HistoricalFiction - Tumblr Posts

and now, i fight | johnny (m) (teaser)

pairing: prince!johnny x peasant/rebel!reader

word count: TBD

genre: historical fiction

summary: Prince Johnny J. Suh is one who has been controlled by his parents his entire life. They have limited his childhood, his teen years, and even now, they try to control him as an adult inside their designer castle walls. He wants to break away from them, be free and do his own without worrying about what his parents have to say. What'll happen when he gets the opportunity to join the revolution being staged against them?

warnings: breeding kink, bondage, body worship, master kink, degradation, and praise kink, collaring, dirty talk, face fucking, size kink, bulge kink, orgasm denial, somnophilia, sexy times in the ✨1890s✨, war, basically a Korean version of the American revolution lol, lots and lots of secrets, johnny double-crossing his family, punishment to reader's friends by the royal family, that's it I think lol, absolutely no 1800s talk cuz idrk how they talked back then lol

sneak peek below the bar!! italics is 1895 and normal is present times (1937)

“Mommy, mommy!! Tell us a tale!” The Queen beamed as she strolled into her children’s impressive boudoir, made out of only the finest, most exquisite elements. “What tale would you like to hear tonight, my dears?” The children glance at each other and snicker slightly, “Tell us how you became Queen!!” The Queen raises her eyebrows in shock, “Why would you want to learn about that? I see my busy bees have been doing their research about the monarchy?” The Queen reaches over and ruffles their hair up. “Mhm!” They reply, smiles bright on their faces. “Okay, my little smart cookies. I’ll tell the tale. Our tale begins in March of 1895, the Queen had just thrown a big birthday ball for her only son weeks before…”

The ball was magnificent and festive, striking colors all throughout. And the birthday boy, Prince Johnny J. Suh, clad in the fanciest royal suit anyone had ever seen! He looked dashing, breathtaking even, all of the princesses from different areas wanted him. Yet, he rejected them all. He yearned for a soulmate, a lover, someone to deeply connect with, not some stuck up princess who only wanted him for his dashing looks and riches. He simply refused to dance with anyone and kept to himself the entire night, his night.

Towards midnight, when all of the evil stepsisters had gone to wipe off their hideous makeup and abuse their Cinderella at home, the Queen furiously stalked up to her son, and she slapped him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Johnny J. Suh, I did not raise you to turn down such beautiful women a chance to become your Queen! How am I supposed to trust that you’ll rule our land well when you’re father and I are gone?” He looked down at his feet and quietly grumbled, “It’s not like you really raised me at all.” The Queen almost missed his snarkiness with how quiet he was. Almost. “What did you just say to me? Do not ever disrespect me again, boy, or so help me God-” He grimaced and held his hands protectively in front of his face in annoyance. “I got it, Ma, never disrespect the Queen.. yada yada.” He walked away, getting in the horse carriage designed to take him home. He looked at his mother one last time, who looked at him with swirls of disappointment in her brown eyes, and the horse rode off into the night sky.

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I hope this sneak peak gets y'all excited for this, because I certainly am.

The Lost Journal Shaina Tranquilino September 1, 2024

Lilian had lived in the old family house for as long as she could remember. A sprawling, vine covered estate on the outskirts of town, it was filled with memories and secrets passed down through generations. On a cool autumn afternoon, while rummaging through the dusty attic, she stumbled upon an ancient, leather-bound journal. Its cover was worn and cracked, the pages yellowed with age.

Curiosity piqued, Lilian gently opened the journal. The handwriting was elegant but faded, the ink barely legible in places. It belonged to Isabella Hawthorne, an ancestor she’d heard whispered about in family stories—rumours of a mysterious disappearance and an even more enigmatic life.

As Lilian read, she discovered that Isabella had been a woman of immense intelligence and ambition, living in a time when such traits were often suppressed. But it wasn’t just Isabella’s character that fascinated Lilian; it was the secrets the journal revealed. Isabella had documented her life in vivid detail, describing strange visitors, hidden rooms, and most intriguingly, a treasure buried somewhere beneath the estate.

According to the journal, the treasure was no mere chest of gold coins. It was something far more valuable—a collection of rare, priceless artifacts from around the world, acquired by the Hawthorne family over centuries. Isabella had taken it upon herself to hide these items when she suspected that a betrayal within the family threatened their safety.

The final pages of the journal were filled with clues: cryptic riddles, symbols, and a map that was barely discernible. Isabella had written that the treasure was buried deep underground, beneath the house itself, in a place “where the past meets the future.”

Determined to uncover the truth, Lilian spent days poring over the journal, deciphering its secrets. She mapped out the house, comparing it with the drawings Isabella had left behind. Finally, she identified a spot in the basement, beneath the old stone floor, where the treasure might be hidden.

Armed with a shovel and a flashlight, Lilian descended into the basement late one night. The air was cool and damp, and shadows danced on the walls as she chipped away at the stone. Hours passed, and just as she began to lose hope, her shovel struck something solid. Heart racing, she cleared away the dirt and uncovered a large, ornate chest, its wood still surprisingly intact after all these years.

Quivering like a leaf, Lilian pried open the chest. Inside, she found relics from across the globe—intricately carved statues, ancient manuscripts, and a crown encrusted with jewels. But there was something else, something that sent a chill down her spine: a second journal, this one addressed to her, as if Isabella had known she would one day find it.

The journal’s message was brief but profound. Isabella warned of the burden that came with such a discovery, urging Lilian to protect the treasures from those who would misuse them. She spoke of a legacy not just of wealth, but of responsibility—one that Lilian was now a part of.

As she stood in the dim light of the basement, holding the journal close, Lilian knew her life had changed forever. The secrets of her ancestors were now hers to keep, and the weight of the Hawthorne legacy rested squarely on her shoulders.

But Lilian was ready.

The Cursed Locket Shaina Tranquilino September 7, 2024

James Cartwright was an antique dealer of some repute, known throughout London for his discerning eye and the uncanny ability to procure rare and valuable artifacts. His shop, tucked away in a narrow alley of Covent Garden, was a treasure trove of history. Shelves groaned under the weight of dusty books, ornate candelabras, and delicate porcelain figurines. But it was the jewelry section that held James' true passion—rows of rings, brooches, and necklaces, each with a story waiting to be uncovered.

One rainy afternoon, a man in a worn trench coat entered the shop, carrying a small, velvet-lined box. His eyes darted around nervously as he approached the counter, his hands trembling slightly as he placed the box in front of James.

"Interested in buying?" the man asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

James' curiosity was piqued. He opened the box to reveal a gold locket, intricate and old, with an ornate filigree design. The locket was heavy in his hand, and as he examined it closely, he noticed a small inscription on the back: "To E., Forever Yours. 1889."

"Beautiful craftsmanship," James remarked, though his mind was racing. The inscription rang a bell, something he had read long ago. "Where did you find this?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. "It belonged to my grandmother," he lied. "She passed away recently, and I need the money."

James nodded, sensing there was more to the story, but not pressing further. He offered a fair price, and the man accepted with a relieved sigh before hurrying out into the rain. As James watched him disappear into the mist, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind. There was something familiar about that locket.

Later that evening, after closing the shop, James retired to his study. He poured himself a glass of brandy and settled into his leather armchair, the locket resting on the table beside him. He reached for an old book of unsolved mysteries, a collection he had inherited from his father. Thumbing through the pages, he stopped at a passage that made his heart skip a beat.

The Disappearance of Elodie Blackwood, 1889.

Elodie Blackwood had been a celebrated socialite, known for her beauty and charm. She vanished without a trace one autumn evening, leaving behind a scandal and a mystery that had never been solved. The last known item she was seen wearing was a gold locket, a gift from her secret lover. The inscription in the book matched the one on the locket now sitting on James' table.

The coincidence was too strong to ignore. He picked up the locket, and as he did, a sudden chill ran through the room, causing the candle flames to flicker. The locket felt cold in his hand, unnaturally so. He tried to open it, but the clasp was stuck fast.

Undeterred, James decided to investigate further. The next morning, he visited the local archives, where he spent hours poring over old newspapers and records. Every detail about Elodie Blackwood's life and disappearance pointed to the locket as the key to the mystery, but nothing explained what had happened to her. The locket had never been found—until now.

That night, James was awakened by a strange noise, like the whisper of fabric brushing against the floor. He sat up in bed, straining to listen. The noise grew louder, and then he saw it—a shadowy figure standing at the foot of his bed, the outline of a woman in a flowing dress.

"Elodie?" he whispered, though he wasn't sure why.

The figure did not move or speak, but the air around him grew colder. James' eyes darted to the nightstand, where the locket now lay open, though he hadn't been able to pry it apart earlier. Inside was a small, faded photograph of a woman, her face hauntingly beautiful, her eyes filled with sadness.

The figure raised an arm and pointed toward the locket. James felt an overwhelming compulsion to touch it again, to delve deeper into its past. As his fingers brushed the photo, a searing pain shot through his hand, and the room spun wildly. When the dizziness subsided, he found himself no longer in his bedroom, but in a grand ballroom, filled with people dressed in Victorian attire.

He recognized the scene from descriptions he had read—this was the night Elodie Blackwood had disappeared. The locket was warm now, pulsing with a life of its own as it guided him through the crowd. He saw Elodie, her eyes wide with fear as she clutched the locket around her neck. A man approached her, his face obscured by shadows, and whispered something in her ear. Elodie's face went pale, and she fled the room, the man following close behind.

James felt himself being pulled along as if tethered to Elodie by an invisible thread. He followed her through the darkened halls of the mansion, down a spiral staircase, and into the cellar. The man caught up with her there, his voice low and menacing.

"You know too much, Elodie," he hissed. "The locket—it's cursed. It binds you to the truth, but it will also be your undoing."

Elodie backed away, but there was nowhere to run. The man lunged, and there was a brief struggle before he pushed her. She stumbled, her scream echoing off the stone walls as she fell into an open well in the centre of the cellar. The locket slipped from her neck, landing with a clatter on the floor.

James awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The vision had been so vivid, so real. He knew now what had happened to Elodie, but the locket still held its curse. It had bound her to that moment of betrayal and death, trapping her spirit in a loop of endless torment.

Realizing what he had to do, James took the locket to the site of the old Blackwood estate, now a crumbling ruin outside the city. The well was still there, hidden beneath overgrown vines and debris. With a heavy heart, he tossed the locket into the well, hearing the faint splash as it disappeared into the darkness.

For a moment, the air was still, and then a breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it a sense of peace. The curse had been lifted; Elodie's spirit was finally free.

James returned to his shop, feeling lighter than he had in days. But as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, a small velvet-lined box on the counter caught his eye. His blood ran cold. The locket was back, sitting there as if it had never left.

It seemed that some mysteries were never meant to be solved.

The Unopened Letter Shaina Tranquilino September 8, 2024

Leah Smith sat at her kitchen table, sipping her morning coffee as the sun’s first rays filtered through the curtains. The quiet hum of the neighborhood was punctuated only by the occasional chirp of birds outside. It was a peaceful start to what she assumed would be a routine day, until the sound of the mail slot clattering echoed through the hallway. She rose from her chair and made her way to the front door, picking up the small stack of envelopes. Bills, a postcard from a friend, and a single, yellowed envelope with a fading stamp caught her eye. The handwriting was elegant, the kind of script you don't see anymore, and the address was clear enough. But as Leah's gaze fell on the name written at the top, her heart skipped a beat.

"Mrs. Andrea Smith," it read.

It was addressed to her grandmother.

Leah stared at the letter, her mind racing. Andrea Smith had passed away nearly ten years ago. She had been the matriarch of the family, a woman of grace and strength, who had never spoken much about her past. Leah had always admired her, but now, holding this letter, she realized there was so much she didn't know.

Curiosity gnawed at her. She debated with herself for a moment before making the decision. With trembling hands, she carefully opened the letter, unfolding the brittle paper inside. The script was as elegant as the handwriting on the envelope, but there was a slight shakiness to it, as if the writer had been under great stress.

“Dearest Andrea,” it began.

“I pray this letter finds you well, though I fear it may never reach your hands. The world is a different place now, and what we did—what you did—must remain hidden, for both our sakes. The consequences of our actions are too great to bear, but I trust in your strength and your resolve to keep this secret.

Do you remember the night we met? The air raid sirens blared, the ground shook with the terror of falling bombs, and yet there you were, calm as ever, helping those who could not help themselves. It was that night I knew I could trust you, that you were not like the others. You had a heart of gold, but a spirit of steel.

The work we did in those dark days—smuggling information, sheltering those in danger, and deceiving the enemy—was dangerous, but necessary. You were the linchpin, Andrea. Without you, many lives would have been lost. But there was a price to pay for our courage, and I have borne it silently all these years.

Andrea, my dear, the truth must remain buried with us. No one can ever know what really happened in the depths of that war. I have destroyed all evidence, save for this letter, which I send to you as a final goodbye. I do not know if you will ever read this, or if fate will intervene, but I could not leave this world without expressing my gratitude and my sorrow for what we had to do.

If anyone finds this letter, they must destroy it immediately. The world has moved on, and so must we, even in death.

Yours eternally, Richard.”

Leah's hands shook as she finished reading the letter. She sat down, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her. Her grandmother had never spoken of a man named Richard, nor of any involvement in the war beyond what was typical for women of that era—rationing, supporting the troops, and caring for the wounded. But this letter hinted at something far more clandestine, something that could have changed the course of lives and history itself.

She folded the letter back up, her mind racing with questions. Who was Richard? What exactly had her grandmother done during the war? And why had this letter arrived now, after so many years? Was it lost in the postal system, only to be delivered by some quirk of fate? Or had someone found it and sent it on, unaware of the Pandora’s box it would open?

Leah knew she needed to find out more. But as she stared at the envelope, she realized the enormity of what she had uncovered. This was not just a family secret—it was a part of history that had been deliberately hidden, for reasons she could only begin to understand.

She knew one thing for certain: her grandmother had been a far more complex and courageous woman than she had ever imagined. And now, it was up to Leah to decide whether to let the secret die with Andrea, or to uncover the truth that had been hidden for so long.

The unopened letter had been opened, and with it, a door to the past that could never be closed again.

The Time Traveler's Diary Shaina Tranquilino September 17, 2024

The storm had raged all night, beating against the windows of Diane Holzer's quiet cottage at the edge of town. It was the sort of night that stirred unease, though she could never quite say why. The wind howled through the trees, and the rain fell in sheets, but there was something else—a feeling in the air, like a change was coming.

It was just after dawn when the storm finally relented. Diane, an avid collector of antiques, decided to visit the nearby estate sale that had been advertised. The house belonged to the late Professor Edward Harrington, a reclusive man whose death had sparked curiosity in the village. He was rumored to have been obsessed with strange theories of time, but no one ever took him seriously.

Inside the dusty old mansion, Diane wandered the rooms, browsing through relics of the professor’s life—old maps, stacks of books, tarnished silverware. In a corner of his study, beneath a pile of forgotten papers, she found it—a leather-bound diary. The cover was worn, but the pages inside were crisp, as if they had been written only recently.

She tucked the diary under her arm, paying for it along with a few other trinkets. Back at home, with a cup of tea in hand, she opened the diary, expecting musings on the professor’s eccentric work or perhaps personal notes about his reclusive life. Instead, what she found unsettled her immediately.

November 17, 2123

If you are reading this, then I know my calculations were correct. My name is Nicholas Harrington, and I am writing to you from 2123. You, Diane Holzer, are my ancestor—my great-great-grandmother, to be precise. And I need your help.

Diane blinked at the words, her heart pounding in her chest. This had to be some kind of elaborate joke. She skimmed the next few lines, her mind racing.

You will find this diary on the 17th of September, 2024, just after a storm. The estate sale of Professor Harrington, your neighbor, will bring you to it. I have no doubt that you will be skeptical, but I urge you to keep reading. The events I describe are real, and they concern your future—and mine.

Diane closed the diary for a moment, trying to catch her breath. The date was correct. Today was the 17th of September, and she had found the diary just as it described. But how could this be?

Curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the diary again, continuing to read.

In my time, the world is on the brink of collapse. Climate disasters, political unrest, and technological failures are pushing civilization to the edge. But it wasn’t supposed to be this way. History was altered, and I believe it has something to do with our family.

I am writing to you because you hold the key to preventing this future. In your lifetime, you will come into possession of an object—a small, unremarkable pocket watch. This watch, though it may seem ordinary, is anything but. It contains a mechanism that was developed long ago by a group of scientists working in secret—among them, our ancestor, Professor Edward Harrington.

This watch can manipulate time.

Diane stared at the page, her heart thudding in her chest. She didn’t own a pocket watch. Or did she? She hurried to her bedroom, rummaging through the box of trinkets she had purchased that morning. There, beneath the brass candlestick and faded postcards, was a small pocket watch—old and weathered, but still ticking.

The watch has the ability to create small tears in the fabric of time, allowing its user to see potential futures or even influence certain events. But it is dangerous in the wrong hands. In your time, someone will come for it—a man named Stanley Dodds. He will seem like a friend, but he cannot be trusted. He seeks the watch for his own purposes, and if he gets it, everything I know will fall apart.

Diane's hands trembled as she held the watch. The name Stanley Dodds was all too familiar. He was a charming historian she had met at a conference only weeks before. They had shared a pleasant conversation over coffee, and he had mentioned his interest in antique timepieces. He had even offered to help her appraise some of her collection.

Her phone buzzed on the table, and she jumped, startled by the sudden noise. The screen flashed with a message.

Stanley Dodds: Are you free for lunch today? I’d love to see your new finds.

Her blood ran cold. She glanced at the diary again, flipping through the pages.

When Stanley comes for the watch, you must not let him have it. You must hide it, or use it yourself. I have only been able to send this diary back through time, but with the watch, you can do more. You can change the future.

I know this is a lot to ask, but you must trust me. Your decision will shape the lives of generations to come—including mine.

Diane's mind raced. How could she possibly believe this? A time traveler’s diary? A watch that could control time? And yet—everything the diary had said so far had been true. The storm. The date. Stanley Dodds.

She stared at the watch in her hand, its surface gleaming faintly in the soft light of the morning. If what Nicholas had written was true, she had a decision to make—and quickly. Stanley would arrive soon, and she had no idea what he was capable of.

Taking a deep breath, Diane stood and walked to the window. Outside, the world seemed deceptively calm, the sky clearing after the storm. But inside her, a storm raged.

She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew one thing: the watch was hers, and she would decide how it was used.

As she turned the watch over in her hand, she felt a strange, shifting sensation in the air—a ripple, almost. The world seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then, in a flash, she was gone.

The diary lay open on the table, the ink on the last page still fresh.

November 17, 2123

Thank you, Diane. You made the right choice.

The Enchanted Typewriter Shaina Tranquilino September 23, 2024

It was an unassuming afternoon when Ryan Kane found the typewriter. The air in the old shop was thick with dust, cobwebs clinging to the edges of forgotten shelves, but the antique store had always been his retreat from the world. It was tucked away at the end of Willow Street, one of the last places in town where time seemed to stand still.

Ryan was a writer. Or, at least, he was trying to be. His ideas had dried up months ago, and the blank pages of his manuscript taunted him daily. He was supposed to be working on a novel, but inspiration had evaded him like a distant echo. That's why he was here, searching for something—anything—to spark his creativity.

The typewriter sat near the back of the shop, nestled between an old brass lamp and a set of dusty novels. It was a faded Remington, the kind that would have been the pinnacle of modern technology in the 1920s. The keys were tarnished, but the machine had an odd gleam to it, as though it had been waiting for someone to notice it.

"How much for the typewriter?" Ryan asked the shopkeeper, an elderly man named Amos with a penchant for tall tales.

Amos raised a bushy eyebrow. "That old thing? Found it in a basement after a flood. Not sure it even works."

Ryan felt a strange pull toward it, though he couldn't explain why. "I'll take it."

Amos chuckled. "If you're looking for stories, maybe that old typewriter will give you one. Just be careful. It has a mind of its own, they say."

Ryan smiled politely at the odd remark and left the shop with the typewriter under his arm, feeling a glimmer of excitement for the first time in weeks. He placed it on the worn desk in his study, the keys gleaming under the soft lamp light. Something about it felt... alive, almost.

That evening, Ryan decided to test it out. He slid a piece of paper into the machine and began to type. The keys were stiff under his fingers, but as he pressed each one, a satisfying clack echoed through the room. However, no words came to mind. Frustrated, he stepped away to make himself a cup of tea, hoping a break might stir his imagination.

When he returned, the typewriter had typed a full line.

"They buried him in the woods, where no one would find him."

Ryan froze, staring at the sentence. He hadn’t typed that. The room was empty, and the door to the study was closed. He glanced at the window. It was shut too, not a breath of wind stirring inside.

Tentatively, he touched the keys again. Nothing happened. He sat back down and tried typing the words, but as soon as his fingers rested on the keys, the machine seemed to resist his touch.

And then it typed on its own.

"The truth lies beneath the willow tree, hidden by those who fear it."

His heart pounded as he read the words. It was as though the typewriter had a story to tell—a story it was determined to share with him. Ryan, both unnerved and intrigued, grabbed his notebook and jotted down the lines.

That night, the typewriter continued to reveal more cryptic sentences, each more puzzling than the last.

"They called it an accident, but the town knows better."

"The storm washed away the evidence, but not the guilt."

As the words unfolded, Ryan realized the typewriter was revealing something dark, something the town had long buried. He had grown up in Bramblewood, a sleepy place where nothing much happened. But this... this was a secret history, one that no one had ever spoken of.

He returned to the shop the next morning, the unease gnawing at him. Amos was behind the counter, polishing a glass with a rag. "Back already?" the old man asked, eyeing Ryan with curiosity.

"The typewriter..." Ryan hesitated. "It’s... it’s writing things on its own."

Amos chuckled. "Told you it had a mind of its own. Figured you’d like that, being a writer and all."

"But these are not just random words. It’s... it’s telling a story. A story about this town. About something hidden." Ryan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "About a murder."

Amos’ face darkened, and he set the glass down slowly. "What did it say?"

Ryan recounted the sentences, watching as the shopkeeper’s expression grew more guarded with each line.

"I don’t know about any of that," Amos said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction. "Old towns like this, they have their share of ghost stories. You’d do well to leave them be."

"Amos, I need to know if this is real. Is there something you’re not telling me?"

The old man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "There’s an old story, from way back before the flood. A man named Charles Mason went missing. Some folks said he left town, others said he drowned in the river. But there were whispers... rumors that he’d been killed. Buried somewhere out in the woods."

Ryan felt a chill crawl up his spine. The typewriter had mentioned a burial in the woods.

"And no one ever looked into it?"

Amos shook his head. "Back then, folks didn’t ask too many questions. They preferred things to stay quiet."

Ryan returned home, the weight of the mystery pressing down on him. That night, as the wind howled outside, he sat at the typewriter again, staring at the blank page. He didn’t even touch the keys before the machine began to type.

"He waits beneath the willow tree, his bones washed clean by the rain. The truth is there, but so is the danger. Some secrets are meant to stay buried."

Ryan's hands trembled. The willow tree. There was only one place in town with a tree like that—Willow Grove, an overgrown patch of land just outside town. No one went there anymore, not since the flood had turned it into a swampy ruin.

The next morning, Ryan made his way to the grove. The ground was soft beneath his feet, the smell of damp earth filling the air. He found the willow tree easily, its branches hanging low, brushing the ground like a shroud. His heart raced as he began to dig, his hands sinking into the wet soil.

After what felt like hours, his fingers brushed something hard. He pulled it out—an old, rusted box. Inside, wrapped in rotting cloth, was a skeleton, fragile bones stained by time and mud.

And there, at the bottom of the box, was a small, weathered notebook. Flipping through its brittle pages, Ryan found the final piece of the puzzle.

It was a confession, written by the town’s former mayor, detailing how Charles Mason had been killed to cover up a land deal that had gone wrong. The town had known. They had all known, and they had all stayed silent.

The typewriter had told him the truth. But as he stood there, staring down at the uncovered grave, Ryan knew one thing for certain—some secrets were not meant to be unearthed.

And as if in agreement, the wind whispered through the branches of the willow tree, carrying with it the faint echo of a typewriter's clacking keys.