#Born in March Men
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“EMPATHS ARE BORN IN MARCH!” – JUST FUN T-SHIRTS
#Birthday#Traits#Zodiac Personality Traits#March#March Births#March Birthday Gifts#Birth Sign#Zodiac Sign#Born in March Gifts#Born in March Men#Born in March Women#Born in March Horoscope#Gifts for March Birthday#Gifts for Boys born in March#Gifts for Girls born in March#Legends Born in March#Empaths#Fun Gifts#Newest Designs#Newest T-shirts#Unisex T-shirts#Newest Merch#Newest Products#Black T-shirts#Apparel#Athletic Apparel#Art Prints#Home Décor#Lynx#Lynx Cee
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astrology is bullshit unless you are an aries man then you need to seriously reconsider your life choices for real
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My grandmother Naifa al-Sawada was born in June 1932. A beautiful girl with blue eyes, she was the only daughter to her parents. They were originally from Gaza but moved to nearby Bir al-Saba, where Naifa’s father Rizq worked as a merchant. She did well at school and in 1947 obtained the necessary certificate from the British – then the rulers of Palestine – to attend university. She did not do so, however. Her father was fearful about what could happen to her at a time when war in Palestine appeared imminent. At a young age, she married my grandfather Salman al-Nawaty and went to live in Gaza. Between 1947 and 1949, Zionist forces expelled approximately 800,000 Palestinians from their homes. Among those directly affected by the Nakba – Arabic for catastrophe – were Naifa’s own parents, who fled their home in Bir al-Saba for Gaza. Having witnessed the Nakba, Naifa encouraged her own children to defend Palestine. Naifa gave birth to four girls and six boys.Like so many mothers in Gaza, she experienced great loss. Her son Moataz went missing while traveling to Jerusalem in 1982. It is still not known what happened to him. Another son Moheeb, a journalist, left Palestine for Norway in 2007. Three years later he traveled to Syria. In January 2011, he went missing. The Syrian authorities subsequently confirmed to the Norwegian diplomatic service that he was imprisoned. But he has not been allowed to contact his family.We do not know his current whereabouts or even if he is alive or dead. My grandmother witnessed the first intifada from 1987 and 1993. On the streets around her, youngsters with stones and slingshots rose up against armed Israeli soldiers in tanks and military jeeps. During that time, her son Moheeb – the aforementioned journalist – was held for more than a year without charge or trial. That infamous practice is called administrative detention. My grandmother lived close to al-Shifa, Gaza’s largest hospital. She took great care of arranging everything in her home with her delicate hands. She used those same hands to comb her hair into braids. She memorized the Quran and took great interest in the education of her children and grandchildren. On 21 March this year, Israeli troops broke into my grandmother’s home. The soldiers displayed immense brutality. They ordered the women in our family to evacuate on foot and arrested the men. They would not allow the women to take my grandmother, who had Alzheimer’s disease, with them. The soldiers claimed that my grandmother would be safe. That was a lie. The invasion of my grandmother’s house took place amid Israel’s siege on al-Shifa hospital. My grandmother’s house was destroyed during that siege and she was killed. Her remains were found days after the Israeli troops eventually withdrew from the hospital earlier this month. She was killed – alone – in the same house where she had lived since 1955. We do not know if she suffered or if she died quickly. We do know that she was older than Israel’s merciless occupation.
#yemen#jerusalem#tel aviv#current events#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#news on gaza#palestine news#news update#war news#war on gaza#gaza genocide#genocide#naifa al sawada#al shifa hospital#war crimes
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remember when trans activists beat up Fred Sergeant, a gay man in his 70s, stonewall riot veteran and organizer of the first pride protest, because he was holding a gender critical sign at pride? And now trans activists are disturbing gay rights conferences by throwing thousands of live insects at us? like we can't even gather to discuss our rights anymore, we can't even attend the marches we ourselves set up, lest some radicalized teenagers and porn-obsessed balding men in their 50s identifying as lesbians beat us up scream slurs at us threaten to kill us rape us and take our jobs away from us and throw thousands of insects at us? and then they have the audacity to claim we are hateful bigots and our organizations are hate groups just because we were naturally born exclusively attracted to the same sex and not to the opposite one? and then thousands of people on this very website clap and send money to those people to reward them for disturbing gay rights events, call them strong and brave and once again if we dare to criticize them we are once again harassed and insulted? and they do all of this while making jokes about biblical plagues and biblical punishment? this is absolutely insane like LMAOOOO do you realize how absolutely fucking insane this all is??????? I am going crazy
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The Art of Braiding (Cregan Stark x Y/N)
In the harsh, unfamiliar North, Y/N Tully struggles to understand the strange customs that surround her. One of them, however, her new husband Cregan Stark knows all too well—and he’s not above using it to his advantage. The Wolf of the North, as it turns out, has a cheeky side.
*Inspired by the braiding traditions of the Vikings
TW // Strong language and profanities, possessiveness, non-consensual restraint.
“Bloody wind,” Y/N muttered under her breath, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders as another frigid gust swept through Winterfell’s courtyard. The North had its own bite, and it wasn’t just the cold. It was in everything—the stone walls, the silence, and even the people.
Especially the people.
Especially Cregan Stark.
Her husband.
That cold bastard. Honorable, sure, but colder than the winds battering against her face.
Y/N blew a strand of hair from her eyes, resisting the urge to curse her luck again. The riverlands were nothing like this. In Riverrun, there was warmth. Rivers that didn’t freeze over in the middle of freaking summer. Men who smiled, told bawdy jokes, laughed loud enough for the gods to hear. Here, everything was different. Even the laughter, when it happened at all, felt muted by the heavy weight of the Northern sky.
But this was her life now. A wife of the North. Lady Stark. By the gods, it was still strange to hear it. She knew the match had been made for peace and alliances—marriage between a Tully and a Stark was good for the realm, or so her father had said. But no one had prepared her for the rest of it. The weather. The silences.
And Cregan himself.
He was unlike any man she had known. Rivermen were warm, boisterous. Cregan was the opposite. He was distant, cold at times, the weight of Winterfell and the North resting on his broad shoulders. But he was fair, she’d give him that. And gods be damned if he wasn’t handsome. He had that Stark look, all strong jaw and piercing eyes. If only he’d smile a little more, maybe she’d feel less like she was wed to a block of ice.
Not that he wasn’t good to her. No, Cregan was kind in his way. Gentle in the nights they shared, even if he was quieter than she liked. He was a man of few words, unlike the men of her home, who’d fill the halls with stories and laughter. Still, he made sure she had everything she needed. He listened, even when he didn’t have much to say.
But gods, she missed warmth.
The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow caught her attention, and she glanced up to see him approaching. Cregan. He walked like he owned the place—because he did, of course—but it was more than that. There was a confidence in him, a certainty in his steps. He didn’t need to announce himself. The wind, the snow, the very stones of Winterfell seemed to bend to his will.
He came up beside her, his breath clouding the cold air. “Still not used to it?” His voice was a low rumble, almost lost to the wind.
Y/N snorted, rubbing her hands together. “Used to it? It’s like a gods-damned frozen hell up here.”
A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You’ll learn. In time.”
She shot him a look. “And when exactly will that be? Because I’ve been waiting for weeks, Cregan, and I’m about ready to march back to the riverlands and throw myself into the water. Ice be damned.”
His brows arched just slightly, amusement flickering in his gray eyes. “The riverlands? You wouldn’t last a day without the North, now.”
Y/N scoffed, turning to him fully. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Stark. I was born by water, not ice. I think I’d manage just fine.”
He said nothing, but the smirk returned. Silence fell between them again, but this time it was… different. More comfortable, somehow. She studied him, wondering what was going on in that head of his. He always seemed to have something weighing on him, some unspoken burden of being a leader at such a young age.
Before she could press further, he stepped closer, reaching out. Her breath caught, not because of the cold this time, but because of the unexpected closeness. His hand brushed against her hair, fingers moving with surprising gentleness.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Hold still,” he murmured, focused on her hair. His fingers deftly gathered strands, working them with a skill that surprised her.
Y/N’s brow furrowed, confused, but she stayed quiet, feeling the tug and pull as he braided her hair. Her pulse quickened as his fingers brushed against her skin, the sensation at odds with the chill around them. There was an intimacy in the act, in the silence that hung between them. And yet, it was just a braid.
Wasn’t it?
“There,” he said after a moment, stepping back. She reached up instinctively, fingers touching the braid he’d woven. It felt tight, but not uncomfortably so. She had no idea what to make of it. “What… is this?”
Cregan shrugged, that infuriating smirk still lingering on his lips. “Just a braid.”
“Just a braid,” she echoed, unconvinced.
His eyes flickered, something unreadable in their depths. “You’ll see.”
Y/N narrowed her gaze. “What exactly does that mean, Lord Stark?”
But Cregan was already turning, heading toward the main hall without another word. Y/N stood there for a moment, blinking in confusion. Just a braid? She huffed, shaking her head as she followed him inside. Northerners and their damn cryptic ways.
It wasn’t until they entered the hall that Y/N realized something was… off.
Eyes turned toward her. And not the usual fleeting glances. No, these were lingering, assessing stares. Several of the women whispered to each other, and a few of the men gave her respectful nods. She caught the eye of a servant who quickly dipped her head in what almost seemed like… deference?
Gods be good.
“Why is everyone looking at me like that?” she muttered under her breath, shooting a glare at one particularly nosy maid.
Cregan didn’t answer, his lips twitching as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. The bastard was enjoying this.
“What did you do?” she demanded, her voice sharper now.
Finally, he met her gaze, and there was that smirk again. “The braid.”
“What about the bloody braid?”
“It’s… a tradition,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the stone wall. “In the North, braids have meanings. Especially for women.”
Her stomach sank. “What kind of meaning?”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “A braid like that? It tells everyone that you’re… claimed.”
Y/N blinked, feeling her face heat despite the cold. “Claimed?” she echoed, her voice rising a pitch. “By whom exactly?”
Cregan’s smirk deepened, and he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “By me.”
Her mouth fell open. “You—what?! You did that on purpose? You—sly, stubborn—”
His laughter was a rare, low rumble that warmed the cold space between them. “You’ll get used to it, my lady.”
“Used to it?” Y/N fumed, her cheeks burning as the reality of what he’d done sunk in. “You can’t just—ugh!” She shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing a damn wall. “This is the North, Y/N. My North,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “And you are mine.”
A strange warmth bloomed in her chest, mixing with her frustration. The audacity. The nerve.
And yet…
Y/N's face burned hotter than the hearth fires in the Great Hall as Cregan’s words echoed in her ears: You are mine. Claimed. Oh, she was mortified.
She reached up, fingers fumbling to undo the braid that now seemed to burn against her scalp. “Absolutely not,” she muttered, her nails scraping against the tight weave as she tried to pull it apart. “I am not walking around Winterfell with everyone thinking—"
Before she could finish, Cregan’s hand shot out, closing around her wrist, firm but not rough. “What are you doing?”
She glared at him, teeth clenched. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m undoing this bloody braid before everyone in this hall assumes I’m some conquered—”
“You’re not,” he cut in, his voice low, but there was an edge to it. “And you won’t undo it.”
Y/N blinked, taken aback by the sudden command in his tone. “Excuse me?”
His eyes were intense, a storm brewing behind the calm gray. “The braid stays.”
She tried to yank her wrist out of his grip, but his hold was iron. Not painful, but resolute. “I didn’t agree to this—this.. this claiming nonsense,” she snapped, feeling a wave of embarrassment creep up her neck as she noticed more eyes turning their way.
Cregan leaned in slightly, his gaze unyielding. “In the North, it’s more than just words. It means something. You’re my wife. And you’ll wear that braid like it.”
Her heart pounded, heat flooding her chest. “I’ll wear what I damn well please—”
“Oi, Lady Stark!”
The loud shout from across the hall made Y/N freeze, her head whipping toward the source. One of the Northern men, a burly soldier with a wild grin on his face, pointed at her braid. “That’s a fine weave, my lady!” he hollered, winking.
The hall erupted into whistles, cheers, and hollers. Several of the men banged their fists on the tables, laughing and calling out words Y/N could barely make out. Some of the women were whispering behind their hands, giggling and exchanging knowing looks.
Y/N felt her face go crimson, her fingers still trapped in her hair, halfway through her attempt to undo the braid.
“Looks like the Warden’s laid his claim!” another man shouted, and more hoots followed.
Her stomach dropped. This was a nightmare. Mother save her, this is worse than a nightmare.
She tried again to pull at the braid, but Cregan’s hand didn’t budge from her wrist. “Cregan, I swear to the gods—”
His voice was maddeningly calm, but there was a cocky edge to it that made her blood boil. “You’ll leave it. And if you somehow forget, remember—we’ve got different gods, love. And mine? They’re backing me up.”
Y/N’s mouth opened to protest, but when she met his eyes, something in her faltered. He wasn’t just being possessive. There was something more there—something ancient, deep-rooted. A tradition that ran through his blood, through the very stones of Winterfell. She wasn’t just in his home. She was part of his world now.
But hell if she’d admit that to him.
“Cregan,” she hissed through clenched teeth, trying once more to yank her wrist free. “Everyone is staring!”
“And?” he asked, with that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. “Let them.”
Her eyes widened. “You—this isn’t funny! They’re hooting at me like I’m some prize at the fair!”
His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her pause. “You are no prize, Y/N,” he murmured, leaning close enough for his words to be for her ears only. “But you are mine. And in the North, we show it.”
Her breath caught at the warmth in his voice, even as her frustration grew. She had no idea what to say to that. What was she supposed to say? That she didn’t want to be claimed? That she didn’t want him? But the problem was… she did. And that was the most frustrating part.
The hall’s noise only grew louder. Some of the men had started clapping, whistling at them like they were some grand spectacle. Y/N wanted to sink into the stone floors.
“Let go of my wrist, Cregan,” she said, her voice quieter now, though it still carried her annoyance.
“Only if you stop trying to undo it,” he replied, his tone softening.
Y/N glared at him, her lips pressed into a tight line. But the heat of the stares, the teasing from the Northerners, was overwhelming. With a frustrated sigh, she dropped her hands from her hair.
“There,” she grumbled. “Now let go.”
He released her wrist, and immediately she wanted to punch him just a little bit. That cocky bastard.
“Was that so difficult?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
“You know,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “you’re lucky you’re my husband, or I’d throw you from the Wall.”
He leaned in, that smirk still present but softer now. “I’d like to see you try, wife.”
The word ‘wife’ sent another ripple of warmth through her, and she cursed silently under her breath. Why did it have this effect on her? And why did he have to look at her like that, with those damned Stark eyes, all cold and piercing but somehow still full of heat?
She crossed her arms, trying to hide her embarrassment under a glare. “Don’t expect me to be all smiles and sweet words because you’ve won this little battle, Stark.”
Cregan chuckled softly, his breath warm in the cold hall. “Who said I needed sweet words? You’re a Tully. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t fighting me.”
Despite herself, Y/N felt the smallest hint of a smile tug at her lips. Damn him. He knew exactly how to pull her in, even when she wanted to stay mad.
The cheers and whistles finally started to die down, though the teasing looks from the men and women of Winterfell didn’t. She sighed, looking up at Cregan. “You’re going to owe me for this.”
He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Owe you?”
“Yes,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. “For the embarrassment. You’ll owe me.”
Cregan grinned, his cold facade cracking just enough to show the warmth beneath. “Fair enough, wife. I’ll owe you.” He paused, a glint of mischief in his eye. “But that braid stays.”
She rolled her eyes. But a small smile tugged at her lips.
As they finally made their way to the high table, Y/N couldn’t help but glance at the braid once more. The claiming. It was still ridiculous. Still infuriating.
But gods help her… it felt good—brutishly, maddeningly good—to be claimed like this. She was going insane, because part of her didn’t mind it half as much as she pretended to.
A treacherous part of her silently hoped that Cregan would braid her hair again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the next. For as long as they both lived.
#hotd fanfic#hotd fandom#hotd x reader#hotd x y/n#cregan stark x reader#cregan fanfiction#cregan x you#cregan x y/n#cregan x reader#hotd cregan#cregan stark#tom taylor
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(via Pisces Sun Sign in Solid Gold gold with background of beautiful sun Long T-Shirt by rpdesignstudio)
#findyourthing#redbubble#sun sign#pisces#pisces astrology taurus star zodiac men feburary baby march born feb birthday mar zodiac sign sun sign supernatural star letters traits blin
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Hour of the Wolf
- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.
- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark
- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.
- Rating: Mature 16+
- Word count: 5 000+
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess
The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.
The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come.
Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather.
Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.
As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”
Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”
Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”
For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”
Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”
The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”
Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.
The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”
Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.
Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”
With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.
As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.
The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.
He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.
Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.
Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”
The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.
Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”
There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.
Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.
“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”
The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.
Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.
The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.
Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal.
As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.
Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.
"Lord Cregan,
It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.
Maester Kennet"
Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.
He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.
But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.
The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.
You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.
It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.
You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.
Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.
Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.
Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.
Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”
The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.
But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.
“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”
You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”
Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.
You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be.
You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.
The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.
Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.
The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home.
As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.
Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.
You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again.
Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.
When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.
“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.
He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”
And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.
For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.
When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.
Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.
Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love.
Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.
You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”
He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”
Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”
Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”
The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.
Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.
“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.
“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.
Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”
The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together.
You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.
You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”
“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”
You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”
Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.
“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.
“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.
The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.
Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"
The Dragon That Followed the Wolf
In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.
It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.
Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.
It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.
Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.
The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.
Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.
The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.
Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.
On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.
The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.
During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.
King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.
In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.
Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.
#house of the dragon#hotd x female reader#hotd x y/n#hotd x reader#hotd x you#cregan x y/n#hotd cregan#cregan x you#cregan x reader#cregan stark
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Yandere! Monster x Reader [Werewolf]
In Romanian mythology, Pricolici is an evil spirit believed to be born after the death of wicked humans, able to transform into certain animals such as ferocious dogs and wolves. The etymology is unknown, although it's suspected to be of Dacian origin, thus going as far back in time as the 1st century BC. An ancient creature has set its predatory eyes on you.
Winner of the Folklore Monster Poll celebrating Romanian history!
TW: obsessive behavior, violence, death
[Horror Masterlist] [More Headcanons]
He can tell it's a dream. Nonetheless, it always feels unbearably real. He can smell the incense, hear the hurried trample of feet underneath him. He wants to open his mouth and demand they stop. No words ever come out, the throat is dry and flattened by heavy despair. It's a dream, after all. The priests march on, and the spears are lifted. For a moment, he's blinded by their powerful, sharp glisten. As he gazes at the sacred circle, it occurs to him just how uncomfortable the shackles are. He becomes somewhat distracted by this irritating friction, so much he doesn't register the instructions given by the mysterious men.
Centuries later, he would stumble upon an old history book by Herodotus that detailed his misfortune:
"The Getae are the bravest of the Thracians and the most just. They believe they are immortal, forever living, in the following sense: they think they do not die and that the one who dies joins Zalmoxis, a divine being. Every four years, they send a messenger to Zalmoxis, who is chosen by chance. They ask him to tell Zalmoxis what they want on that occasion. The mission is performed in the following way: men standing there for that purpose hold three spears; other people take the one who is sent to Zalmoxis by his hands and feet and fling him in the air on the spears. If he dies pierced, they think that the divinity is going to help them; if he does not die, it is he who is accused and they declare that he is a bad person. And, after he has been charged, they send another one. The messenger is told the requests while he is still alive."
The foreign hands tighten around his limbs and he takes a deep breath in, ready for the plunge. Truth be told, he's not too anxious. The first time was terrifying, but one becomes accustomed to death if it repeats itself, night after night as the years pass and millennia settle over it, like a thick blanket of ash and bone and dust. He doesn't remember the pain anymore, only the bitterness. The wrath. He had no business playing God's messenger. He hadn't wished to be choking on his own blood, rippling violently at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over the excited masses. There are claps and cheers, and hope, and peace. Just not for him.
No matter, if they long so dearly after eternity, he'll become their very proof. A tangible undead, a creature of eternity. Let them gaze at their ardent desire as it claws their bowels out for the birds to feed on. Let them sing praise before their God as their soft throats detangle under his fangs. Before he knows it, the corpses lay mangled at his feet and he notices his horrid reflection swaying in the puddles of fresh blood.
He has become a beast.
And just like that, the nightmare ends. It always ends here. He pats the sweat off his forehead with the monotonous vigor of habit. It's already noon and the narrow street flocks with curious tourists and natives on their stroll. Every now and then he will venture into the city, just to get a glimpse of the world. He twists the knob and opens a window, enjoying the breeze that cools his skin. His tired eyes wander around with no purpose.
That's when he sees you. Your wide, carefree smile as you converse with your friend. You're drawing circles along the edge of your coffee cup, propped over the table, entranced by your discussion. Your gentle laugh rings unexpectedly loud against his ears. He finds himself frozen in place, unable to contract a single muscle.
"Oh, this trail is supposed to have some really nice sights." Your friend is shuffling through unfolded maps, spread out onto the small café table. "We should leave pretty early though, otherwise it'll get dark before the return."
You groan at the idea. Your friend responds with a chuckle.
"Remember, our tour guide joked about werewolves roaming the outskirts. Do you want to be eaten?" She inquires with a cheeky grin.
"You know I have a thing for monsters." You answer with a wink.
The jokes carry on until the bill arrives, and you eventually stand up and merrily make your way down the street. For a brief moment you feel a cold shiver running down your spine, so you peek back inquisitively. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Ah. By the time his focus returns, the sun is setting, reflecting its crimson rays over the old cobblestone. You've been gone for a while, so he must've been staring into the nothingness for good hours. He clears his throat, mildly embarrassed by his absent-mindedness. He isn't hungry, so he has trouble explaining his sudden captivation with a random human.
Even more bizarre is the consequence of the accidental encounter. The following nights are devoid of the usual torment. Has he ever had a peaceful slumber before? He can't recall. And yet here he is, vacantly eyeing the ceiling without the labored breath or cold shivers, faintly reminiscing about your amused expression. He frowns slightly at the realization that his recollection seems to contain less details compared to yesterday. Your face is smudged by the intense light of the noon, titled at an angle that allows no shadows to discern the features. What will he do when it's entirely gone? A faceless memory, anchored in the depths of his heart as a reminder of what could've been. Is there some universal law that dictates only misery remains unforgotten, or is he just exceptionally unlucky? Infuriating.
The overwhelming sensation creeps upon him again. A primordial vengefulness that hasn't yet released him from its cold, bony fingers. For once, can't he be granted fairness? His jaw clenches and he marches out of the room.
Tonight shall be a feast.
The lights are still on in the little tavern inn, and through the small windows he can make out the lively movement of the people inside. He glances at the waning moon one final time. The world may change, and the years may pass, but one thing has never left him throughout the centuries. Always bearing the same pallid, melancholic countenance, his taciturn companion rises, indifferent to the Universe.
His back arches outwards, the bones tear and twist, the joints dislocate and the skin is giving way to coarse, thick fur. His eyes now carry an amber glow as they rest on the modest building. Without further hesitation, he pounces on the door and it folds like cardboard under his inhuman strength. The room goes quiet and all heads turn to him. He recognizes that look. A fleeting second of fear and curiosity, before true panic settles in. But they rarely have the time to scream. Just as the vocal chords contract and vibrate, their chests are trashed and limbs are tattered. Splattered visceral remains and blood coat the ground under his feral attack.
You squeeze your eyes closed and force your hands over your mouth to ensure your stillness to the massacre. You were just returning from the bathroom when you heard the wails and the wet sounds of mutilated flesh. You'd ducked behind the wall and hid under an end table. What the hell is that creature? You initially thought a wild wolf had somehow made its way into the tavern, but no animal can be this large. There is a backdoor, but on the other side of this hall. You'd have to sprint across the archway that leads into the main room. Then again, if it's this busy ripping the others apart...
No need to ponder your options much. Silence falls behind you, which means the creature must have finished its horrid sport early. His snout picks up a particular scent and he tenses up, expectantly. Could it be?
The wooden parquet tiles creak under the weight of foreign footsteps; a human approaching you. You look up from under the table. Has someone dealt with the beast? Although you immediately regret revealing yourself. You freeze in your spot, hands propped on the ground, like prey awaiting execution.
The man is unnaturally tall, having to crouch under the ceiling, with wild black hair and rough features. His chiseled face is painted red, and his clothing is torn apart and soaked in blood. His large hands end in sharp claws, and amid his ruffled locks you can distinguish animal ears.
There you are.
Well, quite the irony to meet you here of all times and places. From this distance, you look even prettier. He bends over slightly to examine the details that have faded since the first encounter. A surreal experience, really. Seeing you kneel right in front of him and not as a figment of his imagination. He extends his fingers over your face and presses his nails in, leaving a vague trail of swollen, red skin. What a frail being you are.
"Your friend is alive, by the way." His deep, dissonant voice pierces the silence.
"O-oh." You gasp. You were so anxious you barely understood the meaning of his words.
"You may check on her if you so desire, however..."
He considers it. Normally, even after allowing his anger to seep into cadavers and ruins, all he's left with is disgust and emptiness. Yet your presence seems to fill him with unfamiliar comfort. If one is drowning, is it truly selfish to hold onto the first thing that keeps them afloat? The only people who'd condemn such beggar are the ones that have never been underwater. They don't know what it's like to have your lungs tighten and collapse under the heavy pressure, waving your arms towards a surface that's never reached.
"...You'll be coming with me afterwards."
You can only stare.
"Don't worry, I won't kill you." He attempts to simulate a smile. "I suppose I'm not too convincing like this", he jokes as he gestures towards his body, "But you have my word I'll never harm you."
"Why, though?" You manage to stutter, frowning in confusion.
He's taken aback by your inquiry. Perhaps his statement is indeed more threatening than anything else. On the other hand, he hasn't conversed with humans in...longer than he can remember. What might pose as convincing in this case? Drawing out a rose and confessing his undying love among the bodies he murdered feels rather ridiculous. Suddenly, a passage he's once read comes to mind. At the time, it depressed him greatly. Now it feels like the only fitting reasoning.
"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"
"Isn't that from Stoker's Dracula? How is it-"
You pause and search his eyes. Golden trenches of loneliness and gloom. Your heart is heavy and your mouth curls into a grimace the longer you stare into these pools swirling with agony.
"I understand." Is all you can mutter as you stand up.
Have you had a choice to begin with? Not even the frothing waves of a storming ocean can come between a dying man and his only raft.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere x darling#yandere fic#yandere imagines#yandere monster#yandere monster x reader#monster x reader#werewolf x reader#yandere werewolf#female reader#gender neutral reader#yandere horror#horror x reader#yandere oc#romanian folklore#daos
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Dea Romana
(Minatozaki Sana X Male Reader)
(Author's note:
Hi everyone! Thank you for patiently waiting for me! I'm done with writing my exams now, so I will be able to write more again until Juli. Since I like history a lot, the beginning got a bit longer than originally planned, but I hope you will be able to enjoy it nonetheless. I tried to make everything as historically accurate as possible, but please don't expect everything to be true.
Stay healthy! I will do my best to upload the next piece as soon as possible!)
Every muscle feels like it's burning. Your legs and arms feel heavy. Your feet barely lift off the uneven ground with every step you take.
Dried blood stains your face. Your armour doesn't look much better. The shield you are holding, has a big dent in it. The javelin in your right hand feels like it's made out of steel. The chainmail on your chest weighs heavier than usual.
"Marius!"
Your second in command shouts at you from the back.
"The women need a break!"
You sigh in annoyance. It's bad enough that you almost got your whole century killed. Now you have to delay your reunion with the rest of the legion because of those Gaul captives.
"We will take a short break."
You announce to your eighty legionaries and the twenty rebels you captured.
Spotting a small stream near by, you walk closer, while most of the soldiers sit on the ground, some are standing guard.
Taking off your helmet, you start to wash your face. The dried blood sticks to your skin. After some effort, you are just a little bit cleaner.
Another sigh leaves your lips as you kneel in place. In front of the small stream, your century in the back, looking into the deep forest.
You have lived a hard life. You were not born a Roman. Not born a free man. But you took your life into your own hands, instead of hoping for the mercy of the gods. Because gods don't have mercy. Only you can change your own destiny.
"Let's keep marching. We are almost there."
You go back to the front of the century, your men following your orders. Most of the Gaul rebels you captured are women and children. Their husbands and fathers killed by your swords and javelins.
Orders are orders. To kill or to be killed. These are the only two principles you live by. At least most of the time.
"Have you heard yet?"
Quintus asks from behind you, catching your attention. You silently wave for him to walk next to you. It's not necessarily the gossip you're interested in, but you did learn that it's important to know what is going on inside your century and the legion itself.
"Aelius fucked up some of his soldiers."
You raise your eyebrow while you keep walking. Nothing new there. Aelius is a spoiled son of a whore. He only became centurion in the tenth, because of his family's status. And he is usually unnecessarily brutal with his century.
"Reason?"
"They ate some of the extra rations we all got a week ago. Aelius said that they are meant for centurions only. Not for legionaries."
You have to stop yourself from spitting onto the muddy path you are walking on.
Aelius paints the perfect picture of the Roman nobility. Rich assholes. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"Did he kill someone again?"
Quintus shakes his head.
"But I heard that the premus pilus had a talk with him."
You let out a dry chuckle.
"All the centurions of the first cohort are the same. Do you really think he got in trouble?"
"No. But I thought you would be interested. It's not like you have very good connections with-"
"Shut it, fool."
It's not really a secret in the tenth legion that you and Aelius are bitter rivals. The two of you are the completely opposite of one another. A rich brat, who is the centurion of the third century in the first cohort. And you. The former slave, who climbed the ranks to be the centurion of the first century in the second cohort.
There aren't many ranks that separate the two of you. But making the jump into the first cohort as a former slave is nearly impossible.
Your century walks in almost complete silence for the next couple of hours. Despite being one of the most feared soldiers in the legion, you can't help but be cautious. In case there are more rebels lurking in the shadows of the large trees.
"Marius!"
The scout you send out to check the path ahead is jogging in your direction.
"We take another short break."
A light murmur of gratitude echoes through the ranks.
You wait for the young man, barely older than a boy, to reach the spot where you are standing.
"Someone seems to be traveling towards the camp. Our paths are going to cross, once we reach the small clearing ahead."
"Do you know who it is?"
"It looked like a person from the nobility. There was a carriage. And a couple of men with spears. Probably guards."
"We can't be too cautious. Titus!"
You shout for your second in command to walk to the front.
"Take your contubernia and make fast pace. I want to make sure that everything is going according to regulations."
"Yes, Marius."
The rest of the century starts marching at normal pace again, while the eight men rush ahead. The scout leading them towards the small crossroads.
"You know what's going on?"
You shake your head at Quintus' question.
"Might be a politician from Rome. Or a nobleman's wife."
"You know that that's against the law."
Of course everyone knows. It's illegal for a legionary to be married. And yet, some centurions always think that they are above the rest of the legion, when it comes to this kind of rules.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
An angry shout echoes around the forest, just as you and your men reach the small clearing.
The scout was right. A carriage, pulled by two grays, accompanied by a handful of men, armed with spears, and some servants.
An older woman is standing in front of the carriage's door, screaming at the poor Titus. Glancing over his shoulder, your optio rolls his eyes.
"Woman. Don't scream at a Roman legionary."
You make your presence known as you keep walking towards the middle of the clearing.
The servant, probably around forty to fifty years of age, looks at you with anger in her eyes.
"Do you even know, whom you are holding up?!"
"No."
You state bluntly, finally standing in front of her. Behind you, you can hear your men take their positions. Not to threaten the travelers, but to guard the area.
"Well, she is one of the most prestigious women in all of Rome."
"And what is a woman like her doing so far away from the city?"
"Visiting her husband."
You click your tongue. As far as you know, none of the centurions in the first cohort have wives. Which means, she must be the woman of a centurion, who ranks lower than you.
A smirk, which you can't suppress, plays around your lips. How are you able to enjoy a higher position than a noble in this republic?
You walk off without another word, leaving Titus in charge. There is no need to bother with this stuff. Some of the Gaul rebels fell a little behind earlier. You have to check on them. In case they are sick or badly injured.
"Her name?"
You hear Titus ask, before the woman let's out an exaggerated gasp.
"Sana Lucii."
You groan in annoyance. By Jupiter. Is this really his wife? Lucius Aelius? Just when you thought, you couldn't hate that man even more.
You despise men, who don't follow the law and rules of the republic and the legion. Of course, sometimes you can define them a little different for your own gains, but this is just breaking them.
Trying to stay calm, your fingers tap the pommel of your gladius. You don't hear a response from Titus. He must know which Lucius the old woman ment.
"Marius?"
He finally makes you turn around.
You walk back up towards the carriage, just as the door opens.
"By Bellona! What is taking so long!"
You have to say, you are amused by the woman's expression. You didn't expect her to call out for the goddess of war.
"Just doing our duty, lady."
Titus answers politely, although you know how hard it is for him to not lash out. He hates Aelius just as much as the next soldier. Especially, since he is your optio.
You are stunned, once the woman actually shows herself. Her beautiful face is slightly twisted with annoyance. Although, you would be sure that she could look like Venus herself, when she smiles.
She is wearing a turquoise stola, which also covers her brown hair. The thin material enables you to have a look at her white tunic underneath. Her skin looks flawless and pure. A golden necklace adorns her neck and collarbone. It's probably worth more than a whole year of your salary.
An image of a goddess.
"I hope we can speed up this process. I'm supposed to be by my husband's side."
Lucky bastard.
"Please. Speak respectfully with my legionaries."
Her gaze meets yours. You can feel your heart skipping a beat. Not one woman has looked as pretty as she does. Not one.
"Who are you to lecture me on speaking?"
"Salve."
Your fist meats the blood stained chainmail on your chest.
Maybe, if you behave respectfully, so does she. The army is for her protection after all.
"My name is Marius. And-"
"What's your first name, centurion?"
A cute smile suddenly plays around her lips. Maybe this will get her out of here faster.
"Gaius."
"I see, Gaius. I'm sure you have more important things to do than stop me from traveling further? My husband must be waiting for me."
If she didn't know better, Sana could swear that she caught a glint of hate in your eyes.
"This is protocol. We have to check on everyone, who approaches the camp."
"I'm a noble woman. Can't you make an exception for me?'
You don't fall for her sweet smile. You are on duty. Not even Venus herself could distract you. Well, maybe a little bit.
"Your choice. Here, or at the gate in front of even more legionaries. Like everyone else."
That last part makes her glare at you. You won this round.
Not waiting for a response, you gesture for your men to search the woman's belongings. Your Imperial legate has more than enough enemies in Rome to be cautious of. And you don't want him to end up dead inside his own camp. Even if she is allegedly Aelius' wife.
Quintus nods in your direction after going through her belongings, signaling that everything is alright.
"We will accompany you on your way to the camp. We are on our way back, anyway."
You turn around without looking at Sana again. A signal for your men to get into formation.
It feels like she stares at your back for a second longer, before you hear the door close behind you. You don't like the Roman nobility. At all. There is only one man you are willing to follow.
After two more hours of marching, your century and the noblewoman's entourage finally reach the camp's gate.
"The village, where the senior officers are staying, is right behind the camp. You can't miss it."
The older woman, who screamed at Titus earlier, still looks at you as if she is holding a grudge.
"I hope you enjoy your stay in these wonderful lands, lady."
You raise your voice a little, making sure that Sana can hear you. It drips with sarcasm and you can hear Quintus chuckle behind you.
"Vale."
With a dismissive wave of your hand, you walk past the old servant. Her shock at your rudeness visible on her face.
Already making your way past the guards, you can't hear Sana's scoff.
Who are you to talk to her like that? If she is gonna tell her husband about this, you are going to be in trouble for sure.
Sana will never be able to get used to this. She was able to decide that, immediately after she stepped out of her carriage. It took her only a couple of steps to enter the small house her husband is living in right now. But that was enough for her already.
Nothing here looks like Rome. Even the legionaries look out of place. And their shouts and the sounds of shields and stuff isn't what she hears when she is home. Sana is already missing the comfortable house with the atrium. She likes to bathe in the sun throughout the day, while sipping on a really good wine.
"You're late."
Lucius doesn't even look up from his small table as he hears his wife coming in.
"That's how you great me after a year?"
"You know how I value punctuality."
"Out of my hands. Some centurion insisted on searching my luggage. He was really rude."
Now Lucius is looking at her. Sana knows that he can't stand someone disrespecting him. And when she gets disrespected, it goes deeper. He is affected as well.
"Who?"
She can see his eyes becoming a little darker. He bites his lip, maybe trying to prevent himself from shouting.
"His name is Garius Marius. I think?"
"That son of a whore. How does a slave dare to stop you?"
Now, Sana feels shame run down her spine. If she knew that he was born a slave, she would've hit him for talking to her like that. No matter his rank, he is and will always be beneath her. Once a slave, always a slave.
"I swear to Jupiter. One day in battle, I will..."
Lucius takes a deep breath, before focusing back on his wife.
"We are eating dinner with the Imperial legate, the leader of these legions tomorrow, and the senior generals. I expect you to impress them."
"I'd be happy to, love."
Sana almost spits out that last word, but Lucius doesn't seem to notice. He sits back down, opening an envelope. She can see how his eyebrows are still furrowed. He won't let this incident pass without consequences.
Sana eventually leaves the house to explore the small town and it's market. Despite being married to Lucius, she can't stay around him for too long. She is only his wife, because of his money and connections. As soon as she can find someone better...
Sana feels a little dizzy as she steps out of the big house. Lucius told her to be on her best behavior. But that idiot was behaving the worst throughout the dinner.
She hated how calm and reserved the other centurion was, the man who stopped her. He was the lowest ranking soldier and yet, everyone listened to his advice and thoughts about future and past battles. And how is he on a first name basis with the imperial legate? And why is Lucius too incapable to enjoy the same treatment? How can he do worse than a slave?
Sana holds onto the wall, standing right next to the entrance. Suddenly, two men walk out the door. They don't see her because it's dark. She tries to find out who they are. The first one is a little taller, while the second has broader shoulders and looks more muscular.
"We can't do this forever, Gaius. We need a plan to wipe him out. I expect you to help me with that."
"Of course, Gaius."
Sana almost groans in annoyance. Of course it's that Gaius Marius. And the other one is the Imperial legate. Gaius Julius Caesar.
"Rome is an empire. We will defeat Vercingetorix sooner rather than later. His supporters will crumble soon."
"You did a good job today, centurion. You've proven once again, why you rightfully carry the name I gave you. Gaius Marius Antonius."
Sana assumes they are talking about some barbarian leader. But Caesar gave him that cognomen? She can't help but wonder what he must've done to be called "priceless".
"You know the political situation in Rome. The more time I waste conquering Gaul, the more powerful my enemies become."
"I swear to Mars. I will cut down anyone who tries to oppose you, Gaius."
She sees Caesar put a hand on the centurion's shoulder.
"It's only a matter of time, until you will be one of the Tribuni angusticlavii, leading the tenth legion into battle. And I will make sure, you will eventually become a rich senator."
Sana has heard enough. It's so disgusting to her. A slave becoming a senator. She is working so hard to become the most powerful woman in Rome. And with that in the whole empire. How can that lowlife become something better than she herself? Sana either needs to push Lucius further up the ranks, or she needs to find someone, who can match Marius' new found status.
Sana groans in relief, when she can finally leave the small village. It's not like someone forbid her to leave, but there just wasn't something to do in and outside the village. What was she gonna do in a forest? A very dangerous one at that?
But now, she heard of a big market place around two hours away. Sana is still looking to buy some oils and pottery. She could do that in Rome of course, but she is hoping to find them cheaper in their land of origin.
Looking out of her carriage, Sana leaves behind the village and the big camp right next to it. The constant noise made her head spin. Not that Rome isn't loud, but this is something else.
After about an hour, Sana hears a troop of men marching in front of her. She became familiar with that sound after a few days. She doesn't look outside, despite being curious. Why would a century be here? The battles would take place in the opposite direction. Right?
Sana hears how the carriage passes the back of the century. The heavy steps of the legionaries kick up some dust. Her old servant looks outside, curious herself.
"It's him again."
The older woman grimaces, before letting the curtain drop back into place.
"Who?"
"The man who stopped us a couple of days ago."
Sana's attention is now on the men outside. She remembers the conversation you had with Caesar.
"Really?"
She pretends to be cold, not wanting to get caught. After having seen you around a couple of times, the young noble woman is unsure on how to feel about you.
Yes, you are a former slave. A peasant. But you are also a great centurion. A trusted man to Julius Caesar.
Despite being not the highest ranking officer, Sana did notice how the other men look at you. She catches an occasional whisper of your brave actions in battle. She sees the men greet you with almost too much respect. Even the other centurions seem to want to be on your good side.
Maybe that's what Sana has to do too. In order to further climb up the ladder. It is risky. And it's still a long time in the future. But if Caesar can really make his ambitions reality, you will be one of the first people who benefit from it. And if Sana plays her cards well, she can benefit too.
For a moment, she wonders what a man like you would need. Something she could have to bargain with. Money? You probably earn quite a lot already. Especially compared to your earlier environment. Land? You will get that too, if you stay long enough in the army. A wife? You are a soldier. You are not allowed to be married.
As Sana is still pondering on what to do to convince you to help her gain more power, she gets closer towards the front of the century.
And it's not like she doesn't have influence. She could maybe even get you a promotion into the first cohort. Of course without her husband finding out.
Sana draws back the curtain a little with only one finger. Just a few meters ahead, she can see you walking.
Your helmet is decorated by a big crest of red horse hair. The back of the helmet and the rest of your armor shimmer in the light of the sun. She remembers your first encounter. Your armor was full with blood, indicating that you were more than able to fight a battle.
You turn around as you hear horses behind you. It wouldn't have been a surprise. One of the auxilia officers could be taking his men out to train.
Surprised at the sight of the carriage, you catch a glimpse of the passenger. Her eyes meet yours, a big golden ring decorates the finger that holds back the curtain. You could swear you see a small hint of a smile play around her lips.
"Salve."
You great her by hitting your armored chest with your fist. Not because you like her, but out of politeness.
"Salve, centurion."
Her passive aggressive mentioning of your rank indicates that she is still not over that incident a couple of days ago.
"Are you visiting the market?"
"I am. I suppose you are not here to buy pottery?"
A mocking smile replaces the earlier one.
"It may sound unbelievable, but I'm not."
A cute chuckle escapes her mouth.
"Well, I hope you enjoy this beautiful day."
Is she still mocking you, because you are on duty? You are not sure, but you can see her lazily wave goodbye as the carriage drives past you.
"Don't get too close to her. She is only gonna be trouble."
You look at Quintus.
"I'm merely being polite. I don't need trouble with angry nobles. At least not now."
"By Jupiter. One might think you've become a responsible, grown man now."
"Fuck off."
You raise your hand, but Quintus ducks away, avoiding a potential slap.
Only listening with one ear to the conversation next to you, you scan the market for the young noble woman. Despite her attitude and the fact that she is married, you can't help but glance at her occasionally. Plus, the market isn't as safe as it might seem. Cunning merchants, thiefs and rebels might roam the place, ready to strike at any moment. And being a beautiful Roman woman makes her one of the most desirable targets right now.
"Listen, Roman! I barely sell anything! How do you expect me to pay your unreasonable taxes?!"
"Shut it."
You turn back to the stall holder. Titus' and his conversation got heated.
"We are not hear to argue. We are here to collect taxes."
The man grits his teeth.
"I'm telling you! I don't have anything to give away!"
The other people around you look at the scene, before walking past. Only you and a couple of legionaries are here. The rest of your century is patrolling another village nearby and the rest of the market, making sure you are not getting ambushed.
"Don't scream at me, old man. Pay up."
"I don't have a fucking coin!"
You know he is lying. You saw someone buy his fabric from a far as you entered the marketplace. And, judging by the money bag he held earlier, it wasn't cheap at all.
"We can do this the easy way, or the heard way."
You take a step forward, towering above him.
"But the hard way won't end well for you."
"I already told you, I-"
You let your head fall back in annoyance. Collecting taxes is a necessity. Not something to be proud of. It's not as honorable as fighting in battle.
"Do you really want to go this far?"
You look down at him again, your hand now resting on the pommel of your gladius.
He caught the movement of your hand, worry creeping onto his features.
"What is it gonna be? Your life? Or coin?"
The old man is not stupid. And a couple of moments later, you walk away from his stall. The tinkle behind you indicates, that Titus is adding the silver denarii into the bag with the rest of the already collected money.
"Are you trying to rob me, old man? You are a con artist!"
Women screaming at a merchant are as common as clouds under the sky, so you don't pay much attention to it as you hear someone scream.
"How can you demand so much for this lousy work?"
You keep walking, although you kinda feel, like you heard this voice before. It sounds oddly familiar.
"By Bellona! I'm going to have you beaten for your rudeness!"
And there it is. With an annoyed groan, you immediately recognize, who is disturbing the rather peaceful market.
If she was a common local woman, you would've kept walking. The Galli could solve their own disputes.
But Sana is, as unfortunate as it is, not a local. She is a Roman woman. A member of the elite even.
You take a deep breath, before walking towards her screams. You can already guess whom she is screaming at.
"Keep going."
You tell Titus over your shoulder, as you approach her from behind. Her servant must have stayed with the carriage, because Sana is standing in front of the stall of the potter all alone.
Before the young woman can scream another word, you grab her arm.
"What-"
You spin her around and walk away, pulling her with you.
"What do you think you are doing?!"
"Silence."
You didn't say it in a loud voice, but your tone makes her go silent.
After a couple of meters, you stop, turning around to look at her.
"You're welcome."
"Excuse you?"
Her hands now rest on her hips. You can't help but catch how slender her waist seems to be.
"I just saved you from embarrassing yourself even further. You owe me."
You turn away, ready to reunite with Titus and your men.
"What the-"
It's now Sana's turn to grab your arm, stopping you from leaving.
"I don't owe you shit."
"Really?"
You turn to look at her again.
"Your temper is as bad as your observation skills. Minerva would strike you down for your utter incompetence."
You said the words, before you thought about them. You are aggravated. Because of the merchant earlier, because of her causing a scene, because of Lucius (as always) and because of her being his wife. Alright, maybe that last one was a little jealousy.
"How dare you? You are some rude-"
You stop her from saying another word by grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around.
"Look. Look and tell me what you see."
"What are you talking about?"
You see her frowning. An act that makes her beautiful face a little less flawless.
"Tell me what's going on."
You realize you are using the same tone as with the men during training. Harsh, straight forward, a little condescending. But not rude. Just factual.
"The merchant is still selling his stupidly expensive pottery."
You don't answer, waiting for more.
Sana, visibly annoyed, struggles against your grip for a moment, before giving in. You are a seasoned legionnaire. There is no way she is gonna get out of your hold on her.
"There are a couple of women and men who browse his items."
"Keep going."
"Someone is buying a bowl and an amphora."
"What is the woman on the right doing?"
"She is paying for her stuff. What-"
"Can you see how much she is paying?"
"Way too much for a stupid-"
"Do you see any of the locals complaining?"
Sana hesitantly shakes her head.
"Do you know the reason?"
"Because they are stupid. In Rome it's cheap-"
"We aren't in Rome, woman. This is Gaul."
You stand behind her, both of you silent for a couple of moments. You give her time to think about the possible reason. Although she is probably just complaining about you to the gods in silence.
"They all pay the price he demands, because he and his work are respected here."
"But they look-"
"Yeah. Some of his pieces aren't pretty."
You admit that.
"But he is an old man. His hands aren't as good as they used to be. He is obviously regarded with a decent amount of respect."
You gesture for Sana to look around the market.
"Most of the people here bargain over every single item. Food, cloth, tools and even pottery."
You turn her back towards the old man's stall.
"But not there. They respect him too much to try to get a better price. His work might not be the very best anymore, but his skill is known by everyone here."
Sana groans in annoyance and anger as she sees you coming out of the biggest tent of the camp. A week has gone by, since you treated her like a child at the market. Her blood still boils, whenever she sees you from a far.
She decided against telling her husband, not wanting to cause unnecessary friction. And if you have the favor of Caesar, it might be a bad idea to egg on her husband.
And Sana is still debating on your ability to help her seize more power. She is ready to do anything to get to the top. Even if it means working together with someone as low born as you.
Sana stops in her tracks as she sees her husband walk towards you.
"Aelius."
You don't greet him like any other lower ranking centurion would. The young woman can feel the tension between the two men, despite standing barely in earshot.
"Marius."
His face shows a disapproving twitch.
"It seems like we are catching up to Vercingetorix. I hope you don't make any mistakes in battle. I would hate to lose a lower ranking officer."
You click your tongue, taking a step forward.
With the two of you standing right in front of each other, Sana realizes that you are bigger than her husband. Not just in statue, but also in the way you carry yourself. With slightly less arrogance and more discipline.
"Don't worry about me, Aelius. As you know, I always make sure my men are taken care off."
Sana feels a shiver run down her spine. She heard more than enough stories about the battles of the tenth legion since she joined her husband. The amount of times that you were mentioned in one of them was noticeably high.
The young woman heard of a battle two summers ago. You weren't a centurion at the time. Merely a soldier of the second cohort. But in battle, your centurion chose to let his men die, while he stayed behind, watching his century getting slaughtered. After half of the eighty men were dead, you walked straight towards the cowardly centurion. A nobleman, which the storyteller didn't fail to mention with a hint of disgust. Your gladius seperated his head from his shoulders in one swift motion and you took command of the second century until the end of the battle. Caesar honored your bravery and agreed with your actions. Instead of getting executed, you got promoted.
"Are you implying I'm not leading my men well?"
Sana hears you chuckle.
"News travel fast among the younger men, Aelius."
"Maybe you should discipline your soldiers like I do. Your century is a disgrace to the tenth legion."
"Nugas garris. You are pathetic."
You walk off, leaving him behind.
Sana almost expects her husband to draw his gladius. How can you call him a disgrace? And idiot? He is higher ranking than you and he is a member of the elite.
But Aelius just watches you leave, before entering the tent you just came out of.
That short interaction reminds Sana of the power you actually hold. You might not be the highest officer, but almost the whole legion treats you as such. If it wasn't for your low birth, you might have been able to be the centurion of the first century of the first cohort.
Sana's decision is slowly forming in her mind. A plan to gain more power than she has right now. Siding with you might be risky. But the rewards could be great.
Sana glances at you from across the room as you stare at Caesar, who is currently talking. She is still not quite sure what she can offer you to make you join her side. But when the leader of the legion mentions the nobility in his speech, she sees your expression change for just a second. It is obvious that you hate all the wealthy and arrogant men and women. Maybe Sana can offer you something to get back at them. Or at least get back at Aelius.
"And that's why the tenth legion outshines any other. Your bravery and honor are praised throughout the whole empire. Rome is grateful for what you have done. And the gods smile down at the men, who give their lifes to the republic."
Caesar ends his speech. And with that, the long meal is finally over. It is night time already. Only the moon and the stars still shine.
You walk out of the large tent, ready to sleep. It has been a long day and there is no doubt that you will be fighting soon. Caesar's promise to promote you to such a high position still rings in your ears. You can't believe you've come this far.
"Gaius."
Her sweet voice makes you stop in front of your tent. She doesn't sound as angry as she usually does.
"Yes?"
You turn around, standing face to face with Sana.
"I'm here to ask you for something."
You look at her, waiting for an explanation.
"I heard that you are the bravest and most powerful man in this legion. At least unofficially."
You raise an eyebrow.
"Where is all of this honey suddenly coming from?"
Sana gives you a melodic chuckle. Only now do you realize how close she is standing. Her oils make you breath in the flowery air that surrounds her.
"I want to strike a deal with you."
"What would you want from such a low ranking officer like me?"
Your sarcasm makes it hard for Sana to not lash out. Just because she needs you, doesn't mean that she likes you.
"As far as I've heard, you won't be a low ranking officer for long."
"Is that so?"
You cross your arms in front of your chest.
"Well, it's actually quite simple. You have something I want. And I have something you want."
"I highly doubt that."
You watch Sana turn her head left and right, making sure that no one is around.
"There is a always something a man wants from a woman."
You are surprised at what she is suggesting.
"Judging by the look on your face, I can comfortably say that I'm right."
You shake your head, which seems harder than usual.
"Have you never thought about having your way with me? A noble woman?"
She takes another step closer. Now, Sana's sandals are touching yours.
"A married one at that? I bet you would love to destroy my husband. This could be your first step to success."
You narrow your eyes, still unsure of what to do. You've never been in this kind of situation. Is she making fun of you? Did Aelius put her up to this, setting a trap for you? Or is she genuine?
"What would you get in return?"
"Your power. Your influence. I can't live, knowing that another person might have more power than I do. I need to be at the top of the republic."
"And you think, I can get you there?"
Sana nods.
"With my support? Definitely."
She looks at you, waiting for a response.
You are still torn. She has a nice body, yes. But you're not fond of her attitude. She is a noble woman. And she is married. Getting caught would have serious consequences. For the both of you.
But the chance to use her? A noble woman? Fucking her, while her husband is only sleeping a couple of tents away? More than just tempting.
You look around the camp yourself. No one in sight.
"Get in."
A victorious smile forms on her lips. As she walks past you, she lets her finger glide over your armoured chest.
You follow her immediately after.
"Now that we have come to an agreement, I-"
You push Sana forward, bending her over the wooden table.
"What-"
You don't give her time to speak. If you're going to do this, you're going to do this quickly.
Hiking up her red stola, you reach underneath her tunic. The smoothness of her legs makes you hard as you reach between them.
"It seems like you are enjoying this more than I expected."
Your fingers graze her lower lips. She is not just a little wet.
"Hey, I didn't give you permission to-"
You shut Sana up by covering her mouth with your other hand.
"I don't need you permission. I'm going to ruin you anyway."
Her gasp is muffled by your hand as you push your first finger inside.
You haven't slept with a lot of women, the army being mainly responsible for that. Nonetheless, you do know how to pleasure a woman.
Sana's moan escapes between your fingers as your digits slide along her wet walls. Her pussy is already gripping them tightly.
If it weren't for your hand, her head would've sunk onto the table already. But you are holding her in place, which ultimately makes her arch her back.
She tries to say something, but your grip on her mouth makes it impossible for her to speak properly.
You are surprised at how wet Sana is.
"Was your desire for power just an excuse? Do you just want me to fuck you?"
She tries to shake her head. You don't let her.
"Do you get off, knowing that a lower born man is fucking you?"
Sana is unable to respond, when you let go off her face. Her whole upper body is now lying on top of the table. You drop your belt and hike her clothes up a little further.
"Don't get confused. I still don't like you."
Sana's growl doesn't sound very convincing with your fingers inside of her.
"Might be true. But you aren't married to Aelius because of his personality anyways."
Pulling your fingers out of her core makes Sana moan loudly. She blushes in shame. Doubt starting to rise inside of her. Is she really only doing this to team up with you?
"You only seem to care for power."
"So? Only a coward wouldn't want power."
You shut her up by letting your tip graze against her lips. Sana hisses through her teeth, unwilling to moan again.
"I'm just curious about how far you would be willing to go. How dedicated you are to this cause."
"Don't worry. I'm ready to do anything."
"Anything?"
You raise an eyebrow, which Sana can't see.
"Anything."
"That's reassuring."
Your nonchalant tone makes Sana shiver.
Finally, you push inside of her.
"Fuck, woman."
You can't help but marvel at how tight she actually is.
"Fuck me already."
It's a mixture of plea and demand.
With one hand you grab her hair, pushing her cheek against the wooden surface. Your other hand holds her waist.
Another moan escapes Sana's lips as you thrust forward. Before she can react, you pull back and push inside of her again.
After just a couple of seconds, you start to fuck her hard. The table rocks back and forth with every thrust. Her moans escape her lips, whenever you bottom out inside of her.
"Harder!"
Sana holds onto the edge of the table, her knuckles slowly starting to turn white.
Because you keep pushing her upwards with your thrusts, the young woman's feet eventually dangle in the air.
You are now able to fuck her even deeper. Her moans become louder when she feels your cock invading her pussy even further.
At this point, Sana is merely a hole for you to fuck. She doesn't move. Only your thrusts rock her body back and forth. The thin material of her clothes makes Sana's nipples rub against the wooden surface. They've become hard due to her arousal and are now adding to the pleasure she is already feeling.
"So good!"
She moans yet again. You suddenly realize, that this isn't really a save place to be this loud.
"Shut up."
You growl into her ear, trying to quiet her.
But Sana can't help it. She has already lost control over her body. Your cock is parting her walls again and again, making her clench around it tightly.
She is even unable to produce a disappointed whine, when you stop fucking her. You leaver her snug pussy, before getting her off your table.
Turning her around, you push Sana against the wooden post, which is holding up the roof of your tent. Reaching for your belt, you hold her arms up, before tying them together.
Sana is now unable to leave. You pick up her light frame, making her impale herself on your cock.
"By Bellona! Fuck!"
"I told you to stay quiet."
Your faces are barely an inch apart.
Because you push her body against the post, you are able to lift her up with only your left hand. Your right one moves upwards to wrap its fingers around her throat.
"One more word..."
You let the threat of unknown punishment linger in the air for a moment.
But you can't hold yourself back for long. Sana's pussy drips her juices onto your cock, coaxing you into resuming your pounding.
A whimper escapes her mouth, when you start to fuck her again. You can tell she is at least trying to stay quiet this time. While you make her bounce on your cock, you thrust upwards. It makes her eyes roll back, whenever she feels your cock pushing against her guts.
"Venus!"
A louder sigh escapes her mouth yet again. You close your fingers around her throat a little further.
"Behave."
The conflict in Sana's eyes amuses you.
She should be the one in charge. She is the noble one of the two of you after all. But here she is, bound to your post, your hand around her throat as you fuck her as hard as you can.
Sana tries to fight the belt, wanting to tell you that you have to choke her harder. She can't keep quiet when you fuck her like this.
Another moan escapes her lips and you tighten your grip yet again.
"I warned you."
You hiss into her face.
Sana's wide eyes look beautiful. The way she stares at you, begging you to fuck her harder, while she tries her best not to make any noise.
But she fails miserably. A loud sigh echoes through the tent.
Without a word, you reach upwards. The sound of metal on metal cuts through the night as you pull your pugio out of its sheath. You let Sana get a good look at it. Then, you slowly part her lips with its blade.
"If you don't want to hurt your pretty face..."
You don't continue your sentence once more. But Sana is well aware of the risks.
With your dagger in her mouth, Sana has to pull back her lips, while simultaneously biting onto the blade, to make sure it doesn't fall or hurt her.
You see her closing her eyes as you keep fucking her. She is now really quiet, focused on keeping your pugio in place.
"Finally. Your voice so annoying."
Sana blushes in shame, able to see your honesty in your eyes.
"At least you have a nice body. I could fuck you every day."
The young woman almost lets out another moan. She really has to hold herself back. This was the first time someone reduced her to nothing but a wet hole to fuck. She didn't expect it to feel this good.
You suddenly hear footsteps outside. You stop moving, almost making Sana whine in disappointment, but then she hears it too. The two of you hold your breath. Neither of you wanting to get caught.
As the footsteps disappear into the night, you resume your fucking.
You make Sana bounce up and down on your cock. She glides along its full length. Whenever you impale her on it, Sana's eyes shoot wide open. She would scream if it wasn't for the dagger between her teeth.
"I'm gonna cum."
You hiss into her face, unable to hold back longer. Her tight pussy has been working on draining your cock this whole time. It feels perfect, almost too good to pull out. But cuming inside is obviously not an option.
You put Sana back onto her own two feet, taking the knife out of her mouth. Undoing your belt, you free her arms. Sana drops to her knees, opening her mouth. You catch a couple drops of blood on the corners of her mouth, before she wraps her lips around your cock.
Your pugio falls out of your hand and you take a fistful of her beautiful hair. Her eyes look up at you, telling you to finish inside her mouth. Her tongue glides over every inch of your cock it can find, while her lips are tightly sealed around it.
"Sana."
You manage to groan her name, before you unload inside her mouth. You feel dizzy, having to close your eyes for a moment.
When you open them again, you see Sana gulping down your cum.
"How often do we need to do this, so that we have a deal?"
"I think you know the answer."
It's so dark that Sana's face is barely lit by the torch outside. You could swear a small smile plays around her lips though.
#kpop#kpop smut#kpop girls#kpop gg#male reader#twice sana#twice#sana minatozaki#sana twice#sana smut#sana#twice smut
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"And so when one begins to write or speak about Palestine, it is tempting to look at loss and only loss, and to find in this loss a plea for survival. We have suffered a lot, we say to those who will listen, we have suffered enough. Too often our suffering is reported without a culprit, our anguished cries exist outside of history and politics. We have no national aspirations, no land to cultivate. Our existence is purely mechanistic — we are reminded, through policy and procedure, that we are unfortunately born to die. And in our deterministic march to the grave, we encounter each other as unlucky strangers, frail and futureless.
But there is — and always has been — more to our reality. We are, without a doubt, subjects of conquest and colonization, products of circumstance, but we are also so much more than that. At every turn of our bloodied history, we have been brutalized, bereaved, dispossessed, exiled, starved, slaughtered and imprisoned, but we have, to the world’s dismay, refused to submit. For every massacre and invasion, there have been and there are now men and women who pick up their weapons, makeshift and sophisticated — Molotovs, rifles, slingshots, rockets — to fight. There has always been struggle, there has always been jasmine."
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The Body Wearing Convention - Las Vegas
The BWA (Body Wearing Alliance) was formed 20 years ago when the internet was just starting to get popular. Those born with the rare ability of reducing people into wearable skins didn't knew there was more like them out there, but with the help of the internet they started to find others with the same ability, and soon it was created the BWC (Body Wearing Convention)
The Body Wearing Convention is a clandestine event that happens a few times every year, hidden from the prying eyes of the public, It is a secret event where they can gather, share stories, and find solace in the knowledge that they aren't alone in their power.
The BWC happens in a different country every time, for safety reasons, and the main two rules to participate in the convention is: To be a Skinwalker (That's how they call themselves) and to wear the body of a local from that place, that means you can't bring with yourself skins from home.
Currently the secret Alliance is made up of 130 men around the world. But among these 130 members, there are 10 men who are very close friends with each other, they all share one thing in common: They are all gay.
Surprisingly they are the only gay guys of the entire Alliance, while all the others sought power and money, these 10 friends only care about getting hard in a new sexy body, It was like a sport for them. That's why they created an online group chat, where they can talk and share pictures of their current bodies with each other.
The location of the BWC this time is: USA - Las Vegas.
The 10 friends all arrived individually at the city in an early Friday, the convention would occur during the weekend, so they had to find a new skin quickly, and so they went straight on a hunt for a random local body.
Think of the BWC as the Met Gala, but for people who can turn you into a wearable hollow fleshsuit in a blink. There was this unspoken competition among them, to see who was wearing the hottest or richest skin, and this group of friends clearly didn't care about the last one...
_______________________________________
Carl is a 46 years old married gay man, he is part of the BWA for 17 years, and there is nothing Carl love more than wearing the bodies of fit straight guys. His husband knows he's a skinwalker and is totally fine with it. But because his husband is not a skinwalker, he is not allowed to go to the conventions, so Carl always travels alone.
(Friday, March 1st. 8:19 AM) Carl Sent A Photo
Carl: I just turned this hot Latino stud in the hotel parking lot. He was walking towards his car while talking on the phone with his girlfriend. That's when I slowly walked behind him and turned him. What do you guys think? Do I wear him well?
Harold: You're looking so hot. You always pick the most hottest guys.
Elijah: Wow, you already found a body? That was fast.
Joel: He's not that impressive, I would give him a 6/10 lol
Elijah: Stop being a jerk Joel. This guy is clearly a 9/10
Carl: Don't mind him Elijah, he's just jealous of my pick.
Joel: He's not really my type, today I'm looking for a sexy tough looking guy to wear.
Peter: Hot choice of skin Carl! Show us his dick please!
Carl: You will have to wait until the Convention to see it. But i'm telling you, he's really big and thick, I know you're gonna love sucking it.
_______________________________________
David is 34 years old and he is part of the BWA for 13 years.
He first found out about his ability when his homophobic stepbrother was trying to beat him up, David closed his eyes and tried to protect his head, but when he opened his eyes, he saw his hot stepbrother lying on the floor completely deflated. David had the most fun years living the life of his douchebag of a stepbrother, until one day, his stepbrother just "disappeared"
(Friday, March 1st. 9:46 AM) David Sent A Photo:
David: I made two new bodysuits. I saw the handsome blond one at the hotel's pool, he was trying to seduce some girls by showing off his hot body, he just didn't knew he was actually seducing a skinwalker. To get him, I first had to convert this cute room service attendant, after I put him on, I got access to his room and walked inside. I think I'm going to use the attendant tonight for some fun.
Elijah: Oh, the good old room service method. It works every time.
David: It was you who taught me this method back in 2011 when I was still a new member of the BWA.
Damian: It brings back good memories from that one time where we all stayed at the same hotel in the 2011 Convention. Good times.
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Peter Is a 40 years old gay bottom who love to turn big hunky men into Bodysuits and act like a slut in their bodies. He is part of the Body Wearing Alliance for 9 years.
(Friday, March 1st. 11:28 AM) Peter Sent A Photo:
Peter: Do I look cute? This is Ramón, I turned him at an alley while he was jogging, he's a bodybuilder. I'm gonna make such a good use of his muscles. I'm sure you guys are going to love the muscles in his ass the most.
Joel: I love how you always pick the most biggest guys.
Daniel: I feel bad for this poor bastard, of all the Skinwalkers, he was picked by the most perverted one.
Peter: lol
Carl: He's huge. I'm going to enjoy burying my new thick latino dick in your bodybuilder's ass.
Harold: I really like his pecs. I want to suck on them when we meet tomorrow.
Peter: It's always the pecs for you isn't, Harold? lol
Harold: You're not lying. Actually I just saw this hot guy at the mall and he seems to have very big pecs. I'm going to follow him.
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Harold is a 28 years old scrawny gay man, he has no muscle definition, but he love pecs and it was what he first looked for in a body: Their huge pecs. If the guy didn't had two big meaty pecs, he wound't want them.
He went to the local LA mall to hunt for a body, he knew that the mall was always the perfect place for hunting skins. And he was proven just right when he saw this big and tall hunk walk inside a clothing store. Harold smirked as he entered the store and followed the man.
(Friday, March 1st. 1:05 PM) Harold Sent A Photo:
Harold: Who want some milk boys? Daddy got all the milkers now.
Peter: Oh my god, look at the size of these tits. I will let you suck on Ramón's tits if you let me suck yours.
Harold: This sounds like a good deal.
Carl: Very nice choice of skin! Good job, Harold.
Peter: Can you send a video of you playing with those hairy tits and pinching his nipples? Please?
(1:15 PM, Harold Sent A 20 Seconds Video To The Group Chat)
In the vídeo he was in the middle of the store, squeezing his new pair of meaty hairy pecs, he lifted one of them and let go, watching them bounce, then he pinched his left nipple and let out a deep loud moan. Without feeling any shame for being in a public space. It wasn't technically him who was being humiliated in public, so he didn't cared.
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Damian and Rashad are a black gay couple (47, 49) they have been together for 11 years and they both had met each other during a Body Wearing Convention back in 2013. It was very known to everyone that they only turned white men into Bodysuits, it was their favorite type of skins. So there was no diversity in their Bodysuit closet, only white men.
(Friday, March 1st. 3:07 PM) Damian Sent A Photo:
Damian: You guys know how Rashad and I love to hunt white boys, so what better place to find some white skins than at the LA beach? We saw this group of young frat boys surfing and we converted these two 19 years olds, they were just the most handsome ones in their group. Turns out they are twin brothers.
David: This is such a hot pair, and the fact they are brothers makes it even more hot!
Carl: I want to fuck the long haired one with my thick latino dick while I pull his hair.
Damian: I like this Idea. His long hair would be great to use as a handle for a hard fuck. I might even try It later tonight.
David: Send us a video if you do.
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Joel is the youngest one of the group, at only 19 he already has a count of 86 Bodysuits, and he's part of the Body Wearing Alliance for only 1 year. That's why, the BWA leader tasked Elijah, a veteran in the art of wearing bodies, to watch for Joel and not let the young man expose their secret society.
(Friday, March 1st. 5:14 PM) Joel Sent A Photo:
Joel: My new bodysuit is still deflating. I can't wait to finally wear him and show him to you guys. He's so hot.
Carl: You gave my bodysuit a 7/10, so he better be a 10/10.
Isaac: Wow he's packing.
Harold: When he deflate, please send us a pic of you in him. I want to see if his front looks as good as his back side.
(Friday, March 1st. 5:40 PM) Joel Sent A Photo:
Joel: I'm inside him now. I saw this sexy daddy at the hotel's bar. I waited for him to go to his room and then I followed him, as soon as he opened the door I converted him, right there at the door's entrance, I mean, of course he took a bit longer to deflate, so I had to drag him inside. I actually wanted to wear a scary looking soldier that I saw at the bar, but Elijah didn't let me. Still, I'm very glad with my pick.
Harold: Holly fuck!!!
Peter: He's a very sexy bodysuit. Wish I was there to give him a very special room service.
Carl: Where is Elijah by the way? Should he not be with you?
Joel: Elijah Is outside, I don't know where he went, but he said he was going to be back soon.
Carl: Did he picked a bodysuit already?
Joel: Yes he did, a young and hot fuckboy. Let me send a pic of him.
Joel Sent A Photo:
Joel: This is the body Elijah picked to wear at the convention tomorrow. I think he got this one at the hotel's bathroom maybe? I'm not sure. I hope he don't mind that I'm wearing his brand new skin.
Elijah: Boy, you're in big trouble!
Joel: Shit, I'm sorry, I thought you wouldn't mind. I'm gonna take him off.
Elijah: Don't you dare taking him off, I'm not going to wear him anymore, I found a better body to wear tomorrow. wait for me, I'm getting up there right now.
(Friday, March 1st. 6:22 PM) Elijah Sent A Photo:
Elijah: You don't want to disobey me in my new body, boy, so you better be on your knees when I get inside, I'm horny and this guy have big balls full of cum.
Joel: Yes sir!
Peter: Oh yes sir indeed!
Carl: lol you're fucked Joel.
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Isaac is a 24 years old gay man, and like everyone else in this group, he was addicted to wearing hunky men. He is more reserved and shy, and don't talk much in the group chat. However, he enjoys jerking off while viewing the photos his friends would send to the group chat.
He might be the most shy and reserved in the group, but once he's wearing a handsome hunk, he becomes a whole new different person, a more dominant and cocky one.
(Friday, March 1st. 8:37 PM) Isaac Sent A Photo:
Isaac: Seeing you guys wearing such hot bodies is getting me so freaking hard. I can't wait for tomorrow. I got this one at the gym's lockerroom. Who wants to take care of my boner?
Peter: I do! I want to get on my knees in Ramón's body and let you use his slutty mouth.
Harold: You're looking so damn hot, Isaac, good pick.
Carl: Was you working out? Your skin looks very sweaty.
Isaac: I was. I wanted to test out my new muscles.
Carl: Great. Can't wait for the convention tomorrow, where we can finally see each other's bodies in person and have the orgy of the year.
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Happy Pride month to all Jews and our true allies.
On this occasion, as someone who used to volunteer for the Jerusalem Open House (the gay community center) let me offer you a bit of info about our country's LGBTQ history (and correct some anti-Israel distortions).
This is Chaim (Herman) Cohen.
He was born in Germany in 1911, and came to Israel in 1930, to study torah at a yeshiva here. Inspired by his Jewish studies, he decided to turn to the study of law, returning to Germany for that goal and to get married. In 1933, with the rise of the Nazis to power in Germany, he decided to move to Israel permanently. In that sense, he's considered a refugee and Holocaust survivor. His younger brother Leo was murdered by the Nazis.
In 1950, he was appointed Israel's attorney general. In this role, he came across an anti-sodomy law passed by the British Mandate in 1936 (which prohibited all oral and anal sex, including between two men), and which the State of Israel automatically inherited once it was founded in 1948 (source in Hebrew). First he wanted to cancel it, but his jurisdiction fell short of that. As it was within his authority to instruct the Israeli police and state prosecution to ignore it, he did so in 1953. He explained his instruction:
"I thought it was my duty not to uphold a law, which I saw as immoral. [...] And if you should ask, in what is the immorality of the law prohibiting intercourse between men, I will reply to you that such a law against any consenting and private contact between adults contradicts the freedom of man over his own body, and depriving this freedom is a grave infringement against one of the basic human rights."
For comparison's sake, in March 1952, Alan Turing (who saved countless lives for the UK and the allies during WWII) was brought to trial for homosexual consensual private acts, was convicted, and his security clearance was revoked.
In 1978, a special committee of the Knesset (Israel's parliament) recommended several changes to laws addressing various sexual acts, including a recommendation to cancel this anti-sodomy law. In 1980, Israel's first right wing government, under the leadership of Prime Minister Menachem Begin, accepted the committee's recommendations with a corresponding bill (which eventually didn't pass). The bill was presented a second time in 1986, and was passed into law in 1988, decriminalizing same-sex intercourse in Israel (source in Hebrew).
For comparison's sake, in 1990, there were still over 110 jurisdictions in the world criminalizing homosexuality in the world. In the 2020's, RIGHT NOW, there are over 60 that still do.
This is Dr. Doron Maizel (may his memory be a blessing) on the left, with his partner Adir Steiner.
Doron was an army doctor. He was married to a woman with whom he had 3 daughters, before coming out to her in the late 1970's, getting a divorce and eventually openly moving in with his partner Adir. They were together since 1983. Being open about his sexual orientation meant that while Doron was allowed to serve, the same notion that gay men are a security threat (which was applied to Alan Turing), and therefore can't be allowed to serve in top/secret posts in the army, was to stop the promotion that he was about to get. Doron went to visit Ariel Sharon (at the time, Israel's right wing Security Minister, who's in charge of the army) in the latter's private home. IDK what was said in that meeting, but after that, Adir underwent the security check that all partners of a high ranking army officer do, and then Doron got his promotion. When Doron passed away in 1991 from cancer, Adir demanded to be and was recognized as an army widower. Doron's official army commemoration page states, "Left behind a mother, three daughters, a brother and a boyfriend."
Here's Adir with Doron's picture during a 2012 interview:
In 1993, the army order that were meant to prevent Doron and other gay soldiers from serving in certain posts was officially canceled. In 1999, a soldier born as male asked to serve as a woman, because that's what she actually was (this would have made this soldier's service shorter, and in that sense "cost" the army). The request was accepted, and since then, trans soldiers serve in the gender they identify with.
The story of Israel's LGBTQ rights isn't only glitter and fairies. Just like I can talk about a lot of progress that the state made in equalizing our rights in many domains (because I have), I could also talk about the rights we still don't have (because I've done that, too). The situation here isn't perfect (though as far as I'm aware, it isn't anywhere in the world, there are at least a few rights denied to the queer community in every country I know of). But when I look at our history, I feel like Israel isn't just one of the more queer-friendly countries in the world, it was also at certain moments at the very forefront of the struggle to recognizing queer people as deserving of equal treatment.
Which is maybe the most instinctual reason for my fury at the form of the Israel's demonization using the false notion of "pink washing." It is DERANGED to think Chaim Cohen, in 1953, gave his pro-gay instruction in relation to an occupation that Israel wasn't being blamed of until after the Six Day War in 1967, and which didn't gain attention from the regular people (as opposed to foreign politicians, who didn't give a shit about Israel's record on gay rights) until the Derben Conference in 2000. Not to mention how the idea that having a good gay rights record is something a country can brag about is probably even younger than that conference.
The pink washing accusation is de-humanizing. It suggests that it can't be that Israelis simply have a set of values which happens to align with the west's when it comes to the gay community (or women's rights, or ecological awareness, or freedom of speech, or any of the other positives Israel has, which position it high in the Freedom Index, and which anti-Israel activists label "washing" with one color or another). No, the history of these fields in the Jewish state is all about what non-Jews will say about us! It's like you can't fathom that we have an existence of our own, and minds of our own, and desires and wants and struggles of our own, and not everything is centered about what you think of us.
And the source of this self-centered thinking seems to connect with an inability to accept the Jewish state as anything other than the ultimate evil. Because Israel has to be the supervillain of the story, then it can't have a single positive. Everything about it has to be black, otherwise that challenges the black and white narrative that's been developed to demonize the Jewish state. So if it is revealed that there's any domain in which Israel is actually doing good things, reflecting a respect for human rights or a closeness to the values that the anti-Israel crowd claims to uphold, then it must be just a cover up for how Israel treats the Palestinians.
Essentially, the pink/purple/green/whatever washing accusations are as insane and antisemitic, just like claiming that Jews have won so many Nobel Prizes (a reflection of how much our people have benefited humanity) to distract the world from all the non-Jewish kids we kill to use their blood to bake Passover matzos.
But it's actually worse. Because in the process of demonizing Israel, Israeli Arab and Palestinian queers get thrown under the bus, too. As a gay activist, I'm familiar with so many gay and trans Israeli Arabs who get to have a good life thanks to Israel's good gay rights record, who are aware that if the anti-Israel crowd is successful in de-legitimizing and destroying this state, they're fucked as well. I know a lot of gay and trans Palestinians, who only catch a break when they come to the Jerusalem Open House, or generally to Israel, the only place where they can be themselves safely. I know so many queer Palestinians who are scared for their lives because of the violent intolerance of their own families, society and governments. And all the western countries from which the anti-Israel people come from refuse them entry as refugees persecuted for their sexual orientation (yes, I have gay Palestinian friends who have tried, only to be turned down by country after country, no matter how "liberal" or "pro-Palestinian" they officially claim to be).
Meanwhile, gay Palestinians can get temporary asylum in Israel (please don't tell me it's "pink washing" again, when no one from the anti-Israel crowd will even acknowledge this fact) if they fear for their lives, it's just not a proper solution, because just like Palestinian terrorists can get into Israel, carry out an attack and murder innocent civilians, Palestinian homophobes can get inside as well, and murder the queer people who had fled here.
And just to make reality a tad more complex, you know how for the anti-Israel crowd, the worst of the worst of Israeli society, are the religious ("Fanatic! Extremist! Violent!") settlers? I know of more than one case where those religious settlers are the ones who are helping gay Palestinians, but here's one that made it into the Israeli news.
Life is just not black and white, human nature is complex, Israel is a country where human beings are more than just their stance on the conflict and whether foreigners agree with it or not, and the "pink washing accusation" black and white washes all our colors away, trying to reduce us into caricatures that fit into their simplistic, reductive narrative, so they can go on playing "white/western/outsider savior" to the "poor Palestinians" without actually caring about many of the poorest, most marginalized ones.
This vid isn't a representation of all gay Israeli Arabs, but it's def a voice you will not see acknowledged on the anti-Israel side:
Happy Pride to everyone seeing us, all of us, Israelis and Palestinians, queer and straight, with all of our humanity and complexity!
(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)
#israel#israeli#israel news#israel under attack#israel under fire#israelunderattack#terrorism#anti terrorism#antisemitism#hamas#antisemitic#antisemites#jews#jew#judaism#jumblr#frumblr#jewish
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A song of liars and beggars: part II
— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)
— 5.3k words.
— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV
Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙
TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --
The cell you are thrown into is poky small.
When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.
Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.
You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.
Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.
Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.
The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.
Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.
The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.
Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.
You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.
You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.
You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.
Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.
Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-
Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-
You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.
You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.
Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.
You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.
Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.
A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.
General Acacius.
There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.
You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.
One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.
You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.
War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.
You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.
You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.
He leans close to you when you come to the door
Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.
It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.
You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.
Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.
Why are you unlocking my hands?
He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.
An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.
There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.
Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.
He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.
He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.
His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.
“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.
It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.
When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.
He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.
“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.
He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.
“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.
His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.
“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.
You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.
Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.
You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.
Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.
It doesn’t come. None of that comes.
Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.
You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.
One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.
The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.
A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.
“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.
He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.
“You’ve been summoned.”
“By whom?” You seek.
His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.
“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”
~
You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.
Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.
You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.
You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.
Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.
The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.
You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.
Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.
As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.
His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.
Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.
A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.
He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.
You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.
Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.
“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.
In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.
He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.
You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.
He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.
“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.
“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.
You flick your eyes across to the General.
“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.
Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.
The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.
You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.
Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.
Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.
Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.
You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.
If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.
He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-
“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.
General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.
Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.
“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.
No answer comes from you still.
“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.
“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.
“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.
“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”
Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.
Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.
He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.
“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”
He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.
You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.
“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.
When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.
They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.
He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.
His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.
Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.
Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.
“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.
Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.
“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.
“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”
He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.
You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.
The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.
You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-
Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.
“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.
In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.
“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.
An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.
His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.
“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.
Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.
Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.
Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.
Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.
“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.
“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”
With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.
Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.
“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.
It pushes you to act.
“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.
“Exile him.” Youoffer.
Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?
“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.
“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.
“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.
“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.
Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.
Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.
“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.
“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.
Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.
Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.
Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.
“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”
His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.
“You will be my Empress.” He decides.
“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”
Those words make you shrivel inside.
What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-
He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.
“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”
You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.
You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.
Bleeding and battered. But safe.
You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.
You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.
He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.
You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.
Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.
Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”
The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.
“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.
“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”
He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.
It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.
“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.
“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.
He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.
His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.
A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.
“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”
“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.
He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.
In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.
Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.
You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-
A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.
~
Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--
@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten
#punkwrites#geta x reader#emperor geta#freak nasty#joseph quinn#geta#ancient rome#gladiator#gladiator 2#marcus acacius#again no smut but we’re gonna get there slowly#geta is a nasty freakkk#general acacius#prison#desperate times call for desperate measures#so it turns out i cant write gratuitous smut#oh no#i have to have a long winded story before my characters get to fuck
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A Seat at the Table (F!Reader x M!Monster Warlord)
Pairing:Fem!Reader x Male!Warlord Monster
Genre: High Fantasy
Warnings: Misogyny, Slight Infantilization, Non-Con, Sexual Harassment
Word count: 2498 words
Summary: After years of hard work, you finally found your way into an advisory position on the King’s Court, pushing past the forced walls put against your sex. Unfortunately for you, the Warlord besieging your country has just requested parlay.
Request: I would like to request a story if that's okay.
A female messenger entering peace talks/parlaying with a ruthless male warlord to leave their lands. The warlord is a build-a-monster of your own creation. All I ask is that he's big and threatening looking. Get creative!
He is so uninterested in the idea of not conquering that he starts rubbing one out on his throne at the sight of this cute little human in front of him and he tells her about all the ways he's going to claim her when his armies march in. How she should be so honored when she gives birth to his future heirs.
Naturally she's not too into the idea.
But I certainly am.
A/N: I just realized I never gave this guy a name! Feel free to drop suggestions in the comments ;)
You have suffered many indignities in your life.
It had been the natural course of things ever since you were born a girl, and it had increased tenfold when you set your mind on becoming a member of the royal staff. Not as a maid, no, but as a political advisor.
You had to withstand years and years of sneers, derision and borderline harassment. Suffer through academic debates and disputes with men half of your intellect and watch them get opportunities twice as quick. You suffered through flat out refusals to teach you, not unless you wrote a 10 page essay on why you were qualified, when others merely had to show their school and last name.
So you don’t flinch when the king asks for someone to engage in peace talks. While everyone else cowers away, coming up with vague excuses and diversions; Actions that would have gotten you kicked off the council in seconds. You don’t flinch when the knights escort you to the carriage, or when the monstrous tyrant's own army escorts you out of it and to his war tent. You don’t acknowledge the various catcalls and salacious comments from his men as you pass by, and you certainly don’t flinch when his own vizier refuses to let you pass.
“I am afraid I don’t understand.”
The vizier rubs his brow, clawed paws looking dangerously sharp in the candle light.
“Like I just said, ma’am, the king asked for-”
“The king’s message asked for parlay, His Majesty sent a messenger from his own court. Like I said, I fail to understand why I am denied entry.”
“He did, but he didn’t ask for-”
“What?” You dare him to say it, looking right into his yellow, slitted eyes.
His shoulders slacken, eyeing up and down your formal attire. He seems to accept something, either your insistent nature or the punishment he’ll get from letting you in. Either way, he steps aside, pulling back the tent flap.
“Thank you.”
You give a half-curtsy, double what the low-life deserves. He mutters something in his monstrous language as you walk inside, something that makes the warriors escorting you chuckle. You ignore it.
You’ve dealt with men like this before, you’re trained in letting it roll off your shoulders.
You let the curtain flap fall behind you, surprised the vizier doesn’t come to follow. In your experience men like that typically put their slimy noses in everything. But whatever, that’s one headache you can avoid.
The inside of the tent is gaudishly huge, fitting for the ornate throne in the center holding an even more decorated monster.
Furs and pelts cover the warlord’s massive shoulders, his chest decorated in gleaming armor. It shines still despite the chunks and blood stains speckled across it, old and dried. His leather skirt barely covers his massive thighs, furred legs spread debaucherously apart. One set of arms sits discontentedly across his stomach, crossed tight. The other has one hand slung lazily over the side of his chair while the other currently picks fresh meat out of the lord’s sharp canines, his large muzzle curled back in a sneer. Just as boorish and snarling as you expected.
Relax, he’s just like any man.
You try to picture him as the braggadocious generals you’ve seen before, just with far more teeth and an extra set of arms. They have the same amount of class, the lord still digging through his mouth like a common fool.
“Greetings, My Lord.”
You fall into a curtsy, finally catching the bored tyrant's attention. Your head is bowed, feigning respect, but you still see his long tail flicker with interest.
“Oh?” The lord finally sits up, cross arms unfurling to lay on his spread thighs. They draw a line of attention straight to his center, one you refuse your eyes to follow. “I wasn’t aware I would be having my dessert sent so early.” A long, ribbed tongue licks up at the lord's chops. You knot your fists on the inside of your cloak, refusing to let the seed of terror sprout in your stomach.
“I am the envoy from the Kingdom of Magistra you requested my lord. I am here to discuss the terms of compromise.”
“You?” He asks, incredulous, eyes looking you up and down. You forcefully simmer the heating anger in your stomach. First the vizier, now this? Gods, is it so unfathomable that a woman could engage in politics? “Hmph, I was expecting a decrepit old man, not a pretty little vixen.” Those canines gleam as the lord's mouth wires into a smile. Far too wide, far too sharp. “Though I am not complaining.”
Just a man, same as them all.
Swallowing an insult, you continue with a professional tone. “Either way, I wanted first to discuss the possible benefits of aligning-”
“Hah! Benefits, benefits you say?” The lord cackles, slapping his knee at the very idea. “Tell me, what possible benefits are there from supplicating to that absolute babbling fool of a king of yours? A cowardly army, too sniveling to even die valiantly for their home? A mere sliver of your resources, hardly enough to support me and my men?”
You quirk a brow, fist knotting even tighter within your cloak. A part of you had expected this. The detailed reports of the bloody battlefields painted the picture of a man who thought himself close to a Deity, too large to care for those he crushed under his feet.
But the greediest of men are often at the sway of their own vices; Whether it’s land, gold, power or pleasure, you just have to find that one thing they want to make them crumble. No man fights for nothing, after all.
“His Majesty is willing to bargain with you for a sufficient deal, my lord. I’m sure that whatever you desire, His Majesty would be willing to consider it to bring an end to the conflict.” You’re actually not sure of that, knowing how proud men pushed to the brink could be. But you need to win some ground first before setting boundaries, stroke his ego and make him feel like he’s coming out on top. “Is that not why you requested an envoy, my lord? I’m sure your men must be tired, as our kingdom is. There is a way we both benefit from this bloodshed.”
“Ah, I understand why you would think that, messenger bird.” You don’t let the diminutive title hit you, even as the warlord slouches back in his seat, arms splayed over the sides. A burning gaze rolls up and down your body, you bat away the urge to pull your cloak tighter. “Your kingdom is run by cowards, after all. Abandoning their posts, fleeing from death. Those boys of yours have no sense of glory, of bloody victory.” A clawed hand lovingly brushes against a blood spot on his tunic, as if recalling a particularly vicious memory of combat. “You have shown the most courage so far, envoy. Walking into an enemy camp, alone and undefended, with only your words to protect you. Quite brave, indeed.”
The warlord’s eyes finally meet you directly, though it doesn’t inspire the feeling of respect it should. His eyes are covetous, hungry.
Your stomach flips. Your palms grow clammy, it takes everything in you to take a step backward. You realize how small this tent is, how surrounded you are.
Fuck.
Despite your efforts, the lord’s nose curls, smelling your nerves.
“So no, little lady, I do not send for this envoy to bargain. I sent it to remind you and your king of their proper place in this war.” The warlord's upper pair of hands go up behind his head, held in an infuriating pose of relaxation. “As my future subjects.”
“But, you must realize-”
You struggle for some logic, the well-practiced variations and evidence you brought with you, but the lord is wholly uninterested, waving a hand away.
“The only thing I realize is how fun it is going to be to finally seize that glittering castle of yours. Nowhere to run, maybe me and my soldiers will get a proper fight out of this after all.” Those eyes roll up and down you once again. Your layers of clothing don’t feel like enough protection. “How delicious it will be to claim my prize.”
Words escape you, locked on his brutal smile. It’s only then you notice his second pair of hands have slipped under his tunic, and are-
“Oh!” Your face grows hot, stumbling backwards as the warlord begins to unapologetically pleasure himself. The muscle across his jaw feathers as he grips the base of his cock, slowly stroking it up and down. You can almost see a peek of it from under his tunic before you force your eyes away. But there’s no ignoring the sound, the slick of his sweaty palm moving.
“Yes, I’ll savor you the most, sweet messenger bird. I have no interest in weaklings, but I’d love to see you break on my cock.” The warlord spreads his thighs even wider, pupils blown out at your flustered face. “I’m sure you’ve never been fucked properly, little lady. Those cowardly men of yours couldn’t pleasure you even if they tried.”
Your body feels locked in place, still too shocked to even process.
You have suffered many indignities in your life, but never anything like this.
“I wonder what you’ll sound like, bent in half and stuffed full. Will you fight to the end, or moan like a taken woman? Ungh-” The lord humps into his hand, pace growing sloppy as something squelches. “-Wouldn’t you like that? Getting split open on my cock? On your back, on your stomach.”
You finally find the courage to move, scrambling back to the tent's entrance. Your hands knot around the fabric and wrench it open, nearly tripping over your long skirt. The warlord cackles, no doubt eyeing up the glimpses he gets of your behind.
“You should be honored, little human! You’ll being fucked full of my heirs, after all. Strong boys of course, a whole d-damn litter.” The slapping sound of his hand, moving faster than before accompanies his stuttering voice, hips jerking as he gets closer and closer.
Sunlight nearly blinds you as you burst back into the open, running as fast as you can back to your carriage. The vizier let you pass easily, no doubt a smirk on his face. Soldiers cackle and grab at your skirts as you dart past, but none of them in earnest. It’s a fear tactic, nipping at your heels to make the sport more enjoyable.
You all but leap into the carriage door, slamming it behind you. Your weak voice urges the driver to go, get you home as fast as possible.
There has to be a solution, something, something. Something he wants, something other than-
Other than total victory.
The warlord’s laugh, those sharp teeth never leave your mind. Even as you return to the castle town, wondering what you’re going to tell the council. You wrack your brain, hands tugging at the roots of your hair, trying to force the ideas to the forefront.
Please, gods, let there be something.
—
The castle is the first thing they attack.
There’s an utter panic when they do, servants and staff screaming as they try to find a hiding spot, some route to flee. Particularly loyal knights try to prioritize the nobility, but many falter under the overwhelming threat of the invaders. The smallfolk are left to fend for themselves, wondering how they got caught up in all this.
That’s how he found you, hidden in a closet with a gaggle of lady’s maids and chefs, trying their best to stay quiet.
“Sing for me, my messenger bird.” The warlord pants, nails digging into your ankles up by his neck. The fresh blood smears across your skin, already starting to dry. “Fuck, you’re even tighter than I imagined.” He laughs, his second set of hands pressing deep circles into your waist, no doubt leaving bruises.
Dried tear tracks run down your cheeks, your bottom lip nearly chewed straight off. You’re already being defiled, in the king's bed of all places, you can’t relent and humiliate yourself even more by moaning. No, this bastard can’t have everything.
“I said-” his nails dig into the side of your ankle, dew drops of blood beading at the skin “-sing.”
“Gods!” You scream, the sharp pain of claw on bone clawing at your throat The feeling of a long tongue lapping at the wound doesn’t help, nor does the sensation of a cock brutalizing your cervix. The warlord’s pace is as brutal as his battle axe, piercing you open with every thrust.
“Hnng, yes. Take your lord’s cock sweetling, take it.”
He speeds up, hands stretching your body into a mating press. His clawed feet brace against the bed, tearing long holes in the fine fabric. The paintings on the walls shaking in their frames as the heavy bed moves up and down. A long tail wiggles like a snake, unmistakably giddy as the warlord devours his quarry.
The light pressure of his claws on skin forces you to release those breathy moans, the squeaks and the yelps as he hits so deep inside you. But it isn’t enough for him, a hand sneaking down and rubbing at your clit.
“No-o! Too much!” Your hips wiggle and struggle but the lord’s grip is iron, still draw tight circles on your sensitive button. The pinpricks of his claws send goosebumps up and across your stomach, but you’re not from fear or pleasure.
“Uh-uh, I want you creaming on this cock before I fuck you full, darling.” He flicks at the button, focusing his cockhead to hump right against your g-spot. “Have to make sure my seed takes, pump you full of my heirs.”
A fuzzy static falls over your brain, skin feeling tingly as a familiar feeling creeps up.
No, no I can’t! Not for him!
But the body does what it wants, the combination of his fast thrusts and deft fingers enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your hips buck up, chasing the sensation until the very end. The warlord no doubt smiles, cackles as your cunt finally submits, but your eyes are furrowed and you miss it.
“Here it comes!” The warlord tosses his head back as he fucks you the hardest he can, the giant royal headboard pounding against the wall. “Fuck, yes!”
What feels like a gallon of cum dumps into your pussy, spurting out the sides and across the velvet blankets probably worth more than a year’s salary. The grips bruises into your ankle as he grinds his hips into yours, sticking to his word and making sure not a drop is wasted.
“Hah, hah…” The warlord pants, sweat sticking his fur against the back of your legs. “What a prize you are indeed, my little messenger bird.”
#my writing#reader insert#monster x reader#monster romance#monster fucker#female reader insert#smut#original character
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GHOST OF YOU — SOLDIER BOY "CHAPTER TWO"
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader
Warnings: Language, herogasm, canon violence, Soldier Boy being himself and a smartass
Word Count: 3,649
Author's Note: I am so happy to see this story receiving so much love already. It really helps and pushes me further to continue with the story. There is so much I have planned, but all in due time. Thank you so much again!
IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED PLEASE LET ME KNOW. DON'T FORGET TO FOLLOW, HEART, AND REPOST. THANK YOU AGAIN!
It was obvious you were exhausted, it was so bad to the point you did not hear everyone else wake up and talk about the plan for the day. Eventually, Butcher left to find food. Hughie was left in charge to control Soldier Boy and his radiation level. The less angry, the better. Soldier Boy remained on his side of the bed and watched TV. From time to time he would look down at you.
“Is she always a heavy sleeper?” he asked. Hughie looked up from his phone and observed.
“Yesterday was a hard day so I don’t blame her for sleeping in.”
Soldier Boy nodded and still stared. “I remember when I first met her, man, she was a firecracker. Nothing could get past her. It’s surprising to see her sleeping so peacefully like this.”
Hughie furrowed his eyebrows together. “I’m sorry, you two know each other?” That made no sense to Hughie. Last time Soldier Boy had awaken was back in the 70s. You weren’t even born yet.
“Are you stupid or fucking stupid? Of course I have. We served—” and on cue, Butcher entered with food. Hughie looked down at the radiation reader and realized it had gone up once again. Maybe it was best if Hughie doesn’t bring it up again. Though he will mention it to Butcher when they are alone.
Butcher dropped the food on the table and shook you to wake up. “Morning sunshine, get up and eat. I am going to head back out again in a bit to find the twins’ location.”
You opened your eyes and rubbed them. The sun was hitting your face and it was bothering you.
“I need a shower first,” you said. Quickly, you strode to the bathroom and locked the door. You stared at yourself in the mirror expecting to see bruises but there was nothing. The water pressure was not as strong as you would like it to be, so it took a bit longer than the normal shower time to finish. You were able to overhear everything and constantly rolled your eyes at Soldier Boy’s arrogant voice.
Soldier Boy was already becoming a headache, and you have yet to hold an actual conversation with him. The few moments you have heard him speak has been cruel and perverted.
He’s also suffered betrayal.
You sighed and wondered what else did Soldier Boy have inside his pandora box. He is unpredictable, and that made him dangerous. When the water began to run cold you knew it was time to get out. You dried off and put on the same clothes from yesterday.
Butcher had announced he had a contact who will be able to get him the TNT twins location.
“I am going with you.”
The more you avoided Soldier Boy the better. Last night’s words were still at the forefront of your mind and as much as you would like to ask him right now he is short-tempered and your attitude from last night hasn’t helped.
“Why the fuck can she go, but I cannot?” Soldier Boy demanded to know. You beat Butcher to the punch and rebutted back.
“Because you are Soldier Boy and at any moment anyone can recognize you. The last thing we need is you blowing up again and taking us down with us. So shut up, eat your food, and let us get to work.”
Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched. “You got a lot of fucking nerve talking to me that way. Last time I remember the men used to put women in their place. When the hell did society go wrong.”
Your jaw dropped slightly. Soldier Boy was a lot of things and maybe it should not be shocking he is being a misogynistic prick, but the fact he still thinks society has not moved on from that. “And you still wonder why you aren’t coming with us?”
That was the last thing you said before marching out of the room. Butcher wanted to ease the tension in the room, “might be that time of the month.” He left and followed you to the car. You were already inside with your arms cross.
“Don’t even think about making me apologize to him,” you warned.
Butcher let out a groan, “I won’t make you apologize but you need to butter it up with him. At the rate you are going he is going to bloody blast you. Do not let him get to you.”
You went on a rant after that.
“How do you expect me to not say anything to him? I am not going to worship the ground he walks on. If he wants respect then he needs to give it back.” Butcher agrees, but they need to be prioritizing the bigger picture and that is Homelander’s death in the hands of Soldier Boy.
Bucher decided to switch topics and discuss who was his contact. It is a C-list Supe who was friends with the twins before they were apart of Payback. The drive was over within an hour. “Let me do the talking, last thing we need is for you to make another enemy.”
If that was Butcher’s way to humor, he sucked. The Supe had no problem in giving away the location of the twins. On the drive back you decided to voice your concerns.
“Did I tell you what Crimson Countess said before her death?”
Butcher shook her head. You explained what happened inside the trailer and shared your concern with the way Soldier Boy acts around you. Granted, he is a dick but he allows you to talk to him the way you do. If it was anyone else he was quick to get offensive.
“Countess probably confused you with someone else. When you know you are at death’s door you are desperate to say anything, and with what you are telling me she was just trying to get under his skin,” he shrugged.
It still wasn’t convincing enough, “then why stare so fucking much?”
Butcher let out a chuckle. “Be serious, he’s been asleep since the 80s. He probably wants to pull his wanker and let one out at the thought of you.” You looked at him terrified.
He began to laugh just looking at your reaction. In the end you were convinced that it was all in your head and the answers were right in front of you. Upon returning Butcher informed Soldier Boy and Hughie that we will be heading out to Vermont.
Most of the conversation happened between Butcher and Hughie. You were sitting in the back with Soldier Boy and just like before, your knee touched his. Only difference this time is his hand was resting on his knee and his pinky reached out to touch your knee.
The car was parked a good distance away to avoid detection. The rest was walked on foot. “So, what is happening here?” you asked. Hughie looked through the binoculars and to both of your surprise this was herogasm.
Soldier Boy took pride in admitting that he founded it, and Liberty helped him with it. Your scrunched up face was obvious and he took notice. He smirked for a second and focused back the task at hand.
“Just give me three minutes,” Hughie suggested.
“I can go with him to cover more ground,” you offered yourself.
Soldier Boy shook his head. “Absolutely not. You are going to sit this one out.”
For a moment it felt like a vein popped on your temple. “The hell you mean I am staying here? I am not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself and the sooner we finish this the better.”
Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched again and he got closer. He towered over you. “Trust me, sweetheart, with the way you are speaking to me I wouldn’t want to save you. Honestly, where the fuck did this attitude come from?” he snapped.
“Has it ever crossed your mind that you are the problem?”
Hughie interrupted, “I’m just gonna go.” In seconds, he was gone and without his clothes.
You were too angry to argue with Soldier Boy, let alone look at him. Those three minutes felt too long. After time has passed, Butcher and Soldier Boy left to infiltrate.
“Stay,” Soldier Boy ordered and pointed his finger. The binoculars were handed it to you. You faked a smile and watched them leave. Like hell you were going to stay. As soon as they walked through the doors to the house you were on the move. Instead of entering through the front door you went through the pool door. You have seen a lot of things, but never in your mind would you have ever imagined a Supe orgy.
You did your best to avoid everything and everyone. The last thing you needed is to give someone the wrong impression, and anger Soldier Boy.
It was surprising to see one area of the house empty.
“MM,” you said, shocked to see him here. He was also shocked, but he knew that meant one thing. He called out to you demanding to know where Soldier Boy was. You explained the plan and noticed his eyes diverted behind you.
“One simple fucking order, you cannot even handle that?!”
You could recognize that voice anywhere at this point. Slowly, you turned and noticed just how angry Soldier Boy appeared. Though, between him and MM you weren’t sure who was angrier. Without wasting a second MM threw the halothane glass and Soldier Boy inhaled it in as if it were a Marlboro cigarette.
“MM, no!” you yelled, and tried to push him back but he was determined to fight Soldier Boy.
Butcher had to come in and stop Soldier Boy from proceeding further. He gave Soldier Boy the information he wanted.
“You are coming with me,” he ordered and yanked your arm; dragging you with him.
“Let go of me!” you yelled and started hitting him, but he was not budging. Both of you came to a stop in one of the living rooms and noticed the horribly aged TNT twins. Why is he so keen in taking you everywhere.
Crimson Countess was able to remain cool and calm partially, but these twins screamed guilty based on their reaction and stuttering. It was obvious how they tensed up almost to the point they froze on the spot.
“Holy shit, mimicry! You’re alive!” Tessa spoke up, sounding a little too excited. She opened her arms expecting some hug from you and she even dared to move closer. Soldier Boy stood in front of you.
“Don’t you dare come near her or I will rip those fucking arms off of you” he threatened.
Tessa backed up right away.
“What is she talking about? Who is Mimicry?” you asked. You placed your hand on Soldier Boy’s shoulder; trying to get him to move out of the way. Soldier Boy looked at your hand placement and then looked at you. This was his moment to test out his theory and ask once again who exactly are you.
“You’re Mimicry,” Tommy answered and let out a light but nervous laugh as if it was the most obvious thing.
“Mimi, please help us. Tell Ben that all of this was a mistake and we didn’t mean any of it.”
At this point the twins might as well get on their knees and beg. You could feel Soldier Boy tense up under your touch. You looked at him and noticed his behavior was completely off. He was no longer portraying a confident soldier. This time, you can see a man attempting to fight off his demons.
“The hell is wrong with you?” you asked. You stood in front of him and tried to make him snap out of it. The twins saw an opportunity and aimed for your back. Soldier Boy noticed and pushed you out of the way. You hit the wall and went unconscious.
When you woke up you had the biggest headache, and your back was sore. You remembered what happened before and quickly got up from the floor. People were crying, screaming, and there was lots of bodies everywhere. You let out a sentence full of profanities and walked around. Soldier Boy was nowhere seen, neither was anyone else.
You called out to Butcher, Hughie, and MM. Shit, you even called out to Soldier Boy. From a distance you could hear fists connecting to bones, bodies hitting the walls, buzzing sounds, and just a lot of fighting. You didn’t even have to say anything to see who was fighting. Your eyes went wide at the sight of the familiar United States cape fighting against Butcher and Soldier Boy.
Soldier Boy was thrown to the ground while Homelander choked Butcher. He raised him up from the ground.
“Hey!” you yelled, without giving it a second thought. You pulled out your gun from its holster and started shooting at Homelander. It was expected the bullets were not going to hurt Homelander but it is a big enough distraction he didn’t choke Butcher to death. Just as you predicted, Homelander dropped Butcher to the ground and turned to look at you.
Homelander burst out laughing, “and what exactly can a human do against me?” Without a second thought his eyes glowed red and aimed at you. It was instinctual to try and use your arms to block off the lasers, but they were not going to do shit against him. You had closed your eyes expecting the worse but nothing came your way. You opened your eyes and they went wide to see Soldier Boy in front of you, and holding off the laser with his shield.
“Not a damsel in distress, huh?!” he asked. Of course he had to be a smartass. “Listen to me for once and hide!”
You knew better now than to get in the way. This time you did listen to him and ran out. You were out of breath by the time you got outside. Annie called out to you. “We need you, there’s a lot of people hurt!”
This was the best thing to do. This is what you were good at. Without a second thought you began to help people as much as you can all until ambulances showed up and took over. Loud, shattered glass can be heard above and you looked up to see Homelander leaving in a rush. A wave of relief washed over you. Soldier Boy, Butcher, and Hughie walked out. Soldier Boy was looking through the crowd until he saw you.
You knew there was no fighting him in staying. You looked at Annie and MM. They were both frustrated at the thought of you leaving.
“I’m sorry,” you said and walked towards the other group. Soldier Boy was satisfied and all four of you left. They explained what happened with Homelander.
“I’m still waiting on the thank you.”
This was unavoidable, and it was tempting to roll your eyes but now was not the appropriate time.
“You will get your thank you when I feel like it,” you mumbled knowing he heard you.
Soldier Boy scoffed and shook his head. “Fuck! Nothing I do satisfies you!”
“Will you two give it a rest?! It has been a very long day” Butcher protested, obviously irritated.
“You want a thank you, fine! Thank you, Soldier Boy. Thank you for actually being a hero and saving someone. What would we ever do without you?” you sarcastically spoke.
Soldier Boy’s jaw clenched, “you know what, fuck you and I hope your pussy dries up every time some guy wants to screw you.”
“And I hope you get STDs.”
The car ride fell into a tensed silence. You nor Soldier Boy could say anything without provoking each other. Hughie asked Butcher where they will be going for the night, and there is only one place Butcher could think of.
The Legend.
It was approximately a five to six hour car ride. You were trying hard to not fall asleep but it was inevitable. Now that you were not on a fight or flight mode your body began to ache, and it demanded rest. By the time they arrived to Legend’s home you were in deep sleep. Hughie tried to wake you up.
“Let her sleep. She sounds better like this” Soldier Boy said.
He didn’t wait for Butcher or Hughie to say anything. He put the shield on his back and walked around the car to open your door. He opened it and caught you in his arms. You were so deep asleep you didn’t realize Soldier Boy had lifted you in his arms and carried you inside as if your the weight of paper.
Butcher knocked hard on the door. It was the middle of the night and they needed a place to rest. Legend was more asleep than awake when he heard the knock. He was ready to yell at whomever was waking him up at this hour but seeing Soldier Boy carry you in his arms, it was like deja vu.
“It has been a very long, and shitty day. Where can I put her down?” Soldier Boy asked. Legend was too shocked to say anything. It’s impossible for you to be alive. Butcher snapped Legend out of it and pointed to where the bedrooms are located. When Butcher, Hughie, and MM came to visit you weren’t with them.
“I need a drink,” Legend said.
“At this hour?” Hughie asked, sounding concerned.
Legend nodded and poured himself a drink all the way to the top. Soldier Boy walked out of the room where he placed you down, and marched towards Legend with purpose.
“Wait—” Soldier Boy did not give Legend a chance to speak. He grabbed him and lifted him up from the ground, slamming him against a wall. Butcher and Hughie rushed to get Soldier Boy off of Legend.
“I swear to you, Mimicry is dead! That isn’t Mimicry! It’s impossible!” Legend explained, fear can be heard in his tone.
“You’re lying! How is she here then?!”
Soldier Boy was angry, he was practically seeing red. Flashes of Mimicry’s body appeared in his mind. She died in his arms and yet, she is here.
“Because that isn’t her! I don’t know how it is possible but Vought retrieved Mimicry’s body from Russia. There was an open casket ceremony! I went and she got buried with her suit! I saw when they put her on the ground!”
Finally, Soldier Boy put Legend down.
“Can someone explain what the bloody hell is going on?!” Butcher was angry. Something was going on and everyone appears to be afraid to say something.
“You will not understand because Vought deleted everything about Mimicry, but she was a member of Payback for the longest time. She was Soldier Boy’s right hand and possibly the most loyal one to him. She died trying to break this one out of Russia. The Russians told Vought what happened and Vought believed the safest thing to do was to make everyone forget about her. Nowadays, no one knows she ever existed.”
The Legend moved to one of the drawers. He opened it and looked through it until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Butcher.
“Holy shit,” said Hughie. Butcher and Hughie were speechless. It was you and Soldier Boy. His hand was around your waist, holding you close, and your arm was on his waist. The cameraman caught the perfect moment of the both of you staring into each other’s eyes. There was a smile on your face. It was the definition of a woman in love.
Legend continued to speak, “the person in the room is not Mimicry, unless she has demonstrated any superpower. That is not her.”
For Soldier Boy it felt like someone ripped through his chest and held a tight grip on his heart. The more Legend spoke, the more it got twisted.
“What were Mimicry’s powers?” Butcher asked.
“She was able to get any Supe’s power with a touch. Including my own,” Soldier Boy answered. This time he poured himself a drink.
“It still doesn’t make any sense. She is human, and obviously Mimicry isn’t. We have seen pictures of her growing up and having a normal life. She has never shown any powers” Hughie explained.
“The woman in the room isn’t Mimicry.” Soldier Boy had been in denial of it but he remembered your hand on his shoulder back at herogasm, and yet there was no display of power.
“If this isn’t Mimicry, how is it she looks exactly like her? Did Vought clone her?” Hughie and Butcher had so many questions.
Legend shook his head, “if they were going to start cloning Supes I would have heard something by now. Truthfully, there is no explanation. Almost as if God and heaven, or even the devil, wanted to give Mimicry another chance at life. She always dreamed of a family, sadly it was taken away from her. She had a baby and that baby lived, and so on. What I can guarantee is that she is from Mimicry’s lineage.”
Soldier Boy stared out the window with the cup on his hand. Once again he felt himself lied to. He was being given something back, and now it feels like it got taken from him.
Your entire existence is a sick and twisted lie, and he despises you for carrying her face. He is reminded every time he has to look at you.
“This has never happened before with any Supes ever. Word is barely spreading that Supes can have babies when Mimicry was the first to ever have one a long time ago. If Vought finds out about her existence,” Legend warned and pointed to the room where you continued to sleep, “they will come for her.”
Next Chapter: Chapter Three
Author's Note: Phew! A lot got unpacked and I hope it is making sense! We will be speeding through the end of season three (with a few changes) in one or two chapters, and afterwards it will be my take of season four and further on. Thank you so much again for all the love and support!
Tagged List: @seven709 @sadpods @mayafatimakhan @deans-spinster-witch @justiceforquentin @ultracarpediemfan @bitchykittenconnoisseur @spacecowgirl126
#jensen ackles#soldier boy#soldier boy x reader#soldier boy x female reader#soldier boy x y/n#soldier boy fanfiction#soldier boy x you#the boys series
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𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 .ೃ࿐
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you were in love with f1's beloved honey badger and you had been for almost year. but why in the world had you instead fallen for his teammate? or in which infidelity has laid it's sticky little hands on you.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: slight angst, infidelity naturally, falling out of love, steamy makeout sesh, suggestive content, pining, sad boy hours for daniel, lando being kind of a sneaky bastard, age-gap between reader and boys (8 years for dan and 2 years for lan), reader born in australia, set in 2020/2021, false or incorrect marine biology lingo and protocols lol, mention of crossiant horner, poor explanation of f1, mentions of insecurity, proof-read...ish
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: daniel ricciardo x marine biologist!female reader, lando norris x marine biologist!female reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4k+
𝐀/𝐍: i felt bad for not posting so here's me digging into my reserves! written when i did more song-based fics!! i wish life wasn't so busy 🤧 i have started a few thingsssssss but it's definitely going to be a while before i post them sorry 😣
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
⋆ •°. 。 .°• ⋆
You, honestly, were a normal girl. Mundane as mundane gets. Never once had you imagined of cameras, headlines and the need for a PR specialist in your life.
But it's what you had gotten. That's what Daniel Ricciardo came with.
You had met the Australian on pure accident. It was late 2020 and the season had just come an end. Hamilton was a six-times World Champion and Daniel had his last season with Renault. He hadn't got the result he wanted but he was optimistic about his future with McLaren. So eventually, he headed home to Australia for the Christmas holidays.
Now you would like to consider yourself a well-versed Australian. Especially considering you were born there. Robert Irwin was the most beloved Australian for years to come and Margot Robbie and Chris Hemsworth were your Aussie reps in America.
Somehow, however, you had never really got F1 or Formula One. That's not to say you hadn't heard of it. Honestly, for the past few years it was difficult to pass Albert Park in the summer of March without it flashing in front of your eyes. But if someone were to ask you anything about it, you would blink blankly and apologise.
Which is exactly what you did in early December. You were out having lunch with your closest friends at a local cafe, catching up on the year in the fresh yet skin-damaging Aussie sun.
You were in midst conversation when a brunette girl politely interrupted you. "Hi, sorry. This is going to sound really weird. I'm doing this on a bet. But do all three of you know that man over there? In the hat?”
You looked over to her table full of people. It seemed like she was with her family and friends. You and your friends zoned on the man in the hat, a guy who was trying to not make it obvious that he was aware of what was going on.
You scrutinised him carefully and unsurprisingly, you didn’t know him. Surprisingly, you did find that he was attractive. The curly hair, the scruff… you wondered whether he was actually Australian because no men in Australia looked like that.
Your two friends nodded while confirming with one another. “It’s Daniel, right? The driver?” One of them asked.
Your other friend hummed in agreement.
The brunette looked over at you. You blinked at her as your face slowly morphed into an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
The brunette, which you expected to be somewhat sad about it, ended up smiling while your friends’ faces dropped.
“Thank you! Oh my god. You have no idea what you’ve just done!” The brunette laughed loudly, capturing the attention of her table. She pointed at the man in the hat, clutching her stomach. “She doesn’t know who you are, Danny. Take that!”
Similarly to your friends, the male’s face dropped. He looked at you and tilted his head.
When Daniel actually saw you for the first time, he was in shock. Not the type of shock of an Aussie not knowing who he was. But rather the shock of being in the presence as someone as beautiful as you.
Your eyes were tantalising and your apologetic expression was cute.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s okay. I’m just an F1 driver.”
You nodded in slow understanding. Maybe you had in fact seen his posters in Albert Park. Honestly, you couldn’t be sure. Life as a marine biologist was busy and all over the place. Recognising celebrities or athletes was kind of the last thing on your mind.
━━━━━━━━━━━
That day you went home with the expectation of a normal tomorrow. One where you were out at the ocean and exploring the waters you had loved so much.
You wish you could say it came as a shock to see that same curly haired man on the wharf, but given the current temperatures that heavily contrasted your winter, it was reasonable as any other Aussie here.
What you didn’t expect was you passing him to get to your boat and then hearing a voice enter the air. “Hey! Excuse me. Sorry. You’re the girl from yesterday, right?”
You turned to the man, hand over your eyes to protect yourself from the harsh rays and take a closer look at him. Just in case it wasn’t him.
“Uh, yeah? You’re the driver, right?”
Daniel gave a wide smile, extending out his hand. “I’m Daniel. Daniel Ricciardo.”
Oh my. What a smile he had. The type to make you feel happy just by looking at it. You couldn’t even help but smile in response. You reached out to shake his hand, not ready to feel a weird sort of spark between the two of you.
“I... I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”
Daniel slowly removed his hand from yours, grabbing any last second he could. He eyed the briefcase and scuba gear in your hands. “You diving?”
You looked at your equipment. “Well, testing. I’m a marine biologist. Although, I guess I’m still diving.”
Daniel pursed his lips. Now he had to get to know you. You were beautiful and a marine biologist. An Aussie dream.
“Oh yeah? What are you testing?” He queried with a raised brow,
“Oh! Uh, currently things like the local fish populations in decline. Their habitat. Whether they’re safe or not. Algae growth. Predators. pH levels. All the fun stuff...” You sheepishly trailed off once you realised you began rambling.
You didn’t know but in that moment Daniel was in awe of you. The twinkle in your eyes that rose once you talked about your work. Like your work was your passion. That’s how he felt about F1.
You watched Daniel nod as if he were actually interested. “Do you mind if I come with? I won’t contaminate anything. Promise.”
You mended your brows together. It wasn’t uncommon for people to ask to join. But the way Daniel said it… like it was something he had to do or he would regret it for the rest of his life, you couldn’t help feel compelled. “Um, yeah. Do you not have to be on the road or something though? ‘Cause your a driver?”
“Oh F1 only goes between March and November. We’re on holiday at the moment. Well sort of.”
“Oh,” you mumbled out cluelessly. Your cheeks burned with a tinge of embarrassment. How had you managed to get through all these years of living and not known about this?
Daniel laughed lightly at the reddening of your cheeks. Just when he though he could find you any cuter. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you F1. And you can teach me the ocean.”
So the two of you went into your boat. The sun beat down onto you so harshly that for most of it, you had retreated to driving the vessel in the shade as Daniel sat next to you.
It had gone so well that this, whatever it was, became a regular occurrence after you exchanged numbers that day.
You were learning a lot about him and his job. He was actually Italian-Australian. He started this passion with go-karting. You found out F1 wasn’t just racing but it was racing to another extreme. 300 kph. God, getting your car to 100 kph for the open road was thrill enough for you.
That made Daniel wheeze with laughter and promise he would take you for a drive in a sports car to get a taste of the speed he craved for.
Apparently F1 had 10 teams, each with 2 drivers. In each of the teams, the drivers had the same car to drive, cars that were constructed originally by each team. The point of the races were for two championships. The Driver’s World Championship, the title the driver wanted to win, and the Constructors’ Championship, the title everyone from the driver to the team strategist wanted to win. They were calculated by the amount of points received by the drivers in the races.
All the races were settled through a long weekend of sorts. Fridays were for practices to see how the car was on the track as they had different conditions per track. Saturdays were for qualifying. Here, Daniel would push the car to its limits to get the fastest lap time as the drivers were ranked to then get a position for the actual race tomorrow. Sundays were where they raced for points.
All of it was slightly complex, especially with the penalties and rules that they followed. Buy you seemed to get the gist of it.
Daniel had learnt that you had grown up in Australia and like him had to travel a lot for your work. Weirdly, some times his race dates would match up with your travelling. Daniel chose to take that as a sign. You were 8 years younger than him, taking him by a slight surprise. You were 23 and he was 31. But it didn’t seem like it mattered to you. Communication between the two of you was a smooth sail.
Daniel even opened up about his time with Red Bull. A whirl of bad and annoying memories. But when you had said that you would like to see Christian Horner step on to your boat and throw him overboard into a tank of piranhas, only for thirty seconds of course, Daniel had never laughed harder.
━━━━━━━━━━━
By the billionth time you had hung out, the sun was setting in the evening, providing a refreshing cold breeze to match the heat. Christmas was close soon. And Daniel was aching to ask you out.
He had to go into this next season of driving knowing he had you by his side. Even his own family was pushing him to ask. Especially his sister, Michelle, who had dubbed herself the cupid as she was the very brunette who had technically introduced you two, or so she claimed.
The both of you had finished a dive and were heading to Daniel's car. You were supposed to have dinner with his family on this fine evening.
"You good, Danny?" You looked over to the man. Daniel, for the loud and outgoing person he was, was being rather quiet today. You couldn't really put your finger on why either. You took pride in being able to read people. But it looked like his mind was at some sort of battle.
He gave an idle hum, getting into the driver's seat.
You raised a brow, closing the door on the passenger side shut. Your hand reached out to his thigh, making him break his trance and flicker his eyes towards you.
"Listen, I don't know what it is or what's going on. But I'm all ears if you want," You smiled, patting his thigh. You went to remove your hand but Daniel placed his hand over yours, keeping you there.
Daniel's heart was in his throat. He was not normally a nervous man. He was the epitome of confidence. But you seemed to tear that down, in the nicest way, quite easily.
Daniel absorbed your curious eyes before releasing a shaky breath. "Uh," he awkwardly chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "I'm not normally like this. I can't really explain it... but these past few weeks, I... I haven't felt like this in a really long time. With you I feel free... happy... I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like you. And even if I'm ancient, I would really like to be with you. You know. Together. If that wasn't clear."
The smile on your face the moment you realised what was going on hadn't stopped growing. You watches his eyes dart around, looking for a signal of anything. A yes. A no.
You looked down at your hands. The warmth of his spread among your one. You turned your hand to intertwine them with his and squeezed his hand, looking back up at him. "I think you took the words right out my mouth. I like you too, Danny. A lot. Even as an 'old ass man.'"
An odd silence settled within the car as Daniel simply stared at you, honey brown eyes hold your own.
"Danny? Are you okay?"
Daniel's eyes turned into crescents while his infamous wide smile sprawled onto your face. "Can I kiss you?"
You stilled in the passenger seat. Your eyes flickered to his lips before meeting his eyes once again. You weren't sure if you could trust your voice at the moment so you gave a curt nod.
Daniel smiled softly at the flustered expression you sported. Instead of leaning his head in like you expected to, he reached over to your seat and lifted you out of it. You released a small yelp before landing onto his lap, straddling his crotch as you faced towards him.
Daniel's fingers played with the slightly dampened tresses that had fallen around your face and pushed them behind your ears. His fingers trailed down to your heated cheeks and to your jaw. Bringing you closer to him, he leaned his head towards you.
Daniel's lips fell into yours. His hands soon fell to your back as your arms snaked his neck. The world... your surroundings were all gone. All you could feel was each other. His fingers sneaking past the hem of your shirt and grazing your bare skin. The action sent a wave of heat within you.
You let out a small muffled moan causing Daniel to adjust himself in his seat. A bulge had formed in his pants, aching at your touch. You released yourself from him for a gasp of air, which fell into further pleasurable gasps as Daniel's swollen lips had found your neck, leaving a trail of small sloppy kisses.
Daniel rested his chin onto your shoulder before pulling back to look at you. He grinned at your dazed expression. "As much as I would like to continue this in such a fitting setting like a car, I would rather our first time in an actual bed."
You let out a small laugh, feeling yourself fluster even further while you gave him a tight hug.
And that's how your relationship had started. Since then, it had been almost a year. In that year, you had gotten impossibly closer. You had visited his races without telling him because you were scared. You were scared of distracting him and scared for him. The first F1 race you went to matched up to your meetings with other marine biologists and techs in Spain. God, you didn't know cars could even go that fast. The occasional toss of a car to the side sent fear coursing through you.
Eventually, Daniel had found out and reassured you that you being there wouldn't harm anything. In fact, the thought of it calmed him down and encouraged him. He had even introduced you to some of the team and whispered in your ear when he pointed to Red Bull's team principal.
"Oh... so that's the man going overboard. That's a shame. You didn't tell me he look like a sea otter. Sea otters are supposed look cute. I'll just pretend he's plant plankton."
Daniel had never laughed harder at something. Just when he thought he couldn't love you more. God, you were a sight to behold. He would never understand how you managed to be who you were.
You had felt the same.
Well, at least that was until when you met his new teammate in McLaren, Lando Norris.
Lando was two years younger than you and what some people called the British Ricciardo. He was constantly smiling and cracking jokes. He was the moodmaker.
The vibe he had was like an annoying little brother of a sort.
But people obviously didn't feel attracted to someone if they truly thought of them like that.
You shouldn't feel this way. It was wrong. You had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who adored you. You had tried to keep yourself occupied with your job to avoid having to attend too many races and meet the McLaren team, in fear of meeting Lando.
But of course, how were you going to refuse to celebrate Lando's 2nd podium of the year in Monaco when Daniel asked?
So here you were. In a club dressed in a cream coloured set: a long sleeved bralette and a long skirt starting from your waist, ending just before your heels with a slit in the middle.
The compliment you had received in your ear from Daniel made you wish you could say you were dressed for him in the first place. But it would be a lie to say that.
You had navigated yourself around the club to drown yourself in some alcohol. You needed a distraction and you felt that being some what drunk and out of it would've helped.
you should take it as a compliment that i got drunk and made fun of the way you talk. you should think about the consequence of your magnetic field being a little too strong. and i got a boyfriend, he's older than us he's in the club doing, i don't know what you're so cool, it makes me hate you so much.
You were out of it for sure. Because sober you did not have the guts you had right now. The guts to not only sit at the same table as Lando but next to him and make fun of his British accent with Carlos.
"No, Carlos. I'm pretty sure he sounded like 'No no no... you ruined my ice cream,'" You laughed lightly as the Spaniard refused to agree with you.
"No he has bit of a weird sound at the 'ruined' part. He sound like those kids in the UK... on the road? What are they again..."
Lando's face burst with amusement. He laughed so hard, he had to prevent his cup from falling out of his hand. "Do you mean..." He gasped for air, "Roadmen?"
Jesus. Carlos Sainz discussing roadmen was the funniest thing that had happened so far.
You weren't sure where Daniel was even. All you knew he was probably talking to some other team member of McLaren. You were rather preoccupied and entranced by the British male next to you.
You couldn't explain it but it was as if there was a magnetic field around him and you, like an element, were simply attracted to him. As if there was no other path to go. He made you laugh differently. Feel differently. He was also a looker. That boyish charm that simply pulled you in. It made you wonder how strong his magnetic field was.
The science of it was simple. You may be a marine biologist but you hadn't flunked physics. The stronger the intensity of a field, the further the magnet, Lando, will be able to attract elements, like you. All you knew was that he was strong enough to inexplicably take you attention away from your own boyfriend.
you're so gorgeous i can't say anything to your face 'cause look at your face. and i'm so furious at you for making me feel this way but what can i say? you're gorgeous.
This attraction you felt to Lando what ridiculous in itself. But you had felt it from when you first met him and you felt it now. Lando was simply gorgeous. His smile was breathtaking. His laugh felt pretty.
And it infuriated you. You wanted to yell at him, tell him to stop. These feelings, this flutter, this tingle... make it all stop, you wanted to say.
But you could never say that to his face. How could you? Those same things came back every time you looked at him.
The smile. The flutter. The tingle.
You wondered whether he had even looked at himself in the mirror. You wondered whether ever had felt insecure about the way he looked and that if he did, you wished he hadn't.
Everything thing about him was simply enticing. A delightful view... from the arms of Daniel.
you should take it as a compliment that i'm talking to everyone here but you. and you should think about the consequence of you touching my hand in a darkened room. if you've got a girlfriend, i'm jealous of her. but if you're single that's honestly worse. 'cause you're so gorgeous it actually hurts.
This feeling... this infatuation was overwhelming for you. You were a taken girl. You had even made it was to the multiple Instagram F1 'WAGs' accounts and were met with the most glorious welcomes by fans.
You needed to get a grip on yourself for Christ's sake. Lando was also taken. Even if he was single, which if you were being honest was an insult to romance itself, you didn't have a chance let alone now. No matter how jealous you were, you had to be realistic. You paled in comparison to the fame Portuguese models that F1 drivers often found themselves with.
Of course, you had to admit they were beautiful. You had no conflict with them. They weren't your classic mean girls. They were impossibly nice and you even found yourself in some interesting conversations. But at the end of the day, you were simply a marine biologist.
So in the darkness of the club, you had managed to isolate yourself from Lando, who had gone with Pierre somewhere, and made the struggling and gruelling effort to talk to anyone else but him. You had conversed with Carlos before he had gone somewhere with his girlfriend. You had settle for Charles as a distraction.
Charles was a pleasure to talk to. As always, he was also so kind and sweet with his words. The type you were sure that when you looked at the, you knew that their mother raised them right.
Daniel had finally found his way to you, mentioning that Zak Brown had just pulled him aside for a talking to. You asked if he was okay, in which he responded with a smile and said: "Now that I'm with you, yes."
You managed to give him a soft and believable smile. Daniel was standing behind you, joining in your conversation with Charles. It wasn't until you were in the midst of a conversation about life in Monaco that you felt a hand on yours.
You smiled gently, expecting it to be Daniel's but instead it was Lando's.
ocean blue eyes looking in mine. i feel like i might sink and drown and die.
Your eyes snapped up to meet Lando's face. His blue eyes bore into yours.
Those goddamn eyes of his would be the end of you. The similarity of them to the oceans you had travelled and the beautiful creatures you had seen was uncanny.
Your heart paced furiously against your chest. He must've been drunk or tipsy to the very least to stumble onto you. There was no way he had purposely wanted you to drown in his eyes.
You sucked in a quiet sharp breath and edged to removed your hand. But as quickly as you had made that decision, the gnawing feeling at your heart had grown more intense and taunted you. Lando's hand hurried to grab yours and place it back where it was.
Your eyes shook with awe and lingered with a dangerous thrill. You could feel his fingers rub the back of your hand gently before intertwining them.
You looked blankly at the table in front of you while Lando had joined in the conversation so casually, like nothing was even going on. You had to thank your stars that the club was able to be as dark as it was.
A lot of the noise around you had turned into white noise and blurs of sound. Charles must've complimented you as you had managed to capture some mention of fish and coral reefs from your boyfriend.
you make me so happy it turns back to sad. there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have and you are so gorgeous, it makes me so mad. you make me so happy it turns back to sad. there's nothing i hate more than what i can't have and guess i'll just stumble on home to my cats alone unless, you wanna come along?
It was Daniel kissing your cheek fondly and Lando's hand grazing your knee under the table that had brought you back to reality.
The happiness and adrenaline you felt was wrong. You knew with every crevice and fibre of your body that this had to stop. This attraction and sickly sweet infatuation with Lando. God, he just made you so fuzzy. You could barely think straight.
You were stuck in between two men who had their touch on you. It wasn't right. As much as you liked Lando, he angered your entire being. He had simply waltzed into your life. He was playing along with your feelings.
Lando's damning eyes averted to you when he felt your hand slip away from him forcefully.
You hoped the guilt in your eyes shone as much as they could in this darkness.
You were going to have to break up with a man who would give you everything. You would have to leave all of... this... and get away from here.
You needed everything to return to normal. You had no idea how exactly you were going to explain a sudden return home without inflicting any suspicion.
All you knew now was that you had to make a lengthy apology to a man you had not realised you had fallen out of love with.
You supposed that was love.
Love was a bittersweet feeling. It was beautiful and fluttering but brought a lot of tragedy and strife along with it.
That was love: simply gorgeous.
© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑
#mickyschumacher#formula 1#f1 x reader#f1 x you#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#daniel ricciardo x reader#lando norris fanfic#lando norris#lando norris x reader#daniel ricciardo fanfic#daniel ricciardo
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