Hii, I love your writing so much, I just discovered your account and omg I just binged the entirety of it!!
Would you ever write a period piece, like something inspired by medieval times. Because, imagine Mark as a lowborn knight devoted to protecting the court's only female alchemist. They have mind-boggling sex and fall in love, duh. But, the reader's accused of performing witchcraft. So, she's sentenced to death. AND Mark's ordered to excecute her!
the mercy in his life
summary: accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death, you face execution by the knight sworn to protect you. but what the crowd doesn’t know is that he’s hiding a dangerous secret — and a desperate plan to save you.
pairing: knight!mark x alchemist!fem reader
genre: historical, romance, drama, angst, smut, forbidden love
warnings: explicit sexual content, public execution themes, religious and political persecution, emotional distress, betrayal, sacrifice, mention of blood, decapitation, manipulation of identity for escape.
you belonged in the shadows of the stone walls, where the air smelled of burnt sage and old parchment. where your hands, stained with crushed herbs and soot, crafted remedies for nobles who never looked you in the eye. you weren’t a lady, not by their measure—you didn’t wear silk, didn’t smile for men who thought your intelligence was a novelty. you were a necessity. useful. quiet. invisible.
until he came.
sir mark lee wasn’t supposed to speak to you. he was a knight—lowborn, yes, like you, but carved into legend by the steel in his grip and the loyalty in his gaze. they said he once felled a man twice his size for threatening the prince. they said his sword was blessed by god himself.
but he didn’t look like a legend when he stood in your chamber that night, armor scratched from battle, blood crusted at his temple. he looked human. lost.
“the healer’s too far,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “they told me you could help.”
you remember the tremble of his body beneath your fingers as you cleaned the wound. how he watched your hands—not your face, not your figure, but your hands, like they held power.
“it’ll scar,” you told him, not knowing why you felt the need to speak softly. “but you’ll live.”
“then i owe you my life.”
he meant it.
after that, he returned often—always under the pretense of bruises and shallow wounds, always after dark. sometimes he didn’t even knock. just appeared in your doorway, breathless from training or battle, eyes searching the dim room until they found you.
“it’s quiet here,” he once said, the first night he stayed too long. “i can breathe.”
you didn’t touch each other. not yet. but the air between you grew heavy with want. every word he spoke lingered too long. every glance left your skin hot. he began to bring you things—dried rose petals, rare vials, broken relics from the battlefield. once, he placed a single golden pin in your palm. “it reminded me of you,” he said, and didn’t explain why.
you never wore it.
but you kept it in a drawer, where your fingers found it on restless nights.
because there was something unspoken between you—something dangerous. it curled beneath your skin like flame, threatening to devour you whole. you knew what it meant to be seen by a man like him. you knew what the court would say.
a knight and a witch, they’d whisper.
a blade and a curse.
they’d burn you for it.
but still, you let him return.
you let him look at you like that.
you let him touch your hand one night, when neither of you spoke, and the fire burned low, and the only sound was the trembling of your breath.
you didn’t stop him when his lips brushed your knuckles.
you didn’t stop him when they found you.
the night he kissed you, you thought it was a mistake.
he was half-drunk on pain and exhaustion, slouched in the wooden chair by your hearth. his armor lay discarded by the door, his tunic undone at the collar. the firelight carved golden edges into his face, highlighting the bruise along his jaw and the shadow beneath his cheekbone.
you stood beside him, grinding herbs in a small stone bowl, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed you.
but you did.
“you should sleep,” you said, not looking at him. your voice was soft, too soft.
“i should,” he agreed.
he didn’t move.
you turned. “mark—”
“say that again.”
you blinked. “what?”
“my name. like that.”
you swallowed. “mark.”
his lips parted slightly, like it surprised him. like he hadn’t realized how much he wanted it.
“it sounds… holy. when you say it.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and you could feel the shift in the air—thick, charged.
“don’t say that,” you murmured, heart pounding.
“why not?”
“because i’m not holy.”
he smiled, slow and reverent. “i know. that’s why i come back.”
his fingers brushed yours. just barely. but it was enough to make you ache.
you could have pulled away. you should have.
instead, you set the bowl down and let your hand rest on his.
“this is dangerous,” you whispered, though your body leaned into the gravity of his.
his other hand came up to your waist—hesitant, warm, trembling slightly. “so is war. i still ride into it.”
you stood between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him. his gaze dropped to your lips. lingered.
“tell me to stop,” he said. “and i will.”
you didn’t.
so he kissed you.
slow at first, like a secret. his lips moved gently against yours, searching, learning. he tasted like wine and fire and something softer—something only you had ever touched.
your hands curled into his hair, pulling him closer. he stood, lifting you with him, mouth never leaving yours. your back hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. your breath caught when he pressed against you—his body solid, needy.
“you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured against your throat. “i dream about you.”
you gasped as his hands slid beneath your layers of cloth, palms hot against your waist, your hips.
“i think about you when i train,” he whispered, teeth grazing your collarbone. “when i’m bleeding. when i’m praying.”
his voice broke slightly. “i want you more than i want heaven.”
you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in his warmth. “then take me.”
he paused, forehead pressed to yours. “are you sure?”
you kissed him like an answer.
and he unraveled.
he lifted you easily, carrying you to the cot as if you weighed nothing. his kisses grew desperate—needy—his hands shaking as he undressed you. he looked at you like you were something sacred and forbidden, something he should fall to his knees before. and when he finally slid inside you, slow and deep, you swore you saw stars.
he held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. moved inside you like he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every tremor in your body.
“look at me,” he whispered. “please, look at me.”
you did.
and what you saw in his eyes was not lust. it was devotion.
pure. aching. terrifying.
like he’d burn the world for this.
like he already had.
he undresses you like he’s learning you.
his fingers move slowly over the laces of your bodice, undoing each one with reverence, his eyes fixed on your skin as it’s revealed inch by inch. he doesn't rush. doesn’t speak. he only breathes—deep and controlled, as though he's afraid the moment will vanish if he moves too fast.
“you’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing your bare shoulder with the back of his hand.
“so are you.”
his lips press to your collarbone, warm and tender. “i’ve never wanted anything this much.”
your chemise slips down your arms and pools at your feet. he steps back for a moment—not to admire, but to steady himself. to feel the weight of seeing you bare in front of him for the first time. your nipples are hard from the cold, your thighs pressed together in shyness.
mark steps in close, his hands finding your hips, his mouth returning to yours—hungrier now. he kisses you like a man who’s been starved. tongue sliding past your lips, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other slips down, down—
until it finds the heat between your legs.
you gasp into his mouth.
his fingers are rough from swordwork, but careful—featherlight as he brushes through your folds, slow and teasing.
“fuck,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are. “is that all for me?”
you nod, breath shaky.
“say it.”
“it’s for you,” you whisper. “it’s always been for you.”
he groans, sinking to his knees.
and that—that sight alone nearly makes you come. the court’s golden knight, down on the floor, pulling your thighs apart like a man possessed. he looks up at you once, lips swollen, eyes dark.
“hold on to something,” he says. “i’m not stopping.”
and he doesn’t.
his tongue finds your clit instantly—circling, sucking, flicking in just the right rhythm while two fingers slide into your dripping heat. the stretch is perfect, obscene, your body grinding against his face without shame.
you cry out his name. over and over.
“mark—mark, please—fuck—”
he moans into you like he’s savoring the taste. his fingers curl inside you, stroking your sweet spot until your thighs shake around his head. you come fast—too fast—your body clenching hard, legs trembling, and still, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it with his mouth and fingers, coaxing every drop of pleasure out of you until you’re whimpering, begging—
“please, mark, i need you inside me. now.”
he’s already halfway undressed. you help him push his pants down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking.
you reach for him, wrapping a hand around the base.
“you’re big,” you whisper, almost dazed.
he chuckles low in his throat. “you can take it. i’ll go slow.”
he lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds until your hips buck.
“ready?”
“yes. please—mark—”
he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you open so deeply, so sweetly, your head falls back against the pillow. your mouth drops open in a silent cry. he groans, gripping your thigh.
“fuck—you’re so tight. so warm.”
he bottoms out, stays there for a second, trembling above you.
“you feel like home,” he breathes.
you lift your hips to urge him deeper, and he starts to move—slow thrusts, deep and measured, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. one of his hands slides under your back to pull you closer, chest to chest.
“look at me,” he says again. “i need to see you.”
you do. and it nearly breaks you.
the way he stares—like you’re salvation and sin all at once. like he’d die in your arms if you asked.
he picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, your bodies slapping together as your moans fill the room. you wrap your legs around his waist, and he fucks you deeper, faster, panting against your neck.
“i love you,” you whisper, breath caught between sobs of pleasure.
he freezes for half a second.
then he slams into you—hard—and groans against your throat.
“say it again.”
“i love you,” you repeat, louder this time. “i love you, mark—”
he thrusts faster, wild now, hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. it takes seconds before you’re coming again—clenching around him, gasping as your vision goes white.
“gonna come,” he growls, voice wrecked. “inside you. can i—?”
“yes,” you gasp. “mark, fill me, please—”
he groans your name as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically, cock pulsing deep inside. he kisses you through it—your lips, your cheeks, your temple—as if trying to brand himself into your skin.
when it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, your hearts beating like war drums.
he stays buried inside you, still hard, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
“i’ve never had anything this real,” he whispers against your skin. “not until you.”
he stayed until morning.
you woke with your leg draped over his hip, his nose buried in your neck, his hand still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even in sleep. the fire had burned out hours ago, but the warmth of his body—solid, steady—wrapped around you like a promise.
you stayed quiet for a long time. breathing him in.
you didn’t want to be the first to speak.
“i thought it was a dream,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “i’ve had so many.”
your fingers moved slowly through his hair. “this one’s real.”
he shifted, just enough to kiss your shoulder. “then let me stay in it. just a little longer.”
and he did. he stayed the whole day.
he made you tea. kissed you between sips. traced the curve of your hip with calloused fingers while you told him about the healing properties of dried rosemary. you watched the way he listened—truly listened—as if every word you spoke mattered more than any prayer, any sword, any oath.
you didn’t say the word love.
but it bloomed quietly in the room. in the touch of his hand on your back. in the way he kissed your ankle before laying you down again, mouth warm and reverent on your skin.
he knelt between your thighs like a man come to worship.
his tongue found you slowly—wet, careful, patient. he groaned when you moaned, gripping your thighs as if the sound alone undid him. he didn’t stop until your voice broke on his name, until your legs trembled and you begged him—desperately, breathlessly—to come inside you.
and when he did, it wasn’t rushed. it was slow, aching. he slid in deep and held your face in his hands like you might shatter if he didn’t.
“you feel like sin,” he whispered, “and i’d choose you anyway. every time.”
you kissed him to quiet the sob that rose in your throat.
because you knew. even then.
love like this wasn’t meant to last.
after that night, he returned as often as he could. not just with bruises or offerings—but with longing. with need.
“i missed you,” he’d whisper, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands. “days feel longer when i’m not inside you.”
and you’d undress him by candlelight, kiss the scar by his hip, feel him grow hard against your belly as you whispered your own confessions.
“i wait for you,” you’d admit. “i sleep in your shirt. i read your letters again and again.”
he’d bury himself in you like he could protect you from the world. he’d fuck you slowly some nights, eyes locked to yours, hand between your legs, breath hot on your ear. other nights he’d take you against the table, desperate and rough, your skirt bunched at your waist, his mouth muffling your moans.
but always—always—he held you after.
as if his body was your shield.
as if he could keep the world away.
but the world was not kind.
not to people like you.
you noticed the whispers first. the way the maids avoided your eyes. the way the king’s advisor lingered too long outside your door.
one morning, mark arrived later than usual. blood on his sword, panic in his eyes.
“they’re watching you.”
your hands trembled. “who?”
he stepped forward, gripping your shoulders. “the council. they’ve seen the relics you’ve been studying. the salves you’ve made. they think it’s unnatural.”
“it is natural,” you said, voice cracking. “it’s chemistry. observation. logic.”
“they don’t care.” his voice broke. “they’ve seen the burn marks on your fingers. the powders. the symbols in your notes.”
you stared at him. “you think they’ll accuse me?”
he looked like he was about to fall to his knees. “they already have.”
the night before your sentence, he came to you in secret.
the guards let him in without a word. his rank allowed it. no one questioned why a knight would want a final word with the woman he’d been ordered to kill.
you were sitting on the floor, your ankles shackled, your wrists raw from the chains.
he fell to his knees in front of you.
“don’t speak,” you whispered. “just hold me.”
and he did.
his hands shook as he undid your binds. his lips found your temple, your cheeks, your mouth. he kissed your tears away and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear the distance. like his arms were the only place you had left to live.
you kissed him back—desperate, hungry, grieving.
when he lifted you into his arms and laid you down on the stone floor, neither of you cared that the world was ending outside that cell.
his body hovered over yours, his eyes soaked in pain and reverence.
“if this is the last time,” he said, voice cracking, “i want you to remember how i loved you.”
“show me.”
and he did.
his hands moved over you feverishly, like he needed to memorize every inch before they took you away. his mouth worshiped you—biting, kissing, licking everywhere he could reach.
he fucked you with a kind of despair that bled into every stroke—slow, hard, deep. he held your face the whole time. kissed you between every thrust. whispered your name like it was the last word he'd ever speak.
your nails clawed down his back, your bodies slapping in a rhythm more desperate than gentle.
“come for me,” he begged. “i need to feel it. please—please.”
you did, gasping, sobbing, breaking open beneath him.
he followed with a cry—buried inside you, body shaking, moaning your name like a prayer that wouldn’t save him.
after, he didn’t move. just held you.
and when dawn broke, he whispered three words into your hair:
“i have a plan.”
the air in the square feels carved from iron.
it’s barely morning, but already the sky is bruised, heavy with smoke and dust, the sun hidden behind low, churning clouds. the crowd gathers thick around the platform—commoners, merchants, guards, even a few nobles lining the edge in muted colors, whispering beneath their veils. no one dares to speak too loud. no one dares to look away.
up on the scaffold, a girl kneels.
she wears only a thin, off-white chemise—something that might’ve once been undergarments, now soaked from the morning dew, clinging to her body like a final insult. her hands are bound behind her back, and a coarse burlap sack has been pulled over her head. it covers her face completely, as if even in death, the sight of her is too much to bear.
beside her stands a knight.
armor polished. back straight. face unreadable.
mark.
he looks at the girl in silence for a moment longer than he should have.
his grip on the sword tightens.
then he speaks.
his voice carries across the square like a knife’s edge—sharp, clear, final.
“by order of the royal council, for the crimes of blasphemy, defiance of divine law, and the practice of forbidden arts…” he pauses. just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath. “(y/n), the court’s former alchemist, is hereby sentenced to death.”
some gasp. others cry.
but mark doesn’t blink.
he raises the sword above his head, perfectly still.
for a second—just a second—the wind seems to die.
and then the blade comes down.
a thud. a sharp cry from somewhere in the crowd. the body slumps forward, lifeless.
blood stains the wooden boards.
“the sentence has been carried out,” mark announces, stepping back from the fallen figure. “the accused is dead.”
the crowd erupts.
some cheer. some cross themselves. others simply watch in stunned silence as two guards approach to drag the limp body away.
mark turns, slowly, descending the scaffold with heavy steps. his face remains hard. unreadable. dutiful.
but behind his eyes, something burns.
and far beyond the square—beyond the walls, past the fields, deep in the cover of the forest—
a single horse races down a dirt path.
its hooves hammer the ground with desperate speed, mud flying, breath steaming in the cold air. tied to the back is a plain wooden carriage, bouncing wildly with every turn.
inside, hidden beneath layers of cloth, you lie curled on your side.
your fingers tremble as you pull back a layer of thick linen. the scent of earth and damp wood fills your lungs. the sky outside is blurry through the slats—branches whip past, wind howling like something feral. you clutch a dark cloak to your chest, still warm from the body that gave it to you.
from him.
you blink rapidly, eyes burning.
outside, a voice yells above the storm.
“hyah! go! faster, damn it—go!”
you know that voice.
donghyuck.
you remember the way he came to you in the dead of night, face pale, breath fast. don’t speak, he’d said. just trust him. trust me.
you hadn’t asked questions.
you’d only run.
and now you’re here, hidden among herbs and straw, body aching from the cold, alive—alive—while the crowd back in the village still believes you’re rotting on the scaffold.
you press a hand over your mouth as the realization strikes.
he lied.
he gave them a body. not yours.
he gave them a sentence. not your death.
he gave you a chance.
you gasp, swallowing down a sob, but it’s too late—the tears come hard and fast, hot against your cheeks. your fingers dig into the fabric of the cloak, desperate for something to hold onto, something that still smells like him.
you twist slightly, pulling the curtain back with trembling fingers.
and through the trees, barely visible in the distance, you see it—
the dark spire of the church tower. the same one that watched over your execution. the same one that now rings hollow bells into the sky.
you stare at it, eyes full of tears, heart breaking.
“mark…”
you whisper it like a prayer. like a farewell.
you know you won’t see him again.
you know he gave everything to save you—his oath, his honor, his life as he knew it. and he stayed behind, sword still dripping, face still carved from stone.
for you.
the carriage races on, carrying you further and further into the unknown.
and you, hidden beneath it all, turn your face to the past.
and cry.
