#made of ivy and rough wood | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keanusbabydoll · 11 days ago

Note

If you're taking requests, how about a daryl x reader with him hunting you through the woods. Y'know, the classic predator/prey thing. Maybe when he catches you, he uses his knife on you. Not to like seriously hurt the reader, but he knows she thinks he looks hot using a knife. Feel free to not write this if It makes you uncomfortable, though.

HIS PREY

a/n: anything for you guys!! i looove this one.<3

paring: daryl dixon x fem! reader

warnings: 18+ content, p in v, unprotected p in v, rough sex, dom!daryl, slight knife play, knife kink, daddy kink, age gap, fingering, slight edging, slight spanking, degrading, praising

wordcount: 2.2k

MDNI

⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡ ⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡ ⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡ ⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡ ⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ ♡

it was a crisp morning when rick approached you and daryl, suggesting the two of you head out to scout for food. the group needed supplies, and he knew that daryl was the best hunter in the group—and that you, after months of being together, had become a skilled tracker in your own right.

it wasn’t the first time you were out alone and let’s say you were more than just excited.

being alone on a scavenger hunt with daryl always ended up with you getting your brains fucked out against a tree. and you couldn’t get enough of it. there would be no annoying rick or michonne who constantly interrupt you or ask daryl to guard at the gates. there, it was just the two of you.

as soon as you stepped into the woods the calming scent of damp earth and pine needles filled your nose. you looked to your right and found daryl adjusting his crossbow, his sharp blue eyes scanning the area for any walkers. hell, only the sight of him made you drool and hold yourself back to not jump on him. the way his muscles flexed and his shirt hugged his trained form so perfectly.

you needed him dearly, the forming wet spot in your panties only prove of it. and you definitely knew how to get what you want.

just as daryl seemed to have prepared everything you glanced over your shoulder with a smirk, arms folded over your chest. “you know daryl,” you teased, “if i wanted to hide out here, you’d never find me.”

he snorted softly, not looking at you. “that so?” you took a step closer, leaning into his space. “you’re good, dixon. but not that good. you’d be wandering around these woods all night.”

now you got his attention.

daryl’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as he finally turned to look at you, his eyes narrowing like he was already sizing you up.

underestimating daryl’s abilities? bad idea.

“you’re talkin’ a lotta shit for someone i could catch in under five minutes.” he stated, your words definitely affecting him. “prove it.” you challenged, your voice low and teasing. you could already feel your heart racing at what would happen next.

for a moment, he just stared at you, the weight of his predatory gaze making your breath hitch. then, without a word, he reached out and gripped your upper arm firmly, his expression shifting into something darker. “you better run, girl. clock’s tickin’.” your heart skipped a beat as soon as the words left his mouth and for a second, you hesitated, but the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t kidding.

and you were fucking in for it.

you turned on your heels and bolted into the woods, the adrenaline kicking in almost instantly. the forest felt alive as you weaved through the trees and your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of excitement and something far more primal.

you eventually found a spot—a large tree covered in ivy. its wide trunk provided the perfect hiding place. carefully, to not make any sound, you knelt down and pressed your back against it, trying to catch your breath. you knew daryl well enough to know that he’d take his time, moving silently, stalking you like his prey. the thought of it sent shivers down your spine.

but honestly, you would’ve loved to hide somewhere really obvious only for him to find you after a minute. that’s how much you fucking craved this man. but then again, you knew that he would remind you forever that you were hiding this poorly. and the thrill of not knowing when he’d find you, got you even more excited.

the forest was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. but then, you heard it—a soft, deliberate footstep. your breath caught in your throat. he was close.

you leaned ever so slightly to peek around the tree, scanning the woods for any sign of him. nothing.

you let out a quiet sigh of relief, relaxing back against the tree.

big mistake.

in a flash, a strong hand gripped your arm, yanking you to your feet. you barely had time to yelp before your back was slammed against the rough bark of the tree harshly. daryl loomed over you, his chest heaving from the exertion of the chase, his piercing eyes locking into yours. without you even fully realizing it, he held his sharp knife against your throat— not enough to hurt you but still to show you who’s in charge.

“thought ya could hide from me, huh?” his voice was low and gravelly, dripping with dominance. your eyes drifted down to the blade against your throat, your heartbeat quickening. “guess i was wrong.” you whispered, finding his gaze again.

“stupid lil’ thing.” he murmured as he began to trace the tip of the blade along your jawline, down your throat and to your exposed collarbone— leaving soft white lines. you tried to stifle a moan but the undeniable tension and daryl’s dominance made this impossible.

and he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

given the fact how pathetically you were rubbing your thighs together to gain just a tiny bit of friction. “you’re such a lil’ slut, doll.” he growled as he let the knife wander down to your tits, his eyes following it closely. “only for you, daddy.” you quietly whimpered, batting your eyelashes at him.

“yeah?” he amusingly huffed out before he captured your lips in a heated kiss— rough and demanding. his free hand gripped your waist to pull you closer as you moaned into the kiss as you felt his hard cock pressing against your lower belly.

he ached for you just as much as you ached for him.

his blade once again nestled on your throat, this time pressing a little harder, knowing it would rile you up even more.

he pushed his tongue past your lips, claiming you as his as he devoured your sweet taste. your tongues fought for dominance but daryl obviously took the lead, not letting you win this battle. the hand that lingered on your waist now grabbed one of your tits, squeezing it harshly. in reply you just pressed yourself harder against him, wordlessly signing him that you longed for more.

you felt him smirk into your kiss and he slowly let his hand glide down your body, stopping at the edge of your jeans. “please, daddy.” you whimpered softly against his lips, staring up at him with the prettiest doe eyes you got.

“what d’ya want?” he teasingly asked, his fingers inching very slowly down your pants. “you, daddy! touch me please.” your plea made his dick twitch in anticipation, he always thought you were so hot when you begged. you impatiently pushed your hips toward his fingers- your cunt was burning for his touch.

“can’t say no now, can i?” he sarcastically retorted as he finally dipped his digits inside your panties. immediately, he began to rub your clit in slow, circular motions, eliciting a relieved sigh from you. again, he trailed his knife down your body before he put it back into its sheath. he expertly opened your jeans one-handed and pushed it with your panties below your ass, giving him more access. daryl almost lost it when he saw your glistening cunt on display.

“you’re fuckin’ drippin’.” he lowly rasped, sliding a finger down to your soaked entrance, wetting the tip of it. “just for you.” you mumbled, tangling your fingers in his hair. “good fuckin’ girl.”

in the blink of an eye he had two of his digits knuckle deep in your pussy, your wetness allowed him to slide in with ease. “ah- fuck!” you mewled, gripping his hair tighter. daryl pressed his lips to yours again as he began to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt in a steady pace, his other hand was back at your tit, groping it feverishly. jolts of pure pleasure crashed through your body as he suddenly curled his fingers and stimulated your sweet spot. “right there.” you squeaked, leaning your head back against the tree.

daryl only took this as a sign and thrusted his fingers faster and rougher inside of you, your walls instantly clamping down on him. he began to lick and suck on your neck, occasionally biting down on your hot flesh. the squelching sounds your pussy made got his dick even harder, needing to be inside of you.

you were a moaning mess, his fingers bringing you closer and closer to your high but then he suddenly pulled them out of you. “wha-“ you began but daryl interrupted you mid-sentence by gripping your waist and turning you around.

“can’t wait any longer.” he mumbled sharply as you heard him fiddling with his belt. with heavy breaths you stared over your shoulder and caught him unzipping his pants. hastily, he pulled down his boxers, making his fully erect cock spring free.

he pumped himself a few times, precum already dripping from the tip, before he stepped closer toward you.

daryl quickly guided his redend tip to your slick entrance, rubbing it up and down teasingly. “ready?” he whispered in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. you frantically nodded your head and when you finally felt him push into you, your world turned upside down.

there was no other feeling, than his cock stretching you painfully open, that could make you feel this euphoric.

with a rough thrust of his hips he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. a loud whimper escaped your throat, followed by strings of sinful moans. daryl’s head arched back at your tight walls wrapping around him so deliciously. “never gonna get tired of your tight lil’ pussy.” he growled, immediately starting off with a fast pace, not giving you any chance to get used to his size.

his hands gripped your hips tightly and he just increased his speed, making sure you could feel every inch of him. you yearned it, desperately trying to meet each thrust. “you’re so big, daddy.” you yelped, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at his bruising thrusts. “ya can take it.” he growled in reply.

the sound of your skin clapping together lingered in the air, only mushing your brains up. daryl pushed your legs apart and made you arch your back painfully, allowing the tip of his cock to brush exactly against that one spot, nestled deep inside of you, that made you go feral. your nails scraped harshly against the tree bark, eyes tightly closed. “you like that, huh?” he asked you breathlessly, “you like my cock stretching you open?” he pistoned into you like a man on a mission.

“yes! i love it!” you purred as he continued to fuck you straight into oblivion. “dirty whore.” daryl growled as he sent a harsh slap to your ass, receiving a high pitched moan from you. to add fuel to your pleasure, he reached around your middle and let his middle finger draw messy circles on your puffy clit. “god, daryl! don’t stop!” you cried out, feeling your orgasm slowly build up.

daryl himself was close to his high, hammering into your tight hole in an animalistic way. your knees began to buckle as he flicked his finger faster- determined to coax an orgasm out of you.

he knew exactly what you liked and how you liked it to get you to your release in an instant.

“gonna cum?” daryl whispered in your ear, kissing the spot just beneath it. “mhm, close.” you managed to let out—his dick was the only thing in you could really think of.

daryl rolled his hips even rougher and quicker than you thought was possible, his cock twitching uncontrollably- always a sign that he was on the verge of cumming. “‘m gonna cum.” he utterly growled through gritted teeth. the only thing that daryl wanted more than anything was to feel you gush all over his cock. “me too!” you whimpered pathetically, knowing that you will cum any second.

“now.” daryl commanded, using a second finger on your clit. “oh my fucking—” a scream tore from your throat, interrupting yourself with another yelp. you were sent straight to heaven as a powerful orgasm took over your whole body.

quick gasps left your mouth as you clutched on the tree in any way you could.

feeling you cum around him and your pussy clamping down on his shaft, daryl’s hips began to stutter as the contraction sent him over the edge with you.

he kept rubbing your now sensitive nub and slammed his hips a few more times against your ass before they sputtered to a stop. reluctantly, he pulled out of your pussy, a sharp hiss falling from your lips.

“was that enough prove?” he mocked you while smacking your ass.

“maybe.” you replied defiantly and pulled your jeans and panties up, still trying to catch your breath.

“you’ll never learn to shut that cheeky mouth of yours.” he stated irritatingly, adjusting his pants as well.

“nope.”

REQUESTS ARE OPENED <3

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diamonddaze01 · 2 months ago

Text

The Somerset Affair Chapter 3: Promises Bathed in Moonlight

pairing: lsk x fem!reader genre: Bridgerton AU, friends to (?????) to eventual lovers, brother’s best friend, SLOWWWW BURNNN chapter wc: 8.8k warnings: alcohol consumption, societal expectations, crying, mentions of a panic attack (not being able to breathe), eventual smut, more to be added a/n: sorry sorry i know ch 3 took forever too lol // as always, ENORMOUS thanks to indi @wongyuseokie for this GORGEOUSSSS banner // and to my lovely betas shu @welcometomyoasis lou @tusswrites haneul @chanranghaeys

summary: maybe you really are well and truly alone.

comment to be tagged when chapters are posted, or join the fic taglist here! series masterlist

The First Year: Summer Age 19

The first season after that fateful night was like a hazy dream. When you returned to the social scene, the whispers followed: why had Lord Lee disappeared from your side, so abruptly and publicly, leaving you to stand alone in the wake of his departure?

You endured it with a forced smile, accepting dances from any man who offered. Seokmin, when you saw him, was always nearby yet achingly out of reach, just beyond the edge of the crowd, his gaze never straying to you. Minghao, perhaps sensing the fraught silence between you, would draw you into conversation whenever he could, his manner protective, his eyes wary.

The estate gardens were nothing short of stunning in the late spring. Bursts of red and yellow tulips stretched toward the sky, their vibrant hues softened only by the ivy draping from the nearby trellis. The whole scene was picturesque, brimming with life and warmth. Yet, to you, it held only shadows, echoes of laughter from a time that now felt far away.

You’d meant to pass by quickly, perhaps even avoid the gardens altogether, but the pull was magnetic, the memories nestled there too insistent to ignore. This had been your sanctuary, your haven of whispered secrets and boundless dreams. You had spent countless summer afternoons here with Seokmin, lying on the grass, watching clouds drift lazily by as he teased you with nonsense riddles and ridiculous tales. He’d always made you laugh—those moments had seemed to stretch endlessly, filled with the certainty that nothing would ever change.

But change it had.

Now, as you stood among the tulips, their bright faces tilted toward the sun, you felt as if you were the only one left in shadow. Each flower seemed to mock you, as if asking why you had come back when he was no longer here to share it with you. You could almost hear his laughter in the rustling leaves, a phantom sound that made your heart ache.

You allowed yourself one indulgent moment of memory, one small surrender to the warmth of the past. In that instant, you could almost feel his presence beside you, could almost hear him sigh as he lay back against the grass and urged you to do the same. Tulip, he’d called you once, likening you to the flowers here—delicate, bright, full of life. His voice drifted through your mind like a warm breeze, and you closed your eyes, feeling the bittersweet pang of loss settle deeper into your chest.

Then, a sudden sound cut through the quiet, and you froze. It was the low murmur of a familiar voice—Seokmin’s voice—wafting toward you from the entrance of the garden. You barely made out the words, some easy greeting exchanged with Minghao as the two approached. The cadence of his voice was softer now, more mature perhaps, but unmistakably his. In an instant, the fragile calm you’d managed to summon evaporated, replaced by a panicked urgency to flee.

You turned on your heel, lifting your skirts as you hurried toward a narrow, shaded path, heart pounding as if you were a trespasser in your own sanctuary. You slipped behind the thick ivy-covered trellis, your fingers clutching the delicate lace of your gloves as you pressed your back against the rough wood. There, hidden from sight, you held your breath, willing your heart to quiet, afraid he might hear it even from a distance.

He paused at the garden’s entrance, his voice carrying lightly on the breeze, mingling with the chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It was a voice you had known too well, one that had once woven a thousand dreams in these very gardens. But now, standing there alone and concealed, all you could feel was the sharp edge of those dreams turned to dust.

You dared not look, dared not even breathe until his voice faded and the crunch of gravel beneath his feet grew distant. Only then did you step out from your hiding place, the scene around you as unchanged and pristine as ever. But it felt different, achingly empty. He was gone, and so, you realized, was something inside you.

Your shoulders slumped as you turned away from the gardens, swallowing against the emotion lodged in your throat. You would not come here again—at least, not alone.

That first year passed slowly, the memory of him shadowing you at every event, every garden, every dance, leaving you both haunted and empty.

The Second Year: Autumn Age 20

As autumn arrived, the weight of that lost season faded slightly, turning to something colder, something sharper. You found yourself no longer seeking him out at every ball. Instead, you steeled yourself, donning an unapproachable mask that suited you better with each passing day. Your brother had chosen to spend the season traveling, claiming that the sea salt of Grecian air was calling him. The absence of his protection meant that you had to sail the rough shores of that season alone – Minghao’s letters were frequent and welcomed, always ready to provide words of assurance from thousands of miles away.

Your second season was to be markedly different—by your design and no one else’s. The naive enthusiasm of your first season had faded, replaced by a wariness that had hardened around you like a shell. Suitors still called upon you, though they were fewer and far between, and the gentlemen of impeccable standing, those your mother deemed suitable, grew distant with each passing event. They would approach with polite intentions, murmuring some pleasantry or another, only to bow and make haste to another part of the room where more receptive young ladies waited.

Yet, for all the polite avoidance and empty conversation, there was Lord Yoon Jeonghan, the Viscount of Hastings. He was different—not at all the cold and detached nobleman that society often produced, nor the vapid fop more concerned with his cufflinks than his conversation. He was witty, charming even, and his remarks would often spark a laugh that you could scarcely suppress. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time you spoke, as if you were unraveling a particularly delightful mystery, and for those brief moments, he made you almost forget.

Almost.

You felt his gaze often, lingering in the spaces between words, and sometimes, if you were honest with yourself, it was almost enough to ease the ache that had taken root in your chest. There was a certain warmth to his presence, a lightheartedness that let you slip free from the burdensome weight of the past. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his interest immediately. She seized upon his attentions with thinly veiled glee, her gaze often flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating. She would arrange you beside him at dinners, leave you in his company at the slightest opportunity, her encouragement subtle yet unmistakable.

Jeonghan would lean in close, his words laced with humor, often turning some mundane observation into something absurdly funny. And for a fleeting second, the laughter would come easily, a balm to the bruised and hidden parts of yourself. You allowed yourself to think, Maybe this could work.

But the quiet, hollow ache lingered, a constant reminder of the ghost you could not quite shake. And that ghost was Seokmin.

Seokmin, who watched from across the room, his gaze burning, perceptive as ever. He was polite, distant even, but his presence was always there, like the flicker of candlelight that neither dimmed nor died. You could feel it most keenly when you danced with other men, swirling across the floor to the strains of violins and cellos. Once, as you stepped onto the ballroom floor with Jeonghan, you felt Seokmin’s gaze settle on you from across the room. The intensity of it was enough to make your skin prickle, and suddenly you were painfully aware of every step, every turn.

The first misstep was subtle—a slight stumble over the Viscount’s foot. But as you met Seokmin’s eyes, his brow lifted ever so slightly, a smirk hovering just on the edge of his mouth. That subtle, amused expression set your pulse racing in a way you would never confess. And in your distracted state, you stumbled again, this time nearly losing your balance. Jeonghan chuckled, mistaking your lapse for some charming display of nervousness, too oblivious to realize the true reason for your faltering steps.

Seokmin’s gaze, however, saw straight through you. His smirk was knowing, almost taunting, as though he could see past every mask, every effort you’d put into your newfound resolve. It was maddening—the way he could still get under your skin, the way he seemed to enjoy watching you unravel, even if only for a second. The lingering effects of that look stayed with you long after the music ended, clinging to you like perfume.

And so, you spent the season caught between two worlds. Lord Yoon, with his charm and his lightheartedness, who could ease the bitterness that lay thick upon your heart if only for a while. And Seokmin, a relentless presence, haunting you from across every ballroom and garden, his gaze a tether you could never quite sever. It was a delicate dance, one you performed night after night, hoping, in vain, that one day you would not feel his eyes on you at all.

The afternoon sun angled low over the estate, bathing the drawing room in a cool October light that poured through the high windows, softening the sharp edges of the day. Minghao had just returned from his travels and had brought back a novel he thought you would enjoy—Jane Eyre, by a Miss Brontë. The air was thick with the quiet thrill of this gift, the promise of evenings spent lost in its pages, and you had just begun to express your excitement when Minghao, with his usual calm, announced that Seokmin had accompanied him.

You schooled your face to remain pleasant, though your pulse quickened at the mention of his name. And indeed, there he stood by the door, his posture polite yet tense, hands clasped behind his back, and eyes dark with some unreadable emotion. He offered a slight bow, his gaze fixed on you even as you looked firmly at your brother.

"Did you know," Minghao began, oblivious to the tension in the room as he handed you the book, "that the author published it under a man’s name? Some say it’s because she thought her work would be dismissed otherwise."

You managed a small smile, allowing yourself the momentary reprieve of this topic. “Thank you, Minghao,” you replied, fingers grazing the embossed cover. “I’ll cherish it. It sounds wonderful.”

Across the room, Seokmin shifted, clearing his throat. "Do you find time to read often these days?" His voice was tentative, a hint of hope or maybe familiarity clinging to the question, as if reaching for a bridge long burned.

Your reply was smooth and immediate, though you kept your gaze firmly on Minghao, as if Seokmin had merely been a ghost in the room. "I make time, yes. It’s quite necessary, given the, ah… limited options for conversation."

A faint hint of color rose to Seokmin’s cheeks, but he quickly smothered whatever response he had been about to make. Minghao glanced between you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pieced together the simmering tension, the edges of a puzzle he hadn’t been around to see formed.

There was a brief pause, heavy as stones, before Seokmin tried again. "Do you still ride out to the southern fields? I remember…" He hesitated, his words trailing off before he finished. “The views from the hilltops there were always lovely in the fall.”

It was a simple question, a nod to a pastime you had once enjoyed, but the memories it evoked—the two of you racing across the meadows, laughing breathlessly under the open sky, sharing quiet moments on that hilltop he spoke of—all felt too sharp, too close. You tightened your grip on the book, the rough binding grounding you in the present.

"Occasionally," you murmured, as if speaking to no one in particular. Your tone was clipped, devoid of warmth, and you let the silence stretch, long enough for the weight of his words to fade. After a beat, you forced yourself to stand, smoothing the fabric of your dress as you prepared to excuse yourself. “Please, if you’ll excuse me.”

Seokmin’s face barely shifted, yet the flicker of disappointment that crossed his features was unmistakable. "Wait, please—" he began, his hand reaching out as if to stop you. “I… wanted to know if you might—”

You looked over at Minghao, not giving Seokmin the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. “Thank you for the book, brother,” you said softly. “I’ll look forward to discussing it with you when I’ve read it.” And with that, you turned, leaving the drawing room before Seokmin could finish his thought.

You could feel his eyes on your back, a silent, unyielding weight as you retreated, but you pushed down the churning emotions in your chest.

Later, your mother found you in the library, a faintly exasperated look in her eye. "What has possessed you to act so sharply towards Lord Lee? He is a friend of your brother’s, and a gentleman. I hardly think it was necessary to snub him quite so… thoroughly."

"I simply wasn’t inclined to entertain him," you replied, not lifting your gaze from the book you had barely managed to focus on since leaving the drawing room. “It was not my intention to be rude, Mother.”

She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “He asked after you very kindly. And if you cannot manage the simple courtesy of conversation, well…” Her sigh was laden with disappointment, tinged with the faintest trace of resignation. “It does make things rather difficult for you, don’t you think?”

You didn’t respond, clamping your lips shut and focusing on the words of Jane Eyre as if they might hold an escape. What could you say? That politeness was a currency you could not afford to spend on him? That every pleasantry only made the knife in your back twist a little deeper?

There was nothing to be done, and so you said nothing at all. The book lay heavy in your lap, unread, as your mother’s gaze lingered a moment longer, her silence more cutting than words.

The Third Year: Winter Age 21

The winter air nipped at every inch of bare skin as you stepped out of the carriage and into the towering, grand hall where that night’s ball was being held. Snow blanketed the world outside, a thick layer that muffled everything it touched, leaving only the crunch of footsteps and the soft murmur of the wind. The frost bit through your gloves, but it was nothing compared to the cold lodged deep within your chest. You drew yourself up and stepped into the hall, a practiced smile on your face as you greeted the hosts and exchanged pleasantries.

Inside, the ball was already in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, weaving an intoxicating tapestry of distraction. You navigated through clusters of guests with practiced ease, inclining your head and making idle conversation that barely skimmed the surface. You had come to know the routines well, slipping into this role as though it were armor: a mask of charm, a shield of grace. It kept you safe, even as it kept others at arm’s length.

But then, just as you were making your way toward a friend by the window, you spotted him—Seokmin, across the room. He was surrounded by a small group of gentlemen, his laughter carrying over the din as he shared some amusing story. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you’d once adored. For a moment, a whisper of memory drifted to you unbidden—those nights by the garden, his laughter mingling with the soft hum of summer crickets, a harmony you’d taken for granted. The sight of him now, seemingly unaffected by the hollow ache that had lodged itself so firmly within you, twisted something in your chest.

As though he could feel your gaze, his eyes turned toward you, catching you unprepared. His laughter faded, and for a moment, the room seemed to still. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of recognition, regret, perhaps. Or something more resigned, an acceptance of the chasm that had grown between you. He made no move toward you; there was only a slight nod, a silent acknowledgement of… something. You couldn’t name it, and you didn’t want to try.

It was his easy return to conversation that undid you. The way he turned back to his companions, laughing once more, as if nothing had changed, as if the years you’d spent trying to bury the echoes of that ball could be erased so simply. The laughter that once filled you with warmth now rang hollow in your ears, a reminder of all that was lost and all that could never be reclaimed.

The walls of the ballroom began to feel oppressive, the cloying warmth of bodies and perfume suffocating. You pressed a gloved hand to your temple, feigning discomfort as you turned to your nearest acquaintance. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” you murmured, a faint tremor in your voice that you hoped was undetectable.

“Oh, my dear, are you all right? You do look rather pale,” she said with concern, her eyes scanning your face. “Perhaps some fresh air?”

“Yes,” you managed, barely holding together the thin fabric of your composure. “Yes, that may be best.”

With a polite smile and promises to catch up at the next event, you drifted toward the doorway, slipping through the crowd as unobtrusively as you could. The cold air in the entry hall was a shock, but you welcomed it, letting it bite into your cheeks and ground you.

Soon enough, you found yourself in your room, finally alone. The silent darkness enveloped you, and for the first time that night, you let yourself drop the mask. You sank into the nearest armchair, clutching the armrests as if they could anchor you. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the window, catching the moonlight like shards of glass. There was no warmth, no comfort in the scene, only the lingering shadows of a memory that refused to fade.

You had no energy to reach for a book, nor did you bother lighting the fireplace. Instead, you sat, letting the silence swell around you, filling the empty spaces that had been left in Seokmin’s wake. Your gaze lingered on the frost etching delicate patterns across the glass, and for a moment, you wondered if he was still at the ball, still laughing, still untouched by the winter that had settled so deep within you.

It felt almost foolish to mourn something you had lost so long ago, but as the hours slipped by, you couldn’t bring yourself to shake the feeling.

The bitterness reached new heights that year. Your relationship with Minghao, however, began to shift. He sensed your resolve, noticed the way you shrank from any mention of Seokmin, and quietly took up the role of your champion. He became your shield at social gatherings, a polite, steadfast presence whenever your mother hinted at your dwindling prospects or a suitor left you standing alone. Your mother’s eyes, ever watchful, lingered upon you with a barely hidden concern, her gaze darting to the eligible gentlemen nearby and then to you with that familiar, expectant look.

“You know,” she began in a low voice, “if you were only a touch more… approachable, it might encourage the young men here to consider you more seriously.”

You forced a small smile, the words heavy and stale from years of repetition. “I’ll do my best, Mama.”

But before she could respond, a familiar voice joined the conversation.

“Ah, I see my sister is charming everyone tonight,” Minghao remarked smoothly as he appeared beside you, offering a short bow to your mother. “May I borrow her for a moment?”

Your mother’s gaze softened—she had never worried over Minghao as she did with you, and his title afforded him some measure of leniency that you could never claim. She nodded, though her expression remained faintly expectant as she watched you both step away.

Minghao led you toward the edge of the ballroom, his arm steady around yours as you wove through the crowd. Once there, he turned to you with a look that spoke of both amusement and concern.

“You looked ready to flee,” he observed, a trace of a smile in his eyes. “Would you like a few minutes’ reprieve?”

You sighed, grateful for his intervention. “I was beginning to feel like a prized cow at market,” you replied, tone dry. “Thank you for sparing me.”

He chuckled softly, but his expression grew more serious as he studied you. “I noticed Mother watching you rather closely. And I know her remarks can be… persistent.”

“Persistent is a kind way of putting it,” you replied, your voice just above a whisper. “She insists that my chances dwindle each season, that—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together to hold back the frustration that threatened to spill over.

Minghao’s gaze softened, and he sighed, reaching out to adjust the lace of your cuff in a gentle, brotherly gesture. “You’ve nothing to prove to her or to anyone else here,” he said quietly. “If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll be here to see you through the night.”

Despite the stifling heat of the ballroom, his presence felt like a breath of fresh air—a lifeline against the unrelenting pressure of society and its expectations.

“And if any gentleman dares to turn his back on you tonight,” he added, his voice adopting a playful lilt, “I shall personally see to it that he regrets it.”

The corners of your mouth lifted into a small, appreciative smile. Minghao’s protectiveness was a comfort you rarely admitted to needing, but tonight, you couldn’t help feeling grateful that he saw past your composed exterior to the worry lingering beneath.

The music shifted to a slower waltz, and he extended his hand with a knowing smile. “Shall we dance, sister? A waltz is far more agreeable than enduring Mother’s lectures, I assure you.”

You accepted his hand, letting him lead you to the center of the room. As you twirled together, the swirling silks and laughter around you faded into the background, leaving only the familiar warmth of his presence.

After a moment, he leaned in, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “And for what it’s worth,” he murmured, “you have no need of any of these foppish gentlemen. They should consider themselves lucky if they could win even a passing glance from you.”

The sincerity in his words soothed you, and for a brief moment, the ballroom was no longer a daunting place, nor its occupants a source of anxiety. Minghao’s quiet strength steadied you, his steadfast support as dependable as the rhythm of the waltz beneath your feet.

Yet, even with Minghao’s silent support, Seokmin’s laughter ringing through the ballroom haunted you, echoing a reminder of what you once had and what you had lost.

Across the room, your gaze flickered to a familiar figure, the Lord Viscount Yoon, the lightness of his presence breaking through your somber thoughts. He had been different—his clever banter had a way of making even the most mundane topics feel lively and engaging. When he spoke, it was as if he was inviting you into an exclusive circle of shared secrets and laughter, making you momentarily forget the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

Even now, he stood amidst a group of gentlemen, engaging in light banter that sent ripples of laughter through the crowd. A flicker of intrigue would alight in his eyes every time he caught your gaze, but he looked away just as quickly, as if your newfound prickly attitude was enough to scare him away.

Over time, your disinterest had made him less willing to approach you. Though he had shown interest the previous year, the glow in his eyes now held a tinge of uncertainty, as if he had begun to doubt whether your heart remained open to him. Your mother, ever vigilant, noticed his hesitance, her gaze flickering between the two of you at gatherings, assessing, calculating.

“Perhaps if I were a bit more approachable,” you murmured to Minghao, who nodded thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward Jeonghan.

“Sometimes, it takes more than just approachability,” he replied quietly. “He is a good man, but the more you withdraw, the more he may think he should step back.”

You let the thought linger in your mind, but it was soon drowned out by the sight of Seokmin across the room, leaning in to laugh politely with another woman, a vision of laughter and ease that made your heart twist painfully. The vibrant atmosphere of the ball blurred around you, filled with the laughter of others while your own heart sank, caught between the past and the possibility of a future—one you feared might never be yours again.

The Fourth Year: Spring Age 22

Spring came late that year, but the blossoms in the garden were the most vibrant you had ever seen. Tulips, bright and full of life, lined the path outside your drawing room window. Their sight brought an unwelcome reminder of Seokmin, as if they were mocking the pain that had dulled over the years but never truly healed.

One fateful morning, Seokmin arrived at the estate again, waiting for Minghao in the drawing room. You entered the room unaware of his presence, intending to retrieve a letter you had left on the table. The shock of finding him there, standing alone, was enough to root you to the spot.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and longing. “How have you been?” he asked, breaking the silence, his tone formal but softened by something more vulnerable.

“I try to stay busy,” you replied, refusing to meet his gaze, your own fixed on the tulips outside the window, as if they alone could fortify your resolve. The way they leaned toward the glass, reaching out, seemed a cruel reminder of what you could never reach. You clung to your indifference, fearing that one look at him would undo you.

“Ah,” he replied, his voice barely a murmur. “I see.”

The silence was unbearable, stretching long and wide between you, filled with all the words you had left unsaid. For the first time, you could sense his unease, as though he, too, felt the weight of everything that had come between you. You imagined he might say more, but instead, he fell silent, unwilling or unable to breach the chasm.

When Minghao finally entered the room, his gaze shifted from Seokmin to you, sensing the tension immediately. He offered a warm, lighthearted greeting that brought some relief, yet you felt exposed, as though Seokmin could still see every last flicker of pain beneath your carefully controlled exterior. Minghao’s easy conversation filled the room, and you seized on it as a lifeline, grateful that the moment had passed.

But as you left the drawing room, something inside you felt irrevocably changed. The wound you thought had healed now ached anew, as raw and fresh as ever.

Age 22

The season has turned again, and as you step into the grand ballroom, you are met with a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds that fill the air with an electric energy. The chandelier overhead sparkles like a constellation of stars, its crystal droplets refracting the warm glow of candlelight that dances across the room. The polished wooden floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the vivid hues of the gowns that swirl around you like petals caught in a gentle breeze.

After five seasons on the market, the whispers of society have cast you in the role of a spinster. No longer the young debutante brimming with promise, you now find yourself almost a chaperone to the eager, wide-eyed debutantes navigating their first seasons. Your newest charge, Sohee, is a whirlwind of youthful exuberance, her bright pink dress adorned with intricate floral appliqués that seem to bloom against her pale skin. The bodice sparkles with tiny beads, catching the light as she twirls, her laughter ringing like bells. You can see the nervous energy in her movements, the way her hands flutter as she points out various gentlemen across the ballroom.

“Oh, look at Lord Lee—what a fine dancer!” she exclaims, her voice bubbling with excitement as she gazes at Seokmin. His deep navy jacket contrasts sharply with the pristine white of his shirt, and the cravat around his neck is tied with an effortless elegance that only enhances his charm. The way he carries himself, relaxed and confident, seems to draw the attention of everyone around him.

You try to mask the bitterness rising within you as you observe him. Seokmin entertains Sohee’s infatuated chatter with polite smiles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. For a fleeting moment, you are grateful that she has captured his attention, but then the weight of your own feelings crashes over you like a cold wave. The ache in your chest deepens as memories flood your mind—long summers spent chasing fireflies, laughter echoing through the fields as he playfully pursued you with a worm on a stick, or the way he would reward your sharp tongue with that unguarded, carefree laughter.

As if drawn by some invisible thread, Seokmin’s gaze suddenly shifts, catching yours from across the room. Your heart leaps into your throat, a jolt of surprise and embarrassment coursing through you. Mortified that he has noticed your lingering stare, you quickly avert your eyes, but the warmth of your cheeks betrays you. You want to disappear into the vibrant crowd, to escape the intensity of your emotions that seem to swell with every passing second. Yet, even as you force yourself to engage with Sohee’s exuberant chatter, you can feel the weight of Seokmin’s gaze resting on you, a silent reminder of everything you’ve lost and the connection you once shared.

It is a cruel twist of fate, standing on the sidelines while young girls like Sohee chase the dreams you once held so dear. You find yourself in this role, a guide for the naive and hopeful, all the while wishing that you could feel that same thrill of possibility. The grand ballroom, alive with laughter and music, feels both enchanting and suffocating, each dance a reminder of the joys that have slipped through your fingers.

As the music swells and couples begin to sway across the polished floor, you catch glimpses of Sohee and Seokmin amidst the swirling gowns and dapper jackets. They move with an innocent delight that contrasts starkly with the weight of your unspoken feelings. Sohee beams up at him, her laughter bright and infectious, and for a moment, the sight softens the edges of your heartache.

Just then, you feel a presence beside you, and when you turn, you find Viscount Yoon Jeonghan standing there, a knowing smile dancing on his lips. His appearance is as striking as ever; his tailored coat hugs his frame perfectly, and the delicate embroidery along the cuffs catches the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow. His hair falls elegantly around his face, framing those sharp features that always seem to hold a hint of mischief.

“They make quite a pair, do they not?” he murmurs, his voice smooth and warm as he gestures subtly toward the young couple. His eyes sparkle with a mix of humor and curiosity, and for a moment, you’re reminded of the lighthearted conversations you once shared, the way he could lift your spirits without even trying.

You glance back at Sohee and Seokmin, your heart twisting at the sight of them. “It seems so,” you reply, your tone nonchalant, though the bitterness seeps through. “She is quite taken with him.”

Jeonghan’s gaze lingers on the two, but then shifts back to you, an amused glimmer in his eyes. “And yet, I believe it’s Seokmin’s charm that keeps her so enchanted. He has a way of making everyone feel special, does he not?” His words are light, but there’s an underlying sincerity that pulls you in.

“Especially the younger ones,” you add, your voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm. You cross your arms, an instinctive barrier against the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Jeonghan tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes you self-conscious.

“Ah, but don’t let that dampen your spirits,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I suspect that there’s still magic left in your own waltz.”

You scoff softly, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I’ve had my dance, my Lord. It’s only right that I help guide the next generation.”

He nods, as if he understands more than you’ve revealed. “But it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a little bit of the spotlight yourself, does it?” His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, an invitation hanging in the air between you.

Taking a deep breath, you accept his invitation with a gentle nod. Jeonghan extends his hand, and with a sense of determination, you place yours in his. The moment you step onto the dance floor, a familiar spark ignites between you. As you move, you find the rhythm of the waltz is an intoxicating escape from the weight of the evening.

His touch is confident yet gentle, guiding you with an ease that sends warmth through your veins. You laugh softly at his playful quips, the way he effortlessly spins you and twirls you beneath the glimmering chandelier. The surrounding laughter and chatter fade into a soft background hum as the two of you lose yourselves in the moment.

But just as you begin to forget the lingering ache in your heart, a commotion draws your attention away. You glance over to find Sohee in an animated conversation with Seokmin, her eyes wide with excitement. She appears to be swooning—her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink as she clutches her fan, fluttering it in the air as if to cool herself.

And then it happens. As the waltz concludes and the music reaches its crescendo, Seokmin leans down to retrieve Sohee's fan, which had slipped from her grasp in her flurry of emotion. The way he effortlessly picks it up and hands it back to her is undeniably charming. She gazes up at him with unrestrained adoration, and in that moment, it’s as if the entire ballroom falls silent, the air thick with their connection.

Your heart sinks, the joyous moment turning into a bitter reminder of your own unfulfilled longing. You feel the weight of your own feelings crashing down, suffocating the lightness of the dance you just shared with Jeonghan. The innocence of Sohee’s crush, her delight at Seokmin’s attention, stabs at something deep within you, twisting the knife of your heartache just a little deeper.

“Lord Lee is such a gentleman,” Sohee breathes, her eyes sparkling with admiration. You try to smile, but the corners of your mouth feel heavy, the happiness you should feel for her overshadowed by the ache in your chest.

“Quite the pair, indeed,” Jeonghan murmurs beside you, his tone shifting slightly. You glance up at him, but the amusement in his eyes has dimmed, replaced with a knowing sympathy that only intensifies your discomfort.

“I should—” you start, desperate to escape the scene unfolding before you, but Jeonghan catches your gaze, his expression serious yet gentle.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, concern lacing his voice.

You swallow hard, nodding even though you can feel the tears threatening to brim. “Yes, of course. It’s just… a reminder of what I’ve lost.”

Jeonghan’s eyes soften, understanding radiating from him. “Then let’s step outside for a moment, shall we? A breath of fresh air might do you good.”

You nod again, grateful for his presence, and together you slip away from the dancing couples, leaving behind the laughter and music, hoping the cool night air will ease the weight on your heart. As you step outside, the crisp night air envelops you like a silken shawl, drawing you away from the swirling gaiety of the ballroom. The coolness is a welcome reprieve from the warmth of bodies and laughter, and you relish the soft caress of the breeze against your skin, bringing with it a gentle rustling of leaves that whispers secrets from the garden. The scent of blooming jasmine and sweet honeysuckle mingles in the air, heady and intoxicating, wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace.

You move to the stone balcony, where the moon hangs low in the sky, its silvery glow spilling over the manicured gardens below, illuminating the delicate petals of the flowers that sway gently in the evening light. The grass is cool beneath your feet, a delightful contrast to the warmth of your silk gown, and you can feel the slight dampness of dew beginning to settle on the earth, a reminder of the approaching night.

Fidgeting with the lace hem of your gown, you feel the fabric whisper against your ankles, the soft silk cool to the touch. Your heart races as you catch sight of Jeonghan stepping out to join you, his tall frame silhouetted against the glow of the moonlight. He regards you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You love him,” he states matter-of-factly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” You turn to him, surprise etched across your features. Your fingers tighten around the delicate lace, twisting it nervously as if it could shield you from his piercing gaze.

“It is nothing to shy away from,” he continues, his tone surprisingly earnest. “I have observed the two of you for years, engaging in this delightful dance around each other. You love him. That is a fact. Do not shy away from it—love is a beautiful thing, even if it is tinged with loss.”

You force a laugh, the sound almost bitter. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“And if I am?” Jeonghan counters, his brow arching slightly, inviting you to delve deeper into the conversation.

“Why, then,” you reply, your heart racing with a mixture of intrigue and dread, “it cannot be that only my secrets are shared tonight.”

“Lady Choi,” he says, the shift in his tone unmistakable, as though he is unearthing a long-buried truth.

“The general’s wife?” you ask, the name escaping your lips with an air of disbelief.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, the lightness of the evening is overshadowed by the weight of his admission. “She was mine first,” he admits, his voice heavy with unspoken emotion. “But her father—he was a cruel man—wished to marry her off before I ever had the chance to court her properly, as adults.”

You draw a sharp breath, the air suddenly feeling thick and heavy around you. “Lord Yoon, it is a sin to desire another man’s wife,” you say softly, your fingers trembling slightly as they continue to play with the delicate fabric of your gown.

“And it is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours,” he replies, a note of melancholy creeping into his voice. “It seems we are both trapped in a most unfortunate dilemma, Miss Xu.”

You hesitate, the truth of his words resonating within you like the toll of a distant bell. You find yourself gazing at the garden below, the moonlight casting long shadows across the path. “I… suppose.”

His expression softens, the tension between you easing slightly as he steps closer, the distance shrinking as if the night conspires to bring you together. “I have an idea, if you are amenable to it,” he proposes, his voice low and conspiratorial.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piquing despite the tumult of your thoughts. “I suppose I have no choice but to hear it.”

“Let us… have an arrangement of sorts.”

Your mind races, the absurdity of the suggestion both ludicrous and strangely enticing. “An… arrangement?” you repeat, incredulous, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“A loveless marriage is better than none at all,” he declares, his eyes glinting with a mixture of seriousness and mischief.

You laugh, unable to contain yourself. “You jest. Have you indulged in more champagne than you can manage?”

“I assure you, I am as clear-headed as the sky on a summer’s day,” he insists, maintaining eye contact with a steady gaze that makes your heart flutter. “We are friends, are we not?”

“Friends? My lord, we have danced a few times, to my mother’s delight,” you reply, a teasing lilt in your voice, though your heart feels heavier with the weight of his words.

He feigns a look of mock hurt, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. “You wound me! We have enjoyed such spirited conversations! I do consider you a friend. And a marriage with a friend—a viscount at that—is nothing to scoff at. Have you given no thought to your future? What happens when your dear brother finds a wife and you are no longer his primary concern?”

The reality of his words settles over you, sending a shiver down your spine. You search the moonlit path, pondering the path that lies ahead. “Just… think about it,” he presses, his voice earnest, the night seemingly holding its breath.

The silence stretches between you, the world around you fading as you consider the proposal. You raise your gaze to his, a flurry of emotions swirling in your heart.

But as the moment hangs in the air, he steps back, creating a chasm of space between you once more. The hope in his eyes flickers like the stars above, illuminating the path of unspoken possibilities.

With a lingering glance, Jeonghan turns to leave, the quiet night reclaiming its stillness. Alone now, you stand beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, a companion that seems to mock your predicament, its light dancing across your skin like a playful breeze. The weight of the evening settles around you, the possibilities of what could have been lingering like a sweet perfume in the air. The garden around you, fragrant and alive, seems to echo your turmoil, the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of crickets a reminder that you are not as alone as you feel—but still, the loneliness wraps around you like a heavy cloak, suffocating and inescapable.

The Queen’s Garden is even more stunning at twilight, an exquisite tapestry of flora bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun. Lanterns hang from the branches of ancient trees, casting a warm glow that mingles with the fading daylight, creating a magical ambiance that enchants every guest present. Lush greenery and blooming flowers adorn the paths, their fragrant scents—jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle—drifting through the air like a sweet serenade.

As you weave your way through the throngs of elegantly dressed nobles, the cool evening breeze brushes against your skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth radiating from the lively crowd. The sounds of laughter and spirited conversation wrap around you, punctuated by the delicate notes of a string quartet nestled among the trees, their melodies intertwining with the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

Amidst the gaiety, you scan the faces around you, searching for Sohee. Her absence hangs like a whisper, pulling at your awareness.

Just then, your gaze lands on Lord Yoon Jeonghan, standing across the garden. His tall frame commands attention, and as you meet his eyes, he offers you a teasing wink, a smirk dancing on his lips. He raises his glass in a casual salute, a playful reminder of the “arrangement” he proposed only weeks prior.

But as you turn to continue your search, you hear a soft rustle behind the curtains of the powder room. A frown creases your brow, and with a sense of trepidation, you pull the curtains aside.

What you find steals the breath from your lungs: Sohee, her dress slightly askew, caught in an intimate embrace with Seokmin, hidden from view. Time seems to freeze as you process the scene before you, the vibrant colors of the garden fading into a blur.

They don’t notice your entrance, the warmth of their laughter drifting toward you, blissfully unaware of the precariousness of their moment. A wave of urgency washes over you; you step back, the laughter and music of the ball dimming behind you, overwhelmed by the tension in the air.

The cool mask of indifference you wear feels like a fragile façade, barely holding up against the storm of emotions roiling within you. Every heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythmic reminder of the tension crackling in the air. You force yourself to breathe slowly, deliberately, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mingling with the sharp tang of night air filling your lungs.

You clear your throat, breaking the stillness that envelops the hidden corner where Sohee and Seokmin stand. Your posture is straight, your chin lifted, but your palms feel clammy against the lace of your gown.

“Sohee,” you say, your voice steady and cool, as though dipped in ice, “you should return to your Mama. If anyone else had seen you like this, it would ruin you.” The words hang in the air, each syllable heavy with consequence. You hold her gaze, your eyes fierce, willing her to understand the gravity of the situation.

Sohee’s eyes widen, vulnerability flickering across her face like candlelight. The flush staining her cheeks deepens as she processes your words, a mixture of mortification and gratitude washing over her. She nods, biting her lip, and you watch as she slips past you, shoulders squared despite the embarrassment, grateful for your discretion.

Once she disappears back into the sea of guests, the atmosphere shifts. It’s just you and Seokmin now, the weight of the moment pressing down like a thick fog, the sounds of the ballroom fading into a dull roar. For the first time in years, you stand alone with him, the years of silence and distance palpable between you.

You turn to leave, the flutter of your gown trailing behind you, but his voice stops you, soft and tentative, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Please, don’t go.”

You whirl around, disbelief etched across your features. “Why on earth? What are you doing here?” Your heart pounds, and your fists clench at your sides, the intensity of the moment clawing at your composure.

He takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking, but the space feels charged with electricity. The use of that name—“tulip”—falls from his lips like a spark igniting a fire inside you. Anger bubbles to the surface, your fingers curling into fists. “You have no right to call me that anymore.”

His expression shifts, desperation creeping into his tone as he opens his palms, a gesture of vulnerability. “It’s been four years, and you still won’t give me the chance to explain myself.”

Your chest tightens at the memories, sharp and unyielding, a storm of emotions swirling within you. “So was it because Minghao told you to?”

His gaze darkens, the flicker of regret visible in his eyes. “Yes, but you need to—”

“Good evening, Seokmin.” The words slip from your mouth like ice, cold and final. You turn to leave, your back straight but your heart racing, and he reaches for you, fingers brushing against your arm like a whisper.

You jerk away, anger and hurt surging through you, the fabric of your dress catching in the air as you turn. “Please, stay,” he begs, his voice thick with emotion, almost desperate. “Stay and let me explain—”

You shake your head slowly, each word heavy with the weight of unspoken history. “You lost the right to that four years ago.” Your voice softens, but the resolve behind it remains, a quiet storm ready to break. In a flurry of lace and silk, you turn on your heel, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick grass as you leave him standing there, a distant silhouette against the vibrant backdrop of the garden.

The night air feels cooler as you weave through the crowd, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You seek solace in the bustling ballroom, where laughter and music swirl around you, a cacophony that drowns out the echo of your heartache. The warmth of the candles flickers against your skin, the soft glow momentarily comforting amidst the chaos.

The crowd shifts around you, a blur of color and laughter, but everything feels muted—distant—as you navigate back toward the main hall. Your heart still pounds, each beat a reminder of the encounter that lingers, bitter as smoke. And then, across the room, a familiar pair of eyes finds yours: Jeonghan. His gaze is intent, assessing, and as he raises his glass to you with an amused smirk, his words from weeks before echo in your mind: “It is a sin to pine after what cannot be yours.”

The decision is instant, unbidden, like the snap of a thread pulled too tight. Steeling yourself, you weave through the crowd toward him, your mind clearing with each step. Jeonghan turns slightly as you approach, his attention shifting from the men he’d been conversing with. You stop just a breath away, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you, even as laughter and chatter fill the air.

“My lord,” you say, voice steady as a blade.

He raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Miss Xu?” His eyes gleam in the low light, the gold of the candle flames reflecting in them. “I must say, you look rather lovely in this garden.”

“Yes.” The word is simple, yet it feels like a vow, a quiet certainty.

His smile falters for just a second, replaced by a glimmer of surprise in his eyes before he quickly recovers. He leans in slightly, his voice softened but no less intent.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice calm but resolute. “I shall marry you.”

Jeonghan’s expression settles into something unreadable, a flicker of surprise replaced by the slightest tilt of a smile. He inclines his head, the elegant motion drawing him closer, as though sealing the moment between you.

“A wise decision, Miss Xu,” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving yours. The sounds of the garden around you blur into silence, the perfume of roses and night-blooming jasmine heavy on the air, and though the world presses on with its merriment, this quiet promise, made in the hush of the queen’s garden, feels irrevocable.

Tagging: @kibs-and-bits@moondustmemories@shinwonderful@ivehypnosis@gwend0lyne@thestoryofana13@mellowamour@blissedjoon@begentlewithme-please @xabsolutelynothingx @reiofsuns2001 @mngyulvrs @mooniewrld @archivistworld @lexyraeworld @ateez-atiny380 @walkinganxiety01 @lovecleastrange @uriguyeok @nenojaems @carefully325 @meowmeowminnie @ts19009 @flickhurstyles

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cheynovak · 6 months ago

Text

The plan

Russell Shaw x F/Reader Y/N

Warnings: Age difference not too explicit.

Words: 1650

*Does not follow Tracker’s storyline *

I finally started writing about Russell, it took me a while, but I hope you like it! Let me know what you think!

-- --

Russell is ready to start his ‘retirement plan’ like he used to call it. He saw an old brewery on one of his jobs and went back to speak to the owner, an old man named Frank.

Frank also owns a bar close to the brewery, his granddaughter Y/N works there as a bartender. Russell liked her immediately, realising he had to overcome two impossible tasks. One, to try and win Frank over to buy the brewery, two win Y/N over to go on a date with him.

Russell had seen it all. His years working as a mercenary for the Horizon Group had taken him to every corner of the globe, exposing him to the darkest sides of humanity. Now he was ready to leave that life behind and find some semblance of peace.

His plan was simple: buy an old brewery on the outskirts of town and live out his days crafting beer, a craft he had fallen in love with during his travels in Belgium. The brewery he had his mind set on, an aged brick building with ivy creeping up its walls, had been owned and operated by Frank Miller for the past forty years.

Frank was well-known in the community for his craftsmanship and the warmth of his pub, which had become a beloved local spot for ex marines. However, convincing Frank to sell was proving to be more challenging than Russell had anticipated.

It was late afternoon when Russell stepped into the pub, the scent of malt and hops mingling with the aged wood of the bar. The place was cozy, filled with the hum of low conversations and the clinking of glasses.

As he approached the bar, he caught sight of a younger woman, her eyes sparkling with life, her movements graceful and assured as she served a group of regulars. She could easily be 10 to 15 years younger than him, a striking contrast to the pub's worn-in charm.

"Can I get you something?" she asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts. Her nametag read Y/N. "Uh, yeah, just a pint of whatever's on tap," Russell replied, trying not to stare. She had a disarming smile, one that made the lines of his past seem a little less heavy.

As she poured his drink, he couldn't help but notice the ease with which she moved, the way she seemed to know exactly how to engage each customer. When she handed him the pint, their fingers brushed slightly, sending a surprising jolt through him. "First time here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she wiped the bar down.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I'm actually looking to buy the place." She laughed, a light sound that made him smile. "Good luck with that. My grandfather's pretty attached to this old place." "Your grandfather?" Russell echoed, a sinking feeling in his chest. "Yep. Frank Miller," she confirmed. "I'm Y/N." Russell took a long sip of his beer, trying to gather his thoughts. "So, you work here often?"

"Pretty much every day. I've been helping out since I was a kid," she said, leaning on the bar. "So, why does a guy like you want to buy an old brewery?" He glanced around the pub, then back at her. "I've spent my life in a pretty rough business. This place... it feels like the kind of peace I've been searching for."

Y/N studied him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. "Well, you're going to have a hard time convincing my grandpa. He loves this place more than anything." Russell nodded, appreciating her honesty. "I'll keep that in mind."

Days turned into weeks, and Russell found himself visiting the pub more frequently, ostensibly to discuss the sale with Frank, but in truth, he was drawn to Y/N. They began to talk more, sharing stories over the bar, finding common ground in unexpected places.

Despite their age difference, there was an undeniable connection between them. One evening, after closing time, Y/N found Russell sitting at the bar, nursing his usual pint. "You really don't give up, do you?" she teased, sliding into the stool next to him. He chuckled. "It's not just about the brewery anymore."

She tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said quietly, meeting her gaze with a flirty look. Her smile faltered for a moment, replaced by a look of surprise and then something else, something deeper. "Russell, I..."

Before she could finish, the door creaked open, and Frank walked through, his presence instantly commanding the room. His eyes, sharp despite his age, zeroed in on Russell. "Look, buddy, I don't know how many times I need to let you down, but I'm not selling." Russell raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just here for a beer, Frank."

Frank's gaze softened slightly but didn't lose its edge. "Y/N, you need to look out for this man. He's ex-army. You never know what kind of trouble that can bring." Y/N laughed, a sound that lightened the tension. "So are you, Grandpa."

He grumbled something under his breath, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He turned back to Russell, his eyes assessing. "So, you're here for the beer, huh?" Russell nodded. "And the company."

Frank looked between Russell and Y/N, and Russell could see the wheels turning in the old man's head. Finally, Frank sighed. "Alright, just keep away from my granddaughter." Y/N grinned, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she refilled Russell's pint. "You heard the man." She winked at Russell.

As the evening wore on, the pub emptied until it was just the three of them. Russell found himself opening up in a way he hadn't expected, sharing stories Frank, in turn, told tales of his own army days, and Y/N listened with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with her own memories of growing up around the brewery.

It was late when Frank finally stood up, stretching his back. "Alright, time for this old man to hit the sack. Y/N, lock up when you're done." Y/N nodded, watching her grandfather leave before turning back to Russell. "He's a tough nut to crack, but he likes you."

Russell raised an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me." She laughed softly. "He sees a bit of himself in you, I think." Russell looked down at his drink, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Y/N, about what I said earlier..."

Y/N interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. "Listen, Russell, you're a nice guy, and I get it. I'm a younger woman who's been friendly and serving you with a smile, but that doesn't mean there's anything going on here, okay?"

Russell laughed, the sound echoing softly in the nearly empty pub. "That's one way to break a man's heart." Y/N knew he was joking, but she couldn't help but smile. "I know a lot of men, and one thing I can tell you, you don't strike me as the kind of guy who gets his heart broken by a woman."

He chuckled, appreciating her candour. "You might be right about that, or maybe I haven’t found the right one yet." He leaned in closer.

She tapped his hand on the bar, signalling the end of their conversation. "Now, pay up so I can close up." Russell reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash, placing it on the bar. "Keep the change." Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Big spender tonight."

"Just trying to stay in your good graces, might need it to win Frank over." he said with a grin. She shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "Good night, Russell."

"Good night, Y/N," he replied, standing up and giving her one last look before heading for the door.

The next day, he found himself back at the brewery, ready to face whatever came next with a renewed determination. Whether it was winning over Frank or getting to know Y/N better, he felt ready. But when he arrived, something was off. The brewery was closed, and a couple of police cars were parked out front.

Russell’s heart sank as he spotted Frank talking to the police. He quickened his pace and approached the small group. “Frank, what’s going on?” he asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. Frank turned to him, his face lined with worry and suspicion.

“There was a robbery last night,” he said, his voice gruff. “And Y/N’s been missing ever since.” Russell felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. “Missing? What do you mean, missing?” Frank’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer to Russell.

“She closed up last night, didn’t she? You were the last one here. Now she’s gone, and you show up again this morning?” Russell raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Frank, I swear, I left shortly after you. I haven’t seen her. You have to believe me.”

One of the officers stepped forward. “Mr. Shaw, is it? We’ll need to ask you a few questions. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Y/L/N?” Russell recounted the previous evening, explaining how he’d paid his tab and left shortly after Frank had gone to bed. “I went straight back to the motel and didn’t see or hear anything after that.”

The officer nodded, taking notes. “We’ll need to verify your alibi. In the meantime, if you think of anything, please let us know.” Russell nodded, feeling a mix of helplessness and frustration.

As the police continued their investigation, he turned back to Frank. “I want to help find her.” Frank’s gaze softened slightly, but the suspicion lingered. Russell pulled out his phone. "I might know a guy who can help us." He said with his phone to his ear. He turned away from Frank.

"Colter?... I need your help."

Please like, share or comment when you liked the story. If you liked this, please check out my masterlist for other stories.

Tag list:-> If you want to be added let me know what you like to read! If anyone feels like you're tagged too much, also let me know please. :)

@suckitands33

@mostlymarvelgirl

@globetrotter28

@jackles010378

@hobby27

@call-me-mrs-winchester

@cevansbaby-dove

#jensen ackles #fanfic #x reader #jensen fucking ackles #russell shaw fanfiction #russell shaw #tracker #tracker 1x12 #colter shaw #off the books #light angst #jensenedit

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rachalixie · 2 years ago

Text

what i’m looking for

you, quite literally, run into kim seungmin on your escape from an arranged marriage.

tags: strangers to lovers, hidden identity, she/her!reader

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort

word count: 3.4k

you never thought you would be in a situation like this, running through the woods in poorly fitting clothes and shoes, branches snagging at your hair and arms as you wind your way through the forest searching for something, anything. and yet, here you are. cursed engagement ring hidden away in your satchel along with a pocket of gold coins and whatever stale pieces of food your handmaid was able to steal for you before you took your leave.

you’re surprised it took you until a week before your wedding to run away, but you were never one to back down from a challenge; you tried everything you could think of to call it off, but your parents wouldn’t budge. something about it being the best decision for the kingdom, or whatever - nevermind what you want. nevermind that your brother would become king and therefore you were simply a bargaining chip to be used for political power. nevermind the reputation of your betrothed, the reputation of his kingdom and how they treat women like you. nevermind that they’re sending you into a life of despair and discomfort.

the cool dusk breeze beating against your face feels almost euphoric as you sprint, cautiously looking behind you to make sure you’re not being followed. surely someone had noticed your departure? but you made sure to cover your tracks well; the boots you’re wearing are several sizes too big, stuffed with cloth to ease the fit, and any tracker would dismiss them on their hunt for you.

you’re abruptly sent down to the forest floor when a boy appears almost out of nowhere, tripping you and making you lose your footing. he tumbles down with you, taking the brunt of your fall, and annoyance pings within you when he groans at the impact. you’re scrambling off his lap as fast as you can, hands scrabbling at dried leaves on the ground that stick to your palms.

“where did you come from?” you demand, watching him stand up with an indignant look on his face. his pouty lips are twisted into a frown and his hair is fluffed up from his fall. in any other situation you might think he was cute. “do you not watch where you’re going?”

“oh sorry, i’m not really used to people running through my property,” he says with a roll of his eyes, and a reprimand that you have to tamp down sits at the tip of your tongue. for all he knows, you’re a commoner; announcing that he should be aware of your royal status and that technically, you own this property probably isn’t the best move. he would turn you in faster than you can speak your own name, collecting whatever reward your father most likely posted in return for your safe delivery back to the palace.

“your property?” you land on, feeling it a safe question. you look past his head and notice a tiny cottage a few yards away, ivy lining the bricks and a soft puff of smoke escaping from the chimney.

“yes,” he drawls out, as if talking to a child. “the place where i reside. you know, sleep and eat. surely you know what that is?”

“of course i do,” you huff, crossing your arms. did you look homeless to him, or something? a terrible idea sparks in the back of your mind as he looks away from you and you notice the rapidly setting sun. it hits you that you had no plan, nowhere to go, nothing to eat and no shelter for the night.

“anyways. enjoy the rest of your. jog?” he says, voice lilting up at the end like he’s not sure whether or not to be suspicious of you. he turns to walk away and a flash of panic takes over your body.

“wait!” you lunge to grip at his sleeve, a display of impropriety that you usually wouldn’t let yourself indulge in with anyone other than your closest advisors. the material feels rough under your skin, as do the borrowed clothes hanging off of your shoulders. “do you have an extra room? or a mat on the floor? i can pay you, i just need somewhere to stay.”

“what, are you on the run or something?” a spark lights in his eyes, and your hair stands on end when you realize that he’s amused. as if he knows anything about you.

“or something,” you grit out, knowing that whatever sarcastic comment that you want to make probably won’t end up with him agreeing to let you in. despite his inarguably annoying personality, he has a house, and you need him right now. you can’t imagine that you’ll run into anyone else tonight, and sleeping on the forest floor does not seem safe.

“how much?” he says, quirking an eyebrow up. you mentally cringe at the amount of money you have hidden away in your bag,

“enough,” you squint your eyes at him, gauging him. he meets your gaze for an impressive amount of time before nodding his head towards the small building and starting his trek.

“what’s your name?” you ask, following behind him, knowing but not caring that not offering yours first was rude. he looks back at you for a beat of time before shrugging.

“kim seungmin. and you?”

you give him your name, grateful to your parents for the first time in a while. they kept your true name hidden from anyone outside of the palace, and their secrecy was annoying until this very moment. it would be nice to be called something other than princess for a while, you’re sure.

he mouths your name, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before grinning.

“well then, welcome to my home. i’ll make up a cot for you in the living room, are you hungry?” he rambles as he lets you in, closing and locking the door behind you. the skeptic sarcastic you met outside seems to melt away to reveal slumped shoulders and tired eyes, unmasked by the comfort of his space. it warms you up along with the shelter of a roof, a reprieve from the biting cold of the outside.

he doesn’t wait for your answer before walking off, leaving you to stand between the small kitchen and cozy looking living room. there’s small trinkets strewn around, soft mismatched couches with worn blankets and a rickety looking kitchen table surrounded by stools. he returns with a thin padded mattress and a pillow and he sets it down by the burning fireplace. it’s not the luxurious four post bed that you’re used to, but it’ll do.

“let me treat that for you,” he gestures at your knees, where small dots of blood seep through a tear in your trousers. there’s a small scrape you didn’t notice until now, the sting making itself known when you bend your leg just a bit to get a better look.

“it’s just a scratch,” you protest, not wanting to bite off more than you can chew with him. you already owe him for letting you in, you don’t want to think about how fast your reserves will dwindle down if he does you any more favors.

“please, i insist,” he guides you to sit on one of the stools at the kitchen table before reaching into the cabinet next to him. “i’m an apothecary, and i know my way around basic medicine. it’s not a big deal.”

you nod stiffly and let him inspect the small wound, the breath leaving you when he drops to his knees in front of you to get a better look. he rolls up your pant leg and he cleans it with rapt attention, making sure not to press too hard, and applies a greenish looking salve onto it.

“there, all done,” he says, patting the bandage he had wrapped around it before letting the cloth of your trousers back down.

“thank you,” you say, genuine in the way his returning smile is. you reach into your bag, fishing for the small bag of coins. “how much? i can pay you in advance for letting me stay, and for this.”

“keep it,” he says, voice even softer than it was before. “you can help me around the house. the weeding, or gathering wood for the fire. i don’t want your money, not when you probably need it more than i do. i make enough to get by.”

so you do. the first morning you stumble through the garden, side by side with him as he shows you which plants in his garden were herbs he could use for his medicines and which were leeching weeds that needed to be plucked before they took over the entire space. he disappears to town in the afternoon, delivering medicines and coming back with a pocket jingling with coins and a bag full of fresh pastries for the both of you. they taste better than anything you’ve eaten from the palace cooks, and you can’t help the way you moan around the cherry hand pie. you catch his eye and he meets it before you both dissolve into giggles, leaning into each other’s space on the same side of the table.

he helps you wash your clothes that night, tutting at how you only have one pair. he lends you a pair of his, an old set that he doesn’t wear anymore. you lay at night and swipe the fabric between your fingers, smiling at the gesture even though he isn’t there to receive it.

his kindness shocks you, you’re not used to people doing things for you without the authority of the crown making them or them demanding something in return. it’s nice, knowing that there’s people in your kingdom that contain such compassion, especially for strangers.

the next day he takes you deeper into the forest to pick berries, and the red and purple bursted splotches staining your fingertips for hours after. he feeds you some with his bare hand, swiping his thumb against the corner of your mouth when sweet juice escapes it. you bristle at the action and he laughs, and you have to hide your smile in your sleeve as you wipe the rest off yourself. you stay out until the sun begins to set, him busy teaching you about every type of plant the two of you come across on your stroll and you listening with rapt attention. his voice is soothing, words speeding up and slurring together a bit when he finds something particularly interesting that he wants to show you. he makes you feel almost like when you were a child studying with your tutors, quizzing you every now and then to test your retention, but the smile he rewards you with is better than anything they ever gave you.

on the third day, he’s gone before you wake. he left a note on the table for you stating that he had to go to town for a medical emergency, and that there was bread and cheese in one of the cupboards for you to eat while he was away. you busy yourself with two knitting needles and a ball of thread you find in the living room, trying and failing to create a pattern of knots. he comes home as the sun is setting, the last rays making his hair a honeyed brown and his skin glow. your stomach clenches at the sight of him, the relief you’re feeling foreign to your body.

he grins at the sight of you surrounded by unraveled strings and gently pries your hands from the needles where they had become clenched. he wordlessly shows you how to create simple weaves with the needles, and you have to ask him to show you twice because you’re too busy staring at his tongue poking from his lips to focus the first time around. you end up with a wobbly looking hat, some knots too bit and some too tight that create gaping holes in weird places, but he places it on his head and thanks you for it anyways.

“you have a lot of secrets,” he muses the next night, sipping tea with you by the fireplace. you almost lose your grip on the mug from his abruptness.

“i do?” you ask, not willing to give away information that he doesn’t already have. you had spent the day in companionship, trading back quips and sarcastic comments between meals. he taught you about the medicines he was making that day, explaining each ingredient and its properties as he cut them up and beat them into a paste. his comment was out of place, but it’s something you’ve come to expect from him; there’s no predictability to him past the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles and the way his face goes soft when he looks at you.

“you pretend you’re a commoner, but your hands are free of callouses. your hair is full and healthy, you speak formally, you’re clearly well off. or at least, you were. what i don’t understand is why you decided to leave that behind.” his bottom lip is twisting between his teeth, not knowing whether he’s crossed a line with you.

“true,” you admit, wrapping your hands further around your tea and letting the warmth seep into your hands. it grounds you. “i didn’t think i had a choice. i wanted to make my own decisions, wanted to decide my own fate, not have someone do it for me. i felt suffocated, so i just. left. i don’t know what i was looking for, but i needed to get out.”

“have you found it?” he says, peering at you from above his mug as he takes a long sip. “what you’re looking for?”

“maybe,” you pause, looking into his eyes. they’re cocoa-dusted brown, the fire dancing across his pupils. he looks away after a moment, and you’re grateful for it. you wouldn’t want him to see the flush thats traveled up to your cheeks and ears.

by the fifth day, you’re able to identify the uncomfortable feeling in your gut whenever he walks into a room. or looks at you. or breathes, really.

you’re falling for him.

you’re not in love with him, you’re not so deluded by his puppy-like charm and stupid smile and cute teeth and sparkly eyes that you’re calling it love. you can simply identify the feeling of free falling as clearly as it was laid out in the novels you used to sneak into your room to read by the candlelight before bed.

it isn’t as difficult to look him in the eyes after you’ve identified it as you thought it would be. if anything, you’re even more drawn to his magnetism, your body moving towards his without your permission at any given time. while he’s preparing lunch, or chopping herbs, or telling you about his trip to town, you’re in his space. and the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to mind. in fact, he seems to gravitate towards you with the same intensity, or you hope so at least; it isn’t unrealistic that it’s your rose-colored vision making you see things that aren’t there.

regardless, it brings something more dangerous to your attention: hope. the hope that maybe, this could be a life for you. that this temporary stop in your journey might become permanent. that you’re far enough from your home that no one will recognize you if you step into town, that you could spend the rest of your days with him in this cottage, eating pastries and knitting and picking berries.

there was no need to tell him that now. you were fine with the way things were, you were still technically engaged, and you didn’t even know if you were ready for something like that. for the infinite time since you can remember, you’re cursing your sheltered upbringing for not teaching you how to live.

it’s on the sixth day that things go crumbling down.

he’s gone again, leaving you in comfortable silence broken up by birds chirping outside and the sound of leaves rustling past the windows. it’s domestic, the way he works during the morning and comes home a few hours later to you twiddling the knitting needles between your hands, a ball of yarn by your feet and a haphazard scarf forming under them.

“your highness?” he says, and you hear a rustle of paper, him putting his mail down most likely.

“hmm?” you sound absentmindedly, still focused on the knitting you’re trying to painstakingly learn. it hits you a moment later what he said, and you drop the scarf and needles with a gasp. you look up to see your worst nightmare in the form of him holding up a missing persons poster, a drawn image of your face adorning the middle and your name plastered underneath. missing princess, it reads, complete with a reward for your safe return. you knew this would happen, you just didn’t think it would happen so soon. a day before your wedding. you thought you had more time. you were so close to your freedom, and you could feel it slipping through your fingers.

“shit,” you curse, hiding your face in your hands so you don’t have to take in the shocked look on his face. you feel all the blood in your head rushing south, leaving you lightheaded and overwhelmed.

“you’re the princess?” he clearly has no care for your distress in this moment as he stalks towards you, the poster crumpling in his hand when it curls into a fist. “i’ve been harboring the missing princess in my home?”

“yes?” you mumble into your fingers, letting the despair settle in your traitorous stomach. he lets out a sharp breath through his teeth and you flinch, thoughts swirling.

“do you know what would happen to me if anyone finds out i’ve been keeping you here? prison would be a paradise.” you hear his feet bringing him closer to you, each drop synchronizing with your heart beating in your throat.

“please,” you remove your hands, sniffling when a traitorous tear traces down your face. “don’t send me back. i’ll give you all the money i have, just don’t send me back there.”

“hey,” he soothes, anger melting into concern as he folds to his knees in front of you. “i won’t. i wouldn’t. i just- why didn’t you tell me?”

“i didn’t know if i could trust you, at first,” you stutter out, ignoring the way your heart clenches when his face falls. “and after…there wasn’t a good time.”

“why would you give all that up? a life of luxury, never needing to ask for anything, why would you leave that to spend your days here? don’t you want to marry some prince and live in your castle?”

“i don’t want some prince. i want you,” your voice is wobbly, vision clouded by the tears you won’t let fall, but your intention is clear.

“you can’t just-” he cuts himself off, taking in a sharp breath through his nose. “you can’t want me. i’m nobody.”

“you’re not,” you press, standing until you’re level with him. “don’t you understand? it’s you. you were what i was looking for all this time.”

“but,” he protests, running a hand through his hair, mussing it up from its careful placement. “why me?”

“you’re my home, seungmin. i’ve never felt more safe or more comfortable than i have within these walls.” desperate tears continue to sting at your eyes, and he reaches to wipe them away before he can help himself. your palms move to cup his hands to your face, keeping his warmth there. “you’re the only one who sees me as more than just something they can use, you see me. please don’t send me away.”

“would you be happy here?” he asks, voice trembling. he wants you to stay.

“i’ve been happier these past six days than i’ve been my entire life.”

he surges to kiss you, finally letting your lips touch after days of lingering glances, and it feels like coming home.

you didn’t know if you would go back to the palace, but you knew you had responsibilities that you couldn’t just ignore and that you had to deal with them soon. what you were completely sure of was that, despite the wishes of your family, you won’t marry at all if you aren’t marrying him.

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #skz fanfic #kim seungmin imagines #seungmin fluff #seungmin x y/n #stray kids x y/n #stray kids drabbles #stray kids fic #seungmin x reader

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syoish-aot · 2 months ago

Text

"I Found You (too)" - EREN/READER - REINCARNATION AU (chapter 5)

eren/reader

Rating: M

2020s reincarnation of marleyan nurse reader & undercover eren

3.5k words

also on Ao3

<- chapter 4 | chapter 6 ->

*A Warm Living Room*

“Mr. Kruger?”

“Um- …yeah.”

You scowled.

Mr. Kruger looked over at you. “What?” he asked.

“Why do you do that?”

“Why do I do what?”

“Get uncomfortable when I say your name,” you pointed out.

“It’s-” his cheeks flushed pink. You weren’t used to them doing that.

In the real world they didn’t, in the real world Mr. Kruger looked at you with his expression blank, his face pale, a bandage wrapped around his head and obstructing part of the view.

But here, in this world you had found yourself trapped in, things were different.

Mr. Kruger was different.

And he looked at you with his face flushed a healthy pink as a million golden stars danced across the blues and greens of his eyes.

“Is it because that’s not your name here?” you asked when he still hadn't finished his sentence. “I can call you by your other name, if you want.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the couch next to you and you couldn’t help but want to tease him, just a bit. He was so easy to tease here and it was fun. So you leaned closer.

He froze as your hand rested against his arm. As your chest brushed his shoulder. As your lips tickled the shell of his ear when you whispered:

“Eren.”

His cheeks burned an even deeper red. It made you think about the differences between this place and reality.

Everything was so much quieter here. The city was loud, of course, but there was a peace to it. A peace that you knew you would never find in the real world. In Liberio.

The food here was better. With more flavor and more of it in general, because nothing was rationed.

There was no war. No pain. No suffering. And no red spray paint against brick walls.

And then there was Mr. Kruger.

Eren.

He looked the same (although he has both eyes and legs). With the same brown hair (although here it was cut shorter and not hanging down) and the same facial features (although his skin was less rough, with fewer scars and no tired bags under his eyes). He was the same height. Basic build. And had the same blue-green eyes that revealed golden flecks of stars when the light hit them just right. But…

But Mr. Kruger smiled here. He smiled and he laughed and he played with his cats while he told you about his friends.

He was alive in Liberio in the sense that he was breathing, eating, moving around and going through the motions of existence. But here, in this beautiful vivid peaceful place, here Mr. Kruger was able to live.

And there was a difference, you supposed. A difference between living and being alive.

Maybe that was what made them different people, despite all of their similarities.

Mr. Kruger was living.

But Eren was alive.

There was something depressingly poetic about the whole thing, though you didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it right now.

“Mr. Kruger,” you said and he visibly relaxed at the familiarity of it. You followed it up with: “I’m hungry.”

Mr. Kruger shot off the couch and darted into the kitchen without another word.

You smiled to yourself as you watched it, reminded of another difference between this beautiful peaceful world and reality.

He might look like him, sort of, but at the end of the day Eren wasn’t Mr. Kruger at all.

Mr. Kruger had no idea how to cook.

*???*

There’s a small living space.

Some people might hear that and immediately imagine a cottage. A cottage with vines of ivy growing up the red brick walls. A creek running alongside it. Wildflowers and baby bunnies and birds singing every morning with a beautiful melody that echoes through the woods around it; but that’s not what you mean at all. It’s not a cottage. It’s… It’s not even a house. And there certainly aren’t any woods.

It’s a small living space.

A small living space right in the heart of a bustling city.

You like the city. The chaotic business. The fact that you could step outside at any moment and be surrounded by people. Sure, it was a little dirty. Yeah, there was always noise outside your window. But you like that.

The loudness- the dirtiness- the people. It's life.

And that’s why you like it.

It’s a city.

And it’s alive.

So no, contrary to popular belief, it’s not a small cottage in the middle of the woods. Actually, you’d hate to live in a small cottage in the middle of the woods.

There would be too many bugs.

Despite the hustle and bustle outside, the inside of the warm-living-space-in-the-middle-of-the-city is cozy.

The furniture is crammed together because there’s only one bedroom which doesn’t leave enough space for all of your things. You’ve had to forgo a dining room table to make space for a (slightly scratchy but nevertheless comfy) couch.

There are a lot of plants.

Some of them are dying because even though you try your best to keep them alive, at the end of the day you’ll always have a black thumb. But that’s okay. The ones that die get replaced with new ones and if those die they’re replaced again. The cycle continues until you eventually find a plant that’s hardy enough to constantly flip back and forth between living in a desert and being drowned.

There are four cats asleep on the-

“Four?” Mr. Kruger interrupted with a short, breathy laugh.

“I-” Your cheeks burned out of embarrassment, illuminated by the glow of the setting sun that seeped through the hospital window. “Yes,” you answered firmly, “four.”

“That’s a lot of cats.”

“Well, I-... I like cats.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” you scowled. “They’re cute. And they’re not messy like other pets so that’s why I want four.”

Mr. Kruger let out another short huff of amusement as the corners of his lips tugged into a soft smile. You were transfixed for a moment before he broke you out of your trance when he leaned against the wall behind him. You did the same.

You looked out at his hospital room, your legs spread across his bed.

You knew you shouldn’t have been sitting there.

It was too close but-

But you also knew that no one was going to be checking on Mr. Kruger again until morning since you were the one that was locking up.

No one would come in, so you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

“What are the cats doing then?” Mr. Kruger asked as his eyes slid closed.

It was the second question Mr. Kruger had asked you. The first one being:

‘Where do you?’

It's how he'd answered, just minutes ago, when you had asked him about the place he wandered off to when he looked at the horizon.

‘Where do you?’

So you'd told him. You'd told him all about it.

“Um…” Your back pressed against the wall behind you as you continued to stare out into the bleak hospital room. “There’s… There’s a little one that’s playing.”

“Hm…”

You begin imagining out loud again: “She’s bouncing back and forth in front of one of the others, but he’s old so he paws her to leave him alone.”

“Does it work?”

“No,” you smiled. “She’s a bit of a brat.”

You kept going. You described everything in vivid detail. From the colour of the curtains to the age of the old rug on the floor and the story of how you got it, second hand, from an old man who claimed it was cursed.

You told him every single minuscule detail about the place you’d created in your head.

The nice place.

The place you escape to, constantly, because escaping to somewhere nice like there was so much better than living somewhere terrible like here.

You’d never told anyone about this place. This nice place.

Not your friends, not your parents, not Myra. No one.

But you told Mr. Kruger. For some reason, it was so easy to tell Mr. Kruger.

You supposed it was because he got it. He understood what it was like to slip away to somewhere else. To get stuck in his head with wonderful thoughts of somewhere better.

You still didn’t know about the place he went, but you hoped one day, maybe, he’d tell you about it.

That he’d tell you every minuscule detail about his somewhere nice that he saw when he looked out his window and beyond the horizon.

“When I fall asleep at night the city is quiet,” you concluded as your eyes fluttered open. “But I guess that’s a little unrealistic to expect from a busy ci-”

You cut yourself off.

Mr. Kruger's eyes were still closed, just like they had been earlier.

But from the steady rising and falling of his chest. From the way his breaths slipped in and out of his parted lips. From the way the tension on his face was completely gone- you knew he was asleep.

Mr. Kruger didn’t normally emote much, but when he was sleeping his expression was different.

When he was awake, it was neutral.

When he was asleep he was-

…when he was asleep he was at peace.

Maybe it was because he was there. In that place beyond the horizon. The place he went off to that was warm.

His hand rested against the bed next to yours. There were a few inches of space between the two of you and the realization of this space left you feeling warm.

Like Mr. Kruger often did.

Warm.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you slid your hand across the sheets.

You stopped just before you could touch him. With your fingers only a hair’s width away, you could feel the heat radiating off the back of his hand. You were so close, but still not touching.

You wished you could though.

You wished you could touch him.

But you couldn't. Not here, anyway. Never here.

Rope. Flesh. Eldian Lover. Eldian Lover. Eldian Lover.

Not here.

But-

A warm living space in the heart of a bustling city. Life in the streets below. Warm food. Soft bed. Scratchy couch.

There.

There was where it could happen.

Tucked away in your mind where no one else would ever be able to find it. It was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Somewhere safe.

Somewhere nice.

You imagined what it would feel like to hold his hand. To cross the forbidden space between the two of you and curl your fingers against his.

You could feel it. His calloused fingers, chipped nails, the scars against his palms.

It wasn’t happening, but you could still feel it.

As you imagined it, as you felt it, his hands became soft…

The hospital bed below you faded into that scratchy couch and the empty white walls that surround you were now covered in framed photographs of the two of you. A three legged cat hopped onto your lap, purring loudly as it made itself comfortable.

You didn’t need to reach out to touch him.

Your fingers twitched against the hospital sheets.

But you didn’t need to reach out to hold Mr. Kruger’s hand…

…because somewhere nice

you’d already done it.

*3 days later*

“I made you a cake, obviously,” you answered Mr. Kruger as you began to rebandage his head.

“What kind of cake?” he asked.

“Hmm… strawberry.”

He grimaced.

“Chocolate?”

He shrugged.

You stopped bandaging. “You like vanilla?”

“I don’t like flavors that are too strong.”

You scoffed.

“Hey,” he protested, “it’s my birthday.”

You smiled as you continued to bandage his head. “Alright fine, I made vanilla then,” you said as you expertly wrap and tuck the bandages, continuing to ramble about the made-up birthday party you would throw him in your head. Describing it in vivid detail, as if it was real.

As if it was in front of you instead of the place in your head.

You imagine Mr. Kruger’s hand brushing against the back of yours as you hand him a slice of cake.

But you didn't tell Mr. Kruger about that.

***

*2 days later*

“I would wear… a blue dress. Oh! And one of those big floppy hats to keep the sun out of my face!”

You were helping him cross the courtyard. He was sore from an intense session of physical therapy with Dr. Rall and needed more than just his crutch to get around.

Mr. Kruger grunted as you lowered him to his favourite bench where he said he was meeting a friend.

“Do you sunburn easily?” he asked.

“Yes,” you answered, “all the time.”

He let out a short huff of amusement as his eyes trailed your face. “I bet you skip tan and go right to red.”

Your cheeks burned as he said it.

In your head, you were potting hanging baskets of pretty red flowers on the balcony. In your head, it was more than just his eyes that trailed your cheeks. In your head, his fingers brushed against them too.

Again, you didn’t tell Mr. Kruger about that.

***

*1 week later*

“Chamomile.” Mr. Kruger said softly as you handed him his paper cup and his three pills. You had already slipped the green one into your pocket.

You blinked away the tears that had started to well up in your eyes.

“That’s the kind of tea I’d bring you.” Mr. Kruger said. “It’s relaxing.”

You always got this way on the anniversary of his death. You weren’t supposed to be sad though. Your brother had been a traitor, so you were supposed to be happy he was dead.

But you weren’t.

You took in a shaky breath. “Would you… Would you sit with me while I drink it?”

“Yes.” Mr. Kruger took his medicine.

You imagined the couch. The tea.

You imagine letting your head fall to his shoulder and your eyes slipping closed as Mr. Kruger described the chipped cup he’d hand you, and the cat that would be asleep in your lap.

Once you were finished with your tea, he’d take the empty cup from you. He’d place it on the table and then wrap his arms around you so you could tuck yourself against his chest. He would rub your back as you cried. As he let you cry.

When you were done, he’d kiss the top of your head while you drifted off to sleep.

Like usual, you don’t tell Mr. Kruger about the end.

***

*At some point later*

The house grew more vivid. More detailed. More wonderful and into a more perfect escape with little pieces of you and little pieces of Mr. Kruger as well.

Paintings. Souvenirs. A collection of different mugs and teacups because you couldn’t help constantly buying new ones.

It became more than just your home.

Your nice place.

It became his too.

“What would you do?” Mr. Kruger asked.

It was well into the evening and several hours past the end of your shift. You should have gone home ages ago, but instead you were sitting in his hospital bed next to him- so close that you could feel the heat radiating off his shoulder.

But you weren’t touching.

Never touching.

The few centimeters between the two of you were as close as you’ll be able to get in reality.

Thankfully, you weren’t in reality right now. You were swept up in the fantasy of your small, safe home.

You were somewhere nice.

“I would read a book on the couch,” you answered. “What would you do?”

“Sit next to you,” he said. “The cats won't leave me alone.”

You laughed. “It’s because you ignore them. Cats like that, you know. They like it when you play hard to get.”

“Maybe I should play harder.”

“It’ll only make them want you more.”

The corners of his lips just barely lifted into a smile.

A silence passed over the two of you as you sank into the moment. You were staring at the wall across from you, but the hospital room wasn’t what surrounded you.

Not really.

What surrounded you was framed photos. Plants. A warm couch and the smell of a homemade dinner wafting in from the kitchen. There were people in the streets below. People at peace, because there wasn’t any war. Not here. There wasn’t war. There wasn’t pain. There wasn’t any suffering at all.

There were only nice things.

Nothing else was allowed.

It was just you and Mr. Kruger.

You leaned against him.

But, like usual, you didn’t-...

You took a breath.

You could imagine doing it, but you’d never told him about it like you had told him about everything else. But what if you did? Just this once. What if you…

“I’d move closer to you...” you told him, just above a whisper, “...so our arms could touch.”

You could imagine it so perfectly.

The brush of his arm against yours.

If you leaned over, even just slightly, you’d feel it. But that was reality.

And you weren’t in reality right now. You were somewhere nice.

You took a short breath: “And I’d-”

“I’d hold your hand.” Mr. Kruger cut you off, “...I bet it’s soft.”

You held your own hand, fingers twitching against your lap. They curled together and you imagined the sensation of his hand replacing one of yours.

Soft.

“I-...” you stuttered, “...yours is too…”

It’s soft.

Not just his hand, but everything else.

The house. The couch. The life. The people on the street below. The cat in your lap. Mr. Kruger sitting beside you.

It’s soft. It’s warm. It’s comfortable. It’s perfect. The most wonderful escape. The most amazing fantasy. You wished it was real, you really did, but at the same time you hoped somewhere like that never slipped into reality because you knew if it did it would be ruined.

Reality was thick ropes. Flesh. Bone. Red words against brick walls. Reality took the tiniest spark of something pure, of something good, and turned it into a nightmare.

Somewhere nice couldn’t possibly be real. That warm, soft, comfortable, perfect place would be tainted if it was.

So you didn’t want it to be real. Not at all. You never want it to be real. If it was real it wouldn’t be perfect.

If it was real, you could never-

“...I’d kiss you...”

You can see it so vividly, just like the couch and the food and the chipped tea cups.

You see Mr. Kruger right next to you. Holding your hand. You see yourself pull back, just enough that you can meet his blue-green eyes, before your own eyes flick down, just for one second, to his lips.

When you glance up he looks different.

His bandages are gone and he’s got both of his eyes and legs. His brown hair is cut shorter and no longer hanging down. His skin is less rough, with fewer scars and no tired bags under his eyes. He’s the same. He’s the same height. Basic build. And has the same blue-green eyes that reveal golden flecks of stars when the light hits them just right. But…

He's smiling.

He's smiling and laughing and talking to you so much faster and louder than he normally does he's-

He's alive.

And there was a difference, you suddenly realize, a difference between living and being alive.

Without a second thought, you lean forward.

You kiss him, cutting off whatever he had been rambling about in favour of sinking into the feeling of his warm lips against yours.

Warm.

Just like the rest of that wonderful place.

You’d spent the last few weeks describing a lot of your fantasies to Mr. Kruger, but there were still things you kept to yourself. Stolen glances. Forbidden thoughts. Feelings that you couldn’t admit to, not even in the fantasy.

But then you’d gone and said it:

‘I’d kiss you.’ You had told him, only a fraction of a second ago without taking a moment to think it over.

But you weren’t given a moment to think it over, not really, because the image of it happening flashed through your mind so quickly, and in that time, Mr. Kruger made his reply.

He took a short breath. His body completely motionless next to you.

He was looking out the window, gaze firmly set on the horizon and he whispered: “...I’d kiss you too…”

He lifts a hand to cup your cheek and kisses you back, pulling you against him on the couch.

The scratchy couch.

The warm world.

Somewhere nice.

The perfect fantasy where you’ll never live-but for once in your life you could be alive.

The next day was your day off.

Your body spent it in bed, but your head spent it somewhere else.

Somewhere with no flesh.

No bone.

No spray paint against stone walls.

Somewhere that there was just you. Your home. Your cats.

…and Mr. Kruger.

It was a beautiful place, your favourite place; but it could never be real.

Nice places like that didn’t exist.

If they did they would be ruined.

If they did they would be tainted.

Somewhere nice didn’t exist.

And you were so thankful that it never ever would.

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#eren x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren yaeger x reader #aot x reader #my post #my writing #i found you too

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lanawinterscigarettes · 1 year ago

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my house of stone, your ivy grows (Whittaker! Master x reader)

Summary: you find yourself growing feelings for the person who's supposed to be your enemy

Warnings: Dhawan! Doctor and Whittaker! Master (whoo!), secret relationship, worries of possible disownment (it doesn't happen), this has a pretty happy ending given the direction I could've gone with it

A/N: I don't know if anyone will read this because I'm not sure how popular Whittaker's version of The Master is but I find her to be incredibly attractive mkay. and I've currently been obsessed with evermore so naturally I just had to write another song fic, this time based loosely off ivy (my other evermore based fics are still wips, but I plan on finishing and posting those soon <3)

You didn't know how you went from despising The Master to loving her, but it had happened. All too fast and all too soon for you to recognize until you were in too deep to pull yourself back out again.

Her tidal wave swept over you, the rough waves keeping you from swimming back to shore, threatening to drown you if you made the wrong move. But they never would, because as unbelievable as it was, she loved you back.

You were just a simple house that stood out in the woods somewhere, abandoned, old, forgotten. Until her ivy was planted. It grew and grew, spreading quickly until you found yourself completely engulfed.

You would never be the same again. You could never give her up. And she could never take away her love without destroying you both in the process.

The way it came about was simple, really. You and The Doctor were under attack yet again by some alien species for trying to fix whatever damage they'd created, causing you to be separated.

You'd been hiding, doing your best not to get caught when you heard a silky voice coming from behind you.

"You know, if you're trying to avoid being seen, there's not the best place to do it."

Knowing who it was, you turned hesitantly, coming face to face with The Master.

"I could see you from your little 'hiding spot' miles away, and I have no doubt the people you're hiding from could, too." She had a smug look on her face, almost as if she was proud for calling you out on your poor decision making.

"What do you want?" You asked with a frown, immediately under the impression that she was up to no good.

She made a face of mock offense. "What, I can't offer you some simple, life saving advice?"

"You can't, no. Not without wanting something in return." You eyed her suspiciously, trying to figure out what her game plan was in being here.

"Oh, really? And why's that?" She leaned forward, her piercing eyes staring right into yours. Unlike most individuals she came across, you didn't look away.

"Because you're always up to something. You always have to have an ulterior motive," you said calmly, not at all deterred by her closeness.

The Master had to admit, she was impressed by both your reasoning and your lack of fear. "Alright, fine. I'll admit it, me giving you some piss poor advice is not the only reason why I'm here." She straightened herself back up, no longer standing as close. "I'm here because..." She let out a deep sigh, looking away. "I was- worried about you."

You let out a laugh at her statement. "You were worried about me?"

"Don't laugh." The Master snapped at you suddenly, shooting you a glare. "I didn't have to come rescue you, you know. I could've just left you here. To die."

"But you didn't. Because you were worried about me," you lightly teased, finding it amusing that one of the most ruthless and ambitious people in the universe cared enough to save the companion of their enemy.

She groaned in frustration. "Yes, okay, fine. I was worried, alright? Is that what you want to hear?" She held out a glove cladded hand for you to take. "Now, do you want to get out of here and survive, or not?"

You decided it would be wise not to push anymore of her buttons, as it was entirely possible she could change her mind and actually leave you there. So, you simply nodded in response, taking her hand and allowing her to guide you away from the fighting and back to her TARDIS. She then dropped you off at a safer location nearby, making sure you agreed not to mention any of what'd happened to The Doctor.

"I won't tell a soul, I swear," you'd promised her, your words sincere. It almost looked like she was smiling when the TARDIS doors shut. Then she was gone, leaving you to face The Doctor and his worried filled questions alone, but not before taking a piece of your heart with her.

You'd caught up with her again at some sort of alien marketplace, gifting her one of the planet's many different kinds of flora as a gift, your own way of saying 'thank you for saving me'. She'd accepted it wholeheartedly, setting it someplace beside her bed so it would be the last thing she'd see every night before she went to sleep, and the first thing she'd see every morning when she woke.

Your first true 'date' was the time she left a note on your dresser (how she got it there, you'll never know) telling you to dress somewhat fancy and be ready by nine. She took you to see the first ever showing of the musical Cats, of all things, though it was really just an excuse to see you again. Regardless of whether you enjoyed the show or not, the night ended on a high note (pun intended) when she gave you a gift of her very own; a kiss.

This back and forth dance of sneaking away together and leaving each other again when it was finally time to part went on for months, and though you never put a name on it, it was quite clear to both you and everyone else that you were head over heels in love.

You thought the two of you could be like that for the rest of eternity, hiding out from unknown forces who planned to take you away from her arms, cherishing each other in secret while your enemies threatened to rip you both apart and tarnish your new found love had they known. But as you had learned from your many travelings, nothing could last forever.

The Doctor had noticed you were acting differently. You'd been staying out later and later, and seemed much more occupied with whatever was going on in your mind than any adventures he took you on. As it was none of his business, he really didn't want to pry, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him and he just had to know.

He was tinkering with some sort of ancient alien tech when you walked into the TARDIS's control room.

"Whatcha working on?" You questioned as you made your way over.

"Oh, nothing. Just a piece of junk, really."

You nodded at his response, completely unaware of the absolute bomb of a question he was about to drop.

"Have you been seeing anyone recently?"

You froze, unsure how to process what he just said. "...what?"

"It's just-" he set down what he'd been holding on a nearby table and sighed. "You've been acting differently, these past couple of months. And, it's not that it's necessarily a bad thing, as you seem to be much happier, I'm just- curious, to find out why. Meeting someone new and being in a relationship can definitely cause that, so I was just asking."

You didn't know how to respond. Of course, you were seeing someone. Someone you probably shouldn't be. You didn't want to lie to him, but you knew he was bound to find out the truth eventually, so...

"I am seeing someone, actually." You said cautiously, testing the waters.

The Doctor perked up at this new piece of information. "Really? That's wonderful! Tell me, who are they? What are they like?"

You sucked in a deep breath while making a face that was full of pure nervous energy. "You won't like it."

"Nonsense! I'm sure I'll like whoever you've decided to take as a potentional life partner."

You blinked a few times at his choice of words before shaking your head, deciding it'd be best to just ignore it entirely. "Are you positive? 'Cause I... I just really don't want you to hate me." You said awkwardly, accompanied by some weak laughter.

He frowned slightly at your words. "That's ridiculous, I could never hate you. Now, tell me, who is it? Come on, I promise I won't be too mad," he lightly joked as he gave you a reassuring smile. "I trust your judgment, I'm sure they're fantastic, whoever this person is-"

"It's The Master," you suddenly blurted out, knowing the longer you listened to his praise the worse it would feel once you finally disappointed him. "I'm- I'm seeing The Master."

The Doctor just stood there, a look of bewilderment frozen on his face. "...what?"

You let out a sigh, having expected this kind of reaction already."It's The Master," you affirmed, having crossed the point of no return. "I- I know you're probably upset, and rightfully so, but she's really not that bad, once you get to know her-"

"Has she hypnotized you?" This time, it was you who was getting cut off mid sentence. "Has she threatened to hurt you in any way? Is she forcing you to go traveling with her?" Surprisingly enough, he didn't sound mad, like you thought he would. He didn't look it, either. He just seemed to be the reasonable amount of concerned.

You shook your head no at his questions. "No, she hasn't. I travel with her because I want to, because I like doing it. She-" you voice became slightly quieter as you recounted one of the many dates she'd taken you on "-she took me to see the aurora borealis, once. On a planet that had been completely covered in snow and ice."

That trip was especially vivid in your memory, partially due to how many layers you had to wrap up in so you wouldn't get cold. The part you remembered the most, though, was when The Master had noticed you'd forgotten to bring a pair of gloves with you, and took off her own in an effort to help keep your hands warm.

She could've just given you her gloves to wear, which might've been easier, but she hadn't, choosing to take your hands tightly in hers instead. That was the first time she'd ever done that, both in holding your hand properly and taking off her gloves in front of you.

The Doctor noticed the look of calm that washed over you when you were talking about her, one that not even hypnotism could conjure up. "Do you love her?" He asked softly, already getting a sense as to what the answer might be.

"Yes, I do." You professed as your eyes met his. His gaze was understanding and warm, the exact opposite of what you'd thought it'd be.

"Well, if that's the case-" He began, walking over to the TARDIS's control panel and fiddling around with it some "-then I suppose I have no choice..."

You sucked in a breath of air, incredibly tense as you waited for him to say what he was going to do with you. Maybe he'd just throw you in a black hole and be done with it. Or, worse, maybe he'd drop you off on some random planet somewhere where there was absolutely no chance for survival.

"...but to take you to see her." He finished with a flourish as the TARDIS landed. The Doctor opened the door and stepped outside, gesturing for you to follow him.

"This had better be good," a voice grumbled from in front of you, belonging to none other than The Master herself. Her gaze softened when she spotted you, though it didn't last very long, her eyes narrowing at The Doctor in suspicion. "What's all this?"

"I just wanted to say-" He turned, beckoning you to come closer "-that I know about your relationship with each other. And I'm not mad. In fact, I'm delighted."

You and The Master exchanged a look of confusion and disbelief. The Doctor noticed this, continuing nonetheless.

"It's true. Now, I know we haven't always been on the best of terms-"

"That's one way to put it," The Master muttered, crossing her arms.

"-but I don't want to make any unnecessary assumptions about the two of you. And while part of me does believe this could possibly be some sort of an eleborate plan to take me down-"

"Doctor," you whispered harshly, The Master smirking in amusement at your reaction.

"-I also don't want to define you only by your past mistakes." If he heard you, he didn't show it.

"I have a million reasons why I shouldn't trust you." The Doctor said directly to the clearly unimpressed woman standing in front of him. "But so did they, and now look where we are."

His words seemed to actually have an affect on her given how she'd uncrossed her arms and appeared to be actually listening. Until she opened her mouth. "So what is this then, you deciding to give us your blessing?" She sneered, going back to being defensive.

"Master." You took a step forward, offering your hand out to her, which she gladly took. "I think what he's trying to get at here, is that even if he doesn't trust you, he's not going to judge or shame me for doing the exact opposite. I can still be friends with him while also seeing you. That's all I've ever wanted."

The words you spoke seemed to have finally gotten to The Master. The ever permanent scowl she usually had on her face when being forced to interact with The Doctor disappeared, replaced by the faintest smile that only you could discern.

The Doctor clapped his hands together once in satisfaction. "Great! I'll leave you two to it, then."

The Master rolled her eyes in annoyance, causing you to let out a quiet giggle. "Yeah, you do that," she sarcastically replied, watching as The Doctor entered the TARDIS.

You waved him goodbye before turning back to the Time Lady in front of you. "So, where to now?" You asked excitedly, giving the hand you were holding a gentle squeeze.

She squeezed yours back, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "Wherever you want."

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sinnaea · 8 months ago

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Krauser/You RE fanfic, page one rough draft, Fem! reader

Oops! I thought I was done writing about Krauser but he's becoming my current obsession. My brain has been firing on all pistons and coming up with all kinds of HCs. I want to explore what kind of a man he may be when he's off duty...

Summary You’re a dancer at a distinguished gentlemen’s club and your most loyal and favorite customer has arrived. You haven’t seen him in months and he asks you for a special request before he leaves again on one last mission. (Pre-RE4R)

Saturday nights always draw a more boisterous crowd. The gentlemen’s club never felt unsafe and you know there are worse places to dance at. You’ve been there before. After dancing and entertaining here for a couple years, you became spoiled by the upscale establishment, security and elite clientele. Yet, you never look forward to the crowd on Saturday nights. The money is good enough and you need it. So, you always give it your all.

You sit at your vanity along with the other dancers and entertainers in a large dressing room. A plush robe keeps you warm and comfortable for the time being as you lay out all your cosmetics. When suddenly, one of the booking assistants calls to you from behind. You turn and listen as your brush your long locks.

“You’ve been booked in lounge number four,” they inform.

A hefty weight lifts from your shoulders and you sigh in relief. A private booking means you can get away from the general crowd for while.

“What time?” you ask casually. “And how long?”

“As soon as you start,” the assistant answers, “and it’s for the entire night.”

You pause but perk up. A soft exhale escapes your nose as your lips pucker into a small smile. A nervousness tickles within you but slowly charges you with giddiness. You set your brush down on the vanity.

“Is it who I think it is?” you ask hopeful.

The assistant winks and chuckles. “You already know.”

You return to your vanity and diligently prepare yourself they way your favorite customer likes. It has been a few months since you last saw him which is not entirely unusual given he works for the government in the military. But you still remember all the things he prefers. Remembering your clients’ likes and dislikes are part of your job after all. It’s what keeps them coming back to you, especially him.

He has an eye for elegance yet practicality. That lace bralette and thong with the garter belt you put on always left a permanent smile on his face. Purple and black are his colors of choice so you paint your eyes dreamy and smoky with those. He also loves the way the loose curls of your hair swirls around your body when you dance for him. And whenever you draw close, you can tell by his silent inhale he loves that rose and vanilla perfume you wear. It’s what prompted him to give you the pet name “Rosy.”

The private lounge rooms are like a completely different world compared to the main area. They’re fully equipped with alcohol and cigars for you to serve to your client. The furnishings are much more lavish and well maintained. The lights are more dim and soft yet focused on only you and your client. It’s quieter and intimate.

There is a separate entrance for you into the private lounge and you stand behind the door with a few butterflies in your stomach and a confident smirk on your face. You straighten your posture, raise up your chin and puff up your locks. Taking in a relaxed breath, you turn the knob and enter the room.

It’s silent all for the clicking of your heels on the dark laminate floor. There’s a subtle haze in the air and you smell the slight spice and wood from a burning cigar. He’s already made himself comfortable which makes you chuckle internally. You walk into a more focused light next to a silver dance pole and you can barely make out the outline of his body sitting on a leather chair in the shadow in front of you. You still know it’s him.

You wrap an arm up and around the silver pole like a crawling ivy, revealing your full figure and curves under the light. You lean forward, slightly pushing up your breasts and arching your low back, as you tantalizingly speak into the shadow.

“Been a long time, Soldier Boy.”

The creak of the leather couch sounds off as he leans forward and out of the shadow. His face comes into the light and you finally see him. That rugged yet handsome face that bore yet another scar from who knows what. He was dressed rather sharp in a black suit and tie. But it always made you giggle seeing his massive and muscular body barely contained in his clothes. The lit cigar dangles from his lip and he takes one last puff before setting it down. He runs a hand through his slick blonde hair as his scarred lips curl into a smile.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Rosy.”

You’ll never forget that voice. So rough and growly that you know hides something more gentle underneath that is Jack Krauser.

#resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #ao3fic #ao3 writer #jack krauser #re4 krauser #resident evil krauser #krauser x reader #krauser x you #fem!reader

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hope-to-hell · 2 years ago

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Animal instinct. Travis Hackett x Reader. You know about about the werewolf’s bite, but what about its claws? Travis has a close call with a different kind of curse, and what else can you do but get him through it? Smut, dubcon, fuck or die.

—-

It starts with an itch. Poison ivy, probably: the woods here are full of it. Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t tangled with it before now, what with the hunting and the fucking around in the woods at night; there’s only so much visibility even with the moonlight. He scratches absently at his side before remembering no, don’t do that, dumbass. You’ll just spread it around, and it’s not until he’s washing his hands at the sink that he notices the itch has been replaced by warmth creeping all through him.

It’s not poison ivy. Were you really expecting it to be? If so, you’re in the wrong kind of story. He’s not gonna coat himself in calamine and call it a day; all the oatmeal baths in the world can’t help him now. His hand drifts again to his side, to the pulsing warmth beneath his shirt and he cannot help himself; he untucks his shirt and lifts— and stares. Goddamn.

At least it’s not a bite. It is, however, a stark red claw mark: a sign of an encounter that was too close for comfort, red lines curving over soft flesh and hey, it could be worse. He could be lying in the woods with his guts in his hands; he could be reflecting the moon with milky eyes. But as it is, he’s barely got a scratch. It could be worse.

Could be better.

Yeah, it could be fuckin better, huh. Because as it is he’s feeling that warmth all through him, but it’s pooling strongest at his cock and this really, really is that kind of story. He thinks it’s just the adrenaline still running through his veins, one last push before exhaustion sets in. He should probably scrub himself with iodine and then take himself in hand; the night’s rolled over into morning and he’s on the cusp of being too tired to sleep. That’s the ticket. Jerk off and get the fuck to bed. But you know what kind of story this is by now; you know it’s not gonna be quick and it’s not gonna be pretty. He doesn’t even make it to the medicine cabinet before he’s unbuckling his belt; he’s gripping the sink so hard he’s breaking nails and his mind is gone.

This is the part of the curse that nobody knows, the cruel reverse that didn’t make it into the stories because til now there’s been no one in this circumstance who’s lived to tell about it. Whether it’s because nobody’s made it this far without being turned or ripped to shreds, or whether it’s this incandescent need that brought them down is anybody’s guess. And in the end it doesn’t really matter, because here he is alone and gasping

fuck.

He grips and pulls and even the burn of a dry hand doesn’t slow him down. Come on come on comeoncomeoncomeon and it’s like he’s a kid again, with a hair trigger on his cock and a dirty magazine beneath the mattress; he makes a mess of the sink and his hand and the goddamned mirror and that should be the end of it, just a wry little hmph and a few deep breaths before he finds a towel. He’s not gonna get off that easy, though. Instead of settling down for a daylong sleep, he’s reaching for himself again before the come has even dried on his hand.

He’s gonna itch like hell if he doesn’t wash off, if he grips his cock with a sticky hand because oh hell, he’s hard again and can’t fucking believe it, or couldn’t if he had a thought in his head; but the only thing in his mind is need. This is base, animal; he is wreathed in the ancestral memory of grasping, holding, taking; tooth and claw ride his bones and he needs needs needs; every cell is screaming for him to bury himself deep, and if he weren’t alone he would be a monster for how he is driven to fuck at any cost.

You think you’d lend a helping hand? Trade a little roughness for the dopey satisfaction of a man wrung dry? Sweetheart, you have no idea what help would mean. But you heard that wounded-animal moan on the wind and rushed right over; here you are coming up the drive in double-time. And there he is with eyes gone black; he bares his teeth and curves his spine and when he shakes himself apart once more his words spill out all thready like spider silk, like devils’ hair, like the last drop of ink running from the brush. Can’t. I need. I need. I can’t, it doesn’t work— he’s losing coherence as he rises to attention, red and pulsing— give. Give over. Please—

Are you, are you alright? Should I call someone? Who are you going to call? The police? Hello operator, I’ve got a man here who looks like he could fuck his way through a brick wall? Yeah, good luck with that. Besides, he is the police— or sheriff, anyway, and if he could help himself he would. He falls through the tangled shreds of his clothes to land hard upon his knees but he doesn’t notice, doesn’t grunt or wince; it doesn’t matter that he’s down there and you’re up here; in this moment he is all predator, every inch of him driven by a singular purpose.

But here’s the thing: he’s not out for blood. The only red on him is his own, from clawing at his clothes like he could escape his own skin. So are you gonna go with it, see where this leads? As if you don’t already know, as if the sight of him doesn’t reach right up inside you and twist. So when he pulls you down to him you’re already struggling out of your clothes, hands shaking, anticipation burning like ice from fingertips to toes.

Travis, just— just what? Just stop and think for a second? Talk about it? Look for the syringe full of sedatives you know he’s hiding somewhere in the house? Can’t, he’s already draping himself over your back, sticky with sweat and semen and god knows what else, pushing and pulling til your face is on the floor and you’re fucking presenting yourself to him. Is this really what you want, what he wants? How about we skip the agonizing over this; you know when—if— you make it out of this with your skin intact, he’ll roll over bruised and weary with a

hey, y’alright?

and a thanks that goes almost unheard but nonetheless is there. That’s in the hopeful future, of course, but in your bones you know it’s gonna happen— if he hasn’t flayed the skin right off his cock by then, with how brutally he needs, and

fuck— mhh— he fumbles once, twice, and on the third try he thrusts home with a groan that, more than anything, sounds like relief. And when he moves it’s rough like tides, pulled by the moon to crash and roar and it’s good, isn’t it? There’s that little guilty piece of you that likes this, that wishes he’d fuck with a little less care and consideration, the part that wants him to shove you down and take.

This is animal nature dressed in the skin of a man. This is over when he says it is, when the curse releases him or exhaustion claims him. There’s no tapping out, no tired, let’s rest; when he swells and comes inside you there’s half a heartbeat before he hardens again, gasping wet and ragged in your ear. He moves through semen and slick, with the singular purpose of a machine— or a monster. Hey, Travis, where’d you get those cuts? You lose a fight?

Oh sweetheart, don’t you worry. I’ve just got a little of the big bad wolf in me, is all.

It’s a conversation in code, in the harsh sound of your coupling and in the please please please that falls from your lips in a salty spray, punctuated by sharp breaths each time he reaches his peak and finds relief still out of reach. It happens again and again until your body is nerveless, exhausted, limp in a pool of fluids on the floor, with his full weight on you, barely able to move but he still. keeps. going. The floorboards scratch and itch at your cheek in whorls and lines that must surely be indelibly etched upon your flesh; there is a faint whine hanging in the air and it doesn’t matter whose it is.

The thing about this kind of story is that it has to end one way or another. Hours or days later, when time has lost all meaning and you can’t tell if all these drifting shadows are from sunlight moving across the floor or from your vision going dark, he breathes a sigh like the end of the world and slumps, unmoving, his legs all tangled up with yours and his arm drifting down somewhere near your ribs.

The fuck was that about? The words are flavored with floor wax and spit, crushed like cellophane in a clenched fist. You’ve taken so damn much of him that when he slips free it hurts; you'll feel this for a while: poking bruises, dipping two fingers inside yourself to feel the ache he’s left behind. But that’s for later, in between wondering if this is the end of it or if the next month will wring him dry as well.

Mmph. He’s mumbling against you, slipping down into sleep; there’s a question buried in there, a worry that he’s clinging to with broken nails. Are you okay? he doesn’t ask— because he can’t, because words are beyond him. I didn’t— are you hurt? (Am I forgiven?)

‘Salright. I’ve got you (there is nothing to forgive).

The floor is terrible to sleep on, but what else can you do? He’s heavy and unmoving and you’re not much better off. So you settle down into the warmth of him; his hand is rough and sticky, and when you squeeze his hand, he answers with a twitch of his fingers. Bed is so very far away and you will wake with muscles knotted tight, but for now—

for now—

just go to sleep.

#ted raimi #travis hackett #travis hackett fic #travis hackett smut #travis hackett x you #travis hackett x reader #the quarry #the quarry fic #the quarry smut #my fic

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chocoblep · 4 months ago

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#19: The Woods at Sunset

Prompt: Taken

The sun was setting in the Shroud, and Rhyle leaned against one of the roots of the monstrous tree he’d carved his burrow beneath, watching the shadows grow longer. It was his favorite time of day, and he’d taken to making it a habit of watching the forest go from day to night. It wasn’t a sight that he’d ever seen back home, and idly he wondered if his kin watched sunsets now, too. Were they as enamored with watching the darkness creep in on the Greatwood as he was in the Shroud? Did they gather together in the villages to watch the stars?

Sighing, he glanced down into the burrow, the encroaching darkness throwing everything within into shadow save for the lone lantern by his sleeping pallet. Asana had seen his little abode and commented that he had no proper bed, and no wonder he was cranky a lot because he probably slept very poorly. That thought brought a smile to his face. He was going to miss her when he was gone. He had been waffling between trying to get back home and simply making a new life here, and every day that he stayed was a day that he grew more reluctant to leave.

Movement in the undergrowth caught his eye, and he watched a squirrel burst from a bush, a fox in hot pursuit. The wildlife here was much less hostile than it had been back home, too, and he’d made a few friends here besides. It was more than he could say for the Greatwood, where his only purpose was to guard and to breed, and occasionally to grow things. He looked up to the sky again, contemplating, and then looked to the tree beside him.

Perhaps he would make a final decision based on the result of an experiment. Perhaps he would stay if he could feel something, anything, from this tree… If there was any inkling that he could recover his abilities here on this star.

Pulling off his gloves, he tucked them into his belt, and then laid a hand against the tree’s bark-encased root. Closing his silvery eyes, he tried to clear his mind of everything but the environment around him. He could feel the roughness of the bark beneath his palms, the slight breeze that tousled his hair and tickled the fur on his ears. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising with the incoming chill, and smelled the fresh night air. But try as he might, he couldn’t feel the life of this tree, or the power that thrummed through the land beneath his feet. He couldn’t feel the energy in the ivy that brushed against his shin. He stayed like that for a good ten minutes, just waiting and listening and feeling.

And there was nothing.

Finally, his eyes fluttered open. The sun had set, and the forest was quickly darkening, the trees becoming silhouettes that could easily be mistaken for treants swaying in the night. His heart sank as he turned to walk into his burrow.

Maybe he would give himself a moon to feel something. He couldn’t just make a final decision without trying a few things to reconnect with the land, right?

#Writing #FFXIVWrite2024 #FFXIVWrite #Rhyle Moonreed #Prompt 19 #Taken

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searchingforserendipity25 · 11 months ago

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More precious was the light in your eyes. ao3.

Many thanks to @welcomingdisaster and @outofangband for inspiration on how to tackle the 'dusk' prompt!

The first woman of the Edain Daeron loved was a milkmaid and cow herder late in her years, all wispy age-streaked braids and fat arms

He sought out her shadow rustling in the aldar leaves, in the laughing of a hidden brook. Running, leaping, whenever he thought he caught her scent of starlight on mossy ground - like a hound sniffing for its mistress, like a madman gathering thorn-scratches and losing the course of the years.

It was not madness, though it sounded mad, and foolish, and pitiful.

There were tales told of him. Because even the oldest forest and the darkest waters were no longer unpopulated, and mortals bred fast and grew covetous, there were made old trees thorn down; it happened at times that he would leave a meadow for a time, and find it turned into a hamlet on his return, or a town.

His heart grew hard as stone, inside him. In the worst winters, when there was much cold to be fought in Mannish homes, and fallen elms and firs and birches were too many to name, Daeron thought only bitterly of Lúthien's escape. Lúthien's Choice, a choosing of cruelty, a renouncing of the true face of the world.

He withheld his songs from her, as if she heard him in truth; and gathering himself in a cold cave or hollow stump, his sleep was thin and unhappy, with no memory of spring.

Regret came with the first thaw; but then, like always, it was too late to find any solace, any satisfaction. Lúthien was in the forests, at times; but she never did turn to look back, to see if he kept to her tracks.

The first woman of the Edain Daeron loved was a milkmaid and cow herder late in her years, all wispy age-streaked braids and fat arms, pail carried steadily on her head even as she let out her loud graceless laugh.

Before her narrow cabin she set a basin, and a handful of seeds; in this way she had small wood birds near her house often, and some of their pretty singing.

It was a kindly trade; that it had brought her an elf as skittish and fond of fennel seeds as any sparrow did not daunt her in the least. In the evenings he came, sometimes, by her door; she played a flute, a small and ugly thing, not well and not badly.

Daeron had forgotten. The songs of others were lovely still, in their way; even the ones Lúthien had never heard.

Soon enough she she set him to fixing the thatch roof and mending the crane mechanism in the water pump- also gathering new rushes for the floor.

"As thou art a wood-sprite, and stands sense that rushes are sweeter for thee," which was true enough; he brought new smells into the damp shelter of her house, a little green wildness.

He did as he was told out of bemusement, and surprised himself in accepting her bowls of gruel, her warm blankets, her warm legs wrapped around him upon a straw mattress, a grass mound, the shade under the tall chestnuts where the cows grazed.

"Look at this mad thing," she said, tripping rough fingers up his ribs to test if he would quiver, running them through his hair - picking off bits of dead grass, shreds of ivy. "I knew there were birds that turned into spirits in the woods, but most birds are much neater than this!"

She laughed at his indignation, and pressed him down, and laughed further at how he did quiver, nose against her bosom, mouth opening with kisses.

Reluctantly, in fits and starts and incidents, he came to know their ways.

The first winter he spent in a human village was an error; the second there was a plague, the sixth it was razed by the neighboring kingdom - or might have been. If not for Daeron singing terrors out of the mists; if not for the growing of briars sharp as daggers, and wild barking in the wild.

Melian's teachings were in him still, half-dormant; and if he told none whom it was that kept danger away, still his lover teased him while plucking briars from his hair, and grew even more shameless about sending him off to scare away wolves and bears and annoying tax-riders with his mighty powers.

Lúthien's choice grew less repellent to him, in time. But he would not have chosen as Lúthien might have, after all.

He could only be himself, one of the Quendi; the last of them, he thought, perhaps.

He stood by the mounds where roses grew from his lover's bones. Her laughter, gone thick with age and then silent, was a biting grief, a cutting thing; and he had to be glad for it, too, for he had not thought to grieve a thing besides Lúthien, and it was good to love, after all, even a thing that died.

O, but it was bitter! A long winter of the heart, and a winter that always came back.

That much Lúthien had taught him, and his cow-herder; and the forests, too, where saplings grew in the place of old giants, and shrubs ate away even the roots of Ents.

This relinquishing come no more easily, not more easily was he at peace with it. Still he knew then it would happen again; many times, perhaps.

He swept the house, brought in new rushes, and left the cows grazing, and filled the basin, where sparrows and jays and plain nightingales came to sate their thirst. Some winters he went onward, deeper into the forests, to scare the wolves, the bold mountain lions, the king's riders.

But the house was his now, and the roses were not as stout as niphredil, and wanted tending.

It was not madness. Daeron saw her in every flower that bloomed at dusk, the sweet haze that rose over the world in the first days of spring. Lúthien was there.

He saw her, now. Not at first, when he was younger, and caught in grief and regret such that no consolation could be found.

He saw her in the small pale flowers that were not niphredil. He saw her in the lined faces of old women weaving by the hearth during the long winters, and in the maids dancing round the summer bonfires. In all things mortal, in all blue twilights; and he loved Lúthien the better for it, in time, with a love that was an aching sweetness, not the last of its kind.

#silm fic #lúthien #daeron #oc #daeron x oc #my fics #february ficlet challenge

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mystique-peach · 6 months ago

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☼

Title: Dog Days - Book of Mythos (Chapter 1) ☼

Description:

He meets her because the village he’s in has decided that he’s a “problem.” And. Well. To be fair to them, he is, in fact, a problem.

A story about the end of the world, but only kind of.

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Link to Ao3 Mirror

============

The first time he meets her, he’s going by the name Asa.

He doesn’t keep a last name. Not a lot of people did, let alone critters like himself. But he does have a name, because it’s one of those things humans seem to concern themselves with, and he does like to try and exist alongside them when he can get away with it. He’s taken refuge in some dilapidated building at the corner of town, made with rough cut stone and rotting wood. It’s got ivy-creep across the outerwall and termite damage on the inner support, and lets in more sun then it keeps out. These types of buildings are a dime a dozen in this place, dotted between overgrown grassfields and forgotten mountain crevices. They’re useless to anyone with a brain, too unstable to feel safe, and too decayed to protect from anything more than a light rain. But he’d never claim to be either smart or concerned with his own safety, and so to him they offer easy shelter in the periods between travel.

He meets her because the village he’s in has decided that he’s a “problem.” And. Well. To be fair to them, he is, in fact, a problem.

Rather, by human terms, he’s a problem.

It had been the chickens, he thinks, that had gotten their attention. He’d killed two of them roughly a few days back, and he’s learned that they tend to notice their critters dying faster than they notice their crop gone. (As far as he’s concerned, if they didn’t want the little suckers killed, then they shouldn’t make it so easy to get into their enclosures. But that's neither here nor there, on the matter of them sending someone to kill him.)

But he’d been hungry when he’d gotten here, and a chicken feeds him longer than their berries would. So, he’s not surprised they send someone to come looking for him. He’s not even startled by her appearance in the hut. He hears her coming from the base of the path. She’s not being careful, but he also doesn’t think she’s trying to be. She walks with the sort of confidence that only comes from arrogant fools or tactless douchebags.

He’s small enough that he can duck up into the rafters. They’re thin planks of wood, one of which fell to the ground and broken through one of the old corner tables that had been left abandoned

She, on the other hand, is tall enough that she has to duck under the doorframe to get into the room. There’s a sword dangling loosely in her hand, something he personally thinks is hard not to notice with some amount of immediacy. Actually- There are three, if he’s counting right. One in hand, two strapped to her back. Though he can’t see any other weapons at a glance, he presumes, of course, that she probably has more. On the whole, he thinks it’s good to assume people willing to carry around three swords are willing to carry around three swords and a knife. It seemed a little excessive, if you asked him. Three swords and all that. Exactly what kind of threat did she think she was walking into?

The biggest one - that being, the one she’s currently holding, is so well-polished that it shines when the light hits it. It’s bent at an angle. He finds that odd. He can’t imagine what purpose the bend in it serves, but weapons had never exactly been his “Thing.” (Not that he had many “things” that humans would consider worthwhile knowledge to begin with.)

Besides the swords, she doesn’t look too out of the ordinary. Her hair is black. Long enough that even while thrown into a haphazard braid over her shoulder it sits well at her waist. The braid is struggling to hold. There are a few flyaway strands here and there, and a clump that's escaped the style and sticks to her forehead in the humidity. Her clothing is a bit threadbare, something that's both clearly had an attempt at maintenance, yet still inevitably wore down to time and travel. It’s an otherwise plain outfit (Something of which disappoints him a little. Asa had always figured that If you were going to go through all the effort of making and wearing clothing, it had best be something interesting to look at.) She’s wearing dark trousers (He knows that fabric too, wool) and a loose fitting green shirt, half haphazardly draped over her shoulder and fastened into place with a rough looking cloth belt. The look is boxy-like. It leaves one of her shoulders and part of her chest exposed, revealing some isometric looking tattoo (The specific details of which he is still too far away to appreciate) wrapping around her arm.

His tail flicks with interest. Now that was something you didn't see everyday.

Her gaze wanders around the shack, heavy and critical of her surroundings. After a moment of investigation (there was not, in fact, a lot to investigate. He’d made sure of that himself.) She crosses the room, picking up one of the old ceramic shards and turning it over in between her fingers. The small table it was once sitting on lays on its side, missing a leg and in the beginning stages of being reclaimed by nature.

“Hm,” She holds it up. Nervous about being seen, he flattens himself further back at the corner end of the beam. As if on cue, the moment he steps back, her gaze snaps up to where he’s sitting. Comparatively, however, she turns with no amount of urgency, dropping the shard back to the ground and dusting her hand off on her trouser.

“Oh,” She says, more to herself than him. She doesn’t sound surprised. She doesn’t sound like much of anything, “A fox…?” She says, under her breath, her brows furrowing. Yes, yes. He’s a very rare and beautiful creature. Pack it up, swordlady. She doesn’t do that. She tilts her head, presumably to try and get a better look at him. Her eyes wander down to his tails, as though instinctive, and he swears he sees the way she counts them in her eyes.

Momentarily, she’s silent. But then, she leans back on her heels, resting a hand on her face in some show of exhaustion. She rests it there momentarily, exhaling past her fingers, and then runs her hand up and into her hair.

“... Alright,” She says, eventually, pointing the length of her sword up toward him. It’s not exactly a threatening gesture, and the sword is just clunky enough to not pose much of a threat to him from the angle she sits at. Nevertheless, he stands in surprise, which he feels is reasonable. Given the sword pointed at him, “Let's get on with it, then. Say your piece.”

Inquisitively, he sits up. His ears perk as he does, “What?” He asks, acting more out of surprise than anything. He doesn’t think he’s hearing her right. He’s not the best at this language yet - He’s been in the area long enough to pick up on a lot of it, but some of it still hurts his head to sort through.

She gives a loose gesture with the weapon, something that looks almost impatient, given the rest of her posture, “You heard me. Say your piece.”

Oh. He had heard her correctly. He doesn’t like that.

Sitting back on his hunches, he looks down at her rather skeptically. Humans, as a whole, didn’t expect him to be able to speak to them. He could, of course. Most of them didn’t know that, but he could. Curious, he sits back down, and does so slowly. The kind of action that he fears reveals more than he means for it to, shows off his apprehension more than it should. His tails hang off the rafter, and he flicks them closer to himself as though for protection.

“Sorry,” He says, not politely. He paraphrases his thoughts like this, “Most people come into these kinda things lookin’ to kill. Didn’t exactly expect… Ah. Y’know.” He trails off. She takes it for what it is, tilting her head in the same, instinctive way another fox might when curious. It looks odd on a human. It does work to calm him somewhat.

“I do know,” She says, lazily shoveling the tip of her blade into the ground. Then, after a moment of consideration, decides to add, “I was sent in here to kill you.”

His tails betray him, flicking again with unease at the news. She doesn’t say anything. But she also doesn’t move to try and grab him or anything like that, and she doesn’t look like she’s priming to do so. Human’s have pretty obvious cues on those kinds of things.

“Well,” He echo’s back, breaking the silence. He tilts his head back at her. Had he taken the shape of a human, he’d’ve probably been laughing a little nervously right now. Fortunately, he had not, and so it’s just everything else about his posture that gives him away, “If I’m being honest with you, I don’t really want to die.”

“I don’t imagine you do, no,” She says, and rests the whole of her weight on her blade. It sinks further into the wood like it’s going through mud. Oof. Yeah that wouldn’t be a pretty way to go. Finally, as though a half assed attempt to soothe his nerves, “I don’t really want to kill today.”

“Oh,” He says, and it does not, in fact, work to soothe him. She does not look like someone who does not want to kill. Nevertheless, he says, “That’s good. For the preservation of my life n’all that. Not tryin’ to kill me does help with the whole, living thing.”

Her lip twitches up. Oh good. She has a sense of humor.

“They thought you were ….” She seems to need a moment to search for her own words. Though, like him, she seems to lose her train of thought, and eventually just ends the whole of it with a “... Well. They thought you were something else, is all. Not that I’m sure they’d be particularly fond of having pests running around,” Her expression doesn’t betray a lot. He doesn’t like that. He likes how expressive humans are, when they are.

“I’m not a pest,” He says, though he doesn’t take much offense to it. To show it, he stretches himself across the rafter, and with some amount of pride decides, “I am a problem, though.”

“... I see no difference,” She says.

Like her, he likes to think he has a sense of humor. “Most humans are problems,” he points out, with some amount of poignancy.

She makes another expression, thin lipped, and gives a shrug, “I see no difference,” She says again, tone falling to mild-mannered agreement. He does laugh this time, a high pitched yelp sound in this body. He stalks forward on the beam - Mindful of its age, and careful, and in deciding that she’s moved from the category of ‘threat’ to the category of ‘neutral party,’ decides to re-assess her.

Upon closer inspection, the sword in her hand has an engraving along the side. That doesn’t surprise him. Humans had a fondness for decorating their murder-tools in all sorts of interesting ways, and he’s inclined to believe it doesn’t serve much more of a purpose than looking nice. Her tattoos, which he’d at first taken to be strictly isometric in nature look more like are up close. There’s a sun on her shoulder, iconographic. The rays of it bleed from her shoulder, to her chest.

His ear twitches. A soldier, maybe…? It would make sense. Even little settlements like this generally had one or two of those sitting around, and the ones that made their skin all pretty-like were either criminals or warriors. She didn’t feel very criminal to him. Too… well. It was the way she was holding herself.

But something in his gut didn’t scream solder to him, either. The ones in this area wore more protective gear, and were awfully stupid too. Well. Most humans were pretty stupid, if you asked him, but the solders especially so.

His tails flick.

“You’re not from here,” She says, conversationally. She’s looking at him again, like she’s looking through him rather than at him, and it makes his fur stand on end. His ear twitches, uncomfortable. Still. He humors the question, because he hasn’t actually spoken to anyone in some time, let alone in this tongue, and it’s good to stay in practice with these things.

“Not really, no.”

“... Hm. Traveling then,” She shifts her gaze away, bringing her hand up to rest at her chin. It’s odd. He’s a good read of body language - better than humans were with one another, maybe. And something about her felt…. There was really no other way of saying it, but she felt fake. Like she was a statue forcing the little movements for his sake. It’s the kind of thing that feels obvious to him. Not that a person couldn’t move like that, but they generally didn’t. He didn’t know why, he wasn’t that kind of smart, but instinct and experience told him so, and he trusts that. He’s always trusted that.

Because of this, he’s unsure if she’s asking him, or simply saying it for the sake of doing so, he simplifies his situation down to a scant, “It’s complicated,” because it is complicated, and he doesn’t need or want her to know the details of those complications.

A small breeze flutters the reed-like grass growing at the end of the room. She gives him one of those inscrutable looks, the irritating kind that refuses to give more information then it takes. She sighs, propping her hands on her hips, and looks out the fragmented window. The one in the direction of the forest, that is, and tells him that, “... Well. Stay on the paths the humans have made. The forest gets dangerous around this time of year.”

He bites back pointing out that most old-growth forests are dangerous, a child would know that, he’s not stupid and doesn’t like being patronized. But then she’s looking back to him, kind of out of the corner of her eye, and it halts whatever thought he had.

Hm.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” He says, because he will. He might not listen, but he will keep it in mind.

Deciding that it’s been settled, she turns to leave. About half way across the room, where the charcoal remains of an old firepit she adds, “I would leave soon, if I were you. Or at least stop killing their livestock. A few people here have hounds, and the dogs aren’t as understanding as I am.”

Well. Fair was fair. He didn’t like dogs all that much. They were dumber then the humans. Curious, he leans forward and asks, almost conspiratorially, “.... the ducks?”

She stops. Looks over her shoulder at him, expression one heavy with bemusement, “What?”

“Can I at least have those?”

Then her shoulders fall, and as though strained, she says, “.... No,” and, as she begins walking again. She raises a hand at him and says, “Take the eggs next time.”

And then she walks away. He doesn't even get her name.

==> Next Chapter

#original character #original writing #DdBoM #Kitsune #Book of Mythos Chapters

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