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kissesz · 6 months ago

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𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

caitlyn kiramman x f!reader

warnings: see above, mdni. this is nothing but pwp. f!sub!reader. dom!caitlyn. mean!caitlyn. but it's soft. she's only a little mean. also a little flawed but like, who isn't? semi-toxic it is then. she's very sorry you guys are making up later. vaginal fingering. cunnilingus. orgasm denial (1x). biting. p.s. english is not my first language, please bear with my struggling.

read part 2 here

notes: first post, hi! if you love women as much as i do, consider sticking around! this was requested (and encouraged to post) by one of my dearest friends, em. i'll love you always. and to my sweetest readers who managed to make it this far, i cherish each and every one of you, stay wonderful. feel free to comment your thoughts, shoot me a message, i'm all ears.

(repost because i fucked up the formatting, whoops.)

Two rapid knocks on your door after the clock has struck two only meant a single thing as of late.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

A woman you grew to hold close and dear in the depths of your heart. She’s shining prestige wrapped in affluence and grace with sugared kindness that blooms a warmth in your chest. The concept of the unattainable envisioned by the masses. She’s soft with affection where she ought to be, sharp and cold where it benefits her.

And yet, here she was. At your doorstep, at this ungodly hour, like clockwork.

You didn’t know when, exactly, this became routine. Perhaps it began with stolen glances across crowded rooms, or fleeting conversations that swirled around in your mind far longer than they should have. Caitlyn had always been a topic of interest to you, carefully composed, her smiles perfectly rehearsed, her every move designed to captivate. And yet, somewhere along the way, she let you see behind the curtain. Not all at once, but inch by inch, until you could no longer remember how you managed to hold her at arm’s length to begin with.

Maybe it was the night she showed up on your doorstep for the first time, instead of you on hers, drenched from the rain, the mask of elegance she wore so well slightly cracked. You’d never seen her like that before: vulnerable, desperate for a moment of reprieve. She didn’t say why she came to you, but she didn’t have to. The answer was in the way her voice trembled when she finally spoke, in the way she clung to you like you were the only stable thing in a world determined to break her.

You should’ve questioned it. Should’ve hesitated before letting her in, before letting her slip past your defenses so easily. But you didn’t. Instead, you simply held her, murmured quiet reassurances against her temple as she exhaled shakily into your collarbone. As if you were someone she could turn to. As if you were hers to seek comfort in.

Or maybe it wasn’t one defining moment at all. Maybe it was the accumulation of a thousand small gestures: the way she reached for your hand without thinking, or how she never left your side without making sure you felt safe. The way her laughter softened in your presence, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear. The way her fingertips brushed against yours in passing, always lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. The way her eyes sought you out first in every room, as if to silently ask, Are you alright? before anyone else even considered it.

You didn’t ask for her affection, and yet, here she was—woven into your life so tightly that you couldn’t imagine untangling her, even if you wanted to.

Now, she stood patient. Draped in a tailored fur-lined coat that framed her figure like it belonged in a gallery. Gold glinted in the low light—her jewelry, her dress, the faint shimmer of her makeup, all intentionally resembling starlit skies. Even in the dead of night, where most fall victim to obscurity, she was truly flawless.

You had tried, once, to ignore it—to turn away from the soft tap of her knuckles against your door, to pretend you didn’t care whether she came or not. That resolve had crumbled the moment she spoke your name through the threshold, hushed and laced with something dangerously close to yearning.

And so, like always, you found yourself standing before her, breath uneven, pulse traitorous.

Pushing down the handle, you stepped back to let the door fall ajar.

“You’re awake,” Caitlyn noted, her tone soft and conversational, though her sharp eyes certainly betrayed her. She offered a smile, which you returned in kind. It was familiar, comforting. You let your eyes take her in, committing every detail of her to memory as if she’d forever be gone by the next sunrise.

Leaning against the doorframe, you let your head rest against the pale ivory of the wall. It was late. “Barely.”

Her smile widened slightly, but she said nothing, merely stepping forward as though your presence in the doorway was an invitation. Her arms enveloped you, as did the scent of her perfume: something vanilla with an edge of spice, curling around the slightest of florals. You nuzzled into the crook of her neck, closing your eyes to savour the sensation of being in her proximity. Her hands came to rest on your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

There was something unbearably vicious about the way she held you. Like she knew you needed it more than she did. Like she could sense the weight of her absence pressing into your ribs, suffocating, unbearable. She never said it aloud, never boasted of it, but you felt it in the way her fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, just barely tightening. The smallest tell.

A soft sigh squeezed itself from your lungs as you parted, and she tilted up your chin to hold your gaze for a second seemingly never ending. When Caitlyn decided she had admired you enough, (but only for the time being) she clashed your lips together in a kiss so deep you feared you’d drown.

That happened a lot with her. The incessant fear you could easily lose yourself.

She kissed like she had no intention of stopping—like she wanted to steal every thought, every protest, every inch of hesitation until all that remained was her. Until she was carved into your bones.

Gentle teeth then nipped at you, snapping you out of whatever reverie you were beginning to spiral into as your breaths grew heavier.

“I missed you,” was whispered into the oxygen-depleted air between you by Caitlyn, as she ever so slowly started inching towards your couch. Those three words floated, so quiet, yet so heavy. The depth of them crashed over you like a wave, making your thoughts hazy as you struggled to breathe.

The worst part? You believed her.

You always believed her.

It was a dangerous thing, the way she could make you forget the ache of waiting. How she could saunter into your life after days—weeks—without word, and with one look, one touch, have you willing to unravel at her feet.

Pulling you along with her, seeing as you didn’t protest, she moved with an ease that suggested she’s done this countless times. Familiarized herself with your space enough to know you’ll trust her to guide. You didn’t want to admit you’d do so regardless.

But she knew.

Gods, she always knew.

There was no hiding from her. No veiling the way your body responded to her, no pretending she didn't have this hold over you. She saw every flicker of reluctance, every frantic breath, and she made it her mission to unravel you. To pull apart the pieces of you that were too stubborn to fall in line.

As the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch, she pushed you downwards, your back now against plush velvet. Caitlyn pulled back, her lips puffy and swollen as if mirroring yours, pupils dilated as if high out of her mind on the taste of you. Her fingers skimmed your skin like fire, searing a path from your collarbones, down between your chest, before finally finding purchase on the sash of your robe, pulling and watching as it fell open, mesmerized. You wanted to say something. To stop her before you lost yourself entirely in her. But the words never came. How could they when she was looking at you like that? Feral, tinged with something much deeper than desire. Her hands found your waist next, fingers pressing in just enough to make you gasp, to make you arch instinctively into her touch. She knew you so well. Knew exactly how to make you bend to her, how to make you fall apart at her will.

And then, she kissed you again.

This time, it was different. Less tender than before, more demanding—insistent. Her lips crashed against yours with the intensity of a storm, and you couldn’t help but meet her with equal fervor. She tasted like whiskey and something richer, something intoxicating, and you drank it in as if it were the last thing you'd ever have.

Your pulse raced as she pulled back, but only enough to leave a teasing space between you, enough to make you ache. She took a staggering, deliberate breath as she admired the mess she'd made of you.

Her voice, low and perilous, cut through the quiet. "I want you," she whispered, her lips barely brushing against yours, three words that made your heart race with an intensity you weren’t sure you were prepared for.

Messy, so messy as sly fingers snaked themselves around your breast, painstakingly slowly closing, increasing the pressure of which they’ve captured it. Your pulse fluttered, and Caitlyn swallowed the deliciously high-pitched moan threatening to spill from your velvety lips. Once only a string of saliva connected the memories of your kiss, she dove headfirst into the fragile skin of your neck, sucking and biting on it like a predator starved. The gloss of her lips smeared against you colorless, only blooming hues from beneath by her ministrations contrasted against your skin tone. A myriad of carmine and crimson, dancing in spots and dots of darker and lighter.

Flexing one knee upward you pressed it against her side, asking, the burn in your abdomen pooling deeper—dripping molten in carnal need. A pathetic keen was what you could offer as a cry for salvation, the state of your desperation swirling into and sweetening your blood. Caitlyn huffed a sound akin to a giggle, reveling in your sounds reverberating around her heart, savouring every inch of you as her hands stilled, and moved to trace down your sides. Deliciously tingling shivers were her reward, only, the true euphoria of eye-rolling breathlessness rested lower, between your thighs.

Though not before she spellboundly locked your eyes together, to witness your fall from grace, had her hand made the descent against your glistening folds.

Caitlyn Kiramman was clever with her fingers. She was an excellent shot, after all. Manicured, slender, long and expressive—from the very start she delighted in curling and waving them around unnecessarily seductively every chance she got. Intertwining and lacing them around the neck of a wine glass, door handles, your shoulders, all while you fell enchanted, and far down a wicked fantasy of her digits buried inside of you.

Accompanying a sharp, satisfied intake of breath from her, they sunk impossibly deep with no warning. A sight to behold and cherish for her you were, as an obscene whine loud enough to wake the city, followed by a filthy whimper that made her want to tear you apart, tumbled from your parted, lovebitten lips. Her fingers picked up a pace from which they never slowed, hooking up to caress your saccharine inner walls as they tightened around her in order to suffocate.

And oh it was pristine unadulterated ecstasy when her thumb found its leverage on your clit, drawing tight circles around it as if chasing and ruthlessly shoving you towards your orgasm.

“Ngh- Cait- ah-”

Pitiful little thing you were, spine contorted unnaturally, breath heaving, hair sprawled beneath you as you gazed up through glossy eyes at the harbinger of your exhilaration, only to find soulful azures staring lovingly back at you.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Her ambery tones of cashmere and cardamom suffocated you, dripping your senses in a glowing warmth, nuanced by a dusky tint in the way she formed her syllables. An unspoken truth between you was interrupted by yet another mewl, alongside a fumbling hand clutching at her wrist in silent command to keep going.

No perplexion in the fact she obliged, even going as far to lean further down in order to languidly lick a stroke up the expanse of your breast, encircling a nipple between greedy lips. Your toes curled as the sudden absence of air in your lungs hit you like the first note of a symphony, the kind that built steadily but constantly, keeping you blind with pleasure as it swept you into its crescendo. Sweet release was within reach, your restless heartbeat a telltale sign and the unabashed squelching sounds of your core a reassurance nonpareil. Frenzied, as you are done apart, hands now pawing at the sheets—it took only a particularly sharp thrust of her finger upward to have you almost toppling and falling over the edge.

But as soon as you felt it, it was gone. Hollow was the space inside of you, squeezing and tightening against grueling, agonizing nothing, as all stimuli were robbed of you.

Whipping your head upwards with a cry akin to that of wounded prey, you sank your nails into Caitlyn's wrist. Something livid and bewildered flickered in your eyes, alongside the undeniable flow of salty tears that threatened to spill lest you blinked them back.

“Why? Why did you-”

Cruel, devilishly cruel and vile was the laugh that tore its way through her throat, smoky vetiver strangling bygone syrupy spice and comfort. It was utterly amusing to her how melodramatic you could act, like this was disturbingly traumatic to that poor tiny heart of yours. Shiny, pearly white teeth glinted beneath the dull lighting as she yanked you closer by your calves.

Her mouth made direct contact with your slit in a split second—an experimental lick descending onto your swollen clit had you sobbing out her name like a mantra meant for worship.

You didn’t just say it—you felt it, like you were kneeling at the altar of her touch, drowning in the devotion she’d drawn from you, effortlessly.

“Mhm, good girl.” Her humming vibrated against you, the praise spilling from her lips resembling cloyingly sugar-saturated ambrosia. Doubling down on her efforts her grip was bordering on hurtful, tongue curling just at the right angle to have you lightheaded, lost, wailing and whining as the knot in your stomach threatened to unfurl. Though, there now lacked a sense of serene to wash over you as her threat of denial wasn’t foreign to you anymore.

And what does one do when they find themselves needing more—when they’re lost in uncertainty, fear gnawing at the edges of their thoughts? Pray, of course.

Opening your mouth for stray honeyed pleas of "Please," easily softened her to devoted compliance. It was music to her ears, absolutely addicting. There was a certain cadence to your voice, trembling with need, with the kind of vulnerability that made her all the more ravenous, swirling her tongue around a spot that made you see stars.

It didn’t take long for you to come undone with a pornographic moan—blinding white bliss abruptly veiling you, your thighs quivering and breath held, every drop of your juices diligently lapped up by the woman still nestled in the midst of your legs.

Closing your eyes, the rise and fall of your chest was the sole thing keeping you grounded. And when it fell silent, no more Caitlyn caressing you merciful and gentle: porcelain cracked and glass shattered as in response to your comedown. Your stares locked, now wide open, both of you suspended in the stillness.

Caitlyn didn’t rush to move, her presence still coiling around you like a weight. Her fingertips brushed against your skin one last time, slow and deliberate, before she shifted, finally distancing herself. The warmth of her body, the comfort of her touch, seemed to vanish all at once, leaving a cold void in its wake. She sat up, taking her precious time, as though her every movement was meant to torment you. You couldn’t help but watch, unable to break the trance she’d mercilessly dragged you into. She didn’t look back at you immediately, but when she did, her eyes held something—a tenderness, yes, but also something unreadable. You couldn’t tell if she pitied you or if she simply treasured the downright control she had over you.

“It’s late, isn’t it?” she said, a casual observation that somehow felt like a statement heavier than whatever was anchoring your states of mind. She tilted her head, her gaze now piercing, but there was no harshness there, just that sharp, calculating precision you had come to recognize. “You should sleep. You really should.”

But you couldn’t just let her leave like that, couldn’t let her slip away when the air between you still crackled with the remnants of everything that had just passed. You opened your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to pull her back. Maybe beg her to stay a little longer, maybe ask her why she was so calm, so composed when every part of you felt exposed and desperate.

But before you could speak, she was there, leaning over you once more, her presence surrounding you like a blizzard unforgiving, frigid and bitter. Tilting your face up to meet hers, her eyes locked onto yours with a force magnetic that made it impossible to look elsewhere.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice hushed, silencing. Sour and acrid was the tone that reprimanded—shut you up like one would a child. There was no room for argument, no room for anything but what she allowed.

Her lips pressed against yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your airways, quieting the words that had formed on your tongue, now buried and dead. It was a kiss that took, that owned, that coerced you to forget everything else. You melted into it, no resistance left, just the feeling of her mouth against yours, a reminder of the untainted power she held over you. Her lips were plush, but the kiss was anything but. It was an imprint, a claim, and before you could even process the heat of it, she was pulling away, leaving you gasping with a faint, satisfied smile dancing at the corner of her lips.

“You know where I am if you need me,” she said, her voice drifting like a whisper through corners secluded, a promise without a guarantee.

And just like that, she stood. The couch shifted slightly as she moved, her body vanishing from your sight as she made her way to the door. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. All you could do was watch her, feeling the sorrow of her absence the moment she stepped away.

With one last lingering glance, Caitlyn reached for the door, grazing the handle. She paused, as though considering something, and then her voice broke the quiescence once more.

“Rest,” she said softly, her words like velour—slipping through the air discreetly. “You’ve earned it.”

She was gone.

©️ kissesz

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iamquiantrelle · 4 months ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 1) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @httpsserene-main @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @serpenttines @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @saturnville @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @imjustheretomanifest @iamryanl @greedyjudge2 @beauty-gurl @hotfudgeslug @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. masterlist

# a/n: I'm here for a good time not a long time....trying something new and don't worry I will come back to Wilo & Juju but I needed some rest out of the footballer world.

next chapter |

Sunday mornings in the Ricci household were sacred— literally. No matter what blood had been spilled or what deals had been struck the night before, the family attended 9 a.m. mass at St. Anthony's without exception. Your father, Salvatore Ricci, would sooner put a bullet in a man's head than miss confession.

Last night's cleanup had been particularly messy. You'd overheard enough on your way to bed to know someone had talked to the feds. By morning, the problem had been "resolved," and your father had prayed extra long during confession.

You adjusted the simple gold cross around your neck as you sat in the third pew, the same spot your family had occupied for as long as you could remember. Your three younger sisters fidgeted beside you while your mother gently shushed them, her dark hands elegant against their designer dresses. Francesca Ricci, née Williams, had become the very picture of a mafia wife over the past thirty years, though the journey hadn't been easy. Being Black in the traditional Italian underworld had meant proving herself twice over, earning respect through unflinching loyalty and quiet strength.

You'd inherited her brown skin and sharp eyes, along with what your father called "that stubborn American backbone." The combination of your mother's Jamaican-American heritage and your father's Calabrian blood had given you a face that turned heads—not that anyone in your father's circle would dare look too long. Not after what happened to Tommy Venucci, who'd made a crude comment about mixing bloodlines at a family gathering three years ago. He still walked with a limp.

As Father Donato delivered his homily about the prodigal son, you found your mind wandering to the meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Suitor number four. The mysterious Englishman you'd heard whispers about for weeks. Your father's capos had been arguing about this one—bringing in an outsider, a non-Italian, was controversial. But his reputation preceded him: ruthlessly efficient, technologically savvy, and with legitimate business fronts that even the FBI couldn't crack.

Three men had already come to present their cases to your father. Three men had measured you like prized livestock, their eyes calculating your worth in territory and influence rather than seeing a woman with a mind of her own. The Sicilian had practically drooled, his reputation for violence preceding him—you'd seen the photos of what he'd done to a rival, the body barely recognizable afterward. The Irishman had been old enough to be your grandfather, his breath reeking of whiskey even at noon, hands stained with decades of other people's blood. And the Cuban... just the memory of his eyes on you made your skin crawl. Your father's men had whispered about his "special room" where women who displeased him disappeared for days.

"Peace be with you," Father Donato intoned, snapping you back to the present.

"And with your spirit," you murmured along with the congregation.

Your mother squeezed your hand, somehow sensing the direction of your thoughts. She'd been in your position once—the daughter offered as a bridge between families, though in her case it had been to bring peace between rival factions in New York. Your grandfather had run numbers in Harlem until the Italian families decided to expand their territory. Instead of war, they'd chosen marriage. At least she and your father had found genuine love over the years. You couldn't imagine being so lucky.

"He'll be here at three," your mother whispered as you all stood for the final blessing. "I've heard he's... different from the others."

Different. You'd been hearing that word a lot lately. Different business model. Different approach. Different standards. But at the end of the day, he was still a man looking to acquire you like a business asset.

Back at the estate, you changed from your church clothes into something more appropriate for meeting a potential husband—a knee-length navy dress that was modest enough to please your father but tailored enough to command respect. You weren't about to present yourself as either a nun or a trophy.

From your bedroom window, you could see your father's men patrolling the grounds, Berettas and Glocks barely concealed under their jackets. Through the iron gates, you caught glimpses of the cars parked along the street—not just your father's security, but watchers from other families. The Sicilians in particular had been keeping eyes on the estate since their heir had been rejected. In this world, wounded pride often led to bloody retribution.

"You're not even trying to look excited," Sophia, your youngest sister at seventeen, lounged across your bed, scrolling through her phone. "I'd be thrilled if Papa was setting me up with a hot British guy."

"You don't know that he's hot," you replied, securing your hair into a sleek twist. "And I'm not excited because I'm being traded like a racehorse."

"Better than being stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi," she shuddered, referring to the Sicilian. "Did you see those teeth? Like a shark that chews tobacco. And those gross neck tattoos that look like he let a drunk toddler draw on him."

You couldn't help but smile at her assessment. "True. Or Patrick O'Malley with his wandering hands and breath that could strip paint. Pretty sure he was checking out your ass too, by the way."

"Ugh, stop! I still have nightmares." She made a gagging sound. "At least the Cuban was good looking, even if he gave off serial killer vibes."

"Raúl Suarez doesn't just give off those vibes. Why do you think Papa suddenly had that basement remodeled after his visit?" You raised an eyebrow meaningfully.

Sophia's eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? I thought that was just a rumor."

"Talia in the kitchen overheard Papa and Uncle Paolo talking. Three girls went missing from his clubs in Miami last year. No bodies, no witnesses."

"Jesus Christ," Sophia whispered, crossing herself reflexively. "And Papa was still considering him?"

"The Suarez connection would have opened up shipping routes we need," you explained, repeating what you'd overheard at the door of your father's study. "Business is business."

"See? That's why this British guy might be better!" Sophia sat up, suddenly serious. "Papa wouldn't choose someone horrible for you. Not really."

The faith your sisters had in your father was touching, if naive. Salvatore Ricci loved his daughters fiercely, but business was business. The empire always came first—an empire built on gambling, protection rackets, and increasingly, designer drugs that catered to Wall Street instead of street corners. Class had always been your father's obsession; he wanted the Ricci family mentioned alongside the Gambinos and Genoveses, not relegated to some minor footnote in mafia history.

A knock at your door announced your mother, elegant as always in a simple black dress, gold at her throat and wrists—the uniform of a donna who knew her worth.

"He's arrived," she said simply. "Your father wants you downstairs in ten minutes. Not before."

The power play was familiar—make the suitor wait, establish dominance from the start. You nodded, applying a final touch of lipstick.

"Is he..." you hesitated, unsure what you even wanted to ask.

Your mother seemed to understand anyway. "He's older. Established. Carries himself with confidence." She paused, something like surprise crossing her face. "And he's... not what I expected. Quite striking, actually."

That piqued your interest. Your mother wasn't easily impressed by men's appearances.

"And he came alone," she added. "No entourage."

That was unusual. Most made a show of strength, bringing captains and consiglieres to these meetings.

"Smart," you mused aloud. "One man alone in the lion's den shows he's either foolish or fearless."

"We'll see which," your mother replied with the faintest smile. "Ten minutes."

You used all ten, not out of vanity but strategy. The longer this Lewis Hamilton waited, the more you could observe without being observed in return. The security feed on your tablet showed the grand study where these meetings always took place, giving you a perfect view of the potential fourth suitor.

He sat perfectly at ease in one of your father's leather armchairs, legs crossed casually, declining the offered espresso with a polite gesture. Not a hint of nervousness or impatience crossed his face as the minutes ticked by. Unlike the others who had fidgeted, paced, or tried too hard to impress your father with crude jokes, this man simply existed in the space like he belonged there.

What struck you immediately was how different he looked from what you'd expected. Your father's world was full of either old-school traditionalists in tailored suits or younger men trying too hard with flashy designer clothes. Lewis Hamilton was neither. His suit was impeccably tailored, yes, but modern in cut. More noticeable were his looks—his hair styled in neat braids with a precise fade at the sides, double nose piercings glinting subtly in the light, and multiple earrings in both ears. Tattoos covered his hands in intricate patterns, and you could see more ink peeking above his collar.

Your father, old-school to his core, would typically dismiss such a man instantly. The fact that he hadn't spoke volumes about what Hamilton must be bringing to the table.

At thirty-nine, he had fourteen years on you, but carried them well. Not a young hothead with something to prove, but not an old fossil clinging to outdated ways either. Even on the grainy security feed, you could see his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Time," your mother called softly from the hallway.

You tucked the tablet away and took a steadying breath. Whatever game this Englishman was playing, you weren't about to be a passive piece on the board. If your hand in marriage was the prize, you'd make damn sure everyone understood exactly what they were getting.

The walk downstairs felt longer than usual, each step bringing you closer to a future being decided by men's ambitions rather than your own desires. But unlike many in your position, you weren't entering this blind. Years of listening at doors, reading files left unattended, and cultivating your own network of informants meant you knew more about your father's business than he realized. You knew about the cops on payroll, the judges who could be bought, and exactly how many bodies were buried in the foundation of your father's newest hotel development. Knowledge was the only power you'd been able to accumulate—and you intended to use it.

As you approached the study doors, you heard your father's distinctive laugh—a rare sound in business meetings. Whatever Hamilton had said had genuinely amused him, which was either very good or very dangerous.

You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and nodded to Marco, your father's most trusted guard, to announce your arrival.

The conversation inside went quiet as Marco opened the door. "Signorina Ricci," he announced formally, a small nod of encouragement just for you.

Three sets of eyes turned as you entered—your father's familiar scrutiny, your uncle Paolo's curious assessment, and the cool, evaluating gaze of Lewis Hamilton, who rose smoothly to his feet.

Up close, his presence was even more striking. The tailored suit couldn't quite mask the physicality beneath—this wasn't a soft businessman but someone who clearly maintained his body as meticulously as his appearance. The tattoos on his hands were mathematical in design, all clean lines and precise geometry, nothing like the crude symbols the Irish thugs or Italian soldiers typically wore. His braids were perfectly maintained, the fade on the sides mathematically precise. The piercings that should have looked rebellious somehow just enhanced the sharp angles of his face.

Your father gestured you forward. "My daughter," he said simply. "The jewel of our family."

You extended your hand as you'd been taught, expecting the usual kiss that suitors performed with varying degrees of sincerity. Instead, Hamilton clasped it firmly in a handshake, as if greeting a business equal rather than a prospective bride.

"Ms. Ricci," he said, his British accent crisp and refined. "Lewis Hamilton. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Strangely," you replied, meeting his gaze directly, "I've heard very little about you."

A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps amusement—crossed his face so quickly you might have imagined it. Your father cleared his throat in warning, but Hamilton didn't seem offended by your directness.

"Perhaps we can remedy that," he said, releasing your hand and gesturing for you to sit.

As you took your place in the chair beside your father, you noted how Hamilton waited until you were settled before sitting himself—a small courtesy the others hadn't bothered with. He moved with the fluid economy of someone comfortable in his own skin, his attention seemingly casual yet you could feel the intensity of his observation.

This was a man who missed nothing, categorized everything, and revealed only what served his purpose. In that, at least, he was like every other man in this room.

"Mr. Hamilton was just explaining his unique business structure," your father said, the enthusiasm in his voice telling you he was already impressed.

"Legitimate enterprises supporting our more... specialized operations," Hamilton explained, his voice low and measured. "Technology has changed our world. The old ways of doing business leave too many vulnerabilities."

"And what exactly are your specialized operations, Mr. Hamilton?" you asked, earning another warning look from your father.

But Lewis Hamilton didn't seem troubled by your question. In fact, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, not quite a smile but an acknowledgment.

"Let's just say I provide certain hard-to-acquire items to people with specific needs," he replied smoothly. "And ensure that financial matters remain... private. In today's digital world, that's becoming quite the valuable service."

Guns and money laundering. The cornerstones of power in your world, dressed up in polite euphemisms. You'd seen the reports on your father's desk—Hamilton's operation was smaller than the traditional families, but his weapons were military-grade, his financial networks impenetrable even to federal investigators. He'd built something sleek and modern while the old families were still using ledger books and cash drops.

"My daughter has been educated at the finest schools," your father interjected, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Fluent in four languages, accomplished in music and art."

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The sales pitch was always the same—as if your college degrees and cultural accomplishments were nothing more than decorative features, like listing the premium options on a luxury car.

"Brilliant," Hamilton nodded, but his eyes remained on you rather than shifting to your father. "And what gets you going beyond your formal education? What interests you?"

The question caught you off guard. None of the others had bothered to ask about your interests. They'd been content to let your father extol your virtues while they imagined you in their bed.

"I'm particularly interested in business strategy," you answered honestly, curious to see his reaction. "Especially how traditional operations can adapt to changing markets and technologies."

Your father shifted uncomfortably beside you, but Hamilton leaned forward slightly, his interest seemingly genuine.

"Any specific areas?" he pressed, ignoring your father's obvious desire to change topics.

"Digital currency," you replied, deciding to test how seriously he'd take you. "Its implications for our particular... industry. The blockchain creates both opportunities and vulnerabilities that most traditional families haven't begun to address."

A flash of genuine surprise crossed Hamilton's face before his expression settled back into its usual controlled mask. "I'd be proper interested in hearing your thoughts on that sometime," he said, a hint of his British vernacular slipping through the polished exterior.

The conversation shifted then, your father guiding it toward the proposed alliance between families. You sat quietly, observing rather than participating, noting how differently Hamilton conducted himself compared to the others. Where they had boasted and promised, he stated facts. Where they had emphasized tradition, he spoke of innovation. Where they had leered, he maintained respectful distance.

It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. If anything, the control he exhibited made him more so. This was a man who wouldn't lose his temper and lash out—he would calculate exactly how much force was needed and apply it with surgical precision. You'd heard whispers about his operation in London—small but lethal. People who crossed Lewis Hamilton didn't end up beaten or threatened; they simply disappeared without a trace.

As the meeting concluded, Hamilton rose, shaking your father's hand and your uncle's before turning to you once more.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ricci," he said, his eyes meeting yours directly. "I look forward to our next conversation."

The certainty in his voice suggested he already knew your father's decision—or was confident enough in his proposal not to doubt it. Either way, something told you Lewis Hamilton wasn't a man accustomed to hearing the word "no."

"Until next time, Mr. Hamilton," you replied neutrally, giving nothing away.

As Marco escorted him out, you felt your father's eyes on you, assessing your reaction.

"Well?" he asked, unusually interested in your opinion. "What do you think?"

You considered your answer carefully. "He's different from the others," you admitted.

"Those piercings," your uncle Paolo muttered, shaking his head. "And the tattoos. Like some street thug."

Your father waved his brother's concerns away. "Times are changing, Paolo. His operation is smaller, but cleaner. More modern. The connections to legitimate business would give us protection we currently lack."

Protection. That was what this had always been about. Your father had built an empire on blood and loyalty, but times were changing. The old ways were becoming more dangerous, and Salvatore Ricci had no son to guide the family into the future.

Just four daughters, with you as the eldest—the crown princess who could never wear the crown yourself, but could place it on the head of a worthy husband.

"You'll have dinner with him tomorrow night," your father said, not a question but a command. "Alone. I want to see how he conducts himself with you when we're not watching."

A test, then. For him, or for you, or perhaps for both.

"Whatever you think is best, Papa," you agreed, mind already racing with possibilities.

Lewis Hamilton was undoubtedly the most intriguing of your suitors, but that didn't change the fundamental truth of your situation. You were still a commodity being traded, a bridge between empires.

The question now was whether you could turn this arrangement to your advantage—and whether the careful control you'd glimpsed in Lewis Hamilton would prove to be your prison or your opportunity.

*************************************************

The next evening found you standing in front of your closet, contemplating the impossible task of dressing for a dinner with a man who might own you by the end of the month. Too conservative would suggest meekness, too bold would offend your father, and either way, you'd be telling Lewis Hamilton something about yourself before you were ready for him to know it.

"The black Tom Ford," your mother suggested from the doorway, always able to read your mind. "Elegant but not trying too hard."

You nodded, pulling out the dress in question—a simple black sheath with architectural details at the neckline that walked the perfect line between sophisticated and interesting. Like armor disguised as silk.

"You know you don't have to do this if you truly don't want to," your mother said quietly, closing the bedroom door behind her. It was a conversation you'd had before, one that always ended the same way.

"And what's the alternative, Mama?" You slipped off your robe, stepping into the dress. "I run away and do what exactly? With what money? What protection? How long before someone uses me to get to Papa?"

Your mother sighed, moving behind you to zip the dress. "I just want you to have choices I didn't have."

"You chose Papa," you reminded her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Eventually."

"I grew to love your father," she clarified. "I was lucky. Not every arranged marriage turns out that way."

You turned to face her. "Do you think he's decided already? On Hamilton?"

Your mother's expression was measured. "Your father was impressed. And the message that arrived from the Bianchi family this morning may have sealed it."

"What message?" This was news to you.

"Lorenzo's father sent over a 'reconsideration' proposal. Doubled the territory offer, added shipping routes through Sicily."

You couldn't hide your disgust. "So he's literally trying to outbid Hamilton for me?"

"It's business," your mother said simply, the phrase all of you used to rationalize the uglier aspects of your life. "But your father was... displeased with the approach. Said Bianchi should have led with their best offer, not tried to undercut after the fact."

You turned back to the mirror, applying your lipstick with perhaps more force than necessary. "And the Cuban? Has Suarez given up?"

Your mother's expression darkened. "He sent flowers. Again. With a note your father wouldn't let me read."

That explained the fresh roses on the foyer table that hadn't been there this morning. Raúl Suarez's idea of courtship had a distinctly threatening undertone, like each bouquet carried an implicit "or else."

"So I'm still on the auction block," you said, keeping your voice even. "With Hamilton as the current high bidder."

"It's not—"

"It's exactly like that, Mama. Let's not pretend."

Your mother didn't argue the point. Instead, she reached for your jewelry box, selecting a pair of diamond studs. "Hamilton requested to meet in the city. Your father agreed, but only with security protocols in place."

That was unexpected. Most meetings happened on family territory, where your father controlled every variable. Allowing you to go into Manhattan, even with security, was a significant concession.

"Where in the city?" you asked, suddenly more interested. It had been months since you'd had an excuse to leave the compound in Mill Neck. Your father's insistence that you live at home "for your safety" had become increasingly restrictive over the past year, as tensions with rival families escalated.

"Eleven Madison Park," your mother replied, a hint of approval in her voice. At least Hamilton had good taste. "Antonio will drive you. Marco and Luca will provide security, but they'll maintain distance unless needed."

You nodded, a small thrill running through you despite everything. An evening in Manhattan, away from the estate's watchful eyes and your father's immediate presence, felt like temporary freedom—even if it was just an illusion.

"Is this Hamilton's way of testing boundaries?" you wondered aloud. "Seeing how much control he can take from the start?"

"Or offering you neutral ground," your mother suggested. "A place where neither family has home field advantage."

You hadn't considered that perspective. "Interesting theory."

"Just... keep an open mind," your mother advised, squeezing your shoulders gently. "And remember everything I taught you about reading men."

You smiled at that. While your father had trained you in the visible aspects of the business—the legitimate enterprises, the social connections, the charitable foundation that laundered both money and the family's reputation—your mother had taught you the more subtle arts. How to read microexpressions, how to extract information while appearing to share nothing, how to make men believe your ideas were actually theirs.

"I'll read him like a book," you promised, securing your mother's diamond studs in your ears. "But I doubt he'll be that easy to decipher."

"No," she agreed thoughtfully. "But that might make him more interesting than the others."

The others. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a text. Lorenzo Bianchi's name flashed on the screen, the fifth message today. You showed it to your mother with a raised eyebrow.

"He's persistent," she acknowledged. "And his family is dangerous when rejected."

"They're all dangerous," you reminded her, deleting the message without reading it. "That's the whole point of this arrangement. Finding the devil whose hell I can live with."

Your mother didn't contradict you, just helped you select a simple gold bracelet to complete your outfit. "Antonio will be ready at six. That should put you at the restaurant by seven, even with city traffic."

An hour in the car each way. Normally that would seem tedious, but tonight you welcomed it. The ride from your family's North Shore estate into Manhattan would give you time to prepare mentally. To strategize. To remember that no matter how intriguing Lewis Hamilton might be, this was still a business transaction at its core.

At precisely six, you descended the grand staircase to find not just Antonio waiting, but your father as well. He stood in the foyer, examining you with a critical eye.

"You look beautiful," he said after a moment, the compliment sounding oddly formal. "Remember who you are tonight. You represent our family."

"I always do, Papa," you replied, accepting his kiss on both cheeks.

"Hamilton is... unconventional," your father continued, walking you to the door. "But he's smart. Connected. His operation in London has expanded into five countries in just eight years. No arrests, no leaks."

You nodded, understanding what your father was really saying. Lewis Hamilton represented new blood, new methods. A way to modernize the Ricci empire without sacrificing its core business.

"The Bianchis have been calling all day," your father added, his expression hardening. "Lorenzo claims he's in love with you. After meeting you once."

You couldn't help the derisive sound that escaped you. "Lorenzo Bianchi wouldn't know love if it stabbed him in the chest. Which, according to what I've heard, is his preferred method of solving problems."

Your father didn't deny it. "Just be careful. These rejected suitors... their pride is wounded."

"I'll have Marco and Luca," you reminded him, though the concern in his voice was touching. For all his faults, your father did love you. He just loved the family business more.

"Yes, well." He adjusted his tie, a nervous gesture you rarely saw. "Hamilton strikes me as capable of handling himself if trouble arises. But still, be cautious."

The idea that your father was entrusting your safety partly to Hamilton was telling. Perhaps his mind was already made up about this match.

"I'll text when I arrive at the restaurant," you promised, stepping outside where the black Escalade waited, engine running.

Antonio, your family's most trusted driver, held the door for you with a respectful nod. At thirty-five, he'd been with the family since before you were born, rising from teenage errand boy to become one of your father's most reliable soldiers. If trouble found you in the city, Antonio was nearly as deadly as Marco and Luca combined.

As the car pulled down the long, tree-lined driveway of the estate, you felt the familiar mix of relief and anxiety that always came with leaving the compound. Your family's ten-acre property in Mill Neck represented both prison and protection—a gilded cage that kept you safe from enemies while simultaneously restricting your freedom.

The gates swung open, revealing a black sedan parked just outside the property. You didn't need to see the occupants to know it was Bianchi's men, maintaining their unwelcome surveillance. They'd been there for three days now, ever since Lorenzo's proposal had been declined.

"Persistent bastards," Antonio muttered, accelerating past them.

You watched in the side mirror as the sedan pulled out to follow at a discreet distance. "They're still tailing us?"

"Don't worry," Antonio assured you, his hand moving briefly inside his jacket where you knew he kept his Glock. "Luca and Marco are right behind them. They won't get close in the city."

You nodded, settling back against the leather seat. This was your normal—being followed, guarded, watched from all sides. Sometimes by people who wanted to protect you, sometimes by those who wanted to use you as leverage against your father. The distinction hardly mattered when the end result was the same: limited freedom.

As the Escalade merged onto the highway, you watched Long Island's affluent suburbs give way to increasingly urban landscapes. The city gradually appeared on the horizon, a collection of glittering towers against the darkening sky. Despite everything, you felt a flutter of excitement. It had been nearly three months since you'd been to Manhattan, your movements increasingly restricted as multiple families vied for alliance through marriage.

"Looking forward to dinner?" Antonio asked, catching your eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm looking forward to something different," you replied honestly. "Even if it's just another man evaluating me like a prize thoroughbred."

Antonio had the grace to look uncomfortable at your candor. He'd known you since childhood, had taught you to drive (secretly, against your father's wishes) when you were sixteen, had even covered for you once when you'd snuck out to a college party. But the realities of your position in the family were something even loyal Antonio couldn't change.

"This Hamilton," he said carefully. "Word is he's formidable. Not like the others."

"So I've gathered," you replied. "Is that good or bad, in your opinion?"

Antonio considered this as he navigated through increasing traffic. "Good, maybe. A man secure in his power doesn't need to prove it constantly. Might make him a more... reasonable husband."

The word "husband" still sent an uncomfortable jolt through you. This time tomorrow, your father might well have decided to give you to Lewis Hamilton for the rest of your life.

"We'll see," was all you said, turning your attention to the city lights now fully visible ahead.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't Lorenzo Bianchi but Raúl Suarez. A photo message that you opened against your better judgment.

It was a picture of you. From yesterday. Walking from the house to the garden, completely unaware you were being photographed.

Looking forward to changing your mind, belleza, the accompanying text read. I'm a patient man.

You deleted it immediately, suppressing a shiver. The Cuban's tactics were becoming increasingly concerning. At least Bianchi limited himself to excessive texts and flowers.

"Everything okay?" Antonio asked, noticing your expression.

"Fine," you lied smoothly. "Just another reminder of why I need to choose the least objectionable option."

As the Manhattan skyline enveloped you, traffic slowing to the typical crawl of early evening, you found yourself wondering what kind of man Lewis Hamilton really was beneath the controlled exterior and strategic business proposal. Was he truly different, as everyone kept suggesting? Or just better at disguising the same possessive, controlling nature that seemed endemic to men in your world?

You'd find out soon enough. For now, you were determined to enjoy this rare taste of the city, this brief illusion of freedom before decisions were made that would determine the rest of your life.

And if Lewis Hamilton thought you'd be an easy acquisition, a docile addition to his growing empire, he was about to discover exactly how mistaken he was.

Eleven Madison Park glowed with understated elegance, its Art Deco interior a testament to old New York money and taste. The maître d' greeted you by name before you could even introduce yourself, suggesting that Lewis had ensured they knew exactly who to expect.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the man informed you with a deferential nod. "If you'll follow me."

You felt eyes tracking your movement through the restaurant—the curse of being a Ricci in Manhattan, where your family name was whispered in both boardrooms and back alleys. Marco and Luca had already positioned themselves strategically at the bar, pretending to be just another pair of Wall Street types unwinding after hours, but their eyes constantly scanned for threats.

Lewis rose as you approached the table, set in a discreet corner that offered both privacy and a clear view of all entrances. The tactics of a man who never let his guard down. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberate rather than rebellious, like they were as much a part of his carefully crafted image as the Italian leather of his shoes.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, that British accent wrapping around your name in a way that was irritatingly pleasant to the ear. "Thank you for joining me."

"As if I had a choice," you replied, allowing him to pull out your chair.

Instead of looking offended, a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "There are always choices. Even when they're all bad ones."

You settled into your seat, noting how he waited until you were comfortable before sitting down himself. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Just honest." He signaled to the sommelier, who appeared instantly at his side. "The Puligny-Montrachet we discussed earlier, please."

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for both of us already?"

"Just the wine," he clarified. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

The challenge in his tone suggested he'd done his homework—probably knew that white Burgundy was your preference, information easily obtained from any of the high-end restaurants your family frequented. You decided not to give him the satisfaction.

"That's fine," you conceded. As the sommelier departed, you added, "Though I'm surprised you didn't choose something British."

A subtle shift crossed his features—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of amusement. "British wine is improving, but I'm not a patriot when it comes to vintages."

"Just when it comes to business?"

"Especially when it comes to business." His dark eyes held yours with unsettling directness. "I value loyalty above all else, Ms. Ricci. To people, not countries."

The sommelier returned with the wine, going through the tasting ritual with Hamilton, who handled it with the practiced ease of someone used to fine dining. Once your glasses were poured and you were alone again, you decided to cut through the preliminary niceties.

"So why exactly are we here, Mr. Hamilton? My father could have made his decision without this... interview."

"Interview?" He seemed genuinely amused now. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it? You're evaluating whether I'll be suitable for whatever role you've envisioned in this merger of empires." You took a deliberate sip of wine, noting that it was, annoyingly, excellent. "Or did you just want to see the merchandise up close before finalizing the purchase?"

Something flickered in his expression—a brief hardening of his features that vanished so quickly you might have imagined it, replaced by that same controlled composure. But in that fleeting moment, you glimpsed what might happen to anyone who truly crossed Lewis Hamilton. It wasn't hot rage like the Sicilians or cruel pleasure like the Cuban—just cold, efficient finality.

"If I viewed this as a purchase, Ms. Ricci, I wouldn't have bothered with dinner," he replied evenly. "Business transactions can be handled over the phone."

"Then what is this?"

"A conversation between two adults who might be spending quite a bit of time together in the future," he said simply. "I find it's useful to know who you're dealing with before making commitments."

The waiter appeared, saving you from having to respond immediately. You both ordered—you, the sea bass; him, the duck—and when you were alone again, you decided to press further.

"Why me? Why the Ricci family? Your operation seems entirely self-sufficient."

Hamilton considered his answer, turning his wine glass slowly between tattooed fingers. "Expansion requires allies. Your father has established routes and connections I could use. I have technological innovations and legitimate business fronts he needs. It's symbiotic."

"And I'm the connective tissue in this symbiotic relationship," you finished for him. "How flattering."

"You're underestimating your importance," he countered. "Your father doesn't need a son-in-law. He needs a successor he can trust. There's a difference."

The distinction was meaningful, suggesting he'd actually thought about this beyond mere territorial acquisition. Still, you weren't convinced.

"And what exactly do you get out of it?" you pressed. "Besides the business advantages, which you could negotiate without marriage. Why tie yourself to a woman fourteen years younger? I'm sure there are plenty of eligible women in London closer to your age who'd be more... compatible."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, unexpected and transformative. It didn't soften him, exactly, but it added a dimension you hadn't anticipated.

"Perhaps I appreciate the view beyond the business benefits," he said, his eyes making a deliberate, assessing sweep that should have felt offensive but somehow didn't. It wasn't leering, just honest appreciation.

Before you could respond, he added, "Age is largely irrelevant. I've met twenty-year-olds with the cunning of veteran strategists and sixty-year-olds with the wisdom of children. You're not some naive girl, Ms. Ricci, regardless of your birth year."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be an answer. I'm not interested in this arrangement because of your age, but despite it. Your father has kept you involved in enough of the business that you understand the world we operate in. You're educated, strategic, and from what I can tell, not easily intimidated." His eyes locked with yours. "All useful qualities in a partner."

The word "partner" caught you off guard. Not "wife" or "possession" but "partner"—suggesting if not equality, then at least value beyond decoration or bloodline.

"Most men in your position want docile trophy wives," you noted, watching his reaction carefully. "Not partners."

"Most men in my position are fools," he replied without hesitation. "Wasting half the intelligence available to them out of archaic notions of gender. I don't have that luxury."

Your first course arrived, temporarily pausing the conversation. You used the moment to study him more carefully. His movements were precise, economical. Nothing wasted. The tattoos on his hands were intricate geometric patterns, almost mathematical in their precision. His braids were immaculate, suggesting attention to detail that extended to every aspect of his presentation.

"Your security detail is quite good," he commented casually, gesturing subtly toward Marco and Luca at the bar. "Though they might want to vary their positioning. Too predictable."

This surprised you. Most people never noticed your family's security arrangements. "You have men here too?"

His smile was brief but genuine. "What makes you think I need men?"

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down your spine. The rumors about Hamilton handling his own enforcement suddenly seemed very plausible. His athletic build wasn't just for show, and those hands with their beautiful, precise tattoos had probably ended lives with the same efficiency they now used to cut into perfectly prepared duck.

"I heard you dealt with problems personally in your early days," you said, testing the waters. "Is that still your preference?"

He regarded you steadily. "I find that delegation is necessary for growth, but direct intervention is occasionally... clarifying for those who might misunderstand my intentions."

It was the most diplomatic description of enforcement you'd ever heard, but no less chilling for its restraint.

"Like the situation with the Brennan family in Dublin?" you asked, dropping the reference deliberately.

His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that you knew about an operation that had been kept remarkably quiet. Three years ago, a Dublin crime family had tried to hijack one of Hamilton's weapons shipments. All five men involved had disappeared without a trace. No bodies, no witnesses, just gone—along with the family's patriarch a week later.

"You've done your homework, Ms. Ricci," he acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying.

"As have you, apparently," you countered. "The wine choice, the restaurant reservation under my name rather than yours, the awareness of my security. You've been watching me."

"Prudent research before a significant investment," he replied smoothly. "As I'm sure you've done as well."

The main course arrived, giving you a moment to recalibrate. Hamilton was harder to read than you'd expected. The calculated control you'd sensed at yesterday's meeting extended to every aspect of his behavior, yet didn't feel like the facade that so many men in your world maintained. This was simply who he was—disciplined, precise, lethal when necessary but not gratuitously cruel.

"May I ask you something direct, Mr. Hamilton?" you said after a few bites of excellent sea bass.

"Please do."

"If we were to move forward with this arrangement, what exactly would you expect from me? As your... partner."

He set down his fork, giving the question his full attention. "Loyalty, above all. Discretion. Intelligence applied to our mutual benefit." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't require you to love me, Ms. Ricci, but I do expect your allegiance to be absolute. No divided loyalties between my interests and your father's once we're married."

The bluntness was almost refreshing after the veiled language of most business discussions in your world.

"And what would I get in return?" you challenged. "Besides the obvious financial security that I already have."

"Protection. Freedom to pursue your own interests within reason. Respect." He took a careful sip of wine. "And a certain degree of autonomy that I suspect you haven't been permitted under your father's roof."

He'd identified perhaps the one thing that might actually tempt you—the promise of freedom, even if limited. The ability to move through the world without constant supervision, to make decisions without your father's approval.

"That's quite an offer," you said carefully. "But words are easy. How do I know you'd follow through?"

"You don't," he admitted. "Just as I don't know for certain that you wouldn't betray my trust at the first opportunity. Marriage is a risk, Ms. Ricci, even when it's a business arrangement."

You considered this, appreciating his honesty if nothing else. "And if I said no? Hypothetically."

"Then I'd finish this excellent meal, thank you for your time, and pursue a different approach to expansion." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Your father would likely move on to the next suitable candidate for your hand, and our paths might not cross again."

The complete lack of threat was notable, especially compared to how the Sicilian and Cuban had responded to the mere suggestion of rejection. Either Hamilton was supremely confident that the deal would proceed regardless of your opinion, or he genuinely wouldn't force the issue.

"I find that hard to believe," you said. "Men like you don't simply walk away from strategic advantages."

"Men like me?" His eyebrow raised slightly. "You seem to have placed me in a category, Ms. Ricci. I'm curious which one."

"Dangerous men who build empires and eliminate obstacles," you replied without hesitation. "Men who don't take no for an answer."

That small smile returned, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I always accept 'no' in personal matters. It's more efficient than the alternative." He leaned forward slightly. "But in this case, I don't think you want to say no. I think you're considering whether being tied to me would be better or worse than your current circumstances."

The accuracy of his assessment was unsettling. He read people too well—a dangerous quality when combined with everything else you knew about him.

"And what's your assessment?" you asked, meeting his gaze directly.

"I think you're calculating whether I'd be a prison or a pathway. Whether trading your father's control for a husband's would improve your situation or merely change the scenery of your confinement." He said this without judgment, simply stating what he observed. "It's the logical analysis, given your position."

Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Marco had shifted position, his hand moving subtly toward his concealed weapon. A group of men had entered—three Italians in expensive suits who were definitely not there for the cuisine.

Hamilton noticed your attention shift and glanced casually over his shoulder. "Friends of yours?"

"Bianchi's men," you replied quietly. "The rejected Sicilian. Apparently he's not taking no for an answer."

Instead of looking concerned, Hamilton merely nodded, returning to his meal with infuriating calm. "They won't approach while you're with me."

"You seem very confident about that," you observed, noting that Marco and Luca were now on high alert, communicating silently across the room.

"They've already seen me," Hamilton replied, cutting into his duck with precise movements. "They know who I am and what would happen if they created a scene."

You studied him with new interest. "And what exactly would happen, Mr. Hamilton?"

He met your eyes, and in that moment, you saw it again—that flash of cold finality that suggested absolute certainty in his ability to handle any threat. "They'd regret it deeply in whatever time they had left."

The matter-of-fact way he said it, without bravado or theatrics, made it all the more chilling. This wasn't a man who made threats; this was someone stating simple causality. Action and consequence.

True enough, Bianchi's men maintained their distance, settling at the bar where they could watch but not interfere. Your security team adjusted accordingly, creating a careful balance of power across the restaurant floor.

"Tell me something, Ms. Ricci," Hamilton said, smoothly changing the subject as if the potential threat were inconsequential. "If you weren't bound by family obligation, what would you do with your life?"

The question caught you off guard—no one had asked you that in years, perhaps ever. "I—" you hesitated, unused to such direct inquiry about your own desires rather than your family's needs.

"That's not a fair question," you finally said. "I've never had the luxury of that kind of thinking."

"Humor me," he pressed, those dark eyes fixed on yours with unexpected intensity. "If you could choose any path, what would it be?"

You considered deflecting again, then decided against it. This man might own half your life soon; he might as well know what he was buying.

"I'd want to build something of my own," you admitted. "Not separate from the family business necessarily, but something that was mine to shape. I have ideas about expansion into tech and legitimate finance that my father considers too risky."

Hamilton nodded, looking genuinely interested. "Forward-thinking. Your father mentioned you studied finance at Columbia?"

"And computer science," you added. "Though he prefers to emphasize my language skills and social graces when presenting me to potential husbands."

A brief smile touched his lips again. "The criminal world is changing. Technology and finance are the future. Your father knows it, whether he admits it or not. It's why he's considering me despite—" he gestured to his appearance, "my departure from traditional values."

The rest of dinner passed with surprising ease. Hamilton asked about your ideas for modernizing operations, listening with what seemed like genuine interest rather than performative attention. You found yourself speaking more freely than you had in months, outlining concepts for digital money laundering and secure communication networks that you'd never dared share with your father.

As dessert arrived, you realized with some surprise that you'd almost forgotten this was essentially a business meeting disguised as a date. Hamilton was unexpectedly easy to talk to when he chose to be, his questions precise and thoughtful, pushing you to expand on your ideas rather than simply agreeing.

"You're not what I expected," you admitted as you finished your chocolate soufflé.

"Is that good or bad?" he asked, watching you with those calculating eyes.

"I haven't decided yet," you replied honestly. "But it's... interesting."

He nodded, accepting this assessment without pressing for more. As he signaled for the check, you noticed Bianchi's men were still at the bar, watching with poorly disguised resentment.

"They'll follow us out," you said quietly.

"Probably," Hamilton agreed, signing the check without even glancing at the total. "Though they won't get close."

"Because of Marco and Luca?"

"Among other reasons." His tone suggested something you couldn't quite identify.

As you both stood to leave, Hamilton offered his arm in a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture. You took it, aware of the statement it made to the watching eyes. Bianchi's men would report back that you seemed comfortable with Hamilton, that there was a connection forming. Whether true or not, perception mattered in your world.

"I'll walk you to your car," Hamilton said as you exited the restaurant into the cool evening air.

"That's not necessary. I have security."

"I'm aware." Something in his tone made you look up at him. "But I'd like to anyway."

Against your better judgment, you nodded. As you walked the short distance to where Antonio waited with the Escalade, you felt Bianchi's men emerge from the restaurant behind you. Marco and Luca immediately moved to intercept, creating a buffer between you and the potential threat.

Hamilton continued walking as if completely unconcerned, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back—proprietary but not controlling. The gesture shouldn't have felt as reassuring as it did.

When you reached the car, Antonio opened the door, his face carefully neutral despite the unusual situation. Before you stepped in, Hamilton turned to face you.

"Thank you for dinner, Ms. Ricci," he said formally, mindful of the watching eyes from multiple directions. "I look forward to continuing our conversation."

"As do I, Mr. Hamilton," you replied with equal formality.

He took your hand, and instead of the handshake you expected, raised it to his lips in the briefest, most controlled kiss. The gesture was calculated, you knew—a clear signal to Bianchi's watching men about his intentions. Yet something about the fleeting pressure of his lips against your knuckles sent an unwelcome shiver up your arm.

"I'll be speaking with your father tomorrow," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "If you have any objections to moving forward, now would be the time to voice them."

The question surprised you—again, he was offering a choice where none was expected. You studied his face, trying to discern his true intentions behind the controlled exterior.

"No objections," you heard yourself say. "Yet."

That subtle smile appeared again, transforming his severe features for just a moment. "Prudent. Never commit without leaving yourself an exit strategy."

With that, he stepped back, allowing you to enter the car. As Antonio closed the door, you watched through the window as Hamilton turned to face the direction where Bianchi's men stood. He didn't approach them or make any obvious threat, just stood perfectly still, watching them with the focused intensity of a predator assessing prey.

Even from inside the car, you could see the Sicilians' discomfort grow under that unwavering gaze until they finally retreated to their own vehicle.

"Home, Miss?" Antonio asked, interrupting your observation.

"Yes," you replied, your mind already racing ahead. "Home for now."

As the Escalade pulled away from the curb, you found yourself wondering if Lewis Hamilton represented a different kind of cage or the key to one you'd been in your entire life. Either way, you suspected your father's decision was already made—and for once, you weren't entirely opposed to the arrangement.

Dangerous men were common in your world. But dangerous men who saw you as more than decoration or a means to an end? Those were rare enough to warrant further investigation.

Tomorrow would determine whether you'd found a partner or simply a more sophisticated jailer than the others who had sought your hand.

*******************************************

Your father summoned you to his study the following afternoon. You'd barely slept, your mind replaying every moment of the dinner with Hamilton, analyzing his words, his carefully controlled expressions, the brief moments when something genuine seemed to break through his disciplined exterior.

When you entered the study, your father wasn't alone. Uncle Paolo sat in his usual chair by the window, while your mother stood behind your father's desk—her presence unusual for these kinds of meetings. Whatever decision had been reached, it was significant enough to warrant the family's core leadership.

"Sit," your father said without preamble.

You took the chair across from his desk, smoothing your skirt with practiced composure. The heavy silence told you everything before a word was spoken.

"Hamilton has made a formal offer," your father finally said, gesturing to a folder on his desk. "The terms are... substantial."

"I'm sure they are," you replied evenly. "Since I'm such a valuable asset."

Your father's eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't the time for attitude. This is business."

"It's my life, Papa."

"It's both," your mother interjected softly. "Which is why we want to know your thoughts before proceeding."

This was unexpected. Your father rarely solicited your opinion on family matters, let alone ones that involved strategic alliances.

"My thoughts?" you echoed, careful to keep the surprise from your voice.

Your father leaned forward. "Hamilton specifically requested your consent be part of the agreement. Said he has no interest in an unwilling partner." A flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "Very modern of him."

That explained it. Your opinion wasn't being sought out of respect for your autonomy but because Hamilton had made it a condition. Interesting that he'd actually followed through on the choice he'd offered you last night.

"So if I said no, this deal wouldn't proceed?" You tested the boundaries of this supposed freedom.

Uncle Paolo scoffed. "Let's not be dramatic. The alliance has significant benefits for both families. Hamilton is simply being... diplomatic."

Translation: Your consent was expected regardless of how it was framed.

"What exactly are the terms?" you asked, redirecting to practical matters.

Your father pushed the folder toward you. "Marriage within the month. You would relocate to London initially, though Hamilton maintains properties in several countries. Your trust fund remains independently yours, with additional provisions from both families."

You opened the folder, scanning the documents inside. Legal language camouflaged what was essentially the transfer of partial ownership of you from one man to another, albeit with surprisingly favorable conditions. Hamilton had negotiated for your financial independence and included provisions for your continued education if desired—details most traditional suitors wouldn't have bothered with.

"And the business arrangements?" you asked, knowing that was the true heart of the agreement.

"Access to his distribution networks in Europe. Technology integration for our financial operations. Weapons procurement without the usual middlemen." Your father couldn't hide the satisfaction in his voice. "In exchange for our established routes in North America and our political connections."

"Hamilton also has legitimate businesses that could help launder our more... problematic income streams," Uncle Paolo added. "Very sophisticated setups. Even the feds haven't been able to crack them."

You continued reading, noting the careful delineation of territories and responsibilities. Unlike most alliance agreements you'd seen, this one didn't simply absorb one organization into the other. It created distinct spheres of influence with clear boundaries.

"And the Bianchis? The Suarez family? How are they taking this?" you asked, thinking of the men who had watched you at the restaurant last night.

Your father's expression darkened. "Not well. Lorenzo Bianchi has been particularly vocal about his... disappointment."

"That's why we need to move quickly," Uncle Paolo interjected. "The longer this drags out, the more opportunity for interference."

"Interference," you repeated. "You mean attempts to kill Hamilton? Or me? Or both?"

"Don't be dramatic," your father snapped, but the tightness around his eyes confirmed your suspicions. "Appropriate security measures will be in place."

"Including Hamilton's own people," your mother added. "He's sent two advance team members who arrived this morning."

That explained the unfamiliar faces you'd glimpsed patrolling the grounds. Hamilton was already moving pieces into position, securing his investment.

"So it's decided then," you said, closing the folder. "I'm to be Mrs. Hamilton by the end of the month."

"Not if you truly object," your mother said, earning a sharp glance from your father. "Lewis was quite clear about that condition."

You studied your mother's face, wondering if she actually believed you had a choice or was simply playing her role in this carefully choreographed negotiation. Either way, the question remained: did you want to object?

Hamilton was dangerous, certainly. But so were all the men in your world, including your father. At least Hamilton seemed to value your mind alongside your family connections. And despite the age gap, he was undeniably intriguing in ways that Lorenzo Bianchi and Raúl Suarez could never be.

"I don't object," you finally said. "But I'd like to speak with Hamilton again before anything is finalized. Alone."

Your father's eyebrows rose. "That's not traditional."

"Neither is he," you countered. "If I'm going to bind my life to his, I want to be clear about certain... expectations."

Uncle Paolo looked scandalized, but your mother nodded slightly, understanding passing between you. Every marriage in your world involved unspoken rules and boundaries. Better to establish them early than discover incompatibilities too late.

"Fine," your father conceded. "He's coming here tonight to discuss final arrangements. You can have thirty minutes with him beforehand."

"An hour," you negotiated automatically. "And in the garden, not the house."

A flash of irritation crossed your father's face, but to your surprise, he nodded. "You're already taking after him. Negotiating everything."

You accepted this as the backhanded compliment it was intended to be. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock. Don't be late." Your father turned his attention to other papers on his desk, a clear dismissal.

As you rose to leave, your mother followed you out, closing the study door behind her.

"A word," she said quietly, guiding you toward her private sitting room where conversations couldn't be overheard.

Once inside with the door secured, she turned to you with an expression more candid than she usually allowed herself.

"You should know that your father has additional expectations from this union that aren't in the formal agreement," she said without preamble.

"Let me guess. Grandchildren." It wasn't a question.

Your mother nodded. "Within the first two years of marriage. He sees Hamilton's bloodline as... advantageous for the family's future."

You couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped you. "Of course. Not only am I being traded like a thoroughbred, I'm expected to breed like one too."

"That's the reality of our world," your mother said, not unkindly. "I just wanted you to be prepared when the subject arises."

"Is that what happened with you and Papa? Was a baby part of the merger agreement?"

Your mother's expression softened slightly. "Yes. Though in our case, we were fortunate enough to develop genuine feelings before you were born." She touched your cheek gently. "I hope the same for you, whatever you may think of the arrangement now."

You leaned into her touch briefly before pulling away. "Did Hamilton agree to this... breeding schedule?"

"It wasn't presented to him directly. Your father considers it a family matter, not a negotiation point."

"How convenient," you muttered. "Anything else I should know before I'm shipped off to London?"

Your mother hesitated, then said, "Hamilton has a reputation for certain... tastes. Nothing concerning," she added quickly, seeing your expression. "Just... particular."

"What kind of particular?" You weren't naive about what happened in bedrooms, but your experience was admittedly limited—a college boyfriend your father had eventually scared away, and a brief affair with an Italian businessman that had fizzled when you realized he was more interested in your family connections than you.

"Controlled. Dominant." Your mother chose her words carefully. "But not cruel, from what I understand. Unlike some in our circle." The unspoken reference to men like Raúl Suarez hung in the air.

"Wonderful," you said dryly. "I'm to be the obedient wife in the boardroom and the bedroom."

"Not necessarily." Your mother's tone suggested she knew more than she was saying. "Just... be prepared to discuss boundaries clearly. Men like Hamilton respect directness more than they let on."

The conversation left you with more questions than answers, but at least you were forewarned. As you headed back to your room to prepare for the evening's meeting, your mind raced with everything you wanted to establish before signing your life away.

********************************************

The garden at dusk held a particular magic, the fading light softening the carefully manicured grounds of the estate. You'd chosen this setting deliberately—outside the confines of the house, away from listening ears and watchful eyes, but still within the secure perimeter of the property.

You wore a simple wrap dress, casual enough to suggest this wasn't a formal negotiation but elegant enough to maintain the upper hand. Your hair hung loose around your shoulders, a small rebellion against your father's preference for the sleek, controlled styles he considered appropriate for business meetings.

At precisely eight o'clock, you heard footsteps on the stone path. Lewis Hamilton moved with that same contained grace you'd noticed at dinner, his attention seemingly casual but missing nothing as he scanned the garden. He wore dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to reveal more of the intricate tattoos on his forearms. Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding.

"Ms. Ricci," he greeted you, those dark eyes taking in your appearance with that same assessing gaze. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

"I'm the one who requested it," you reminded him, gesturing to the bench beside the rose trellis. "Please, sit."

He complied, maintaining a respectful distance as you settled beside him. The evening air carried the scent of late summer blooms and the faint spice of his cologne.

"I understand congratulations are in order," he said, those eyes never leaving your face. "Your father has accepted my proposal."

"With the condition of my consent," you noted. "Which was an interesting stipulation to include."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I don't believe in forced partnerships. They tend to... malfunction at critical moments."

"How pragmatic of you."

"I'm a pragmatic man." He leaned back slightly, one arm extending along the back of the bench though he didn't touch you. "I assume you have questions or concerns you wanted to address privately."

"Several," you confirmed. "Starting with what happens after the wedding. You mentioned London?"

He nodded. "Initially. I maintain a residence there, another in Amsterdam, properties in several other locations. I thought we might begin in London while you acclimate to the arrangement, then discuss preferences."

"And my involvement in the business?"

Something like approval flickered across his features. "That depends on your interests and aptitudes. From our dinner conversation, I gather you have significant insights into modernization opportunities. I'd welcome your input in those areas, to start."

"To start," you repeated. "With the possibility of expansion."

"Precisely." He studied you for a moment. "You seem surprised."

"Most men in your position view wives as decorative accessories, not business partners."

"Most men in my position are shortsighted," he replied simply. "I prefer to utilize all available resources effectively."

"Is that what I am? A resource?" You kept your tone neutral despite the provocation.

That slight smile appeared again. "We all are, in different contexts. The question is whether we're valued appropriately for what we bring to the table."

It was a fair point, if somewhat coldly phrased. "And what exactly do you think I bring to the table, Mr. Hamilton?"

"Intelligence. Strategic thinking. Social connections my organization currently lacks in certain circles. Perspective from a different generation." His assessment was calm, matter-of-fact. "And of course, the Ricci family alliance, which opens doors that would otherwise remain closed to me."

"That's quite a list." You weren't sure whether to be flattered or offended by his inventory of your attributes. "And what about the personal aspects of this arrangement? I assume you've considered those as well."

"Of course." If your directness surprised him, he didn't show it. "Marriage typically involves certain... intimacies."

"Is that what we're calling it?" you asked dryly. "Intimacies?"

For the first time, a genuine smile broke through his controlled expression. "What would you prefer to call it? Fucking? Sleeping together? Making heirs for our respective families?"

The crude language from his cultured British accent was jarring, but not unwelcome. At least he wasn't treating you like some delicate flower who'd wilt at plain speaking.

"All of the above, apparently," you replied, matching his bluntness. "My father expects grandchildren within two years, though he didn't include that in the formal agreement."

Hamilton's eyebrow rose slightly. "Interesting that he'd leave such an important detail out of the negotiations."

"He considers it a family matter, not a business point."

"When in fact it's both," Hamilton observed. His gaze turned more assessing. "And how do you feel about this... breeding arrangement?"

The crass term made you wince, though it accurately described your father's approach. "I haven't decided. Children weren't in my immediate plans, but I always assumed they'd be part of my future eventually."

"Regardless of your father's timeline, that particular aspect would be between us," Hamilton said firmly. "Not subject to external schedules."

The clear boundary he established around your shared decisions versus family expectations was unexpectedly reassuring. "And the... physical aspects of marriage in general? What are your expectations there?"

Hamilton considered you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I expect mutual respect and clear communication about boundaries and preferences. I don't believe in coercion of any kind, but I do value honesty."

"That's very diplomatic," you noted. "But not very specific."

"Would you prefer specifics?" he asked, that dangerous edge suddenly more apparent beneath his controlled exterior. "I can be quite direct, Ms. Ricci, but most find it... uncomfortable."

"I'm not most people," you countered. "And if we're to be married, I think I deserve to know what I'm agreeing to."

A brief nod acknowledged your point. "Very well. I enjoy control—giving it completely in business settings tends to make one appreciate having it in private ones. I prefer partners who understand the value of clearly defined roles and boundaries." His gaze was unwavering. "I don't believe in ownership or subjugation, but I do expect a certain level of... deference in intimate settings."

The frankness of his assessment sent an unexpected heat through you that you hoped wasn't visible in the fading light. "And if that arrangement doesn't appeal to me?"

"Then we negotiate alternatives," he replied simply. "As I said, coercion has no place in my world. But I've found that compatibility in these matters tends to reveal itself naturally, given time and trust."

The conversation should have been mortifying—discussing sexual dynamics with a virtual stranger who might soon be your husband. Instead, you found his directness refreshing after a lifetime of veiled implications and unspoken expectations.

"Any other concerns you wish to address?" he asked, seeming entirely comfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

"Freedom of movement," you said, returning to practical matters. "My father keeps me under constant surveillance for 'protection.' Would I be exchanging one form of confinement for another?"

"Security is necessary in our world," Hamilton acknowledged. "But I don't believe in cages, golden or otherwise. With appropriate measures in place, you would be free to pursue your own interests, travel within reason, maintain your own social connections."

"Within reason," you repeated. "And who defines what's reasonable?"

"We would—together. Based on security assessments and legitimate risk factors, not arbitrary restrictions." His tone suggested this was non-negotiable. "I won't apologize for prioritizing your safety, but I have no interest in controlling your every movement."

It was a fair compromise, better than you'd expected and certainly better than your current situation. "And fidelity? What are your expectations there?"

"Absolute," he replied without hesitation. "On both sides. Anything else introduces unnecessary vulnerabilities and complications."

"At least we agree on something," you said, surprising yourself with the admission. Infidelity was common in your world—your father had kept mistresses over the years despite his genuine love for your mother—but you'd always found it distasteful and dangerous.

"We'll likely agree on more than you expect," Hamilton said, his voice softening slightly. "This arrangement may be unconventional in its origins, but that doesn't mean it can't evolve into something mutually beneficial on multiple levels."

The diplomatic phrasing couldn't quite disguise what sounded dangerously close to optimism about your potential relationship. You weren't sure what to make of that.

"One last question," you said, aware that your allotted time was nearly up. "Why me, really? Beyond the business advantages and family connections. You could have pursued alliances with a dozen other families, many with more extensive operations than ours. Why choose the Ricci family? Why choose me?"

Hamilton was quiet for a moment, considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice held a different quality than before—less measured, more genuine.

"Your family's operation is smaller than some, yes, but more adaptable. Old enough to have established roots but not so entrenched that evolution is impossible." His eyes held yours steadily. "As for you specifically... I make decisions based on careful assessment of potential and compatibility. You possess qualities I consider valuable—intelligence, adaptability, strategic thinking, resilience."

"You gleaned all that from one dinner and a brief meeting at my father's house?" Your skepticism was evident.

"I've been researching your family for months," he admitted without apology. "You specifically for weeks. The dinner merely confirmed what my investigation suggested."

The revelation shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. "That's... thorough."

"I don't leave important decisions to chance or superficial impressions." His gaze was unwavering. "Marriage is a significant commitment, even when it's primarily strategic."

Before you could respond, the garden lights activated automatically with the deepening dusk, illuminating the space around you. In the sudden brightness, you could see Hamilton more clearly—the precise lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze, the subtle pattern of the tattoo visible at his collar.

"Our time is nearly up," he observed. "Your father will be expecting me in the study."

"Yes," you agreed, oddly reluctant to end the conversation. "I suppose he will."

Hamilton rose, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, noting the controlled strength in his grip, the warmth of his palm against yours. He held on a moment longer than necessary, his eyes searching yours.

"Have I addressed your concerns adequately, Ms. Ricci?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only you could hear it. "Or do you have objections to proceeding?"

The question echoed the one from last night—again offering you a choice, or at least the illusion of one. You considered your options realistically. Refusing would create chaos in the family, potentially trigger violence from rejected suitors, and leave you back where you started—under your father's thumb, awaiting the next strategic match.

Accepting meant embarking on a life with a dangerous, controlled man who nonetheless seemed to see you as more than a decorative accessory or breeding stock. A man who, despite the age gap and cultural differences, offered something resembling partnership rather than ownership.

"No objections," you said finally. "Though I reserve the right to revisit these discussions as needed."

Something like satisfaction crossed his features. "I would expect nothing less." He released your hand slowly. "Shall we join your father?"

As you walked together toward the house, you were acutely aware of the weight of the decision you'd just made. Within weeks, you would be bound to this man—leaving behind the familiar constraints of your father's house for the unknown territory of marriage to Lewis Hamilton.

Whether that represented freedom or simply a different form of captivity remained to be seen. But for the first time in years, you felt something dangerously close to hope about your future.

"One last thing," Hamilton said as you reached the terrace doors. "Once we're married, I'd prefer you call me Lewis. 'Mr. Hamilton' seems excessively formal for a wife, don't you think?"

The request was so unexpectedly ordinary after the intensity of your conversation that you couldn't help a small, genuine smile. "I'll consider it... Lewis."

His name felt strange on your tongue, intimate in a way that caught you off guard. The slight widening of his eyes suggested he felt it too—this small shift from formal negotiation toward something more personal.

Without another word, he opened the door for you, and together you stepped back into the house to finalize the arrangement that would bind your lives together—for better or worse.

…….tbd

#quainwritings #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton #au lewis hamilton fic #mob!lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #blood oath quainstory #quain’s masterlist #f1 x reader #f1 x black!reader

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twitsid · 6 days ago

Text

glitter and hearts

david corenswet!Clark Kent x female reporter!reader

word count: 1.2k words

warnings: Soft!Clark Kent, fem!reader, mentions of crying, heavy comfort/fluff, one very love-struck reporter (or maybe two 🤭), brief mention of lost work/editorial, reader is super girly but has a heart of gold.

summary: She writes about fashion. He writes about corruption and crime. She wears gloss, heels, and loves animals. He wears glasses, stammers when he talks to her, and is secretly Superman. A minor screw-up at work makes her cry, but Clark shows up to comfort her… and ends up getting asked out to dinner.

a/n: Hello hello, here's a little one shot about my beloved nerdy boyfriend: Clark Kent. I've been a little (a lot) obsessed with him since I saw the movie last week, it gave me back the desire to be happy and enjoy my life lol. English is not my first language, so I apologize if you find any spelling mistakes I missed, I do my best 💕. Enjoy your reading.

──xoxo, madds ᡣ𐭩

The Daily Planet newsroom was pure chaos—keyboards clicking, espresso machines hissing, people chasing deadlines like their lives depended on it. But in the middle of all that, there was always one little pocket of sparkle and grace: you.

You, with your perfectly done pastel pink nails, your silky blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, nude heels clicking on the floor like music, and that kind smile you gave everyone—from the security guy downstairs to freaking Lois Lane. You wrote the fashion column for the biggest paper in Metropolis. And yeah, people sometimes whispered about your “fluffy” articles, but nobody could ever deny your talent.

And then… there was Clark Kent.

Tall. Kinda awkward. Those glasses barely hid the ridiculously blue eyes and that jawline that looked straight-up sculpted by angels. He wrote about justice and hard-hitting news. You wrote about trends, seasonal palettes, and the comeback of glossy lips. Basically? Opposite vibes.

But every time Clark saw you, his brain short-circuited.

“Good—Good morning,” he stammered as you passed his desk, folders in hand, wearing a lilac dress that matched your lipstick.

“Morning, Clark!” you grinned. “Did you sleep okay? Or did the night call the knight away?”

He scratched the back of his neck, chuckling softly.

“Something like that... Just a few last-minute calls.”

What you didn’t know was that those “calls” were actual cries for help… from the other side of the planet. But what you did know was that Clark had something special about him. He listened. Like, really listened. Even when you rambled for twenty minutes about the difference between blush pink and dusty rose.

And he loved listening to you. He memorized the way you talked, the way you smiled when you handed him a cookie, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about cruelty-free lipstick.

That afternoon, you were checking the photo proofs for your latest editorial: a sustainable fashion spread. You’d spent weeks organizing it—working with vegan designers, scheduling shoots, interviewing stylists. It wasn’t just fluff. It meant something.

Even Lois had told you it was solid work.

Then it happened.

One rookie intern. One stupid mistake. And poof—the whole damn folder was gone. Photos, notes, edits. All of it.

You froze. Then ran to IT. They tried to recover it. Nada.

Next thing you knew, you were curled up in a dark, empty conference room with your hands over your face and a single tear sliding down your cheek, ruining your (very expensive) waterproof mascara.

“This was my biggest project...” you whispered shakily. “It was gonna be my first double spread... and now it’s all gone.”

Clark found you not long after. He’d noticed you were missing and, like the sweetheart he was, went looking for you. Not as Superman—just as Clark.

“Hey... you okay?” he said softly, poking his head through the door.

Then he saw you crying. And bam, heart shattered.

“Oh—oh no, no, no—” he hurried over, kneeling beside you. “What happened?”

“Clark... everything’s gone... the whole editorial,” you sniffled. “I know it’s not a crime story or a political scandal or whatever... but I worked so hard on it. It was for the animals. For the planet. For... everything.”

He pulled out a crumpled tissue from his coat pocket and handed it to you with the gentleness of a golden retriever in a thunderstorm.

“Hey, don’t say that,” he said quietly. “Your column is amazing. You make people think. You make them buy smarter, shop kinder, care a little more. What you do matters. You matter.”

You blinked at him. That voice—warm, honest, deep—hit you right in the chest.

“You’re so sweet, Clark...” you smiled a little through your tears.

And just like that, his whole face turned beet red.

“I—uh—I’m just telling the truth.”

He helped you up, his big hands steady on your back and arm, and walked you to his desk. What you didn’t know was that he’d already started drafting an email to the editors suggesting a full do-over… and even offered to shoot the photos himself.

“You know what?” you said, regaining your composure. “I do wanna redo it. And maybe... include a little behind-the-scenes feature. A male perspective on ethical fashion.”

Clark’s eyes widened.

“You want me to... be in it?”

“Why not?” you teased, giving him a playful wink. “You always notice what I’m wearing. Like yesterday—you said my blouse brought out my eyes. That’s very specific for someone who claims not to know fashion.”

He blinked. Guilty.

“Okay... maybe I read your column. Like... every day.”

“You do?”

“Religiously.”

You laughed—bright, delighted, and just a little flirty.

“Clark Kent... are you flirting with me?”

He clutched his chest, mock offended.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Just a little.” You grinned. “But I like it.”

The air got thick. Like one of those moments where the whole room pauses and waits to see who’s gonna make the next move.

And that someone... was you.

“You wanna... grab dinner this week? As a thank-you. And because, well... you’re cute. I mean—really cute.”

Clark short-circuited. For three seconds. Maybe four.

Then he smiled—really smiled—and nodded like a golden retriever being offered a treat.

“Yes! I mean—yeah, I’d love to. Thursday?”

“Thursday’s perfect.”

You picked up your purse, heels tapping against the floor like music again, and walked away like you were walking a damn runway.

Right before you turned the corner, you glanced back and blew him a kiss.

Clark legit stumbled.

And up in the sky, for once, Superman didn’t need to fly.

Because his heart was already floating.

#superman x reader #clark kent x reader #david corenswet superman #superman fanfiction #david corenswet #superman #fluff fic #comfort fic #fem reader #superhero x reader

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sunarryn · 4 months ago

Text

DP X Marvel #15

They were never supposed to be real.

Danny wasn’t born; he was built—stitched together in a freezing underground HYDRA lab from the broken DNA strands of James Buchanan Barnes, chosen not for loyalty or legacy but for blood. Something about Winter’s cells held a resilience no other subject had survived, even after decades on ice and countless mental fractures. Danny was Subject 077—barely more than a theory made flesh. A prototype for a new line of enhanced operatives. Something that could endure everything and obey nothing but the cold voice of a handler.

Jazz was worse. She was art. Red Room engineering at its most elegant and most horrifying. A near-perfect clone of Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, born of Black Widow blood but grown under their sharp hands and sharper scalpel. Jazz had beauty, poise, intelligence. But she was also an apex predator molded in ballet and murder, just like her source. She had been created to be the final evolution of Widow. A sleeper. An infiltrator. A masterpiece in patience and destruction.

They were never supposed to meet.

But then Vlad happened.

Dr. Vladimirov Masterov—Vlad Masters—was a ghost in every way that mattered. Once KGB, always KGB. They said he’d died during a failed mission in Chernobyl. He hadn’t. He’d gone half-dead. Half-ghost. A twisted result of an experiment gone wrong, his molecules phasing just enough to slip between states. He’d taken the failure personally, refused to fade. Instead, he rose again in America, as Vlad Masters, eccentric billionaire and corporate ghoul. But behind every charity gala and mayoral campaign was a hunger to perfect the science that had torn him in half.

Vlad had overseen Jazz’s earliest combat assessments. He’d taught Danny how to fire a Glock at age six. His affection was obsessive. Paternal in that twisted, post-Soviet way that smelled like iron and vodka. “You’re my legacy, my little phantoms,” he’d murmur, his gloved hand stroking Danny’s hair, like petting a favorite lab rat. He loved them the way a butcher loves the knife.

Jack Fenton—Jakob Fentzen—was worse. A HYDRA scientist with a permanent manic grin and a knack for building machines that did things no machine should. Quantum destabilizers, molecular disruptors, spectral centrifuges—things that turned flesh to glass and time to mist. He’d been the one to isolate the Winter Soldier’s regenerative traits. He laughed through the process. He called Danny “Champ” while inserting tracking chips into his spinal cord. Danny screamed, once. Jack said it was music.

Maddie—Maja Vuković—was quieter. Colder. Her notes were written in blood and brilliance. She designed Jazz’s conditioning routines. Psychological torment dressed up as ballet recitals and etiquette dinners. Jazz learned to disassociate by age four. “You’re perfect,” She would say, brushing Jazz’s red-gold hair. “Natalia was the draft. You are the final copy.”

And then something went wrong.

It was supposed to be a routine exposure. Just a test of the ghost portal Vlad had constructed in the basement of the Fenton Works facility—a decaying front in the Midwest. But Danny fell in. Or was pushed. Or ran. The records blurred.

And then he came back…wrong.

Cells mutated. Energy readings off the charts. Intangibility. Invisibility. An ectoplasmic core that pulsed like a dying star. Not just an assassin now—an anomaly. A walking ghost. They called it a miracle. Vlad called it divinity. Jack wanted to vivisect him immediately.

Danny refused.

That was the mistake.

They underestimated the side effects of individuality. The ghost powers weren’t part of the program. And with them came emotion, conscience, defiance.

They tried to recondition him. Vlad struck him. Maddie drugged him. Jack built something with screaming blades.

Jazz broke protocol. She slit two guards’ throats with a dining knife and pulled Danny out of the operating room. He was barely conscious, bleeding green and crying. She whispered to him the way Natalia might have whispered to herself in a Red Room dormitory: “We go now. Or we die here.”

They went.

They ran.

For three years, the world forgot about the Fenton kids. Until they didn’t.

The Avengers found out during a HYDRA base raid in Belarus. Steve Rogers opened a data file and dropped it like it burned. Natasha Romanoff stared at Jazz’s image and fell silent for an hour. Bucky Barnes had to be sedated after reading Danny’s file.

“A clone?” Bucky rasped, restrained and shaking. “Of me?”

“HYDRA’s final Winter Soldier prototype,” Bruce murmured. “He’s a ghost. Literally. His molecular structure—”

“I don’t care about his molecules!” Bucky exploded. “He’s just a kid. My fucking kid!”

Steve looked pale. “They’re so young...”

“They’re us,” Natasha said quietly, staring at Jazz’s face on the screen. “Our blood. Our sins. Our ghosts.”

They scrambled, but the trail was cold. Danny and Jazz had buried themselves deep. They moved from safehouse to safehouse, mostly living like rats. Danny phased them through walls, hacked ATMs with his ghost energy. Jazz manipulated human behavior like a maestro. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to.

“You okay?” Danny would ask.

“No,” Jazz would say. “But you?”

“No.”

Still, they stayed alive.

Until they slipped up.

It was a gas station. A security camera. A moment of laughter—Danny made Jazz laugh, and her teeth showed. That smile ended everything.

Tony saw it first. “Is that the Fenton girl? She’s…smiling.”

Natasha was on her feet before the footage ended. “Get the quinjet.”

Steve was right behind her. “We find them. Now.”

When they did, it was ugly.

The Avengers cornered them in an abandoned church in Chicago. Danny nearly brought the roof down. Jazz went straight for Natasha’s throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Natasha pleaded, parrying the blade with bare hands.

“Then you’re already weak,” Jazz snarled.

Steve took a punch from Danny that shattered his ribs. Bucky didn’t fight. He just stood there, tears on his face.

“I know what they did to you,” he whispered.

“You don’t,” Danny hissed, half-ghost and glowing. “You don’t know what it’s like to be built to die.”

“I do.” Bucky stepped forward, arms open. “They made me too, and I remember every scream.”

Danny hesitated.

That was enough.

Jazz disarmed Natasha and froze.

“You look like my nightmares,” she whispered. “But quieter.”

“You look like a second chance,” Natasha said, and her voice broke.

That night, the church became a refugee camp.

Tony brought blankets. Bruce brought meds. Steve brought silence. Bucky and Natasha never left their sides.

“Don’t touch me,” Danny had growled at first.

“I won’t,” Bucky said. “I’ll just be here.”

Jazz refused food until Natasha force-fed her soup and whispered lullabies in Russian.

“You’ll kill me eventually,” Jazz muttered.

“No,” Natasha said, brushing her hair. “I’ll love you first.”

It wasn’t easy.

Danny screamed in his sleep, glowing and flailing. Once he phased into the floor and didn’t come back for three hours. Jazz stopped speaking for two weeks. She stared at walls. Cut herself just to feel.

Natasha stitched every wound.

Bucky sat beside Danny and read him books about World War II.

“You’re not him,” Danny said one day. “You’re not my father.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I wish I’d been.”

Steve took them outside. Taught Jazz how to ride a bike. Let Danny fly circles around the compound.

But one day, Vlad showed up again.

He appeared in Danny’s room, phasing through the wall like smoke. “Come home, little badger.”

Danny shrieked and attacked. Vlad didn’t fight.

“I miss you,” he said, bleeding green from his mouth. “They won’t understand you like I do.”

“You’re not real,” Danny screamed. “You never were!”

Jazz shot him in the chest. He smiled.

“Perfect aim. I taught you well.”

He vanished.

After that, they didn’t sleep for a week.

One morning, Danny sat beside Bucky on the roof.

“Do you think I’ll ever be normal?”

“No,” Bucky said honestly. “Though you’ll be loved.”

Jazz, curled in Natasha’s lap, asked, “Was I always going to be a monster?”

“No,” Natasha whispered. “You were always going to be mine.”

They weren’t cured.

They were wreckage.

But they were surviving.

And for now, that was enough.

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x-i-l-verify · 1 year ago

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Something that I've noticed ever since the Smiling Critters were introduced is that they can so easily be paired off into complementary duos, ones that are specifically designed to teach children fundamental lessons about life and self-care from two different angles. It's really interesting to me.

Like obviously you have Dogday and Catnap, with their sun/moon, dog/cat dichotomy, that stress how important it is to have fun and get things done during the day, but also that it's important to wind down, relax, and get a good night's sleep.

Bubba Bubbaphant and Craftycorn were introduced as a duo in the Smiling Critter show's intro, and their dichotomy is quite obvious. They are basically the right and left sides of the brain personified. Bubba is the left side of the brain, logical, analytical, focused on math and science. Craftycorn is the right side of the brain, creative and imaginative, focused on the arts and self-expression. They represent learning and academia in all its forms, the different ways people engage with and understand the world.

Hoppy Hopscotch and Kickin' Chicken form the sportsmanship duo. They are both portrayed as enjoying sports and the outdoors, but in different ways that highlight the different ways sports can be played and enjoyed and also what it entails to be successful at them. Hoppy Hopscotch may be loud and impatient, but she is also a team player, shown in her willingness to slow down her fast pace to make sure none of her friends are left behind. Kickin' Chicken, on the other hand, is laid-back, relaxed, and chill, the described "cool kid" of the group, but he's also described as having a ton of perseverance, more of a "slow and steady wins the race" type of person.

This leaves Bobby Bearhug and Picky Piggy as the last pair. Fittingly, these two are all about how to meet the fundamental needs of yourself and others. Bobby teaches children how to nourish themselves emotionally through showing and receiving care from others, while Picky teaches them how good food is important to nourish the body and soul. Depriving oneself of either of these things only makes oneself and therefore everyone around one miserable, because those fundamental needs are no longer being met.

Like fr, this is some pretty genius marketing right here. You have enough characters that every kid will have their favorite, but not so many that any would get lost in the shuffle, because the lessons each one of them would teach would be integral to the group as a whole. It really makes me that much sadder we saw basically nothing of the Smiling Critters during the game itself, because Mob Games struck gold with this concept, only to ultimately do nothing with it. :/

But I guess that's what fandom is for, eh?

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime chapter 3 #smiling critters #dogday #catnap #picky piggy #kickin chicken #hoppy hopscotch #bobby bearhug #craftycorn #bubba bubbaphant #xi writes #tbh that 'slow and steady wins the race' comment makes me really wish Kickin' Chicken was a turtle instead #just to drive home that parallel even further #ngl i've been thinking about making this post for ages but i finally got off my butt and did it #me holding the Smiling Critters like Marge Simpson holding a potato: I just think they're neat!#it'd be a shame if the game company that came up with them never DID anything with them HUH MOB GAMES?#mob games don't walk away from me #MOB GAMES GET BACK HERE I HAVE THOUGHTS-

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theonottsbxtch · 10 months ago

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CHICAGO PT.1 | OP81

an: i already know the girlies are going to hate me for this, i made oscar go through it this series ahhhhhhhhhhh im sorry

summary: he met her in chicago, she told him she didn't have a man, he got hooked.

wc: 4k

Oscar had met her in Chicago, of all places. The city sprawled beneath a sky that never seemed to settle, constantly shifting between grey and gold, as though unsure of its own identity. He hadn’t wanted to be there. Chicago was a detour, a necessary stop in a life too full of places he didn’t want to go. PR had dragged him into its windswept streets, ushering him toward events and dinners that blurred into a dull hum of names he would never remember.

But then there was her.

It happened at a cocktail event in some opulent hotel, a place where chandeliers dangled like stars over a sea of perfectly curated faces. The room was filled with a low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, the thin veneer of sophistication that never quite reached beyond the surface. Oscar stood near the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as his thoughts drifted. He was already planning his escape when she appeared.

Not entered the room—appeared, as though the air had conjured her from nothingness. A figure dressed in shadows and light, with red lips like the first drop of blood on fresh snow, and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the very space around her. She moved like silk caught in a breeze—fluid, graceful, with a purpose that was almost predatory, though there was nothing menacing in her gaze. No, she was hunting something, but it was subtle, wrapped in a smile that promised a thousand secrets.

“Do you mind?” she asked, her voice soft, lilting, a melody that barely stirred the air. She gestured to the empty stool beside him.

Oscar blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the smoothness of her arrival. It was as though she had been meant to be there all along, the final piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even realised was missing. Without a word, he motioned for her to sit, his whiskey forgotten, the glass now an anchor in his hand rather than a comfort.

Her name was imprinted into his mind. Her voice curled around the syllables, a name that felt like it should belong to someone in a faded photograph, or a character in a half-forgotten dream. When she smiled, it was the kind of smile that didn’t ask to be trusted, but made you want to trust it anyway. There was something so effortless in the way she carried herself, in the way she tilted her head just so, her hair brushing against her cheek as she spoke.

They began to talk, though talk wasn’t quite the right word. She led the conversation with a gentle ease, guiding it as if she were navigating a river, never pushing too hard, never revealing more than she wanted. Her voice wove stories of her life in Chicago, like threads pulled from a tapestry woven just for him. Her work as a designer, her life as a single mother—it was all laid out before him, but in pieces, fragments of a larger picture he couldn’t yet see, but wanted desperately to complete.

Then, she mentioned her daughter, and the mask shifted, just slightly. There, in her eyes he saw a softness, a flicker of something real, or at least something that felt real.

“She’s seven,” she said, her smile now tinged with a kind of wistfulness that made Oscar’s chest tighten. “Her name’s Lila. Smart as a whip. It’s just me and her, though. Doing it on my own.”

The words hung in the air between them, and for the briefest of moments, Oscar felt as though he were standing on the edge of something he couldn’t quite name. A single mother, raising her daughter in a city that never stopped moving, never stopped demanding more—it struck a chord in him, deep and resonant. There was something in her story that tugged at him, an invisible thread that wound tighter with every word she spoke.

She glanced up at him, her eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem endless, like dark pools that promised a depth he wasn’t sure he could navigate. But he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about her, to uncover the layers she kept just out of reach, to be the one who could offer her something more. More than just conversation. More than just sympathy.

“Must be tough,” Oscar murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. There was something sacred in the way she spoke of her daughter, as if Lila was the only thing tethering her to the world, the anchor in her otherwise untethered existence.

She sighed, but it wasn’t the kind of sigh that begged for attention. It was subtle, almost delicate, the kind of resignation that comes from a practised weariness. The weight of her words was perfectly measured, enough to evoke sympathy, but never pity. She wasn’t asking for anything, not outright, and yet her silence spoke louder than anything else could.

“You get used to it,” she said, her voice like a thread pulled tight, thin but unbreaking. “But, yeah... sometimes it is.”

The way she said it, as though it were an afterthought, made Oscar’s heart twist. It was the kind of struggle that sounded too familiar, too real, and before he knew it, something had shifted in him. Something protective, something foolishly eager to offer help, to be the one who could ease that burden, even if only a little.

And that’s how she hooked him. Not with grand gestures or overt requests, but with the smallest, most intimate revelations. A look here, a sigh there. Each one perfectly placed, perfectly timed. She never needed to ask, because he offered before the words could form on her lips. And every time she smiled that secretive, knowing smile, he found himself falling deeper, wanting to believe that maybe—just maybe—he was the one who could change things for her.

Days slipped into weeks like sand through an hourglass, each encounter with her deepening the spell she cast over him. Chicago began to feel like a dreamscape where their paths intertwined, a place where his mundane existence blurred into a tapestry woven with her laughter and soft whispers.

They met in the city’s hidden corners—a quiet café tucked away from the bustling streets, a dimly lit bar where jazz music wrapped around them like a warm embrace. Each time Oscar saw her, the ache of attraction blossomed, rich and vibrant, filling him with a heady mixture of hope and longing. He often found himself stealing glances, wondering if she felt the same gravity toward him that he felt toward her.

But the deeper he fell, the more he sensed an undercurrent of mystery beneath her charm. It was subtle, a flicker in her gaze whenever her phone buzzed with a text she wouldn’t show him. Sometimes, he’d catch her staring out the window, her thoughts drifting away to somewhere he couldn’t follow.

One evening, they were at a secluded rooftop bar, the city sprawling below them like a sea of twinkling lights. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for them. Oscar had just shared a joke, one that made her laugh—a sound so genuine, it sent warmth coursing through him.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asked, his curiosity spilling over as they leaned closer, the space between them charged with something electric. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a spell.

“Every day,” she replied, her eyes locking onto his, dark and mysterious. “But it’s hard to dream when you’re so busy living.”

Oscar studied her, captivated by the glimmer of vulnerability beneath her poised exterior. “What do you dream of?” he probed, leaning in, their faces inches apart, the world around them fading into a blur.

“I dream of freedom,” she confessed, a faint tremor in her voice. “The freedom to choose… to be whoever I want.” There was a momentary flicker in her eyes, an openness that invited him in, only to pull back just as quickly, like a candle’s flame flickering in the wind.

He couldn’t believe a woman like her was really into him. His mind raced, battling with the part of him that wanted to dismiss the notion. She was enchanting, sophisticated, everything he had ever wanted but never thought he could attain. In this moment, he felt like a moth drawn to a flame, unable to resist the allure, even as it threatened to consume him.

As if sensing his turmoil, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, a fleeting touch that ignited the air between them. “You’re a good man, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice sultry, each word curling around him like smoke. “You make me feel… alive.”

That’s when he leaned in, the space between them collapsing into something more intimate. Their lips met, tentatively at first, the kiss igniting a spark that coursed through him like fire. She tasted like whiskey and wildflowers, sweet and intoxicating, and Oscar lost himself in the moment. Every worry, every doubt faded away as he kissed her deeper, his hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer as if to shield her from the world outside.

But in the back of his mind, a nagging voice whispered warnings he didn’t want to hear. He wondered if he was the only one, she never mentioned her daughter’s father but that wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to know. He didn’t want to spend his days comparing himself to the man that she loved. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what he was like, was he a friend? Was he carefree and cool? Was he everything that he wasn’t? Or was he just like him? The thought made him pull back, his heart pounding not just from desire but from confusion and fear.

“Is it just me?” he asked before he could stop himself, breathless, searching her eyes for a hint of truth.

Her smile faltered for just a moment, and in that instant, he saw the cracks in her facade. But then it was gone, replaced by that intoxicating allure. “You know it’s complicated, Osc. But I like being with you. You make me feel… special.”

The way she said it drew him in again, like a moth irresistibly fluttering toward the flame, unable to see the danger. Yet the ghost of uncertainty lingered, an unsettling reminder that she might not be who she appeared to be.

“Sometimes, it feels like there’s more,” he murmured, almost to himself, but she caught his gaze, holding it like a secret, her expression unreadable.

“Don’t think too much,” she said, her tone playful but layered with something else—something deeper. “Just enjoy what we have. It’s beautiful in its own way.”

As the night wore on and the stars blinked into existence above them, Oscar found himself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The intoxicating rush of her presence, the warmth of her body so close to his, overshadowed the haunting doubts that flickered in the recesses of his mind.

The days after that rooftop kiss blurred together into a fever dream, a haze of her touch, her scent, the way her lips felt against his skin. Oscar found himself thinking about her constantly, her name echoing in his mind like a mantra. He checked his phone compulsively, waiting for her messages, craving her presence. Each time she called or texted, his heart leapt in a way that both excited and terrified him.

He couldn’t focus on work. Off season meetings passed by in a fog of half-formed strategies and distracted nods while he was still away from the city he was meant to be in. His mind was always elsewhere—trapped in the memory of her smile, the feel of her fingers brushing against his arm, the way she whispered his name late at night, in that low, intimate voice that sent shivers down his spine.

By the time she invited him over to her apartment, it felt like an invitation to a sanctuary. His heart raced as he climbed the stairs, each step heavy with anticipation. When she opened the door, it was like the world outside ceased to exist. She stood there, bathed in the dim light of her living room, wearing a simple black dress that clung to her in all the right places. Her eyes gleamed as she smiled at him, a smile that was more dangerous than any warning.

"Come in," she murmured, stepping back to let him inside.

Oscar didn’t need to be asked twice. He crossed the threshold and found himself in a space that smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm, something that reminded him of her. The apartment was quiet, cosy, but he barely noticed the surroundings. All he could see was her.

They sat on the couch, glasses of wine in hand, but conversation quickly slipped away. She leaned in, her body inches from his, and it took everything in him not to close the gap. He could feel the heat of her skin, the soft exhale of her breath against his neck as she leaned even closer, her lips brushing his ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, the words sending a jolt of electricity through him.

Oscar turned to her, his pulse quickening as their eyes met. Her face was inches from his, lips parted just slightly, as if daring him to close the distance. And he did. In one swift motion, his hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her toward him.

Their lips collided with a force that startled him, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. The kiss was deep, hungry, the pent-up tension of weeks of longing spilling over all at once. Her hands slid up his chest, nails grazing his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and he groaned softly, losing himself in the feel of her. Every touch, every movement seemed to ignite something primal in him, something he hadn’t known existed until she had awakened it.

She straddled him, her thighs pressing against his hips as she deepened the kiss, her body moulding to his in a way that made him dizzy. Oscar’s hands roamed over her back, her waist, pulling her closer, needing her closer. He kissed her like he was starved for her, and in a way, he was—starved for the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she seemed to fill every space inside him that had once been hollow.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire, his breath shallow. “I can’t stop thinking about you, angel.”

Because that was what she was, an angel, sent from heaven. Just for him.

Her lips curled into a smile as she nipped at his bottom lip, a soft, teasing bite that made him moan. “Good,” she whispered, her voice sultry, her fingers trailing down his chest, over the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them, one by one. “I like knowing I’m always on your mind.”

“You are,” Oscar breathed, his hands gripping her hips as she pressed against him, the heat of her body making it impossible to think of anything else. His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out all reason, all sense of reality. There was only her. Only this.

He leaned back, his head resting against the couch as she kissed along his jawline, down his neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His breath hitched as she bit softly at the sensitive spot just below his ear, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, nails raking lightly against his skin. He could barely speak, the words thick on his tongue, but they tumbled out before he could stop them.

“I’d leave everything for you, you know that?” he said, half-laughing, half-serious, the thought slipping out like a confession. “I’d quit my job—hell, I’d move to this shitty city for you.”

She paused, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. For a split second, Oscar saw something flicker in her gaze—surprise, amusement, maybe even guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She tilted her head, her fingers trailing down his chest again, this time slower, more deliberate.

“Would you really?” she asked, her voice a soft purr, her lips curling into a playful smile that sent his heart racing.

Oscar swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d do anything for you.”

She smiled, that dangerous smile again, and leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss that made his entire body tremble. Her hands slid around his neck, pulling him closer, and for a moment, Oscar forgot everything—his job, his life, even his own name. There was only her. Only the way she made him feel, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But as the kiss deepened, as his mind spun with desire and longing, that nagging doubt crept back in. The flicker of uncertainty that had been lingering at the edge of his thoughts ever since that night on the rooftop. He pushed it down, pushed it away, not wanting to spoil the moment, but it was there—like a shadow, haunting the edges of his euphoria.

Oscar’s words hung in the air, a half-breathed promise laced with both desperation and devotion. The world outside, his career, his obligations—they seemed like distant echoes now, fading in the intensity of her presence. Every nerve in his body was attuned to her, to the subtle shift of her weight as she pressed closer, the heat of her body melding with his. The temptation, the desire, was overwhelming.

Her lips brushed against his in a whisper of a kiss, slow and deliberate, her breath warm as it mingled with his. Each kiss she planted was softer, more intimate than the last, trailing back from his mouth down to his neck, as if she was marking him as hers. She moved with a purpose, her hands sliding under his shirt, fingertips exploring his skin with a tantalising slowness that made Oscar’s breath hitch. Every touch was electric, sending shivers coursing down his spine.

“What would you do for me?” she murmured, her voice like velvet, the words teasing and yet dripping with seductive power. Her lips moved against his collarbone as she spoke, making it harder for him to focus on anything but the feel of her, the warmth of her breath, the way she said his name like it was something sacred.

Oscar could barely speak, barely breathe. He nodded, his fingers gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. "Anything," he whispered, his voice raw and honest, his eyes searching hers for some sign that she might feel the same way, that this wasn’t all one-sided.

Her lips found his again, but this time the kiss was deeper, more consuming. It wasn’t just passion—it was possession. She kissed him as though she were claiming every part of him, and Oscar surrendered willingly, his mind lost in the sensation of her lips, the softness of her skin against his. Her body shifted, pressing fully against him, and he could feel the thrum of her heartbeat, could hear the soft, breathy moans that escaped her lips as they moved together.

His hands wandered up her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine before finding their way into her hair, tangling in the dark, silken strands. He tugged gently, pulling her head back just enough to expose her neck, and kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips trailing down to her shoulder. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating—something sweet and dangerous, like a promise that could never be kept.

She gasped softly, her fingers tightening in his hair, and he could feel her smile against his skin. “You’re so sweet, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice husky, dripping with allure. She shifted in his lap, grinding slowly against him in a way that made his breath catch, his heart pound in his chest. "So eager to please."

Her words were both a praise and a tease, and Oscar could feel his resolve melting, every coherent thought slipping away under the weight of his desire for her. He kissed her again, harder this time, a rush of emotion flooding through him as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. His hands roamed over her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the heat of her pressing against him. It was as though she had become the centre of his universe, everything else falling away, and he wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment, lost in her.

She responded with equal fervour, her fingers pulling at his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands explored the bare skin of his chest, nails dragging lightly across his muscles, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Oscar groaned softly, his lips moving to the curve of her jaw, kissing along the line until he reached her ear. He could feel her tremble slightly against him, a subtle shudder that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to look at her—her flushed cheeks, the way her lips were swollen from his kisses, the way her eyes glistened in the low light of the room. She was breathtaking, and for a moment, Oscar couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thumb brushing gently across her lower lip. She captured it between her teeth for just a second, her eyes gleaming with mischief, before releasing it with a slow, seductive smile.

“And you’re mine,” she whispered back, her voice a promise and a command all at once. She kissed him again, slow and deep, her hips rolling against his in a way that made him lose all sense of control. “Mine to keep, mine to own, mine to use.”

The words flew over Oscar’s head as he slid his hands beneath the hem of her dress, fingers tracing the smooth skin of her thighs, pulling her even closer. He wanted her—needed her—and every touch, every kiss, only made him more desperate. She moaned softly against his lips, a sound that sent heat rushing through his veins, making his heart race, making him weak for her in ways he never thought possible.

“I’d leave everything for you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse as he kissed the side of her neck, his hands tightening on her waist, wanting her closer, needing her closer. "My job, the city, everything. Just say the word, angel."

For a moment, she paused, her fingers stilling against his skin. Her eyes met his, and there was something in her gaze—something unreadable, something that flickered and then disappeared before he could grasp it. But then she smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that made his heart ache with both longing and uncertainty.

“I know you would,” she whispered, her voice like honey, thick and sweet. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, and she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “But for now, just stay here… with me. Be mine.”

And with that, she kissed him again, deeper this time, pulling him back into the heat of the moment, into her, until all he could think about was the way she felt against him, the way she tasted, the way she made him forget everything else.

Oscar was completely, utterly hooked. He knew he was falling, deeper and deeper, blinded by the enchantment she wove around him, not realising that the threads were spun from illusions. While he yearned to be the hero in her story, she was crafting her own tale.

part two

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artbysconnor · 6 months ago

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Team GGGG as DnD Character designs! I had a ton of fun doing them. Design breakdowns under the cut! . ZombieCleo - Elf Undead Warlock Smajor1995 - Eladrin Divine Soul Sorcerer PearlescentMoon - Tiefling Beastmaster Ranger ImpulseSV - Dwarf Oath of Devotion Paladin

ZombieCleo - Obviously I wanted Cleo to be, well, a zombie, so Undead Warlock felt like a perfect choice! Over the bandages wrapping up her decaying body, she wears a long purple dress over green teal leggings and leg wraps to mimic her leotard and socks, and I gave her bone and skull details on her shoulders, belt, and hair pins to reference her necromancy magic. Her carved green gemstone bangles and diadem serve to help in her spellcasting.

Smajor1995 - Scott always struck me as having Fae Prince energy, so I think he'd be from the Feywilds and wanted his costume to feel similarly natural and yet ethereal. His shirt is semi-sheer fae silk and sparkly and his gilded gold leggings fasten with a corset at the waist. As an additional nod to the nature magic of the Eladrin, his cape fades into blowing leaves at the ends, and I imagine changes with the seasons - flowers in the spring, turning red in the fall, etc. He also always has a divine halo.

PearlescentMoon - I knew I wanted Pearl to be a Tiefling so I could make her horns into the shape of crescent moon! The rest of her design is mainly based on her Red Pearl design, with a red cloak and tattered black pants and an overall asymmetrical design to give you that slightly unhinged feeling. She also has mismatched black bracers and archery gloves to help in her shooting.

ImpulseSV - For Impulse, a dwarf seemed like the obvious choice as a reference to his past seasons of Hermitcraft, so I leaned into it and gave him bulky black armor with 'i' motifs at the shoulders. I translated his shirt design into a black-and-gold tabard and gave him a big greatsword that I imagine is a bit like a swiss army knife, full of doodads and engineered gizmos.

#dnd #character design #mcyt #llsmp #traffic smp #life series #wlsmp #wild life smp #zombiecleo #pearlescentmoon #smajor1995 #impulsesv #my art #queen.jpeg #zombiecleo fanart #smajor1999 fanart #smajor fanart #pearlescentmoon fanart #impulsesv fanart

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churrobird · 5 months ago

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"okay, okay, okay! uhm! close your eyes, please?"

under his mask, clown allowed himself a fond smile, watching as ros anxiously bounced on her toes in front of him.

he had been sitting in his room in the castle, polishing one of his enchanting daggers, when the architect had knocked on his door. she had poked her head in, beaming with nervous delight at the sight of him, and had told him that she had a gift for him.

"a gift?"

"yes! a gift! i've made everyone hats for the ball- obviously, i already gave you yours, but... i decided to make something else for you!"

that brought them to now. obediently, he shut his eyes, his keen ears picking up rustling as, presumably, ros pulled something from her inventory.

"you're not peeking, right?" he heard ros question, a hesitant skepticism in her voice.

"and ruin such a grand surprise from the royal architect herself? of course not, my dear ros!" clown replied, shifting his voice into his grandiose "archmage" accent

pride bubbled in his chest as he heard ros barely suppress a giggle. that silly voice had always made her laugh, so naturally, he did it as much as possible around her.

"no, i believe you! just hold out your hands!"

no sooner than had he followed the command, something was placed into his open grasp. ros' hands guided his own to firmly hold the object. he ran his fingers over it, attempting to figure out what it was before he opened his eyes. it was round, convex, and cold. even with his gloves preventing him from feeling the finer grooves, he could tell that there were streaks of a different material in the middle, with a smoother, glossier texture than the rest.

"okaaaayy... open your eyes!" ros said, and so he did.

in his hands was a mask. white porcelain, with a wide grin and cross-like eyes just like the one already on his face. the difference was the thick cracks of gold that ran down the length of the entire mask, as if binding together the different shards of porcelain. he reverently ran his thumb over the cheek of the mask, admiring the whorls of red and gold paint that decorated the rest of it.

it took him a moment to reply, so enraptured by the design, before he quickly realized that ros had slowly been going tense, clearly worried that his silence was one of displeasure. he snapped back to reality, quick to assure her, "oh, i love it, ros! it's wonderful."

her entire body sagged with relief, "oh, thank you, thank you! i got the idea for the gold cracks after reading a book about pottery! it's called "kintsugi"- when you repair broken pottery with gold? it took me... a couple of tries to get it right."

"how many is 'a couple'?" he asked, playfully.

her pause spoke volumes, and she meekly mumbled, "sixteen...."

he snickered, and had to hold back a snort at her adorable pout.

he then returned his attention to the mask, and was suddenly struck by an intense thought, an urge:

try it on.

unseen, his gaze flickered back up to ros, who had continued rambling softly about how frustrating the failed fifteen attempts were. normally, he would have listened to every word from ros' mouth with rapture, but his brain was fixated on the thought.

he didn't want to wait for ros to leave. no, his mind called, despite all reason, try it on now.

but that would require ros to see my face, he thought back, and...

he wasn't bothered by that, actually. he hadn't shown anyone his face on the realm, a hesitance always keeping him from doing so, but he had long since decided that ros and sneeg would be the first. it was just a matter of... when he finally felt comfortable.

and finally, his subconscious decided that that moment was right now, apparently. a bit overdue, honestly.

without allowing himself to second guess himself, he pulled back his jester hood, letting his curly black hair spill free. he distantly heard ros make a confused, questioning noise, and as he fumbled with the clasp of the straps on the back of his head, he heard a loud, startled squeak as she realized what was happening.

he finally managed to one-handedly undo the clasp, and after pulling it off, he was met with the sight of ros having jumped back a few inches, her hands desperately smacked over her eyes.

he couldnt help but smile teasingly at her antics, "ros?"

"you- wuh- huh!?" she stuttered out, bewildered. "you- you were taking off your mask!"

"yes, i was?"

"but!? your face!? i cant see your face!!"

"why not, ros?"

"because- because you're really private about that!?"

affection flooded through him, and his teasing smile became more soft. it was truly touching how ros was so respectful of his private nature, even when he couldn't be more obvious about where his boundaries laid now.

placing both masks on the desk in front of him, he stood, reaching forward and cupping one of ros' hands with his own. she startled, clearly having not heard him get closer in her reeling.

"ros," he muttered coyly, "why would i take my mask off right in front of you if i didn't want you to see my face?"

the architect opened her mouth to retort, then quickly shut it again, her face flushing in embarrassment, "i.. well! i was just... caught off-guard, you know!? you gave me no warning that something so important would happen, clown!"

something so important, his heart echoed. he didn't know how she managed to burrow her words so thoroughly into him without even intending to.

he patted the back of her hand, urging her to move it, "well then, roscumber, i'm telling you now. i want you to look at my face."

there was a pause as she nodded at his words. she took in a shaky breath, as if hyping herself up, before she finally tore her hands away from her face, taking clown's hand with them.

he could tell the moment she registered what she was looking at when she froze, her darting eyes her only remaining movement. he could tell when she took in his red irises, his crooked-from-battle nose, the facial scars he acquired from porcelain-cracking crystals and axe strikes.

he didn't break eye contact with her, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

finally, the silence broke,

"oh..." ros whispered softly, as if she didn't realize he could hear her. "you're really pretty, clown."

against his will, he could feel his cheeks grow warm, such a sincere compliment taking him off guard. he saw the moment ros realize she had said that aloud, her face violently flushing an adorable pink.

"what!?" she yelped as he began to laugh, "i'm right!"

she smacked her hands over her mouth, clearly not having meant to say that either, and he laughed harder as she let a muffled, frustrated yell into her hands.

"well, i'm glad you think that, ros. you're pretty too, you know." he winked at her.

he savored the smile that tugged at her lips, despite her embarrassment, "aww... thank you, clown."

"always, ros. now! there was a reason why i decided to show you my face now." he announced, only getting a glimpse of her perking up as he turned back towards the desk.

he picked up the kintsugi mask delicately, before placing it into its creator's hands.

"i want you to help me try it on, ros."

#the realm smp #trsmp #roscumber #clownpierce #rospierce #churro chirps #ITS YA BIRD BACK AT IT AGAIN. WRITING A FIC DIRECTLY INTO A TUMBLR POST WITH NO GRAMMAR OR BETA READING #FUCK IT WE BALL #anyway i see that you guys arent giving my rospierce writing as many notes as the clownsnag mini-fic.... cowards... /silly #anyway. i will probably write something rosnag after this. or finally a proper poly losa fic. just complete the trifecta #anyway im gonna piss off my bestie who doesnt even go here because they have a beloved oc with a whole kintsugi thing #love you rae <3 #i just needed to write a “clown face reveals to ros and theyre cute about it” fic. plus clown gets a cool new mask!!! waow!!!!#surely he will wear it to the ball and nothing bad will happen at the ball and losa can just have a nice fun time together. right guys????

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haxkattpress · 10 months ago

Text

Our Objective Remains Unchanged by @citrusses

"Harry Potter, returning member of the Oxford University Boat Club, has two goals for the spring of 2005: beat Cambridge, and beat Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not in that order."

This has to be one of the most creative and meticulously researched fics I have ever had the pleasure of reading. If you haven't read it yet, don't walk— run! Citrusses is an absolute genius, and kindly gave me permission to bind her masterpiece.

The cover of this bind is made out four different shades of Allure bookcloth cut by my Cameo 4, and the centerpiece is printed and hand foiled. The banners were machine foiled in gold and black with hand foiled rose gold shading. The endbands were hand sewn with Gutermann silk thread.

You can find more pictures and information about my process under the cut.

The amount of inspiration this fic gave me was overwhelming, and Citrusses' writing fully immersed me in the world of competitive rowing. While designing this bind, I was struck by the sheer wealth of Oxford rowing memorabilia available to me. I settled on this 1929 illustration from an official publication on the Oxford and Cambridge Centenary Boat Race for the cover.

"How hard could it possibly be?" I thought, foolishly. The answer was HARD, but I'll get into that later.

Due to the wealth of design options, I believe that this may be the best typeset I have created to date. Thanks to the help of my friend @tsurashi-bindery, I was able to learn the basics of InDesign (kicking and screaming all the way). There will be spoilers in the text of these photos, so try not to read them if you haven't finished the fic!

For the title page, I modified To See the Crews in Training by Charles Pears (1930). I believe that this was part of a series of advertisements for the race in the London Underground.

For the chapter headers, I redrew the crest from an Oxford Oars, Flags, and Arms postcard, presumably pre 1914. I also had some fun creating a mock email using La_Temperanza's How to Mimic Email Windows on Ao3. Cormac's email makes me laugh every time I read it, and Citrusses provided an appropriately pompous subject.

I also had lots of fun editing the oars from the official OUBC logo to serve as dividers and decorations for the page numbers.

Additionally, I got to edit a full newspaper page for the fic! I was very excited find an opportunity to slip Leyendecker's The Finish (1908) in.

The fic ended beautifully, so I wanted to include one last element at the end to capture the atmosphere. I settled on L'aviron (1932) by Milivoj Uzelac. It makes me feel as though Harry and Draco will continue rowing together long after I've closed the book.

I of course had lots of fun sewing the headbands, and got to do it with not one but TWO copies!

Things got tricky when I had to recreate the cover. I had a poor understanding of how vector images worked, and ended up having to redraw it three times. Once I finally cracked and taught myself how to use Illustrator, the program crashed...and I had to redraw it a fourth time!

I set the vector to cut on my Cameo 4, and I assembled the pieces together like a puzzle on my Silhouette mat. I used Allure's indigo, skylight, white, and black bookcloth in the process. I will be making a tutorial video on this method, so I will keep it brief here.

I also cut a piece of bookcloth to 8.5"x 11" and fed it through my inktank printer to print the center design. I then cut it out using the print and cut feature on my Cameo 4. Both of these methods were a first for me, and they were very scary!!

To be perfectly frank, the foiling was a nightmare and I don't want to get into it. I machine foiled the gold, and then foiled black lettering on top of it. I foiled the rose gold shading by hand, and then foiled a thin black outline along the edge of the banners to make them stand out more.

I hand foiled the spines (because I'm scared of measuring), painted the exposed board (to hide any gaps in the inlays), and used transfer tape to lift my design from the Silhouette mat and onto the cover.

One more fun detail— my copy and the author's copy are sisters! The dark blue and the light blue are inverted on the author's copy, making it distinguishable from mine. This is the first time I have made an author's copy for a fic, and I was admittedly incredibly nervous. I always worry about what authors will think of my work, but Citrusses gave me an incredible amount of encouragement and support throughout the process! Thank you for trusting me with your precious fic!

This story is a work of fanfiction and can be read on Ao3 for free. My bind and typeset are for personal use only and not for sale or profit. Keep fandom free!

#book binding #fic binding #fanbinding #fanfic binding #drarry #our objective remains unchanged #harry x draco #my binds

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gav-san · 1 month ago

Text

Chapter Five

A Lineage of Red Masterlist here

One Piece Masterlist

Masterlist here

Like a Fox in a Snare Word Count: 8,500+ This story is not a commendation of slavery, cruelty, sexual assault, or violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

Previous/Next

Garling Figarland sat alone in his private study, the hush of the room disturbed only by the soft, rhythmic tap of his fingers against the marble mane of the lion bust perched beside him. His gaze drifted lazily over the sprawl of the map stretched across his desk, its surface dense with an elegant chaos. Threads of silk crisscrossed from name to name, fastened with pins of obsidian, silver, and mother-of-pearl. Tiny sigils and symbols annotated the weave, marking alliances, debts, and secrets. Some names were circled in neat ink, others struck through with ruthless finality.

It resembled less a map and more an autopsy table. The court’s innards laid bare. A tapestry of lies and legacy, bleeding out under his careful dissection.

He stared at it with the weary look of a man who had already solved the puzzle, picked apart every motive, and found the conclusion beneath it all terribly dull. With a sigh, he pushed the map away, letting it sag against the edge of the desk as if the weight of so many dynasties no longer interested him.

His fingers reached for something smaller. More personal.

A delicate fox-shaped pin sat nestled beside his inkstone. Carved in rose-gold and no larger than a coin, its design was elegant and sharp, the tail coiled like a whisper of threat. It had not been meant for him. It had been part of a debutante’s gift box, one he had instructed his aides to examine. He had not returned it.

Garling turned the pin slowly between his fingers, watching the way the gold caught the lamplight. His gaze, once heavy-lidded with boredom, sharpened with new interest. A quiet awareness came into his shoulders. His spine straightened. The hunter waking.

He reached for the silver bell and rang it once.

The door opened almost before the sound had faded. His steward, a man trained well enough to speak only when spoken to, entered and stood silently, awaiting command.

“Double the men shadowing Miss Vauntierre,” Garling said, his voice smooth and without urgency. “Discreetly. No contact.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch as the pin continued its lazy rotation between his fingers.

“I want everything. Her companions. Her routines. Where she lingers and how long. What books she pretends to read and what pages she returns to. Whom she watches when she thinks no one sees her. What makes her laugh. What makes her pause. Her favorite color. Her least favorite dish. How long she stares at her own reflection. I want to know if her breath catches when someone says her name, and what kind of storm passes through her when no one is looking.”

The steward bowed low, ready to take his leave, but Garling’s voice called him back before he could retreat.

“And be quick about it,” he said, setting the pin carefully atop the lion’s mane. His eyes gleamed, soft with something that did not resemble mercy. “I intend to have her rooms prepared. I would hate to choose the wrong shade of red.”

It was the early hours of morning, when even the city’s clocks seemed reluctant to chime and the sky had not yet decided whether to darken or pale.

Thorne stepped into the parlor without knocking, without asking, and without the slightest pretense of manners. The door clicked shut behind him with the same crisp finality he used to close dossiers, sign dismissal letters, and walk away from poorly negotiated truces.

He was still half in formal dress, the picture of elegance disturbed. His shirt collar was undone, his cravat hung loose and uneven, and his gloves were tucked into his belt like an afterthought. His coat was slung over one shoulder, neglected in his haste. When he looked at you, his expression gave nothing away.

You did not rise. You did not speak. Your gaze remained on the hearth, where the fire had burned too low to offer any warmth.

"You were added to the Trials of Twelve," he said.

His voice was steady, but it carried the tightness of something held in check.

It was not a question.

You nodded once, slow and measured.

"You didn’t tell me."

Your answer came quietly, laced with control. "We assumed it was you who invited us."

He let out a short breath through his nose. It was not exasperation, but realization. Something had settled in his mind, clicking into place with the precision of a lock turning. He crossed the room without another word and sank into the chair across from you. His forearms rested on his knees, and the low firelight caught the hard angles of his face, casting a faint gold along his jaw.

He watched you in silence.

The quiet stretched long enough that you were the one to speak again.

"It wasn’t you, was it?"

He shook his head slightly. "Of course not."

The pause that followed felt heavier.

"Then you know who it was," you said, your voice dry with certainty.

His jaw shifted. A small movement. Enough to betray what he would not say aloud.

"Figarland," he said. "That bastard."

The name landed between you with the weight of a blade placed carefully on the table. Not yet drawn. Not yet buried.

Thorne leaned forward, his voice lower now, more measured.

"He is doing this to rattle us. To sabotage the engagement. Or worse. To distract me while he moves somewhere I cannot see."

Still, you said nothing.

His gaze lingered, sharpened by calculation. He was not looking at you with fondness. He was studying you, weighing your silence, testing the shape of your reactions as if you were another piece in his ever-shifting strategy.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"No."

"Send anything?"

"No."

A pause stretched between the two of you, thinner than breath.

"Did he even see you?"

You blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh. It was not warm, but it was real.

"I don’t think so. But it is possible he was hidden. Behind a curtain. Under a table. In the piano."

Something shifted in his expression. The smallest flicker. The twitch of his mouth, barely there. Not quite a smile, not quite amusement. Whatever it was, it stopped short of his eyes.

"Good," he said.

He leaned back slowly, and the fire crackled once in the hearth as if filling the space his voice had left behind.

But the word was not spoken with ease or comfort. It carried no warmth. No reassurance. It sounded like a figure closing a column. The end of a sum, not a sentiment.

You heard it clearly now. He was already weighing this moment against everything else, turning it over in his mind like a sealed report. Your answers. Your tone. The delay before you spoke. He was slotting your behavior into some internal measure of risk. Not because he distrusted you. But because he no longer had the luxury of trusting anyone without calculation.

To him, you had already become a variable.

A risk.

And you could not decide what stung more: his doubt, or your agreement with it.

You wanted to be outraged. You should have been. But you weren’t. Not really. Because, if you were Being honest, you may have been compromised.

You opened your mouth to confess.

You should have told him everything. Every wretched word that had passed through your mind. That you needed to leave Mariejois. That the revolutionaries should scatter. That whatever game Figarland was playing, it had shifted. It was personal now, and far too close for comfort.

But your mouth closed again.

Because none of it was confirmed. You had no evidence. Only the weight of a feeling you could not shake. The shape of something wrong that had not yet taken form. The invitation had come too easily. The timing had been too precise. And Garling Figarland had looked at you for too long with too little expression.

That did not mean anything. Not on its own.

To assume his actions were aimed at you was dangerous. It was paranoid. Worse, it was arrogant. Figarland was a man of many enemies, most of them louder and more obvious than you. Hazing was tradition in Mariejois. Newly paired couples were often targeted. Perhaps Thorne had irritated him during a past debate. Perhaps you had not been as forgettable or inoffensive as you had intended during your last meeting.

There were a hundred possible reasons. A thousand variables. You would have to count carefully before arriving at the possibility that Figarland had seen through you. That he had pierced the veil of the revolution.

And even if he had, what then?

The thought of Thorne looking at you with that dry, unreadable expression was worse than exposure. The way he would tilt his head slightly and call you reckless, or naive. Or worse, say nothing at all.

Silence would be the final verdict.

If he believed you were compromised, he would end the mission without hesitation. Virella would not argue. She would not protect you. No one would. The revolution had no room for sentiment. If Thorne so much as suspected you were a risk, they would fold you out of the picture without ceremony. Quiet. Efficient. Final.

They would not risk you. Not even for your own cause.

You did not want that.

So you said nothing.

Thorne studied you for a long moment. He did not press. His silence was not cold, only measured. There was no judgment in his gaze, only the calm gravity of someone trained to wait for truths to reveal themselves in time.

He was quiet, but not unfeeling. Only pragmatic.

"I promised I would protect us all. Especially you." His voice was even, but distant, as if the words belonged to a memory he had not yet put down. "Seraphina would never forgive me."

He paused, the next part softer.

"I would never forgive myself."

Another moment passed between you. The fire hissed softly behind its grate.

Then, without accusation, only precision:

"We must speed up the engagement. I will send the letter at noon."

The door burst open before he could finish the sentence.

Maria stood in the threshold, breathless. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair half-fallen from its braid, her cloak slipping from one shoulder. She had run the length of the corridor, maybe farther. She did not She did not knock. She did not bother with civility.

"You’re too late," she said, her voice splintered with disbelief. "That damned God’s Knight made his move."

Thorne straightened. "Pardon?"

Maria’s expression twisted. Her breath still came uneven. "You’ve been added to the Hunt."

The silence cracked like glass underfoot.

Across from you, Thorne froze. Not dramatically. Not violently. But with the quiet, final stillness of a man who had just taken a blade somewhere vital. His spine remained upright, but his shoulders locked into place. His hands, once braced on his knees, closed into stillness.

"He what?" The words left him softly. They hovered just above a whisper. Frightening in how low they sat.

Maria did not repeat herself. She did not explain. She walked forward and tossed something down between you.

A single card caught the air as it fell. Light in weight, but heavy with intent. It spun once before landing silently in your lap.

Crimson bled along the borders. Gold-lettered script shimmered in the low firelight. The card bore no seal, but it did not need one.

It was an invitation.

Or perhaps a death sentence, dressed in ceremony.

Entry Confirmed. Participant: Miss Vauntierre.

You stared at the card.

Your throat began to tighten.

It felt as if the room had grown colder all at once, as if the dying fire had finally gone out without permission. The silence between the three of you thinned and sharpened, stretched taut by a quiet none of you dared break.

Thorne said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The change in his expression was enough. The quiet calculation behind his eyes had disappeared, replaced by something far more distant. His features had gone still. Not with shock. Not with thought. With cold finality. He looked as if he had passed beyond analysis into something stripped of warmth entirely.

Maria had begun to pace.

“He overlooked the list himself,” she said, breath still uneven.

Thorne rose without warning. His chair screeched against the tile as he stood, the sound abrupt and jarring in the still room.

He looked ill.

Rage sat beneath his skin like heat behind iron. Controlled, but dangerous. A forge without a chimney. Contained, but waiting for an excuse to rise.

“This is a political game,” he said, his voice flat. “Not a courtship. If he wants to win, he must declare his intent. Seriously. Publicly. Which means—”

“He sent her to the glasshouse,” Maria cut in, her tone sharper than before. “And liked her answer enough to do this.”

You did not move.

The card in your hand might as well have been burning. The edges bit into your skin. You could not seem to let go.

The Hunt was no charming pastime.

It was sabotage dressed in silk. A velvet-gloved weapon used to fracture courtships, unravel alliances, and spark rivalries that could last for generations. It drifted through the halls of Mariejois like perfume laced with poison. Whispers painted it as romantic. The truth was sharper.

At its most elegant, the Hunt was a spectacle. A debutante, if fortunate and perfectly placed, might be gently pursued by a suitor hand-picked for compatibility. Bloodline, wealth, and influence determined everything. Sometimes she might attract two. Sometimes even three, if she was rare enough. Their affections would unfold through formal declarations, polished duels, and grand displays.

But for those of lesser standing, or those considered a threat, the rules changed.

And there was only one that mattered.

The more desirable the girl, the more dangerous the game became.

And now, he had decided that you were worth hunting.

Thorne broke the silence.

"I’ll buy out her entry."

"No." Maria spoke instantly. "That will reek of panic. Worse, it’s not allowed once her name has been declared. You know that. You’ll be punished for even trying."

"Then I’ll appeal."

"You won’t make it past the first gate," she said, bitterly now. "The rules are sacred. And you, dear Thorne, are not."

He said nothing.

But his silence was not surrender.

His jaw had gone tight, his eyes already distant. Not in fear. In calculation. He was not weighing his chances. He was already reshaping the board.

He was not planning to protest.

He was planning to survive.

You recognized the look. You had seen it before, on darker nights and worse days, when a mission had collapsed in ash and someone still had to carry out the final order. It was not the look of a man trying to stop a disaster.

It was the look of someone deciding how to carry the consequences.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, the wood pressing into your palms. Your knuckles had turned white. You only noticed when the trembling began.

You could not stop it.

"Why?" you asked, the word quieter than you intended. It barely filled the space between the three of you.

Maria hesitated, her lips parting without sound.

Thorne did not.

"Because, unfortunately, we’ve made it onto his list."

The words landed without echo. They did not need one.

Before their weight could settle fully in the room, a knock came at the door.

Not hesitant.

Sharp. Precise.

The sound of the handle turning followed immediately. The door opened without pause.

A footman stepped inside.

His posture was immaculate, spine drawn straight as a blade. His gaze flicked upward just once before dropping in practiced formality. He was dressed in House Vauntierre livery, the deep slate and ivory palette pressed to perfection, so finely tailored it seemed ceremonial rather than practical.

Despite the calm of his entrance, there was something uneasy in the set of his shoulders. A tightness at the base of the neck. The faintest flicker of reluctance, quickly smothered.

In his gloved hand, he carried a folded summons. The parchment was thick and pale, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the silver-embossed crest of your house.

“Message from the Master,” he said. His tone was well-trained. Civil, but devoid of warmth. The kind of voice that had delivered countless orders before and expected each one to be followed without question.

He bowed. Quick. Mechanical.

Then extended the letter toward you with both hands.

You and Thorne stood at the same time.

The footman hesitated.

With a slight gesture of his fingers, he clarified, "He only wishes to see Miss Vauntierre at this time."

Not rude. Not kind. Merely final.

Thorne’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

You looked at him, then at Maria. Neither spoke, but the concern in their eyes told you enough. The seal was familiar. The timing, less so. No explanation. No flourish. Just your name and a summons that did not tolerate delay.

You left without protest.

The hallways of the estate were quiet as you moved, lined with floral arrangements chosen to suggest taste without emotion. Marble floors muffled your steps, but not the sound of your heartbeat, which seemed to echo louder with every corridor crossed.

You found the Master of House Vauntierre in the high sitting room. The air was sharp with lemon oil and expectation. Dust had never been allowed to linger here. Every line of furniture had been drawn to symmetry, every angle rigid and deliberate. The chairs were upholstered in fine fabric that had never known comfort. The portraits on the walls watched with the flat disapproval of ancestors whose legacies were used as weapons.

The light from the diamond-paned windows slanted across the room, striking silver along the edges of the tableware. The entire space felt like a room built for verdicts.

He sat beneath the family crest, its silver thread dulled with age, the once-proud embroidery now a ghost of former glory. A glass of port rested in his hand, turning slowly between ringed fingers. The movement was lazy, practiced, the gesture of a man who had long since stopped standing for anything at all.

He did not rise.

He did not greet you.

He only looked up, one brow arching in what might once have been mistaken for amusement. Now, it landed closer to condescension.

"So," he said, drawing out the word like a secret teased from a locked drawer. "You’ve made quite the impression."

You remained standing.

"I assume you’re referring to my recent invitation to the Hunt."

He smiled, thinly. The kind of expression that never touched the eyes.

"Among other things."

He lifted the glass to his lips and drank slowly, the silence that followed heavy with meaning left unsaid. When he set the glass down, it landed without sound, cushioned by a coaster carved from blackwood and inlaid with the Vauntierre sigil.

"Do you know how few girls have ever been named to the Hunt from House Figarland?" he asked, voice light, though it carried the weight of something rehearsed. He did not wait for your reply. "Three in the last century. Two ended in duels. One with a marriage so lucrative their coffers still benefit."

He let that linger, swirling the dark port with a flick of his wrist.

"I do hope you understand what has been offered to you. Even if you did not earn it."

"I am aware."

"I am," he echoed, letting the words roll comfortably over his tongue. He turned his gaze back to the port, almost as if the wine were an accomplice to the conversation. "And so, it seems, is the Commander of God's Knights, who has seen fit to declare interest in a girl who, up until last month, was barely considered a viable asset."

The title alone reshaped the air. God's Knight. It rang with sanctity, danger, and inevitability. He did not need to say the name. Not when all of Mariejois already knew which of them had the privilege of indulgence. Figarland Garling did not express idle curiosity. He chose. He marked.

And when he did, others took note.

There was a subtle pleasure in the Master’s voice now. Not warmth. Something colder. The kind of smugness reserved for those who believed themselves clever for never discarding the right pawn. He sounded like a man rediscovering value in an heirloom long forgotten in a locked drawer.

"A rare thing," he continued, watching you over the rim of his glass. "To catch the eye of a man like that. Some spend their lives building entire dynasties for the sake of a single greeting."

You met his gaze, refusing to flinch. Your voice remained steady.

"I'm already engaged."

The Master gave a delicate sniff, his gaze trailing over you with the detached interest of a man assessing the stitching on a coat just slightly out of season.

"More or less."

"I don’t think Thorne would call it ambiguous."

"No," he said, almost pleasantly, swirling his port again. The movement was slow. Measured. As if time bent slightly to his rhythm. "But you’re young. And quite naive. You still believe that what you want has any bearing on what becomes politically useful."

You didn’t reply.

Not out of agreement. But because words had no weight in this room. Not yours. Not now.

He took another sip, slower this time, savoring it like a man well acquainted with luxury. His voice, when it returned, carried a silk-dry certainty.

"Do not mistake me. This isn’t disapproval. Quite the opposite. The Figarland name carries weight beyond anything Vauntierre could buy, beg, or marry into. His attention is... unexpected, yes. But not unwelcome."

He paused there.

Then smiled. It was not a warm expression. It was not even polite. It was a quiet confirmation of his own correctness. A smile without teeth.

"You’ve done well," he said. "Whether you meant to or not."

You did not thank him. You weren’t sure if it would be taken as impolite or presumptuous.

In truth, you did not care.

He set down his glass with a faint clink. The sound was deliberate. A cue. A closing.

Then he steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the carved arms of his chair.

"I do not want to see Fiero Thorne in this house again. Not until the Hunt concludes. Perhaps not after either."

That made you bristle.

But he was already moving on, discarding Thorne like a footnote.

"I’ve sent for new gowns," he continued, brisk as a ledger being shut. "You’ll be dressed properly from now on. Jewels as well. Nothing garish. You are to appear desirable, not desperate. There’s a difference."

You stared at him.

The pressure in your chest began to tighten. You could not tell whether it was anger threading its way into your lungs, or the dull weight of exhaustion pulling at your spine. Perhaps both.

"Anything else?" you asked, your voice even.

"Yes," he said, flicking his hand through the air like he was dismissing a servant. "Smile when you’re spoken to. Try not to scare off Figarland."

You left without bowing.

Thorne was escorted from the house before you saw him again.

Politely. Quietly. But unmistakably.

There was no scene. No raised voices. Only a discreet servant with clipped manners and a rehearsed apology, offering him his coat and gloves with just enough ceremony to make the message clear.

He was no longer welcome.

Not for now.

You and Maria watched from the upstairs gallery window as he crossed the outer courtyard, his coat slung over one shoulder, his stride even, his face unreadable. He did not look back.

Maria crossed her arms tightly. "This is absurd."

You said nothing.

But something cold had settled in your chest. Not sharp, but dull. Spreading. A quiet frost along the edges of every thought.

The rest of the day passed in an expensive blur.

You were swept through a gauntlet of beauty regimens so rigorous and relentless they could have been mistaken for punishment. What arrived was not a mere styling team. It was an elite unit. A curated ensemble of dressmakers, stylists, jewelers, artists, and what could only be described as political handlers in silk gloves.

They did not speak to you. They spoke around you. Over you. Like generals at a war table, each one consulting a different map.

“She’ll need structured silhouettes, but nothing too hard. She’s already played the doughty spinster-in-training.”

“Metals only in complementary tones. Sapphires. Amethysts. Pearls. Do not dull that hair again.”

“And write this down—she is not to wear anything that makes her look sweet. No pastels. No bows. No lace unless it’s foreign and expensive.”

But first, your hair.

Brushed, washed, and lathered with something that smelled like amber and citrus. Trimmed precisely, not to soften, but to sharpen the frame of your face. A single attendant took detailed notes on your coloring while the others debated angles under shifting candlelight.

“Difficult,” one muttered. “Redheads always are.”

“Not if you stop fighting it,” said another. “Accentuate the contrast, lather it in conditioner, make it shimmer like the star of the show.”

They perfumed your skin next. Not with anything floral or girlish, but with something more decadent; warm, spiced, deliberate. Then came the scrubbing. Soaked, oiled, and dusted with fine powder until your skin caught the light in precisely the right places. You shimmered, not like a star, but like the edge of a drawn blade.

Your nails were filed and shaped to an elegant taper. Your lashes darkened until they cast shadows. The faintest color was pressed into your lips, deep enough to suggest knowledge, not innocence.

As they worked, they whispered.

“Lord Belmire’s daughter wore peonies last season and evaporated by autumn. Don’t make her look like that.”

“She’s meant to be more than pretty. Make her look expensive.”

“She already does,” came a dry voice from the corner. “Now we just need her to look Figarland quality. If we do, we’ll be set for life.”

Every step was taken with political intent. Every choice was calculated for the viewing gallery, not the mirror.

You weren’t being adorned.

You were being prepared.

You sat motionless as they moved around you, as they took notes and adjusted lighting and held swatches of silk against your cheekbones like divining rods. You had never felt more silent or more watched.

A jeweler arrived mid-afternoon, wordless and immaculate in deep charcoal gloves. He bowed only once, then opened his case with the care of a man presenting state secrets. Inside were three velvet trays, each lined with pieces that did not scream wealth but whispered it in steady, undeniable tones.

Nothing glittered too brightly. Nothing clinked. These were not jewels meant to dazzle; they were meant to anchor. To imply lineage, access, and protection.

The trays were placed before the head attendant, who examined each with a strategist’s eye.

“No diamonds,” she said at once, “Too bridal. Too desperate. She isn’t here to beg.”

One of the assistants reached for a strand of pearls. The attendant waved it away.

“She’s not a governess.”

A pause. Then a slow, deliberate gesture toward a pair of cool-hued sapphire drops set in fine gold filigree. The stones were deep and rich, catching the light with the glint of deep seas and hidden rooms.

“Understated,” she murmured, holding one to your ear and nodding in approval. “But just enough to suggest she’s suddenly very expensive.”

The other attendants murmured their agreement, already rearranging your neckline to better frame the selection.

“Leave the rest,” the attendant told the jeweler. “Her wardrobe is shifting. She’ll need variety.”

The jeweler inclined his head, silently pleased. As he departed, one assistant scribbled a note onto the day’s ledger beside your name.

You winced as they clasped the heavy earrings into place.

The gowns came next.

Fabrics were draped over your frame and tugged tight, pinned and unpinned by hands that never asked permission. The room buzzed with murmurs of cut, line, and impression. You were not treated as a girl, but as a figure to be unveiled.

At first, the gowns came in pale, predictable shades. Soft ivory. Powder gray. The faintest yellow that looked dignified on a Vauntierre ledger but made you disappear in the mirror. They were the colors of bridal promises and harmless daughters. Safe, but spectral. You looked like a well-bred ghost, draped in silk that dulled your hair and stole the warmth from your skin.

“She’s vanishing,” one tailor muttered, frowning at your reflection.

“She’s red-haired,” another replied, with a click of her tongue. “She needs presence, not pallor.”

And just like that, the entire palette changed.

New fabrics were summoned. The kind locked behind glass. The kind whispered about in salons. Deep navy trimmed in silver. Midnight velvet with undertones of plum. Emerald satin with an almost luminescent sheen. Shades that were considered too bold for most court girls, but which made red hair look like a crown rather than an accident.

The effect was immediate. You no longer looked fragile. You looked vividly alive.

Jewels were added next. Cool-toned stones. Diamonds, sapphires, and opals set in gold. Your hair was styled higher, your mouth tinted deeper. Each choice was deliberate. Nothing too sweet.

You stood in the center of it all as they worked. Not as a girl, but as a symbol being made.

By the time the attendants stepped back, the room had quieted as they looked at you with a different kind of appraisal.

Maria returned just before dusk.

She stepped inside the room, arms crossed, eyes sweeping across the layers of blue and silver and midnight-dark silk, the scattered pins, the nervous staff retreating into the corners.

Then she looked at you, and her expression darkened.

She stopped in the doorway, her arms folded tight across her chest, brows drawn not in awe but in something closer to dread. Her eyes swept the room slowly, taking in the scattered pins, the opened jewel cases, the silks arranged like offerings. Then they landed on you.

Her gaze didn’t soften.

It sharpened.

“You look beautiful,” Maria said at last, but the words were laced with unease. Her voice was low, brittle at the edges. “Like you belong to someone very powerful.”

You gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

“Beauty isn’t rare,” you said quietly. “It’s just expensive.”

Maria didn’t disagree.

She stepped further into the room, her voice dropping as her eyes flicked toward the attendants still lingering in the corners; soft-footed and suddenly reverent, their gazes darting toward you like courtiers waiting for a cue. Only hours earlier, they had tutted over your coloring, declared it difficult, too bold, too sharp. One had whispered, not unkindly, that red hair often looked provincial if not properly managed.

Now, they fawned.

Now, they praised the way it shimmered like aged copper in candlelight. They adjusted the pins with ceremonial care. One even murmured something about Tracian gold and divine omens, as though your hair had been conjured, not inherited.

It had not changed.

Maria saw it too. The way beauty, once dismissed as unruly, became desirable the moment it served someone else’s narrative. The same red hair they had called difficult that morning was now spoken of in reverent tones. Not because it had changed.

Because power had touched it.

“I think we underestimated Garling Figarland’s insight,” Maria muttered under her breath. Her eyes didn’t leave you. “And when he sees you like this—”

She stopped short.

The implication hung between you, thick as smoke. Maria’s gaze held yours, but she didn’t say it.

She didn’t have to.

You both knew what she meant.

And what it might cost.

It wasn’t long after that the message came.

Not a letter. Not a steward. No crest. No seal. Nothing to mark it as official. Nothing to tie it directly to any house.

Just a courier in pale livery. Expensively dressed, impeccably groomed, and utterly forgettable. The kind of servant used only by the most careful men, and the kind meant to vanish after speaking.

He was shown into the outer parlor without fanfare. No announcement. No formal seal. Just the crisp knock of someone who already knew they would be admitted.

The courier wore pale livery without insignia, his gloves spotless, his demeanor impeccable. He bowed once, deep and unhurried, and delivered his message with the clarity of someone trained to speak once and never repeat.

“Saint Garling Figarland requests the presence of Miss Vauntierre, for a price tea time. It will be held at Noon, in the Figarland Solarium.”

No explanation. No written invitation. No place for reply.

No refusal expected.

Then he turned and left, leaving the faint scent of citrus and bergamot in his wake. A scent that felt entirely deliberate.

Maria stood beside you, staring after him like she might chase him down and shake the words back out of his mouth.

This wasn’t a summons in the traditional sense. It was a move on a board that was already tilting. You were being called into a space designed to control the narrative, not invite participation.

You kept your eyes on the door through which the courier had vanished.

“Don’t tell Thorne yet,” you said quietly.

Maria looked at you, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Why?”

“Because he’ll try to stop it.”

“He should try to stop it.”

You nodded, slowly.

“Yes. But he can’t, or else he’ll completely banish himself from the city. I can still salvage this.”

She cursed softly under her breath, then began pacing.

“Looking like this? Tea in the solarium,” she muttered. “Figarland might as well have sent a dueling invitation. Or a trap wrapped in linen napkins.”

You didn’t flinch.

Because it was already clear this wasn’t about tea.

It was about control.

And you had just been placed on Figarland’s schedule.

The Figarland Solarium sat like a cage of light atop the highest tier of Mariejois. Half-glass, half-thorned lattice, it crowned the capital like a halo honed to a blade. Suspended above the city’s most exclusive restaurants and reserved only for those whose names echoed through bloodlines and treasuries, it was less a garden than a gallery of power. Rumored to be where treaties were once drawn and betrayals quietly sealed, the Solarium was not a place for comfort. Sunlight filtered through its panes, but it did not warm.

The moment you stepped inside, it felt less like entering a parlor and more like stepping onto a stage with the curtains drawn back.

He was already there.

Garling Figarland.

Handsome, of course—undeniably so—but in a way that felt incidental, as if his striking features were simply a secondary effect of something far heavier. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a man who had been forged for spectacle as much as for war. His blond hair, shaped deliberately into the sweeping arc of a waxing moon, caught the filtered sunlight like polished metal. Maroon eyes, unblinking and unreadable, rested on you with the same attention one might give a rare specimen in a locked case.

His uniform, all sharp lines and ceremonial color, was as vivid as ever, but today it hung from him like an afterthought. The gloves had been folded with clinical precision and set beside a half-finished teacup, the porcelain untouched long enough to have gone cold. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, like a man who had been waiting for something interesting to happen for a very long time.

But the blade at his hip was freshly oiled. His boots gleamed. Every brass button was polished, every edge of his attire drawn to symmetry.

If he had not carried such a suffocating gravity, he might have looked comical.

He did not.

He did not rise when you entered.

He only looked at you. Long. Unreadable.

And then, without warning, his mouth curved into a smile. Slow. Easy. Not mocking, but unmistakably deliberate. It was not a performance, not one of the thin expressions worn for court or ceremony.

It was, you realized, the first true smile you had seen on him.

Not warm. Not cold.

But real.

And somehow, that was worse.

He let his eyes linger.

Not inappropriately, but with a kind of practiced thoroughness. As if he were cataloging details not for vanity, but for leverage. Your gown, chosen to catch the light. The careful flush to your cheeks. The warmth of your hair arranged to perfection. The expensive effort of it all did not escape him.

And yet, his gaze paused, just long enough to suggest it wasn’t surprise he felt.

It was interest. The quiet, sharpened kind. Not because you had been made beautiful, but that he knew you already could be, and it pleased him more than it should.

He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly, his gaze unhurried, as if settling in to admire something he hadn’t expected to enjoy quite so much.

"Miss Vauntierre," he said, smooth as silk. Almost warm. As though this were a social call, not the quiet tightening of a noose.

The way he said your name was not ceremonial. It was indulgent. A slow roll of syllables, spoken like something meant to be savored. As if he had waited a long time to say it aloud, and intended to say it often.

His voice pressed gently over your name with the weight of familiarity not yet earned. Possessive, in a way that pretended not to be.

The tea service between you gleamed under the filtered sun. White porcelain. Gold trim. A single pale rose rested beside the second cup. Untouched, but not forgotten.

He looked at it with mild amusement, his maroon eyes narrowing just slightly. Not in mockery, but in thought. As if he appreciated the gesture not for its courtesy, but for its precision. The kind of care he noticed in weapons, not etiquette.

With a flick of two fingers, he gestured to the chair across from him.

"Sit."

Not a request. Not even an order, really. Just a word that assumed obedience.

There had been no second chair when you entered, but almost like sleight of hand, one had appeared by a Figarland servant who immediately disappeared. Simple. Elegant. The chair placed directly across from him beneath the full, merciless glare of the solarium’s sun.

You sat.

The hem of your gown whispered against the marble as you adjusted, spine straight, hands folded in your lap with care. A practiced stillness. A shield of etiquette.

Silence followed.

He let it stretch.

Then, as casually as if he were discussing the weather or a change in orchestra season, he reached for the teapot and poured himself a fresh cup. The steam rose gently between you, curling like a veil. He did not glance up.

"You should thank me," he said lightly. "You were a footnote in a dying house. Now you’re one of the most beautiful women in Mariejois."

You didn’t blink.

"I am a plain woman, Saint Figarland," you said, your voice level. "Beauty does not suit me."

That earned you a glance.

And then, a smirk.

Not cruel. Amused. The kind of expression worn by a man who believed himself two steps ahead and thoroughly entertained by the idea.

"The color suits you," he murmured. "Especially the way it sets off that flush you get when you're upset."

He took a sip, unhurried, eyes still on yours.

"And it's almost as pretty as when you answer a difficult question."

There was no mistaking the teasing edge in his voice. Polished. Precise. Meant to disarm, and to press, both at once.

You kept your voice calm, though the words edged sharper than silk should allow.

"Is this your way of admitting you're tormenting me?"

He tilted his head, just slightly, as if to consider you from a different angle. The faintest smirk touched his mouth. Brief. Controlled. But unmistakably pleased.

"That’s what predators do, isn’t it?" he said, his tone low and deliberate. "Watch the herd. Wait for the shift in pace. Find the most vulnerable member."

You stiffened.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But you felt it in the line of your shoulders. In the way your breath deepened. In the way your pulse began to rise, not with panic, but with calculation.

Garling watched you with the interest of a man studying something rare. Not with malice. Not even with cruelty. Just curiosity. The kind that came from power so absolute it forgot to apologize for itself.

"It’s not always personal," he added mildly, as though that somehow justified the hunt. "It’s instinct."

He tapped one calloused finger against the table. Slow. Rhythmic. The sound echoed faintly against the glass, each beat a quiet reminder of the game being played.

"And I wonder," he continued, voice almost idle, "what kind of debutante works so hard to appear less beautiful."

Your pulse jumped.

Not from fear. Not quite.

You looked away, unsure if you were avoiding his gaze or the truth buried inside the question. You flushed, the heat creeping up before you could stop it.

"I—"

"Your hair," he said, cutting in with the ease of a man who did not need permission. "Is it ever less... colorful?"

But before the sentence could settle, he pushed back from his chair. The movement was smooth, unhurried, and precise; like everything he did was for effect, and the effect always landed.

Your shoulders straightened instinctively as he rose, as though bracing for something measured. Something inevitable.

You heard his footsteps behind you, soft and even against the polished floor. You did not turn.

Then, without preamble, his bare fingers touched the side of your neck.

You froze.

They did not linger. They curled instead around the silk ribbons of your bonnet, light and deliberate, the motion slow enough to be unmistakable. In one practiced sweep, he undid the knot, the silk loosening like it had been waiting for his hand.

The bonnet slipped away.

He lifted it gently from your head, his touch careful. Not hesitant. Reverent. Like he was unwrapping something rare.

A quiet hum followed. Low. Close. Not quite pleased.

Satisfied.

The light caught in your hair now, no longer shielded. It gleamed in the stillness, every strand burnished beneath the sun streaming through the Solarium glass. It fell over your shoulders with warmth and weight, framing your face in something soft and unintended.

You felt exposed.

Not undressed.

Unveiled.

He stepped back. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

But not far.

"Much better," he murmured.

Then, instead of returning to his seat, he reached out again.

His fingers found a loose strand near your shoulder. He let it slide between them, slow and idle, as if measuring its weight or savoring a texture only he could feel. The movement was unhurried. Intimate. Possessive without claiming.

"Tell me, Miss Vauntierre," he said, voice dipping lower, the sound sliding along your spine. "Did you like my question at the Trials?"

The teasing was gone. There was no lilt in his tone now; only focus, quiet and intent.

"No," you said, more sharply than you intended. "I don’t think I should have been there at all."

He hummed. A thoughtful sound. Almost indulgent.

"Oh? But yours was the only good answer. Most girls cry when they’re tested without studying. You answered like a revolutionary cell leader being pressed in an alley."

You took a slow, careful breath.

The room had changed.

It was still full of light, still beautiful, but it felt closer now. Smaller. Sharpened around the edges.

"Your faith in my abilities is heartwarming, Commander Figarland."

He smiled faintly at that, though his eyes remained unchanged. Cool. Focused. Still playing with the strand of your hair, he continued, almost absently, as if speaking to himself.

"I wonder who taught you that answer. Your mother? Some merchant whispering ideas between shipments? Or perhaps the boy with the warships."

Your spine stiffened. You held your expression still.

Neutral. Controlled.

His fingers released your hair.

But they did not retreat.

Instead, his fingers lingered. Light. Deliberate. His skin was cool against the sensitive curve of your neck, the pressure almost gentle. Almost reverent.

"Or perhaps," he said, voice so soft it could have been mistaken for tenderness, "it was Silvian Declaire, before his untimely death."

Your throat tightened.

That name. That implication. It was dangerous ground, spoken with too much ease. You needed to move the conversation. Quickly. Cleanly.

But silence, in this place, had gravity.

You didn’t speak.

And he noticed.

He smiled again. Wider this time. Not amused.

Satisfied.

As though something unspoken had been confirmed. As though watching you flinch without moving had pleased him more than any answer ever could.

You forced yourself to speak. The words caught in your throat before they came, and when they did, your voice barely carried.

"Why did you enter me into the Hunt?"

He did not answer at once.

His hand lifted from your skin slowly, almost thoughtfully, as if releasing something breakable. Something his fingers might remember.

Then he circled back to his chair and lowered himself with unhurried grace. He sat like a man who had never known the need to rush, the weight of urgency a foreign concept. One leg crossed, one hand loose on the table, he looked at you like time had no bearing on his plans.

His fingers tapped once against the rim of the porcelain teapot.

"Because I like the way you panic," he said, his voice light, as if making an idle observation.

The teapot clicked gently as he set it down. The sound was clean and crisp, echoing in the charged quiet between you. It rang with intention, like a bell calling something unseen into motion.

"Eyes sharp. Chin high. Chest spilling from your dress."

His voice dipped just enough to catch the edge of something intimate. Not overt, but unmistakable. You felt your breath hitch, shallow at the top of your throat. The words landed between you like fingers on bare skin, cool and precise.

"A little breathless," he continued, gaze trailing from your neckline to your mouth, "from pretending you’re not afraid."

He let the silence stretch after that.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. It was something smaller, more private. A flicker of desire, restrained and tucked away like a secret. You realized, too late, that he was enjoying this, that each reaction drawn from you like blood from a pinprick.

"My own little red fox."

The words curled through the air like smoke. Soft. Lethal. Possessive.

He lifted the teacup to his lips and drank slowly. The porcelain touched his mouth with the elegance of ceremony. He never looked away from you.

His stare was steady. Unblinking.

It did not feel like he was seeing you. It felt like he already owned you.

"I detest the idea of anyone else having that view," he murmured, lips brushing the rim of the cup. The words were quiet, intimate enough to feel like they were spoken directly against your skin.

Your heart gave a single, traitorous thud.

You wanted to cry, or to spit at him, or to leave and never return. Anything to break the strange gravity pulling you into the moment. Anything to shatter the way he looked at you, as though every reaction belonged to him.

"I am as good as married—"

Before the sentence could finish, his hand moved.

Gentle. Unhurried. Almost absentminded.

Two fingers tilted your chin upward, the pressure light but undeniable. His flesh was cool against your skin, the gesture so precise it felt rehearsed. He angled your face toward his with the same care one might use to adjust a porcelain mask.

He studied you.

Not like a man looking at a rival’s bride.

Like a hawk examining a songbird caught too far from cover.

"Oh?" he said, the sound soft and indulgent, as if amused by your insistence. "You’re not truly spoken for in any measure of the law. And if Thorne wanted to secure you, he should have moved faster."

He leaned forward.

Not enough to provoke, only enough to shift the light. Sunlight spilled across the table and stopped short at his shoulder, casting a shadow over your lap. It was not his body that carried the weight.

It was the implication.

You tried to speak, but your voice faltered before it steadied again.

"Why?"

The word cracked open everything you were trying not to ask. It held the edge of fear, of curiosity, of disbelief. But he brushed it aside like smoke.

"I find," he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, "that I’m warming to the idea of gifting my future children red hair."

A pause followed.

Long enough for the words to settle. Long enough for your stomach to turn.

Then he added, quieter still, as though confiding in someone already complicit:

"One could even say… revolutionary red."

Your breath caught.

Not just caught. It stopped. Trapped in your chest like prey in a snare.

You stood.

Abrupt. Too fast. The chair scraped harshly against the polished floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the glass chamber of the solarium. For a moment, that echo was the only thing in the world.

He did not flinch.

He did not blink.

His smile did not fade.

It deepened.

Not with amusement, but with quiet, ruthless satisfaction. Like a blade sliding into soft tissue. Clean. Intentional. Exactly where he meant it to go.

And then, with maddening grace, he leaned back in his chair. Released you with a glance. His posture relaxed, his hands calm, the very image of civility.

Mocking it.

You stepped back.

Aghast.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, your skin prickling as if something had touched you that had no right to. You wanted distance. Air. A door to open. Someone to speak.

But he didn’t follow.

He didn’t need to.

His shadow remained where you had been, draped over the chair. Over the marble floor. Over you.

It slipped into the seams of your dress, into the curve of your spine, into the hollow behind your ribs where your breath had once settled freely.

You felt it even as you moved. Not a touch.

A presence.

You were already as good as his.

#gav story #one piece #figarland garling x reader #garling figarland #figarland garling #dark romance #mariejois

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