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red-riding-wood · 9 months

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Coldfire - Pt. I

Pairing: Jackson Rippner x F! Reader

Fandom: Red Eye (2005)

Summary: As if catching his eye wasn't dangerous enough, you just had to tease him.

Warnings: SMUT. porn with plot but the plot is hush hush, non-con, teasing and a LOT of foreplay, semi-public sex, violence, near somnophilia, rough sex, humiliation, degredation, dirty talk, pet names, hair pulling, strangers, power imbalance, ("schoolgirl" university theme, but reader is of age)

WC: 6591

You’d smiled at him. That was all.

And now the man beside you was tapping you on your knee, firmly enough to let you know he wanted your attention. Badly.

Flopping your head to one shoulder, you looked up at him, startling blue eyes catching yours again as he smiled around white teeth. “May I help you?” your tone bordered playful and annoyed.

As if to address you more directly, the young man cocked his head slightly to mimic the motion of yours, smile fading as his eyes narrowed, roving across your features.

“I haven’t seen you around.” His voice was low, soft as silk. Were you not focused, you could’ve gotten lost in it. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

You tapped the end of your pen against your chin absently, looking him up and down. “I just enrolled a week ago,” you answered. “I haven’t seen you, either.”

“It’s my first time taking this class.”

Your eyes wandered to the empty desk in front of him, the space that only his shoes occupied on the floor. He’d dressed for the occasion, charcoal suit jacket and slacks pressed to perfection, silver dress shirt undone a button, but he’d brought no bag. Chestnut hair was swept to either side, settling perfectly over his ears, not a strand out of place, but he had no fucking bag.

A black watched poked from the cuff of his suit jacket.

1:07.

“You don’t say,” you murmured, and drew your gaze from his lazily, your pen lowering back to your page as you turned your focus back to the professor. This was important. You didn’t have time for distractions, even if they looked at you with big, blue eyes and smelled like sandalwood and…

Cinnamon, you realised, as your pen laid its haphazard strokes to the page.

Black ink streaked across the line as he tapped you again, this time on the stretch of bare flesh between your stockings and your skirt. Convenient, you thought. Goosebumps rose where his touch had been, and you sighed, clicking your pen as you turned to face him again, those frighteningly blue eyes boring into yours and his bottom lip nearly turning to a pout.

He was going to be a problem.

“Do you have a pen and paper I could borrow?” He asked, almost apologetic by the way his brows pressed together and his soft voice rose. Almost.

Tension eased from your body as you sighed, the breath having built in your lungs without you knowing, and you reached for your bag on the floor. Cold air kissed your skin where your shirt hiked up from your waist, your fingers rifling around for a loose page from your book and your spare pen. When you came back up, your cheeks were flushed and you had to brush a few strands of your hair from your lashes, but you still caught his eyes venturing lower than they should have for a split second.

“Usually, you bring stuff to take notes with,” you told him, an edge to your tone. As he reached for your spare pen, you pulled it back, a coy smile on your mouth. Something dark flashed in the bright of his eyes. “Often people bring a bag, or something. I’m assuming you forgot that…” you reached the pen out to run along the line of his hair, a strand coming undone and flopping over an unblinking lash. “… when you were doing yourself up all pretty.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, ever-so-slightly, but eyes of shattered ice seemed to latch to your soul, sinking hooks of steel into your chest. He blew a puff of air from his lips, the strand of chestnut hair settling messily over his forehead. You smirked as you handed the pen over, trying to ignore how warm his hand felt as it brushed yours. Repaying him in kind, your fingers brushed his thigh as you passed him the sheet of paper.

His gulp was audible, and you couldn’t help but be pleased with yourself. That would shut him up for a while.

You glanced up at the clock.

1:10.

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart.” That silk voice drifted to you again, and your grip tightened round your pen, the tip stilling on the page. “Bit of a short skirt for the schoolgirl look, don’t ya think?”

This time, when you looked, his gaze was shamelessly glued to the patch of skin above your stockings, and when those blue eyes met yours, you could tell you knew exactly what he was doing.

“Got the hots for the professor, or something?” he pried, biting his lip as he side-eyed you. Your brain went fuzzy at the motion, and you found you couldn’t stop staring at the way those lips parted, the bottom chapped slightly from the dry air and flushed pink from his teeth.

You straightened your spine, hiking your skirt up with an intent that surprised you. “It got you to look, didn’t it?” you almost purred, your teeth running along your lip to imagine, for only a moment, they were his.

It was a game now. He had you where he wanted you, and you knew it.

His watch read 1:11.

Attention sweeping back to the guest speaker, you tried to ignore the blue eyes that darted down to your thigh in the corner of your vision.

Focus, you told yourself, the world blurring at its edges as a heat began to build between your legs.

The guest speaker was drawing a diagram of an atom on the chalkboard. He was some hotshot physicist, recently employed by the military, lecturing at one of the top universities in the state. You were certain it was all very interesting, what he was saying. It was a shame you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the vexing stranger beside you.

Of all the days he could’ve picked to sit beside you.

“You want people to look, don’t you?” His voice wasn’t silk. It was poison. His tongue, a knife so sharp you wouldn’t know you’d cut yourself on it until it was too late.

1:13. Your eyes darted from the clock to the physicist, to the board, to the piece of chalk he gesticulated with. He was one of those well-dressed, prissy types who seemed to look down their nose at you when they talked. But you were sitting close enough to the front row that you noticed the faint lines of purple beneath tired eyes, the shadow of stubble growing in along a sharp jaw…

Fuck. Without realising, your thoughts had wandered back to the stranger, and you shot a look at him as if to blame him for all of this.

“Something wrong?” the stranger asked, brow furrowing in something akin to mockery. The bastard, he wasn’t even using the supplies you gave him, that he had asked you for. He was slouched back in his seat, pen tapping idly against a blank page. Why was he even here?

Your eyes darted to the lines of fatigue beneath his bright eyes, to the shadow of stubble along the jaw he shifted.

“You’re not taking notes,” you pointed out, before turning your attention back to the speaker, and then the clock.

1:17.

“Neither are you.”

Your pen stilled and your blood ran cold. Looking down at your paper, you realised it was utter nonsense; something about isotopes, scribbles, uranium, scribbles…

You decided to go back to tapping the pen against your chin.

1:18.

You watched the physicist’s lips move, but no sound seemed to come out. Your blood was starting to pound in your ears.

But the scoff of the stranger cut through the noise like a knife through butter. “How much did they pay him for this?” he said. “An IED won’t detonate without an oxidizing agent… potassium, chlorine, hydrogen peroxide, fuck’s sake, is this paranoia or laziness?”

It was as if he was talking about mundane, everyday things. His voice was so sweet, his words seemingly so benign that you almost didn’t register what he was saying. It was his frustration that caught you off-guard.

1:20.

“Hey, pal,” someone hissed behind you. “Some of us are trying to listen.” Their voice was so jarring in contrast to the stranger’s that you nearly jumped. You were too antsy. Sweat pricked at the back of your neck, stress creeping in to your joints.

Chewing at your pen, your head swivelled to the side. The chatty stranger was staring down the guy who’d shushed him, a familiar darkness flashing once more through his eyes. The darkness, it met you briefly, as he turned back around, taking notice of your attention. He fluffed his collar and smiled. The shards of ice in his eyes melted, jagged edges blurring.

Had you imagined it?

Probably, you thought, your head weighing heavy on your spine as you turned it to settle your gaze once more on the physicist. Hell, you were practically drooling around your pen; it felt wet against the swell of your lip. Murderous glares were apparently your thing.

1:22.

“You know…” A hot breath raked down your neck, and his silken words seemed to unravel in the space between you like a spool of thread, his lips softer than they looked as they brushed your ear. “ … I think you want to catch someone’s attention.”

You froze up, the strings of his breath sending shivers along your neck. Your jaw turned sore around your pen. You shifted in your seat, practically rubbing your thighs together to sate the itch between them.

1:23. Fuck it. You had work to do, but this man seemed intent on getting under your skin. Why not get under his?

“Oh, and that’s yours, is it?” you purred, not an inch between you as you met his gaze boldly. A freckled nose brushed yours, and bright eyes blackened from dilated pupils. His lip caught in his teeth again, and you had to look away to stop yourself from combusting. You thought you saw him smirk.

1:24.

“You sure are glancing at the clock a lot. Got somewhere to be?” he said, and you tensed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you muttered under your breath, tearing your eyes from the clock and regarding him with a tinge of suspicion, pen rapping lightly against your front teeth.

“Maybe I already know.” He leaned forward again with a sly grin. “You see, you’ve caught my interest.”

“Really,” you purred, biting your pen. He was forward; you would give him that. He thought he was winning this game, this game that only he knew the goal of. Whether you were more excited or infuriated, you couldn’t tell, but your blood burned hot beneath your flesh and your heart raced within your fluttering chest.

Mirroring his grin, you set the pen down, and fixed him with your gaze. “You see, maybe I do want to catch someone’s attention,” you spoke to him in a soft, slow tone. “Not the professor. His bodyguard, in the doorway.” Blue eyes bore into yours so intently, you swore he didn’t blink. “Maybe after the lecture I’m going to drop my notes on the way out. Bend down to pick them up, my skirt hiking up to reveal a pair of lace panties,” your fingers curled around the bottom of your skirt, revealing more of your flesh, his eyes darting down to take in your little show as his tongue caught gently in his teeth. Before he could catch a glimpse of what was underneath, you released the fabric, and it tumbled over your thigh. Blue eyes flashed dangerously as they returned to yours and his smile faded, chest heaving with quickening breath.

“Maybe I stand up too fast,” you said. “I stumble, backing into him. I spin on my heel and apologise and I look him up and down, all-innocent like.” You demonstrated your words, letting your gaze rake across the buttons along his shirt, the simple leather belt above his slacks. When you looked back up to meet his gaze, batting your lashes, it was as if the ice in his eyes had completely melted into pure, white-hot need. This only spurred you on, your heartbeat pounding between your legs as you brought your finger up to a lock of your hair. “Maybe I twirl my hair. We get to talking. We end up in the hallway, on the way to a storage room. Thing is, see…” With your other hand, your finger began to slowly trace up his thigh, making small circles. “… I can’t keep my hands to myself.” Darkness collided with blue fire as you grabbed at his thigh, nails digging in. He looked almost wild, ready to devour you, his perfect hair flopping a little over his eyes. “There are wet floor signs up. No one goes down there. So he grabs me by the hips and lifts me against the wall. Maybe you’ll walk by, catch a glimpse of my heels knocking together behind him. Maybe you’ll hear me whimper, my lips parted and eager.” His eyes darted to your mouth, his breath fanning against your cheeks as he leaned in ever-so-slightly, entranced. As if you were giving him ideas.

Cold washed over your face as you sprang up in your chair, your hand returning to your own lap as you looked at him triumphantly and said, “Or maybe I just dress like a slut because I really want to get an A.”

Yup, you definitely hadn’t imagined his murderous look. Because right now he was looking at you like he wanted to either rail you against the desk or choke you out cold. Maybe both. And if you weren’t careful, you were going to melt under that coldfire gaze.

A sigh escaped a pouted lip as you set your sights back on the rather disinteresting chalkboard. Above, the clock’s hand inched dangerously closed to half-past.

This time, the scratch of his stubble brushed your earlobe and you shuddered beneath his panted breath. “Stop pretending like you care about the lecture. I know you just want to be fucked.”

Time, for one moment, seemed to freeze. Everything went still. People around you were packing up books, but no sound travelled past the deaf ring in your ears, punctuated only by the thud of your heart.

And then the clock’s hand reached 1:30. And the world slammed into you, the screech of chairs against flooring and the bustle of rowdy students seeming to split open your head, and streaks of red and blue and grey moved in front of you – binders, cardigans, hoodies, varsity jackets, all spilling through the aisles in one converging mass.

“I have to go,” you told the stranger, who stayed planted in his seat, staring up at you as you slung your bag over your shoulder and pressed your book to your chest. “You can keep the pen and paper.”

A puff of hot breath warmed the backs of your thighs as you purposely turned your back to him, skirt swishing in his face as you shimmied past.

Smoothing out your clothing, you released a shaky sigh, slipping into the mass of students as if swept up by a tide. The flurry of air sent a shiver down your sweat-dampened neck, and you tried not to focus on how the lace seemed to cling, already messy and wet and used, between your thighs.

As you passed the bodyguard in the doorway, your elbow caught in the crook of someone’s arm, and your notebook fell to the floor. Knees bending slightly, your fingers grasped for the metal bindings, your index snagging one of the rings. The world seemed to spin as you straightened, and when you backed up a pace or so, your ass hit something solid. Fingers ghosted over your hips, and your breath hitched in your chest.

“There you are, sweetheart,” a familiar, silken voice met your ears. Confused, you turned, and a hand settled in the groove of your waist, pulling you close.

“This one, she’s a little clumsy when she’s not on her meds,” the stranger told the bodyguard, and indignation passed across your features, but his fingers tightened around your waist, and his side felt sturdy against you. “Excuse us,” he said, and pushed you back into the flow of the crowd.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” you hissed at him, eyeing the bodyguard as you passed. He disappeared among the many bobbing heads.

“I have a special assignment for you.”

“Look, if you wanna give me your number, I – “

“Will do exactly as I say if you want to live,” he finished your words. “See, you’ve created a bit of a problem for me. It wasn’t meant to go like this.”

“Go like how?”

“You’ll see.”

His fingers were wrapped around the curves of your waist almost possessively, the heat of his palms burning through your thin shirt, guiding you through and from the crowd and into a hallway where the click of your heels punctured the silence and yellow, wet floor signs seemed to race past your vision. His stride was long, yet purposeful, with a contagious sense of urgency, as if he were on a mission, and you couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or excitement that seemed to stir in your belly. Gravity tugged you downward for one cruel second, adrenaline seizing you as your heel slipped from under you, but his body was there to catch you, firm against your spine, and his hand scooped beneath your skirt to grab a handful of skin and lace. You were righted with a startled huff, your ass dragging against a rather prominent outline in his slacks before you were shoved through the doorway.

“Sir, this is the women’s bathroom,” you sassed, as he manhandled you into the room that you hoped wasn’t as empty as it sounded. “I don’t think you’re allowed in here.” The last words left your lungs in a spool of thin air; you nearly went stumbling forward as he shoved you again, this time with the intent to put space between the two of you. Whirling on your heel, you saw him draw a lanyard from his pocket and you frowned.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone will mind,” the stranger said, turning the key in the lock of the door. You narrowed your eyes at him in confusion as a smile stretched across white teeth and bright eyes gleamed with equal parts annoyance and mischief.

“Bit overdressed for a janitor, don’t you think?” You looked him up and down, your heart pounding against your ribs, with nothing but your words to arm you. You glanced at the stalls, all swung half-open.

Darkness flashed through bright eyes, and another lock of chestnut hair flopped over his forehead as he tilted his head down to glare at you, like a wolf would its prey. “Do I look…” He advanced, and you backed up instinctually, ass hitting the edge of the counter. “… like a fucking janitor to you?” His hot, minty breath raked across your face, your painted lashes fluttering, and his fingers snaked through your hair, gathering a handful in his palm and forcing you to look up at him. Fire raced along your scalp, and a sneer pulled over your teeth.

“Hey, the jumpsuits aren’t really my style, either… but if you don’t mind, I have somewhere to be…” The second you pushed yourself off the counter, his weight pinned you against it, the ceramic digging harshly into your spine. Your eyes darted to his watch.

1:35.

Damn him.

“I really think this is more important.” His voice dropped low and husky, caution laced into his growl of a tone, and something about the way you looked at him seemed to make him all the more feral.

You could barely contain your scream as you plunged your neck forward, white-hot pain stinging your scalp as your teeth snapped at his wrist and he pulled; your lips brushed flesh before your head was yanked back in a dizzying wave, and the fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom exploded like fireworks as your skull came crashing against the counter. The sounds of your struggle faded away into a harsh ringing; everything was too bright, too loud, the brilliant white of the fireworks flooding through the thick mass of hair that fell over your eyes. You shuddered, the fight leaving your body, and you were sinking, the world turning on its shaky axis.

A warmth brushed over the bare flesh of your thighs, the curve of your hip, blocking your fall and lifting you almost gently atop a hard, damp surface. Knives of white sliced your retinas as your head rolled back, and you groaned, squinting your eyes shut. It felt as if the knives were cleaving open your skull, smoldering with heat as if drawn from hot coals as your head met another hard, solid object.

A soft tutting filtered through the ringing of your ears, and distantly, a voice spoke to you, edged like the blades that split your skull, “Vicious little thing, aren’t you? Rabid bitch. Gonna have to put you down if you pull something like that again, sweetheart.”

What was he talking about? Why were you in so much pain? Why wasn’t the man reacting to the world rocking back and forth?

“Open your eyes…” The knives began to dull, their edges softening into silk spools. “Look at me, sweetheart… I want you to look at me.” You winced as light flooded your vision, a gentle hand sweeping the hair from your face and ghosting your parted lips before cupping your chin. “Look at me,” he repeated, firmer this time. It must have been important, so you peeled back your eyelids, weary.

The fireworks bled across your blurred vision, and pain tap-danced along your skull, your gut churning but the stranger’s hand steadying you. Navy and grey and white all undulated around the distinct figure of the man, black suit eclipsing the light. Your head was heavy, so heavy that you could’ve toppled, but he still held you firm, and each time you blinked, a new detail came into focus. His hair, dark, messed; his lips, parted, flushed pink.

His eyes, blue. So blue.

“That’s it… good girl.” Were it an object, you could’ve sunk into that voice, let it chase away your pain and soften the fall when gravity finally won you over. A soft whimper came shattered from your lips, suddenly dry. You snaked a tongue between them and felt the sting of your teeth as his hand lowered beneath the weight of your skull. Warmth danced along the flesh of your thighs, stretching your panties taut, a finger brushing the heat between them. Another whimper rose to your tongue, which watered as the spice of cinnamon and the creaminess of sandalwood collided with your senses. The fresh bite of mint, joining the mix as his breath pooled at the base of your neck.

“I think you want to stay awake for this, sweetheart.”

“Wha…” Your lips barely formed a sound as your eyes fluttered, and no sooner did you wonder why he wanted you awake did the thought disappear from your clouded mind, and a jolt travelled from the pool of heat between your legs to the very top of your skull, numbing the pain for a split second of bliss.

Shards of light danced across your vision, black lashes streaking across white, and oxygen raced to your skull as you gasped at the feel of a finger inside you.

“Can’t believe you’ve been wet all this time for me,” the man murmured into your ear, the ringing seeming to soften around his silk voice. “Turns out you were a slut after all.”

“Mm…” The sound came involuntary from your lips as his finger dragged against your velvety walls, curling against just the right bundle of nerves to send a warm tide of relief all the way up your body, your flesh buzzing and your eyes rolling back as the pain gave way to bliss.

“You’re liking this, aren’t you?” the stranger cooed, the cool trace of mint still on the hot breath that flushed your cheeks.

Your hips rolled forward as he wedged another finger inside, needy and pathetically desperate, but you didn’t care. You merely sought the friction of his hand, the release he granted you from the white-hot pain that was beginning to melt like butter into the background. You squirmed around him. His chuckle was warm, and encouraging; your jaw lolled open to uncage your heavy breath, and when he curled both fingers, your world erupted into tremors of euphoria and sweaty flashes of heat. Everything was fuzzy, your mind softening at its edges and your back arching as another jolt came racing through you. Your thighs clenched around him, and, by some cruel twist of fate, before you could tumble over the precipice of rapture, he withdrew his fingers and left you aching, empty, as you slumped over his shoulder, panties snapping back over your flesh.

With your lips parted against his neck, you could taste him, the creamy undertone of his aftershave and the spice of the cinnamon shampoo as his hair tickled your forehead. Even the scrape of the slightest trace of stubble along your nose was strangely comforting. The solidness of his chest, beneath your trembling form, keeping you from sinking to the cold ground.

“Wh-why did you stop?” you finally formed a coherent sentence, though your words came out in more of a whine than anything.

“Because…” The silk threads of his voice frayed as a growl reverberated through his chest, buzzing against your sternum, and sticky fingers, sweet with the scent of your juices, wrapped round your chin and forced your head back so you could look him in those blue, blue eyes. “… I had work to do, until you created a bit of a problem for me.”

Blinking hard, you tried to bring his features into focus, the sharp line of his cheekbones reminding you of the sharp slashes against a chalkboard. With his other hand, he took yours, your nails hooking along the metal buckle of his belt before brought to rest over the outline of his cock through his slacks. Instinctively, your fingers curled, as if seeking warmth, and you felt him twitch in your palm as his jaw clenched and his coldfire gaze devoured you, ice prickling at the back of your neck and molten lava seeping between your legs.

“This is the consequence of your actions…” He pressed your palm harder against the line of his cock, and your thighs shifted, aching for friction. Yearning to feel something more substantial inside you than his fingers. “Your fault… your problem… my slut… ” Now that you were awake enough to hold your own neck up, he released your chin to press his finger to your parted lips. You tasted yourself on him, but it does not repulse you; if anything, the addition to the delectable potion of sandalwood and cinnamon and mint only seems to spur your appetite, moistening your lips as saliva pooled on your tongue.

“Now you have to deal with this problem of yours.” His thumb stroked your cheek, his hips rutting gently into your hand. His lips flushed brighter after he caught them in his teeth, and your eyes traced the bow of them, mesmerised by the lurid colour in your world of black and white and navy.

“Now, I’d have liked to see you getting on your knees for me, would’ve liked to see these pretty lips around my cock, would’ve liked to see what that sharp tongue of yours could really do, but, I think it’s clear you’re a little too out of it for that, so…” He scrunched his face up in mock sympathy, and the slivers of ice in his eyes glinted like knives. “It looks like I’ll have to fuck you instead.”

I know you just want to be fucked, his voice seemed to echo in the empty chamber of your skull, and your brow furrowed despite your hips grinding feebly against the ceramic of the counter. Your heart thudded against your chest, seeming too quick for how slow everything else moved around you, and as he wedged his thumb past your lip, prodding at your teeth, your head flinched back and the blurry image of a clock materialised on the wall.

“Remember…” he said as your eyes focused on the object on the wall, wondering why it was so important to you. “… it didn’t have to be this way. If only you hadn’t resisted… if only you hadn’t been such a goddamn tease in the first place…”

Alarm shot like electricity up your arms, leaving goosebumps, but you couldn’t tell exactly where the hand of the clock was, or what it meant. Your head was still too fuzzy, your memory of how you even ended up here still just out of reach.

“Open your legs,” he ordered you.

“I have somewhere to be…” you mumbled. “Got something really impor –“

“No, you don’t,” he said, barbed wire weaving itself into the silk of his tone. A hand ran between the parting of your thighs, sending shivers along your flesh, causing your heart to pound faster in your core. His teeth grazed your neck as he growled in your ear, “Open. Your. Legs.”

Despite the soft moan he managed to pull from your diaphragm, you didn’t obey, and a huff of disgruntled breath stirred the wisps of hair from your neck as he forced your legs open with a sudden violence that got your heart hammering and your veins singing with fire. You attempted to slide off the counter, finding yourself unable to lift your own weight, and for one moment, you seemed to fall, with nothing beneath you but the harsh pull of gravity.

And then your face was nestled back in the crook of his neck, and those hands cradled your ass, and the hard line of his cock shifted the lips of your pussy apart ever-so-slightly.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” His tone smoothed into a hushed, gentle whisper, and the shift was so jarring that the clock and the urgency and the fuzzing memories of what had occurred before all faded away. “You don’t need to think about anything right now except me being inside you, about how good you’re gonna make me feel, babygirl.” He placed a kiss so soft to your shoulder that you couldn’t help but ease, his soothing voice lulling you into submission. “I’m gonna take care of everything… just so long as you let me do what I like to you… just so long as you know you’re mine… my good girl.” You could feel his lips pull into a smile against your flesh, a hint of darkness creeping into the melody of his tone. “You’re not going anywhere.”

All that existed now was him, and the distracting feel of his cock begging for entrance past your thin layers of clothing, and the heat that came in waves over your limbs as your heart beat too fast for your body. With your mind drawing blanks on your prior concerns and the scent and taste of him against your tongue so sweet, you found yourself giddy, a giggle chiming from your chest as you began to nip playfully at the soft flesh of his neck. Your hand came up to his throat, as if to have some kind of control over him as he did you in this moment, applying force as if to push him away, and beneath your palm was the rumblings of a warning growl.

“You’re not being a very good girl,” he remarked, and in another violent outburst, your spine was slammed against the corner of the counter, and pain shot from your tailbone all the way up to your skull, reminding you of the injury you’d sustained. Your gut churned again as his fingers dug into your sides, twisting you around until you caught a blurry glimpse of your reddened face in the mirror, mascara smeared across your cheek and your lips parted in a sinful gasp.

Bitter cold washed over your thighs as he pulled your skirt up, the sound of a buckle clanging through the slight ringing still in your ears. You barely had the time to process what was happening before feeling the sharp snap of your panties being torn from your thighs, the burn they left against your skin a welcome distraction from the pounding in your skull, and your thighs tucked together instinctively as cold nipped at the most sensitive part of you and his cock brushed teasingly against the line of your legs.

The stranger tutted in disproval and forced fingers between your thighs again, his other hand weaving itself through your hair and grinding your jaw against the cold ceramic of the counter. “No, no, sweetheart… don’t play those games with me,” he reminded you, and a hint of defiance coursed through you, ready to land on your tongue in the form of some venomous remark, when the words, breath and energy were ripped from your aching body and the desire that simmered beneath your surface was finally met.

Your scalp burned as he pulled you flush to his chest, sliding down on his cock, the thickness of him seeming to split you in two. Your eyes shuttered and you panted in exultation, knuckles chafing against the countertop as he began to fuck you, his own breath hissing against the sensitive groove of your neck as he adjusted to your tightness.

You whimpered from the bursts of euphoria that accompanied each thrust of his hips, some rolling over you like a heavy tide that left you trembling and weak, ready to unravel around him, others striking you quick as lightning and threatening to plunge you over your precipice. The hand that wasn’t gripping your hair so tight explored your body as if you were his property, slipping beneath your shirt and groping almost painfully at your breasts. The feel of his thumb brushing across a pert nipple made you arch your back, his cock pushing deeper inside you and causing your whole body to shudder.

“F-fuck – “ you hissed, your hand reaching around to grab at his hair, needing something to pull at, something to sink your nails into as pain blended with pleasure.

“That’s my good girl.” His hot breaths came panted against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin with each thrust. “That’s my good. Fucking. Girl.” Each word came out raspier, growled from the darkest recesses of his chest, and his hips bucked so violently into you, you remembered for a brief moment that he’d had the audacity to call you rabid.

You could do nothing as he left himself sheathed inside you, warmth spilling along your inner thighs as he came, his teeth biting at your skin as your fingers tugged at his messed hair. Still grinding desperately against his length, you stirred a deep, resonating moan from him, and his breath shattered against your neck.

You hadn’t realised just how firm his weight had held you in place until he pulled away, gradually, his hands slipping from your hair and your stomach and twirling you in a daze back around to glimpse soft freckles and sharp cheekbones undulate in your vision. His cock, slicked with his your nectar, brushed your stomach, leaving residue that was warm at first and cruelly cold as he backed away.

“And now you have a mess to clean up,” he told you once he’d caught his breath, swiping a finger across the slit of your still-throbbing heat, gathering the unique elixir of sex and forcing it past your teeth. Your lips curled around his thick finger and you suckled, a moan catching in your throat at the sordid taste.

Roughing the same hand through your wild hair, he flashed a grin at you, and though your vision still swam, it couldn’t obscure the wicked glint in his eye. He looked you up and down, as your weak legs trembled beneath you and you shivered with the cold rush of your sweat and his cum on your thighs. You were sinking again, gravity slowly claiming you, your consciousness feeling as if it might slip into oblivion.

“Do you need me to take care of you, babygirl?” He almost taunted, though his words were woven soft as silk spools again. A hand grazed your thigh, and you shivered beneath his touch. “You need me to take care of you, don’t you, because you can barely stand after getting fucked so hard.”

You could only whimper in agreement as you sank to the floor, thighs still burning from chafing against the counter and darkness teasing the edges of your vision. He wasn’t there to catch you this time, instead busy buckling up his belt. “Fine, fine… I’ll take care of you, just as soon as I finish your job for you…”

Something heavy settled in your gut, and you blinked away the darkness, panic rising in your throat as you curled against the tile flooring. Looking up at him, you watched as he straightened his shirt, groomed his hair back to its meticulously tailored façade, felt spite tinge your tongue like bile as you watched the hand of the clock tick by a fraction.

“So incompetent…” he muttered, his gaze torn between you and his reflection now, trying desperately to smooth out his hair, to brush out the last wrinkles from his suit jacket. “It’s fine. I think I have a new assignment for you, anyway.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pain exploding behind your temples. “You wha… you… “

Swallowing against a dry throat, keeping yourself upright by the sheer force of your quivering arm and white knuckles against the tile, you watched as he made his way to the farthest stall. The panic wove itself round your lungs, stealing your breath and blackening your mind’s edges again. You flinched as you heard him rifle around in the toilet paper dispenser, the sound familiar to you – you’d done such a thing not even an hour or so prior – until he emerged with the reason why. The black metal of your Ruger was small yet menacing in his hand as he checked the magazine, and pain exploded in your skull as fragments of your mission came screaming back to you, the preparation you’d put into this particular assignment because you knew you were being tested by the higher-ups…

“Seriously, Y/N? You thought you’d be able to hide this up that short skirt?” He shook his head, tutting again as you wondered how he knew your name. Cocking the action caused you to flinch one more time, and asked, voice wavering,

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Rippner. Jackson Rippner.”

Your hand slipped from the tile, and came to your mouth in a silent gasp, the blackness overtaking you as you realised that not only had you failed your mission, but you’d just been fucked by your boss.

The world seemed to narrow and close like the end of an old film, until all you could make out was the silhouette of his cocked head, the flash of white teeth as his lips curled into a smile so dreadful that it would forever etch itself into your memory.

And that was all.

A.N. Please let me know if you would like a Part 2! Now excuse me while I go hide I've stayed up all night and am posting this on half-dead 7 am brain before I can regret it

PART II HERE

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written-in-flowers · 11 months

Text

Be the Light: Pt. 1 (SeongjoongxReader)

Pairing: Hongjoong x Seonghwa x Fem!reader | Side pairing(s): Ateez x Fem!reader.

Word Count: 7k

Genre: angst, fluff, smut

AU: historical!au, arranged marriage!au, royalty!au

Summary: YN has spent her entire life in service of Han Sookmyung, Queen of Hanseong. She never dreamed above her station, or that she'd ever be in reach of Sookmyung's concubines, 'The Golden Ones'. But, when secrets are brought to life, her world is turned upside-down.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, heavily referenced torture (briefly), heavily referenced abuse (briefly), heavily referenced sexual abuse (briefly), enslavement, slight gaslighting, lost sibling, political drama, historical drama, joseon!au, concubine!ateez, nsfw content, virgin!reader, polyamory, polygamous, throuple, threesome m/m/f, oral sex (m. and f. receiving/giving), cunnlingus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, virgin sex, virginity discussed

And thank you so much @daesukiii for beta reading this fic!! It's well appreciated!💕💕

NOTE: THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY ON HIATUS

Part 2 >

***

"YN!"

You heard her howl your name from down the hall. The sound of her voice made you quicken your pace, a streak of panic striking through you.

"YN! YN, where are you?!”

Her voice sent ice cold water through your veins. You’d left her alone with the others for only a moment. What could possibly have happened in the span of five minutes? A slew of scenarios ranging in severity ran through your mind. Somebody brushed her hair too hard. Somebody smeared her lip paint. Somebody said the wrong thing or the right thing but in the wrong way. You preferred not thinking of what she’d done to that person.

“YN!”

You walked through the wooden hallway, keeping your head down to not draw much attention to yourself. A habit, you supposed, that you’d learned since being her handmaiden. Finally reaching her room, you gave the guard outside a single glance and he slid the door open for you.

“She’s in a mood today,” he told you gruffly. “You’d think after the night she had, she’d be more docile.”

“She’s never docile,” you replied. “I’ll handle her.”

“As always.”

You didn’t find her in the front room of her apartments, where servants put out her morning tea and breakfast spread. Walking past the red and cream colored couches, with their low wooden tables, you moved past more servants cleaning the window frames and floors spotless. You opened the doors leading into her bedroom. Two maids in plain hanboks changed her bed sheets and fluffed her pillows. They gave you both a concerned look, which you replied to with a nod.

“YN!”

“Your Majesty, I am here. What is your command?”

Sookmyung stood on a platform in the middle of her dressing room. Four girls dressed in white hanboks kept their heads down and hands clasped together, a sign of their subservience to the woman. Queen Han Sookmyung only wore the emerald skirt of her hanbok, her long black hair unbraided and falling down her back, and you saw the issue immediately. The top layer of her gown laid on the floor at her feet, a bundle of more emerald cloth bordered with golden vines.

“My command is that I want these imbeciles out of my sight!” she screeched, stamping her foot on the platform. “I told this one to bring the blue and gold one. She brought the green and gold!”

“A simple mistake, Your Majesty, I am sure,” you said calmly, walking further into the room. “Aro,” you turned to one of the handmaidens nearest you, “Please bring Her Majesty the dark blue and gold dress. It’s in the fourth box on the second shelf.” She bowed to you, then briskly left for the closet in the other room.

“YN, send them away. I cannot stand looking at them any longer.”

“You are all dismissed for now.”

The remaining handmaidens bowed, then left the room without a word. You moved over to her and began untying the skirt from her torso. Discontent still read on Sookmyung’s thin, oval face. Once the young queen flew into one of her rages, it was difficult to bring her back down. It was why you instructed the handmaidens to do as she said down to the last word. It saved everyone lots of trouble.

When you gingerly removed the skirt, leaving her in the underskirt and undergarments, you saw yourself in the long mirror. Your white dress nearly blended in with the brightly colored room around you. Like all female monarchs, she surrounded herself with handmaidens. The distinction was Sookmyung demanded her female servants be virgins, who all wore white to make Sookmyung stand out against them. Being the eldest of her handmaidens, a companion since childhood, your uniform differed in the red ribbon keeping your top half closed. Yet, even then you mustn’t draw too much attention to yourself. How can The Queen shine if her servants looked more beautiful than her?

“They’re such simpletons,” she grunted. “I do not know what is so difficult. How can one possibly confuse blue with green?”

“I am certain she misheard you, Your Majesty.” Deflect her displeasure. You glanced over to the vanity where someone laid out her jewelry. They’d chosen the dangling gold earrings and matching hair ornaments. “Look at this set, Your Majesty,” you gave a soft gasp, walking over to the jewelry, “These earrings are absolutely divine! Are they not?”

“They are fine enough,” she replied haughtily. “At least the fool chose something that matches.”

“Indeed,” you agreed. “I am surprised she had any fashion sense at all, to be honest.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she sneered, flipping a loose strand of hair from her shoulder. “Send the idiot away when she returns. You will dress me today.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

When the girl returned, you took the long, flat box and dismissed her quietly. Not a sound. Not a whisper or a mumble. That was how servants communicated: discreetly and hurriedly. With everyone gone, only you two remained. You began unwrapping the separate pieces of Sookmyung’s dress from the box. The blue skirt remained plain, while golden dragons interweaved around her shoulders and along the middle of the top. The gold paint shined whenever she moved her torso, and the voluminous skirt gave an illusion of gliding instead of walking.

“I am taking visitors today,” she mused as you began brushing her hair. You took care not to let the brush snag in her waist-length strands. The ring on her finger looked like it’d cut your cheek. “Merchants and common people.”

“Your people wish to speak with you, Your Majesty,” you replied, pulling back her hair to start braiding. “They seek your wisdom and guidance.”

“As they should,” she said, admiring the golden ring on her finger. “I am their queen. They need to heed my words and obey them.”

You would’ve told her that giving advice and giving commands are different things, but you knew better.

After many failed pregnancies, King Siwon and Queen Jisoo finally produced a child in their fourth year. Sookmyung became her father’s sole heir to the throne. Being the only heir, the king groomed his daughter for rule. You wanted to say that Sookmyung ignored her lessons and took no interest in them, but that is far from the truth. Sookmyung devoured her father’s wise council and listened attentively at his elbow. She followed the master at arms around the training yard, learning how to use a sword and bow. She spent time in the stables learning how to tame and ride horses. Everyone hoped her eagerness meant she’d be a good and capable queen, but you knew better. Unlike the king’s council, you knew why Sookmyung took to the idea of ruling the kingdom so quickly.

There’d be nobody to stop her.

“I heard Kim Haneul wishes to propose to you,” you said, hoping the gossip keeps her occupied. You styled her hair up from her face to accentuate her facial features and long neck, sliding bejeweled pins to keep it in place. “He has had his eye on you for a long time.”

“Which one is he again?” she asked, stumped. “He isn’t the fat one, is he?”

“No, Your Majesty,” you faked an amused giggle. You grabbed her eoyeo meori, the circular wig with its golden adornments. Placing it as a halo around her head before pinning it in place, you continued. “That is Advisor Heechul’s son. Haneul is the son of the new Duke of Daegu. He’s that handsome one who won your archery contest at last year’s harvest festival. I heard from some of the maids that he favors you highly.”

“Of course he does,” she scoffed, double checking the work you’d done. “I’m a queen. He’s a common nobleman.”

“Yes, he is,” you nodded, “But he will approach you nevertheless, Your Majesty.”

“Who told you this nonsense?”

“One of the kitchen hands,” you told her, picking up a powder box from the vanity. “She said she overheard it from Haneul and one of his companions. I thought I’d tell you to prepare you for it should he ask today.” You then added, “I know how much you dislike surprises. I’d hate for him to spring it on you, and you be flustered in making a decision.”

“Yes, I do despise it.” She kept herself still as you began lightly applying powder to her face. “Haneul…Haneul…You say he’s the handsome archer from last year?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Hm, must not be remarkable if I did not collect him already,” she mused. A small smile crossed her face, “Have you seen my flowers today, YN?”

“I haven’t,” you answered honestly. “You know as well as I that no one is permitted in your garden.”

“Oh, my beautiful flowers,” she sighed softly. “They bring me such comfort.”

You saw her eyes glaze over as they did when she spoke of Them. Those at court called them ‘The Golden Ones’, but Sookmyung called them her ‘flowers’. You pondered on the men while you finished painting her lips. Upon his death, king Siwon had twenty-five concubines living in the “private gardens” near the king’s quarters. Sookmyung dismissed them all the morning after his death, determined to fill it with concubines of her own. You and her advisors told her queens did not usually take male concubines, since she is meant to marry and produce children. Sookmyung ignored all of you. During her war campaign across the country, she searched for handsome men to bring into her harem. Yet, with all things, she was picky. Her concubines needed to be ethereal beauties; they needed to be trophies that would make her the envy of the court. She eventually found them, imprisoned them, and then put them in the gardens to do what she pleased.

Sookmyung currently has eight concubines. No doubt should another war arise, she will steal more sons.

“Tell the guard to bring my flowers to the throne room today,” she said, admiring herself in the mirror when you finished. “I wish for them to be there. They do bring me relief on days like today.”

“At once, Your Majesty.” You picked up a purple perfume box, but Sookmyung shook her head.

“No, not jasmine. Hongjoong detests jasmine scents.”

‘He does not. It’s you he detests.’

“Then will you prefer the lavender or the rose perfume?”

“Lavender. It has such a calming effect on him,” she said when you started dabbing the scent on her neck and wrists. “My fiery blossom. I know he will be furious if that fool Haneul comes forward. His jealousy is only outmatched by my own, I’m afraid.”

“Well, seeing other men fawn over you must make him believe your love for him will wane and disappear,” a male voice said from somewhere behind you. “We cannot fault him for his emotions.”

You turned your head to see an old man walk into the room. His salt-and-pepper hair cut short, he’d left his thin mustache and beard growing past throat to his chest. Wrinkled by age, Senior Advisor Choi Wonshik served the royal family since Sookmyung’s grandfather’s time. In the red robes of a first rank advisor, he walked further into the room. He smiled at Sookmyung, giving her a slight bow as their eyes met.

“Senior Advisor,” Sookmyung said, looking back at herself, “What brings you here?”

“I came to see if you’d be joining us in the throne hall for petitions this morning,” he asked. “The other advisors and I believe it will show the people an image of concern if you are seen on your father’s throne-”

“-You mean my throne,” she cut him off. “I am the queen.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” he smiled, giving a nod of the head, “Old habits die hard.”

“Or easily,” you heard her mutter. “But, yes I will be there today. Tell the other officials to worry.”

“That is a relief to hear,” he grinned. “We look forward to seeing you there.”

“Mhm-hm.”

His attention turned to you, “Good day, YN.”

“Good day, Senior Advisor,” you gave a slight bow and a smile.

It was the briefest of glances but you noticed it right away. Eyes lined with crows feet looked between you and Sookmyung, with a certain disappointment lingering in them. The expression did not sit right with you, but it was not your place to question. Advisor Choi left, and you and Sookmyung were alone again. He seemed to be filled with words he could not say out loud. Then again, many people did the same. It was Sookmyung’s chuckle that caught your attention.

“The old man likes you,” she cackled. “Out of all the men in the world, it’s the ancient one.”

“He was being polite,” you said to her, cheeks burning from her laughter.

“He doesn’t have to be ‘polite’ to you,” she said. “He outranks you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted you as his concubine. It is disgusting to think about,” she shuddered, “Those knobbly hands on you and those lips. Don’t worry, YN. I won’t let him touch you.”

“That is kind of you, Your Majesty.”

“You must be envious of me, YN. I have my beautiful flowers and you have nobody,” she said thoughtfully, “I spend ages worshiping Seonghwa’s gorgeous body or listening to Jongho sing and you're here all alone. It must be sad."

“It can be, but I hope one day that will change,” you told her. You grabbed the blue overcoat from the box, letting her stand to put it on her. “I may find someone who is patient and clever. The kind of man who treats his lady well and is gracious and kind.” A man such as Seonghwa. But, that was a thought you immediately pushed out.

“Men like that are needles in a haystack. Only I have been fortunate to find such lovely beauties like my flowers,” she said. “Like Hongjoong…”

You followed her out of the bedroom. Hongjoong’s face came to the forefront of your mind. The last of Sookmyung’s flowers, he’d quickly become her favorite. You saw how he fawned over her, and constantly whispered things in her ear that made her giggle. Secretly, you wished it was you he whispered to, but you knew that wouldn’t be. Hongjoong is placed far out of your reach, just like the rest of them. As you followed her out of her room, you bit your lip thinking about the last time she made you stay in their “garden”. Sookmyung took delight in seeing you flustered and squirming when she took one of them. Like all her handmaidens, you’d kept your virginity intact, which she enjoyed teasing you about. But, if you had your pick, you'd have him or Seonghwa. Possibly even both.

Four men dressed in black and red leather armor met you outside her chambers. You whispered the summons to one of them, and he passed it along to one of the guards at the main doors. A wooden palanquin sat at the bottom steps of the residency building, a red awning keeping the sun from hitting Sookmyung as she climbed inside. You, however, stayed on the outside. You eyed the spot beside her, a seat wide enough for you both to fit, but you knew she’d never offer it to you. The queen rides in the palanquin. Her handmaiden walks.

“But you wouldn’t understand anything about that,” Sookmyung giggled as the footmen lifted the litter and the group moved. You walked steadily at her side, making sure to keep yourself in step. Move too slow, and she’ll complain that you’re lagging behind. Move too quickly, and she’ll accuse you of trying to upstage her. “You are unmarried and are still a virgin.”

“That does not mean I cannot love, Your Majesty, or understand how it works,” you replied calmly. You sensed the taunt skirting around her words, and you braced yourself for more. “I see how Hongjoong and the others are when you’re in their presence. It is like seeing heaven on earth. They worship you. They adore you. I think we all can only hope for such love to come into our lives.”

“How sweet,” she pouted, “It must be nice to have such naive and fanciful dreams about love. I’m afraid it is not always so heavenly.” You noticed her face turn sour, “I see how those little harlots in court gawk at them whenever they pass. They see my flowers and sigh over them.” You saw her fold her hands over one another on her lap, “I remember that one idiot who tried seducing my Mingi. She had that pathetic, simpering smile and that obnoxious laugh. Ugh, it was a humiliating display," a wicked smirk came across her face, "But, I put a stop to that all together. You remember that, do you not, YN?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I do.”

Lady Seulgi, a noblewoman draped in expensive adornments, had come to the palace during a birthday celebration. You recall how Sookmyung spotted her eyeing Mingi, one of the concubines, and the jealousy flaring in her eyes. You’d done all you could to convince Sookmyung that she saw nothing; Lady Seulgi happened to look in his direction, that was all. This lie worked for a time, before someone else spotted Lady Seulgi trying to corner Mingi in the palace garden. Sookmyung immediately had Lady Seulgi thrown into the dark, secluded jails in the back of the palace. Walking up the steps of a gate to reach the throne hall, you recall seeing Lady Seulgi removed of her finery and forced into a roughspun tunic. The beautiful, bold lady you’d seen that night became a filthy, frightened creature within days. You tried not remembering the stubs of her missing fingers, or the screams she made when Sookmyung pulled out her toenails one at a time.

‘Make her ugly. Make her so ugly nobody will look at her.’

Nobody heard from Seulgi ever again.

You spotted masses of people filling the wide throne courtyard. Nobles and commoners alike came to petition their problems to the queen, and it created a multi-colored sea of people in the square. Right when the palanquin passed through the gate, a group of soldiers dressed in red and white began playing on either side of the large doors. Two held horns, two banged on drums, one with cymbals, and another held a gong as they walked down the aisle.

“The Queen is entering!” the leader called out in a booming voice, which caught everyone's attention.

The daechwita played as they led the procession towards the throne hall. You kept your eyes to the ground now, making yourself as invisible as possible, and followed the palanquin the entire way. You chanced a glance at Sookmyung, whose eyes danced with pride. This is what she loved. This is why she scorched villages and killed kings. The power that emanated from the people bowing to her seemed to swell in her chest. You pitied anyone who upset her today. They may end up the same way as Lady Seulgi if they’re not careful.

The palanquin reached the throne hall’s platform, and footmen helped Sookmyung out of it. You briskly straightened out the back of her gown, and then stepped out of her way. The throne hall was wide with open windows, lattice walls, and a high decorative ceiling. Before his death, the king sat on the throne of his ancestors before him. A red throne painted with gold dragons, with a folded screen stood behind depicting the sun, moon, and mountains. It took someone three steps to reach the top of the platform, which only gave enough space for the king and two bodyguards to occupy.

When Sookmyung came into power, she expanded on this inch by inch. She rebuilt the throne itself to have a taller back to rest on, and raised the platform a several more steps to open it up. This way, her concubines may sit on the steps in comfort, lounging peacefully on display for the whole court. Nobody said it out loud, but you knew why she wanted them with her. How can she flaunt her victories if the trophies are hidden behind garden walls? It made you sick. She not only desecrated the ancient throne, which for centuries stood as a symbol of dignity, but put her own proudful twist on it as well. You followed her up the steps, and walked right to your place in the shadows of the high dais.

“All hail the Queen!” the singer called out.

“All hail the Queen!” most of the crowd repeated back.

Back in her father’s day, the king would speak to his subjects directly. He’d thank them for traveling to visit him, and begin accepting petitions and propositions. Sookmyung stayed silent, eyeing the crowd, while Senior Advisor Choi stepped in front of the throne.

“Good people, good people,” he called, “It is our queen’s great delight and honor to host you here in her grand throne hall today. She is very interested to hear your thoughts and find solutions for your concerns. May the first of the petitioners step forward, please.”

The first to approach were two men. You took in their haggard appearance: clothes hanging from their skinny frames, worn out shoes on their feet, and their skin tanned from years in the sun. You could tell they must work outdoors, most likely in one of Sookmyung’s rice or spice fields. The taller man spoke up first, fire in his voice already.

“Your Majesty, I have been severely wronged in your great country,” he began. “This man,” he pointed to the person beside him, “Has been extending his land onto mine little by little for several months now!”

“Your Majesty, I have done no such thing! I was merely rebuilding my fences, and happened to accidentally-”

“-Accidentally? Ha, please! Do not try to fool us into believing you do not know where your land ends and mine begins,” his opponent retorted. “You have been rebuilding that fence of yours for quite some time. The stakes from the last rebuild are still in the ground, and they are several feet from where they’d been before.”

“My son has been helping me, Your Majesty,” the man said to Sookmyung. “He is not the brightest of boys, but he is strong and helpful to me in my old age. He must have marked the line wrong-”

“-How despicable! To blame your deception on your own flesh and blood-”

“-I am only providing a possible explanation! Besides, why do you care? It is not as if you tend to your fields regularly or properly. I have seen the grain you grow. It is subpar at best, and inedible at worst. I am the superior farmer, therefore I should have more land…”

“This is so boring,” Sookmyung mumbled loud enough for you to hear. “Who cares about a stupid farm?”

“Their farms are important to them, Your Majesty,” you replied. “It is the only way they can feed themselves and their families.”

“Psh, as if they are now. Look how skinny they are. It’s appalling.”

“Yes, it is.”

Your heart sank hearing the two men describe their feud to one another. You thought of your own solution: You would’ve told them to have an official come and inspect the property lines for them to have an unbiased opinion. You’d pay builders from the city to repair the fence damage and realign it to avoid any more confusion. They would have done that already if they could afford to pay for the help. Sookmyung’s high taxes and the wealthy’s low wages make it difficult for the common folk of the kingdom to live properly. The few times you’d gone into the city for her, you’d seen the way most of them live day-to-day. They’re starving, unable to properly care for themselves or their children, and barely afford to pay their land owners. In their desperation, many of them venture into the Queen’s forest to hunt for food, with hopes of not being caught by guards roaming the perimeters. Others resort to criminal activities, since the slum lords pay much better than their law abiding counterparts. Sookymung’s kingdom fell into poverty because of the grand lifestyle she wished to live and the wars she'd waged. While her people starved, the queen and her elite nobles dined and dressed well. It sickened you to your stomach.

“...Which of them brings in more grain?” Sookmyung asked the senior advisor.

Senior Choi looked to Advisor Park, the master of coin who took care of the kingdom’s finances. It took the middle-aged man a moment, but he eventually found their names and most recent tax payments. The accused paid more in his taxes and supplied more grain than his accuser.

“Then it is clear that he deserves more land than this one,” Sookmyung told Choi. “Why give land to a man who cannot contribute to the prosperity of his kingdom and his queen?”

Choi stared up at her, but he did not look as dumbfounded as his fellow advisors. For the briefest moment, you caught disdain in his dark eyes. Nevertheless, he turned away and addressed the men.

“Then it is clear that…that he deserves more land than this one,” you heard him repeat stoically. “Why give land to a man who cannot contribute to the prosperity of his kingdom and his queen?”

“B-B-But, Your Majesty, my family has owned that farm for many years,” he said imploringly. “It is not right!”

“Perhaps his family should find a new venture and stop wasting my time", Sookmyung huffed. “The man will keep his fence where it is, and you will accept my decision.”

Choi repeated her words verbatim, and the man’s jaw dropped. “Your Majesty-”

“-Next,” she dismissed him through Choi.

Both men were forced to the side by guards. Right as the next person came up, drums and horns suddenly rang throughout the large hall. Sookmyung’s eyes lit up and she beamed at the people entering the room.

“Her Majesty’s concubines approach!” the leader said. “Make way for The Golden Ones! Make way!”

Surrounded by four guards dressed in all black armor walked a group of eight men.

As always, Sookmyung’s concubines wore their black and gold hanboks: Their overcoats of black silk covered most of their body, the wide sleeves ending far past their fingers. Glimmering stones weaved into the intricate floral patterns of their golden sashes, matching the hair pins and jewelry they wore. What separated them the most were their veils. Thin veils hanging from their ears hung to their chests, the sheer fabric dotted with gold pieces to hide their features. Only you and Sookmyung ever saw their faces unmasked. She said the less they revealed of themselves, the less likely anybody would desire them.

A complete and utter lie, in your opinion.

“My beautiful flowers,” she smiled, eyes full of fondness. “So wonderful to see you early in the morning,” she watched them walk up the steps to their assigned seats on the steps.

The farthest was Jongho, who sat on the third step from the bottom, lounging back with one elbow on the step above him. The youngest of her flowers, he kept his black hair in a braid that was woven with gold bands. Formerly an innkeeper’s son, Sookmyung stole him from his family during the end of her campaign. You never forgot how Sookmyung viciously beat the old woman who begged her not to take him; how Jongho did not stop crying the entire way back to the capital.

“Your braid looks lovely today, Jongho,” Sookmyung admired, looking over his round, soft features from afar.

“I am glad you think so, Mistress,” he said, “I added the jewels especially for you.”

“I’m wearing the hair band you gifted me, Mistress,” said a slender boy sitting just above him.

Wooyoung. The son of the Duke of Pyongyang, the siege of his city took Sookmyung only a few days. She often boasted about how their forces retreated from her men like mice. As with the other kingdoms, she gifted the seat of House Jung to one of her allies, and took the duke’s son for herself. Wooyoung fled into the woods, being hunted by Sookmyung and her pack of dogs for several days before being found and dragged to camp. You preferred not thinking about what Sookmyung did to break him.

You noticed the young man winced when he moved to face her. From what you’d gathered, Sookmyung visited his chambers the previous night. Whatever she’d done left him sore and holding back whimpers of pain. The tenderness inside you wished to reach out for him. You wished to comfort and assure him that his pain will subside soon. His wounds will heal and he will be fine. But, how ‘fine’ is he when Sookmyung owns him?

“It looks lovely on you, darling,” Sookmyung said. Another peasant was brought before her, but she ignored him. “You were magnificent last night. You and San both.”

San, muscular and broad, sat across from Wooyoung. Thin eyes flickered with hate before changing to pure seduction. “As were you, Mistress.”

Choi San used to be a soldier in Sookymung’s army. His father, General Choi, was a general who commanded a large portion of her forces. One day, when his battalion was overpowered and forced to retreat, Sookmyung took this failure as a sign of weakness. It inflamed her burning rage, and Sookmyung sentenced the man to a brutal death: being beaten with clubs by his own lieutenants. San was forced to watch the entire thing. From what you’d heard, he still woke up screaming for his father to run.

“Mistress, I’m sleepy,” said the man sitting above San and Wooyoung. Long-limbed with sleek brown hair, he gave an audible yawn and stretched. “I sleep so lightly without you beside me.”

Another sweet lie to fill her head with dreams. Sookmyung’s war took her all over the country, and this meant bypassing several inns and small villages. When attacking Haeju, Sookmyung camped outside a small fishing village right on the west coast. There, she found plenty of provisions and ship builders to repair the damaged fleet. With them came a tall, lean young man with brown hair and a precious smile. Song Mingi. You’d originally thought Sookmyung took Mingi for a fleeting fancy, but when she told him that he’d be joining the other men she’d dragged with her, he naturally refused. It wasn’t until Sookmyung threatened to kill his entire family that he went with her.

Sookmyung burnt down his whole village, ultimately murdering his family anyways.

“Perhaps I may remedy that tonight, lovely,” she replied, smirking at the suggestion. “I wouldn’t want my Mingi to collapse from lack of proper rest.”

“Then what of me, Mistress?” a wide-eyed young man said on the other side. “You said you’d be with me.”

Dainty and petite, Kang Yeosang was also nobility. While not high in rank, his family did supply the opposition with food and resources throughout the war. Sookmyung created the strategy to hit them at their source, which included raiding baggage supply trains moving through the country. Yeosang led one such train, and while his men fought valiantly, they were defeated. Yeosang, having an angelic look to him with doe-like eyes, became another addition to her growing harem. She promised he’d go home if his family surrendered their land and resources to her, so Yeosang agreed. But, Yeosang never went home. It took him a short time to realize that Sookmyung never planned on ransoming him. When he heard her forces invaded his home, slaughtered his family, and claimed it in her name, he knew he’d never see home again.

“You can join us then, Yeosangie,” she cooed.

A peasant woman holding a baby in a blanket came forward, tearful and pleading for her child’s life. Sookmyung hardly listened to her as she addressed the man next to Yeosang: Yunho. Equally as tall as Mingi, he kept his black in a top knot with a black band around his forehead. A servant placed a bowl of grapes in front of him, but he did not eat them. He could never eat with Sookmyung around. She disgusted him to the point of losing his appetite.

“Yunho, are you not hungry?”

“I had a large breakfast, Mistress.”

He turned his head to answer her, then back to the woman standing before him. She sobbed about how a group of men ransacked her home, taking everything she owned and leaving her with nothing but her life. You saw the pity in his puppy-dog eyes. He dug into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a velvet coin purse. You knew that Yunho sometimes secretly slipped silver or gold coins to the servants when possible.

“Here,” Yunho walked down the steps to her, “For your and your child.”

“S-Sir…” she wept, looking at the large sum in her hand, “I…I cannot…” she glanced at Sookmyung, who glared. “I cannot accept this-”

“-I insist,” Yunho said, not reaching or touching her. It’d put a mark on her back for certain. “You need it more than me.”

“Thank you,” she cried, “Thank you, sir.”

“Isn’t my Yunho generous?” Sookmyung said, though her grin did not reach her ears. “He is always thinking of others.”

“It is why you noticed me, Mistress, is it not?”

He came back to his seat and your eyes briefly met his. Yunho, not of noble birth, lived in a farming village before outlaws came and raided them. By the time Sookmyung arrived, several villagers either died or were grievously injured. Being the son of the town physician, Yunho tended to several of the children, frightened and wounded from the bandits. Sookmyung not only found it endearing, but saw Yunho’s apparent handsomeness. She promised he’d be her personal physician’s apprentice, learning at the elbow of the finest in the kingdom. He only needed to travel with her for a few days. But, when she placed him in the harem tent with the others, he realized what his role would truly be. It is only fortunate that Yunho is able to tend to whatever wounds the concubines suffer at Sookmyung’s hands.

“It is,” she nodded. “You’re just as sweet as my Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa sat on a cushion a step right beneath Sookmyung. The eldest of the Golden Ones, his sharp jawline and full lips enchanted Sookmyung right away. Son of an advisor to another king, he’d attempted to trade his life for his younger brother, whom she’d gifted to a group of loyalists during her victory celebration. Unfortunately, this did not work. His younger brother was carried off by the men while Seonghwa was dragged to her new chambers. From what you know, Seonghwa hasn’t seen his brother since then.

His father having been a notable advisor, Senior Advisor Choi has often sought him out for counsel and opinion. You supposed this intelligence is why he’d managed to last so long. He gave her a dashing smile, and spoke in his deep voice.

“But nobody is as sweet as you, Mistress,” he licked his lips, “Nobody certainly tastes as sweet either.”

“Seonghwa,” she flipped open her fan and gave it to you to fan her, “You always know what to say.”

Her eyes then landed on the concubine sitting on her left, elbow on the arm of the throne and appearing bored. Black hair tied back in a ponytail, Sookmyung gifted him with a red headband to wear around his head. Embroidered flowers in the center, this symbol of Sookmyung’s favoritism set him apart from the others. You’re sure that the reason she favored him so highly is not only his handsomeness, but the fact that he’d been a true prince. Hongjoong, Crowned Prince of Wonju.

Wonju was a peaceful, plentiful kingdom that remained its own nation after the Han clan took over the country. Somewhere far off in the east, you remember the mountain ranges that surrounded the area, high and steep so that very few enemies could pass. It’d been ruled over by the Kim clan, with King Hyungshik at the head. A king in his own right, it was peace terms with the Hans that prevented open warfare. You’d always understood both nations to live side-by-side in harmony. Then Sookmyung became queen, and she could not have another monarch in her country.

But, Wonju did not fall to Sookmyung as easily. Several bloody and fierce battles were found on land and sea, ripping the two nations apart in the process. Several kingdoms sided with Wonju, but they’d been overpowered by the queen’s men. Sookmyung’s triumph over Wonju became a lasting highlight of her conquest. She’d taken Hongjoong as a further stab to those who’d rebel and oppose her. To her, he is her biggest trophy.

“Mistress, please let us be done with this riff-raff,” Hongjoong drawled, “And entertain ourselves elsewhere. This business bores me to tears.”

Yet, even after the death of their royal family, the people of Wonju oppose Sookmyung and the man she put in charge of them. Many resistance fighters her armies capture are from Wonju. You wondered at what point did they stop trying to rescue Hongjoong and focus their efforts on usurping Sookmyung. You knew he hated Sookmyung, regardless of what he said to the contrary. You’d hate her too if you were him. But, Hongjoong had secrets of his own.

You’d never tell anyone about the woman you’d seen him meeting at night.

“It is part of my duty as queen, blossom,” she told him, lifting his chin to make him look at her. “Advisor Choi insists I perform my responsibilities as ruler, but the only thing I ever wish to do is be in your arms and in your bed.”

“Then leave these filthy peasants, love,” he took the hand on his chin and held it gently, “And let me admire my queen as a loyal subject should.”

“Hongjoongie…” she breathed,

“Please, Mistress,” he put a yearning into his seductive tone, “It has been so long since you have visited my chambers. You’re always with the others and never with me,” he put a hand on her knee and knelt. You heard him whisper something obscene in her ear, which made her giggle. “…It grows harder in every thought. Do not leave me wanting, Mistress, please. It aches for you…”

This is what Sookmyung wanted: a concubine who professes nothing but undying desire for her. Sookmyung could never truly love anyone, regardless of what she said. Hongjoong knew this, and you admired his tact. It is better to make her believe he needed her than to show his true feelings. You wondered if he thought of the other woman when he said these words. You knew he'd never think of you.

You saw them after a celebration for Sookmyung’s five-year-reign as queen. You finished helping her into bed and took the shortcut back to the servant’s quarters to rest your tired feet. Cutting through the concubine gardens, you’d heard hushed voices through a hedge. You thought nothing of it at the time, since you thought it must’ve been the wind or an animal nearby. Yet, you then heard the high voice of Kim Hongjoong, followed by another voice. A woman’s voice. Curiosity and shock got the better of you, and you peeked through the high hedge to see their figures in the shadows of the trees. You couldn’t tell what they’d done, since they hid themselves behind dense thickets of shrubbery, but it did not take much to wonder. You never saw the woman, so you guessed she’d gone over the garden wall, but you did see Hongjoong. It did not take a genius to figure out what he’d done. You swore yourself to secrecy; you told yourself that revealing this secret of his to anyone meant death.

“Alright,” she pouted, “I can never say no to this beautiful face of yours…”

“Or my tongue,” he added softly, putting his face inches from hers but never kissing. The veil acted as a barrier that drove her nuts. “Seonghwa will join us, if you wish. He enjoys you just as much as I do. Isn’t that so, Brother?”

“It is,” Seonghwa nodded, but did not approach her.

Your eyes met Hongjoong’s. You wished you could thank him. With Sookmyung occupied with him and his “brothers”, you could see your mother, whom you haven’t seen for two nights. You may even see Queen Jisoo, Sookmyung’s mother.

“We’re done for today,” Sookmyung told Choi, who nodded stiffly. “Come, flowers.”

One by one they followed her down the steps, and you trailed behind them. Everyone bowed their heads as she walked by, but you couldn’t help seeing their glaring faces. They must’ve waited hours to see her, and she only listened to two or three people. She conquered every kingdom in the country, turning them into wards under her rule, and did nothing to help them. Like the men who trailed behind her, they are spoils of war. Sookmyung squandered their collective wealth, expecting her subjects to accept it without complaint. You wished you knew a way to help, but you’re as powerless as them. You watched Hongjoong climb into Sookmyung’s litter, the pair instantly turning to one another, and expected to walk alongside them.

“No, no, YN,” Sookmyung stopped you as you approached. “You’re dismissed for the day. Come to the garden around supper. If anyone comes calling for me, tell them I am indisposed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you bowed, standing aside as the footmen lifted up the five litters.

She turned away from you to kiss Hongjoong, who tilted his head to deepen it. Once more, you locked eyes with one another. You gave him an appreciative smile, which he replied with a blink. You waited until Sookmyung was far away before walking towards the opposite gate back to the residency area. Passing by Sookmyung’s personal apartments, you walked further down the hall to a set of double doors guarded by a leggy man in leather armor.

“Good morning, Junhan,” you grinned at them, the older man grinning back. “Is Her Majesty accepting visitors?”

“She will if it’s you,” he replied, “How was the witch this morning?”

“Junhan,” you hissed, holding back your laugh and looking down the hall, “You know better.”

“Ah, as if anyone is going to hear me here,” he rolled his eyes. He slid open the door for you, and said, “She’ll be glad to see you. Your mother says Her Majesty has been anxious these past few days.”

“Then I should see her quickly,” you said, giving him a nod before walking into the main room.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” you smiled as you entered a nearby sitting room.

The Queen Mother Jisoo was once held in the admiration of everyone in the kingdom. She’d helped the kingdom in many ways during her reign alongside her husband: giving smaller villages access to clean water, funding orphanages and reconstructing damaged parts of the city. She helped pass laws that protected women in arranged marriages or dangerous situations, and gave protection to children. It was because of her that many people, especially the women and children, felt safe in the kingdom. But, when her daughter became queen, the Queen Mother stepped back and focused on her passions instead. However, age came for Jisoo, and her mobility became limited and her health declined slightly.

“Ah, YN, good morning,” Jisoo smiled. She sat in her wheeled chair today, a blanket over her lap and a cup of tea in her hand. “How is my daughter?”

“She is well. She is in the throne hall,” you fibbed. “She asked me to come check on you for her.”

“YN,” she smiled softly, shaking her head, “You’d lie to an old woman to spare her feelings. Please, come and sit. I’m sure Sookmyung did not make the morning easy for you. A servant told me she sent away her handmaidens this morning.”

“She did.” You took the seat across from her and prepared yourself a cup of tea. You offered to refill her cup, but she refused. “Your Majesty, you must eat,” you noticed the amount of food left over, “If you don’t, it will get cold.”

“I don’t have much of an appetite today,” she admitted. “But, I’m sure you’re famished, so please, eat.”

“She hardly had time to eat her breakfast this morning, Your Majesty.”

A woman in a gray and blue hanbok walked into the room, carrying a stack of folded sheets. Her hair tied up in a bun, she wore the blue and gray hanbok of Queen Jisoo’s maids. Like your red ribbon, she wore a white one. You grinned at the sight of your mother. She’d been Queen Jisoo’s handmaiden in her youth, being at her side for every event of her life. When you grew up, you became Sookmyung’s maid. Except, you’re certain your mother had a much better time serving Jisoo than you did Sookmyung.

“And why was that?” Jisoo asked curiously. “Breakfast is important, and you’re still a growing woman.”

“The queen needed me to assist her in her garden,” you admitted over a cup of tea before sipping. You saw the disapproval on your mother’s face, but it was Jisoo who spoke up.

“And what horrid thing did she make you witness?”

“Nothing. She’d sent the concubines away before I arrived.”

“Hmph, in my day, queens did not have ‘concubines’,” your mother huffed, shaking her head. “The physician tells me he brews her tansy tea to avoid scandalous mishaps, but that is not healthy for a young woman. She’ll do severe damage to her womb, and not be able to produce children at all at this rate.”

“Chaewon,” the queen shushed her sharply.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she apologized. She noticed you not eating, and spread a bit of honey on bread for you. You knew better than to refuse her, so you ate it in small bites.

“My Sookmyung has always had a certain fiery passion,” Jisoo said. “Her father was similar. It was why he had so many concubines. He had an appetite I could not handle on my own,” she giggled.

“But, Your Majesty, the things I’ve heard The Queen does are-”

“-I know they are,” she cut in. “My daughter is a young woman, a new monarch. I will not rob her of enjoying her youth before settling down and marrying someone.”

Did that enjoyment of youth involve locking people in dungeons to torment and torture for pleasure? Did it include kidnapping young men from their families and forcing them to fulfill her every whim? Jisoo might make excuses for Sookmyung, but you would not. You finished the bit of bread given to you, and took up a bowl of kimchi instead. Not fully tasting the vegetable side, you pitied the concubines. Only the gods know what act she is forcing Hongjoong and Seonghwa to perform for her.

You wished you could help them. You wished you could help a lot of people.

***

A/N: I freaking love historical aus, don't you?? I know this probably isn't a 100% accurate, but I tried to get as close as possible while still mixing in a fictional realm. I really hope you enjoyed this first chapter <3 feel free to like and reblog, it keeps posts alive!!

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x reader #ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #pirateeznet

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soiwj · 3 months

Text

Tasty Treat

Arlecchino x fem!baker!reader

Link to part 2

Very ooc arlecchino

(i dont know her character wel but she's hot, so i thought I'd give it a shot)

Planning on doing research on her though!!

Fuckk i love women omg

Second mini-fic ever how exciting!!

Please request stuff here!! It's hard to come up with prompts ;-;

I wrote this at 3 am so excuse the lack of structure

You start your usual routine of setting everything up for the day, although today is a bit special. Your bakery doesn't have many customers, considering the place it's in is quite remote. A peaceful forrest that's still in fontaine borders yet far away from any other buildings or people.

You chose this place because you appreciate the beauty and peace that nature brings you. The birds whisteling in the morning, the foxes chittering, the sound of tree leaves rustling. Yet that peace comes with quite a heft price. Loneliness. Besides the old lady that lives in a small village near the forrest, you don't get much human interaction. Even though your bakery is quite big and fits lots of people, you don't really have a lot of customers to share it with.

A week ago, you received a business offer from the house of the hearth. Since the bakery near the orphanage closed down, they don't have any establishments providing them things like breakfast treats and pastries. That's why they're employing you. The contract has you preparing and delivering the food to the hearth.

Even though this seemed like quite a lot of work, you accepted. I mean, how could you not? You get to make pasteries for adorable kids, making them smile, AND you get paid? This is a dream come true. After years of sulking alone in the damp forest serving a customer here and there, you get the privilege of a constant source of profit.

After hours of baking, your tired eyes look at the required amount of food stated in the order, and you realize that this is only enough for the kids. How strange that the boss herself did not order anything. Does she eat breakfast somewhere else? Nevertheless, you decide to make something anyway.

After packing up the orders, you start walking towards the orphanage, barely holding on to the several boxes stacked on top of eachother.

As you arrive, you set the boxes down and ring the orphanage's doorbell. An earie ring echoes from inside.

A tall woman opens the door. Her snow white hair with the occasional black streak looks down at you from the doorframe. Her brows furrow slightly at the sight of you, and the boxes.

"Are you alone?" She asks, you're confused, to say the least. "...yes?" You mutter. "How come you've managed to carry all those boxes on your lonesome?" Her sultry voice sounds out as she crosses her arms in amusement, holding back a grin. Before you can answer, you hear who you assume are the kids, walking slowly towards the persumed dining room.

"I'll help you with these," Arlecchino says curtly as she picks up a few boxes to bring to the kitchen. You pick up the last remaining boxes as you tail behind her.

As you and Arlecchino start unpacking and putting the treats on plates, you can't help but think of how different you expected Arlecchino to be. Clearly, her reputation precedes her. All the while your mind is drifting off to several different subjects, you don't notice the red-crossed eyes staring your way.

After the children finish eating, you stay a while, wanting to hear their opinion on the treats. As you basically survey them, you take the time to get to know some of them. Playing games with them and answering their unending questions.

As you realise you've overstayed your welcome, you say goodbye to the kids and quickly leave the orphanage. On your way back, you reach your hand into your purse, trying to take out your cherry flavored gum. You eventually find it but with it a little pink box brushes your hand. The cookie, you forgot to give it to Arlecchino.

Sat in her office, Arlecchino can't stop thinking about the kind-hearted baker she employed. Just looking at her interacting with the kids made something burn up inside of her. A little warmth that warms her cold, unfeeling heart. She looks out the window, hoping to have some reprieve from this strange feeling. Yet it seems the archons are against her wishes as she sees a certain baker running towards the orphanage. Almost tripping on her way. Even though it is foolish to entertain feelings for such a seemingly simple creature, Arlecchino can't help but grin at another interaction with her. Usually, she doesn't like to play with her food. But this time, she might make you an exception.

You stumble into the building as one of the kids, whom you now know is called Tealus, opens the door for you. With the pink box in hand, you stride through the halls looking for Arlecchino's office. As you ask one of the children, they point to the dark, long hallway without windows. How fitting. Your heels clicking softly as you walk over to her black office double doors. This place seems more like a villain's lair than an orphanage to you now, but you digress.

You knock 5 times in a specific pattern you were used to as a child when you hear a stern "Come in." You pull the golden doorhandle as the office window light starts flooding the hallway. You quickly close the door behind you as you step closer to her desk.

She does not look up from the paperwork on her desk as she multitasks without problem. "Why are you still here, baker." Just because she approves of your bond with the kids does not mean she will treat you differently from other people. "I saw there was nothing for you on the order list, so I made you something." You say proudly. You start rambling as you explain how you forgot to give it to her during breakfast.

She interrupts you as she reaches out her hand. "Can I see it?" You're flustered as you quickly hand her the box. She places it down gently on her desk as she lifts the packaging. Facing Arlecchino is a cookie with a white base, decorated with a black and red spider on top. "How adorable," Arlecchino mutters softly. Your soft 'huh' drives her back to reality as she responds. "I'm not very fond of sweet treats. I prefer savory things." She almost chuckles at the sight of your worried eyes locking with hers. "I can make you something else if you'd like? Hmm, although I can't think of many savory pasteries..." As you start naming some options, you reach for the cookie, trying to throw it away, but Arlecchino's quick reflexes hold your wrist before you can get close. "I thought you didn't like it?" Your confusion radiating off of you. "I never said such a thing. I merely said I prefer savory treats." She softly lets your wrist go as she stores the cookie on a desk extension behind her.

From then on, this has become routine, although some things have changed throughout the weeks. Instead of delivering the food alone, Arlecchino stops by early in the morning to help you carry them. Sometimes, it results in small talk when you haven't finished packing the orders yet.

Usually, she doesn't speak much and lets you do all the talking. You fear she's getting annoyed from your constant ramblings, but unbeknownst to you, she loves it when you talk about your interests and things you love.

This was a bit short, but if you wanna see a specific trope with this situation, you can req anything you wantt!!

Might do a part 2 of this idk yet

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #x reader #arlecchino #arlecchino genshin #arlecchino x reader #wlw post #wlw #i love arlecchino #i want to kiss her mouth as i sit on her lap

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mediumgayitalian · 5 months

Text

———

Hand tight around the handle of his sword. Shadows pulled close, close, closer; cloak, hood, shroud. Still as a stone, hardly moving, barely breathing, waiting, waiting, tensing.

The whispers outside his cabin door grow louder.

He shot awake half an hour ago. A shift, under the cracked-open window, rustling, turning. Fabric, maybe, or fur brushing across the polished stone of the wall. Not a hellhound — he’d feel the bent shadows of its presence — nor any other creature from the Underworld, but clearly something dark, foreboding. Some heavy, stifling presence. And many of them, too, or perhaps one thing that is growing. It shouldn’t be possible within camp borders, but he can — feel it. A sense of ambush, of impending attack.

Every few minutes there’s a shake at his door handle. A wiggling of the Stygian iron metal, a whisper of sound as it’s jiggled, fruitlessly, a hiss as something draws away. The sound of quiet, throaty murmurs, muffled through the obsidian door. Escalating. Louder, louder; angrier, frantic.

Something is waiting for him.

It’s some comfort that it can’t get in. The handle was his design — not that most monsters would try to use it, but the burn as it touched their flesh, the threat of the Pit, would certainly would deter them. The obsidian doorway he insisted upon, regardless of skeletal complaints, was for practicality as much as pageantry. He has spent enough time in the well-run Land of the Dead to take notes from his father, paranoid he may be.

The noises, though, still grow stronger. Whatever is waiting for him has not been deterred by his fortifications, nor frightened by his aura of death. The handle jiggles again, and this time, the intruder is smarter — the lock turns, clicking as it is overcome, handle turning to follow it slowly, slowly. Nico holds his breath, gliding along the shadow, hovering in the doorway.

The door swings silently open. A clumsy lump of something steps hesitantly forward, huge and cumbersome; bulbous. At the front of it is a single long, glowing talon. The intruder pauses, contemplating, in the flood of low light, the cabin’s twisting shadows, turning slowly, carefully around. Nico glides along the floor, guessing at its blindspot, holding close to himself, waiting, waiting.

One.

The creature pauses.

Two.

The talon twitches to the left, following the creak of the settling bed springs.

Three.

Nico surges forward, bringing down his sword. It clangs against the talon, reverberating outwards, echoing the screams of the monster and tear of fabric —

“Nico! Nico! It’s us! Cool it! Watch the sword! Watch the sword!”

A burst of fire shoots upward, enveloping the cabin in a burst of white light. Nico hisses, nearly dropping his sword in his hassle to clamp his hand on top of his eyes, hunching protectively forward.

“Leo! Fucksake, you tryna blind us?!”

“Sorry! Sorry! He freaked me out, I flamed too hard!”

“Just fuckin’ — scream, next time! Jesus! I’ve gone blind!”

“What the fuck,” hisses Nico, blinking the spots out of his eyes, “are you idiots doing?”

In front of him stands not a monster but five infuriatingly familiar faces, each holding — for some reason — a mattress. Percy’s sword is still held loosely in front of him, and Jason’s jacket has been singed. Piper and Annabeth blink spots out of their eyes. Leo stands, in the charred ruins of his mattress, wringing his hands.

He glances up at the ceiling. Nico follows his gaze, noting where the black rock has been re-vulcanized into glass from the heat of the flames. He looks back down.

“From the bottom of my heart,” Leo says, solemnly, “my bad.”

Nico sinks to the floor with his head in his hands.

His friends, for some reason, take this as a cue. The heavy door is pushed back closed, cutting off the last of the low light from the Greek fire torches outside and the whistling of light wind. Someone feels around for a light switch, and, upon finding none, shrugs and pokes Leo until his nose catches fire, guiding him around until all the lamps and fairy lights have been located and turned on. Someone else — Annabeth, he guesses — begins instructing mattress placement, directing a crew to dig through his closet for linens. A comment about how spacious it is now that he’s not in it pops into his mind and he shoved it back down. He will not make light of the situation. He won’t.

“What the fuck,” he reiterates, louder this time.

Nobody answers. A faucet starts running in his background, and he hears the flip of a drachma.

“If nobody answers me in the next ten seconds I’m going to reanimate Andre the Giant and have him bodily throw y’all out. He will not be gentle. He will —”

“Y’all count,” they all say at once. Percy, gleefully from the bathroom’s running faucet, calls, “I’ll keep track! Remember if it goes over twelve I win!”

Nico snaps his mouth shut, ears burning.

Why has he remained at camp, again? He trained with Achilles and Patroclus. He learned how to read with Literal Shakespeare. Alan Turing taught him math. Not successfully, or anything, but still. He has no bearing here. He could be anywhere he wants to be, and for some reason he is putting up with unrepentant disrespect.

Nico four months ago would smite them. Nico five months ago would turn them to shadows for their insolence. Nico a few weeks ago, even, would have at least sulked off into the forest to cool of for several days.

Here he stands, Nico of tonight.

Unmoving in the centre of his sieged cabin.

No Andre the Giant raised.

No terrors inflicted.

Hardly even a threat.

What the shit.

“What love does to a young lad, eh?” Piper says, patting him condescendingly on the head. He aims a kick for her knees, which she unfortunately dodges, cackling and scampering away. He surges after her.

“I am several decades older than you, you little snot, what are you even talking about —”

“Older and uglier, you wrinkly ass bitch —”

“Guess who’s gonna be ugly when I remove the flesh from her body —”

“Ha! Catch me first, shrimp arms —”

“It’s working! I got it!” Walking very carefully, not unlike a toddler holding a too-full open cup for the first time, Percy steps out of the bathroom, faucet finally off. In his cupped hands is a quickly spinning vortex of sink water, letting off a fine mist. A prism taped to the side of his forehead refracts a rainbow into it. “Say hi, Hazel!”

“Hi,” says Hazel, waving from her surprisingly solid connection. She meets Nico’s eyes, grinning. He matches it immediately, dropping Piper out of the headlock he had her in.

“Hey,” he says, ignoring Piper’s dark muttering and promises for revenge. “You look eager.”

“I am eager. I heard we’re having a sleepover and talking about boys!”

“…You heard what.”

Percy shucks off his shoes, stepping gingerly over Jason and plopping right in the middle of the mattress pile, legs crossed. Nico realises for the first time that he is wearing pattered Superman pajamas, which is frustratingly endearing. He shifts the water vortex so that Hazel’s projection faces him.

“I’m so pumped,” he says earnestly. “I’ve never done this before. I’m so intrigued. Do we talk shit? Is that how it’s done? Is there swooning? I have a plan if there’s swooning.”

“We’ll get there, Seaweed Brain.” Annabeth brushes a hand through Percy’s hair as she walks by — somehow dignified, which is impressive, Nico has never seen anyone wobble over a mattress elegantly before — and presses a kiss to his forehead. He leans into it. “Ease into it.”

“Yeah,” Hazel snickers. She sticks her tongue out at Nico’s glare. “Don’t spook him.”

Nico throws his hands up. “Don’t spook me, she says. Heaven forbid anyone tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, you’re trying to court that boy, right? The cute one with the motormouth?”

Crazy how two sentences can reach down your throat, grip onto your beating heart, squeeze out your soul, drag it from your body, still pulsing, and leave it to actively shrivel on the floor next to your withered, fetal-positioned body to the audience of your cackling friends. Genuinely wild.

There’s a woman who wanders around the poplar fields of his father’s kingdom and has for tens of thousands of years — longer than even his father. Legend says she is the first user of language as it is understood in modernity. Nico may have to beat her up the next time he sees her. Or, well, try, ‘cause she’s jacked, but her crime cannot go unpunished. How dare she introduce the curse of language upon the human race.

“Which one of you,” he croaks, voice cracking more than Jason’s old man joints when he sneezes, “you — fuckers, told my sister about — about.”

If he says his name he’ll die. Like Voldemort except not stupid.

When he looks up, all five of them hold their hands proudly in the air.

“It was more of a conference call,” Jason explains. “And it was less ‘us telling’ and more us calling to say hey, Hazel, Nico keeps shutting down every time this particular person smiles at him, and then Hazel went oh, is it the medic boy he keeps rambling about when he calls me, and we went yeah, totally, can you elaborate on the rambling —”

“Cool.” Nico scrambles to his feet, brushing off his sweatpants, tucking his sword under his arm. “I’m going to go drown myself, if y’all will excuse me.”

He barely makes it one quarter step away from the stupid fucking mattress pile.

“Initiate part two of the plan!” Annabeth hollers.

“Y’all count!” Percy yells.

Without waiting to be chased, Nico sprints for the door. Immediately a fireball is launched at the handle before he can reach, melting it. He veers for the window, but a gust of air slams it shut, and a shining dagger pins the lock in place. In his final desperate dive for the nearest shadow, Piper sprints over — curse her long legs — and tackles him to the ground, rolling them both towards the nearest light source.

“Every single one of you —”

“Ow! Teeth away! Teeth away! Don’t make me muzzle you!”

“—except you, Hazel, never you —”

“Jason! He’s fuckin’ — his nails are clawed into the doorframe, help me!”

“—will be facing me in judgement day! And I shall not be lenient!”

“Quit trying to bite me or I’ll beat you up again!”

“No! Suffer!”

Conveniently, a spot on the uncomfortable floor has been left free of mattresses and pillows and beddings so that Nico and Piper can claw the shit out of each other properly. He lands a good hit on his collarbone, but she jams her heel into his ribs when he foolishly leaves his left side open. He manages to pin her arms to her sides with his legs, but she mirrors the move and squeezes her thighs around his neck.

“Do you usually just let them kill each other?”

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it. They didn’t get to spar yesterday so they’re a bit pent up, they’ll be fine soon.”

“…Must be a Greek thing.”

“Don’t you guys have Violence Fridays?”

“Uh, not quite.”

“We have war games,” Jason explains, “but there are generally repercussions for aiming for one’s jugular.”

Annabeth frowns. “Well, that seems flawed. How do you children ever learn to defend themselves?”

“If I recall correctly, by surviving to adulthood.”

“Touché.”

Knowing the scolding he’s about to get is going to be fierce, Nico rolls them both towards his (thankfully untouched) bed, sinking them into the shadows under it and popping up on top of Jason’s reclining body. As he planned, the combined chaos of Jason’s screech and Piper’s nausea gives him just enough leeway to kick himself free and scramble away behind Annabeth. Not that she’ll usually protect him, but he has a feeling that she has an itinerary and is therefore invested in keeping them on task.

“Okay,” she says, holding Piper back by the forehead — success. “Piper, put the nails away. Nico, quit making faces at her or I’m gonna let her claw you. Go sit on opposite ends of the mattress pile.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” they both say, immediately cowering and Annabeth’s glare and scampering to do as asked.

“Thank you. Alright, everybody grab a blanket and gather around. Nico, is there a — thermostat in here, or something?” She tightens the skull-patterned blanket (that she stole from his closet like the thief that she is) around her shoulders. “It’s freezing.”

Nico sniffs haughtily. “I prefer to have my external environment the internal temperature of my soul.”

He smiles smugly to himself at the chorus of boos that echo around him. That was a good one. He feels no shame.

“You should,” Percy tells him seriously.

“Stick your finger in a socket.”

Annabeth tosses an overflowing binder into the centre of the mattress pile before they can really start to go at it.

“Be quiet and behold,” she says grandly, “the plan.”

Nico stares at it dubiously. “The plan.”

“Yes, the plan.”

“Say plan one more time and I’m chewing the floor.”

“You’re such an odd person.”

“Having your fucked up ghost mentor put you in a labyrinth to be hunted for sport by his monster friends for ‘training’ will do that to you.”

Will once told him that he reverts to making people uncomfortable via depressing personal anecdotes when he is nervous. Startlingly perceptive for someone who, in the same breath, asked Nico if he could bring his siblings to the picnic Nico had planned in the strawberry fields for them, alone, at sunset.

“Just — open the binder, oh my gods.”

Huffing, Nico does.

It’s less intimidating than it looks. The heavily doodled title page reads OPERATION: WOOING WILL, which is embarrassing, but the rest of it is as cleanly professional. Several sub chapters including plans A-L, gathered information, outside input, sources, and hand-drawn diagrams are neatly organized and typed out. It’s even in dyslexia-friendly font. Truly a work of art. Too bad Nico is considering incinerating it.

“It’s not even gonna work,” he mumbles, pointedly avoiding the six pairs of eyes watching him. Well, five, Leo walked in the cabin and immediately got distracted by something else. He’s been poking at a pile of bronze for the past forty minutes at least. “He’s — unplannable.”

“Nothing’s unplannable.”

“He is. He doesn’t — think about things. In the same way.” Nico traces his fingers over a page titled Dropping Hints — How Begging Someone To Go Out With You Has Changed In Seventy Years. “You and me’ll see someone go out of their way to make life easier on somebody and know they’re — crushing, or whatever. But Will goes out of his way for everybody, all the time. It’s not odd for him.”

“Can’t you just tell him? Outright?” Hazel asks. “I mean, he told you, didn’t he?”

“That’s different.”

It isn’t, really. Nico could tell him. He could walk up to breakfast tomorrow and just blurt it out. Same words, even. I think you’re gorgeous.

He wants to. He wants Will to know, wants his bright eyes to go wide and his nose to go red and his voice to go quiet as he says, really? And Nico wants to feel the goosebumps that cover his arms when he rubs his thumb over the inside of his wrist and says, yes. Wants to watch him shiver as he says, you make me feel safe, you know. Watch his golden eyelashes flutter as he adds, wanted. Safe and wanted.

“It has to feel right.”

———

#i wanted to finish so bad but it’s like 1am i gotta be up in five hours #oh well #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #solangelo #nico di angelo #nico di angelo & the seven #annabeth chase #modern courting #my writing #fic #longpost

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qqueenofhades · 4 months

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Hoping you can explain this because you’re smart but why in the world are the same people who scream about a labor shortage worried about the border and immigration? Isn’t more people coming to our country a good thing if we train them properly to fill vacant positions (a lot of which are service jobs anyway)?

Alas, you are forgetting what is quite possibly the chief shibboleth of Western white supremacy/far-right nationalism: that all people from other countries, especially *gasp* the brown ones, are invaders, murderers, job-stealers, polluters of the (white) body politic, etc, and that under no circumstances should they be invited or allowed to stay. This isn't just an American thing; witness the Tories in the UK salivating over the idea of torturing migrants, trying to shut down any legal migration routes even with the employment black hole caused by Brexit, steadfastly denying that their workforce problems have anything to do with Brexit, steadfastly denying that they need to loosen immigration rules, etc. This is also the case with the European right/far right, the Australian far right, and anywhere else in the world that has historically been built on systems of white colonization, white supremacy, and other racial and legal scaffolds of privilege and exclusion. The white people who come to a country and settle it are bringing "civilization" and therefore should be welcomed and encouraged, but the non-white people who already lived there are "savages" and need to be exterminated for the good of the "master race." If they try to come back to the (white) nation state after their homelands were colonized, moreover, they are "invaders" who just want to "soak up the money of hard-working citizens" and etc etc.

The core fascist hatred of immigrants is also why Trump is directly echoing Hitler's anti-immigrant rhetoric with his "poisoning the blood of America" screeds, his promise to round up and deport migrants en masse, and otherwise be as massive of a dick as possible. The fact that there's no economic benefit and indeed a lot of economic pain is entirely beside the point. Trump and his deranged followers like the cruelty and the idea of torturing brown people for daring to come to "their" (white) America, and think that if they can be outrageously monstrous enough, this will finally deter all the other ones from coming. It won't, and no globalized economy will run without immigrants, but again, this isn't the point. Reality or pragmatic calculations have nothing to do with it. It's only about what can cause the maximum amount of cruelty and chaos to everyone who doesn't wholeheartedly worship and fit the (white) fascist model. That's why the Republicans yelled about wanting a border bill before they'd fund Ukraine; the Democrats obligingly gave them one with some of the toughest restrictions in years, and the Republicans yelled and threw it away because Dear Leader Trump told them to trash it. In some sense this is a good thing, because it meant that Ukraine got funded without being beholden to performative partisan cruelty at the border, but it also shows that they don't actually care about any of this. They have bluntly stated in so many words that they want a manufactured crisis at the border so Trump will have it as a campaign issue. Then he can take office and implement all his terrible concentration camps and all the other genocidal fascist bullshit of Project 2025 (bUt bIdEn iZ thE wOrsE oPtiOn!!!!!)

So: yeah. There's no point looking for any actual consistency or logic in the modern far right, because that is so far from the actual aim. No matter if migrants are essential, no matter if Americans literally won't take many of the jobs they do, etc. I live in a big city that has had a ton of migrants coming here and have read many, many news articles about how all they want to do is get a work permit, make their own money, learn English, and integrate into American culture; they are often far more positive about the prospects of America than actual Americans. But because the entire project of a (white) fascist ethnostate as advocated by Trump and co. in America, the Tories/Reform in the UK, and the far-right European parties, Russia, and other places (this is all connected worldwide -- again, it's not limited to one country or region), rests on demonizing (brown) immigrants as subhuman scroungers who come to rape, murder, steal jobs, and otherwise threaten (white) law-abiding citizens, that will always win out above every single other consideration.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts #cw white supremacy #history #history of racism

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shattersstar · 2 years

Text

bound

pairing: vampire x reader

summary: He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired. It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

warning: horror-ish elements, blood mention., religious undertones (aka general vampire themes/concepts)

a/n: i have so much to say about this lil piece of writing omg okay, i wrote this back in May i believe around the time i was reading we have always lived in the castle and it Shows. its lowkey fantasy which is not like anything i write but the horror-ish vibes r pretty consistent with my original stuff. it is heavily inspired by a lot of the vampire media ive consumed too though even if its not based on one particular character. i have been thinking about it since i wrote it and while im a bit ehhh about posting something original i quite literally have nothing else to share and as i said before y’all keeping i’d still eat the fruit in my notifs is so :)))) so this is a thank you to y’all and a Step back into writing for me hopefully. ramble aside enjoy ! feedback and comments r always appreciated

—

It had rained, no—poured, stormed, hailed, cried, screamed. It had swept in during the day, white noise to him as he slept, while it greeted you during breakfast. The clouds wept over the lands in what felt like divine punishment. It was as if nature or something higher than that was against him, accosting or trying to stop him. As he stood at the edge of the great forest, rain pelting the top of his head he assumed there was nothing greater than nature. Not even him. There was nothing higher nor more humbling. God could spite someone, but nature enacted it. It flooded your sleepy town and even sleepier forest and he was on the other side. Confined to his home until the storm cleared and the sun rose.

He would not be graced with your presence yet again and he tried to ignore the call to change you, to have his fangs pierce your skin and his blood run across your tongue. He gritted his teeth, reminding himself of the hurt it brought and he would never cause that for his love. His dearest who lived on the other side of the forest he was unable to cross. His icy glare moved along the border, not even noticing the rain drenching his billowing black cloak anymore. Somewhere in the forest a branch snapped and animals chattered.

He would live for eternity, he could wait for you. It was his resolution before heading back to his home in the woods and trying not to be angry, to let fury run through his long dead veins and restart his stilled heart. If anything—anyone—could, he knew it was you.

He followed the path compacted over the years of those travelling to stare at his home, humans daring each other to go near it, but never following through when the windows shuddered and a figure moved past one of them like a ghost. Times had changed, but people were as superstitious as ever. They saw his decayed and rotted home and prescribed evil to it. It was overrun with vines, leaves would not grow on them. Even in spring. They stayed black, and gnarled, tightening their hold in his house each season. Thorns protruding from some of the thicker vines, protecting him it seemed. You had noted that, staring at his wondrous home with bright eyes.

It was in a clearing in the forest, grey stone withered away and swallowed by nature. It still stood strong, the outside a grotesque picture that did not reflect the inside. Oil lamps and lighting fixtures alike lit the space from the inside out. It warmed the walls, revealing the deep brown wood panelling that made up the older parts of the house. The stairs were still the original wood, a grand staircase that greeted no one, but him and you these days.

Many of the rooms upstairs had been closed off, sheets gently placed over the old furniture and doors closed forever. He had no need for such space, other vampires stopped visiting when hunters started lingering in your town. You had told him of your many encounters, most were smart enough to stay out the forest, but they still killed many of his kind. Finding them in their carriages amongst the cars rolling down the freshly paved roads. Horses killed along with whoever dwelled inside. They saw themselves as vigilantes, but you had told him most of your town considered them a nuisance. Urban men thinking they can save the more rural lands that bordered their great cities. Cities that forgot the magic that once thrived in places like the forest.

“Their thinking of building a highway through it, connecting us to other towns or one of the bigger cities.” You had explained one day, sitting in his lap and letting him hold you. He hummed, long fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. You placed your warm hand over his and leaned further into his chest. He asked you to let him hold you and you had obliged like always.

He kept those memories in mind, the soft questions he would extend your way and how you listened so dutifully. May I hold you? Will you lay with me? Come walk through the cellar? Can I drink your—

His fist slammed against his dinning room table, nearly snapping it in two as a crack ran jagged through the centre of the chestnut coloured wood. His fangs were out, nails morphed into claws dug into his skin and blood dripped into the crack. He stared at it, muscles in his face twitching as he waited for it to end. Waited for the creature in him to return to laying dormant and his own clear, sound mind to return. Though he supposed it was never very clear or sound anymore, not when you had burrowed inside of him and promised to never leave. And as if his thoughts beckoned you themselves, the old telephone in his study rang. It’s shrill scream echoed through the quiet house, though the ring was discordant, snapping in two halfway through its loop and screeching a pitch higher. The noise made his pointed ears twitch and with a swoop of his cloak he was in his study. He answered it on the normal ring, cutting it off right before it went off tone.

He held the phone to his ear, but waited to speak. “Hello?” You asked, your voice soft and worried. You’d never called him before—truthfully he had no idea this phone even worked.

“Hello my love.” He returned, and you breathed out a happy sigh.

“Oh my god, hi! I found this number in some old directory—phone book thing,” You explained with an airy giddiness that he wished to share, “I wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but…” You trailed off and he was smiling fondly into the receiver.

“I have missed you.”

“I miss you too, I hate this weather I can never get through the forest when its so rainy.”

“I know.”

“Maybe they should build a highway through it, I could hitchhike my way to see you.” You laughed, but he turned somber. Industrialization finally touching the sacred land of the forest didn’t sit right within him. It may be the great divider that kept him away from you, but it was his home. A highway felt like you were asking to be swept away, to a new town or bigger city that he could not adventure too. He could ask you to stay—he knew you’d oblige—but it was not his place to keep you here. “Is your phone one of those spin, dial ones?” You asked suddenly, breaking through the tension he hadn’t meant to create.

“A rotary phone?” He corrected with a ghost of a grin, “Yes it is.”

“I want to see it when I come over again.”

“And so you will.” It was quiet again and he hadn’t noticed the tears running down his face. He didn’t know he was able to cry anymore.

“I love you.” You whispered, holding your cellphone close, likely curled up in bed and staring out your window at the rain and the forest beyond it.

“I love you dearest.” His voice did not betray the sadness building in him. “Sleep beloved, I will see you soon.”

“Yes, I’m gonna come see you and your rotary phone.” You laughed, forced and watery.

“Soon.”

“Soon.” You repeated, and hung up. He kept the black phone, laced with intricate gold details, to his ear for a moment longer. He had heard your voice at least and could sleep. He moved through his home, snuffing out candles and flicking off switches before finding the one room without windows. A coffin laid on the floor, dark brown and glistening with the finish that had been applied centuries ago.

He supposed this was his true home, not the house he had kept himself locked in, but the wooden box with your picture in it. Dutifully kept under his pillow, bringing you to the land of dreams with him—if he could dream. It was a bitter punishment for the life he lived, the transgression—sin—he supposed would be held against the two of you. For how he wanted you more than anything, how he would tear whole cities to shreds at your behest and let the hunters who lurked in your town meet his fangs if you so desired.

It was gluttony, to take eternal life and still want more.

Though it was hard to think of such evil things when looking at your face, he had taken the photo while you were on the roof. Wind had wiped your clothes into a frenzy and you laughed as the night sky twinkled behind you. He had taken it and was surprised when you’d given it to him only a few days later. He had kept up with modern technology as well as he could, but there was always something so magical about photographs to him. He collected hundreds over his life time, faces he knew and others he didn’t. Organized neatly into a collection of books, which he’d let you look through on occasion. He showed you photos from the many lives he’s lived, something about them bringing warmth rushing to your face.

He was always so devastatingly beautiful, regal and hypnotic across all eras. Yet, he couldn’t focus on the kind words that bubbled from your lips as the rushing of the blood under your skin nearly shattered something inside of him. His fangs threatened to meet your skin, but with calculated focus he reigned in his hunger. It was hard at first—you were the only human he had been around in decades—but he did it for love.

Everything he did was for love, it was his reason for existence it seemed. You had other reasons for your claim to life, but to him? You were all he had, the only reason to not let the sun engulf him or let a hunter kill him. He could not break your heart until you broke his. He let that thought dwell in his mind as sleep overtook him just as the sun rose and the rain ended. Its incessant pitter patter had ceased and he somehow dreamt of you standing golden in the forest and beckoning him closer.

He woke up to your face—maybe it wasn’t a dream—as you crouched next to his coffin. Maybe he had finally died and you were welcoming him to where God decided to send him. If you were there it couldn’t be hell. Could it be?

“My love—“ Your hand pressed to his chest, keeping him still. “It’s still daytime, sleep okay?” You whispered, hand moving to his jaw and cradling his face in your palm for a moment. “I’ll be back in a sec okay, I just need to change.” He nodded against you, kissing your hand before you let him reside in darkness. He had caught a glimpse of your pants caked in mud and could smell the blood from your skinned palms. Despite the slick terrain it seemed you ventured through the forest to see him. It made his chest shudder and for a moment he thought you had actually restarted his heart.

It was only a few minutes later when you were carefully opening his coffin again, now dawning a loose fitting silk shirt that made his red eyes alight with something wild. You had cleaned your scrapes and mud off your skin, smelling faintly of rain water and the lavender soap you gifted him. You stepped over him, nestling against his side and letting him enclose the two of you. One of his arms wrapped around your shoulders as your head rested on his chest, knuckles grazing over your hair while you stretched an arm across his torso. Your legs intertwined with his long ones and you let out a breathy sigh.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, and while you likely couldn’t see as thing, he could see you perfectly. You shook your head no against his chest, yawning into the fabric of his shirt.

“I just wanted to see you.” You murmured, chin resting in his chest as you made hit best attempt at eye contact in the blackness. “I saw the dining room table, are you okay?” You asked, somehow staring through him in the darkness. He offered his hand instead of finding the words in his throat, slowly unravelling his fist to reveal a mark free palm. He wasn’t sure you understand what he meant or if your eyes adjusted enough yet, until you carefully closed it once again, kissing his knuckles and placed your hand over his. You both were silent for a moment, until you looked up at him again and breathed, “You’re all I want.”

“And you’re all I have.” He held you closer, watching a grin pull at the corner of your lips. He was sure it was that devotion, obsession even, with you that would bring about his downfall. Centuries old and all powerful, but reduced to nothing without you. His strength and knowledge meant nothing if he didn’t have you to share it with.

And you could not stand your stagnant life in a town full of people who wished his kind dead. You chose a trek through the forest during the twilight hours of the morning to see him, bringing him soft kisses and silk under his hands as you let your mouth meet his. You kissed him with all the exhaustion and lethargy wrapped up in the two of you, molasses slow kisses that were just as sweet. It was how you fell asleep, lips to his neck and head tucked under his chin before your warm breathed puffed across his pale skin. He fell asleep not long after, engulfing you in his embrace, his cloak draping over your frame as he decided home was where you asked him to be.

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carmenberzattosgf · 6 months

Note

dword thoughts that border on sugar dword but also no not really LMFAO

i picture that once the bear takes off, carmen gets some more money and i believe that he'd be pretty frugal with it lowkey (ignore his stupid designer plain white shirts) but when it comes to you? that shit does NOT matter he likes spoiling you

when he's feeling confident/cocky, he'd give you his card and a kiss to your cheek, muttering something like "why don't you go buy something nice to wear f'me?" and once he's sat on the edge of the bed, watching you model whatever outfit you chose (dress, skirt, swimsuit, lingerie WHATEVER he's eating that shit up) he's smiling "look so pretty, baby. and you used daddy's card, right? good girl..."

same applies to nails or makeup, gotta use daddy's card fr...and he's always giddy to see your pretty nails wrapped around his cock, that new lipstick you bought smeared around the base of it -💫

💫 ANON. OH MY GOSH. WNGWHAGW. I’m going to restrain myself from over typing bc I still gotta cook on the other ask you sent tomorrow

Content warning: dword ( as you can tell)

YEAH. Once the bear takes off? he will buy you anything you want. You don’t even have to ask for it. If he as so much as hears you mention wanting something he’s going to buy it for you.

And him giving you his card… PLEASE. It’s early morning and you’re standing in the kitchen as he scrambles to get ready for work. He’s about to run out the door, but he stops to grab his wallet, pulling out his card.

“Why don’t you go and buy something nice to wear for me, yeah?” He placed the card on the countertop next to your morning cup of coffee before giving you a kiss on the cheek. He’s out the door before you can try to protest.

You don’t go too overboard with his card. You buy a dress, a skirt, and a black lace lingerie set. Carmy gets home earlier than you expected that night. “You’re home early,” you say, hopping off the couch to greet him with a hug.

“I left Sydney to hold down the fort herself. Wanted to see you sooner.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you show me what you bought?”

Carmy sits in front of you on the foot of the bed as you model your new skirt, and then your dress. “It’s been awhile since I’ve bought a dress. Do you like this one? I couldn’t decide between this one and another one.”

“You used daddy’s card, right?” Heat pulses through you as the nickname slips through his lips.

“Y-yes. I did.”

“Then you should’ve bought them both, baby. I wouldn’t have minded. It’s my job to spoil you.”

“I’ll get it next time, then. Do you like this one, though?”

“Of course, baby. You look gorgeous. Always so pretty for me. Did you get anything else?”

Without a word, you slip off the dress to reveal the lingerie set underneath. “I got this just for you, daddy.”

He groans at your words. “Such a good girl, aren’t you. Lay down on the bed for me. Good girls get rewards.”

DUDE THE NAILS PART. Carmy loves your nails so fucking much. The way they feel in his hair, or scratching down his back. When it’s time to get a new set you go to Carmy for his opinion.

“What color should I get for my nails next, Carm?” You watch him think for a second. Right now, a light baby pink is on your nails.

“How about wine red? That’ll look really pretty.”

That’s exactly the shade you pick at the nail salon. Before you head home, though, you make a quick stop at Sephora to pick out a matching lip stick shade. You apply the lipstick in the car so Carmy will see it right as you walk through the door.

“I got my nails done the color you suggested,” you hold out your hands in front of you to show off your nails. It took him a second, but he finally took his eyes off of your lips and looked at your hands. “I liked the color so much I went out and got a matching lip stick. Don’t worry—I used your card for it, too.”

Carmy takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips to give your hand a kiss. “Good girl.”

It’s not long before you find yourself kneeling down in front of Carmy on the couch, with a pillow under your knees. His gaze is focused on your hand as you pump his cock. Carmy’s head falls back in a groan as you kiss the tip, leaving behind a smudge of lip stick.

Carmen’s head doesn’t stay tipped back for long, lifts his head just in time you watch you sink your mouth down on his cock. “Shit—baby,” he sighs. He watches with his mouth agape as your maroon-red lips move. You take him all the way down to the base, gagging slightly as his cock hits the back of your throat.

His hand is in the back of your hair, pulling you off his cock. Carmy’s worried he hurt you. “You alright sweetheart?”

A string of spit is still on your lips as you blink up at him. The lipstick you have on is smeared all over your mouth. The rest of your lipstick had transferred onto the base of his cock. “I’m fine— want you to come in my mouth. Please.”

“My poor little girl is a bit cock-drunk isn’t she?”

“N-need it. Use me, please.”

Carmy’s hand in your hair shoves you right back down on his cock. Both of his hands collect your hair into a pony tail as he begins to fuck your throat. The size of his cock has you gagging around him. The squeeze of your throat around his length makes sinful moans leave his mouth.

“Such a good girl for daddy—fuck. Taking daddy’s cock so well down your throat. Gonna make me cum. You want that? Want me to cum down your throat?”

You let out a moan in response and Carmy’s done for, spilling down your throat with broken groans. He pulls you up off of your knees the second he’s finished, bringing you into a kiss.

Let’s just say… he’s eager to get you to bed to return the favor…

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear #the bear fanfiction #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto #carmy bear #the bear smut #brain rot

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fiddles-ifs · 2 months

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[ID: a banner-style image with smudged, grungy text. The banner says "blog update" in bold, capital letters. The background is textured green and white with a film border around it. The upper left corner says "official photograph not to be released for publication." /end ID]

Happy update day!

Greenwarden, Eryinys, and TKP's chapter 1 updates are all coming along very smoothly. (Except for Greenwarden. Firstborn problem indeed. I ended up losing a ton of work -- including the whole library update -- and I got so mad I started working on a whole other route. Coming back to the library route soon, though. I have enough salvageable material, I just need to be Not Mad about it.) Here's some snippets!

CONTENT WARNING: Gore

GREENWARDEN

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. Sprinting down the street doesn't even hurt, even if you do leave a long blood trail behind you. Your one hope is that the coyote is too preoccupied tearing chunks out of Eddie to pay attention to you. Hope is dangerous -- makes you cocky. Makes you make mistakes. You keep running toward what you think is safety, and you end up right at the edge of Warden Forest. Definitely not safety. You stop just before the mouth of the woods, breathing so hard you gag, your stomach half-open like a yawning mouth. Deep breaths hurt too much -- you can't bring yourself back to baseline. You risk losing your adrenaline rush if you do that anyway. Looking around looks the same. Woods and parking lot, woods and parking lot. There's a trail right ahead of you, tempting you inside. The click of nails against asphalt makes you whirl around. The damn coyote is right behind you, still licking gristle from its teeth.

ERINYS

Marik leads you to a corner covered in paper thin monitors. Cords feed into the biggest computer you may have ever seen, protected from the water and soap by thick rubber casing and a raised platform surrounded by guardrails painted yellow and black. The ramp vibrates under heel. You realize, with a start, that the computer and monitors are much lower to the floor than you'd expect, just as the engineer wheels around to face you both. "Sorenson," Marik says. The engineer grins with a mouthful of pearly white teeth and leans back in his chair, arms folded over his stomach. He's all hard planes. Built with lean muscle, broad-shouldered like DANIEL is, but with a shock of curly red hair and a mess of dark freckles. He has a dimple on his nose. "Marik," Sorenson says, wheeling his chair back to make room for you both. "All systems good. I'm running tune-up software now, just to make sure. Everything is brand new, but still. Can't be too careful." He glances at you. Nothing escapes Marik's notice, even bent across the desk to glare into screens running codes and diagnostics and other things that make you dizzy. Absently, he introduces you to each other. The engineer's name is Doctor Matthew Sorenson. He looks awfully young to be a doctor. "Fury, huh?" Dr. Sorenson raises his eyebrows. You flex your hands. "Whatever keeps you alive, I guess."

THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

The Maw is a jagged white chalkscape. You have to march in single file, careful to avoid the razor sharp juts of rock. The horses are nervous -- the wolf packs and cave lions living in the Teeth have perfected the art of the ambush. Not just that -- the endless bone white expanse can cause the distracted to become easily lost. You keep close count of everyone -- you, Sibir, and Leniza -- their aunt. She gives the whole company water blessings on the way in. Salt water from the Archipelago, to fine their ways home. -> Not that you believe in blessings. You are a person of science. -> You give your own blessings when you can. You can never have too many gods at your disposal. -> You don't have an opinion on religion -- it's something that exists. Annoyingly prevalent, but what can you do?

I'm hoping at least one of these guys will be ready to publish by next month -- but I'm also writing another book! Because I'm crazy. So we'll see!

#blog update #ive gotten three rejections on the first book so far!! which is good!!#it means people are actually looking at it #anyways im in my medicated insanity era so im churning out content like its my job #[it is my job]

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its-avalon-08 · 1 month

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stolen glances and stormy gazes (dc14)

request by anon

✦ pairing - David Coulthard x female!reader

✦ genre - fluff, it's super long

The sun blazed over the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the Spanish GP weekend bringing with it a flurry of excitement and a hint of drama. The Channel 4 studio, situated just a stone's throw away from the roaring engines and fervent fans, was abuzz with activity. Today’s broadcast was set to be a special one, with a panel that included the ever-charismatic Steve Jones, the insightful Mark Webber, the perpetually sunny Y/N, and the seasoned yet curmudgeonly David Coulthard.

As the broadcast started, the camaraderie among the presenters was palpable. Steve’s easy banter with Mark, Y/N’s radiant smile, and David’s focused demeanor created a vibrant atmosphere. But beneath the surface, a storm was brewing, and it was centered around one driver: Logan Sargeant.

"Welcome back to Channel 4’s coverage of the Spanish GP," Steve announced, his tone light and engaging. "Today, we’re diving into the ongoing debate about Logan Sargeant’s performance and treatment at Williams."

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with conviction. "Logan has been showing real potential. I think he’s been treated unfairly by the team. There’s been a lack of support and consistency that’s holding him back."

David’s jaw tightened. "I disagree. Logan’s had his chances, but performance is what matters. If he’s not delivering, it’s on him, not just the team."

The debate began as a friendly discussion but quickly escalated. Y/N leaned in, her voice tinged with frustration. "David, you’re not seeing the bigger picture here. It’s not just about raw numbers. It’s about how the team supports their drivers. Logan’s been left out to dry. His car has old part, now how can we expect him to perform with a carboard box of a car?"

David’s eyes narrowed, his gruff exterior barely concealing his irritation. "And you’re not seeing that F1 is cutthroat. It’s not a charity. If you can’t perform, you’re out. Logan needs to step up or accept the consequences."

Y/N’s face flushed with determination, her smile fading into a serious frown. "And if the support isn’t there, how can we expect him to perform at his best? It’s a two-way street, David."

Steve and Mark exchanged glances, sensing the conversation was veering into dangerously heated territory. David’s voice had taken on an edge, and Y/N’s passionate rebuttals only fueled the fire.

Mark tried to interject, his voice calm yet firm. "We should consider all aspects of the situation. It’s not just about one side or the other."

But Y/N was undeterred, her eyes locked onto David’s with an intensity that made the air around them crackle. "David, you’re so focused on the individual performance that you’re ignoring the broader context. It’s not all black and white."

David’s response was equally intense, his voice low and controlled. "And you’re romanticizing a situation that’s as harsh as it gets. It’s a tough world out there, and Logan needs to toughen up."

The atmosphere between them was electric, the debate clearly bordering on something far more personal. There was an unspoken tension that neither was willing to acknowledge, their bickering laced with a charged energy that was palpable.

Steve, sensing the imminent danger of the situation escalating further, stepped in with practiced ease. "Alright, alright, let’s take a breather here. We’ll cut to a quick ad break and come back to this. Everyone, stay tuned. This debate isn’t over yet."

As the camera cut to an ad, the studio fell into a brief, uneasy silence. Y/N and David exchanged lingering glances, each trying to process the conversation that had just transpired. The spark between them was undeniable, yet neither was willing to confront it head-on, leaving the air thick with unresolved tension.

The Spanish GP weekend was just beginning, and so was the ongoing drama between two of Channel 4’s most passionate presenters.

The roar of the crowd, the smell of burning rubber, and the adrenaline of race day continued as usual. The Spanish GP had unfolded with its typical thrills and spills, but the tension between Y/N and David lingered in the air, unseen by the millions of viewers who had tuned in.

As the race concluded and the coverage wrapped up, the Channel 4 team began to disperse. Y/N found herself in the media center, reviewing her notes. Her mind, however, was far from the race results.

Why does he always have to be so stubborn? she thought, her pen tapping rhythmically against her notebook. David Coulthard, of all people. The way he looks at me, it's like he’s trying to see right through me. But it's just work, right? It has to be. He couldn't possibly feel the same way.

David, meanwhile, was in a quiet corner of the paddock, sipping on a bottle of water. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, but his mind was replaying the earlier argument.

Why does she get under my skin so easily? he wondered, rubbing his temples. Y/N, with her sunshine smile and relentless optimism. She’s so passionate about everything. I can’t let her know how much I actually admire that about her. She probably thinks I’m just a grumpy old man. If only she knew how I really felt.

Y/N gathered her things and made her way towards the exit, her thoughts still tangled with the events of the day. He probably thinks I’m naive, she mused. Always arguing, never agreeing. But every time we debate, there’s something more. I can’t be imagining this. Can I?

David spotted her from across the paddock and hesitated for a moment before striding over. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “Y/N, can we talk?”

She turned, surprised by his presence but masking it with a small, polite smile. “Sure, David. What’s on your mind?”

He shifted uncomfortably, searching for the right words. “I wanted to say, about earlier… I didn’t mean to come across so harshly. We both care about the sport, just in different ways.”

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding. Is he trying to apologize? “I know, David. We both get passionate about these things. It’s what makes us good at our jobs. I respect that about you.”

David’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, his guard dropped. “It’s more than just respect, Y/N. You challenge me, push me to think differently. I… I admire that.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Did he just say he admires me? “Thank you, David. That means a lot coming from you. I… I feel the same way. You always push me to be better, to see things from a different perspective.”

A silence fell between them, charged with the weight of unspoken feelings. David looked into her eyes, willing himself to take the next step. Tell her, you idiot. Just tell her.

Y/N’s heart raced, her thoughts a whirlwind. This is it. Maybe he feels the same way. Just say it.

But before either could speak, Steve Jones appeared, breaking the moment. “There you two are! We’re heading to the team dinner. You coming?”

David and Y/N exchanged a fleeting look, their silent conversation interrupted. David nodded slowly. “Yeah, we’ll be there in a minute.”

As Steve walked away, Y/N sighed softly. “I guess we should join them.”

David nodded, a trace of frustration in his eyes. “Yeah, I guess we should.”

As they walked towards the exit, their hands brushed briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, but for now, they remained just that—unspoken.

One day, David thought, glancing at Y/N. One day, I’ll find the courage.

One day, Y/N echoed silently. One day, I’ll tell him how I feel.

But today was not that day. For now, they walked side by side, their hearts full of words that only they could hear.

Title: The Unspoken Truths

The post-race atmosphere in the Red Bull hospitality suite was buzzing with excitement. Max Verstappen and Sergio Pérez were lounging, sharing a few laughs about the day's events. David Coulthard, usually engrossed in race discussions, seemed unusually distant, his eyes frequently drifting toward Y/N, who was chatting with Steve Jones on the other side of the room.

Max nudged Checo, a sly grin on his face. "Hey, have you noticed how David keeps looking over at Y/N? It's like he's trying to solve a puzzle."

Checo chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, he’s definitely got it bad. It’s almost painful to watch."

David, catching their words but pretending not to, tried to focus on the conversation. Yet, his gaze betrayed him, lingering on Y/N as she laughed at something Steve said.

Across the room, Steve had taken Y/N aside, his expression a mix of concern and amusement. "Y/N, we need to talk."

Y/N tilted her head, curiosity piqued. "What’s up, Steve?"

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, it's time to cut the horseshit with David. Everyone on the team has noticed the tension between you two. It’s getting old, and frankly, it’s affecting all of us."

Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise. "What do you mean? We’re just… we clash, that’s all."

Steve shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. "It’s more than that, and you know it. There’s something between you two that’s been left unsaid for too long. It’s obvious to everyone except you and David."

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and realization dawning on her. "I didn’t think it was that noticeable."

Steve chuckled, his tone gentle but firm. "Trust me, it is. And it's not just the bickering. It’s the way you look at each other when you think no one’s watching. There’s something real there, Y/N. Something worth figuring out."

Y/N sighed, her defenses slowly crumbling. "I guess I’ve been too scared to face it. I thought it was one-sided."

Steve’s eyes softened with understanding. "You’re not alone in that. But you both need to stop hiding behind your arguments and face whatever it is you’re feeling. We’re all here for you, but you’ve got to take the first step."

Back in the Red Bull suite, Max and Checo were still observing David with amused curiosity. Max leaned over, his voice low and teasing. "David, you know, staring at her like that isn’t going to solve anything."

David tore his gaze away from Y/N, looking at Max with a mixture of irritation and resignation. "I know. It's just… complicated."

Checo raised an eyebrow. "Complicated or you’re just making it complicated?"

David sighed, his tough exterior cracking. "It’s not easy, alright? We argue all the time, and I thought it was just because we’re so different."

Max’s expression softened, a rare moment of empathy shining through. "Sometimes, those arguments mean there’s something deeper. You should talk to her. Really talk to her."

David nodded, feeling a weight lifting off his shoulders. "Maybe you’re right."

The evening sky over Barcelona was a beautiful canvas of twilight hues, the stars beginning to peek through as the noise of the day’s race faded into a distant hum. The Red Bull hospitality suite was winding down, with only a few stragglers remaining. David Coulthard found himself on the balcony, the cool breeze doing little to calm the storm of emotions within him.

Y/N stepped out onto the balcony, her footsteps soft against the tiled floor. She paused for a moment, taking in the sight of David leaning against the railing, lost in thought. Steeling herself, she walked over and stood beside him, the tension between them palpable.

"David," she began, her voice a tentative whisper. "We need to talk."

David straightened, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. "Yeah, we do."

The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’ve been avoiding this for too long. Steve… he told me to cut the horseshit. Said everyone’s noticed the tension between us."

David’s jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering. "Max and Checo said the same. They can see it too. I thought I was the only one feeling this way."

Y/N’s eyes widened, the weight of his words sinking in. "You mean… you’ve felt it too? All this time?"

David nodded, his expression a mix of frustration and vulnerability. "Every time we argue, every time we’re near each other, there’s this spark. This tension. I thought it was just me, reading too much into it."

Y/N stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. "I thought it was one-sided. I thought you just… couldn’t stand me."

David let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "It’s not that I can’t stand you, Y/N. It’s that I can’t stand how much you get under my skin. How much I care, even when we’re arguing."

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart aching at the raw honesty in his voice. "I care too, David. More than I wanted to admit. I was scared that if I acknowledged it, it would ruin everything."

David reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took hers. "We’ve both been scared. Scared of what this could mean. But maybe it’s time we stop running from it."

Y/N’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if it changes everything? What if it makes things worse?"

David gently cupped her cheek, his touch sending shivers down her spine. "Sometimes, you have to take a risk. Sometimes, the things worth having are the hardest to fight for. And I think you’re worth fighting for, Y/N."

Y/N leaned into his touch, her heart soaring at his words. "I think you’re worth fighting for too, David."

As the night deepened, the stars above them seemed to shine brighter, the world around them fading away. The tension that had once kept them apart now drew them closer, their hearts finally in sync.

David leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "No more pretending. No more hiding."

Y/N nodded, her eyes closing as she savored the moment. "Together. We face this together."

David leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, their foreheads still touching as the world around them seemed to hold its breath. With a tender hesitance, he tilted his head, their lips finally meeting in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, then deepening with the intensity of all their unspoken words. As they kissed, the night sky above them erupted in a dazzling display of fireworks, the vibrant colors reflecting the newfound clarity and passion in their hearts.

The bursts of light and sound seemed to celebrate their courage and the beginning of something beautiful, marking the end of their fears and the start of a shared journey. In each other's arms, beneath the exploding sky, they found the promise of a love worth fighting for.

#david coulthard #f1 fic #f1 fics #f1 x reader #formula 1 fic #f1 female driver #female f1 driver #f1!drivers x fem!driver #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid x oc #dc14 #dc14 x y/n #f1 imagine #formula 1 #formula one #y/n #ava speaks #requests #anon

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cryptidclaw · 2 years

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Fire and Ice: Rise of Change edition (aka. my redraw of the Fire and Ice cover) is complete!

This took me FOR EVER, the complete opposite of the Into the Wild cover, that one I completed in 1 night, this one has been a WIP for possibly a month??? Could be more and I wouldn't be surprised.

This is probably one of the most complicated covers in the first arc, there are so many characters and such a big background! I am not used to illustrating backgrounds like this so at least it was a good push to get me out of my comfort zone!

Now info about my changes to the cover! The cats in the frame are Bracken(paw) and Cinder(paw), they are both important characters in this book and they are Fire and Gray’s first apprentices (Bracken is more Fire’s apprentice too honestly) so I thought they should get a spot light! Also I want to change a lot of the frames in future covers bec I like the idea of other important characters getting the cover spot light!

The other characters in the scene behind the frame are Sedgecreek (upper right), Graystripe (upper left), Troutclaw aka. Whiteclaw (below Graystripe), Voleclaw (farthest bottom left), Leopardfur (Next to Voleclaw), Fireheart (bottom middle), and Sand(paw) (bottom right). All of these cats were in the border skirmish between River and Thunder when Fire and Gray were traveling back from bringing back Wind Order!

Image IDs v

[Image ID: A digital illustration, which is a redraw of the original Warriors: Fire and Ice cover. At the top of the cover is the Warriors title written in dark purple, and below it is written Fire and Ice which is yellow and lined in the same dark purple. Below the title is a portrait style frame centered in the middle of the cover, this frame depicts Bracken(paw) and Cinder(paw) centered in the frame, sitting next to each other with mirrored blank, wide eyed expressions. They are in a dark night scene and are mostly in shadow with their eyes glowing a bright white. In front of them are black silhouettes of grass, and in the background in a dark blue night sky and a huge bright blue moon lined with white. Behind this frame, filling up the rest of the cover, is a illustration of a battle taking place in a sunset scene of a river surrounded by grass that is mostly lit in yellows and oranges. In the foreground at the bottom of the illustration are 4 cats, there are two on the left of the page, we can only see their angry seemingly yelling faces peaking over a log, the cat farther from the left has her arm raised with her claws unsheathed, the other two cats are faced away from the camera and are looking towards the first two. from left to right the first cat is grey with blue eyes, the second in gold with brown spots and amber eyes, the third is round, chubby and orange, and the forth is a cream and back tortie. In the mid ground are two cats by the river bank, one is standing with their left side showing and they are crouched low to the ground and screeching at something off screen, the other is behind this cat, and is getting ready to pounce on the first cat while screeching. the First cat is a brown and white cat with orange eyes and the second is a big gray tabby with glowing yellow eyes. On the other side of the river is a single cat looking over to the other side, this cat is a brown tabby with green eyes. At the bottom of the cover where the author is usually listed, is written “Rise of Change” in yellow text./End ID]

#cryptidclaw's warriors au #rise of change #warrior cats #warrior cats design #warriors cover #warriors art #warriors #Fire and Ice #Warriors fire and ice #the prophecies begin #TPB

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finleycannotdraw · 4 months

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yo, hi,

please rant about the use of colours/shots in dead boy detectives (if you want to), that would be amazing to read!

omg hell yeah i would love to. <3 buckle up everybody!

(there were some other people in the comments who wanted to hear more as well. for convenience's sake i'm going to keep it all in one post.)

I'm not going to talk about every single frame in the last post, because there are a lot, but I'll be sure to touch on all of the ones that have a good amount of depth beyond the dramatic lighting. (sorry, Angie shot.)

...this is going to get long.

so first, this one:

With Edwin's brown coat, Niko's green coat, the brown bushes in between them, and the trees behind Edwin, this shot is cohesive and satisfying. I drew the orange lines to sort of illustrate how your eye moves across the frame; the line of eye contact, the tree branch (dashed lines) almost parallel to that, the sidewalk/grass line, and the lapels/shadows/folds of their jackets all form a general diagonal streamlined snapshot. Then the black post behind Niko, the tree between them, and the tree trunk behind Edwin continue to divide the frame vertically and add to the additional invisible "line" created by their height difference. Finally, the sky behind Niko, as well as her hair, contrast heavily and very well with the darker colors of the tree behind Edwin, though there is still white on his side (the building) and brown on hers (tree branches). If you were to take a single diagonal line from the bottom left corner to the top right, you would get two incredibly distinctly colored sections, but they complement each other so well.

This whole scene is gorgeous because of the pale sky and water up against Niko's hair and the brown tree trunks with Edwin's jacket, but I also love it because it's so simply colored. We have the classic blue+orange color dynamic, but diluted down to very pale blue and very dark brown. This shot specifically features Edwin focused at the center (the blue lines show that he is standing mostly straight up, while the trees on the borders of the frame are all leaning inwards), with Niko crouched down to fit with the shape of the hillside (orange) AND the silhouetted rocks in the foreground. Then the hillside, the shadow on the water, the general cutoff of the tree branches, and the island in the distance (purple) frame the two of them in the middle without making a Point of it. It looks very natural, especially with the dark shadows around the border of the frame. (personally sort of brings to mind Wanderer Above The Sea of Fog).

I don't think I need to add any annotations to this one. The lighting is sharp and so are the shadows. The fog and the shine on the water, his hair, and the collar of his coat are starkly lit, while everything else, including his face, is deeply shadowed. Plus it's all an ominous, murky green. It's almost the opposite of Lilith coming out of her blood-red ocean. 10/10 frame, I have no words.

I gasped the first time I saw this shot. There are so many vertical lines (orange), which make the space feel thinner: the spike, the bulletin board(?) on the far left, both doorframes, the edges of the table and boxes, the tile on the wall on the right, Maxine herself... and then there are the diagonal lines, all sort of spreading out from Maxine, which includes the table edge, the shadows, and the wall tiles again. Then there's the fact that it's all so dark, but not quite pitch black. Once again we have a green/orange combo, and the light behind Maxine being so small in the whole frame makes it very effectively claustrophobic. We also never saw her enter this room from behind, which elevates her as threatening, because the camera work makes it seem as though we, the audience, are backing away from her as she enters, and then hiding from her as well. While I am devastated by the lack of a sapphic romance arc, I have to say I was blown away by the production of this scene.

I love this one because they're arranged so neatly around the book. I didn't draw a curve over their heads, but it's easy to visualize by following Monty's hairline up to Edwin's, and then Edwin's down to Charles' down to Crystal's. The height order is perfect. Then there's the black-brown-black-brown of Monty's jacket, Edwin's jacket, Charles' jacket, and Crystal's hair. The book itself helps frame their faces (diagonal blue lines), and their clothes fall into uniform with the vertical trees behind them, creating a satisfying, natural, unobtrusive background. This is definitely more visually appealing than a shot of them leaning over and looking down at the book/camera. It's also broken up very nicely by the greenery. Plus, none of their faces are shown from the same angle! Refreshing!

Poor Monty :( but hey, he gets a really awesome shot here! We're back to orange+blue, and the angle of this shot makes it look like the vertical trees behind him are positioned diagonally (orange) to follow the dark blue shadow behind his head. We also get two light sources: one of them is the moon, and the other one comes from the same place as the music. The moonlight (blue) sort of encircles his head and cuts off at the line of trees about halfway across the frame. Both the back of his hair and the far side of his face are illuminated, which is very effective in terms of bringing him into the foreground and making him the focus of the shot even though he's not in the middle of the frame. It's also balanced nicely by having background detail on the left, with the orange trees, but not on the right, where there's nothing but dark blue behind Monty. This is also a great shot when it comes to his hair and jacket, because the jacket is used to add to the framing of his face with the dark blue background, and his dark brown hair is lit sparingly, which ties in the left side of the frame.

Like the frame with Maxine, this one has a lot of shadow and a little bit of light, and again works with an orange/blue (or teal, really) color scheme, but this one is much friendlier. The windows are larger than the doorframe and Charles isn't actually blocking the light the way Maxine did. Instead, he's illuminated from the right by Edwin's orange lantern, and the shot is balanced by highlights (blue) that stop it from becoming cramped and stressful. There are stable vertical lines (purple) and rafters and shadows spreading out from the center (orange). Charles, though he is blocking the window, is wearing a white tank top, and his skin takes on the warmth from the lantern, so he's not in silhouette and he blends very nicely with the scene. I love that he's not at the center of the shot, but instead framed almost perfectly in the right window. (Another thing I love about this show is that the characters almost always interrupt the continuity of the background even when they're positioned to be framed by it. It makes the scenes feel much more natural even while they continue to be gorgeously directed from an artistic/stylistic point of view.)

This is one of the simpler ones, but it's perfect. The Night Nurse's hair and vest are the same brownish orange, and her shirt is the same as the walls, sticking with our tried and true brown/green (easy variation on orange/blue) color scheme. She is framed in the blackness of the doorway, but once again interrupts the white doorframe on the left side. Even the lamp and the board (?) on either side of the frame fill the negative space in a natural way. Also, the vertical lines of the board, doorframe, door, and lamp aren't perfectly spaced apart, which makes the whole shot feel more down-to-earth.

There is so much going on in this shot. The beams of light (orange) are emanating from behind Edwin in a shape sort of reminiscent of wings. The angles of light/shadow and the immediately obvious position of some of the mirrors (blue) also spreads out from behind him, reinforcing the wing imagery and focus. The background is lighter than the floor, and Edwin's clothes blend in with the floor and the reflecting highlights (green) in the mirrors. It's all balanced by shadows (purple), which aren't so much shadows as they are dark-colored mirrors and the blood on Edwin's face. This shot is an unsettling combination of chaos and order, increased by the strange phenomena of mirrors endlessly reflecting into each other, especially since Edwin doesn't show up in any of them. You'd expect him to look out of place, and he mostly does, but there's just enough immediate immersion with the color scheme and light angles to make him fit perfectly. And he wouldn't fit in this shot nearly as well if he were wearing his usual clothes. It's such a good way to introduce Despair. I love this scene.

Now I needed to include these two next to each other, because they're. They're the same scene. Maren is on the porch looking down at Crystal and the boys, but the color schemes and blocking are so starkly different. Maren is wearing black, and the house is washed-out yellow and maroon, both unfriendly colors in this scene. The windows all show the gray reflections of the dead tree instead of even a glimpse inside the house, immediately showing that Maren is hiding something. Then in the shot with Crystal and the boys, they're positioned behind her on the path. Edwin is next to the brown gate and gray stones, and Charles is sort of shadowing Crystal and framed by the green bushes. Crystal's shirt is flower-patterned to match the pink petals on the ground, and her red hair and purple jacket make the whole shot more vibrant and friendly-looking than Maren's, even though Maren is supposedly the one being helpful/friendly/hospitable. The first time I watched this episode I knew I couldn't trust Maren as soon as I saw her standing on her front porch. This scene is, as Charles would say, brills.

Okay, last one, I have to stop somewhere. (I have so many more. I have. SO many more. that i could talk about. but this post is so long already). There are three windows, evenly spaced, white light and curtains framed in them. Charles is in nearly full silhouette as he opens that chest; his head and the lid of the chest intersect with the vertical window frame, and his arm runs parallel to the middle bar. He also blocks a good portion of the leftmost window, while Edwin stands in front of the one on the right. He's fully framed by the window and standing farther back than Charles, not quite silhouetted but still very dark compared to the background. When he ducks down to inspect the cabinet, his head ends up in front of the wall between the two windows. This whole scene is an excellent display of blocking/framing/lighting, just in terms of where they end up holding any given position while they talk. Once again, there's nothing artificial or manufactured about their blocking. These aren't statement shots (all film projects have a few Really Good Shots, but they're often at extremely important, pivotal, or emotional times, instead of spread out through the storyline.), which makes them even better.

I might have to make another post and include shots with Jenny, the sprites, the Cat King, Esther, and more landscape shots. There is no shortage of stunning frames and scenes, and there's no reason not to dive into the production and hidden meanings.

TL;DR: this show is an ARTISTIC MASTERPIECE. Please watch it. :)

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #crystal palace #niko sasaki #monty finch #monty the crow #film stills #cinematography #this. got away from me.#appreciation post #color schemes #film techniques #analysis #symbolism

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officialdaydreamer00 · 11 months

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(part 1 here)

you did notice him some time ago.

the cloak clad boy with the prettiest fiery blue hair.

he who watches from behind the trees. never gets close, never interacts.

"do not go near that boy, for he may be bearing ill intents. do you understand, my child?"

"yes, mother..."

mother always told you that, which left you wondering why. the boy didn't try to approach you, when he could have done it long ago. instead, he chose to observe. he responded to your smiles and waves with his own, albeit shy ones.

the more you looked at him, the more your heart felt strange. it was a warm feeling that engulfed you whole, as if you had seen him somewhere before. had you known him from somewhere? anywhere?

but you grew up with only the presence of your mother, exactly what made you feel that way?

peculiar, indeed, and you intended to find it out yourself.

so despite your mother's words, you wandered beyond the borders, the one that your mother put up to, in her words, protect you from the horrors of the outside world. she was protective, that you were always grateful for, but it soon felt rather overbearing.

it had been quite a while since you last ventured out of your home. mother used to bring you along to places. something happened, however, and she never let you leave the house ever since. you understood, of course, but the growing want to explore pushed that thought away. so the moment your mother left the house, you left too.

there he was again, at his usual spot and gazed over the little place you called home.

he looked confused, his pretty golden eyes darted around, seemingly searching for something, or rather, you. you decided to approach the boy, and with every steps you made, that feeling came back as stronger than ever.

the boy soon turned to you. he flinched back in panic(?), before slowly calming down when he saw it was you. that was when you noticed some things about him.

he was tall, towering over your form, yet he didn't give off a threatening aura. pale white skin, ghostly even, all hidden under a black cloak. the fiery blue hair that you saw was, indeed, fire, strange how it didn't burn you. and his eyes, a molten gold so eerie yet so soft as he stared at you with an expression difficult to read. melancholic? wistful? you couldn't tell which.

his hands held yours so gently, and they fit so perfectly together. he called you 'his queen', you didn't understand why, but something in your heart stirred. as if a force took hold of your soul, you responded.

"We have met again, my King."

taglist🏷️ @azulashengrottospiano @aqua-beam @identity-theft-101 @dove-da-birb @twistwonderlanddevotee @siren-serenity @hisui-dreamer @xen-blank @taruruchi @cheezy-moon @minimallyminnie @axvwriter @mermaidfanficlibrary @cookiesandbiscuits @eynnwwyjth @cave-of-jade @bun-lapin @krenenbaker @thehollowwriter @red-viewe @jaylleoo14 @edith-is-apparently-a-cat

reblogs are very appreciated!!

#irene's writings ♡#twst #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst drabble #idia shroud #twst idia #idia shroud x reader #twst idia x reader #twisted wonderland idia #idia x reader #so apparently i have a problem #identity held me at gunpoint /j #Spotify

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mothgenes · 9 months

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My self-directed final for my digital illustration class, an illustration of this poem by Hanan Mikha'il Ashrawi. Free Palestine.

Alt text underneath the cut.

Alt text: First image: This is an illustration contained in a white boarder with an uneven frayed appearance. In a war-torn scene absent of human life, streams of missile smoke rise from behind the central figure against a red sky that grows increasingly yellow towards the center immediately behind the central figure. The central figure is an Israeli Occupation Forces operative with his Israeli flag patch visible and a single blue eye with a white Star of David to reflect the flag inside it, the other eye consumed in shadow. The face is devoid of all visible expression, and a crack is visible coming from the shadowed eye over the clay-like skin of the soldier, meant to reference the concept of the IOF as a golem. The IOF officer raises a smoking automatic rifle and gazes down the composition with a lack of feeling. He stares down a little girl with long hair blowing in the wind who's back is to the viewer, with a bleeding crosshairs over half of her face where her eye would be. She wears a Palestinian flag over her shoulders that is also blowing in the wind, and the red triangle moves beyond its borders through the bloodstains that are on it. In the wreckage visible around the soldier, there is a fallen cross visible, close to the subtle shadow of a human hand, and destroyed buildings, bringing to mind the common lie that it is a religious conflict by reminding the viewer that churches and Palestinian Christians are also being murdered and struck with missiles. In the center of the image there is white handwritten text, of the first verse of the poem "From the Diary of an Almost-Four-Year-Old" by Hanan Mikha'il Ashrawi. It reads, "Tomorrow, the bandages will come off. I wonder will I see half an orange, half an apple, half my mother's face with my one remaining eye?" Page 2 alt text: The background is black with a trail of red smoke crossing the composition from the bottom right up and over to the top left in an uneven organic curve. At the bottom right there is the shattered clay head of a golem in a broken army-green helmet. One eye has been shattered and most of the face has been destroyed. There is a smear of blood over a shatter mark on our left's side of the forehead of the golem, as though made by a stone from a sling intended to subtly reference David and Goliath, with the IOF as Goliath. The smear of blood covers the first of three characters that make up the text usually down on the foreheads of golems. In folktales, the way to deactivate a golem is to wipe away the first character of their text, which normally reads "emét", which is truth in Hebrew. Removing the first character makes it say "mét", which means death. This calls for the retirement of the IOF as an entity as it does not help anything- only harms. White text is the main focus of this piece. The white text reads: From the Diary of an Almost-Four-Year-Old" by Hanan Mikha'il Ashrawi Tomorrow, the bandages will come off. I wonder will I see half an orange, half an apple, half my mother's face with my one remaining eye?

I did not see the bullet but felt its pain exploding in my head. His image did not vanish, the soldier with a big gun, unsteady hands, and look in his eyes I could not understand

I can see him so clearly with my eyes closed, it could be that inside our heads we each have one spare set of eyes to make up for the ones we lose

Next month, on my birthday, I'll have a brand new glass eye, maybe things will look round and fat in the middle— I've gazed through all my marbles, they made the world look strange.

I hear a nine-month old has also lost an eye, I wonder if my soldier shot her too—a soldier looking for little girls who look him in the eye— I’m old enough , almost four, I've seen enough of life, but she's just a baby who didn't know any better.

#free gaza #free palestine #gazaunderattack #gaza genocide #gaza ground invasion #palestine #hanan mikha'il ashrawi #palestinian poetry #artists for palestine #iof terrorism #fuck the iof #israel is a terrorist state

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darklydeliciousdesires · 7 months

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La Dolce Vita - John Shelby/Cosima Changretta (OFC).

So, I decided to begin this new little series of mine, besties. It shan't be delivered in regular chapter form, but a series of one-shot parts that will tell the story of John and Cosima's marriage, beginning from their wedding day. I hope you enjoy it :)

Words - 3,682

Warnings - Each part will be adult only content, from swearing to eventual smut and violence. Minors DNI.

Part I - Inferno

The blood of a thousand men could stain a thousand streets, cold, hard warfare spinning out of control in a haze of spatter and gunpowder, yet sometimes all it took was the presence of a woman to end it all.

And it had.

It didn’t mean the woman in question had to like it, though.

“No.” The word fell from his lips with mild irritation as he took in the sight before him. “You will not wear black.”

Cosima didn’t even attempt to hide her distain. “Why not? This is a death, after all.”

Luca couldn’t help but feel entertained by her words, even though she was rapidly whittling him down to his very last nerve. “You are so dramatic, la mia sorellina.” She always had been. “It’s about time you were somebody’s wife, and you will make a good wife, too. Every man betrothed to an Italian woman should recognise how damned lucky he is.”

“And me?” Her cadence rose sharply, her voice bordering on shrill. “What about me, Luca?”

9:23am and already, he wished he’d had the sense to bring some aspirin with him. “You will do as you are told, Sima. And wear white while you do it.”

The silky drawl of her brother never rose beyond the smooth hush he spoke with, but his words packed the same punch as they would have had he yelled them. He was also the only person alive who she allowed to shorten her name. People had called her Cos in school, swiftly ending up with a slapped face for it. Her Italian fire had been lit pretty much since the day she’d been born. “I wish I’d brought mama with me now.”

His lip curled, a soft rumble of a laugh echoing his throat, sucking on the matchstick he pulled from between his lips as he pointed it at her. “We both know why you didn’t.”

“Yes,” she chirped, admiring her reflection in the mirror, “you’re paying.”

Again, she prompted his smile. Few did, really, save Anna Maria, his wife, as well as his sons, Joey and Guiseppe. “I am, cara mia. Listen, if you want the black dress, I’ll buy it for you. You won’t be married in it, though. Imagine if mama was here, eh? She’d be, ah, much more vocal than I about it.”

This was true. Audrey would have taken over rather than sitting quietly like Luca. “I’m beginning to think she’d fuss much less than you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Try on the next dress, for the love of god.”

Huffing and cussing in their native tongue, Cosima flounced back behind the privacy screen, getting herself out of the dress, the nearby assistant helping her into the white lace gown. Her face was a picture of utter contempt upon emerging, raising her middle finger when Luca quietly applauded her appearance.

“Perfect.”

“I fucking hate it,” she sneered, the assistant’s eyes bulging a little at her coarse language.

“Cosima, you would hate even the most exquisite of gowns, crafted by the finest of designers,” he pointed out, standing and walking to her slowly. He reached beneath her chin, raising it up, placing a little kiss upon her forehead. “You look beautiful. La belladonna. It is done.”

His word was final, and she knew this well. It did not mean she had to be quiet or graceful in her compliance, though. Being wed to a Shelby, after all they had done, the war that had seen the deaths of both her treasured brother and beloved papa, was not a fate she relished in.

Negotiations in order to cease the bloodshed and forge ahead in a new bond, running Shelby gin into New York with the assistance of her family and their connections had been sealed by a proposed joining of their families through marriage. Her marriage, to John Shelby.

How she had screamed and complained when Luca had informed her of this truce sealing union. Glasses and ornaments had been smashed in tempestuous fury, Cosima’s ire reaching the kind of decibels that had taken Luca and Audrey much effort and nips of gin to quieten, the youngest of the Changretta clan storming from her mother’s home, walking the streets, chain smoking in blind fury.

The only silver lining? At least Luca had not decreed that she marry the man who had killed her father, not that she actually could. For his sins, Arthur Shelby breathed no longer. Neither did Grace Shelby, nor Esme Shelby, the late wife of the man soon to be her husband, the gypsy beauty getting in the way of a hit meant for John on Christmas Day and lamentably not surviving it.

And Cosima thought her hand dealt was bad. For John, it was decidedly bleaker by far.

His brother was gone, his wife was gone, his sister-in-law was gone, and his fate was now bound to a person belonging to a family whom he couldn’t stand with any ounce of tolerance. Tolerance was what he had to show, though, in order to keep relations smoothed over, before anybody else ended up dead.

“It’s a fresh start for us all, John boy,” Tommy began, standing in front of his brother, straightening his tie. “I don’t expect you to be happy about it, but...”

“Good, ‘cos I ain’t,” he cut in with, his jaw tightening, refusing to meet his brother’s eye. “Esme is barely fucking cold, and you’ve got me marrying some wop bitch. Trust me, Tom. I ain’t fucking happy in the slightest.”

The elder Shelby truly had no comeback for that. He knew his actions were a slap in the face to John, to Arthur, to Esme and to the love of his life, but there was no other way around it. He didn’t plan on losing anybody else to a war that could be negotiated through. It had been tough to bargain, but peace had been restored finally, Tommy reasoning that scores had been settled upon both sides of the divide.

They were more than even. In fact, they truly weren’t, two lives on the Changretta side, three on the Shelby, two innocent women coming into the crossfire and dying because of it. He was not prepared to lose more. If he could also turn a very tidy profit while not losing more, then so be it.

Finally, he managed to catch the icy stare of his brother, Tommy squeezing his shoulders. “Give it time. At least you’re getting wed to an attractive woman. Could have matched you to a right scrag, but I didn’t.”

She could have been the queen of fucking Sheba for all John cared. Her beauty or lack thereof was neither here nor there. She wasn’t Esme, and that was all there was to it. “Gotta habit of this, you have, marrying me off to some bird I ain’t ever clapped eyes on until I get to the altar, all for the sake of keeping the peace.”

There hadn’t been an actual altar at his wedding to Esme, but this time there was no room for negotiation. The priest local to the district Cosima Changretta lived in had been given a hefty bung to marry them, regardless of the fact that John was a non-practising Catholic. Usually, Father David would have required he at least attend weekly mass for a few months prior to the wedding, but this wasn’t possible when the union had been set up to take place within the space of a week from its original incarnation.

Through his disesteem, John wasn’t blind to see the benefits of joining the families in order to broker peace, though. He just wished there was some other way, one that didn’t involve him forsaking his late wife’s memory, or literally getting into bed with a member of the very family who had taken three members of his.

With a red rose buttonhole pinned to his charcoal suit – those specific flowers at Cosima’s request – they headed out to the waiting car, ready to be ferried across Birmingham to the district of Bournville, to St Francis of Assisi.

“Holy shit, the waft of that bloody chocolate," Polly spoke from the back of the car, the famous Cadbury factory emitting the heady scent of it’s delicious confectionary. “Making my mouth water, it is.”

“Well, as long as the air smells like Dairy fucking Milk, all’s right as rain, ain’t it, Pol?” John muttered, watching the little black and white houses dotted along the main road pass them by. It was such a different landscape than the one he was used to, the village of Bournville so very picturesque and quaint.

Polly tutted. “Oi, less of your fucking lip, our John. Don’t make today any harder than it has to be by being a surly shit about it.”

“Yeah, but...”

She cut his protests dead with her usual blunt retort. “We know, for the love of god! You’ve vented your spleen so hard at this, I’m surprised you have one left! This isn’t ideal, but it’ll bring us peace and let me rest my fucking head easy at night, not worrying when the next of my fucking nephew’s is going to end up riddled with bullet holes. Now, put your fucking face straight. We’re nearly there.”

He could have begun his protests once more, vented at how it wasn’t right that he was being thrown into wedlock again just four months after his second wife had died, how at thirty years old, he shouldn’t have already had to attend the funerals of two Mrs. Shelby’s, but he knew it would serve him little good.

Arriving at the church, they made their way inside, John surprised to be greeted kindly by Audrey Changretta, who was standing talking to the verger.

“A lot of water has gone under the bridge, John. All I want going forward is for you to be a good man to my Cosima. Can you do that for me, love?”

His heartstrings were yanked upon hard, knowing how much his actions had devastated her. She looked weary from it all, the sparkle in her eyes non-existent. He’d never wanted her to be hurt in all of this, the teacher he held so many fond memories of, the woman he had steadfastly refused to murder in cold blood. “I can. I promise I will.”

She patted his cheek, smiling thinly. That smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and for that he couldn’t blame her. “Thank you.” She exchanged nods with Polly and Tommy, the Shelby’s moving into the church, smiling to their family and friends as they passed the pews, the Changretta presence outnumbering them by about two to one.

He and Tommy stood to the side of the altar, Polly taking a seat at the first pew between Finn and Ada, the latter giving the groom-to-be a bolstering smile. It had little of its desired effect, John feeling a cold swirl of discomfort growing chillier by the moment. “Forgive me, Esme. I fucking wish this weren’t happening just as much as I wish you were still here, love.”

His deeply lamenting thoughts were banished by the sound of the organ keys pressed upon, the church filling with music as the congregation stood, Father David quickly shaking both his and Tommy’s hands before his focus shifted towards the doors, beaming as he watched Cosima escorted in by her brother. The bride looked exquisite in her white lace gown, her cascading veil shrouding her face, the dress very quintessentially Italian in fashion.

John didn’t dare turn around and watch her walk to him, only aware of her arrival at his side from the strong plume of Chanel perfume entering his nose, finally turning to see Luca gently lift her veil, kissing her cheek and whispering a few words in Italian to her. He then moved to John, surprising him by offering his hand.

“To famiglia, eh?”

“Yeah,” he coughed, shaking it. The Italian’s grip was like Iron, his face unflinching. There was no true warmth there. “To family.”

Luca moved to sit at his mother’s side, John finally letting his eyes fall to his left, taking her in for the first time. His throat tightened in an instant. He’d thought Esme to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, the guilt of the fact that Cosima Changretta was the biggest knockout he’d ever witnessed hitting him hard.

As for his soon to be wife, when her piercing blue eyes found his, the sensation of her heart skipping on three consecutive beats made her feel a little nauseous for a moment.

He was gorgeous.

Why did he have to be gorgeous? It would have made hating him so much easier if he’d been ugly.

“At least I will have something nice to look at, while I’m throwing plates at his head.” She thought, turning to the priest and smiling as best she could, given the circumstances.

The ceremony was a long, tedious affair, the bride wishing for a traditional mass that bored the balls off John. He did well to hide it, though. What he failed miserably at was looking in any way, shape or form happy when they were pronounced man and wife, offering her a chaste kiss to the cheek, a speedy peck of non-affection. Cosima was relieved he hadn’t leaned to her mouth. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

Taking his arm, she walked back down the aisle as the newest member of the Shelby family, her eyes sad as she looked at her mother and brother. They smiled at her with loving pride, Cosima dropping her chin, lest they see the tears in her eyes as she walked alongside her new husband, a man she couldn’t stand. True, she knew nothing of John Shelby, other than what he’d had a hand in taking from her.

With every step, she had to physically prevent herself from gathering the bridal lace swathing her slender curves and running, back to Acacia Road, back to the family home. This was where she desired to be, out in the flower filled back garden tending to her roses, taking cuttings of herbs ready to be brought into the kitchen and tutored by her darling mother in everything from Carbonara to baked Ziti.

She longed for the scents of her mother’s pasta, to hear her father’s key in the door, his whistled tunes filling the homestead as she’d wipe her hands upon her apron and run to greet him. Her papa, the man she loved and respected the very most. Gone.

“You erm, you look beautiful, Cosima.”

His face did not match his compliment, Cosima looking up at her new husband, her face stony. “I know. Shame my dream wedding didn’t come with the dream groom, though.”

John sniffed, his eyebrow tilting a fraction. “Ahh, you might still get it yet. We can get divorced and give it another go with other people. Who knows? I could nail it lucky the fourth time around.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve been married twice before?”

“Ar.”

“And what the blinking hell happened to them?” she demanded, wondering just what her brother had gotten her into, marrying her off to a man who was on his third wife.

“They died, if you must know,” he frowned, reaching the end of the aisle, the door opening, a cascade of confetti hurled at them from the throng of guests exiting behind them.

“Lucky them.” Her mutter was drowned out by the sound of happy cheers, or at least she thought it had been. Her new husband had heard it, though, wanting nothing more than to slap her in her rude mouth for her coldly delivered statement.

“Great, got myself hitched to a stunner and she’s a right nasty little mare.” he spoke, certainly loud enough for her to hear, releasing the hold upon her arm and moving to receive congratulations from his family. Cosima narrowed her eyes at him in his wake, turning to smile brightly at her friends, her hands taken in theirs, cheeks kissed, her heart thrumming with waves of sadness. A right nasty little mare. That’s what he thought of her, Cosima’s indignance burning brightly for a while, not able to reflect upon the fact that what she’d said had indeed been very spiteful.

At twenty-three, she truly should have known better. With two dead wives behind him and a bitterness that still lingered beneath the surface between the two families, she guessed he was likely as thrilled to be married to her as she was to him. An apology perhaps wouldn’t go amiss.

Once they’d posed for a few photographs, the bride and groom were shown to the waiting Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, John holding the door open for her, following her in and staring stonily out of the window as they pulled away from the church.

She felt awkward and ashamed of her words, moving her thumb back and forth over one of the large thorns the florist had neglected to remove from the bouquet of red roses. “John, I apologise for what I said, about your late wives being lucky. I only meant that... I don’t know what I meant, actually.”

She was met by a cold, two worded statement. “Fuck off.”

Deserved, to be fair. Predictably, Cosima let it spark at her kindling rather than rushing for water, though. “That’s impossible, now I’m your wife. Don’t bloody pout at me. I said something regrettable, but because of your family I don’t have Angel or my father any longer. You yourself are directly responsible for the former. If you hadn’t beaten him within an inch of his life, he wouldn’t have lay vulnerable in hospital, ripe for the plucking. And let’s not forget that scumbag of a brother of yours, who killed my papa.”

He tutted, chewing his toothpick with hostility. “Don’t act like you’re the only one who lost somebody you loved. Fucking gone right over your head, ain’t it? Because of your family, I lost me wife, brother and sister-in-law. We’re in the same boat, Cosima.”

“You started all of this. You could have just let Lizzie be happy with Angel, but no! You had to burn his restaurant to the fucking ground. What is it you dumb Shelby fucks say, hmm? By order of the Peaky Blinders, that’s it! Your way or the highway!”

Bile began licking at his insides. “Your brother weren’t good enough for Lizzie. She’s a good woman, and he was a fucking duplicitous shit. Didn’t even have the balls to use his real name for half his dealings. At least we stand by who we fucking are.”

Her rage escalated by the second, staring at him incredulously. “My brother had the sense to be clandestine, and you will not speak of him like you knew him! So, he partnered with your enemies, so fucking what? The way you Shelby’s conduct yourself, you make enemies left and fucking right! You took my family away from me for nothing. Nothing!”

John eyed her viciously, his eyes losing any trace of warmth. “They fucking deserved it, and you, you spoiled little wop bitch? You deserve nothing less than every fucking ounce of my contempt. We’re married in name only, believe me. Ain’t no way I’m gonna be a good husband to you, no matter what I promised your mom.”

“Fine by me!”

The air virtually crackled with their mutual distain, Cosima shuffling as far as she could get away from him, muttering cusses in Italian.

“I know what testa di cazzo means,” he spat.

“Good!” she fumed, “I want you to know I think you’re a dickhead!”

The reception was being held at a small hotel local to the church, Cosima storming out of the car and not looking back, fixing a huge, fake smile to her face as she was welcomed by the staff. Immediately, her eyes locked onto a waiter carrying a tray of champagne filled flutes, taking one and knocking it back. A second was reached for, John arriving at her side.

“Whiskey please, mate. Fucking large one.”

The waiter nodded. “At once, sir.”

They stood together to welcome their guests, both repelled by one another’s presence, going through the motions of everything. Cake cutting, first dance, spending as much time as they could away from one another. It was while John was seeking the solace of quiet and fresh night air much later that evening, standing on the rear patio of the hotel smoking a cigar, that he found himself joined by the last person he expected.

“Can I give you some advice, John?”

Turning to Luca, he raised an eyebrow, the tall Italian continuing. “If you want a quiet life with my sister, you need to keep her in the lifestyle she’s become accustomed to. I love that girl to her bones, but she’s a fucking spoiled princess.”

His eyes widened. “You can say that again.”

Luca’s mouth twitched, removing the toothpick he’d been idly chewing on. “My father bent to her every whim, being his only daughter. She was daddy’s little girl. Roses, diamonds, furs, French perfume, she loves all of that. You treat her good and she’ll be sweet with you. And make sure she has a garden. That kid lives for horticulture.”

Luckily, he was wealthy enough to provide such luxuries for his new bride, not that he wanted to. Not that she deserved even one of them. “Noted.”

He nodded, turning to leave his new brother-in-law to it, pausing suddenly as he pointed the toothpick in his grasp at him. “Oh, and John? She’s got a thing for hurling plates. Learn to duck.” Laughing to himself, he carried on back into the hotel, while John felt a prickle of annoyance at his statement, or rather how much pleasure he’d derived from delivering the news that Cosima was nothing short of a bad-tempered handful.

Standing out there alone, he did hope that one day he might see her as something different. Whether that day would come swiftly or not was anybody’s guess, though.

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