan knew.

The howl faded slowly into the night, but the silence that followed was heavier than before. Thicker. As if the forest, too, was holding its breath. Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Because something in that howl hadn’t just been a message—it had been a question. Not shouted, not screamed, but spoken in that quiet, restrained way Chan always used when he was trying not to be angry. When he still wanted to believe in you, even when he shouldn’t.

Why?

He turned his head slowly, eyes drifting back to the cabin—its windows now dark, its glow extinguished. Only the memory of her face lingered in his mind, soft and half-lit, like moonlight through mist. He could still feel the pull.

The part of him that had come here out of instinct—or maybe something deeper—still hummed beneath his skin. But now it was tangled with something else: guilt. His tail lowered. His ears twitched. Another howl rang out—not a warning this time, but a command.

Come back.

Short. Sharp.

Minho looked away from the cabin. He felt the weight of it behind him. The memory of warmth. The imagined scent of her skin, her voice. The impossible familiarity of a girl he hadn’t even met. His chest tightened. Then, slowly, he turned—muscles bunching beneath fur, paws moving quiet over the moss—and slipped back into the darkness of the trees. He didn’t run. He didn’t need to.

Chan knew exactly where to find him. And for the first time in a long time, Minho wasn’t sure what he would say when he did.

The walk back felt longer. Not in distance, but in weight.

The forest behind him whispered with the memory of a howl that still lingered in the back of his mind. Chan hadn’t needed to say anything—Minho had heard everything in the call alone. A warning, perhaps. A tether tightening. A reminder of what it meant to lead, not just to chase instincts through the trees.

The moon still hung high above, silver and solemn. The air had cooled further, brushing bare skin with fingers like cold silk as he shifted back into his human form near the outskirts of the property. His bones cracked into place with quiet familiarity, fur retreating into skin, claws curling back into fingers. He stood still for a moment, breath steaming in the air, heart beating slower now—though not steady.

He reached for the clothes he’d stashed earlier, pulling them on without much thought. Shirt, pants, boots. The human shell felt more constricting than it usually did, as though some part of him hadn’t quite left the forest behind.

By the time he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin, the sky had begun to fade from deep sapphire to something closer to black. The stars still burned like frostfire overhead, but the quiet hum of night had settled. No more sounds from the woods. No more wind. Just the hush of a world sleeping. Except inside, the fire still burned. Minho stepped quietly through the door, letting it close with barely a click. The cabin was warm, dimly lit by the flickering remains of a hearth that had almost given up its light. Shadows clung to the corners like dust, and for a moment, Minho thought everyone had gone to bed.

But then he saw him.

Chan sat in the armchair closest to the fireplace, an old, half-drunk mug of tea resting on the floor beside him. His elbows were on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head bowed slightly in thought. He didn’t look up right away, but Minho knew he’d heard him. Of course he had. They didn’t speak. Not at first. The fire popped softly, one last gasp of heat before it collapsed into glowing coals. In the silence, Minho could hear the distant groan of floorboards upstairs. A sigh of wood and sleep.

Finally, Chan lifted his head.

Their eyes met across the flickering light. No anger in that gaze—no sharpness, no heat. Just something quieter. Heavier. Disappointment was quieter than rage. Minho exhaled, a breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a confession. He dragged a hand through his hair, damp still from the run, and let his gaze fall to the embers before shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know why I did it,” he said softly. “I didn’t plan it. I just… found myself walking. And then I didn’t stop.” Chan said nothing. “Maybe it was curiosity,” Minho continued. “Or maybe something else. Ever since Hyunjin came back and told us about her… I couldn’t stop thinking about it." Chan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His hands folded tighter. Minho looked back up at him. “It didn’t feel wrong. Not until I heard you.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Chan said at last. His voice was rough, hoarse with tiredness and thought. “I just… I hoped you wouldn’t.” There was no judgement in the words. Just honesty. And perhaps a touch of weariness. Minho lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, mirroring Chan without meaning to. “You think I made a mistake.” “I think,” Chan said slowly, “she came here for a reason. She didn’t ask for this. Didn’t want it. You saw the way she lived—quiet, away from everything. No scent trails, no markings. She is careful. Purposeful.” “She is hiding,” Minho said. “She's protecting her peace,” Chan corrected gently. “And now she knows she’s not alone out here anymore. What happens if she sees that as a threat?”

Minho didn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s not about you,” Chan said, eyes flickering with the last light of the fire. “Or Hyunjin. Or me. Maybe it’s just about her. And maybe she doesn’t want anything to do with us.” Minho clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. “But what if she needs something? What if she’s not okay? You heard Hyunjin when he talked about her. He’s changed since that night. Like she stirred something up in him he’s been trying to bury for years.”

Chan tilted his head slightly. “And you think you can fix that for him?”

“No,” Minho said. “But I had to see. Just once.”

“And did you?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then maybe that’s for the best.”

Silence again.

The colas cracked low, an echo of warmth fading into memory. Minho stared at it, thinking about the quiet of the woods, the scent of wildflowers and lilac, the light in the trees. The glimpse of a world just out of reach. He hated leaving things unfinished. Hated questions without answers. But more than that, he hated the idea of disturbing someone who had chosen solitude with such care. Even if a part of him still burned with the desire to know.

“I’m not going back,” he said finally. “Not unless she comes to us.” Chan nodded, slow and solemn. “Good.” Minho leaned back, head resting against the edge of the couch, his eyes closed. He was tired now, the weight of the run, the conversation, the choices pressing into his bones. The scent of something indescribable clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, the air. A long moment passed.

“Did Hyunjin know you’d go?” Chan asked quietly.

“No,” Minho said. “But I think he’ll know I did.”

“Then you should tell him before he asks.”

“I will.”

Chan stood slowly, his joints stiff, his eyes shadowed. He reached down for the cold mug and carried it to the sink without another word. The sound of water filled the cabin briefly. Then silence. He turned back to Minho, offering him a look that was neither approval nor blame. Just understanding. “We all carry the same weight,” he said. “But we don’t always carry it the same way.” Then he turned and made his way toward the stairs, disappearing into the darkness above.

Minho sat a while longer.

Alone now, save for the fire and the silence and the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Outside, the stars still watched from a thousand miles away.

And somewhere in the woods, a presence waited. Unseen. Unknown.

But no longer untouched.

taglist: @shoganaiiii, @h0rnyp0t, @maddy24207, @ihrtlix, @alisonyus, @poody1608, @emogril

masterlist | prologue | chapter I

[rhiannonsknife]

thoughts on nymph!lottie/nymph!yellowjackets?

-🪷

── NYMPH!LOTTIE MATTHEWS & HUNTER!READER

— summary: nymph!lottie x hunter!reader hcs.

— warnings: implied dark content - cannibalism & ‘spells’. blood/mild gore. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni.

❦ nymph!lottie who has been watching you long before you ever saw her.

you think of yourself as the hunter, yet you have been the hunted for far longer than you realize: long before your eyes ever caught the carved symbols in her trees, before your feet wandered too deep into the forest’s grasp, she had already seen you: lottie has watched you move through her woods, a mortal with hands steady on the hilt of your blade, with eyes more attentive than she’s ever seen. she watchedyou track the movements of deer and felt the tension in your muscles as you pulled back your bowstring on your hunts. the others, the men who come to her forest, do not leave. not as men, anyway. she turns them into stags, forces them to run, to feel the snap of their own hounds’ jaws at their heels. it’s only fair. it’s what the wilderness wants.

you are different, though, and lottie finds herself lingering in the shadows of the trees a little longer whenever you pass by.

❦ nymph!lottie who carves symbols into the trees just for you.

those who stumble too far into her domain and find her by accident are rarely granted a way back, however, for you specifically, she makes an exception. instead of hiding from you, lottie lures you to her pond with a subtle symbol carved into the bark with a fingernail. not a map, that would be too easy; it is a challenge, for the nymph’s entertainment. a hunter like you should recognize a trail when you see one.

as lottie expected, you do.

the first time you notice, it is etched into an old oak, half hidden under thick ivy: a triangle, with a circle resting atop its peak, a curved hook at its base, and a single line piercing through its heart. you run your fingers over the grooves, feeling the precision of the mark. you can tell it is not the work of a knife, but something thinner and sharper. inhuman. still, you follow.

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you find her pond.

the path extends longer than it should: the deeper you wander, the stranger the surrounding forest becomes. trees that seemed familiar shift into odd shapes, their branches reaching as if to keep you from turning back, and the sunlight darkens despite the absence of clouds. even time feels unsteady here: what was once an hour of walking could be moments or an eternity. just as doubt creeps in, the trees before you part for a clearing. rays of light filter through the canopy above, reflecting in colorful shimmers against the glasslike surface of the pond that sits at its center. and her.

the nymph stands in the shallows, bare and ethereal, water lapping at the curve of her waist. droplets cling to lottie’s bare skin like jewels, her hair slick against her shoulders, darkened by the water. she is more creature than woman, something not meant to be witnessed by mortals, and yet, you cannot look away as she emerges. suddenly, you understand why men have died for less.

❦ nymph!lottie who catches you watching her.

even though you don’t mean to stare, you simply cannot help yourself. she is unlike anything you have ever seen, an impossible thing, beautiful and terrifying all at once. the stories warn of this, of men who wander too far & look upon things they were never meant to see. those men, you heard, were turned into prey, torn apart by their own beasts. your hounds are close, hiding away beyond the trees. they do not move, waiting for a signal you will not give.

lottie stands in the pond still, unmoving, water reaching just below her thighs, where nothing except for soft skin and coarse hair covers her. despite her nudity, she doesn’t shy from your gaze or tries to conceal herself as any mortal woman might. why would she? this is her forest, her water.

“i was wondering when you would find me,” lottie murmurs without turning to fully face you.

❦ nymph!lottie who moves with the breeze, who might look like a woman, but isn’t your kind.

one moment, she is across the pond, the next, she is beside you. you never see her move. there is no splash, no sound of footfalls against the damp earth. there’s only the shiver that runs through you, as if your body understands something your mind has not yet grasped. bare feet sink into the mossy ground to your left and you feel the warmth of the nymph’s presence before you dare to look.

“curious thing,” she purrs. you’re not even sure you see her lips move. her voice is a noise like the wind in the surrounding trees. it does not sound spoken so much as carried. “do you always spy on creatures you do not understand?”

❦ nymph!lottie who decides to keep you.

you are not prey. what use you’ll be, she’s not sure yet. a guest? perhaps a pet? lottie only knows that you are not meant to leave. not now, maybe not ever. there’s a reason why the forest has brought her such a precious, strong-minded human.

when you open your mouth to utter an apology she tilts her head, unimpressed (and still unfazed by her own nakedness). “look at me,” lottie commands, amused. you obey, though your face burns and everything within you screams at you to avert your gaze.

“you are not the first to find me,” she says, stepping forward. “although you are the first who has not run,” her touch is featherlight as her nails graze the pulse point beneath your jaw from behind. “you are not afraid, are you?”

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you live, only because she knows you will return.

without warning, she closes the space between you, her fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she presses her mouth to yours. this kiss is not meant to be sweet or gentle. it is consuming, hardly even a kiss to begin with, more a claim.

lottie tastes like fresh spring water, cool and crisp, but beneath her superficial tenderness, there’s something else, something sharp. a hint of fangs, perhaps, grazing your lip just before her tongue slips past, parting your lips.

for as long as her lips are on yours, you are no longer yourself. your mind bends beneath the nymph’s touch, your thoughts unraveling, each flickering behind your eyelids. lottie is shifting through you, turning your memories over in her hands, peeling back the layers of you as though she has all the time in the world. she sees your longing, your wants & your fears. she drinks in the way your body aches for her, even as you tremble in place.

then, just as quickly, lottie pulls back, a soft giggle escaping her. “go,” she says, stepping back into the water, her arms spreading as she sinks into its depths. “you will return. i’ve seen it”

❦ nymph!lottie who is right, because you do come back to her.

at first, you try to resist. you tell yourself it was a trick of the mind, a fever dream conjured by exhaustion. you even try to convince yourself you imagined the way she kissed you, the way it hollowed something out within you and left something else in its place.

and yet, you are not the same. there is a pull now, a string wrapped around your torso that tightens with each passing day away from lottie.

you dream of golden eyes watching you through the trees and water licking at bare skin. of lips that take without asking, hands that claim without shame. you wake breathless, aching and soaked, fingers clutching empty sheets for something that is not there.

it is not a choice when you return to the forests, surrendering to the urges she’s planted in you. you follow the path without thinking. your feet know the way better than your mind does, as though you were always meant to walk it, even in your feverish trance. when you arrive, your nymph is waiting, lounging on a sandbank not far from the shore. “i was beginning to wonder when you’d stop fighting it” lottie hums, stretching lazily.

❦ nymph!lottie who knows you’ll come back time and time again.

she does not hold you captive, not in the way mortals might expect. there are no shackles or chains, no desperate pleas to keep you in the forest. lottie doesn’t need them: she smiles whenever you say you must go, watching from the water’s edge as you step back, hoping she’ll tell you to stay. she never does. “you’ll be back,” lottie only says, dragging her fingers across the surface as if already growing bored of your leaving. “you always are”

and it’s true: you constantly end up wandering off to her pond. you even sneak away at night to find her sprawled in the moss, drenched in moonlight, or wading through the shallows, unbothered by time or the chill in the air. sometimes, she watches you amused by your devotion, others, she barely acknowledges you at all, humming softly to herself as if you were always here, beside her and not an intruder.

❦ nymph!lottie who blesses your land and hunts in your abscence.

you don‘t notice at first. not until the third, fourth, fifth time your arrow finds its mark too easily and your traps are always full, like the forest’s animals walk willingly into their fate. there is no logical reason for it, no shift in the seasons or stroke of luck that could explain why everything in your life has suddenly bent in your favor. only your nymph could be responsible for it.

“did you think i would let you starve?” lottie murmurs, lying in the dying light one evening, taking in the last rays of sunlight before it sets. when you don’t immediately respond she sighs as if you are slow to understand, and pulls her arms overhead. “you are mine now,” she explains, her gaze flickering to you. “i take care of what is mine”

nymph!lottie who keeps her own darkness at bay.

it is easy to forget what she is when her bare skin warms against your own every time you lie together. when she braids flowers into your hair and climbs into your lap, straddling you, hands entwining with yours as if to say, see? i am just a girl too. how are you meant to be scared when, around lottie, you feel the bravest you’ve ever been? what are some old tales compared to this? the whispered warnings of nymphs and their hunger, of men who disappeared into the woods never to return? what are they to the feeling of her mouth against your shoulder, to the way she laughs when you try to pull away, when she tightens her grip just to remind you that you will not?

you tell yourself it is only a feeling and that the tightness in your chest is not fear but simply longing. you tell yourself you imagined the other thing, too.

that one day, deep in the woods, you did not stumble upon her crouched over something raw and bloody, the wet sounds of her teeth tearing into flesh filling the air. that you did not see the thing in her hands, still slick, still pulsing weakly between her fingers as she raised it to her mouth. that you did not see her lips part in delight when she caught you watching, her chin dripping red.

you tell yourself you did not feel, for just a moment, like prey. because what is that memory compared to the nymph’s love and to being hers?

— nsfw content below. mdni.

❦ nymph!lottie who lets you bathe with her

it is a slow seduction: each time you come to her, she allows a little more. first, you only sit at the edge, watching as she moves through the water. then, one day, lottie beckons you closer. “come,” she urges. “you stink of the mortal world. let me fix that”

you hesitate and lottie’s head tilts. “shy?”

“no,” you shake your head quickly but still don’t move to undress. lottie meets you at the water’s edge, fingers curling around the hem of your tunic. she lifts it quickly, pulling the fabric up and over your head to bare you to the humid air, then trails her fingers down your sternum, along your ribs. “so many layers,” lottie whispers, her long nails scraping as they go. “why do mortals cover themselves so?”

“we are not made as you are”

“no,” she agrees, watching the way goosebumps rise under her touch. “but you are beautiful”

lottie takes her time with you.

her hands wander lower, tracing reverent paths over the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. you remain still, caught between the instinct to step away and the desire to let her have what she wishes. lottie’s breath is warm when she leans in, pressing a single, chaste kiss to the center of your chest, just between your breasts. it lingers there, like an offering placed at the feet of an altar.

then, she sinks to her knees. it is worship in its purest form, a kind not even your gods could compare to. her palms press against your thighs, her thumbs sweeping slow circles over your skin as she tilts her head back to look at you. her mortal. the one standing before her, stripped down to nothing but delicate fabric.

lottie hums before her teeth catch the waistband of your undergarments, fangs brushing against your skin to tug. you jolt at the sensation, a gasp slipping free, yet her hands remain against your hips, holding you while she peels the last scrap of cloth away with her mouth.

once all of your skin is fully bared, her fingers slide up, ghosting over newly exposed flesh. you know lottie does not touch like humans do; she is a creature of sensation, and she learns you with all of them. her nose presses to the juncture of your hip, inhaling your scent deeply. her lips, slightly parted, do not kiss, only ghost over your navel, tasting the salt of your skin, and her nails scratch at the base of your spine before smoothing over the muscle of your stomach, feeling its rise and fall beneath her palms.

“you were not meant to be covered,” lottie decides, trailing over the curve of your ribs like she’s counting them. “not here. not with me. now come, the water is warm”

❦ nymph!lottie who lures you into the water to wash you clean.

you are convinced she does it on purpose, tugging you deeper into the pond as if you belong there with her and she means to keep you submerged beneath the surface until you forget what air feels like.

lottie carefully presses against your shoulders, guiding you into the pond. the water is warmer than you expected, embracing you fully when you finally sink into its comfort, and the nymph is right behind you, one immortal hand sliding down your spine, along the outline of your body. “strange,” she muses. “for something so fragile, you are quite strong”

lottie roams without hesitation like she always has: free and thoughtless.

you remember, suddenly, the first time you had seen that freedom when lottie stretched out in the grass, one hand between her thighs, head tipped back while she chased a wild release. she hadn’t sent you away, uncaring if you watched. more memories like that one rise from your mind and her wandering hands: her body bared to you, lottie straddling you thoughtlessly, and of the nymph against the slick stone near the falls where you’d found her once, her back arching as she rubbed against it, her moans blending with the wind. lottie never asked you to look, nor did she ever ask you to turn away. she simply existed as she was, unbound by the modesties of mortals.

so when she cups your breasts in her palms, feeling their weight as if your body is just another wonder for her to discover, you should not be surprised. after all, it is not a lover’s touch, it is a nymph’s, who has only ever lived by those instinct.

your breath stutters when she rolls your nipples between her fingers, but your body does not resist. lottie chuckles, pleased. she brushes her thumbs over you, then drags her hands lower.

for all her power, there is something almost childishly human in her curiosity. “it must be exhausting,” she whispers as she touches you “knowing you will not last”

❦ nymph!lottie who keeps you in the water to fuck you.

you’re not sure whether or not she understands what she’s doing, at least, not in the way humans do, but she seems aware enough of her own body and pleasure. you have seen her stretch underneath the sun and move against the earth with a sigh, her fingers unhurried. she coaxes you deeper, step by step, until the water cradles you both and you no longer feel the sharp rocks under your bare feet. lottie is weightless here, so in her element that she becomes an extension of the pond itself, her limbs moving like the current.

her mouth presses against your collarbone, then lower, where her tongue traces over the swell of your breast, curling over its peak. a sharp nip of your nipple makes your breath hitch, and lottie giggles against your skin, delighted by the way your body trembles.

her hands wander again. explore. they have always known you, trailing your spine, ribs, and the strength in your arms and legs. now, they drift lower, between your thighs, where her fingers press and part you. you moan when you feel lottie there, her index and middle finger spreading your cunt open.

weightless in her grasp, she easily lifts you up. held there, above her, you are open to lottie, who strokes between your slick folds and gathers your arousal. when she finally guides you onto her fingers, there is barely any pressure at all, your body gladly accommodating the stretch of her. lottie watches, fascinated by every shift in your expression.

she moves you as she pleases, until your bodies find a rhythm that turns you into a gasping mess, grabbing her shoulder and holding on for dear life each time you’re lifted, then sink back onto two? three? of lottie’s fingers. they are timed perfectly, understanding your body better than you ever did yourself, finding your g-spot each stroke & curl whilst her thumb circles your clit simultaneously.

the stars above blur and you are left with nothing but her, her breath, her hands, her gaze drinking you in.

when you fall apart in her arms, she does not let you go. lottie encourages you, presses when your body thinks it is too much, pulls back when it craves more until you’re uselessly rutting against her palm. “let the forest hear how you appreciate this,” she says then. “come on,”

❦ nymph!lottie whose clearing becomes your sanctuary.

after your first time, it is as if something has been unleashed within the nymph. a hunger, if you will, that is for once not for your flesh. lottie will claim, each time, that it is what the wilderness wants (it wouldn’t even take much convincing for her to have you either way). that, to please nature, it is what must be done. everywhere. all over the earth that she calls her own.

“the wilderness demands an offering,” lottie says, crawling down your body. “blood must be spilled…but i suppose other mortal fluids will do too.” and then she takes you from above, watching your face contort in pleasure in time with her sinking into your cunt until your releases flow from you and your limbs go slack, satisfied.

when lottie fucks you, when your bodies join in the quiet of the woods, it is not just the physical. it is the meeting of the mortal and the immortal, your human and her wild. it is not just a possession but a blending, an offering, as she calls it.

there are countless of these encounters: some in the pond, some with you lying at the water's edge, feeling the gentle waves lick up your calves as lottie’s tongue laps through you, drinking you in. some standing up against the rocks, one leg lifted around lottie’s waist so she can fuck you deeper, others bent over, with the nymph either burying her fingers into you from behind or putting her mouth on you like this, tongue reaching farther than any mortal could.

[throatgoat4u]

resurfaced

word count: 1.3k

summary: after an incident, you didn't leave the water once until one day your sister convinces you to come to land.

a/n: this took me soooo long i really hope you guys enjoy. if you didn't already know, this is a collab with @snoopychris. her au is mermaid!reader x csg!chris linked here. go read her stuff because it is absolutely amazing. if you guys want a taglist let me know

“peaaaarlll.” you whine as your twin sister drags you out of the water, grabbing a towel from the edge of the pool. you look around a bit—considering you haven’t been here in almost six years. it is just as you remembered it. the rough, rocky walls that seem to hum faintly with the energy of the sea just beyond. greenery snakes around the room—vines and ivy creeping up the walls, their leaves growing into the cracks and crevices.

“ser,” pearl says sternly, as if she’s talking to a toddler, “you’re making this seem like such a big deal when it’s not.” you look up at her with a huff, grabbing the towel she held out for you, and drying your tail. as soon as you were dry, your tail transformed into a pair of human legs—legs you haven’t used since the incident. you’re also very naked.

you get up, your legs trembling a little. you had forgotten that most of the weight is shifted onto your legs and feet while standing. “this is miserable.” you mumble as you slowly trail behind pearl, following her up the stairs. you hold onto the wall for some support as you get back into the groove of walking. getting to the top of the stairs, you immediately enter into the library. there’s quite a few bookshelves, all filled with books in every size and color. some are adorned with gold, and silver, and faded ink. pearl pulls a trap book, prompting the bookshelf behind you to close. 

pearl turns around, facing you, as she begins to speak. “okay, now you go get changed. i can’t have you looking like,” she pauses, looking you up and down, “that.”

you roll you eyes and nod, walking to your old room. as you step into the room, it feels like entering a fond memory. the late nights you spent here, trying to get away from the ocean—and your father. when everything became too much, this was your safe haven. you flicked the lightswitch, the room lit up, but very dimly. you look around, noticing it was actually well kept, and there weren’t any cobwebs, and dust compiling. the chandeliers twinkled, draped in gauzy fabrics. the air was heavy, a mix of sea salt and vanilla. the bed is pushed up against the wall, crowned with intricate lace canopies. every corner of the room is covered in trinkets—shells, ornate mirrors, pearls. a bronze mermaid statue sits atop a table adorned with coral, sea glass, and weathered books. soft flowing fabrics cascade from the ceiling, framing the room, making the room feel like a surreal cave.

you walk to your closet, opening it, looking through all your old clothes. pearl walks in behind you, plopping down onto your bed. “i tried keeping it tidy for you. you may not like it but being on land is part of you too.” she mentioned, scrolling mindlessly on her phone, not finding much interest in the metal square in her hands.

you scoffed, shaking your head. “yeah. it was once but not anymore.” you mumble, tossing around your clothes in search of something that still fit you, though that would be hard considering you grew taller and you chest had increased in size. 

“pearl, I have no clothes. guess i should go home.” you say, trying to sound as sad as you could.

pearl looked at you, unamused, as she shook her head. “oh no you’re not. wait here.” she demands, getting off of your bed and walking out of your room. you sighed as you sat down on the bed, waiting for pearl to bring you a change of clothes. 

soon enough, pearl came back. unbeknownst to you, she had been buying clothes for you every now and then, keeping for the time you finally decided to come back to land. you thank her, grabbing the white tank top and jean shorts. she also gave you a pair of black lace panties and a matching bra to go along with it. you slip into the clothes, drying your wet hair with the same towel you had used for your tail.

“so, why’d you want me to come back to land so badly this time. usually, you’d end up giving up after a while but this time, you just did not let it go.” you ask, looking at her through the mirror as she sat on the bed.

she locks eyes with you through the mirror, pausing before she speaks. “well umm, y-you know… i miss… spending time with you on- on land, you know? and um… just miss seeing you and, and being with you all the time, you know? and um… well um, they have a-a new bookstore along the boardwalk.”

you raise a brow, thrown off by her stuttering and pauses, but the bookstore sold you. “oh really?” you ask, rather excitedly, and she nods.

soon, you two are off, arriving at the beach. you guys walk for a bit, and it’s mostly her just talking a lot about this new boy she met—chris. she talks about him, his eyes, his face, his hair, every detail about him. you couldn’t help but feel a sense of familiarity, like you knew him, or have at least seen him, but you shook it off a deja vu or something. she said she’s seen him around a few times, most recently at a house party. you laugh hysterically as she tells you about his brother—the one who threw the party. it was hilarious—and rather perverted—that he hosted a whole party just to see girls in bikinis. you come down from your laughter and notice two boys on this otherwise empty beach.

“oh that’s them!” pearl exclaims.

what? what does she mean? is that chris and his brother? is that why you’re here?

pearl grabs your hand, increasing her speed to where she’s jogging. “chris!” she shouts, garnering the boys’ attention. 

matt looks over at the sound of someone calling out chris’s name and sees pearl and another unfamiliar girl. he’s taken aback by her. she’s beautiful, gorgeous, absolutely stunning. she looks exactly like pearl but there’s something different about her, something he can’t quite put his finger on but it draws him into her allure—like a sailor to a siren. 

“hey guys.” pearl says, stopping in front of the boys. 

chris smiled instantly as he looked at pearl. “hi,” he looked behind her to see you. “and you must be…”

“seren or ser. whichever one you prefer.” you say quietly. your eyes shift from chris to who you presume is his brother. he was breathtakingly beautiful. his eyes were a piercing blue, like the ocean but not the tropical kind. his gaze was cold, cold enough to make you shiver. his cheekbones were sharp and his jawline was defined. his brown curls messily fell over his face, framing it perfectly.

he heard your voice and it was like he immediately fell into a trance. the way you talked—so calmly and smoothly—it made him fall deeper into your spell, your trap.

“i’m matt.” he speaks, his voice monotonous but not in a laid back way, in a ‘i’m trying to make you think i’m hot and seduce you,' type of way. you try your hardest to suppress an eyeroll, finding yourself actually resisting one. your eyes lock once again and a small smirk spreads across his face as he looks you up and down. it's a look that almost makes you want to jump back into the ocean for another six years. there's a feeling in the pit of your gut that makes matt seem so similar to the bookstore you were heading towards that it makes you stay. just this once.

[kaynanarie]

Eyes of Gold (Part 4)

(A WukongxReader story inspired by Beauty and the Beast and Lutung Kasarung.) (First) (Prev) (Next)

            Two days later, the rash was finally gone. The baths and medicine had cleansed it away, leaving healthy, itchless skin in its wake. You couldn’t be more relieved. Shihou endured your smothering hugs and endless thanks with grace and a smidge of pride.

            With you now poison ivy free, the monkey was ready to show you the way up the mountain. You didn’t realize how literally he meant it until you were three hours into a grueling hike.

            “How much further?” you whined, climbing up yet another set of stone steps. Shihou snickered where he sat waiting for you to catch up.

            “Just a few more. Would you had preferred scaling the side of the mountain?”

            You huffed, pausing to catch your breath. “No, but I wasn’t expecting a maze of staircases and secret tunnels. Did Monkey King find all these?”

            “Actually, he made most of them,” Shihou said, leading the way down a side passage. “Fruit and Flower Mountain has seen plenty of battles and having a backdoor comes in handy.”

            Glowing moss along the walls offered some light but you still kept close to Shihou. With so many twists and turns, getting lost would be all too easy. After another flight of stairs and a few more tight tunnels, Shihou finally stopped by an unassuming patch of stone.

            “Here we are!”

            You glanced at the rocky surface then back at him. “Where exactly is here?”

            With a smirk, Shihou pushed the wall aside. Instead of stone like you first assumed, a cloth was brushed away, revealing a brightly lit hallway on the other side. You stepped out into the light, letting your eyes adjust while also enjoying the fresh air. Behind you, a woven tapestry fell back into place, covering the secret doorway without a trace.

            Once you could properly see, you found yourself in a corridor, one side dotted with large windows streaming in sunlight. Lining the opposite wall were statues, murals, and hanging weapons interspaced between ornate doors. Despite being carved from the mountain itself, the stone palace was just as regal and intricate as any human-made castle.

            “Your room is over here, peach friend! Come take a look!” Shihou called from down the hall. He was nearly hopping from excitement by the time you joined him in front of the open door. “What do you think?”

            The room was huge, a carefully carved cavern with artistic details etched into the very walls. Rosewood furniture adorned the space, expertly crafted and polished to a mirror shine. The wardrobe tucked in the corner revealed silk robes similar to your first gifted set. A bowl of fruit and bouquet of colorful flowers decorated a small side table. You were most excited to see a real bed, plush with a downy mattress and covered in embroidered blankets and furs. The whole space glowed by the light of the bay window leading out to an overlooking balcony.

            Of all the things you expected from a mountain palace full of demons, such royal accommodations were beyond your wildest dreams. “It’s beautiful! Look at this view!”

            Being so high up was breathtaking and dizzying all at once. The whole of Fruit and Flower Mountain stretched before you all the way down to the edge of the forest. Cascading green hills plummeted alongside the thunderous waterfall. Above the canopy of trees, white clouds drifted through the endless blue sky. You were so enthralled by the sight, Shihou had to tug you back by your robes before you could tumble over the balcony railing.

            “Careful! Wouldn’t want an accident before the King announces your arrival.”

            “He’s announcing my arrival?” you repeated in disbelief.

            “Of course!” Shihou chirped, leading you back into the room. With your weary body weighted down by the sudden news, the bed looked more inviting than ever. You all but flopped down on the mattress, sighing into the cloud-like comfort. The weight on the blankets shifted as Shihou hopped up to sit next to you. “The King wants to formally welcome you while also making the others aware of your presence. Best way to avoid any mishaps.”

            “If you say so,” you hummed, glancing over to him. “Any other surprises I should know?”

            “Well actually, there was something I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Shihou suddenly looked quite contrite, avoiding your gaze as he scratched at the back of his head. “But you have to promise not to panic or get angry. Okay?”

            You raised a brow. “Is it that bad?”

            “Probably not,” he said though his frown wasn’t very convincing. “Just…try not to hate me?”

            Before you could respond, Shihou jumped off the bed and scurried to the center of the room. You sat up to watch him, suddenly worried by whatever was about to happen. He took a slow breath, so focused even his tail was still. In a quick nod, a cloud of smoke enveloped him with a startling pop. You jumped to your feet, coughing and waving the haze from your face. As fast as it appeared, the cloud settled, leaving you blinking as a shrouded figure came into view.

            “Ta-dah!”

            Where Shihou had once been was now stood a demon. He was slightly taller than you, wearing simple pants and robes tied with a belt. The overall appearance was nearly human but his fur, tail, and bare feet were monkey-like. A nervous smile played across his simian face while he waited for your reaction. Only the familiar golden gaze kept full blown panic at bay.

            “Shihou?” you asked after a tense moment.

            “Yep! It’s me! Just a little taller now. And with clothes,” he smirked but there was still a cautious edge to it. “You’re not going to freak out, right?”

            Your arms flailed in bewilderment, grasping for understanding. “First you can talk, and now this? I thought you were just a regular monkey!” Your hands covered your face, mind whirling with every awkward conversation you had with him. “How? Why?”

            Shihou looked a bit sheepish at your confusion. “I didn’t mean to lie. When I found you, I disguised myself so I wouldn’t scare you and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up afterwards. Now that you’re here, you’ll be seeing a lot more demons around so I might as well be the first.”

            A deafening silence filled the room as you processed the monkey’s confession. The longer you stared, the more nervous he became, tail twitching as he fidgeted in place.

            “Are you mad at me, peach friend?” he asked, gold eyes wide and pleading. Despite the larger demon form, he managed to look quite pitiful in his remorse.

            You sighed and shook your head. “You’re lucky you’re still cute.”

            “Aww,” he cooed, his smile sharpening to a cheeky grin. “You think I’m cute?”

            His teasing turned to full blown laughter at your unamused glare. “Don’t push it. I’m already embarrassed I carried you around for three days.”

            “How about I carry you next time to make it up to you?” Shihou chuckled at your mortified blush. “Anyways, now that you know, it’ll be easier to show you around. For now, you should rest while I let the King know you’ve arrived. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

            The idea of being left by yourself in an unfamiliar demon palace was unnerving but you nodded anyways. Shihou sensed your hesitation and placed his now much larger hand on your shoulder. “I won’t be long. Once everyone’s gathered, I’ll come get you for the announcement.”

            With a final wave and a quick wink, Shihou whisked out of the room. Alone with your reeling thoughts, you laid back on the bed to study the carved ceiling. Soon enough, you felt the fatigue of the day pull you into dreams filled with underground labyrinths, demons in disguise, and the looming presence of the infamous mountain king.

[subatomiccherry]

Autumn Leaves; Ancient Canopies

the long awaited mountain trail meet-cute! Hopefully this turned out well <3

Pairings: Sleep Token x Reader

Warnings: suggestive themes, nothing truly explicit tho

fic dividers by sweetmelodygraphics

There was something about the pure feeling of nature, just walking along the length of the forest, admiring the trees and small flowers that grew along the path. It was blissfully quiet most day, not many people frequented this forgotten trail that you had found on a whim one day. There was something different about this place… maybe it was the long vines of ivy that covered a majority of the canopy, casting dark shadows over the foliage, a cool reprieve from the unforgiving summer sun. Or maybe it was the deer that you would see sometimes? Standing unnaturally still, watching with unblinking ebony eyes as you walked gingerly, afraid of startling them with your footfalls. Or maybe it was the way that you never saw anyone else walking this trail, or the way that people shot you skeptical glances when you tried to explain where it was… but oh well. It was your own little slice of paradise.

Vessel: It was his soft voice, cutting through the birdsong and wind, that first alerted you to his presence. He was walking the opposite way of the trail, coming towards you as you walked towards him, awkwardly shuffling to the side to make room for him to pass. He had stopped singing when he had noticed you, pulling his hood farther over his head, casting his face into shadow. "You sound fantastic." you smiled, nodding your head at him as he passed by. He didn't say anything, just a subtle nod of his head, so small you could've almost missed it.

You both met a few more times like this, hearing him before you saw him, him stopping his singing as soon as he sees you. Eventually, you have the courage to compliment him on his choice of song for the day. He brightens up when you recognize it, and that opens the gateway for y'all to start talking.

Vessel finds enjoyment in pointing out different plant and animal species that your gaze normally skips over. Yes, he knows all the scientific names.

He enjoys holding your hand as you both walk, running his thumb over your knuckles and admiring your skin. Its a sense of comfort for him, to know that you're right there next to him.

You're able to turn your brain off when you walk with him, knowing that he would keep you from walking into poison ivy or straying too far from the path. You are so utterly safe with him.

Loves you gently, and violently. When y'all are walking and talking, he's all smiles and soft touches, but when you kiss him for the first time, he almost loses it then and there. Sharp canines digging into your bottom lip, pressing kisses down your chin, your neck, any part of your skin he can reach. He intends to draw blood, to mark you as his for everyone to see.

II: It's rare to see him walking without that taller man by his side. He stumbled the first time he saw you, shooting glances at Vessel as if he would know why you're there. Vessel just shrugs. To be honest, his demeanor unnerves you, his hard gaze and the tense way he sets his shoulders whenever you go walking past them. The first time you saw him walking by himself, you almost jumped off the path to hide behind bushes until he passed. Almost.

Blunt in his way of speaking. he can almost come off rude sometimes, until you learn to read his expressions and what he truly means under his words. He's a mother hen, you realize after the 3rd time you run into him by yourself. he shoves a small backpack into your hands, grumbling about how you'll pass out without water before speed-walking away.

Acts of service really do it for him, he adores when you beat him to the punch on taking care of something. You brought an extra water bottle for him when his ran out? Surprising him with a pair of sunglasses when the sky is too bright for his baby blues? Oh he's down bad.

He's fine standing, but sitting? Stillness is impossible. If he's sitting down, he's practically vibrating in his seat, fingers tapping and legs bouncing. A pavlovian reaction to being sat at his drums a majority of the time. I think he would get random bursts of adrenaline, his heart just starts pounding and he just needs to move

Despite how resounding and intense he can get with his drums, i think he can get startled or spooked pretty easily. It can be tricky, he's very attuned to vibrations around him but if you're light-footed enough, or play it off well, you can get him. It's a shock the first time you inadvertently do, watching him jump a good foot in the air and letting out a yelp. (You'll definitely pay for it later)

Show this man some love i beg of you. He spends all his time taking care of other people, i imagine he would melt once you get your hands on him. Gentle at first, exploring fingers, seeing what spots get the most reactions out of him. Take care of him first, and he'll double the return. He's fast, sending your head spinning with how he seems to be in multiple places in once with your body. Drumming for as long as he has makes him a god at multitasking.

III: Like Vessel, you definitely heard him before you saw him. His voice was jovial, riffs spilling from his lips and arms miming his bass playing as he clambered over rock piles without a care. He startled when he noticed you watching him, losing his balance and falling from his perch with a shout.

The majority of yall's first meeting is sitting with him while waiting for the ambulance to cart him and his broken ankle off to the hospital. Endless apologizing from you until he quips that you can take him out on a date to make up for it.

He enjoys showing you all the rocky outcroppings and the best hidey holes carved away by weather and time. (you know those cave diver memes on tiktok? yeah)

Enjoys teasing you when you cant jump between the rocks like he can with his long ass legs. Is the type to laugh at you if you fall and then checks to see if you're okay.

So. much. energy. Will run up and down the trail, bringing things back for you to look at like an excited child. you will go home with your pockets bulging from all the cool rocks or acorns that he gifted you with that wide grin on his face.

Handsy, lives for teasing you with fleeting touches or a searing kiss before getting "distracted" and bouncing off to look at another snail or something. Keeps this up the entire time until y'all get to said rocky overhangs. He presses you up against the stone, all teeth and wandering hands. Big on whispering into your ear, pressing his hand against your mouth to muffle your sounds in case anyone is nearby. (No one is, he just likes seeing your eyes roll back in lieu of speaking)

IV: You hadn't expected it to get dark so fast when you had started your hike. it had been a shitty day at work and all you had wanted to do was make it to the peak and just sit for a while to decompress. You didn't see him until you literally slammed into his back, leaping back with a startled scream. After some convincing that he wasn't a serial killer hiding in the woods, he walked you back to your car, wanting to make sure that you made it back safely.

Literal embodiment of: "looks like he could kill you, is actually a cinnamon roll" (but can definitely still kill you)

I can see him keeping to himself at first, unsure of what to talk about with you. But i think he would love debating with you about random subjects. The thrill of the debate gets him amped up and out of his shell, gesturing animatedly, eyes lighting up as he rants about how cereal is a soup, thank you very much.

Enjoy the soft moments with him! Sitting on a bench at the peak of the mountain, with him pointing out constellations to you. The air is cold up here, so he wraps you in his leather jacket and does that movie theater "yawn + stretch = arm around the shoulder" thing. Laughs when you call him out, telling him he's cheesy.

Starlight filters around you both, an ethereal moment as you gaze at each other. He goes in to kiss you but its dark and he misses, kissing your eyelid instead. You laugh and he grumbles good-naturedly before gently holding your face in his hands to kiss you properly.

Enjoys manhandling you, pulling you to straddle his lap like you weigh nothing. ( Big shouldered man with thick thighs AMEN ) Hands gripping your hips, his grip is strong. Likes to make you beg for it, not letting you move at all until he deems you desperate enough.

[oh-wiw]

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 1 ✦ Part 3 ✦

A lost composer

You arrived at Sumeru, apparently you entered the wrong ferry and entered the land of dendro. You were so excited to go to Mondstadt that you boarded the wrong boat in your excitement to finally leave Inazuma behind.

It didn’t matter that you had boarded the wrong ferry, because as you stepped Port Ormos, you remembered the Zubayr Theater beneath the Akademiya. A place where music and the creative arts thrived and maybe, just maybe, they'd let you perform. And with any luck, earn enough mora to buy instruments you’d never had the chance to touch back in your own world.

���✧✧✧✧ 

The cheap bamboo flute in your bag has served you well. Its familiarity was a comfort, and playing it came as naturally as breathing. It’s sound easy to summon thanks to years of intimate practice. But now, something inside you longed for more. Strings, drums, reeds. Sounds that is foreign to your finger, you hoped to explore sounds you had only ever imagined. 

You first took a moment to fix your mask, adjusting its fit carefully so it sat just right on your face. Then you smoothed out the wrinkles in your kimono, brushing off the dust of travel. With that done, you stepped into the crowd and began to mingle.

The air was buzzing with excitement, conversations overlapped and the streets felt more alive. You made your way through the crowd, asking around, hoping to catch a ride to Sumeru City. But your hopes were quickly dashed with a polite answer and a firm “no.”

You weren’t alone, though. Dozens of others were being turned away, all trying to make their way to the city for some grand event. Whatever was happening, it had captured the region’s full attention.

As you lingered by the edge of the crowd, weighing your dwindling options. You approach a small group of travelers. They, too, had been denied entry to the ferries heading to Sumeru City, but unlike most, they were willing to make the long trek on foot from Port Ormos through the vast, untamed forests of Sumeru.

You offer to join them. After all, you had no map, no compass, and no real knowledge of how to navigate the dense jungles and paths of this region. All you had was the in-game knowledge from the game. A general sense of direction, vague landmarks committed to memory, and a few expectations that might not translate into this very real, very alive world.

Fortunately, they agreed for you to join. With that, you set out on foot, following dirt roads.

In return for their kindness, you offered your own services to the group. During rest stops beneath the canopy of the jungles, you brought out your flute and filled the air with gentle melodies. Soft tunes drifted through the leaves, blending with the calls of wildlife and the rustle of the wind, turning quiet campsites into moments of peace.

When you weren’t performing, though. You helped wherever you could gathering firewood, assisting with simple meals, helping set out tents, all while keeping the mood light with the occasional hum or rhythm. The others seemed to appreciate it as laughter came easier around the fire, and the long miles felt a little shorter with music weaving through the road.

The city thrummed with life the moment you arrived. The streets were a swirl of colors and motion, alive with scholars debating under shaded arches, performers drawing crowds with graceful dances and merchants calling out deals in every corner.

A celebration was clearly on the rise. Bright lanterns hung from balconies and tree branches alike, swaying gently in the breeze. Streamers of silk and ivy criss crossed above the streets, and the air was thick with the scent of fresh spices, incense, and blooming flowers. Every corner buzzed with anticipation.

Sumeru City was certainly bustling this time of year, more than you had expected. You weren’t sure what the occasion was. Maybe a festival? You quickly discarded that thought. Mostly because of the sheer volume of people. And the crowds weren’t just local, people from all over Teyvat had gathered here for some reason. 

This wasn’t just a local celebration. It was something bigger.

Either way, you had a plan. With your flute in hand and a familiar tune on your lips, you took to the streets and taverns of Sumeru City, weaving your music through the busy air. Celebration or not, a crowd was a crowd and with more tourists than usual filling the streets, meant more mora to earn.

You didn’t know how long the celebration would last, or what exactly it was exactly for  but it didn’t matter. Because the extra mora quickly added up enough to afford better meals, even lodging that didn’t creak when you breathed.

Unaware of your growing influence, you played as you always did. Gently, sincerely, with no real goal beyond earning a few mora and passing time. But what started as a modest performance slowly became something more.

Crowds began to gather wherever you played. The tavern, once half-full on quiet nights, are now overflowed with eager listeners around tables and stairwells just to hear your melodies. On the streets, foot traffic slowed as travelers and locals alike stopped to listen, enchanted.

Eventually, the commotion drew attention although not all of it was welcome. The Eremites, acting as unofficial enforcers in certain parts of the city, stepped in to disperse the crowds and restore order. You took the hint. With a polite bow and a soft closing tune, you ended your performance early that day, not wanting to find yourself playing behind bars instead of on a street corner.

That night, you kept to the tavern’s shadowed, playing softer tunes for the patrons who still lingered, unaware of the effect your music had. You didn’t see the way people paused outside just to listen. You didn’t notice how even scholars lowered their books to follow the sound. 

To you, it was simply a song, another way to earn a little mora.

But to them, it was something more. Something they couldn’t name, but couldn’t forget.

You thought nothing of it. With the festival in full swing, it made sense that people would gather. Music was everywhere, after all. You assumed the crowd was drawn by the celebration, not by you. 

It was just a lucky coincidence, you told yourself, a moment where your flute happened to fit the mood.

And while that was partially true, no one truly expected you. A wandering, masked musician with a worn farmer’s hat  and a simple bamboo flute, to play with such grace. 

There was something in your music that words couldn’t touch: a quiet divinity that calmed restless hearts, slowed busy minds, and softened even the sharpest tempers.

To the people, it felt like more than talent. It felt like a blessing, one they couldn’t name, but couldn’t walk away from either.

It felt familiar.

✧✧✧✧✧ 

Somewhere far at sea, atop the swaying deck of a lone ship, a certain bard sat with his lyre resting gently in his lap. He strummed a soft chord, eyes half-lidded as he gazed toward the horizon. The breeze tugging playfully at his hair and cloak. A quiet sigh escaped his lips.

“Seems like the wind misled me,” he murmured with a wry chuckle.

He leaned back and began to hum to the unfamiliar melody. It wasn’t a song of old tales nor the future. It was something different. Something on the now. A tune born of the present moment, carried on the wind from a distant land in the north.

And as his fingers danced lightly across the strings, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Whoever you are,” he whispered to the wind, “please keep playing.”

✧✧✧✧✧ 

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 1 ✦ Part 3 ✦

[beloveds-embrace]

(a series in which you are a witch living in the woods, and a group of knights have decided to keep you safe and sound in exchange for kisses and charms.)

Johnny’s arrival was always a joyous affair, heralded by the lilting whistle that preceded him through the trees, hung up bells tinkling through the breeze. You recognized the tune before you even saw him, a signal of his approach as familiar as the rustling leaves and the delighted the hum of your wards.

“Hello, bonnie lass!” he called, stepping into view with his usual bright grin. He strode up to your door with an armful of wildflowers, their petals slightly crushed but still vibrant. “Brought these for you. Dinnae ask what they are- I just grabbed the prettiest ones I could find.”

You laughed, reaching out to accept the bouquet. The mix of blooms, some medicinal, some purely ornamental, spoke of his eager hands plucking whatever caught his eye. But you didn’t mind- the thought was appreciated regardless. “They’re beautiful, Johnny. Thank you.”

“Ah, well. Pretty flowers for a pretty lass.”

You shook your head fondly and stepped aside to let him in. Johnny’s presence was like a burst of sunlight through the dense canopy, and the magic in your cottage reacted to him like ivy reaching for warmth. The air inside seemed lighter when he was near, the flickering candle flames burning just a little steadier, the herbs hanging from the rafters swaying as if drawn to his energy. Even the floorboards, which creaked under every step but yours, barely made a sound when he moved- perhaps the house itself leaned into his presence, unwilling to startle the warmth he carried

As you arranged the flowers in a ceramic vase, he leaned against your wooden table, arms crossed, grin never fading. “You’ll never believe what happened today!” He began, and without any prompting began retellinh you of his day.

You listened with rapt attention as he spoke of training exercises gone awry, not unusual, of weapons misfiring, and- his personal favorite- Gaz slipping face-first into the mud.

“And then wham! Right into the muck, poor bastard! I swear, he was swimming in it!” Johnny cackled, slapping a hand against the table. He kept in mind not too slap too hard, and away from your little bottles.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Poor Gaz. You’re terrible for finding it so funny.”

“He’ll live,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. His face softened as he watched you place the flowers in the vase, the firelight catching in your hair. “Got anything for me today, lass?”

You reached for a small leather cord, from which dangled a small, hand-carved wooden charm, smoothed by your touch and etched with runes only you could read.

“For speed and sure footing,” you tied it around his wrist, your touch sure and gentle. “You’re quick enough already, but this should help in a chase- or when dodging.”

Johnny turned his hand, studying the charm with quiet admiration. His fingers brushed against the carvings, tempered by something more serious and came. “Aye, that’ll come in handy.”

He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the charm- or perhaps the weight of the thought behind it. When he looked back at you, his smile was different. Softer.

“Cheers, lass. You are a delight.” He murmured, and it was almost reverent.

As he turned to leave after stealing some cookies, you tugged him down for a quick, fleeting kiss on the cheek.

He winked at you, and his grin returned. “Careful, hen. I might get used to this.”

“As if you already aren’t… but anyways. Thank you for dropping by!”

You loved his visits, truly. They were always so… carefree. But little did you know, his visits weren’t always as untroubled as they seemed.

Earlier that day, before his cheerful whistle cut through the trees, Johnny had dealt with a different kind of visitor- one he would never tell you about.

No need to worry your pretty head, after all.

A small group of the crown’s men had wandered too close to your woods, their voices carrying through the underbrush. Johnny had been returning from a patrol, then on hisbway to you, when he spotted them, their armor glinting brightly in the midday light. They spoke in hushed tones, movements cautious as they studied the ancient trees around them for any traces that could lead them to you.

“Reckon she’s real?” one of them muttered.

“Don’t be daft. ‘Course she is. Locals swear by it.” Another replied. “A witch, hidden out here, practicing magic. If the king knew- ”

“Shut it,” the third man snapped. “We get caught sniffing around lile this with no evidence, we’ll have bigger problems than a witch’s curse.”

Johnny had heard enough.

With the ease of a man who moved like he belonged in the wild, he circled behind them, steps silent. By the time they realized they weren’t alone, he was already there.

The first man barely had time to turn before Soap grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, slamming him against a tree. The others froze, their hands inching toward their weapons. In the face of a knight like him, they couldn’t even pretend to hold a little respect. Nothing more than fear.

“Now, now,” Johnny crooned, deceptively light. “What are you fine gentlemen doin’ in these woods?”

The man in his grasp stammered. “We- we were just-“

“Just stickin’ your noses where they don’t belong?” Johnny interrupted, his grip tightening. “Bad idea, lads. Very bad idea.”

One of the soldiers shifted on his feet. “We- we meant no harm. Just heard stories-“

“Aye, you heard stories,” Soap repeated darkly. “And I suggest you keep ’em as stories. ‘Cause if you so much as breathe a word about these woods to the wrong folk, I’ll make sure you don’t leave ’em.”

The threat hung heavy in the air. None of them doubted he meant it.

“You understand me?” Soap asked, bright blue eyes- you often likened them to the ocean- now cold and sharp.

They nodded, their confidence crumbling under the weight of his presence.

“Good lads.” Johnny laughed, finally releasing the man in his grasp. He clapped a hand against the soldier’s shoulder, grin returning- but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, off you go. And remember: some places aren’t meant to be found.”

The men didn’t need to be told twice. They turned and fled, disappearing into the underbrush without a second glance.

Soap waited until their footsteps faded before letting out a slow breath. He rolled his shoulders, casting a glance toward the distant outline of your cottage, hidden safely within the forest’s embrace.

You’d never know.

He wouldn’t let you.

By the time he reached you, his usual mirth had returned, and the only thing he carried with him was a bouquet of wildflowers and the promise of laughter.

The flower field did so nicely to mask and wash away the scent of blood clinging to him, after all.

Witch of the Wood Masterlist || Simon “Ghost” Riley

[isither]

You’ll Still Be Mine

A/N: I was listening to LDR. Songs like young and beautiful, love, wild at heart and sweet had me thinking a bit. How one day I will grow old and if I'm lucky enough, I'll have someone to grow old with. But then worries came in similar to what I brought up. My biggest fear is falling in love, spending my youth with someone just to have them leave when we grow old and don't look the same anymore. I used this to cope that genuine love won't make me question if I'm wasting my youth.

It was a quiet kind of ache that crept in unnoticed—slow, like ivy wrapping itself around the columns of Y/N's thoughts.

The apartment smelled of rain. Outside the window, Seoul glistened beneath a gentle drizzle, streetlights flickering in puddles like stars grounded to earth. The scent of citrus tea lingered in the air, steeped and forgotten on the kitchen counter. And in the middle of it all, Y/N sat curled on the couch, knees tucked beneath her chin, the sleeves of her oversized sweater swallowing her hands.

Their wedding photo sat on the mantle—a candid shot that Danielle had taken, catching them mid-laugh. Haerin had her arms wrapped around Y/N from behind, chin tucked on her shoulder, eyes filled with so much softness it made the heart ache. That day felt like it had only just happened, but already, a distance had begun to form in Y/N's mind—a crack in the mirror she was too afraid to touch.

She couldn't stop thinking about the future lately. Not the dreamhouse or vacations or even children—though those conversations had started, cautiously, between them. No, Y/N had begun to think of time itself, of skin losing elasticity, of laugh lines etching permanent stories, of knees that might creak and backs that might ache. She wondered what Haerin would look like in twenty years.

More cruelly, she wondered what Haerin would think of her in twenty years.

It started with a single thought, the way most disasters did.

"What if she stops loving me when I'm no longer young?"

Haerin was ethereal, the kind of beautiful that didn't need effort. Not just in her face—though it was impossible not to stare at her when she walked into a room—but in the way she carried herself. Quiet but firm. Intentional. Poised without arrogance. When she laughed, her nose crinkled just a bit, and when she loved, it was full, with a depth that wrapped around everything in her orbit.

Y/N had spent her early twenties loving Haerin from afar. Then one day, Haerin looked back. And somehow, that story led to vows whispered under a canopy of magnolias.

But now...

Y/N blinked hard, pressing her fingers into her temples.

She had tried to ignore the spiraling thoughts. She really had. But lately, she found herself pulling back. Holding her breath when Haerin brushed a hand against her waist. Giving distant smiles. Ducking compliments. It was like she was bracing for the heartbreak before it arrived—like if she kept her walls high, the blow would hurt a little less when Haerin eventually looked at her and saw someone... older. Less radiant. Less her.

"Y/N?"

The voice was soft behind her.

Y/N turned, startled. Haerin stood by the doorway, still in her long beige coat, rain droplets clinging to her bangs. Her hands were full—bags from a nearby market, and a small bouquet of lavender and pale pink baby's breath. The kind of flowers Y/N always paused to admire but never bought for herself.

"You're home early." Y/N said, quickly shifting her expression into something more neutral.

"I finished rehearsal early. Hanni dropped me off," Haerin replied, slipping off her shoes and padding across the hardwood floor. She placed the flowers on the kitchen island and gave Y/N a long look. "You didn't answer my texts."

"Oh. Sorry." Y/N glanced down at the coffee table, where her phone lay face down, silent and dead.

Haerin said nothing at first. She merely stepped closer, searching Y/N's face. Her fingers reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Y/N's ear before tucking themselves into the folds of her sweater sleeve.

"You've been somewhere else lately," she said gently. "Where did you go?"

Y/N hesitated. She could lie. She could pretend she was just tired, stressed, overworked—anything but what she was actually feeling. But something about the way Haerin looked at her—so steady, so sure—made it impossible to hide.

So she let the silence stretch a beat longer. Then another. Until it broke, not with a bang, but with a whisper.

"Do you ever think about what we'll be like in thirty years?"

Haerin blinked. "I mean... sure. Sometimes."

Y/N shifted, drawing her knees even closer. "And... when you do, do you still see me?"

The question hit the air like static. Haerin didn't move. She just watched, her lips slightly parted, as Y/N looked away.

"I know I sound stupid. It's just... lately, I can't stop thinking about how things will change. How I will change. I'll get older, slower, maybe even boring. My face won't look the same. My body won't. What if one day you wake up and realize you miss the version of me that was younger? The one you married?"

Haerin exhaled slowly, the sound so quiet Y/N almost missed it.

"And what if you fall for someone younger," Y/N added, voice barely above a breath. "Someone with fewer laugh lines and tighter skin and more time?"

The truth was out now. Raw. Undressed.

Haerin sat down beside her. Not fast, not alarmed—just with calm precision, as if she had all the time in the world for this moment.

"Y/N," She said, and her tone was the kind people used when saying someone's name felt like a prayer. "You could be a hundred years old, and I would still fall asleep thinking about you."

Y/N looked up. Her throat tightened.

"I didn't fall in love with you because of your age. Or your face. Or your skin," Haerin continued. "I fell in love with you because of how you talk to animals like they understand you. Because of how you never finish your tea but keep making new cups anyway. Because you cry at the same scene in the Scooby Doo movie when Shaggy and Scooby have their little fight every single time. Because you get overwhelmed in grocery stores and can't decide on pasta shapes unless I'm there to help. I fell in love with all of it. All of you."

Y/N's vision blurred. She blinked quickly.

Haerin reached out, gently guiding Y/N's hand to her own chest. "Do you feel that?"

The heartbeat beneath her palm was steady. Sure.

"This doesn't change because of a few wrinkles. Or silver hair. Or years passing," Haerin whispered. "Love isn't something I borrowed for the years you're young. It's something I promised for every version of you that exists."

Y/N's lip trembled. "But what if I change? What if I'm not enough later?"

"You will be," Haerin said without pause. "Because you are now. And you've always been."

A sob caught in Y/N's throat, half-formed. Haerin didn't flinch—she simply moved closer, resting their foreheads together, her hands warm against Y/N's cheeks.

"You're not losing me," she said. "Not now. Not when you turn forty. Not when we're eighty and trying to remember where we put the damn TV remote."

That made Y/N let out a teary laugh, muffled by Haerin's shoulder as she pulled her into a hug.

"You make it sound so easy," Y/N murmured against her. "Like love's not a fragile thing."

"It's not," Haerin replied. "Not mine for you."

They stayed like that for a while—wrapped up in each other, in the quiet rain tapping against the windows, in the low hum of a life they were still building. Y/N breathed in Haerin's scent—lavender and rain and something undeniably hers.

Eventually, Haerin pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. "You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I had a nightmare last week that you left me for someone younger," Haerin said, lips twitching into the smallest smile. "Someone who could dance without pulling a muscle."

Y/N stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"Mmhmm. You told me I was too mysterious and you needed someone more predictable."

Y/N barked out a laugh. "Haerin, you are predictable. You eat the same breakfast every morning."

"And yet, you married me anyway."

Y/N leaned in, kissing her then—slow, but full of something that burned away the self-doubt like morning sunlight through fog.

When they finally stood to make tea together—Haerin placing the now-slightly-wilted flowers in a mason jar and Y/N quietly threading their fingers together—it felt like breathing again.

Later, Haerin played Young and Beautiful through the speakers. One of the many songs they played on their wedding day.

She didn't say anything. She just looked at Y/N across the room with that same gentle expression from their wedding photo, the one that said: I see you, exactly as you are. And I still choose you.

Y/N walked toward her.

"I will love you," Haerin murmured as the song swelled, "long after the lights go out."

And of course, Y/N believed her. Because where there's true love, there's Haerin.

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, drabble

HEADCANON: Soap accidentally joins a cult, much to Ghost’s headache

PAIRING: Ghoap

they were supposed to be doing recon.

In. Out.

Quiet.

Minimal contact. No eyes. No chatter. No interference. Nothing out of the ordinary.

A sleepy village somewhere up in the Carpathians. Lovely land it was. Foggy in the mornings. Cold. A bit damp but green as hell in the afternoon. Quiet too. Silent and peaceful in the kind of way that made you wonder if sound should have ever existed there to begin with.

But like Laswell briefed. Some bloody shady bloke took advantage of the isolated land and marsh. Housing and smuggling in some illegal arms and explosives disguised as relief shipments.

So of course. Ghost and Soap got sent in to scope it out.

It was a simple recon.

Ghost didn't mind it. Not really.

To be fair. He thought this was the most peace and quiet he was going to get all quarter.

No gunfire. No close-quarter scraps in stairwells. No dodging fucking shrapnel or sprinting through burning compounds. Just trees. Wet and mossy soil. The occasional crow. Marshy terrain and birdsong. Simple stuff.

Ghost likes simple stuff.

Ghost liked watching. Recording. Mapping routes while he let Johnny mutter observations into the comms. Having tolerated it to the point that he didn't even scold him anymore for it. Christ, even his chatter was low today -- something about the fog making him "mysterious" or some shite. No matter though. They'd done the hard part already anyway. Mapped the village, tagged the supply route, confirmed that the relief trucks weren't carrying food indeed but enough military-grade plastique to level a city block. All they had left to do now was confirm the time of the next drop, pass it up the chain, and exfil.

Simple stuff.

Ghost liked simple stuff.

Except.

Soap had vanished.

And not even a full vanish. Not at fucking first, no.

He'd waved Ghost off with a "Just takin' a look doon tha' alley. Be two ticks". That was 47 minutes. Ghost wasn't counting, he lied

Which, in fairness, wasn’t new. The Scot had a habit of getting chatty with strangers like it was a pub crawl and not a classified mission. One smile and he’d have half the village offering him tea and stories of their dead uncle who once fought a bear.

Ghost let it slide the first time. Maybe even the second.

But when Soap didn’t check in at the designated mark time, and Ghost circled back to their last known, only to find bloody flower petals on the ground and Johnny’s comm unit hanging from a goat’s horn like a charm --

Yeah.

That’s when Ghost knew things had gone tits-up.

He radioed in twice. No response. Trying not to panic as he commed in the others that were on overwatch. Nothing. No chatter. No static. Just that eerie bloody silence he once found peaceful now absolutely making his skin crawl.

Christ alive, he muttered to himself, checking the signal booster on his belt. Still working. Which meant someone -- or something -- was jamming them.

Brilliant.

Ghost moved low through the underbrush, keeping to the tree line just east of the village. He could see the flickers of firelight now, smell the smoke and roasted meat wafting from the square. Bells and flutes. And singing. There was...singing?. High-pitched and melodic, like an old folk lullaby if it had been raised from the dead and set to a waltz.

Then came the faint sound of drumming. Bells. Laughter. Maybe a chant.

He followed it. Past a moss-eaten gate, under a canopy of gnarled trees and tangled ivy, until he stumbled onto the edge of the village square --

And froze.

Because there, at the center of a crowd of villagers dressed in wool and lace and something straight out of a pagan fever dream, was Soap.

Soap. Soap. Johnny.

Barefoot. Shirtless. And absolutely bedecked in garlands of lavender and whatever passed for sacred herbs around here. A sheer golf sash draped around his torso. Mohawked hair full of twigs and shiny bits of ribbon like a demented maypole. Someone had smeared.... pollen? across his cheeks in thick, ceremonial swipes.

He looked like a Druidic Eurovision contestant.

Ghost blinked. Slowly. Like maybe, maybe this was one of those near-death hallucinations soldiers got before bleeding out.

Nope. Still blinking. Still alive. Still watching his sergeant sway side-to-side while a pair of old women -- possibly priestesses, possibly just nosy -- danced around him chanting in Old Romanian. Or maybe Welsh. Ghost couldn’t tell. One of them was holding what looked like a chicken.

And the worst part? Johnny His Johnny was grinning.

Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, something warm unfurled. Dangerous. Worshipful. Like awe, if awe had teeth. Ancient. Sacred. Divine.

Beautiful.

“Oi, Ghost!” Soap beamed. Spotting the massive and tanking hulk within the treeline. Arms outstretched like a man greeting an old friend to his wedding. “They made me a god!”

At that Ghost blinked. Fever dream fading like some bloody smoke in the wind.

"They what?"

“Not a real god, obviously. Just the reincarnation o' one. Sorta. It’s a bit vague. They said I ‘carry the blood of thunder’ and somethin' about ‘the sacred thighs o' the mountain ram,’ but I might’ve misheard that bit—”

"Johnny. What did you do."

“I helped an auld woman carry some firewood and smiled a wee bit too much I ken?. Apparently, that was enough.”

Ghost’s gaze shifted to the villagers. All wide-eyed. Adoring. Bowing. One of them was cradling a goat dressed in ceremonial beads. Another was preparing a bowl of paint or possibly blood.

A high priestess approached, eyes glowing with zeal. “The Horned One’s bridegroom is with us! The prophecy is fulfilled!”

“…Bridegroom?” Ghost echoed, horrified.

Soap whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Right, aye, slight hiccup — turns out they think I’m meant tae marry their goat god. But here, look at this necklace they gave me!” He held up a hideous pendant shaped like a horned moon and something that might’ve been -- was that teeth?

“Johnny,” Ghost growled. “We are leaving.”

Soap looked genuinely torn. “I mean. I could rule this village for a bit. The wine's naw bad. And they're dead fond o' my arms”

“They’re trying to marry you off to livestock.”

“Tae be fair, the goat's just symbolic -- "

“Now, Johnny.”

Deep down. Deep deep down though. Simon wanted to keep him here. To watch him. Because -- God, it wasn’t just the adrenaline. It was the comfort of seeing Johnny so... happy. So untroubled.

So.... alive, that at that moment, Simon didn't care if it meant he'd join him in the middle of a bloody cult. Changing his mind. Just for a second, maybe two -- because honestly, who wouldn’t want to sit back and watch his Johnny at the center of it all? Grinning like a bloody sunbeam, spinning under those ridiculous garlands and chanting women, eyes sparkling like he'd found some secret purpose among the madness.

That thought immediately evaporated the moment Ghost overheard "ritual. blood letting. and sacrifice". Yeah fuck that. No longer was Johnny the blessed warrior -- they were ready to make him the bloody sacrifice.

And one look around the perimeter. Eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed and a palm reaching for his pistol. The villagers’ excitement turned from adoration to something darker, more sinister. The chants shifted. The smell of incense became cloying and oppressive.

Yeah fuck that. Let's fucking go.

So they fled. Cult hot on their trail. Waving candles. Aiming spears and throwing holy relics -- "holy hell was that me underwear" "shut the fuck up and run straight" -- half-carrying an inebriated Soap, who had gotten wine drunk on their ritual nectar. Slurring "Yer just jealous 'cause they liked me better than ye"

Ghost didn't respond.

Didn't stop running either. Having to haul Johnny in to a forced piggyback. His arms burned, but he didn’t care -- nothing was going to slow him down, not while that bloody cult was chasing them with torches and chants.

Johnny, still drunk out of his mind, draped himself over Ghost’s back like a dead weight, slurring out random bits of nonsense between giggles and hiccups.

Ghost didn’t say a word. Not even his usual irritated and annoyed muttering. No retort. No counter. No comeback. Just pure silence until they were finally back at the safehouse. Simon bolting the door behind them. Soap collapsed on the floor, still wrapped in ceremonial fabric and wearing a crown of herbs.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Soap, grinning to himself, murmured, “Wee bit romantic, is it no? Bein’ dragged aff the altar by a masked-up loon.”

Ghost finally turned to him, gaze burning through the skull of his balaclava.

“Next time,” he said flatly, “I let them marry you to the goat.”

Soap winked. “Thought ye already had me spoken for.”

Ghost only narrowed his eyes.

"Aye. might as well be. I’ve been stuck with you long enough to be your bloody husband.”

Soap choked.

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