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icarusignite · 6 months

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These Violent Delights (1)

Chapter 1: Marigolds and Mayhem

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x OC

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Academic rivals, Coriolanus Snow and Artemis Highbottom must compete for the Plinth prize. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: Check out the masterlist for a better synopsis lol. As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Masterlist

Drip.

It was the third nosebleed of the night and Artemis was just about tired of it. She didn't even bother stemming the flow, allowing the carmine rivulets to trace an unhurried path from her nostrils to the marble below.

The hush of running water met the heavy rhythm of a beating heart, and there she stood—a lone figure, framed by the harsh edges of the sink, her grip upon it almost desperate. She could feel the sharpness imprinting into her skin, and yet still she clung, her skin stretched across her knuckles almost comically grotesque.

She watched the blood, in an almost detached sort of way. It could be art, she mused, the juxtaposition of sanguine against sterile white. A whispered revelation danced at the edge of her consciousness—anything could be art if you framed it the right way. Even the bloodiest of carnages. A spectacle, a thing to be enjoyed.

Artemis looked up, and her reflection stared back, menacingly. The mirror, an unforgiving oracle, revealed a distorted visage, one she both did and did not recognize. Her dark hair, cascaded in disarray, entangled in the aftermath of sleep's elusivity and her eyes harbored shadows akin to a painter's bruised palette. The reflection mocked, a cruel mimicry of the composed persona she so ardently sought to maintain.

Out of control.

Unbidden judgment pierced through her thoughts, a verdict she loathed to acknowledge.

No that could not be right.

Artemis Highbottom was always in control.

She despised this discordance, this disruption to her meticulously curated world. To her, it was anathema, but nature could not be controlled, and what was more natural than blood? Perhaps it was fitting, that this fundamental of humanity could not be dominated.

Blood could never be dishonest, and it had the power to reveal one's innermost truths.

With unyielding determination, Artemis scrubbed at the remnants of the crimson tide that painted her face, an act of restitution against the chaos that dared to invade her pristine sanctuary. Each abrasive stroke was an attempt to erase not just the physical residue but a deeper discord. She worked quietly, although there was no one else to hear. There was never anyone to hear her, her gilded halls always vacant, but Artemis spoke silence like a second language and old habits die hard. She spared her father a brief thought, wondering where he could possibly be at such a late hour but it didn't really matter. He just wasn't here. He never was.

Raw skin met her touch, and the blood, now vanquished, left in its wake a battlefield—a canvas of sacrifice for the sake of semblance.

The mess was an unwelcome intrusion there were far worse ways to be awoken. If she was busy cleaning up after her nosebleeds, then she wasn't sleeping, and if she wasn't sleeping, then she wasn't dreaming.

The walk to the Academy's Heavensbee Hall was a brisk one, although, in the sweltering heat, Artemis found herself increasingly short-tempered. She was going to be late, but she kept her pace measured. She would not arrive a panting sweaty mess like some savage. It had been a foolish idea, she knew that, but she had given her own driver the day off anyway, waiting instead for her father. His presence was expected, and she imagined it would have been a pleasant change of routine to accompany him. He was probably running late, she told herself. After all, she hadn't seen him return, and she would know, she was awake half the night.

The grand staircase up to the Academy could hold the entire student body, so it easily accommodated the stream of officials, professors, and students headed for the reaping day festivities. Artemis sped up, taking three steps at a time, while still attempting a casual dignity. Every other person she passed stopped to wave her down and exchange pleasantries, and although her impatience was rising, she kept a placid smile stretched across her lips as she greeted them all in turn. She nodded when they asked after her, and then nodded some more, albeit less enthusiastically when they asked about her father.

She made her way through an entry draped in black banners, then sprinted down a vaulted passage, and into cavernous Heavensbee Hall, where they would watch the broadcast of the reaping ceremony. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that she wasn't quite as late as she believed, and the official ceremony hadn't yet started. The hall was humming with faculty and students and a number of Games officials.

Avoxes wove through the crowd with trays of posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs. One passed by Artemis, and despite her parched throat, she waved him away. On principle, she avoided any and all intoxicants. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years she had seen many make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply. Artemis would be damned if she allowed herself to lose control like that. That and given her father's dependence on morphling, she imagined she must be genetically predisposed to addiction.

In the great hall, she was once again forced to make her rounds, as faculty and students alike beckoned to introduce her to their circles. She eventually travelled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where the communications professor, Satyria Click was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story. Amongst the gathered crowd was the biology instructor, Alfred Stanton, who stood off to the side, eyes deliberately wandering the area as if to make a show of his boredom. When his eyes caught sight of Artemis, he brightened, his face lifting in a smile as he waved her over.

Oh great, more greetings. If Artemis had to utter another false pleasantry, she'd lose her breakfast.

No, she wouldn't. She knew better than that. Besides, she was Professor Stanton's teaching aide, and it was quite literally in her job description to be at his beck and call.

When she arrived, she scowled internally. It was inevitable, she knew that, but she was hoping that at least today of all days, she'd be delayed in setting eyes upon the one person who held the power of ruining her mornings.

"Oh, Coriolanus!" Satyria drawled, as the blonde boy gave her the customary kiss on the cheek. "Here’s my star pupil.”

Artemis held no qualms against Satyria, not really. She was amusing and not overly uptight, one of the few professors who allowed students to call them by their first names. It was her teaching aide against whom she held a grudge.

Professor Stanton, not to be outdone, clapped his meaty hand on Artemis's shoulder, making her stagger. Maybe the man needed to lay off the weightlifting for a bit. He announced her presence to the circle enthusiastically, earning a scowl from Satyria.

"And Artemis, my star pupil. We were afraid we'd miss you this morning."

Artemis ducked her head bashfully, mumbling something about running late, but Professor Stanton only laughed boisterously, as he continued to speak.

Coriolanus Snow was seething. Well, no that was perhaps a little extreme. Artemis Highbottom did not deserve such a reaction from him. She didn't deserve the energy. When he hadn't seen her earlier today, he had deluded himself into thinking that she simply wouldn't come. She was never late after all, so the fact of the matter must be that she simply wasn't coming. With her gone, he could be the sole beneficiary of the crowd's attention, networking his way into their hearts.

Then he had seen her arrive, panting and slightly out of breath and he had to admit he marveled at the sight. Her coffee skin flushed and her hair thrown over her shoulder haphazardly as if she'd been running. Coriolanus had been amused, to say the least. He had hoped that she wouldn't wander over to his little corner, that he would be able to have Satyria's circle all to himself, but it was wishful thinking. People knew of him of course, being the son of Crassus Snow and all, but he realized that they tended to forget about him in her presence. After all, it was far easier to garner the good graces of one's father if he was still alive. Even if said father was Casca High-as-a-Kite-Bottom. Snow sniggered at the nickname, a creation of his own genius.

Almost as if she could read his mind, Artemis shot him a withering glare, and Coriolanus stiffened, standing straighter to shoot her one back. The circle had shifted, placing him right next to her and if he stretched his fingers, they'd brush against hers. Not that he'd want to of course. How utterly repulsive.

“Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?” Satyria was addressing Snow now, surveying him carefully.

He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrug of a young man of limitless options. They didn't have to know that all that was left to him was his name. The world still needed to think of Coriolanus as rich.

“The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily. “I was trying for respectful yet celebratory.”

Artemis held back a snort.

Celebratory, my ass.

The Snows' closets were as deep as their pockets, which was to say, containing all the depth of a bottlecap. Standing this close to him, she could almost smell the faint scent of dead marigolds and potato starch his shirt was emitting.

"Is something funny, Miss Highbottom?" Coriolanus turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

Just your pathetic fibbing skills, she wanted to say. Perhaps she had not been as discreet with her expressions as she thought she'd been because he was still waiting for an answer.

"Not at all, Mr. Snow," Artemis gave him one of her very best saccharine smiles. "I just agree with Satyria. That is indeed a lovely shirt."

Their professor beamed, happy to be validated.

“And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?” Satyria asked, fingering one of the cubes on his cuff. “Tesserae?”

“Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid’s bathroom,” Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends.

This was the impression he fought to sustain. A reminder that he was the rare person who had a maid’s bathroom — let alone one tiled with tesserae — tempered with a self-deprecating joke about his shirt.

He nodded at Satyria. “Lovely gown. It’s new, isn’t it?” He could tell at a glance that it was the same dress she always wore to the reaping ceremony, refurbished with tufts of black feathers. But she had validated his shirt, and he needed to return the favour.

As he did so, his eyes couldn't help but return to the figure at his side. While Satyria's renovated dress made him feel better about his own attire, brought to life only through his cousin Tigris's efforts, Artemis's had the exact opposite effect. It was new, almost obscenely so. Wasteful extravagance, he thought to himself bitterly. What a vain and shallow creature, but such was the case with all the Capitol women he supposed.

"What a wonderful ensemble, Artemis!" Satyria crowed once again. "You absolutely must give me the details of your dressmaker. Doesn't she look lovely, Coriolanus?"

Snow blinked. The question was directed at him, clearly, but he couldn't force the words out, even as his professor looked at him expectantly.

“Elegant,” he finally stated blandly.

Liar.

Artemis's eyes flashed at him triumphantly, almost as if calling him out.

The adults wandered off, and their company was replaced by that of their classmates. Arachne Crane slipped her arm into Artemis's as soon she was within range, and Artemis sent her a smile that was only slightly less false than the one she had been wearing all morning.

"Finally, and here I thought our star pupils would be too busy to give us humble folk time of day," she complained.

"Don't ever use the word humble, Arachne," the boy to her right, Festus Creed, scoffed. "It does not suit you."

Arachne rolled her eyes and sipped her drink petulantly.

"Have you tried this lamb, it's scandalous!"

The only thing scandalous is the president's son eating with his hands, Artemis thought to herself, but she knew better than to say it out loud.

Lucky for her, Festus didn't.

"Only the vulgar eat with their fingers, Felix," he chastised. "What, daddy not teach you table manners?"

"Maybe he would have if he wasn't so busy running the country!" Felix retorted.

The conversation veered off in the direction of the Plinth Prize, and their eyes were drawn to the family standing off to a corner, speaking amongst themselves.

"Who would have thought that you could buy yourself into the capitol?" Felix muttered derisively.

"You can buy god himself, provided you have the resources," Artemis finally commented.

"You can't buy class though. Did you see Sejanus's mother's outfit," Festus paused for dramatic effect before sniggering. "Sorry, his ma's."

At least he had a mother who cared for him, which is more than Artemis could say for the imbeciles around her exhibiting motherless behaviour.

"Dress a turnip in a ballgown and it'll still beg to be mashed," Snow jeered.

Artemis scoffed. And here was the biggest motherless moron of them all.

"Interesting that you of all people should say that, Coriolanus," she eyed him carefully. Gone were the honorifics she had addressed him by earlier in front of the professors. This was a battlefield and there were no pleasantries in war.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

The two stared at each other, neither wanting to be the one to look away first and their classmates glanced between them uneasily.

Eventually, Coriolanus blinked, his ears burning, and Artemis flashed him a grin. If he wasn't thinking about carving the smile from her face, he might have thought it suited her.

If it was a battle of wills, Artemis was a born victor.

Their conversation about Sejanus came to a halt when he approached them. He didn't bother greeting any of them but he smiled at Artemis, which she heartily returned. Arachne shot her a questioning glance, but if the Capitol was a hierarchy, Artemis outranked her, and therefore did not have to answer to her.

Coriolanus eyed their interaction sullenly. He was a charmer, it was the only currency he had access to after all, and over the years he had made his best efforts to charm the Dean's enigmatic daughter. Perhaps he thought it'd make Dean Highbottom detest him a little less, if he had Artemis's favour, but although it appeared that she shared nothing else with her father, she shared in his disdain for Coriolanus. There was nothing he could do to endear himself to her, and he had long since stopped trying.

It especially irritated him, that it was Sejanus of all people who had managed to make friends with her. He did not even need the networking opportunity it provided. Snow observed the brunette boy now, his soft charcoal gray suit that reeked of money.

Sejanus’s father was a District 2 manufacturer who had sided with the president. He had made such a fortune off munitions that he’d been able to buy his family’s way into a life in the Capitol. The Plinths now enjoyed privileges that the oldest, most powerful families had earned over generations. It was unprecedented that Sejanus, a district-born boy, was a student at the Academy, but his father’s lavish donation had allowed for much of the school’s postwar reconstruction. A Capitol-born citizen would have expected a building to be renamed for them. Sejanus’s father had only requested an education for his son.

For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear. The newly rich climbers in the Capitol were chipping away at the old order simply by virtue of their presence. It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13. Their sprawling complex, blocks and blocks of factories and research facilities, had been bombed to dust. District 13 had been nuked, and the entire area still emitted unlivable levels of radiation. The center of the Capitol’s military manufacturing had shifted to District 2 and fallen right into the Plinths’ laps. When news of District 13’s demise had reached the Capitol, Coriolanus’s grandmother had publicly brushed it off, saying it was fortunate that they had plenty of other assets. But they didn’t.

Sejanus had arrived on the school playground ten years ago, a shy, sensitive boy cautiously surveying the other children with a pair of soulful brown eyes much too large for his strained face. When word had gotten out that he’d come from the districts, Coriolanus’s first impulse had been to join his classmates’ campaign to make the new kid’s life a living hell. He was glad he didn't because when Casca Highbottom's daughter befriended him, it put an end to all public acts of cruelty. They still mocked him in private, but that couldn't be helped. His district blood simply invited the scorn. Coriolanus's decision to simply ignore the boy had only reinforced his image. The other Capitol children took it to mean that baiting the district brat was beneath him, and Sejanus took it as decency. Neither take was quite accurate, but both worked in his favour.

"Sejanus," Festus grimaced. "You made it to the reaping for once."

"And you made it to graduation Festus, we're both shocked," the brunette boy responded.

"Spill it, who won the prize?" Arachne inquired.

Sejanus scoffed. Like any of these rich Capitol children even needed it.

"Oh no, I'm not going to ruin my father's big day. No one here actually likes him, but they all love his money. You know what that's like, don't you Arachne?"

Arachne scowled, leaning up to whisper in Artemis's ear about what a stuck-up thing he was. Artemis did not grace her with a response, but when the bell rang, and the students began to assemble in front of the dais, she took the opportunity to slip her arm out of Arachne's. Sejanus fell into step beside her then, taking the opportunity to slip a bottle of water into her hands.

"And this is for?" she raised an eyebrow.

"I know you can't stand the posca. Thought you might need something to drink, given all the talking they have you doing around here."

"And you thought I couldn't get myself some water?"

"I thought you shouldn't have to," he rubbed his neck ruefully. "Although I realize I might be a little late."

"I appreciate the gesture anyway. Thank you, Sejanus."

Artemis granted him her only real smile of the day. His sheepish smile reminded her of the day they first met, when this district boy with the cloddish accent first wandered up to her, offering her his bag of gumdrops.

She followed him to where a special section of chairs, six rows by four, had been set up for the mentors. To her chagrin, he took a seat to the right, leaving the only vacant seat next to one Coriolanus Snow. She felt the childish desire to kick his chair out from under him as he went to sit down, but shook away the traitorous thought. It was beneath her.

When her father began to speak, Artemis suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling. Artemis zoned out as he went on his usual spiel of how the Hunger Games, his displeasure at the whole event evident in his tone, although perhaps that was just the drugs talking.

"There has been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth, because the esteemed citizens of the Capitol have grown bored of the Games and simply aren't watching anymore. And if the Games are to continue at all, there must be an audience," he continued rambling. "Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul has stepped in to incentivize patriotic values with her own unique flair. Starting with you. The Plinth Prize will no longer be determined by who has the best grades...but by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games."

Nervous whispers fluttered among the students, as they exchanged uneasy glances. A subtle unease threaded its way through the crowd as they leaned in, both captivated and unsettled by the Dean's cryptic words.

Artemis had been aware of this turn of events, and so did Sejanus, as it was his family's money involved, but she took great satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on Coriolanus's face when he heard the news. It made the dourness of the entire situation as a whole much more bearable.

"Your goal is to turn these children into spectacles, not survivors," Dean Highbottom announced.

Artemis was right. Anything could be art. Anything could be turned into a spectacle, even the most depraved of carnages, and what greater carnage was there than the Hunger Games?

Artemis did not need the Plinth Prize. She imagined her father would finance her higher education as he did all her other luxuries, but perhaps he might look at her differently if she won it. Perhaps it might gain his admiration. Perhaps he might respect her if she earned something of her own for once. Perhaps he might finally return home sometimes.

She did not care much for the Games, in the sense that they held no significance for her, so far removed were they from her daily life. Her classmates were a varied spectrum on where they stood, ones like Sejanus speaking out firmly against the ritual, and others enjoyed the butchery, the slaughtering of district lives. Artemis simply did not care. They were irrelevant, but if it meant gaining her father's approval, Artemis would make herself care.

As the large screens in front of them came to life with life footage from the reapings, Dean Highbottom began to recite the mentor assignments.

"District One, boy, goes to . . .” he squinted at the paper, trying hard to focus. “Glasses,” he mumbled. “Forgot them.” Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited while his fingers found them. “Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew.”

Livia’s pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air in victory, shouting “Yes!” in her shrill voice. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol. Purely by chance, Artemis exchanged a cursory glance with Coriolanus just then, secretive like a private joke, which left her feeling quite unsettled.

Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbled through the list, assigning each district’s boy and girl a mentor. After ten years, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from 4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2, but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting when Sejanus scored the District 2 boy, and Artemis the girl.

Unlike Livia, Artemis received news of her good fortune with tact, pushing her sheet of raven hair over her shoulder as she studiously made note of her tribute in her binder. Their brief moment of camaraderie during Livia's outburst was forgotten as she shot him a smug smirk and he seethed.

District 4 passed without mention of his name, and his last real chance for a victor — the District 11 boy — was assigned to Clemensia Dovecote, daughter of the energies secretary. Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of the Academy’s high-honour students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus was beginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving him some special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottom mumble, “And last but not least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

#coriolanus x oc #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #sejanus plinth #sejanus x oc #sejanus x reader #katniss everdeen #academic rivals

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howlingday · 2 months

Note

In regards to this post.

Studio C also made a volleyball sequel to their Scott Sterling video; link

You know what you must do Howling….

Oobleck: Welcome back to our coverage of another game between Teams RWBY and JNPR.

Port: If you're just joining us, it's been a roller coaster of emotions with both teams tied at two sets a piece, and the victor will be the Champions of Beacon Academy.

Oobleck: JNPR only needing to get the edge by two points with their team captain, Jaune Arc-

Port: Love that man!

Oobleck: Don't we all? -trying desperately to hold their position at the top, otherwise it's all over. Pyrrha Nikos ready to serve what may be the last game of her professional career.

Port: And here! We! Go!

Oobleck: Excellent serve!

Port: RWBY setting up the spike and-

Jaune: (Pounded in the forehead)

Oobleck/Port: OOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Port: Deflected!

Oobleck: Right into Jaune Arc's face!

Port: And JNPR ties it with Team RWBY! Unbelievable!

Oobleck: Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen; Jaune Arc's face has entered the game!

Port: Just look at this instant replay! The angle at which Arc deflects the ball is nothing short of perfection!

Oobleck: Like watching a master painter masterfully painting his masterpiece... with his face!

Port: JNPR now on the prowl to take the lead with Nikos serving again! Team RWBY setting up a devastating return to the lead, and here it comes-

Jaune: (Nostrils pounded in, Slumps)

Oobleck/Port: OOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Port: Arc makes a tremendous save!

Oobleck: But it's not over yet as Team RWBY set up again for another spike, not wasting any opportunity to-

Jaune: (On his knees, Face pounded)

Oobleck: MOTHER OF PEARL!

Port: ARC SCORES!

Oobleck: Welcome to the heavyweight bout between Arc's face versus everything else!

Port: He looks like he could be pray on his knees!

Oobleck: The peaceful visage of TBI!

Port: We are ALL witnesses!

Oobleck: TESTIFY~!

Port: LET US ALL FEAST ON THE SWEET NECTAR! Of instant replay!

Oobleck: Just a perfect defense; the pinnacle of the word sacrifice.

Port: The ball flies right past the blocker, into Arc's awaiting face, back over the net, and then back into Arc's face like an obese homing Nevermore!

Jaune: (Stumbling about, Blind)

Nora: (Turns him to the net)

Oobleck: That man will leave here today, knowing he gave up everything he could! ...if he leaves at all .The crowd is on their feet, cheering for their hero, Jaune Arc!

Port: Much like the days of my youth when I held the entire Kingdom of Atlas on my back, so too does Jaune Arc carry the weight of his opponents upon his face!

Oobleck: JNPR has come back from the brink to put this one into the history books!

Port: It's one point for JNPR, can RWBY push past the Arc's defense to-

Jaune: (Knocked prone by Yang)

Port: Arc blocks it!

Oobleck: DID YOU SEE THAT?!

Port: Team RWBY deliver another spike to The Man!

Jaune: (Hit again by Blake)

Oobleck: The myth!

Jaune: (And again by Weiss)

Oobleck/Port: THE LEGEND!

Jaune: (...)

Nora: (Grabs Jaune's legs)

Pyrrha: (Grabs Jaune's arm)

Ren: (Grabs Jaune's other arm)

Port: His teammates haul him to his feet!

Oobleck/Port: NO!

Port: They raise him to his everywhere!

Jaune: (Jaune, I know that you're still... recovering, but please. The team needs you. I need you. So please, just this once... Just one more time, the world needs Jaune Arc on the court. Besides, this is a totally different game than what we were playing before. I doubt you'll have to worry about being hit in the face, especially since you've got a whole team around you to provide backup. Now come on, there world's waiting for you...)

Oobleck: HE'SDONEIT! ICAN'TBELIEVEIT! JAUNEARC! He's been taken through the air like a defensive angel!

Ozpin: (Fuming, Tosses over chair)

Port: An angel with the face of a devil!

Oobleck: Let's get an instant replay!

Oobleck: One is the loneliest number!

Port: Two tickets to paradise!

Oobleck: Three times a lady!

Oobleck/Port: FOOOOOOOOOR-

Ruby: (Slow-mo punching the ball into Jaune's face)

Oobleck/Port: -EEEEEVEEEEEEEER YOOOOOOOOOOOOOUNG!

Port: The crowd charges the court, and the people are weeping!

Oobleck: The tears of joy~!

Port: The Schnees are Schneeting!

Oobleck: Pound sign Jaune Arc~!

Port: The hospitals are preparing to receive the man himself!

Oobleck: The fifth relic himself!

Port: The great! Wall! of Jaune Arc!

Oobleck: I tell you, when the Brothers comes back, I want to be in a bunker made of Jaune Arc's face!

Port: Until next time...

Oobleck/Port: GOOD NIGHT, EVERYONE!

#rwby #studio c #peter port #bartholomew oobleck #jaune arc #nora valkyrie #pyrrha nikos #lie ren #ozpin #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna #yang xiao long

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ddarker-dreams · 11 months

Text

Fooled Around and Fell in Love.

Machi Komacine x F Reader.

Warnings: Mild not SFW implications. Word count: 1k.

Music blasts out of your phone’s speaker at a questionable quality. The bathroom’s acoustics perfectly contain the soundwaves as if it were a dimension entirely outside of reality. Nothing in exists besides Machi, you, and your eyeshadow palette that fits expertly in your hand.

Certain divots contain pigment that is more worn than others. Machi notes the colors that you must favor the most. A glimmering champagne color, soft pink, and nude pigments which range from light to dark. When you tap the eyeshadow brush on the side of the palette, fairy dust cascades, catching the fading light you swore you’d replace months ago. She makes a mental note to pick up a lightbulb and to it herself.

You’re close enough to breathe in each other's air.

She smells your perfume, delicate and fruity, dutifully dabbed onto your inner wrist and exposed neck. Barely faded love bites litter your skin from previous passionate exploits. You never try to erase the proof of her existence she leaves on you. When it comes to definitive proof that Machi actually inhabits this world, you’re the closest she gets. You turn a specter from Meteor City into a tangible being — made from flesh and blood.

You procure a pocket-sized mirror. “Well? Do you like?”

Machi studies her reflection for a moment, then her attention is back on you. “Yeah.”

“You barely looked,” you huff, scrunching your nose in indignation. Machi fights her lip’s urge to quirk up. “I’ll have you know that I’m a high-in-demand makeup artist, famed worldwide. I expect a minimum of three words praising my ingenuity.”

“It looks good.”

You throw your head back and groan. “The three word limit was a suggestion, not a hard rule.”

“And I followed it.”

Every time Machi prepares to enter your apartment, she resolves to tease you less.

Every time this tenet is put to the test, she fails.

“That’s it! I’ll be upping your charge as recompense for my wounded heart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “This was going to cost me? How much?”

You press a manicured finger to your cheek, painted the shade of Machi’s hair by the woman herself. According to you, her hands are far more steady than yours, making her an ideal candidate for the job. She never complained at a chance to feel your soft skin against hers. Unmarred by crime, clean from shedding rivers of crimson as deep as the Styx.

“Three, no, five kisses,” you insist. “It’s up to ten now.”

… Machi has no idea how you say these things without a hint of shame.

She leans forward, begrudgingly, as if the payment were a burden and not a delight.

You put a premature end to the process by hovering your finger near her parted lips. “Not yet. I don’t want to get my gloss on your lips, matte suits you better.”

Machi’s knuckles turn white from how harshly she grips the edge of the sink’s countertop. If she applied any more pressure, it’d crumble into a pitiful avalanche. Despite the restraint she’s exerting, her visage betrays nothing, giving the impression that she’d unmoved. In reality, she wants nothing more than to mix the pigment of your lips, forming a shade that’s uniquely you.

“Awe, babe, are you grumpy?” The knowing lilt in your voice makes her heart flutter.

“Just get on with it already,” Machi grumbles. The tips of her ears feel warm.

You give a dorky salute and an enthusiastic sir yes sir!

You run the brush’s tip over her smoothly, as a painter would on their canvas.

Her heart beats in a staccato rhythm.

Thump, thump, thump.

You move on to her next eye, utilizing the same care, precision, and expertise. More adrenaline pumps through her veins than in the thick of a heist. Her body gives into your thrall without a fight. You are the sun she orbits around, allowing her to experience seasons she never thought were meant for her. Winter’s biting chill of loneliness when you’re apart. Spring’s budding affections that blossom one after the other. Summer’s hot passion which leaves you both sweaty and satisfied. Then autumn’s relaxed tenure, refreshing in its briskness.

You didn’t just unlock the world for her, you’ve shown her the entire universe.

“Aaaaand voila,” you announce. When her eyes readjust to being open, she sees a sight so priceless, not even a thief would have the heart to steal it — your bright smile.

She twists her head to use the mirror behind her. “You did a good job.”

Her words are light, like bubbles rising to the top of a champagne glass.

Machi hears you grumble something about needing to buy her a thesaurus, but, nonetheless, you contentedly put your eyeliner away, humming to the current song on your playlist. You leech off her music subscription (your words, not hers), but she doesn’t mind. There’s something comforting about seeing what song or podcast you’re listening to when she’s continents away.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“I like it,” Machi says. Then, she swoops in to press a chaste kiss against your cheek. Unbeknownst to her, the resulting lipstick stain will remain for the rest of the night. “Thanks.”

The look you give her can only be described as lovestruck. “W-Well, having such a pretty model certainly helps.”

Your little stutter makes her crack a closed-mouth smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of staring wordlessly at one another, your posture straightens, realization etching onto your features.

“I almost forgot! Eyelash curler and then mascara. I’ll let you do that part though. Applying mascara on others is tricky. I don’t want your eyelashes to look like spider legs.”

Quietly, she clears her throat. If only you knew.

“... Right. Wouldn’t want that.”

#machi makes me feel emotions previously unfelt #machi x reader #machi komacine x reader #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter x reader #reader insert #my stuff

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hyunverse · 1 year

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𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ 𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍. (𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑!)

⤿ pairing: portrait maker! hyunjin x afab royal! reader. gender neutral pronouns used. ⤿ summary: “you and i, we're made of tragedy — we're star-crossed. we're not meant to be.” meeting the elite portrait maker, hwang hyunjin, is both the best and worst thing to have ever happened to you. inspired by shakespeare's romeo and juliet. ⤿ tags: enemies to lovers, slowburn, fluff, angst. cocky hyunjin. ⤿ expected wc: 12k words+ ⤿ expected posting time: the end of april. ⤿ a part of an ot8 royalty au collab. subscribe to the collab taglist here. ⤿ playlist.

“Apologies for the Crown Princess of Noctifer’s absence, I regret to inform you that they are currently stuck in a clamant affair,” Minho reasons.

Hyunjin simply nods.

Socially, unacceptable it is for a mere civilian to simply nod at royalty or their consorts — but if Hyunjin were to open his mouth, only foul words would be spilling out of them. A man of punctuality he is, and he expects the same from everyone.

Amidst Hwang Hyunjin’s assiduous schedule, he was asked to become the official portrait maker of the Noctifer Crown Heir. One of the spokespeople of the kingdom had approached him, practically begging to make some time for you — that he would not be wasting time as he etches your face onto a canvas — that he’ll kill two birds with one stone, creating connections while he’s at it.

As if he needed any more connections — was what Hyunjin wanted to say, withal he wished to preserve his career, therefore he kept his mouth shut. On a parchment of agreement, he put down his signature, ink black and prominent.

He was to become the princess’ portrait maker. Devote many a moon to the Crown Princess, dribbling his talent onto empty canvases — turning them into masterpieces. He had endeavoured in painting portraits of many royal members, expectant of the hardships of it all. Hyunjin was ready.

What he wasn’t prepared for was your tardiness. In all his years of being a portrait maker, not once had he ever encountered an extremely tardy royalty — a princess, at that. Hyunjin’s patience wears thin, bubbling up his mind is the urge to pack up his tools, and then take off.

Ere the thoughts take over the painter’s head, the mahogany door opens, and in comes a woeful figure. What rueful sight — the worst posture Hyunjin had ever seen, and a reluctant expression engraved on visage.

“Here you are!” the Queen says, approaching the figure, “goodness, what had taken you so long?”

“Your Royal Highness,” Minho greets, a glance towards Hyunjin prompts him to bow as well, “someone is here for you.”

You turn to look at Hyunjin, and he does not miss the manner you look at him — eyes tracing his body from the top of his head down to the leather shoes he sports. His entire body feels squeamish under your gaze, the man could feel goosebumps arise under his strait-laced garments. Naked, he feels.

“Greetings,” you greet him, eyes settling on his face, “sincerest apologies for the delay. Politics can take quite some time.”

Expectant you are for a laugh and a bow from Hyunjin — he knows, and he dissents to give you the satisfaction of respect. If you are to receive any respect from the portrait maker, you would have to earn it. Arriving an hour late has strayed you far from earning any.

So, Hyunjin just hums. The stare you’re sending him is given right back.

Could you feel it? His antagonism.

You could.

The tension — it could be sliced with a butcher’s knife. Heavy, and laced with venom. A sound produced by the Royal Advisor clearing his throat breaks the silence, “Her Majesty and I shall take our leaves now, we would hate to prolong your session even more. Have a good time.”

Their exit leaves you alone with the man standing in front of you. Wonder invades your mind — how could this man you’ve just met resent you so much? With only a look and a hum, you could feel his distaste.

“You may sit on the stool there,” he instructs, pointing at a brown stool with his lips, hands busy sorting his pencils.

You do as told, as you always do in the castle walls. In covert dismay, you purse your lips, brushing off your dress as soon as you land on the rather vexatious stool. A combination of a standoffish man and an uncomfortable seat certainly is a recipe for your ire.

The sound of pencil against canvas apprises you of the portrait maker beginning his sketch. A long day it will be, and so forth you attempt to make the best of it. Curiously, you watch the handsome man, brain-racking for a conversation starter.

“Indulge me, portrait maker,” your voice breaks the looming silence, “put a name to the face. From which kingdom do you hail?”

The screeches of pencil against canvas halts, and his dark eyes peek at you from behind the wooden easel. His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes heavily.

“Hwang Hyunjin. I hail from Prince Lee Yongbok’s kingdom.”

An answer for each question. Uninterested in engaging in a conversation with you, so it seems. Your tongue kisses your teeth as you adjust yourself in your seat.

“Hwang Hyunjin. . . ‘tis a beautiful name. Prince Lee Yongbok’s kingdom is a fine kingdom to reside in, as well — I hope to set sail there one of these days, and reunite with my best companion.”

“Hm.”

Though your patience wears thin, you continue, “Have you ever been to Noctifer before?”

“No.”

“Oh,” you nod, “tell me then, Hwang Hyunjin — what part of this kingdom ticks your fancy? Does the nature of it soothes your heart or perhaps, it’s the people that make your heart swell?”

“None, princess. I have been to better nations.”

“Pardon?”

“The mountains of the Empyrean kingdom are alike none other, princess.”

To speak to you in an unpleasant manner, you could forgive. Unbeknownst to him you have grown accustomed to such intonation thanks to your mother. However, to insult the beauty (or to him, lack thereof) of Noctifer’s cosmos? A sin you couldn’t, mustn’t forgive. The boiling of your blood is rapid, threatening to spill.

“Dare you speak ill of Noctifer in front of the Crown Heir themself? How brave, portrait maker — your ignorance to address me properly I could look past, but I refuse to see you speak gravely of my kingdom.”

“Speaking ill? Princess, I am not speaking ill of your kingdom’s landscapes,” Hyunjin retorts, wiping his charcoal-tainted hand on a piece of cloth, “I am speaking from a painter’s perspective, princess. Am I not here on the basis of professionalism? I am here as a painter, nay a poet. As for addressing you, I will address you with your title once you learn to not waste people’s time because of your disgraceful tardiness.”

The heaving of your chest does not go unnoticed. It satisfies a part of Hyunjin. The part of him which brews ego.

“You dare look down on me behind my own doors, portrait maker? Wretched thing — I could ask for you to be beheaded right this instant.”

“Will you, princess?” he presses his lips together. A daring man, he is. He looks at you in surly mien, eyes narrowed, “though I admit you have the manners of an untrained baboon, you do not strike me as merciless. I highly doubt you would behead me for a few remarks. You strike me as a princess with a moral compass.”

He’s right — you loathe it. The syllables which spill from his lips are nothing short of the truth, yet irritating nonetheless. You dislike the idiosyncrasy he looks at you with — the scowl plastered on his handsome face, the judging eyes and the impatient taps of his foot against the fine marbles. You dislike how he could get right to work shortly after criticizing you. As if his words do not hurt when they’re piercing right to your heart as anger bubbles at the pit of your stomach.

Hyunjin continues sketching your face. Each gaze on you he lets linger for a second longer, taking in the shape of your frowning face. Soon, he could feel his body relaxing onto the stool he sits on.

You, on the other hand, sit uncomfortably in your seat. You keep shifting in your seat, the heat of the room getting to you. Hyunjin had the sweet honour of being the last to speak, you will not allow it.

“Please stop moving, princess.”

You grumble under your breath.

Wild eyes scan Hyunjin, in search of anything, anything you could comment on. Childish, it may be. But you are almost never allowed to talk back — would it really be a sin for you to argue with a portrait maker? With no one around, it seems as though it’s the only chance you’ll get to have the last words. You never get to.

Your eyes land on Hyunjin’s hands. They’re slender, filled with callouses only attainable for an artist. The sides of his palms are tainted with black charcoal. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek.

“Your hands. They’re charcoal-stained.”

Hyunjin pauses. He looks at his hands, then yours.

“And you have the hands of someone who has never done a single chore.”

God.

He’s irritating.

Confusing, as well. One minute he’s complimenting you on your morals, the next he’s criticizing you.

You roll your eyes then slump into the seat until he points out your posture. You straighten your back, determined to keep your mouth shut as a way of protest. If remarks couldn’t be your sword, you shall make use of the silent treatment.

The session ends with a finished sketch, and he informs you the next session shall be the time he paints it. No curtsy is offered to you, to your expectance — he exits the room, bringing along his supplies.

“How was the session, Your Royal Highness?” Jisung walks into the room. His hair’s a mess, mud on the ends of his shoes. He was horse-riding, you assume.

Your reply comes in the form of a sigh. You tap your fingers against the armrest, allowing yourself some time to wrap your mind around the events prior. The enigma named Hwang Hyunjin.

“The portrait maker… he’s… interesting.”

Jisung’s eyebrow raises at your response.

COMING SOON!

taglist: @zoe8stay , @starlostseungmin , @bakugossanity , @hwajin , @sleepyleeji , @skizzel-reblogs , @bbujiikseu , @byjeekies , @jdopes-recorder , @sherryblossom , @strayingawayy , @cb97whoree , @alyszaen , @aaliyahxsx , @jeonginsyoungestsibling , @hyunluvxo , @bokk-minnie , @ghostyycat7 , @fortunatelyhertragedy @yongbokkari @ameliesaysshoo

#hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin angst #hyunjin x yn #hyunjin fanfic #hwang hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin x yn #hyunjin imagines #hwang hyunjin imagine #hwang hyunjin imagines #hwang hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin smut #hyunjin scenario #hwang hyunjin scenarios #stray kids x reader #stray kids angst #hyunjin fluff

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seasteading · 7 months

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ARENT YOU TIRED OF BEING NICE? DONT U JUST WANNA GO APE SHIT? ↳ A CHARACTER STUDY

if it seems like i haven't touched my main wip in 2 months, that's because i haven't 😋

instead, anyone unfortunate enough to have spoken more than a sentence to me will have realized that i've spent that time in baldurs gate 3 hell, with nothing but durge brainrot to show for it—brainrot i will now inflict on main with some selected excerpts <3

transcripts under cut:

She does not remember many fairytales, but she thinks this one starts the same way as all the rest: a princess to flee a castle, a handsome knight to save her from the shadows that haunt the woods. The princess does not have a name beyond her title. The knight is called Griseis. She speaks it aloud. There is no tugging at her memory, no rush of truth. Yet it is the name of a creature with the purpose to vanquish, same as her, and all those with a purpose must have a name. “My name is Griseis,” she tries. It holds no magic, but she likes the way it rests upon her tongue, like it could belong there. She slips the waterlogged fairytale into her pack.

Yet beneath the drone of busywork, the urges remain. They bid her to tear the legs off a rabbit caught in the brambles that surround the garden, and Atonement endures. A stained glass window shatters, and they bid her to pick a shard off the floor and cut through Novice Clements’ fragile throat. Atonement endures. They infect her dreams. Behind her eyelids flicker visions of a temple in ruins, of Ilmater’s statue bathed in the blood of his faithful, so she works more, sleeps less.

And he laughs at her. Brings his uninjured hand to her jaw and pushes his thumb under her upper lip, using her own slack shock to pry her mouth open. Finger pressed against a sharp canine, “Look at you. Bhaal’s Chosen, the purest of his spawn, baring your teeth like a damn dog.” She doesn’t have to think about it. Put your hand by a dog’s mouth, and expect to get bitten. She bites.

But the painter who’d put her features to canvas saw something else, too. Maybe the taint in her blood had made it into the pigments. Maybe it’d been Bhaal himself guiding their hand, ensuring proper justice be given to his spawn’s visage. Griseis looks, and the Dread Lord’s Chosen looks right back.

#violence tw #THE BRAINROT HAS BEEN SO BAD U DON'T UNDERSTAND #anyway. for context griseis is a tief oath of vengeance paladin who was briefly an oath of devotion paladin with the virtue name atonement #and who was an oathbreaker in between . obviously . out here collecting paladin subclasses like pokemon #she is also extremely attack dog coded #third excerpt is gortash btw #i was considering a different excerpt with him but the girlies on discord deemed it too disgusting so yall get this one instead #no taglist for this thing for obvious reasons also i prommy this is the only fanficposting ur gonna get from me #w.mine #bg3.griseis

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yuurei20 · 1 year

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Lilia Info Compilation part 7: Lilia and Sebek

We learn that Sebek's grandfather, a former royal guard who served the king of Briar Valley, entrusted Lilia with Sebek’s training.

Lilia may have been Sebek’s grandfather’s captain in the royal guard.

Silver and Sebek have known each other for about ten years, from when they were approximately 7 and 6 years old. While Sebek has a family of his own Lilia seems to be keeping his position as Sebek’s guardian even at the school, scolding Sebek for his lack of alertness and cautioning him to follow Malleus’ instructions instead of arguing.

While Sebek admits that Lilia is a strong magic user, he was uncomfortable with Malleus having no guard but Lilia during Halloween.

When Lilia asks, “Am I not a good enough teammate for you, Sebek?” for Beanfest, Sebek says, “I would never dream of implying that…I am greatly honored to have the privilege of following a warrior as renowned as yourself into battle, of course. But even then…Malleus, well…”

Despite this personal preference of Malleus over Lilia, Sebek seems to obey Lilia without questions, despite Lilia’s pranks.

In the Phantom Bride event we learn that Lilia has taught Sebek that “a fountain pen and stationery are the true weapons in matters of love”, he is to “pen my feelings, slip a photo of my smiling visage into every third missive, and repeat this until the twenty-fifth full moon."

"Once we have exchanged a sufficient amount of correspondence…I shall then sit next to them on a bench in Briar Valley Central Park, with a person’s worth of space between us!” When Epel says that Lilia has been teasing him, Sebek shouts at him for questioning Lilia’s integrity.

We learn that Lilia has also told him to combine “a variety of fermented bean that Lila brought from the Far East as well as yogurt” with steak and eat it all at once to increase his body’s ability to absorb the protein and he becomes irate with the others for daring to “question the wisdom of our vice housewarden” and “doubt Lilia’s wisdom”.

At the end of the vignette Lilia appears to confess that he only said “the first thing that came into my head” and laugh at Sebek for being “an endless font of comedy” and “adorably trusting”, leading Sebek to say “you deceived me again?!” And “how many times now have I met this fate?”, insinuating that Lilia’s pranks are fairly common.

Lilia’s lab wear vignette even begins with “I had just a wee bit too much fun messing with Silver and Sebek”, but we do not find out what it was he had been doing.

(Lilia’s pranks do not seem to be limited to Silver and Sebek: during the Phantom Bride event he “teases” Eliza’s ghost guards “a little”, and seems delighted by the drama and intrigue of “stealing a bride”.)

But Sebek still clearly respects Lilia as his guardian, and we see him chastise Silver for interrupting him, other students for taking “an aggressive tone” and Idia for refusing to kiss Eliza in the Phantom Bride event (doing so would have killed Idia, so he had been reluctant.)

For his part Lilia seems to spoil Sebek to some degree as well, arranging for a court painter from Briar Valley to paint a portrait of Malleus to give to Sebek, at Sebek’s request.

#twstlilia #Lilia Vanrouge #twisted wonderland #twstfacts

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samipekoe · 1 year

Note

You draw Kikuri like she's some kind of feral demi-human entity and honestly that's ideal Kikuri energy right there.

thank you...im like an ancient painter driven mad by the visage of a beautiful woman that I saw in passing never to be found again, dying in my room full of paintings of Her

#i keep meaning to draw her in different outfits but i keep forgetting about it #i just know she would slay a cami with jeans

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sirserpentine · 24 days

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what does your soul look like?

Blood in a lambs wool

You're the victim, right? It hurts, everyday it hurts. It's obvious you're tainted, pulled into hell as soon as you stepped upon earth. You'll never know peace, you'll never know a life without violence. Im sorry. Wash your face and your hands, don't let your wounds carve deeper.

tagged by @hazbinned and @angie-long-legs thank you so much!!!

tagging: @visage-of-hell @hellpride, @radiiosugars @damnedrainbows, @littlehell-painter, @radioiaci

#um #OH MY GOD????????????? WHAT THE #HOW COULD THEY MAKE ME HURT THIS WAY #when I say Pen needs hugs I really really mean it #dash games.

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klutzyroses · 2 years

Note

Could you do a headcanon on the Ikemenvamp boys reactions to getting a bunch of little kisses on their face from their significant other? I recently found your writing and I love it:)

Oh, thank you anon, and what a cute request!

IkeVamp HCs: Getting kisses on their face

How do they react to their s/o giving them multiple little kisses on their face?

Suitors: Napoleon, Arthur, Vincent, Isaac, Dazai

Napoleon

He can't help but feel a little embarrassed when he feels your soft lips peppering his face as your loving hands cup his cheeks.

He likes it really and can't help the fond smile it brings to his face so effortlessly, filling him with so much love for you.

He may wonder where this sudden onslaught of affection is coming from but he is not complaining...unless you choose to do this in public.

If he is left with lipstick dotting his face, he will feel even more embarrassed but he is still toasty and gooey inside.

He will definitely want to pay you back. You won't know when. You won't know how. But he will pay you back.

You would hardly expect it until he grabs your waist and sprinkles kisses all over your visage despite your protests and embarrassed squeals.

"Payback, nunuche."

He softly teases before his viridian eyes soften and he places a more tender kiss between your eyes, your lashes brushing his cheeks delicately.

"Mon amour..."

Arthur

The mystery author would be caught off guard for sure when you grace him with multiple kisses all over his face, holding his jacket to lower him to your level.

He may freeze a little for moment, blinking multiple times as he flushes pink.

He loves your open affection and it makes him want to keep you all to himself all day, cuddling you and spoiling you with love.

Leaving him with lipstick marks will not faze him too much, he is in no rush to wipe them off. If anything, he will probably tease you a little.

Never one to be outdone, you can be sure that he will surprise kiss you when you least expect it. Right out of the blue he will pull you to the side and give you a dizzying kiss that'll leave you weak in the knees.

And it won't end at that. You will be on the receiving end of many such acts of affection throughout that day.

The man just needs to let you know how much he adores you with every fiber of his being and you were everything he could ever need.

"I just want to show you how much I adore you, darling."

He purrs into your shoulder as he lays multiple kisses on you, his large hands brushing your ticklish sides like feathers, while he marveled at your sweetness as your squirm cutely.

"I want to love you until you can't take anymore."

Vincent

His timid giggles sound in your ears as you pepper his face with your sweet kisses, a joyous flush warm against your lips.

He feels so warm and fuzzy inside as his heart swells from your embrace around his shoulders as you peck his forehead, cheeks and nose. Oh how he loves you...

If he has lipstick marks left, he won't mind a bit, provided he even realizes. Actually he may forget they're there at all until Theo points it out to him. He doesn't think to wipe them off.

The painter can't resist tickling you lightly in response, wanting to hear your pretty giggles and watch you writhe in laughter in his arms as cerulean eyes gaze upon you tenderly.

He will quickly return the favour, looping his arms around your waist and meticulously kissing your cheeks, forehead, nose, chin, eyelids and finally, your lips.

"That's for being so sweet, my scatje. You're so cute..."

He pulls you even closer to him as he rests his head on top of yours, his smile easily outshining the radiant sun.

Isaac

His heart feels like it's going to explode when he is smothered in little pecks on his face with you laying on top of him, leaving him unable to escape your embrace.

You can feel the heat his reddened face emits against your plump lips with every kiss you leave on it.

He feels his heart pound uncontrollably as the affection he feels overwhelms him, the sensation of having you close to him in such moments makes him feel almost lightheaded.

If you leave lipstick marks, he might just collapse from how flustered he is. He is not leaving his room until they are completely gone, lest he be on the receiving end of ridicule.

He will pay you back, no doubt about it. The next time you are alone with him, he suddenly wraps you in an embrace and presses his lips to yours in a heart melting encounter, his hand caressing your cheek before gently pulling back.

"I had to get you back somehow, love."

His cheeks may be flush with apple red, but the mischievous little smile he has on his face is undeniable, because you are more flushed than he is.

Dazai

He didn't expect the barrage of kisses he is met with while you sit in his lap, slightly more elevated than him, but his surprise turns into a loving smile as he laughs ever so softly.

Your lithe arms coiled snugly around his neck as your soft lips covered his face like flower petals, his heart aching with adoration for you increasing with every contact.

He has no problem walking around with the lipstick marks left behind, regardless of how silly he might look.

He would be walking on air in all honesty with a slightly goofy smile on his face as he can think of nothing other than his precious one.

The next time he is graced with your lovely kisses, the novelist unexpectedly lifts his head and catches your soft petals with his own lips, just to tease you and see your adorable blush.

"It's my turn to shower you with love, sweet one~"

His playful tone is accompanied by a similar smile as he takes you in his arms and dips you back before raining kisses on your face, repaying you for every single one you gave him.

🌸

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen vampire headcanons #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp vincent #ikevamp dazai #ikevamp arthur #ikemen vampire scenarios #ikevamp headcanons

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theredhavendelegate · 3 months

Text

Iss. 5:

The Unknown Rot, Redhaven's New Illness!

Part One

Another supernatural tragedy struck Redhaven as local painter Eustace Simmons passed this week due to an unusual disease. The Redhaven Delegate has secured, with permission from the family, a report on the circumstances of his passing and the source of his strange illness.

It seems that the new world we find ourselves in does not abide by all the same rules as the previous one did, including the rules of life and death... ---

Eustace Simmons, stubbled face crumpled with effort, grunts along the evening sidewalk. Another man hangs from his shoulder by one arm, the other slung loosely across the neck of a woman with her dark, greying hair tied into a bun.

Eustace and the woman carry their charge along for another minute or so then slow to a stop, setting the man on the ground and propping him against an unlit barbershop.

Eustace leans hard against his knees and huffs, coughing out, “Did he gain weight d’ya think, Minerva?”

The woman finishes coughing herself and then cackles disdainfully. “Its all water-weight, or booze-weight, I guess. Too much for one evening, methinks. It’ll be a few more blocks yet anyway, so catch your breath.”

Eustace grimaces and raises a brow. “A few more blocks? He lives right down at the end of Linden, doesn’t he?”

Minerva rubs the back of her neck and shrugs, gesturing vaguely toward an upcoming street corner as she replies, “You didn’t stop by George’s place before going to the pub, but they closed off Linden Street this morning to take down a few of the damaged buildings. We’ll have to go around.”

The man groans and begins to protest, but his companion hushes him. “Just relax, we’ll be there before you know it. I’m not cutting through any constructions site, either. I’d throw my back out! Now, help Georgie up again, he’s starting to drool.”

Eustace does, though his brown eyes remain half shut in annoyance the whole time. “Throw your back out,” he mutters, “As if that weren’t what we were already doing.”

Minerva doesn’t respond as the two continue to carry their friend down the road.

They pass the construction site, previously humming but now silent and desolate. One formerly filled building lot is now an empty foundation, a repository for rubble, mostly brick and wood. Several other lots are cordoned off and waiting. They carry on another block and then turn down an alley by the light of the gas lamps, the moonless, starless skies overhead.

Between breaths, Eustace mutters, “Do you…hear…that…Minnie?”

She doesn’t answer but a figure emerges from up ahead.

They are covered in layers of dirty, torn clothing, hood and all, and they reek even at a distance. Their gait is uneven, unsure, and they stumble against a wall to hold themselves up.

As Eustace and Minerva draw close and start to pass, the figure groans, “H-help…me…please…”

Eustace responds almost right away, taking a careful breath first. “Sorry, we really have to get our friend home. There’s a clinic down the street though, the way we came. The doctor is a live-in so you should[TWO DASHES]”

Eustace is cut off as the figure darts upright. Their hood flies back to reveal a sickly, pale visage, sunken cheeks and eyes, their face and neck covered in open sores, purple bruises, and unhealed cuts.

Before either Eustace or Minerva can shout or dodge, the person lunges towards Eustace and takes hold of him by the arm. They grab his right hand and yank on it with desperate ferocity. They bite into his hand, deep, and Eustace kicks them several times until they thrash away.

Eustace stares at the gangly figure, arms held up defensively, primed for another attack, but the assailant slinks off into the shadows again, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry…”

“Is your hand alright?” Minerva asks, breaking Eustace out of his focus. She is half lent against a wall, barely holding George up under his armpits.

Eustace glances down at his bloody hand and then winces, looking away and paling.

“I’ll take that as a no?” A low, gruff voice emits from George now, he’s eyes have just cracked open.

The drunk sobers up slightly and lifts himself to his own unsteady feet as Minerva wipes her hands off on her skirt. He speaks, though his speech is slightly rounded, sanded off at the corners. “Whaddid ya do to piss that guy off, eh? Grumpy bastard, he was.”

Eustace presses his hand tightly between the folds of his overcoat, barely staunching the flow of blood at the cost of a sharp spike in pain. He responds through gritted teeth, “Don’t know, they just came at me. Damn.” His face pales again and he groans, “Minnie, can you get George home now that he’s walking? I need to get back to my place before I…uh…” Eustace’s head grows light and his vision flashes with darkness, but he shakes off the sensation. “…before I pass out.” He finishes curtly.

George steps in an uncertain circle, then nods. Minerva withdraws a baton from her coat, just a metal stick a half-foot long, and nods as well. “We’ll see you tomorrow at the pub again, right?” she asks, voice shaking just a hair.

Eustace grins, though it shows as more of a grimace, and he answers, “Of course, you two are the only people I can stand to be around these days besides Millie. See you in the morning, good night.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

---

Eustace sets a stack of off-white dishes into a kitchen sink, bread crumbs and coffee stains inside and atop them. He rinses his hands off with plain water, taking care around the right one, which is wrapped in partially soiled gauze.

He wipes his face with a dish towel as well, evacuating the remnants of his breakfast from his motley stubble.

He finally makes his way out of the kitchen and into a side room, a painting space into which falls the dull, whitish rays of the sunless dawn. There is an incomplete painting propped upon an easel, a collection of brushes and pigments, and an unusual still life arranged before them.

The center of the scene is a disused typewriter surrounded with carefully stacked notepads and writing instruments, arranged not for practically but for visual appeal. The pads, pencils, pens, and quills form patterns that subtly lead the eye around the table, to the typewriter, then back out for another lap.

He opens a few of the pigments and takes up a brush in his right hand, then begins to work.

The first few strokes are simple, easy, then his hand begins to rebel, attacking him with flares of pain that make him grit his teeth. Sweat beads up on his brow, errant strokes demand patient correction, more time, more pigment, thicker layers, dip, dip, stroke, flare, grit, sweat, dip, dip, dip.

Eustace throws his brush across the room and the gauze comes loose on his hand. A fleck of dark, rotten blood flies from it and lands on his canvas. He stares at the spot.

There is a knock a the door, genial, confident. Eustace chokes once, then clears his throat and calls out, “I’ll be right there.” He lumbers to the kitchen and removes his still-soiled dishes from the basin, then washes his hand fully. Black-red something comes away, thicker than blood, though the pain isn’t as bad as Eustace expects. He ruins a towel drying his hand, packs cotton around the wound, and wraps it up with fresh gauze.

A voice calls through the front door, slightly muffled but high and calm, “I can go if it’s a bad time.”

Eustace’s heart jumps and he turns hard on his heel toward the voice. “No, no, not at all!” He powers over and opens the door with his left hand to reveal a pleasant young woman, almost his spitting image though with much longer hair. “Millie, dear, it’s great to see you! Come in, please! I could put on some coffee or something if you like, tea maybe?”

The young woman smiles smugly and enters, “Oh, the royal treatment? This is a much warmer welcome than I’m used to.” She sits down at a small round table as her host fills a kettle. jovially, she continues, “And you’re going with Millie now, not Mildred? What’s gotten into to you?”

Eustace answers casually, though his tone is flecked with worry. “Well, I’m just a bit shaken up lately is all. It’s just quite nice to have something to take my mind off of things.”

Millie raises a brow and asks, “Shaken? What’s that for, is the painting difficult? You aren’t already running out of supplies, are you?”

Eustace sets the kettle on the stove and turns around, raising his bandaged hand into the air. “It’s just this. I was attacked on the way home from the bar the other night. Strangest thing, the fellow bit me on my good hand. I’ll be fine though, it just needs time to heal.”

Millie raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, but doesn’t question it. “Well, Harvey gave me a day, so I thought I’d swing by to see your latest project if you don’t mind. I take it you aren’t done?”

Eustace tuts and pours coffee into a small cup with a floral pattern. “Not quite, I’d be done today, but it seems unlikely now. Technically it was supposed to be a surprise for you, but I don’t mind sharing.”

“Oh no, I love a surprise so don’t spoil it! We’ll just chat then, I’m in no rush.”

And they do for a little while. Eustace’s focus goes in and out and Millie flashes him an odd look here and there, but the subject matter remains light. Eustace grumbles about the pain in his hand, the prices at the pub, George’s drinking habits, and Millie matches with comments about her coworkers and how strange the sky is to look at, day or night.

“Are you going to report it?” Millie asks abruptly.

Eustace spaces for a moment, then responds, “Report what? Oh, the attack?”

Millie nods.

“To who, the police? They’ll just turn it over to the confederates, and the confederates don’t work for locals like us.” Eustace grumbles.

Millie shrugs and says, “Well, at least have your hand checked. I’m sure the clinic by George’s will take a look.”

Eustace nods and the two sit in silence for a minute or two. Millie finishes her second cup of coffee and rises. “I think that’ll do it then. I have a few errands to run but it was nice catching up.” She flashes another smile, this one warmer, and sets her cup in the sink. “Tell George and Minnie I said hi, and…dad?”

Eustace raises an eyebrow.

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

“Of course,” Eustace answers with practiced, dry composure.

He rises a moment later and shows her politely to the door.

When she’s gone, he returns to his studio and takes up his brush again, this time switch-handed. The effort feels wasted. The strokes are even less confident then they were in his right hand, and the corrections even more demanding. Dip, dip, stroke, dip, wait, wait, glance, dip, stroke, curse, grumble, stroke, wait, wait…

Eustace sets down the brush and turns away. It’s dark outside already. The light coming in the window is the yellow flickering of the gas lamps. Eustace glances back to the clock above the doorway. “The pub is already closed? How did I miss so much time? Hmm, I hope Minnie and George aren’t worried too much.” “I suppose if they were,” he thinks, “then they’ll swing by”

Time seems to melt again as Eustace heads to his bedroom. The night carries on but sleep doesn’t come, just more pain in his hand and a growing headache. He turns and throws his bedding on the floor. He’s beginning to sweat and his stomach rumbles ferociously. He rises and mutters, “Breakfast, I only had breakfast today.”

He stumbles to the kitchen and digs through the pantry, bumping his knees, elbows, and knuckles on every available surface. He pulls out bread, crackers, vegetables, canned fruit, and despite the continued growling in his stomach, the hunger in his throat; the sight of them elicits disgust.

He pushes the goods away, drops them on the floor and discards them to-and-fro, until he finally gets to the fridge. It’s a small appliance, one that sits just at counter height with a large radiator on top. He opens it up. Inside sits an uncooked chicken breast among other things.

His stomach growls again and the pain in his hand flares up ferociously. Something about the pale meat, partly thawed for tomorrow’s dinner, is hypnotizing. The gentle, gelatinous pink, the fatty streaks of white, all glistening and soft, demanding to be--

Eustace is leaning over the sink. “How did I…” He stares into the basin. His hands are slightly slimy, especially on the fingertips. There is a taste lingering in his mouth as well, just faintly there, sweet and savory. He washes his hands and then checks the fridge again.

The chicken is gone.

Eustace feels as though he should want to retch, but he feels comfortable, full and satisfied. The pain in his hand has eased tremendously as well and his headache has fled.

“Something…something is very wrong with me. I need…I need to go somewhere…” he mutters. “Where though? The clinics aren’t open at this hour, and what would they even do?”

Eustace flexes his right hand and a mild pain jolts through it and up his arm. He peels back the bandage slightly. The wound still hasn’t healed at all, and neither have any of the little bumps or bruises he’s suffered over the course of the day. His mind flashes back to the alley, to the wounded person who bit him.

Quietly, Eustace heads into his studio and takes a notepad, not one from the still life but a spare one, and begins to write:

“Millie or whoever is reading this, I’ve come down with something terrible and am searching for help now. Please take care of the house until I’m back, and if I don’t come back, the house and everything in it should go to Millie Simmons.”

He signs his name beneath in a clean, cordial hand, then tears the note out.

Eustace walks back into the kitchen and sets the note on the round table, takes his coat from a hook by the door, and grabs a rarely used cane.

He feels ill at ease, something is lurking within him, behind him. He considers running from it but steels himself instead.

He opens the door and disappears into the moonless streets of Redhaven.

---

The story doesn’t end there, but further investigation is ongoing at this time. The Redhaven Delegate will have the complete picture soon, so if you want to know what happens next, make sure to pick up the next issue as soon as it comes out.

As always, The Redhaven Delegate stands with The People, and for The Truth, no matter how strange. - Harvey Donaghue, Editor-in-chief, TRD

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#trd #the redhaven delegate #writing #writeblr #unreality #short story #series #violence #biting #described gore #meat #cw meat #blood #horror #TRD: Eustace Simmons #TRD: George Bailley #TRD: Minerva Flint #TRD: Millie Simmons

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