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spurbleu · 2 months

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rendezvous

ch.1 mother’s advice

[ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!stripper!reader ]

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S. mother left you with very little aside from her cat, calloused advice, and a legacy at your local brothel.

warnings. shameless men, customers service industry, mentions of abuse

a/n: lore drop and y'alls first meeting :) again, slowburn so be patient

word count: ~3.2k

‧︎༚︎☉°︎༚︎‧︎༚︎✳︎☉︎︎°︎‧︎༚︎‧︎

“Only eva’ let the good lookin’ ones get dirty wich ya, darlin,”

your mama had said rather plainly one night as you fixed her tea, voice coarse under cigarette,

“no use ina ugly fuck.”

Strange, how the only good advice she had given you (alive, at least. plenty of lessons from her dead), was about sex. She’d never been gentle enough with your hair to elicit the idea she might be with her words (but being a daughter meant you hoped). So, when you buried her, outdated ramblings and boorish tongue, most of what you took with you was boneless.

You packed the vulgar with the rest of the house, strapping it to the back of your truck and hoping it would nestle in the tobacco-less walls of your new apartment (a different shade of yellow- little kinder- absent of bile). Or maybe the newer wooden floors, eroded under boot heel, sturdy still.

On arrival you discovered it had found a less subtle home. Must have been some twisted fate (a mother’s memory- hardly sweet), that your new apartment was neighbors with your town’s brothel.

Funny, how a broke, orphaned woman like yourself, sun bleached elbows and sore neck, was given an opportunity to finally test the merit of a mother’s advice.

The withering building paralleled one of her last gifts to you, a lingerie set. Old brick red, lace trim gauze between blocks. Thick straps bridging bralette to panties like the iron beams holding up a raunchy sign- Rendezvous.

Stench of sex fogged up greasy windows, drunk mumblings of wifeless (or, a more depressing thought, married) men on its porch, wearing crucifixes in bogus devotion. The oak beneath their leather was rusting by their print of dust and the grooves beneath a bottle of beer- sorrel glass broken at the foot of creaky stairs.

Recently, your old church pews found their way back to your mind. You pushed the last of your boxes through the door, knees blushing purple with guilt. No, you had decided upon arrival- you wouldn’t even look at the place.

Pig stye, you’d convinced yourself, whore house. You turned your nose to it all, prissy and ornery even as they whistled from the railings, red knuckles itching for your attention. Hasty for the day they’d see you in dusk light, starting your shift. Only for you to leave them, day after day, cockdumb and unsatisfied.

And you had been doing so well, too.

That was until you opened the envelope- your mother’s allowance. The one useful thing that the drunken, deceased mess of a women could’ve given your hopeless soul. Magnum Opus of her faulty motherhood, forgiven with just some fucking money.

But she was always more complicated than that, wasn’t she. Peaking from the back of the white fold was, indeed, that wonderful, faded green of cash- but in front of it was a depressing beige- capitalized by black ink.

Girl,

Leave this apartment to you, take care of the old thing. That brothel knows me likes me; they’ll give you a job. Make yourself some real money, use my looks, darling. Be good. without me

Much love,

Mother.

You tossed the note aside before your hungry fingers tore the dip of the paper apart- revealing, and you counted a dozen times to be sure, sixteen dollars.

Sixteen dollars is what you’re worth. Cheap cattle at a fair, squalid men drooling as your mother snickers. Your scrawny legs buckled under the weight of the gold bell- which, you’ve now discovered, costs more than you do.

You’d be angrier if you were surprised. But you weren’t. Hell, sixteen wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been- with the way her money was spent on dozens of those cancer packs a day, cig smoke stealing your wages one stick at a time.

You plucked up her note, reading between the pen’s blood to find anything else. Searching, like you had in her for decades, for a little more. A secret message between your fiber taught liaison, written in the tone she had used with you (old spice on dry meat) up until she couldn’t anymore. You could hear it now, reading the note to you, and suddenly you were five again, tugging at her shawl as sleep nipped the last pages of your Goodnight Tales.

You didn’t fail to notice the way she signed it, either. Mother. You had always opted for the simpler, casual name, ‘mama’. It felt truer to what she was, an apparition of a parent spared by a younger nostalgia- lacking the reliance, the respect, of an actual mother.

Yet another opinion where the both of you seemed to diverge.

No, of course you weren’t surprised.

But you were now extremely aware she had limited your options to the worst one. No southern shop, built on dirt and sweat, was going to take a labor virgin without a foot in the door. Which meant the only place desperate enough to take soft, vestal hands and good hair was that ratty brothel.

So, stubborn oxen halting actual progress, you watched the bar for a week.

Perched on a chair by the sill, the last bags of honey tea in your cup as you observed the lulls in its busy. That way, when you eventually forced your ass from the dips it made in the old seat, you’d walk to the door with as little shame as possible.

As you scurried across the street at dawn, sunrise made the old cobble appear prettier than it was. Light finding the gaps between stone, serenity’s veil cast over the Dutch Gables in early morning. The birth of day scared off the grimier patrons, leaving you in the barren womb to watch it’s first breath. You paused there, relishing the one time the small market looked…worth it.

Seconds after you slide through the saloon doors, barely given enough time to drink up the sandy lighting and timber walls, a voice calls from behind the bar.

“We’re closed.”

She’s a natural blonde, you can tell by her lighter roots. Freckles contour a round face under eye bags- and you even catch the subtle crease of crows’ feet next to her grey eyes- blemished and old. Her lips screwed into what you think might be a permanent frown- that is until you speak,

“I’m here to apply.”

and it turns into a snarl, skin pitching at the bridge of her nostril, “We ain’t hirin’.”

Your mother’s note comes back to you, and you loosen the resentment in your voice as you say her name. “I’m her daughter. ‘Said I- you’d let me work here.”

The wrinkle laxed, and her snarl came down to a thin neutral line. “Did she finally kick the bucket?”

You nodded, unsure how to feel when her lips curled. “Damn. Y’had a firecracker of a mother. Worked alongside ‘er iner prime. Solid woman,” her eyes ran up your shoulders, “terrible mother, I reckon.”

You swallowed- she grinned. Her hand beckoned you to the stools, and you took a seat, shaking her outstretched hand. “You got ‘er looks. You’ll do fine ‘ere. Names Francesca.” Her eye narrowed to slits, “Nobody calls me Franny. Its Francesca, or Miss- got it?”

You nodded, and she flashed you another glimpse of her yellow teeth.

“I’ll start ya at the bar. See ‘ow long ya last.”

Turns out, you lasted a lot longer than she thought you would.

Swatting advances away as you gave patrons bottles, but smart enough to never get mouthy. You caught more flies with honey anyhow- so as your boots became comfortable in the mop-clean lumber floors, you’d occasionally entertain some of them.

“You single, sweetheart?” Slurred from a regular as you filled his tab. Grisly looking fellow, got years on you. Too many to be talking.

“Enough to work here.” You slid him a drink with a smile. Syrup on a glass rather than salt. The spread of his lips was telling- he tasted it.

Boisterous laughter- too loud to want just liquor- “’nough to sit on an old man’s lap?”

No. Not enough that they thought they’d get lucky- but that was the trick, wasn’t it? Just barely easy enough to send them wily looks over your shoulder, cover the spite in your voice with flirts- onion layered by a blushing red skin- weak enough that it kept them hoping. But never truly easy, moving to the next customer before the last could lean for a fat kiss.

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to him, jaw clicking in thin patience.

“Not over here. That’s for the other rooms.”

His eyes followed your pointer finger, attention sinking its dull teeth into the cardinal doors.

You pretended not to mind your position as the face of the brothel rather than the body of it. Why would you anyway? You’re sure the girls back there would kill for an easy job like yours- given the chance to politely navigate around advances rather than being forced to feed them. You only had to serve the dry slacks- and watch them as they left soiled. You didn’t have to see- no, make- that filthy in-between.

Church taught you enough. Nothing but festering confessionals behind that door.

But goodness, could you be childish. Curious mind, insecure heart- all of you greedy. You were positive they made bushels more than you- and all for some more skin, done up hair and lidded eyes?

You could do that.

Bitter, confusing envy. Makes you mad when Francesca gave you a hard no after asking for a promotion- but sorry as you curl in thin sheets before dreamless slumber.

(Did your greed weigh more than morals? Did church and your father’s absence teach you that little? Nothing should be this existential- but maybe that’s why it’s uprooting. Forked road- giving up a part of you either way.

You hate to admit you buried something of your own with your mother’s body, but what you hate more is that it’ll take this decision to figure out just what it was. Your innocence- daughterhood and a sweet virtue, or your hearth- the fight to survive and earn. Living for a little vice.

You’d dream in saturation on these nights, colors crisper than they’ve ever been- even young. You were never sure why the colors were so bright.)

So here you are, another night drawn as a sloppy line under a bar, marking…3 months? Sunrise and sunset look so similar nowadays, and it made the silhouette of an hourglass harder to etch in the tan pages of your moleskin.

However, it did give you more time to sketch out the pub.

The booths pulled the same wood of the wall forward in a curved seat, split by a table and cushioned by yellow pillows- filled with rice, those damn things must have been harder than the booths themselves.

Around them, dark oak tables and creaky chairs- makes any working man feel ten pounds heavier with the way they whine when sat on. A candle and 3 coasters in the center of every round table, beckoning more drinks as the day died. In fact- those wax sticks were everywhere along the tavern- even in a chandelier that dangled above the liquor shelf, occasionally dripping hot tears on the bar.

Just the kind of place you’d expect to see the men you do.

Seedy- dusting in the corner of your bar are built scrawny- diet of yeast and grass evident in the hollow of their back. Mouths they hide from their mothers, hands that hit harder than their fathers. But in the redness of their cheeks- bloated by the sun and the contents you served them- was a weakness.

Masculine insecurity that had them calling you a ‘pretty bitch’. A compliment, but derogatory enough their clam tongue wasn’t revealed under the folds of their shell. No pearl, no wealth- just a common, beached, animal.

“’nother round, for mah fellows, baby.”

You glanced up. Sullen face, grey beard- twisted lips that cracked under ale. He flashed crooked teeth, and you strained a smile, forcing the tired plump of your cheeks to spread. You slipped your journal beneath the bar, taking his cups and filling them until the clouds of foam kissed the rim.

He flipped a couple coins on the counter, and you slid them into your palm.

You sighed, running your tongue along the cast of your teeth. Late hours were so boring- never new- repetitive that even the loud, sudden laughter from that back corner didn’t phase you anymore.

There were no more surprises- because everyone was here.

Ned and his calloused farmer men. Not too much of a hassle, sat in the back and called you names- but let you work. Callum and his wallowing ass in the center tables, nursing his umpteenth glass of the evening ever since his wife left.

And Silas- sweet boy- young and excited to drink. He’s more often than not by himself, drunk silly as he draws. You liked him more than the rest- brother feeling about him. Kinder.

So, it surprises you when the bell rings, well into the night, and he walks in.

Brutish arms- hung by shoulders that nearly reach the door frame. The rest of him was just as big- military fed, you had to assume. Strong jaw, buzzed skull except for a well-trimmed bush down the center. He stood out like a sore thumb, the slender builds of farmer boys a third of the bull that stood in front of you.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, as you heard the laughter behind you hush and Callum’s wallowing come to a lull. He didn’t seem to mind- especially as he made his way to the bar- eyes and smile beguiling- and directed at you.

Now you weren’t easily charmed- but you knew a handsome man when you saw one. It’s the particular weight on their shoulders- making their feet come down heavier and gate smooth.

Nothing wrong with looking at them- just as long as you don’t get too comfortable. Just because they’re clams with nicer shells, maybe even a pearl between clean teeth, doesn’t mean they’re any less washed up.

“Welcome. What can I get’cha tonight.” You offered him the same smile you gave everyone.

“Aye. A pint ‘il do.”

The thick arches of gaelic in his voice caught you off guard. Deep timbers, pine rooted in his throat, leaves lime with humor. It pooled in the back of your mouth- an aftertaste you found yourself liking.

You filled his glass, rolling the shock off your shoulders. “We don’t get many scots ‘n here.”

He chuckled as you handed him a glass, blue eyes unwavering as he took a sip. “Nae? Though’ it’da be fool of ‘em.”

He pulled a genuine laugh out of you- the sound of sarcasm familiar- comforting. “What brings you here.”

“Work.” He said plainly- but the twitch on his knuckle told you he wanted you to ask more.

“Military?”

“What gave ye tha’ idea?”

You hummed, eyes running up his shoulders. You didn’t miss how they squared, conscious under your gaze. “You don’t look like a farmer. Too much of you.”

“Aye, ere’s neva too much of me, darl.”

You sucked in your bottom lip. Charmer.

“So, you are military, then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You idled your hands with one of the many dirty glasses that blistered under old soap studs and dried foam. The rags bumpy fabric prickled your fingers- enough to keep them from trembling when he spoke.

“What branch of the military brings you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most of em.”

Your lips thin to an embarrassed line. Right, of course. “I…guess I’m really asking what branch you are.”

He took another swing of his beer, and you watched as he tipped his jaw back- revealing the catch of his throat as he swallowed. Must have been on purpose- show off. “SAS. On leave, yer place looked tidy,” his eyes gave you a once over, “good tae see ’m right.”

Turning to set the glass down gave you an excuse to avoid his eyes. Demin blue but not casual, deep-set and sharp. Military grade, you could tell by the way they really saw. Accessing you, ran up the hunch of your spine and the click of your wrist- aiming to find spare bullets and threats.

He’d come up empty, though. No, not in you. All he’d find was the jump of your heart against your cervical.

“Mmm,” you offered, “Its cute, I’ll give it that much. Good for the drinks.”

He nodded, “’N maybe somethin more…”

These are the moments when your mother’s voice comes back to you. Thick spit, coarse hair- tangled and suffocating- your lungs sting almost as much as the red print on your cheek.

“Foolish child.”

Your back was turned, so you thought maybe you’d finally been tempting enough to something pretty. That the lilt in his voice, the gravel as it went an octave deeper, accent blooming under light o’s and rolled r’s- meant for your company.

That maybe, the looks you had been told were your only asset, had finally done some good.

You were left disappointed when you turned back around, cheeks a hopeful rose, when his eyes had left you. Instead, past your shoulder, to the red doors.

You’d never seen what was actually behind them, Francesca made sure of that. You could only assume it was the collection of every mans desire painted pretty- shelves of toys, women in bright, expensive lingerie, red lips on rum ones. A childish image, really, but what else were you to do?

In a way, you were just as desperate to get behind those doors as every man here. Not necessarily in the same way- not to satisfy some sick desire, dig up a buried, old arousal that their poor wives didn’t anymore.

No, for you it was to satisfy your own insecurity. Hungry creature, eager to prove and ready to sweat. To be something- pretty, ugly, didn’t matter. As long as you had a place there, you’d be rich.

“Oh, yes,” you let your customer smile come back, editing the script you were given in your head, “pretty gals over there. If you wanted a-“

“Ye work tere?”

You choked on nothing. “What?”

“Do ye work ‘n ta brothel?”

Genuine curiosity. Maybe he was hiding something else behind thin lips, but the question came out too casual for its boldness that you wouldn’t’ve caught it. You found yourself unsure in your own body, standing stiff as your bones questioned whether to lean, sit, or run.

You chose none of the three, and instead you spoke.

“No.” Not yet. You wanted to add. He hummed, taking a last swig of his pint before placing the cup on the table with a…hefty tip. You opened your mouth to say something, but when your eyes met his you were quickly hushed.

Ripped denim, now razor blue. The yellow of the lights seemed to bring it out, and if you weren’t confident he had killed a man, you were now.

“Shame,” he said, standing, “Such a bloody waste.”

#john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny soap mctavish x you #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #john soap x reader #soap cod #soap x reader #soap mw2 #soap call of duty #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod #cod x reader

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bottledupcomic · 10 months

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Making Sorrel a fiend for sweets was the best decision

#bottled up #sorrel #kirsikka #art

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peachesofteal · 11 months

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okayyyy so now i need an entire DD fantasy au…

peach, every piece of your writing is like freshly baked bread, and i am a starving peasant. you are my god.

dead disco is eating my brain.

- 🧟‍♀️

🧟‍♀️ Anon is referencing this. Same. I wish I had more time to write, I could totally take this and run with it. 🖤 🖤 I will feed you as much bread as I can.

“What- what’re you going to do with me?” You try to brace your voice with strength, bravery, anything to try to hide the truth, disguise the fear that has your hands shaking in your dress.

“We’re takin ye home, Princess.” You gape at the Highlander, the one who Introduced himself as Johnny. He tightens the girth on a sweet, sorrel pony, who nickers at you softly.

“But I am home.” You gesture to the castle that lurks behind you, and Ghost scoffs.

“You belong to us, darling. And that-“ he points at the gate. “Wasn’t much a home for you, now was it?” The image of your father being hacked to pieces by the violent stroke of his sword rips across your mind, and you shudder.

“Alright. Shall we?” Johnny motions to the pony, and you blanch.

“I don’t ride.” Your stomach knots, twisting up more than you thought possible, after everything. “I don’t- I’ve always taken a carriage.” They exchange a look, some sort of silent communication passing between the two, a deep connection that somehow manages to make you feel like an intruder, even those these are the two who ransacked your land and killed your father.

“Ye’ll ride with me then.” Johnny tells you gently, bending with a palm forward.

“I-“ The protest is in vain, and you know it. There’s no one here, to come to your rescue, no one to save you. Your own home is drenched in blood.

“Up ye get.” His hand hovers in the air by your knee, encouraging you to use it as a step, you think. But no, surely not? He couldn’t… support you. With one hand. You stand on indecision, looking from him, to the horse, to the ground. “Darling.” He murmurs softly, gentle under his breath.

It’s time.” Ghost calls, hoisting himself up onto a massive, shiny black horse that stands double your height, if not more.

“Princess.” Johnny urges. “Dinnae make me force ye onto the horse.” He’s serious, and you gulp against the cold wind that whips through your bones.

Only a few hours in, and you’re in agony. Your body is soft, not conditioned for long rides or hunts, muscles soft and skin nearly silk. Every step the horse makes feels like it may knock you off balance, bones in your back screaming at you with each jostle. Johnny tries to hold you steady, keeping you close to him, pressed to his chest, but it does little to help your discomfort. He steadies you with a hand on your hip, slowly sliding around to press against your lower belly, shifting you back into the shelter of his body, his warmth.

“Ye alright?” He murmurs into your ear, tucking your cloak tighter around your shoulders. “Ye’re shivering.”

“It’s cold.” You whisper, not even sure if he can hear you. He rubs your upper arm, squeezing it to try to work blood flow back into your skin.

“Ay.” He yells to Ghost, who’s in front, and they both pull up short. The black horse moves frighteningly quick alongside you, and Ghost studies your stricken expression intently behind the mask.

“Let’s get her into town. We can stop at the Inn for the night.” He tells Johnny, who pulls you tighter into his body.

“It’s about another hour, Darling. Think ye can make it?”

“It’s not safe, camping in these woods.” Ghost supplies as an explanation gently, and you nod.

“O-okay.”

“Good girl.”

At the end of the hour, you’re on the verge of tears. It’s frigid, you’re stiff in the saddle, legs and back and everything uncooperative, thigh muscles completely raw from trying to hold your seat.

“Easy now.” Johnny coos when he slips down, trying to encourage you to swing your leg over and follow his lead. When you try, a whimper slips free between your lips, and his brows crease in concern.

“I can’t.”

“Oh, darling.” He slides an arm around your waist, pulling you down into his chest, and you stifle a pained moan, face pressing into the warmth of his cloak. “Let’s get ye inside, out of the cold.” He holds you with ease, tucking you tighter amidst the little whimpers that are still slipping from your chattering teeth.

#🧟‍♀️ anon #peaches asks #dead disco fantasy au #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #female reader

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seasaltpip · 8 months

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tested a theory about sorrel's vibes being a little...different as a lalafell/halfling and then with hyur proportions. terrifyingly, he was just a man all along. he's even a grad student. please unstretch immediately.

#little annoying guy. kind of endearing. average sized annoying guy. evil. expel him.#sweet sorrel #my ocs #swete sorel

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alexiethymia · 10 months

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a flower by any other name would taste as poisonous

A butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane happens in a far-off place.

In this case an old eunuch decides to take a different route from his usual one. It takes him by the Garnet Palace, where he’s just in time to stop a loving attendant from feeding an infant a spoonful of honey. Sufficiently warned, the attendant never bears the crushing weight of guilt for the rest of her life.

The infant still dies though. It’s nothing surprising. Infants before a certain age would always be vulnerable and susceptible to natural illnesses. It is no one’s fault.

If the child still died though, what did this change? Surprisingly, a lot.

Eight years later a boy is crying after having a favorite toy taken from him once again.

A girl, merely a year younger than him, asks him in a dispassionate tone where it hurts.

Startled, the boy stops crying. Eyes shining, he looks at this girl who resembles a wood sorrel and decides she’s his new favorite.

How is it that those two seemingly random encounters could lead to this particular scene, one resembling a painting?

On one side, an existence like a celestial nymph, voice of sweet honey, a beauty that could topple nations if he so wished.

One would think that no one could compare, and yet the beauty on the other side was not overshadowed. She was a vision no less stunning for she was once known as a top courtesan of the pleasure district.

It was perhaps fortunate that no one was a witness to this display for no one could hope to count how many hapless victims would be felled by such visions of loveliness.

As to what these beauties were doing, no one could have guessed for in between them stood a single Go board.

tap

“I must admit that while I was expecting a visit from his Imperial highness soon, I didn’t think it would be for this.”

The celestial nymph flushed.

“Apologies for taking some of your precious time, Feng Xian-dono.”

tap

The unfettered beauty took her time deciding her next move. The man who was also called Jinshi did not fool himself into thinking it was because he was a worthy opponent. Although he was used to using his excellent looks as a weapon, why is it that before this woman he felt as if he were merely a mouse being played with? A finely sculpted brow conveyed enough with one gesture. He felt as if he were playing two games at the same time.

“And? What is so important that the Prince of the Moon felt the need to risk Lakan’s wrath to come here? Why, you even roped Lahan into this plan of yours.” The cold beauty didn’t smile but he had a sense that she was amused.

Jinshi wondered. Did he rope Lahan or did that miser rope him? It didn’t matter. Shaking his head, he hoped he was equally composed when he answered, “I must admit it was that esteemed personage’s recommendation that sent me your way. Aside from him, only you could fight on equal ground with our honored strategist.”

tap

Seemingly bored but only just, such that she could not be accused of disrespecting him, his opponent continued her queries, “And? Surely, you don’t hope to best that girl at a game of Go? She has utterly no interest at the game. It’s a wonder if she takes after us at all. I often wonder how she came to be so uncute, though of course Lakan would disagree.”

Jinshi would as well. Or to be more accurate, he both agreed and disagreed. While that girl was often distant, on the whole he could not help but find her adorable.

And from the shadow of a smile he could spy on his opponent’s face, he gathered that she was much the same, and could only dote on her daughter in this roundabout way. Although parent and child both claimed no similarity, he thought in this manner you could not doubt their familial tie.

Likewise with her father, though she only had disdain for the man (not that it would stop that eccentric’s entreaties to be called Papa from happening, thought Jinshi with a shiver). He’ll leave it up to Gaoshun to commiserate.

That wary cat only showed affection for her honored grand uncle. In much the same way, as much as she protested, she and her sire were a lot alike. There was also their utter disinterest in anyone ordinary and unexceptional.

Like him.

Any other family would have accepted just by virtue of who he was. But it mattered not to this particular family who cared not for prestige or power. This family was content to keep to itself and occupied with its members’ various obsessions. Rather than consider it an honor to be connected to the noble line of the rulers of this nation, Jinshi thought that Lakan rather saw him as some annoying fly.

And for that annoying fly to not only buzz around his beloved daughter but also to dare be in the proximity of his beloved wife, the only two people that eccentric fawned over and adored with all his heart, ah surely this was a perilous gamble indeed.

But for an ordinary person like Jinshi, no Ka Zui Getsu, this was the only thing he could do.

Ironic that when he wanted it most, he could not rely on this excellent appearance of his, the only thing extraordinary about him. This family cared not a whit for that. At first he had wondered why that apothecary continued to be unaffected by him, but to have someone like this for a mother, he realizes she must have already been bored by the sight. (She had actually scoffed at him after they had seen each other once again in the rear palace.)

It left him scrambling, but also strangely relieved.

“It’s not that I want to best her. At most I hope to be on equal footing.” Slightly abashed, he shakes his head. “In truth, it is our honored strategist whom I wish to have a match with. Though it may be impossible, the Sage tells me my best hope lie with the only person to have bested the Grand Commandant more times than even him.”

Seemingly intrigued if the slight lifting of one brow indicated such, the once courtesan inquired, “Oh? And to what end if I may ask?”

How to answer.

Grappling with something in himself, Jinshi finally admitted, “Merely to be acknowledged, I suppose. To be seen and recognized.”

To be accepted.

By whom, his companion seemed content not to ask if the curl of her mouth was any indication.

Maomao had often complained (though she would deny it with a blank look if asked) in a bland tone that she thought she must surely be adopted by the one she called father, for surely she had no resemblance to this beauty in front of him. Chicken bones she called herself. (Incidentally, she was adamant that she was not ugly enough to be related to the fox. She was, in her own view, perfectly normal. Jinshi almost spat out his tea upon hearing this if only it wasn’t unbefitting his station.)

But seeing what could pass for an amused look on this normally expressionless face, Jinshi for the first time in front of another great beauty, blushed for he could only see traces of the one he yearned for in this visage.

Truly, they were mother and daughter indeed.

He was caught in a daydream of a scene years into the future, with Maomao dressed in such finery, of when he could finally lavish her with all his attentions as he pleased.

tap

The harsh clack of the Go stones brought him back from his musings and his attention onto the board. Upon seeing how he was completely dominated, he let out a deep sigh.

“A long way to go, your highness.”

As if echoing his thoughts, an imperious voice declared his resounding defeat. If not for the twinkle in her eye he could detect, he would no doubt feel as if he was not even worth the heel of her shoe, never mind that he was the current Imperial heir. Distantly, he wonders if this was the sight that bewitched and entrapped that eccentric so long ago.

Privately laughing at his own folly, he decides he was no better for it was the same look from that tiny wood sorrel that sealed his fate. Flowers could heal, but they could also be poisonous. He knew better than most. No matter. Regardless of the outcome, he would swallow her whole.

Truly there was a long way to go before he could turn that dream into anything close to reality. He doesn’t mind tasting defeat again and again for the chance of victory one day.

Once more, he resets the board.

notes:

Jinshi and the Imperial brother are still switched at birth so he still doesn’t know who he really is.

The imperial brother still dies in infancy but not so soon after his birth. Since Luomen manages to stop the honey incident, the tragedy with Aduo’s head maidservant doesn’t happen later on. He doesn’t get punished nor does he get driven out.

Because he doesn’t get driven out, Lakan isn’t pressured into a military expedition to reclaim the honor of the family. He manages to redeem Feng Xian immediately.

Lakan still somehow ends up the head since his younger brother doesn’t really see himself suited to the position. He still ends up taking the headship from his father probably because Feng Xian was insulted or something and he wants to spoil her. His father and sister-in-law probably still end up leaving on their own like in the original timeline rather than being driven away. One way or another, Maomao, Rahan and Rahan-nii end up being raised together.

Maomao is still the same. Sure, she’s raised as a noble lady but she still spends half of her life at the pleasure district with Feng Xian, her sisters and penny-pinching granny. I doubt Lakan would stop them since this isn’t a conventional family after all.

Luomen probably sneaks in town undercover to still be an apothecary for those who might need it most, with Maomao accompanying him.

Since Maomao is raised as a noble, one way or another she ends up as Jinshi’s playmate. Of course, Jinshi still ends up attached. And of course Lakan puts a stop to it as soon as he can. It doesn’t have anything to do with any political maneuvering. He’s just an overprotective papa.

Maomao still ends up in the rear palace, this time as Luomen’s apprentice so of course she ends up crossing paths with Jinshi once again when they’re older.

And so the adventures of the young prince and apothecary still continue, fates still intertwined.

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some-messed-up-writing-for-you · 9 months

Text

"Floral Affections" - Part 3

GN!Reader x Plant Monster

CW: nothing, it's just fluff <3.

Part 1 | Previous Part

~~~~

Snip after snip, your shears never failed as you finished trimming one of the rose bushes. The dead flowers and leaves you’d gathered crinkled together in their bucket as you carried it around, doing one last check around the garden.

After picking up a few stray twigs and ensuring you hadn’t missed anything else, you called it a day. Feelings of both relief and dread filled you. It was time to place the gift for Lord Sorrel somewhere, but you had yet to pick a spot. You needed to be certain that he’d see it, after all!

You had spent a great amount of time fretting over what plant to pick yesterday, your overthinking stretching well into the evening. It wasn’t until you were cutting fresh herbs for dinner that you finally realized the answer had been right under your nose all along.

Fennel – a flowering herb with many umbels of lively, yellow flowers. Its fine, and numerous leaves tickled anytime your skin brushed against them.

Looking back on it, you thought it ridiculous how you hadn’t chosen it sooner when the damn plant easily reached above your hip. It certainly wasn’t hiding from you!

But with your embarrassment at the needless worry aside, it was perfect. It would clearly speak of your flattery at the lord’s open interest in your person. You only hoped the clay pot you’d placed it in would be good enough, as you didn’t have anything quite as fancy as he did.

The pot was simple and bare, save for a golden ribbon you had tied around it. Normally, you would’ve cut the flowers and presented them in a bouquet, but your intuition whispered otherwise. And with your initials written on the pot’s inner side, there would be no doubt in Lord Sorrel’s mind of what you were doing.

But now, back in the present, your nerves were rising. Trying to keep your cool, you began gathering your tools, trying to distract yourself with the satisfaction of the day’s completed work.

Unluckily for you, this reprieve didn’t last long as a familiar, soft voice approached you.

“Hello, dear,” the lord greeted, his sweet smile making your heart roar like sudden thunder. “Done for the day already? I feel like we never have a chance to enjoy conversing.”

“H-Hello, my lord,” you replied, a little flustered at his sudden appearance. “Work certainly keeps us busy, doesn’t it?”

He gave a soft sigh. “That it does. But who can handle working all the time? I believe that a break is in order.” He eyed you a bit, speaking softer. “So perhaps… you’d be interested in joining me for breakfast tomorrow?”

You were surprised by the offer but even more so when the plantman took a step closer and muttered, “You do such splendid work around here. I feel as though I do not show my appreciation nearly enough.”

“O-Oh! Well, uh–” you stumbled over your words, unable to look away as his tall stature loomed over you. Sunlight beamed behind him, casting his face in a delicate shade, but shined through the petals surrounding his head, creating a mesmerizing halo-like effect.

“I-I– I would love to!” you eventually got out. The smile he gave in return almost knocked you out right then and there.

“Excellent~.” Lord Sorrel finally moved back, giving you some breathing room. “In that case, I shall see you tomorrow, my dear. Have a splendid rest of your day.”

“L-Likewise! Until tomorrow, my lord!”

With the plan made and the conversation over, the lord retreated into the gardens, giving you the perfect opportunity to scurry away. You quickly made your way to the shed, putting all the tools away and taking a moment to calm down.

You had not been expecting that in the slightest, but perhaps it was a good sign? Whatever it may be, you grabbed the fennel plant you had hidden here earlier this morning. It was time.

Carefully navigating through the many plants and flowering bushes, you snuck to the mansion’s back door. It was the perfect spot to place your gift. Lord Sorrel would no doubt pass through here later once he was back from the garden.

You gently set the pot down and then hightailed it back home, giddy and nervous about what the next day would bring. And it was no surprise at all that, in your excitement, you missed something vital.

Your sneaking hadn’t been as good as you had thought, though it wasn’t really a fault of your own.

Lord Sorrel watched your retreating form until you left his sight, his own heart beating like a drum as he approached the door. He just couldn’t help himself. The smell of fennel had been so strong on you that his patience withered in seconds. He was thrilled.

With careful claws, he picked up the plant and thumbed the soft bow, enjoying the texture before his hand went higher, gliding through the leaves and stems. Once the flowers reached his face, he took a deep breath, the scent bringing a bashful, happy smile to his lips.

The lord’s excitement was beyond words; you had understood his message! Ideas were already spinning in his head at the implications; some… a bit too much for him to handle. Images of you flashed across his mind… stunningly on display... laid bare across a blanket of grass and moss…

He shook his head, banishing the enticing thoughts. However, the petals of his head refused to stop their gleeful fluttering, moving in sharp fanning motions.

Still, he had to focus. He wasn’t completely sure yet if you reciprocated his feelings. Flattery didn’t equal interest, after all.

As he slowly walked inside his home, he wondered what to give you next. “Tomorrow will be the perfect opportunity… Should I…?”

An idea struck him suddenly, drawing a gasp from his lips. “Yes…” he whispered, almost breathless. His petals curled with thrill and nerves. “That one should do nicely…”

#writeblr #writing #short story #story #terato #monster fucker #human x plant monster #human x monster #smuwfy #some messed up writing for you

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