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zorostitties · 2 months ago

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Aurora; 6 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: HELLO Y'ALL!!! I planned to post this chapter yesterday, but unfortunately I was too drunk to finish writing anything. The pre carnival parties got me 🙂‍↕️ That being said, this one wasn't proof read, so my apologies for any grammar mistakes. I love how past chapter made all of you theorize LMAOOOO as I replied in the comments, I'm sad that I can't really discuss anything with y'all (no spoilers!!) but I LOVED reading everything! I love how much attention y'all are paying to any details!! 🥹🥹

Anyways, enjoy <3

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Olrox felt that horrible stench from the moment he stepped out of the ship.

At first, he thought it was just the usual human filth. Too many souls, too many plagues, too much blood soaking the lands of the Old World, too much history, too much evil. Olrox never liked visiting Europe, and not only because the travel was exhausting, even for a vampire. To him, that continent meant a mix of distastes. He’d only cross the ocean when he had no other choice.

Then, he stood face to face with Erzsebet Bathory – and the stench got even worse.

Not many things shocked Olrox anymore, but when he first met the so called “Vampire Messiah”, he couldn’t help but feel that way. She reeked. Her horrible smell already permeated the entirety of France. Olrox wondered how any of her servants managed to stand beside her without vomiting. Hell, even the normal humans of Machecoul should be feeling that at some point.

Of course – the world was not what it used to be. Not many people were able to feel the fragrances of magic anymore.

Olrox came from a time and a people that weren’t blinded by the teachings of the Christian Church. They knew that magic is very much real; they knew that it existed in every aspect of life, from the forests to the rivers to the seas, from the birth of a child to the death of an elder, from the blood that dripped when a girl became a woman to the blood that splashed in a holy sacrifice. This type of knowledge was being slowly forgotten, buried in the sands of time. Mankind had a short memory. With each generation, they became more and more unaware of the invisible forces around them – not only in the Old World, but in his home, too.

But Olrox didn’t have a short memory. Olrox never forgot any teaching.

And Olrox knew that that was the stench of blasphemy.

Erzsebet Bathory was no goddess. Of that, he was sure. But the type of magic she was feeding of… it was ancient, difficult to manage. Dangerous. From a time when gods still roamed Earth and still had the power to bless or punish. And it was quite ironic, in fact, that Drolta – who was not only Erzsebet’s most loyal servant, but also claimed to be Sekhmet’s priestess – would even dare to try that.

Olrox sincerely did not understand Drolta. She was even older than him; she was a powerful vampire and had deep knowledge in the occult. Why would she act so foolishly? Was she blinded by the love for her goddess, or was she blinded by her thirst for power?

This goddess she claimed to love – wherever she was, he wondered, could not be satisfied with any of that.

And yet… as days went by, as Olrox investigated Machecoul… he noticed another smell.

It was very well masked under Erzsebet’s stench. It was… timid, in a way. Very easy to go unnoticed. He felt it faintly in Mizrak. It became stronger in the night creatures. It was disgusting in the Abbot. And now, standing in the underground of his church, it was unbearable.

The stench of a demon.

Olrox stood in front of the necromancy machine the now deceased Abbot used to make night creatures with. Another irony in this great puzzle he was putting together – a funny irony this time. Did the people that come to pray to their God upstairs had any idea that a hell machine laid under their feet? Did they ever imagine that the man that used to hold their Holy Scriptures also held a book originated in the underworld?

He would’ve laughed at the entire situation if it didn’t affect Mizrak – and he wouldn’t have really cared if his inner voice didn’t warn him otherwise.

Olrox knew the entity was with him at that moment. Surrounding him, vibrating in a low frequency. The basement immediately got cold. The smell of coal and sulfur got stronger.

“I know who you are,” Olrox muttered, not caring to turn around. He could feel that thing grinning at him. “Old Man Coyote. Mephistopholes, or some other name.” His eyes wandered over the hell book he held. “I know what promises you make and how tempting they are. And I could make good use of a powerful patron.”

Olrox closed the book, finally looking over his shoulder. The entity was nothing but a shadow; blurry, dark, trying hard to somehow keep itself together in the same level of existence as him – and it would never achieve this in its totality without a vessel.

“But this doesn’t belong in this world,” he said, shaking the hell book slightly, “And nor do you.”

He threw the book inside the machine, where it burned immediately. The shadow retreated.

Olrox made his way out of the Abbey. The smell still followed him, though. It was mixed with the human filth, the blood, the plagues, the history, the evil. Mixed with Erzsebet’s stench. Hidden under it. And looking in retrospect, it was always there, from the moment Olrox stepped out of the ship.

It was very reflective of the situation slowly unfolding in front of his eyes. Erzsebet was noisy, boisterous, blinding, just like her stench. The other stench was quieter, moving silently like a snake ready to pounce on its prey. He wondered if she would notice the snake before it sank its fangs in her ankles. Probably not. She wasn’t as perceptive, or as intelligent, or as dangerous.

Yes, the type of blasphemous magic Drolta and Erzsebet were messing with was dangerous. But gods didn’t roam the Earth anymore. They couldn’t protect of punish the way they used to.

Demons did.

Demons could.

Olrox wondered what type of pact they made with this demon – and what was the price they would have to pay for their foolishness.

PAIN.

It was red and piercing and incessant and strong and nauseating and you felt your bones crashing and flesh being slashed and the pressure in your stomach and the taste of blood in your tongue and your vision went black and you couldn’t breathe and nothing else existed but pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN–––––

...

You knew pain. You knew it very well. You knew it better than anything else – better than yourself, better than your cloudy past.

You could deal with it. You could deal with it.

You would deal with it.

So you forced your brain to start working again. You forced your eyes to focus.

And they saw red. Blurry red. The night creature’s jaws tightly around your body. Its teeth sank deep into your clavicle, your chest, your stomach, and–

And–

And you couldn’t feel half of your right arm anymore.

You still weren’t hearing anything very well. If you could, you would’ve heard Annette gasping, desperately calling your name; then you would’ve heard her scream of anger, then you would’ve heard the sound of her blade slashing the night creature’s remaining head from its neck.

The pressure of the jaws was gone. The head fell on the ground.

It was like taking the cover off a leaking pipe.

The bleeding started.

Your brain was divided in two sections. The bigger section which occupied 90% of it was yelling PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN. The smaller section, barely 10% of it, was strangely focused and analytical. This little part always understood very well everything that was happening.

PAINPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINmy lung was pierced. If I try to breathe, I will inhale bloodITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSdon’t breathe for now. There’s already blood in your throat. You’ll gag and it’ll only make things worstPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINPAINprobably one or two ribs broken, too. I can’t move my right shoulder… so the collarbone was also piercedIT HURTS!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!! IT HURTS!!

MY RIGHT ARM! IT’S HANGING!!

You held your breath. You stumbled back. You heard Annette’s incoherent, desperate voice – oh, she will freak out if she sees me like this. So, with the little body control you still had, you pushed her away with your left arm and stumbled to the back of the gallery.

Don’t worry about this, it’s what you would’ve said if you could breathe, if there wasn’t blood clogging your throat. It’ll heal anyway. I’m more worried about you seeing me in this state.

How you didn’t trip was a miracle. You stumbled to the farthest place you could reach, leaning on the wall with your back facing Annette; you didn’t utter a sound. Don’t scream, don’t cry – these two rules were still engraved in your behavior.

So when you looked down and saw that your entire forearm was hanging from a little piece of skin and muscle, all you thought was oh shit.

The two bones of the forearm were visibly cracked, peeking out from a horrible gash in an exposed fracture. You didn’t feel anything from that point down to your hand, which meant that all the nerves were ripped off; it bled uncontrollably, which would become the even bigger problem – you always passed out very fast due to extreme blood loss. But you didn’t want anyone to see you in this state. You knew they didn’t have time to wait until your full recovery.

So, quite honestly, you were relieved that your forearm wasn’t completely ripped off; you were grateful that it was still hanging by that small piece of skin. Growing entire limbs back was not only slow, but disgusting and extremely painful. All you had to do was give your body a little push for it to understand what it needed to do.

With your left hand, you held your forearm and fit the bone back to its place – like two pieces of a puzzle.

Oh fuck it hurts. This time, you had to groan. As the wound was very much open, you could see exactly were the bones should connect; luckily enough, the little gash of flesh didn’t rip off, which would completely disconnect the forearm from the rest of your body. You still heard Annette behind you, but you couldn’t comprehend anything she was saying. You just kept your eyes glued to your arm.

It’s like your body didn’t know what to heal first. Too many wounds. And yet, for the second time that day, you were lucky: the healing decided to act on the arm first.

And oh FUCK how it hurt.

It hurt almost as much as having it injured; you closed your eyes tightly, feeling as the bones started to reconnect, the noise it made – it reverberated in your entire body. And then the nerves were starting to reconnect too like vines and when they did IT HURT HURT HURT HURT because you started to feel the rest of your forearm again, and your fingers had spasms, and then your muscles were also reconnecting and rebuilding, and then finally the wound was closing–

Blank.

You passed out.

When your eyes opened again, you were laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling – Annette and Richter’s tired and horrified faces hovering over you.

Much time mustn’t had passed. Well… that’s what happens when one holds their breath for so long. You turned your head to the side and coughed blood, but after spitting, you felt that you could breathe again – albeit slowly, like your air passage was as thin as a straw; it was a relief anyway. You groaned. The throat wasn’t damaged. Good.

They were saying something, though you weren’t listening. You tried to raise your right arm to no avail; oh, right. The collarbone. It still hadn’t healed. It radiated pain from that point to your fingertips. If there was pain, it meant that the arm was still in the process of healing, although the skin had already patched itself, closing the open wound.

And then your ears started to hear again.

“...too much blood,” Richter’s voice was hurried, borderline desperate. “She’s losing too much blood, we need to do something!”

“Mmm’ okay.”

They stopped their incessant talking and looked down at you.

And then, they gasped when you started to rise, using the strength of your left arm.

“No! Keep lying down!” Annette tried, but you just groaned in response.

You bit your tongue, holding a groan of pain as you managed to sit, both of them resting their hands on your back to support you. There was still pain everywhere – you didn’t even know where to focus first; the pain on your right arm that spread to the shoulder and shattered collarbone, the sharp pressure in your chest that felt like someone heavy was stepping over it, your stomach which was still bleeding as the skin hadn’t regenerated yet, the broken ribs that made each breath hurt, or the blood loss that brought the familiar dizziness and headache.

And still, you looked at Annette.

“Did you get hurt?” you managed to speak somehow.

Her eyes widened. She let out a soft gasp.

“How are you asking that when you’re like this?!” And then you saw it... the look of pure guilt. That’s not what you wanted to achieve with your action – not that you really thought about anything the moment you jumped in front of a night creature.

I don’t die, Annette, is what you wanted to say; you needed them to understand this once and for all – there was no need to worry, no need to feel guilty. This strange body of yours had gone through much worse. Everything would be back in place after a few hours.

You couldn’t say anything, though – because at the same moment, a shockwave of pure agony made your mind go blank.

You closed your eyes tightly. You bit your lower lip, swallowing the scream that wanted to escape. Don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t scream, don’t cry, you repeated in your mind like a mantra. This time, though, it wasn’t because you were scared of a worse punishment; you just didn’t want to shock these two. They weren’t innocent babies, of course – both were capable of killing, much stronger than you. But they were still young and seeing an ally in such state shouldn’t be easy.

Or maybe you were just putting yourself in highest regards than you actually were.

Still, you kept swallowing more screams and grunts of pain. Richter and Annette eyed you with worry, as you kept your eyes closed for more than a minute without uttering a sound or letting any reaction. You became quite good at the art of acting like you weren’t feeling anything.

After the shockwave dissipated – you knew it would come back; it was always like this with serious injuries – you moved your legs, making clear that you wanted to get up. The two of them hurried to help you to your feet without touching the right side of your body.

Oh… that’s a lot of blood, the conscious 10% of your brain noted. The deep blue gown was drenched in red now on your right side. The world twirled; don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out, you repeated, as if it would make any difference.

When your sight focused again, you saw Alucard walking into the gallery.

And if you could speak at that moment, you would’ve asked, why are you soaked?

Yet you didn’t say anything because you watched how his expression changed in seconds. It went from shock – eyes widened, lips slightly parted, brows frowned – to straight up anger.

Once again, it scared you. You didn’t like to see him angry. The idea of Alucard being angry at you was terrifying.

In the blink of an eye he was standing in front of you, holding your left shoulder (oh, you never got used to a vampire’s ability of moving so fast). You flinched, and not because of his touch, but because you knew what anger like that usually followed…

But then – he snapped his head at Richter.

“This would not have happened, Richter Belmont, if you hadn’t told them where we were going!”

You flinched again. His voice genuinely sounded like a hiss. You’d never heard him speak like this before.

He was angry at… Richter?

You couldn’t turn your head anymore, couldn’t look at anything beyond eye level, which was just Alucard’s chest at the moment. Darkness came and went; your hearing worked as if it was underwater – muffled voices, they came and went too.

“She got hurt because of me,” Annette intervened, her tone defensive, guilty and angry, all at the same time. “And it wouldn’t take a sorcerer to predict we’d come to Paris, Alucard. We also thought Drolta was dead. We though you’d killed her.”

PAIN.

It was sharp as if a spear had just pierced your stomach. You closed your eyes again. Don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t scream, don’t cry… Your ears were still hearing, although you weren’t paying attention to anything anymore. Something something something prepare the city. Something something National Convention. Something something something nests of vampires. Why couldn’t they shut the fuck up for a second?

The world twirled – but this time it was quite literal; Alucard took you in his arms bridal style, having the care to not touch the right side of your body. The ceiling came and went out of focus. You wanted to vomit. Don’t pass out, don’t scream, don’t cry…

He was walking away. If you could speak, you would’ve asked, where are you taking me? You have to destroy Sekhmet’s mummy, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you hurry?

“Why aren’t we coming with you?” Richter asked – or you thought he asked that.

Alucard stopped for a second. “I’ve told you what I need you to do. Do I have to say it again?”

If you could speak, you would’ve said something along the lines of why are you being so mean to him?

But you couldn’t speak, nor could you think. The conscious part of your brain shrunk to barely 5% at the moment another shockwave of agony hit your body – focused on your chest now; it was difficult to breath, you felt the ferrous taste of blood in your tongue. Don’t pass out, don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t pass out, don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t pass out, don’t scream, don’t cry; don’t pass out, don’t scream, don’t cry…

You completely lost notion of time and space (did you black out briefly? Heavens, you hoped not…). When the wave of pain dissipated, you realized that you were no longer in his arms. You were… laying. Over a soft surface.

Your eyes focused again. A wooden ceiling, a window to your right. A… room? Were you laying on a bed? How did you get here?

You tried to sit, only to feel a hand touch your left shoulder.

“Shhh,” Alucard shushed. Oh, he’s still here, sitting on the bed too. “Don’t move.”

“No,” you muttered, or something that sounded like that. “We… ugh… we need to go.”

“You’re in no condition to do anything right now, Ruby.” The anger had disappeared completely. Worry was the only emotion you heard in his soft voice. You groaned again, insisting in sitting up. Alucard left a tsk past his lips, and you thought you heard him whisper “what are you doing, woman?” though you couldn’t be sure about this last part.

Still, he helped you change into a sitting position with your legs hanging from the bed, his hand supporting your back. Yes, this was a small room; simple, a small desk and a chair being the only furniture other than the bed. You wanted to ask where the hell were you, but you mustered your forces to ask what actually mattered at the moment.

“The… mummy…?”

The sight of Alucard was blurry. Still, you saw his eyes drop. He sighed.

“Drolta took it.”

Your heart dropped, too.

If Drolta retrieved the second half of Sekhmet’s mummy… that could mean they wouldn’t need you to summon an eclipse anymore. Which meant you weren’t their upper hand; you were just a useless injured person. Alucard should be preparing to fight, not sitting beside you as you bled–

PAIN.

This time, you couldn’t hold the grunt of pain back; you tightened your eyes, shrunk your shoulders, bent over slightly.

“What is it?” Alucard asked worriedly. “Where does it hurt?”

Fucking everywhere!, is what you wanted to answer.

Cuts, skin or muscle pierced… this type of injury was “easy” to heal, “easy” to handle. But that night creature made much more damage beyond what the eye could see. Your insides were hurt – and the healing of this type of injury was much more violent. You could feel your organs moving, expanding, regrowing, patching; bones reattaching, sending waves of excruciating pain through your entire skeleton. The bleeding must’ve stopped at that point, no more wound was visible on your skin, but that didn’t ease any of the pain at all.

“Mmmmh,” you probably were trying to say something coherent, but nothing came.

“It’s okay,” Alucard shushed softly again. “Don’t hold yourself back.”

His voice wasn’t coming from beside you anymore. You opened your eyes briefly to see that now, he was down on one knee right in front of you. Alucard held your hand (the good one) softly.

“Squeeze my hand if you need it. Just don’t hold yourself back.”

Don’t scream, don’t cry, was the instinct engraved in your very being. And yet, Alucard was asking you to do the exact opposite.

You couldn’t. Not really. You were too good at holding yourself back at this point. However, when another wave of pain came, you squeezed his hand out of instinct, squeezed it tight – and that was the signal Alucard needed. You didn’t open your eyes (even if you weren’t in pain, to look at him so closely would be probably torture). You didn’t see his expression when, with his free hand, he softly touched the back of your head and made you rest your face on his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. His lips were so close to your ear; his deep voice reverberated in your body.

Ninety percent of your brain was yelling in sharp pain. The ten percent that weren’t focused on the way he caressed your hair softly; then, he was caressing your back. Your body trembled, your jaw so tightened that it almost felt that your teeth were going to crash; jolts of pure agony made you want to scream. Your hand squeezed his incessantly to a point you didn’t even realize you were doing it anymore.

Alucard didn’t complain about anything. He stayed there, holding you with care. That 10% part of your brain felt the sweet scent on the crook of his neck, his hand softly caressing your back, the warmth radiating from his body, his voice saying It’s okay and I’m so sorry every time a grunt of pain escaped.

He stayed there until the pain eased. He stayed there until your mind finally gave in and you passed out, embraced by darkness.

“Do you regret it?”

You frown at ???’s sudden question.

“What?” Did you even hear her correctly? The music is a bit too loud.

“Do you regret it? To have chosen this path?”

You look ahead again. Oh... now you understand her question. You can’t blame her for thinking that anyway. You know it’s not easy for most people to understand.

Sun bathes the patio. The air smells of wine, flowers and good food. Most of the guests occupy the center, dancing and talking. Kids run in between them. ??? proudly shows off a beetle to his friends.

“Of course not,” you say with such certainty that no one would dare to question you. “I am much proud of the choices I made.”

And yet, only you know the slight sting in your heart – the tiny loneliness that refused to go away.

The wooden ceiling again.

You stared at it for a long time. The window beside you was opened now. A soft refreshing breeze kissed your skin, just as the afternoon sun rays.

Your body tingled. You stretched the fingers of your right hand. They tingled, too; the push of the muscles on your wrist was a tiny bit painful, but nothing compared to the excruciating agony you felt a while ago.

Then, you moved your right shoulder. Up, down; with your left hand, you touched the collarbone. It… felt normal. You looked down at your body and – hell, that dress was in pieces, damp with your own blood. You were lucky that the corset wasn’t completely ripped, otherwise your chest and torso would be exposed.

You touched the parts where the fabric was teared. The skin… normal. No more pain. No more cramps in your stomach or chest.

Only then did you sigh in relief.

You saw movement with the corner of your eye – and when you turned your head to see Alucard, you completely forgot about the weird dream you just had.

He was sitting on the floor with his back leaning on the bed. But, as he heard your sigh, he turned to look at you.

He was close.

Very close.

His white hair was visibly damp. His expression didn’t show much sign of anything as he analyzed your features.

“I didn’t expect you’d wake up so soon,” he said quietly.

And then – you remembered everything.

You gasped, wanting to sit in a jump, but the world twirled and you fell back. Alucard stood up and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to catch you if needed.

“Don’t move so abruptly. You’re still weak.”

“I’m fine...” you didn’t expect that to sound like a whine. Your tongue still tasted like blood.

Alucard sighed. “Stubborn little one, aren’t you?”

You didn’t expect him to call you that – and it immediately made heat creep to your cheeks. This heat was getting too familiar at this point. Nevertheless, he helped you to sit, placing his hand on your back. You held his arm for support.

Alucard wasn’t wearing his cape, his belt, gloves and his coat anymore; the pieces of clothing were hanging from the window. You felt that the sleeve of his white blouse was damp, and that should be the case with the rest of his clothes, too – the black vest, his pants. And then… you noticed he wasn’t wearing his cravat as well, and that the three first buttons of his blouse were opened, exposing just a peek of his collarbones and his chest–

And you had to look away for the sake of your own sanity.

“How long did I sleep?” You asked in a husky voice.

“Not much. An hour and a half, I believe.” This was a relief. At least, he hadn’t wasted much time on you. “Your healing is very fast, indeed. Maybe faster than you’d realized.”

Well… the passage of time was a difficult topic for you anyway, so you never really paid mind to how long it took until you were fully recovered.

“What are you going to do now?” You asked, already feeling apprehension bubble within you. “If Drolta retrieved Sekhmet’s mummy… she won’t need me anymore.”

Alucard tightened his lips and looked down. “We must help the city prepare to fight. It’s the only thing we can do right now.”

You nodded slowly, also dropping your eyes. This was the worst case scenario. The Erzsebet you knew was powerful in her own right… an Erzsebet with the entirety of Sekhmet’s power would be hell on Earth. Add that to her legion of powerful vampires – Paris wouldn’t stand a chance, and soon, the entire continent would succumb.

You couldn’t help but think this somehow was also your fault.

You were still holding Alucard’s forearm for support, and he was holding yours, too. His grip was soft, yet firm. It was the first time you were seeing his hand without the gloves. Differently from other vampires, his nails weren’t long and sharp. His fingers were slender; the skin of his palm was surprisingly smooth, given he was a swordsman. And his touch… was much warmer than you were expecting. Vampires are usually unnervingly cold to the touch. Alucard was as warm as a normal human.

“Ruby.”

The way he called your name – so quiet, his voice so small… you’d never heard that tone coming from him. It felt deeply intimate in a way, and you couldn’t explain why. It immediately made you look at him again.

His golden eyes were clouded with guilt.

“I’m sorry.” The breeze coming from the window made yours and his hair sway. You silently blamed it for the goosebumps you felt, and not his voice or his touch or his proximity to you. It looked like Alucard was struggling to find his words – again, a first. “I truly am. I… had no idea that Drolta was alive. I was sure to have finished her back then.”

The mere mention of her name made fear crawl over your skin. “...If we can still call that Drolta, that is,” your voice was merely a whisper, as if saying her name out loud would attract her. “What happened to her?”

Alucard frowned. “It appears she was turned to a night creature, though I fail to understand how she managed to keep her soul. I didn’t know this was possible. I should’ve considered Maria’s father would be a bigger problem to us.” That last sentence was more directed at himself than to you. Maria…? Oh, right. The girl in pink you saw briefly at the ruins in Machecoul. What did her father had to do with anything?

He closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders dropping a bit. “...Actually, I should’ve considered a couple more things before involving you in all this.” And then, he was looking at you again, and you felt that you couldn’t breathe. His gaze was tender and overwhelming at the same time. It’s like he could blur the world outside with his mere presence. “I put you in more danger than I should have. I’m sorry for not taking good care of you.”

Your chest tightened.

Taking care of you, he said; not supervising, not under my responsibility. He said taking care. And once more, it felt intimate. Perhaps you were seeing too much again, wanting to be more important than you were… and yet, you couldn’t help but feel warmth involve you as his words sank in, as if they were a soft blanket in a cold night.

Even if you were seeing too much, you decided to hold onto his words, to keep them as a cherished little secret.

But things didn’t go exactly like that – and you needed to make it clear.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t need to try to comfort for me, Ruby…”

“No, listen to me.” Alucard was caught off guard by your abrupt interruption. “The night creature was going to bite Annette. Those injuries – they were going to happen to her. So I took them instead. She wouldn’t have survived that.”

He seemed speechless for some moments. Then, he quirked one eyebrow up only slightly. “...Wasn’t it a bit extreme?”

Maybe it was his tone that showed how weird he thought you were, but for the first time that day, you managed to chuckle, covering your mouth with your hand. Your reaction surprised Alucard a bit.

You tilted your head to the side. “I was trying to be useful,” you confessed in a tiny voice. “Not dying is the only thing I’m good at, apparently. So I decided to use it to someone else’s advantage.”

Alucard sighed. “Don’t have such little care for yourself. Just because you heal, doesn’t mean you should put yourself through all this willingly.”

That sounded like a reprimand, although he wasn’t being harsh. It made you hesitate. “But… Annette was going to die.”

“I understood that,” he nodded. “And I’m sure she’s grateful to you beyond words. Just try to be more careful from now on.”

It was your turn to nod. You knew he meant you no harm.

Maybe you were still a bit groggy from sleep, or maybe it was the proximity to him and the touch of his hand, or the fact that he appeared a little more open to conversation at that moment that made you feel a little brave – braver than you’d usually be.

You inhaled before talking.

“And I think–“ oh shit, this is a terrible idea. But you’ve already started, so go all the way! “I t-think you were a little too harsh with Richter back there.”

Alucard froze.

That’s it. He’ll hate me from now on. Our little moment will be over, and he’ll just be aloof with me forever.

“So you were conscious.” Was all he muttered. He seemed… hesitant. His eyes tightened a bit. “Is that so?”

You gulped and avoided his gaze.

“I understand that what he did was foolish. But I was there at the moment–“

“Is that so?” His voice almost made you throw yourself out the window – he wasn’t loud and he didn’t sound exactly upset… no, he was teasing you. That was another first.

“...and I know he didn’t do it with bad intentions at all.” You tried to conclude, feeling your cheeks burn. “Richter is… he’s too young, you see? A-And–“ You had to gulp again. “And he admires you a lot. Maybe more than you realize. I think… I think he wouldn’t want to let you down.”

Alucard sighed.

He crossed his arms over his chest, letting go of his grip on your forearm for the first time. And then, you saw it again, that glimpse from the forest: something juvenile about him that he kept very well hidden or very well controlled, at least.

Alucard was almost pouting, in fact.

“I know all that.” He nodded. “But I’ve been searching for Sekhmet’s mummy for the past five years, you see. And the entire mission got compromised because a boy couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

You didn’t know how to reply to that.

“Oh.” Was all you muttered, feeling a little silly. It was Alucard’s turn to chuckle.

“I understand your point.” He looked up at the ceiling, his eyebrows turned slightly upwards in something that looked like a tired expression. “I guess I’m not used to being around young people anymore. I might’ve… forgotten how they mess up constantly.” For his next sentence, Alucard spoke inwards, almost through gritted teeth: “Well, I guess acting like that grants you two women defending you all the time, so it must be worth it…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head softly. It looked like he wanted to smile, but you weren’t sure. He analyzed you for a moment, then sighed. “I know that ideally, you should rest for the rest of the day, but we’re in a critical situation right now. I must speak to the Revolutionary Commune and the National Convention to warn them about the incoming attack… and you must come with me.”

You nodded. It’s not like you were planning on sleeping anyway; you’d already brought them enough trouble in a single day. Alucard got up from the bed and retrieved his belt, coat and sword, which was leaning on the wall.

“This inn serves food, so I suppose you should eat something before we leave, at least.” He explained as he put the coat on. Oh… so you were in an inn. Right. “And I got you new clothes. There’s a basin with water, too, so get changed.”

Indeed, there was a change of clothes neatly folded over the small desk, which surprised you a bit. When and how did he get you that?

However, as Alucard was starting to step away, another memory from earlier that day hit you like a boulder; you gasped and held his wrist.

“Wait.”

The white-haired vampire looked down at your hands around his wrist, then at your shocked expression and frowned.

“What is it?” He immediately sat down again, his full attention over you.

A strange anxiety made your heartbeat increase. How could you have forgotten about that?

“I know we don’t have time to waste on distractions,” you started in a hesitant, yet rushed tone. “But I must go to the Louvre again.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

“I found something there.” You looked up at him with round eyes – a mix of amazement and fear, perhaps. “When I was trying to hide from the night creature. I found this… thing inside one of the boxes. And it reacted to my touch.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. But it was… it was magic. I think it’s a scepter, though I’m not sure. And there’s writings on the same language from the book. Remember that book I talked about? The book they made me read to summon the eclipses?”

Alucard nodded. He held his chin, pensive.

“It’s not a surprise that there’d be magical items there. Many antiques carry magic. Museums are full of these things, though I doubt the curators are aware of any of it.” He hesitantly looked up at you. “It… might not mean much.”

“But it might mean much.” Out of instinct, you gripped the fabric of the skirt nervously and looked down. “I’m sorry for asking you this. I don’t want to slow you down. B-But I feel that’s important. I… haven’t remembered anything important up until now…”

Except the memory of you father, you thought, but I won’t talk about that with you yet.

The seconds he took to speak again felt like torture. Finally, he sighed.

He rested his hand over your nervous ones. You froze.

“I guess I should find us a horse, then.” Alucard didn’t sound upset at your request. “Luckily, the Louvre isn’t far from here.”

You looked up at him. At that moment, the smile was impossible to hold back.

“Thank you.”

Alucard smiled back – one of his tranquil tiny smiles, his eyebrows slightly curved upwards.

It probably didn’t last more than three seconds, but in your head, that little moment extended for much longer. It was enough to make your stomach feel funny, and this time it had nothing to do with the pain you endured mere hours ago. The warmth radiating from his hand over yours seemed to spread through your whole body. Was it inappropriate to admit that you liked it? Should you be ashamed of yourself? Did Alucard felt the same way, even if it was just a fraction of the feeling?

...the ambrosial smell, the honeyed taste…

Alucard closed his eyes for a moment.

“Let’s hurry.” He got up again. “Can you stand up on your own?”

A part of you wanted to say no just so you could have an excuse to hold his hand again, but you were far too embarrassed to even try something so sly. You got up and grabbed the change of clothes. It smelled of soap.

Alucard was already holding the doorknob when you remembered another very important thing – and it immediately made your cheeks feel burning hot.

The type of gown you wore wasn’t made to be easy to dress or undress on your own.

“Hm, Alucard…” you called, which made him stop and look at you. “Could you… help…?”

You sheepishly pointed to your back with your thumb.

You weren’t brave enough to look at him.

The fact that Alucard hesitated a second to answer made you want to run away.

“Oh. Of course.” His voice didn’t show any surprise. The white-haired vampire let go of the doorknob and approached. You turned around, holding the change of clothes close to your chest, your back as stiff as a board.

The fact that you couldn’t see him didn’t make the situation easier. You could feel his presence right behind you, standing so close; when his fingers touched the lace of the corset, you instinctively held your breath. His fingers were agile and precise, his touch was feather light.

That felt awkwardly intimate.

Maids always dressed and undressed you. They didn’t really care about being delicate whenever they touched your body. They despised you, and you despised them, so these acts never felt intimate. At that moment, however…

Don’t think too much about it, you scolded yourself. It’s nothing special.

You’d like to tell that to your bubbling stomach.

Once again, you probably had a really distorted notion of time, because although Alucard was being fast, it felt like it took him ages. He untied the lace up until a point where you could finish it yourself.

“Done.” He announced in a quiet voice.

You managed to mutter a strangled thank you before you heard his steps and the sound of the door closing behind you.

Only then did you breathe again.

You got rid of the destroyed gown as fast as you could. There was a cloth inside the water basin, which you used to clean the dried blood from your body the best way you could. As impolite as it was, you had to spit out the window, trying to get rid of the horrible ferrous taste that still lingered in your tongue.

The clothes Alucard gave you were more similar to what you saw other women wear on the streets: a long sleeved white blouse, a skirt at mid-calf height and a sleeveless vest that shared the same moss green tone. Your closet consisted on either beautiful ball gowns or simple nightgowns, so to be able to wear something so light and so easy to dress by yourself was a relief.

There was a small mirror hanging on the wall. When you saw your reflection, you immediately wet your hands and passed them through your hair, trying to lower the wild strands, and decided to tie it in a tight bun.

That’s when you saw the last piece of clothing you hadn’t noticed before.

It was a ribbon tie.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, your fingers working on tying it, you… noticed something.

The dress was simpler than what you were used to wear, yes – it wasn’t something for a special occasion, after all. But… the chiffon collar was quite pretty. The vest and the skirt were well sewn, too, and fit your body perfectly. The cufflinks of the blouse were golden. And the bow tie… its color complimented your eyes.

It didn’t exactly seem like it was an outfit chosen in a hurry. It looked like… some thought was put into it.

Your cheeks felt hot for some reason.

Don’t think too much about it, you repeated. It’s nothing special.

At last, you opened the door. You were surprised to see Alucard leaning with his back on the wall beside it, his arms crossed.

His eyes wandered on your entire figure, though his expression didn’t change.

You held his cape and gloves nervously and cleaned your throat.

“I believe they’re dry enough now.” Alucard nodded and took them. While he put his cape over his shoulders, you hesitated before finally voicing the question: “May I ask how did you get wet?”

“I fell in the Seine.” He replied in a deadpan tone, his eyes glued on his hands as he put the gloves on.

“Oh.”

Finally, he lifted his gaze to you again.

He stepped closer.

For a moment, it seemed that he wanted to say something, which made you look up at him in expectation. He was… expressionless. Maybe. But there was something you couldn’t decipher in his eyes. Something you weren’t brave enough to ask. Something that appeared… inviting, somehow.

Don’t think too much about it. It’s nothing special.

Alucard’s eyes dropped to your collar.

You held your breath when he touched the ribbon tie delicately. Did he nod in an almost imperceptible motion or were you imagining things?

“Let’s go.” He said in the same nonchalant tone as always before walking towards the stairs at the end of the corridor.

You were frozen in place for a few seconds.

Don’t think too much about it. It’s nothing special.

Yes, right. Ninety percent of your brain agreed on this. You were under his responsibility, after all. Alucard wasn’t especially rude towards anyone, as far as you knew (well, except for Richter sometimes). That’s how he acted with everyone. And besides that, you had much more important matters at hand. There wasn’t time to be distracted.

Yes, right. You walked towards the stairs in a hurry to match his pace. Don’t think too much about it. It’s nothing special.

Right.

And yet – the tiny ten percent of your brain kept stubbornly whispering in the back of your consciousness:

Was it not, really?

#alucard x reader #castlevania #alucard #castlevania alucard #castlevania nocturne #adrian tepes #adrian fahrenheit tepes #alucard tepes #alucard x you #castlevania x reader #alucard adrian tepes

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pankowcrumbs · 27 days ago

Text

Not just friends X Lando Norris

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

When people talked about the politics of Formula 1, they were usually referring to the team rivalries, backdoor negotiations, and sponsorship deals.

For me, it was a little more complicated.

I was Christian Horner’s daughter.

Growing up in the paddock had been my normal. I’d spent my childhood watching Red Bull dominate, listening to Dad’s endless strategy talks, and rolling my eyes at the way he treated Max and Checo like his other children. I knew every inch of this world the high stakes, the egos, the adrenaline that never really left your system.

And then there was Lando Norris.

Lando, who had made a career out of being cheeky, charismatic, and deceptively dangerous on the track. Lando, who had spent the last few months tangled up in my sheets, in my life, in my head.

We had never put a label on whatever this was. Maybe because we both knew the chaos it would bring. Maybe because it was easier to pretend it was nothing more than a bit of fun.

At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

The Monaco Grand Prix

The Red Bull motorhome was buzzing with post-qualifying energy, drinks flowing, laughter spilling out into the marina air. I was nursing a glass of champagne when I felt a presence beside me.

“Y/N Horner.”

I glanced up and met the gaze of Charles Leclerc. He was smirking, the dim glow of the lights reflecting off the sharp angles of his face.

“Charles,” I greeted smoothly, taking a sip of my drink. “Nice P2 today.”

He chuckled. “I’d be happier if it was P1.”

I tilted my head. “Guess Max is just too good.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me.” Then, his expression turned more playful. “But let’s not talk about racing. I’d much rather talk about you.”

I arched a brow. “Me?”

Charles leaned in slightly. “You’re always in the paddock, always around, yet somehow, I feel like I never actually get to know you.”

I wasn’t stupid. I knew flirting when I saw it. And Charles was very good at it.

But before I could reply, a hand wrapped firmly around my wrist, yanking me back.

“Oi, mate,” a familiar voice cut in, rough and edged with irritation. “She’s busy.”

I barely had time to process the possessive grip before I was being pulled away from Charles and practically dragged through the motorhome.

Lando.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped as he steered me into a quiet corner, away from prying eyes.

His jaw was clenched, eyes burning with something dangerous. “What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?”

I crossed my arms, refusing to be intimidated. “I was having a conversation.”

“With Leclerc?” he spat the name like it was poison. “He was hitting on you.”

I smirked. “Jealous, are we?”

His nostrils flared, and then suddenly, he was pressing me back against the wall, caging me in with his arms. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“We are not just friends,” he growled. “And you fucking know it.”

Heat shot straight through me. His voice was low, raw, full of unspoken words we had been too cowardly to say before.

But I wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

I cocked my head. “I don’t know, Lando. We’ve never actually defined what this is.”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t do that.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I should go back and talk to Charles. He’s quite charming.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Say that again, and see what happens.”

I grinned. “Make me.”

The words had barely left my lips before his mouth crashed onto mine. It wasn’t soft or gentle it was desperate, demanding, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt.

I fisted the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, losing myself in the taste of him spearmint and something distinctly Lando.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless.

“Still think this is nothing?” he muttered, voice husky.

I licked my lips, enjoying the way his gaze darkened as he followed the movement. “You’re going to have to be clearer than that, Norris.”

His hands tightened on my waist. “You’re mine.”

A shiver ran through me. “Good. Now say it again.”

His lips found mine once more, and just like that, it was official.

Not just friends. Not just a fling.

Something real.

Something ours.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando x reader #lando norris #lando #norris #ln4 #mclaren formula 1 #formula 1 #formula one #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x female reader #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x oc

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adventuringblind · 1 year ago

Text

Entitled To You (3.6K words)

Norstaptri x Reader

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: An incident with Lance sends the boys into a frenzy. She just wants to do what she loves.

Warnings: Explicit depictions of r@pe, injury descriptions, panic attacks, Oscar plots a murder, Lando throws hands, Car crashes, Author doesn't know legal stuff, Head trauma and blood.

Notes: This one is a request from @Lily234566 I know this wasn't the original pairing but I was struggling to fit the Ferrari boys in there so I had to scale it back... I'm sorry and I hope you still like it! T_T

Side Note: Sorry to the Lance girlies reading this. AND obligatory message of I don't know these people and this is purely FICTION! HEAD THE TAGS! DONT LIKE THEN DONT READ!

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

“Max!” She peeks her head into his driver's room. The bright beaming smile she receives in return after their 1-2 nearly kills her. “They want me for a media thing, apparently.” HIs smile drops into a pout. The sad puppy eyes might convince her to stay.

“Again? Don’t they know we have plans!

“No, and why would they care anyway?” She looks him up and down and whines because he’s standing in front of her with no shirt on. “Just - I’ll meet you guys back at the room. It’s something to do with being a female in F1… again.”

“I’m starting to think they have nothing else to talk about.”

She shrugs as she walks out of the hospitality, waving to Christian on her way by. The goal is to get past the Mclaren garage without seeing Lando because otherwise she is not going to the interview. His pout is worse (better?) than Max’s.

To her pleasant surprise, Laura is the one conducting the interview. “I’m sorry about this being last minute! They said they wanted you to do it with someone else next week and I offered to do it now.”

The interview passes with ease and thankfully doesn’t take long at all. The banter in-between is also entertaining.

She’s exhausted when they finish. Ready to go back to the hotel and fall into bed with her boys. Hopefully They’ve ordered food - and dessert.

The paddock is nearly empty as she makes her way through. Maybe, had she been paying more attention and not focussed on her aching body, she would’ve caught on to the footsteps behind her.

They are heavy, she assumes possibly a mechanic still packing up to continue on their way to the next circuit. That’s what she still thinks when the hand on her bicep yanks her around the corner.

If she weren’t as exhausted, then fighting would’ve been a possibility. However, that seems out of the cards as he pins her against the nearest wall. Her forehead hitting the surface hard enough to make her dizzy.

“Not so confident now, huh?”

The fuck- “Lance? What are you?-” He slams her head again and cages her body against his own. She flails, only to be slammed again. “Would you stop doing that please?”

“Not after that stupid stunt you pulled today on track.”

“You mean the one where you showed you don’t know what brakes are?-” Again, her head is sent into the hard surface. She can feel her nose starting to bleed. “Must you?!” She decided to shut up when he does it again and everything starts to go fuzzy.

His fingers dip beneath the waistband of her fireproofs. The cold evening air hits her bare skin and she panics more than before. Her head is too cloudy to fully comprehend what’s happening.

“I feel like I'm entitled to a bit of compensation after that stunt.”

“You’re entitled to nothing. You took yourself out!” She hisses through gritted teeth. Still, Lance continues to get her clothes lower. And slams her head again harder - you know - because she wasn’t disoriented enough already.

“Would you shut up?” She doesn’t say anything this time. Her mouth feels numb and her ears are ringing. Her exposed lower half is met with the bare hands of someone she doesn't want touching her.

It's - well - it hurts. He's groping at her thighs, ass, even her tits which she isn't sure how he's managing. His hands are everywhere they shouldn't be.

And then nothing.

A vague awareness of what's happening seeps through her veins and invades her senses. She tries to scream. Attempts despite the sheer pain of the snap of hips she didn't ask for.

His finger beat her to it. A hand encloses around her throat and cuts off her oxygen. The black spots dance around her vision. She wants them to stop moving; they are making her dizzy. Or was she already dizzy?

“See, it's not so bad. Don't you feel less guilty for ruining my race now?” No, she doesn't. She wasn't guilty before.

She blacks out.

~~~♡~~~

Waking up with sore limbs and a killer headache is not how she pictured this night going. She tries to yell for help, but a mere creaky rasp escapes.

When did she lose her voice? The thought makes her panic more. The sob she lets out hurts more than there is sound.

Her face and hair is sticky. At least Lance had done her the courtesy of not finishing inside of her.

Still - what the fuck even happened? The fragmented memory is trying to come back to her slowly. Each small piece remembered is another broken cry.

She can't move.

It's dark again.

~~~♡~~~

The anxiety between the three boys is certainly not something they are used to. Oscar can pinpoint the exact moment Lando started overthinking and Max had to bear hug him so he didn't pace a hole into the cement of the parking lot.

The fourth seat in their car remains empty and their messages have gone unanswered. It's getting more concerning with each passing minute.

“Max, she always responds.”

“I know Lando.”

“She always calls if she's going to be longer.”

“Lando?”

“Yes?”

“Would you feel better if we went and looked around for her?”

The Brit nods his head in a fashion that might give him whiplash. It's better seeing him feel helpful then sit helplessly. Though Oscar can't help but agree with Max's original point. that they should wait there at the car just in case since that's where they were supposed to meet.

Granted, it's only been twenty minutes. It's still long enough to be murdered.

They Methodically peer around corners and wave at the mechanics who give them skeptical looks. They were supposed to be out for post race celebrations by now.

Oscar freezes when he sees it. The human shaped lump lying on the ground. He rushes over with long strides. The closer he gets, the more familiar the person on the ground becomes.

“Max! Lando! I found her!” The other two boys come sprinting in his direction. He's on the ground trying to clear her hair from her face only for it to get stuck in the sticky substance coating her features.

“What the fuck?”

Her fireproofs are still on, but it's obvious what happened. The handprints on her neck, the blood trickling down the sides of her face. “We need to bring her to a hospital.”

Max hoists her up in his arms. Mainly because Lando is on the brink of tears and struggling to breathe through his panic. He loves deeply and with his heart on his sleeve. Oscar just hopes he can keep the Brit calm until they find more help.

“Can we at least clean her up?” Lando pleads with him. Big Hazel eyes brimming with tears.

It's always a struggle to tell him no. “We can't, not if it can help us figure out who did it.” The tears start right after that.

“So that’s what happened then? Someone really-” Oscar has to maneuver the puddle of tears that is his boyfriend into the passenger seat of their rental car. Max tosses him the keys, opting to be with her in the back and keep her comfortable.

The tricky drive to emergency is more because Oscar is too far in his own thoughts to pay attention to the traffic lights. He can hear Max moving her around, attempting to put pressure where blood still flows freely.

Oscar doesn’t bother with parking. He pulls off into some empty area and helps Max shoulder her weight inside the doors while Lando runs ahead to find help.

It’s fast after that. They take her away and start patching her up while the three of them are forced to sit in the waiting room. Oscar and Lando are left to their own devices while Max paces about on the phone with Christian.

He feels like a knife is being driven through his chest each time his mind tries to come up with what could’ve happened. Who would do something like this? Unfortunately, a lot of people. The question is more of who could’ve done it and gotten away. Someone with access to the paddock this late. Security, perhaps? Maybe even a sleazy mechanic? A driver wouldn’t make any sense… right?

“When will they let us see her?”

“When she wakes up, most likely.”

He’s not sure when he falls asleep. The exhaustion finally hit him like a truck despite his persistence. He’s awoken by Max’s constant shaking and aggressive whispering of his name.

“-She’s asking for us.”

He’s up faster than Lando when Jon threatens an ice bath. They follow the nurse down the halls with an uneasy anticipation. They creep inside the sterile room and find her staring at the wall.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to move further into the room. Always having been more in touch with his emotions then the other two boys. “Hey love, can I come closer?”

She looks at him. The bandages plastered over the sides of her head and around her face now visible to them. She returns Lando’s gaze with glassy eyes. It’s damn near shocking when she tries to pull things off her body in a desperate attempt to reach for Lando.

Lando gets to her before she can get everything off, specifically the IV, and catch her arms. Oscar and Max finally pull themselves together and manage to get her to lay back down with some coaxing.

She’s shaking violently. Her grip on Lando’s arm is sure to leave bruises. “Who - who f-found me?”

“We did, schat. We got worried when you didn’t respond.” Max drags the two chairs in the room closer and pulls Oscar down into one. Lando, against all odds, manages to wriggle his way into bed with her.

“I know who it was. I - well - does anyone else know?”

“Just Christian and us.” Oscar can feel the fight Max is putting up to not ask her more questions. The way he’s grounding himself with a hand on Oscars knee instead.

“You don’t have to tell us.” He attempts to reassure. Maybe calm her mind by giving her an option. “Just know we’re here, alright?”

“I don’t want it to be a big story. It’s already going to be since I can’t be in the car for the next four weeks. Oh fuck - everyone is gonna know-” Lando hushes her; gets her to somehow hold him tighter.

“Christian said it’s up to you, whatever happens.” Max nods at her encouragingly. “We go at your pace.”

“They did a rape kit. They’ll know who it is. It was all over so it couldn’t have been hard to get DNA - oh fuck”

Her heart rate picks up. The nurses rush in. They send her back to sleep.

~~~♡~~~

Max wants to know who it was who touched her. The rage simmering underneath her skin is almost too much to keep contained.

On the more fortunate side, they were allowed to stay since she wouldn’t let go of Lando. Then when he did have to get up, they rotated.

The doctors and nurses learned to approach her like she’s a scared animal. The heavy footsteps seem to set her off and there is now a sticky note on the door saying to tiptoe when entering. It’s endearing to see her doctors and nurses trying so hard not to startle her. But seeing as they’ve now had several incidents where she’s panicked, they are taking more caution.

Oscar and Lando have meandered away in search of food. Max opted to stay put and made the promise to bring him back cheat foods. He’s too stressed to not eat something of comfort.

Her physio is supposed to come by today with the stuff she left at the track and get an update from the doctors themselves instead of Max’s botched attempts at repeating back. It will also be nice to see her comfortable, as the one blanket that travels with her everywhere will also be dropped off.

“Max?” He tightens his hold to show he’s listening. “It’s not fair… You, Lando, and Oscar make a mistake on track and nobody does that to you. I - It wasn’t my fault.”

The thing is, Max is smarter than people give him credit for. The only incident on track was with Lance. An incident that was his own fault. “He’s at fault, not you. None of this is your fault.”

“They are going to say I was asking for it or something.”

“In those fireproofs? The only ones asking for it are me and Oscar… for obvious reasons.” He chuckles proudly at his little self compliment.

It also manages to get her to crack something of a half smile. “Are you complimenting your own ass?”

“And what if I am?”

She doesn’t eat anything despite it being sat in front of her. Soft foods are the only thing she’ll be eating. Her throat, albeit not as bad as it could've been (thank you F1), is still damaged and needs to rest as much as possible.

They had to keep her for observation due to where the head wounds had been. It’s been a rough thirty-six hours, but they are managing.

Despite the hectic situation, Max has come to learn that the female lying in the hospital bed is a better person then the rest of them. Oscar was detailing a full proof murder plan while she was telling him not to make it a bigger deal then it is. To which Oscar politely put his ten step plan with four contingencies down and told her that it’s ‘what he had coming to him’.

Max has not had to stop someone from assassinating a rival before, but Oscar seems like a reasonable guy. “Death is too good for him.”

“Mm, you’re right, I’ll just make sure he doesn’t die then and can’t see my face.”

“Or, we make his life a series of inconveniences! I feel like daddy’s money could get him good therapy. It can’t solve every minor problem.” Lando has a gleam in his eyes.

Him and Oscar start pouring over ideas once more. The girl simply shakes her head and goes back to eyeing her pudding like it’s assaulted her. “I don’t want to leave here, Max.”

“Why not? I’d assume you want to go home? Sleep in a comfortable bed?”

“Out there, they can get to us. Here is safe.”

He considers how to reassure her. Only, there is nothing he can think of. The truth is that outside of this hospital room, there is no guarantee they won’t run into trouble.

“I can’t promise that we'll never have something bad happen again. But-” He looks to the McLaren duo brainstorming ways to make the Aston Martin garage regret existing. “We’ll be there for each other. We’re here for you. When you want us and when you need us, yes?”

“Pinky swear?” She extends her pink to him.

Max accepts and curls his pinks around hers. “Pinky swear.”

~~~♡~~~

It’s not fair really, that they had to leave to go do things. Lando would prefer he at least stayed with her so she isn’t alone. Alas, they are preparing for her discharge and he had to run around getting things together for their trip back to Monaco.

He comes back to a partially opened door and smiles at the other two boys being able to get back before him. Then again, as he gets closer he can hear the angry tone. One that Max uses when he’s pissed off about something.

Lando panics and rushes inside. Only to be met with the sight of the last person he wants around right now.

Now - he wouldn’t say he’s prone to violence. Lando prefers to keep the peace when it comes to conflict unless he’s trying to piss someone off on purpose to get a reaction. This is not one of those times.

Lando’s knuckles collide with the Canadian’s jaw faster than he can fully become aware of what he’s doing. Lance stumbles backward and holds his jaw, glaring at Lando like he’s the one in the wrong here.

“Get out!”

“We were just talking-”

“I said. Get. Out.” He’s seething. The thudding in his chest becoming louder with each second Lance remains in this room.

He’s not prone to violence.

Really, he’s not.

Yet the second crack of knuckles into Lance's chin gives him some sick satisfaction. Isn’t there something about equilibrium? Can he pin this on restoring the balance or something? Regardless, he isn’t going to dent the fact that it feels good.

The nurses come running and start asking questions. Max and Oscar have to drag Lando away kicking and screaming.

Worse is when they try to tell him that there are pictures out on social media. Christian has been calling Max non-stop. Oscar has been dealing with Zak. Their relationship isn’t a secret and neither is their current location.

“They're sending us a different car to see if we can’t get out discreetly.”

“What happened with Lance, Lan? Are you alright?”

Everyone is panting. Their eyes trained on the door. “I punched him. I restored the equal-brey-um… thing.”

“Equilibrium.”

“Yeah that!”

He’s not sure how they get on the plane. He’s still amped up about the whole punching thing and running purely off adrenaline.

They’ve been sitting in silence, mulling over their options. Creating statements they can put out. It’s hectic and they keep trashing them because nothing fits.

The female has been apathetic. The last thing she wanted was for this to get out and now it has. Seemingly everything is flashing before her eyes. Her career will be gone soon enough, so what’s even the point?

“Don’t post anything. We don’t have an obligation to confirm or deny the rumors. If anything, we can say that you were just driving me to the hospital and being good friends or whatever.” She won’t look at them. Still - Lando can hear how upset she is, the waiver in her voice. “I’m going to be kicked out anyway.”

“Christian said-”

“Damn what Christian said! He knows this isn’t going to get any better and if I say who it was then Daddy’s Money is just going to pay his way through.” She's hyperventilating now. Her body collapses against her seat and Oscar makes an effort to get her to lean against him. “It’s not fair!”

lando Can’t help but share her feelings.

~~~♡~~~

She stays holed up in the Redbull garage the next weekend. The appearance is hard, people want to ask her questions. Her boys had been caught in the middle of the riptide and haven’t come back to shore yet.

At least she’s here. She’s trying her hardest to look stronger than she is. On the inside things are falling apart.

The team knows to give her space and not ask about the ordeal. She takes refuge in Max’s room when things are too much and the other drivers keep their distance.

They know it was one of them. She’d been adamant on not saying who it was, but it’s obvious there are sixteen who it could have been, given her partners insistence that none of them go near her garage for the time being.

She just wants this whole thing to blow over. She wants to lay in bed with her lovers and not flinch when they go to touch her.

She knows, however, that until she deals with things that healing can’t happen like it should. Or at least, that’s what her therapist says. The one she is now required to see.

Things get worse when she’s back in the car. Her media duties are limited so she can focus on driving and ‘listening to her body’ as her physio likes to say.

She can’t hear her body over the sound of her mind going staticy as Lance closes in on her. The catalyst for everything. She panics and ends up in the wall. Not the worst crash ever, but certainly hurts her pride more than it has already.

The thing is, it keeps happening. Even as she’s able to let her boys back in. As her podium finishes start to come back. Her fireproofs (which they’d gotten her all new ones) start to feel comfortable again and she doesn’t feel the need to be out of them the second the race is done. Still, Lance is using this to his advantage.

Finally, after he almost killed her on track (again), she’s had enough.

The trial goes better than she thought it would. Despite the money differences, Lance won’t be able to race anymore. It’s not some grand spectacle either, just an announcement like usual. It’s more the closure she needed versus the publicized drama it could have been.

She wins the next race.

“If I ever see him again, it will be too soon.”

“It’s been over a year now, Lan. I’m getting better.” There is a genuine smile on her face. The car awaits to take them back to the hotel. It was here that it happened. She almost considered not racing because of it.

“Lando got a taste of blood and now he’s feinding for it.” Max has a comforting hand around her waist. A grounding presence.

“I mean, I never threw away my murder plot…”

“You’re a genius Oscar!”

She shakes her head. It’s not like any of this has been easy. It never is. Still - her boys are here and they’ve been so patient.

“There’s her smile.” They all beam at her.

She smiles back.

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kortsitron · 1 year ago

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Corruption

✮ PARING Hobie Brown × Trans Male! Reader

✮ WARNINGS/TAGS reader realizes he's trans, pre-transition reader, religious themes, christianity, fluff, angst, supportive! hobie, reader is referred to as a girl/daughter in some moments, hobie and reader are both young adults, gender dysphoria, toxic parents, abuse, transphobia, cursing, reader is referred by she/her by his parents, happy ending

✮ SUMMARY A stranger comes to your town and helps you realize who you are

✮ A/N If you know me, you probably know my opinion on Christianity and religion in general, but I won't lie, I kinda like the religious themes. Especially when it's about being taken out of it and realizing that the world has so much to offer once you leave it. I guess it's my type of thing since I have been raised as a catholic little ‘girl’ and now I hate religion with pure passion after having it shown down my throat for years when I was younger. One more thing, if you're not comfortable, please do not read this. I am aware there are people who can be triggered by any of the things mentioned in the warnings/tags. If you decide to read this, I hope you're going to enjoy it! <3

In a way inspired by confessions by @eyesxxyou

ao3 masterlist requests

You were such a perfect girl in everyone's eyes. Always so nice and polite, obedient towards your parents, in church every Sunday. You were so feminine, so lovely. Always wore those pretty dresses and skirts of yours, along with the necklace with virgin Mary on your pretty neck. And your gorgeous long hair. You were a perfection to everyone around you.

But you didn't feel perfect in the slightest.

You felt so wrong for some reason you couldn't quite name. Your body felt like a cage you couldn't get out of and you didn't know why. All you knew was that you wanted to cut your hair, hide your body under some baggy clothing and yell at everyone who called you a girl. But obviously you couldn't do that, no matter how much you wanted to. You didn't want people to look at you weirdly, to call you a freak.

So you decided to stay quiet, knowing that nothing was going to change because you were too scared to do it on your own. Scared of judgment and scared of being abandoned.

All you did was pray that your sinful fantasies would simply go away. But instead of them going away, something else happened. Like the prayers from the depth of your heart have been heard and finally answered.

You saw him after the Sunday mass, as you were standing next to your mother while she was talking with someone else. He was nothing like you've ever seen before. Those piercing glistening in the sunlight just like the spikes on his vest. The distressed pants with patches and chains. And those heavy boots. He was the definition of perfection, definitely not to those around you, but for you without a doubt.

You have caught eye contact with that beautiful stranger. His stunning brown eyes stared into yours as he smirked at you. He probably thought you were just a pretty girl, you assumed. After all, why would he think differently?

“Do not look at him.” Your mother scolded you, grabbing you by your shoulder and turning you to face her. You could see the disgust on her face. You’ve never seen her with that kind of grimace on her face. “I do not want to see you near him. I can already tell he's no good.”

She didn't say it, but you could already tell she saw him as the embodiment of everything that was sinful. And the last thing she wanted was her precious daughter to stray from God's path.

You glanced at the punk for the last time before your mother said that you were going home. He still watched you. He wasn't sure what it was about you that made him want to get to know you. But something inside him told him that you needed him.

Since then you saw him around the town, but you didn't dare to come close to him. You felt a rush of excitement in your stomach every time you saw him, saw that smirk of his. You didn't have anyone who excited you the way he did. But he indeed did excite you, but you couldn't even talk to him, being scared your parents might yell at you.

Everything changed when you were peacefully reading the bible on the bench next to the church. It was so warm and sunny, so you picked a spot under a tree. Your hair was made into a long braid that was getting more loose without you noticing.

You then heard someone sit next to you. You looked up from the bible to see him. That beautiful punk, smirking at you shamelessly. He looked even better up close.

“Hello, luv. I'm Hobie.” His voice was lower than you thought it would be. But it sounded so good, so smooth you could almost melt. His eyes looked from your face to the bible you held your hand, then back to your face. You started wondering what was on his mind. “What's your name, hmm?”

You bashfully told him your name. You weren't sure how to act. Was he expecting you to pretend to be this perfect girl everyone perceived you as? Or maybe he was finally someone that could let you be yourself? Either way, you were scared to find out.

He chuckled at your bashful reaction. Your cheeks got pink so quickly. You were just so adorable. And so… innocent. But you had a feeling he could see right through you. See that all of this was just a facade and under all of it, there was a real you, trying to get to the surface. Trying to be free.

“Have you ever listened to punk rock?” Hobie asked out of nowhere. You blinked. You? Listening to loud, unapologetic music? You could never do that. At least not without worrying about being judged.

Finally you shook your head and his smirk widened. “Darlin’, we have to change that immediately.” He saw you shake your head even more.

You heard about punk rock. The unapologetic and loud music for brutal men who have abandoned God's ways and all the rules. At least that's what you have been told by your mother. “They are good for nothing but corrupting the minds of pretty girls like you. And I cannot let that happen.” She told you and you wondered if Hobie was that type of punk. The type to ruin you and corrupt you.

“I-I can't. I am not allowed to listen to that kind of music.” You looked down at the bible in your hands, you couldn't look Hobie in the eyes. You expected him to think you were weird for not being allowed to listen to what you wanted. But all you wanted was to avoid conflict.

Hobie's face went from confusion to smirk again. “Oh please. I can see that there's a little rebel hidden behind those pretty innocent eyes.” So he indeed could right through you.

You nervously played with your hair, wanting to both agree and refuse. And in a quick moment, your beautiful braid was untied. “Oh no.” You watched your hairband fall onto the grass. Hobie noticed it too. He moved and grabbed it, quickly cleaning it off from all the dirt. “Allow me.” He spoke so softly. You weren't sure if you should allow him to touch you in any way, but he just wanted to help you tie your hair, right?

You decided not to overthink it, sitting with your back facing him, so he could tie your hair. You didn't expect it, but he was so gentle with your hair. No harsh hair pulling. His fingers parted your hand so nicely before he began to braid it. You almost melted.

And soon, you had your pretty braid again. Not as perfect as you could have done it, but it was still really nice. “Thank you so much, Hobie.” You said quietly before excusing yourself and saying you had to go. His eyes softened, he only nodded, asking if he could talk to you again. “I hate to say it, but I can't be seen with you.”

Hobie sighed, his fingertip tapped at his lip ring, he seemed lost in thoughts. “And if we meet in secret?” He looked down at you, you were so short compared to him. “You can come over to my place, no one will know you were with me and I could show you some of my world.” He spoke so proudly when he mentioned introducing you to his world. And even though you technically shouldn't be meeting him, you were more than curious. So you agreed at last.

Obviously, someone saw you with Hobie. Your parents weren't proud of you for talking to him. You had no other choice than to lie, just like you did when it came to who you really felt about yourself.

Yes, I like this dress.

Yes, I like those shoes.

Yes, my hair is so pretty when it's so long.

Yes, I am a girl.

You had to lie, even though you wish you didn't have to. But you hoped that at the end of the day, when you were praying before going to sleep, God would forgive you for lying to everyone around you. He would understand, right?

So, as always, you lied, telling your parents that Hobie asked for some help because he was a newcomer and didn't know the town very well. Your parents weren't happy you talked to him, but knew, or at least believed, you were too good and polite to refuse to help him. They didn't think twice about it, allowing you to go to your room. They didn't mention Hobie braiding your hair, so you just assumed they didn't know about it, so you decided not to mention it either. It was better to keep your mouth shut.

You were careful when the day of visiting Hobie came. You told your parents that you went to study the bible at your friend's house. They didn't suspect a thing. You made sure no one could see you as you made your way to Hobie's apartment. And soon enough, you were in front of the door of his apartment.

You knocked lightly, heard the sound of locks being unlocked and then the door finally opened. You saw Hobie and he looked at you with that same softness like the last time. But this time he rubbed one eye with a cotton pad. You had a look of confusion on your face when you saw that.

“Come in, luv.” He moved so you could come inside, but instead of looking around, you watched him.

“Are you… wiping off your makeup?” The question sounded so stupid in your mind. Men weren't wearing makeup… right?

Hobie chuckled softly before going to the bathroom to wipe the makeup off more precisely in front of the mirror. You saw a few small eyeshadow palettes with bright eyeshadow in them, along with eyeliner and even two lipsticks. Even you didn't own that much makeup, you barely had any makeup since your parents didn't want you to paint your face like a whore.

“Yeah. I have been to a small party outside the town, so I wanted to look me best.” Hobie explained, before throwing a dirty pad into the bin. He then turned to you, it was obvious that you never saw a man wearing makeup before. You've never seen someone like him before. He allowed himself to check you out, you had a long skirt and a cute top that matched the skirt so well. “I am guessing you never wore the kind of makeup I usually go for?”

His hand grabbed one of the eyeshadow palettes and gave it to you, so you could see the inside better. You didn't think much and opened it. You hand one makeup palette and it was mostly light browns, one a little more glittery eyeshadow and two light pinks. But Hobie’s? It was so colorful. Red, blue, green and yellow. All of them so bright and pigmented.

He smiled when he saw your reaction, he felt excitement in his stomach. You looked stunned. “Why don't I finally show you that punk rock?” He left the bathroom and you followed him. His apartment was a little messy. Posters on every wall, some chokers and other jewelry scattered in some places and some clothes laying around. But his room was even better. It was so… him. You could see the room scream Hobie. Even more posters, a guitar. It might have been a little messy, but it had so much character.

Hobie moved to the old cd player and in the matter of seconds, the loud music played. Black Flag on full volume. At first you weren't sure what to think, but soon, you started loving it. You stopped caring about anything when the music played, banging your head to the rhythm. At first a little shyly, but then you were more confident about it, not caring if you were going to mess up your hair. You looked so happy, you felt so happy. It has been since you felt like that.

Even since Hobie came here, he finally saw your smile, the real and sincere smile on that face of yours. But he saw it falter when Can't Decide by the Black Flag started playing.

Sun's coming up and I can't decide

To spill my emotions or keep them inside

Go for a drive, go to the store

I'm looking for something that can't be bought there

I always wear a smile

Because anything but a smile would make me have to explain

And they wouldn't understand anyway

I conceal my feelings so I won't have to explain

What I can't explain anyway

It hit so close to home, you almost started sobbing. Hobie saw it immediately and turned the music off. He sat next to you, one arm around you while he rubbed your arm with the other to comfort you. He barely knew you, but he was so concerned about your well being already. “What happened, dove?” He asked so quietly, almost as if he was scared he might make you start crying just by asking.

But you weren't ready to admit what has been going inside your head for months. And he could see that so well. A few tears went down your cheeks so you asked for a tissue. You smudged your makeup a bit, but luckily Hobie was able to fix it with the only brown palette he owned, the one had forgotten about since he never used it.

You gathered your things and apologized. “Don't apologize, luv. Just know you can come and talk about what's going on in that pretty head of yours.” You only nodded before leaving.

Your parents weren't home by the time you came back, they were probably in the neighbor's house, talking and eating how they did once in a while. Probably praising you how good and obedient you were, and how they were happy to have a daughter like you.

And after that situation at Hobie's place, it became harder to pretend. It became hard not to cry when you were called a perfect daughter, pretty girl and beautiful woman. You couldn't wait any longer, you had to talk with someone about it. And the only person who would not judge you was Hobie.

It has been a while since you talked to him. But you came back, trembling, looking like you were about to start crying at any given moment. Hobie didn't think twice, he just let you in, sat down on the floor while he seated you on his bed. His calloused hands found yours and he caressed them gently in order to comfort you.

And finally, after all this time, you opened up about what has been on your mind for all those months. You explained how you felt trapped in your own body, how you hated being seen as a girl and how much it hurt when you were called and seen as one. How much you just wanted to be yourself.

Hobie's eyes softened, his hand touched your delicate cheek as his thumb stroked it. You didn't flinch away from his touch, instead you leaned into his hand, enjoying the way he touched you. “Darlin’, I think you might be trans.”

“I might be what?” Your nose was already stuffed from all that crying, making your voice sound funny. Hobie sighed before his lips curled into the soften of smiled.

“Trans, hun.” You still looked confused, but he wasn't going to blame you. You've been living in a place where you were too scared to be yourself, you couldn't name your feelings even though you have been feeling them for months. It was obvious these people weren't talking about things like that, at least not in the way that would make you want to explore those feelings.

“It's uh, it's when your body doesn't match how you feel on the inside. Like you, you have been born as a woman, but you don't feel like one, don't you?” You shook your head, of course you didn't feel like a woman. Thinking about yourself as a woman didn't feel right.

Hobie got an idea. “Why don't you go to the bathroom and take all of that off? I'll bring ya some clothes and then you'll tell me how you feel.” He helped you with making your way to the bathroom and closed the door after you. You took off the dress, standing in nothing more than your underwear. It felt a bit less suffocating to not be wearing that stupid dress.

Soon, you heard Hobie knock on the door. “I have some stuff I think might look good on you.” You covered yourself with the towel that was near you, not wanting for Hobie to see your body. But he didn't even peek in, instead he held the clothes for you, letting you grab them before he quickly closed the door behind him.

You looked down at the clothes. Some distressed jeans with patches and studded belt, white shirt with some graffiti, which you assumed was decorated by Hobie himself and even some hand warmers to match the outfit.

You had put on the outfit and left the bathroom, only to see Hobie waiting for you. His eyes sparkled when he saw you. And he could see it in your face that you felt better. He looked so excited for you.

But you still had that long braid. “Let me…” Hobie murmured before you felt him touch your hair again. You weren't sure what he did exactly, but when you stepped in front of the mirror, your hair looked so short. It wasn't perfect, but you loved how your hair looked, way more than it looked in a braid, ponytail or any other hairstyle you were used to. You looked like a boy, and you were so happy.

At that very moment, you knew you couldn't go back to how your life was before. You couldn't go back to wearing dresses, praying to the God that probably never listened to you and did not care about you. You could no longer pretend that you were the perfect girl you were seen as until now.

Hobie's hands grabbed you by your shoulder. “Do you want me to call by a different name?” He asked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror as he rubbed your shoulders. You thought about it for a moment, before looking up at him and speaking up. “Do you think [Name] would suit me?”

Hobie chuckled and nodded. “Definitely, luv. Definitely.” He couldn't help himself and softly kissed your cheek. You were surprised by the sudden affection, but you enjoyed it.

“I want you to cut my hair. I want it short..” You said so suddenly, your voice was a little shaky, but you couldn't wait anymore. You have wanted to cut it for a while and you didn't want anyone else other than Hobie to do it. He was surprised by you. He didn't expect you to want to do it now.

“Are you su–”

“Yes, I am sure.” You cut him off, you didn't want to be mean, but you couldn't wait any longer. “Please… I don't want to go back to what was before. I don't want to pretend to be someone who I am not.” You begged, you sounded so desperate. He couldn't say no to you when you sounded like that.

“Okay.” He said, giving your shoulders a squeeze before he took you to the bathroom. He brought a small stool and seated you on it. He grabbed a scissors, untied your hair, looking at it for the last time before he started cutting it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your stomach swirling with anxiety, as you listened to the sound of the scissors cutting your hair.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

You felt your hair, your hair that you got so many compliments on, tickling your arms and neck before it fell down on the bathroom floor. “Done.” Hobie said, his voice was flat. It made you worry. Did you look bad? Did he mess up your hair? Was it a mistake?

He brushed the cut hair off of you, before you stood up and looked in the mirror. It was not perfect, but it still made you feel good. You started sobbing immediately. “Dove? Are you alright?” Hobie asked, worried and a little panicked.

“I've never felt better.” You sobbed out and he sighed, relieved that you liked it. He hugged you tightly, being so glad to see you happy with who you were.

But it couldn't go on forever. You came home pretty late, still wearing the clothes Hobie gave you earlier. And in the hoodie he gave so you wouldn't be cold while coming back home. You knew confrontation wouldn't be something you were able to avoid . And you knew it wouldn't be a light confrontation either.

Your parents were sitting in the living room. As soon as you closed the front door behind you, you heard your father call you by the name you no longer wished to be called by. You took a deep breath, pulling a hood over your head before you entered the living room. Your parents eyes were immediately on you, your mother gasped loudly.

“What the fuck is that!?” Your father yelled, he stood up and grabbed you by the hood and yanked it off your head. He intended to grab you by your hair, but there was nothing to grab. Your lovely long hair was long gone and there was nothing they could do about it. In a way, that made you proud.

“What have you done to yourself!?” Your mother shouted with tears in her eyes. You've never seen her crying and you didn't expect her to get so emotional. She always seemed so cold. “Where's your hair? Your dress?” She's never been so panicked. “What will we say to the others once they see that your hair is gone? What will they think of us? What will they think of you?”

There was this need to apologize, turn the time back and never let yourself explore who you really were. But you weren't going to let this need win. You have been obedient for way too long. You were pretending for way too long and now? You were tired of it.

“I don't fucking care what are they going to think of me!” You shouted back. Both of your parents were startled by the fact that you just cursed. They never heard you curse, nor did they hear you sound so confident. “I have been pretending to be someone who I wasn't me for way too long. I am not going to let you decide about how I am anymore!”

Slap!

Your father slapped you so hard you fell to the floor. Your cheek was all red already. You and your mother were both shocked. Your father was about to take his belt off and start beating you, but your mother stopped him. “I am sure there's something we can do instead of beating her up. People will notice and they might think we were the one to cut her hair off. We can buy a wig until her hair grows back.”

“I am not growing it back and I am not putting the dresses back on.” You hissed. Maybe you shouldn't have done that, but you ripped off the virgin Mary necklace off your neck and threw it.

Your parents were more than shocked at your action. “She must have been corrupted by that punk!” Your mother cried out. “What are we going to–” Your father lost his temper. Instead of beating you up like he initially planned, he grabbed you and threw you out the door. “I no longer have a daughter!” It was the last thing you heard before he closed the door.

Soon, your father started throwing your things out the window. All those gorgeous dresses and skirts flying out the window. Before you were terrified to even slightly rip them and now? You didn't care that they got dirty, they stopped mattering to you. You only waited for your father to throw your phone. You wanted to catch it, but it fell onto the concrete, the phone screen broke, but luckily for you, you still were able to use it. You grabbed some more important things that your father had thrown and then made your way to Hobie's apartment.

He was concerned, but both of you knew it was better that way. If you stayed, nothing would change and everything would go worse. More praying, more femininity, more pretending. But you weren't going to stay with your parents, luckily Hobie said you could stay with him.

You were laying with Hobie in his bed. You were so lost in your thoughts and he could see it clearly. Hobie laid on his side to face you, the tips of his fingers brushed against your jaw to get your attention. You turned to look at him. “You okay?” You put your hands on your face and sighed.

“I'm fine. It’s just… I've wanted to be myself for a while and I…” You paused for a moment, not looking into Hobie's eyes. In a way, it all felt unreal. Usually, you would now be in your bed, reading the bible or praying. And now, you were laying with a man you didn't know very well, but he gave you everything you could have asked for. Acceptance, help and hope.

Your eyes finally met his again. “I didn't expect that it would actually happen. I thought I was going to be everyone's perfect girl until I die, but you came into my life and changed everything. Thank you so much for that.” You smiled at him, you were so grateful he came into your life. He smiled back at you and leaned to kiss your cheek.

“You're very welcome, luv.”

You both left the town as quickly as you could since that happened. Now, it has been 6 years since the day you met him. Everything has been truly perfect since then. Your transition was going well and you recently had your top surgery.

And Hobie? He was with you the whole time. During the first appointment at the doctor, he helped you take your first testosterone shot and he held your hand both before and after the surgery.

Life couldn't be more perfect and you never felt more perfect.

taglist: @sk3llly

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causeimhappinesss · 2 months ago

Text

Rome's Devotion (part 8)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 6,3k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

A week later

The senator’s villa has been a sanctuary, a gilded cage where the bars were soft silks and fine foods, where the only danger lay in the knowledge that it could not last. For the past week, I have lived as I once dreamed noblewomen did. My mornings have been slow, filled with the scent of fresh bread and honeyed fruit, my afternoons spent reclining on cushions, admiring the glint of gold bracelets on my wrists, gifted by the Emperors themselves with new clothes. The stola I’m wearing is a pure, immaculate white, far too pristine for a girl like me. The fabric is so fine and light that it seems to glide over my skin like a second layer. It follows my movements with a grace I never thought I could possess. At the shoulders, golden brooches hold the fabric in place, intricately carved with a craftsmanship that betrays their worth. A purple silk belt cinches my waist, a detail that unsettles me more than I care to admit. This color is reserved for the powerful, for those who rule. I am nothing like a noble Roman woman, and yet, here I am, dressed like one. Over my shoulders, a palla of lightweight wool cascades in an elegant drape, deep midnight blue, with golden threads woven into patterns so delicate they seem to dance in the light. I brush my fingers over the fabric. It’s soft. Far too luxurious. Nothing like the coarse garments I was used to wearing. Then, at my feet, finely crafted leather sandals, adorned with tiny gemstones. I have never owned shoes so precious. I almost fear ruining their beauty by walking. And then, there are the jewels; a rigid gold bracelet encircling my wrist, a delicate torque resting against my skin.

During this week, away from the twins, I have laughed without glancing over my shoulder, dined without fear of unseen eyes watching my every bite. No whispers. No threats. No emperors. But all illusions must break. The arrival of the Praetorian guards comes as no surprise, yet my body reacts as though it has been struck. A sharp, unspoken dread coils in my stomach, twisting tighter with every step I take toward the waiting carriage. The two men stand rigid, their crimson cloaks heavy over their broad shoulders, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their gladii. They do not speak. They do not need to. Their presence alone is enough. Claudia stands beside me, her hand brushing against mine.

“It will be fine…” she whispers with a soft smile.

I wish I could believe her. Unfortunately, I know the Emperors, they way they behaved. Silently, I follow them, my rare belongings carried by their strong arms, while two others stand behind me, just in case… In case I would be tempted to flee. Outside, I say goodbye to Senator Aurelius and get inside à lavish carriage, meant for nobility, with its wood polished to a fine sheen. The moment the doors close, sealing us inside, I realize how tight my chest feels. I grip the folds of my dress, nails digging into the soft fabric. Claudia watches me carefully, as if weighing her words. Soon, the wheels creak against the stone roads, the steady clatter of hooves echoing in the enclosed space. After a long silence, my friend and servant – God knows how strange it sounds to me – exhales and leans forward.

“I heard something yesterday.”

I lift my gaze and frown, not sure about what to expect.

“What?”

She glances toward the small opening in the carriage wall, as if ensuring the guards outside cannot hear us.

“It’s about your adoption.” She mutters.

My stomach clenches, since I was expecting something related to those doomed Emperors. It was obvious.

“What about it? What do you know?”

She hesitates, her fingers curling into the folds of her own dress and she clears her throat.

“The Emperors made a deal with Senator Aurelius.”

A sick feeling washes over me as I press my hand to my stomach, before I take a breath.

“A deal? I guessed that, but they refused to tell me the ins and outs of their agreement.”

“In exchange for adopting you, Senator Aurelius was given privileges. Lower taxes. More land beyond the city walls. Greater wealth.”

I blink, the words sinking into me like stones thrown into deep water. The surface stills, but beneath, everything stirs. Everything seams logical. It’s beneficial to him as long as he leaves. When Death will grab him, the Emperors will inherit all his belongings, his wealth, his lands, which means more control to defy the Senate.

“And when he dies?” I asked, for confirmations.

When Claudia looks away, that is all the answer I need. I let out a breath, staring at the rich red fabric lining the walls of the carriage. This had never been about family, about offering me a place in noble society. This had always been a transaction. Aurelius benefits while he lives, and when he dies, everything reverts to them. The perfect arrangement. A temporary prize for the senator, an investment for the emperors. My hands tremble in my lap and Claudia watches me.

“Are you alright?”

I laugh softly, but there is no humor in it.

“You tell me that I was bought and sold like a fine horse, and you ask if I’m alright?”

She flinches.

“I thought you should know.”

I close my eyes for a moment. Of course, I should know. In pinch the bridge of my nose and then slide my hand on my forehead, since I can’t pull my hair, styles in a bun, almost everything hidden under my white veil.

“You’re right… Forgive me, Claudia. Everything is just strange, stressful, and I know they are trying to win my affection.”

“You’re fin, you will be fine…” she whispers as she takes my hand to stroke it.

“Not really. There's nothing nicer than a man who tries to sleep with a woman who resists him. They won’t give up.” I sigh, in a tired tone.

The carriage continues its slow, relentless journey toward Palatine Hill. My sanctuary slips further away with every passing moment. Not long after, the Imperial Palace looms before me, its marble walls shining under the midday sun. The week away has done nothing to soften its imposing presence. If anything, it feels even more suffocating now that I know what freedom tastes like. Once the carriage door is open, a Pretorian guard helps me to get out of it. Claudia stands beside me, her hands clasped tightly together. She looks calm, but I know better. Her grip on her own fingers is white-knuckled. A palace official steps forward, his expression neutral.

“The Emperor Geta is expecting you.” His gaze shifts to Claudia.

“You, girl, are to report to the Imperial Quarter to learn the new rules for such quarters.”

Claudia barely hesitates before dipping her head. She turns to me, her lips parting slightly, as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she squeezes my arm in a brief, warm, reassuring manner, before she follows the official into the depths of the palace. I watch her go, an uneasy weight settling in my chest. The moment does not last. Two Praetorian guards step forward, motioning for me to follow. Quickly, we roam through the palace, to the throne room, just as I remember it: vast, grand, meant to intimidate. Thick columns rise toward the high ceiling, where intricate frescoes tell stories of conquest and divinity. The scent of burning incense lingers in the air.

Little girls dressed in flowing white tunics move gracefully before me, their small hands scattering flower petals across the marble floor. The gesture feels more like a ceremony than a mere welcome, and my unease sharpens. Geta sits on his throne, the seat beside him vacant. His posture is relaxed, one arm resting on the gilded armrest, the other draped over his knee. He watches me approach, his lips curving into a smile. As I near, he rises. His steps are slow, deliberate, while his predatory gaze never leaves mine. He takes my hand in his and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is courtly, practiced, yet his grip lingers a moment too long. I can’t help but arch an eyebrow.

“I don’t understand this welcome, my Emperor.”

His smile widens.

“You are no longer a servant. You are a guest of the Imperial Palace, one of its few permanent residents. A position of great importance.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I offer a carefully measured nod.

“How generous.”

If he should ask my head for such an answer, he chuckles.

“Come.”

With a tilt of his head, he gestures for me to follow. The Praetorian guards remain at a respectful distance as he leads me through the palace. The path he takes is unfamiliar, deeper into corridors I never had access to before. I glance around, noting the lavish tapestries, the polished bronze oil lamps lining the walls.

“If I may ask, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He replies with a secretive smile.

“Life has never been kind when it comes to surprises.”

He glances at me with his deep brown eyes, amused by my answer. Obviously, his life has almost been always pleasant, far from the regular burdens citizen have to go through everyday.

“You have nothing to fear.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

His laughter is soft. “You wound me.”

I slightly lick my lips, cross my arms and blinks. Suddenly, my mind goes to Caracalla, the strange Emperor, cruel but so delicate at the same time.

“Where is your brother?”

Something flickers across his face, satisfaction, perhaps?

“Ill.”

The answer is simple, but the weight of it settles uneasily in my chest. I should not care. I should not even ask. And yet, before I can stop myself, I do.

“Is it serious, Augustus?”

Geta halts mid-step. When he turns to face me, his smile has shifted into something more knowing.

“Are you worried, Y/N?”

I scoff, lifting my chin and take a deep breath.

“Hardly.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was merely being polite…”

The Emperor chuckles, his laughter soft, teasing. His ring-adorned fingers, worth more than a dozen slaves, caress his perfectly shaven chin.

“Ah, so you do have room in your heart for your Emperors. You care.”

This time, I roll my eyes, before I try to stay as polite as I can. Thankfully, he’s not looking at me.

“I just don’t want him to die before I get the chance to beat him too with a shrub branch.”

Geta bursts out laughing, the sound bouncing off the marble walls, showing his perfect white teeth. I’m sure this man takes care of himself perfectly: shaving everyday, never forgetting to brush his teeth, applying creams and lotions to keep that beautiful skin. In his mind, he was probably blessed with Venus.

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. It might just be the motivation he needs to recover.”

“You do that…” I say dryly.

My answer is enough for him to smirk.

“Perhaps I should fake an illness as well. Would you ask about me too?”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it.

“Hmm. No, I’d simply assume you were playing dead to avoid responsibility.”

His laughter comes louder this time, rich and warm.

“Clever and ruthless. I must say, you suit the palace already. But be careful, that lack of respect won’t be tolerated all the time.”

I shake my head, exasperated.

“Where are we going, Emperor Geta?”

His eyes gleam with mischief.

“If I told you, that would ruin the surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “I have a feeling you’re going to like this one.”

I narrow my eyes. “If it involves a pit of wild animals, I’m pushing you in first.”

He grins, completely unbothered.

“Noted. Now, let’s continue before my dear brother rises from his sickbed and steals your attention again.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Yes, because I’m simply yearning for his company.”

“You see?” Geta smirks, leading me forward. “You do like us.”

By the gods, just keep walking!

His laughter follows me, light and unbothered, as we disappear deeper into the palace. I glance sideways at Geta as we walk.

“Anyway, what’s wrong with him?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll brush off the question, but then he sighs.

“A strange disease of the mind. One only the gods understand.”

“That’s vague.”

He chuckles and licks his lips, before sliding a hand on my lower back, a gesture made for a wife or a concubine… I shiver, bite my lips and act like if I’m not feeling his touch. His warm touch. So warm…

“If you’ve ever tried to understand my brother, you’d know vague is as close to the truth as anyone will get.”

I shake my head.

“I always heard it was a disease that spread from his crotch to his brain.”

Geta stops walking. For a second, I think I’ve offended him, but then his shoulders shake with laughter. His eyes gleam as he turns to me.

“That rumor…” he says, voice full of amusement, “was my doing.”

I blink, shocked by the revelation, since it sounds so mean and probably revengeful. Everyone knows they love each other enough to rule together. However, there’s often tensions and competition between them.

“You…?”

He nods, smug.

“Started it a few years ago, after an argument. I never expected it to last this long, but here we are.”

I stare at him, caught between disbelief and admiration.

“You slandered your own brother.”

“Oh, come now. He deserved it.” Geta’s smirk deepens. “Besides, it’s not entirely false. He does have a way of thinking with the wrong head.”

Jesus Christ, he’s talking about the head of his manhood…

If I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I recall the warmth, softness and wetness of her brother's length in my hand, I try to keep my expression neutral. It was so disgusting, and yet…

No, no, no! I've got to stop here!

Instead of thinking about that, I snort.

“And the actual reason? For his brain health? If there even is one.”

His amusement fades slightly, though the humor never fully leaves his eyes.

“His healers and caretakers say it’s tied to his birth. Something about the way he entered the world, how he was carried in the womb. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe the gods played dice with his mind before he ever took his first breath.”

I study him, searching for any sign of mockery, but he looks almost thoughtful.

“You believe that?”

“I believe there’s no sense in him, some days.” Geta’s mouth quirks at the corner. “And when there’s no sense, it’s easier to blame the gods.”

I let out a low hum.

“Convenient.”

“Isn’t it?” He grins, then gestures ahead. “Now, enough about my poor afflicted brother. We’ve arrived.”

I follow his gaze and see an ornately carved doorway ahead. Whatever is waiting for me behind it, I have a feeling Geta enjoys knowing I don’t expect it. The heavy doors swing open with a low groan, and the guards step aside to let us pass. Beyond them lies a room unlike anything I have ever seen. My breath catches. The walls soar high above, adorned with frescoes so vivid that they seem to move under the flickering torchlight. Scenes of gods and mortals entwined in divine struggles stretch across the ceiling, their faces immortalized in rich pigment, each brushstroke capturing moments of triumph and despair.

Statues line the vast room, their marble forms frozen in time. Some bear the proud expressions of conquerors, others the serene poise of philosophers. A few are so lifelike that, for an instant, I almost expect them to blink, to exhale, to step down from their pedestals and join us. Beyond them, golden urns and jeweled ornaments glisten, treasures gathered from the farthest reaches of the empire.

I can’t stop myself from staring. The sheer weight of History presses down on me, a thousand stories woven into the fabric of this place. The room smells of aged parchment, warm beeswax, and faint traces of incense.

“Do you approve?”

Why would he ask such a question? It’s not like if I could say “no” if I wanted to. He’s the emperor. Never contradict him. Especially when it comes to his riches, his wealth or politics and wars. Geta’s voice pulls me back. He stands a few steps ahead, arms folded, watching me with that same amused smirk he so often wears. I hesitate, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of my wonder.

“It’s… impressive.”

“Only impressive?” He cocks his head. “Not magnificent?”

I refuse to answer, refusing to indulge him. I know how he thrives on admiration.

He chuckles, unbothered by my silence, and gestures toward a section of the gallery.

“This is usually reserved for those who can truly appreciate it. I thought you should see it.”

His words send a flicker of unease through me.

“Why such an honor?”

Instead of answering, he steps toward a raised pedestal where an ancient scroll rests beneath a sheet of glass. His fingers hover just above the case, reverent, as if the mere presence of such a relic demands a kind of silent worship. Then, without warning, he speaks:

“At regina gravi iamdudum saucia cura

vulnus alit venis et caeco carpitur igni.

multa viri virtus animo multusque recursat

gentis honos; haerent infixi pectore vultus

verbaque, nec placidam membris dat cura quietem.”

(But the queen, long since smitten with a grievous love-pang, feeds the wound with her lifeblood, and is wasted with fire unseen. Oft to her mind rushes back the hero’s valour, oft his glorious stock; his looks and words cling fast to her bosom, and longing withholds calm rest from her limbs.)

The words echo softly in the chamber, filling the empty spaces between us. His voice is steady, smooth, each syllable shaped with precision. The beautiful words roll off his tongue as if he was born speaking it, as if it belongs to him. I know these verses. It takes me only a moment to place them… Virgil. The Aeneid. I remember my father saying a few things to me, words he memorized, from the rare books he bought and sold to the richest families of the Empire.

I glance at him, surprised.

“You know poetry.”

A slow smile spreads across his lips.

“Do I seem incapable of it? I was educated with the finest teachers of the whole Empire, little lamb.”

I cross my arms.

“I thought your interests were more… material.”

He chuckles, turning back to the scroll.

“I love many things. Poetry among them. I appreciate arts, they are an interesting way to deliver messages, when a speech is not enough.”

His fingers skim the glass, tracing invisible patterns over the delicate parchment beneath.

“Do you know why I chose this passage?”

I hesitate, the words replaying in my mind. Dido, the queen of Carthage, tormented by love, consumed by longing and despair. A wound festering in her veins, a fire eating away at her, leaving no peace, no rest. I arch a brow.

“Because you enjoy the suffering of women?”

He laughs, a deep, genuine sound.

“A fair guess, but no.” His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, the amusement in his eyes dims. “Because fire consumes, but it also forges.”

A chill runs down my spine. Not from fear, but from something else, something deeper, something I don’t want to name. Quickly, I look away, my gaze drifting back to the statues, the frescoes, the relics of centuries past. He’s making an effort. And I don’t know what to do with that. I force a smirk, tilting my head.

“If you’re trying to impress me, I’ll admit it’s unexpected.”

Geta’s grin returns, sharp and satisfied.

“Unexpected? Good. I like to keep you guessing.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

“And tell me, did it work?”

I lift my chin.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, Emperor. I am no concubine or whore.”

His laughter follows me as I turn away, but I catch the glint in his eyes, like a man who has found a game he very much enjoys playing. However, I follow him, as we walk through the gallery, our steps echoing in the vast chamber. Geta moves with an ease that only a man born to rule can possess, but his shoulders are a fraction tenser now, as if weighed down by thoughts he rarely speaks aloud.

“Do you know what it takes to raise an emperor?” He asks so suddenly, his voice is measured, almost idle, but I catch the sharp edge beneath. I blink, not sure why this subject, this conversation. “It isn't all poetry and marble halls.”

I glance at him.

“Of course, Augustus.”

His free fingers brush absently over the gilded rim of a bronze shield displayed against the wall, the other still on my lower back. The polished metal reflects his face, distorted by the curve.

“My father believed in strength above all else. Strength of body, strength of will. He thought softness had no place in an emperor's heart.”

I stay quiet, waiting.

Geta exhales, eyes fixed on the relics before him as if looking into the past.

“He made sure we understood that. We were boys, but that didn’t matter. We had to endure.”

A muscle in his jaw tenses, then releases. His hand drops from the shield.

“You ask anyone in Rome what it means to be emperor, and they’ll tell you about power, about armies and riches. They don’t know what it costs.”

I study his profile, the sharp lines of his face cast in shifting light.

“Did Caracalla endure the same?”

A shadow of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, humorless.

“Obviously.” He tilts his head slightly. “But my brother was… different. Not as strong. Not as tall. And his mind…” He trails off, choosing his next words carefully. “Let’s say it has always been more fragile than mine.”

He shifts, looking at me fully now, too close to me, his chest brushing mine.

“So I took most half of the hits meant for him. Whenever I could.”

The words settle between us, quiet and heavy. I don’t answer immediately, only watching him as something unfamiliar coils in my chest. I never thought he could be protective of his older twin, loving him this much. For a second, I assumed he was lying; the gleam in his eyes shared another story. He was sincere.

“That’s admirable… To take the blows out of love. To protect him when no one else would.”

He lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh, but it lacks real amusement. "

“You say it as if you wouldn’t have done the same.”

I hesitate, lowering my eyes to the ground.

“You would.” he says before I can argue. “You have that in you.”

“It was my brother, not me. He was the braver one.” I murmur, my throat suddenly too tight.

Geta studies me for a long moment, I feel his burning gaze on me, until I look at him again. Never in the eyes. Then, slowly, he leans in, just enough that his voice is lower, quieter.

“You see yourself as a quiet mountain. Steady. Enduring.” His gaze drifts over my face. “Personally, I see something else.”

His lips barely curve, but his voice is sure.

“Yes, I see a mountain on the verge of breaking open. A woman who doesn’t yet know that the fire inside her is already stirring, already waiting to pour forth.”

A strange heat licks at my skin, though the torches burn no brighter than before. I lift my chin, refusing to be drawn in so easily.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

His eyes glint with something unreadable.

“I never am.”

What confidence!

“I wanted to show this beautiful place. You’re allowed to come her whenever you want.”

As I nod, we leave the beautiful room. The corridor stretches ahead, silent except for the faint echo of our footsteps. His pace is unhurried, but there’s a quiet authority in the way he moves, the weight of his position resting easily on his shoulders. When we reach my new rooms, in the imperial quarters, he stops and turns slightly, his gaze settling on me with an unreadable expression.

“I have some business to attend to.” he says. His voice is smooth, practiced, as though he’s said these words a thousand times before. “But we’ll meet again later.”

I nod, my fingers brushing against the carved wooden door frame.

“Of course, my Emperor.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. For the briefest moment, he seems as if he might say something else. Instead, he gives a small nod. That’s when I sense another presence. A shift in the air. A weight in the silence. I glance toward the far end of the hallway just as another figure emerges from the shadows. Caracalla.

He strides toward me with none of Geta’s controlled grace, his movements raw, uncalculated. He wears no sign of his imperial station, no paint on his face, no elaborate toga or layers of silk with gold, the same material as his jewels. Just a simple garment, unadorned, practical. The image is almost jarring. For the first time, I see him as a man, rather than the ruler whose name is spoken in fear and reverence. His cloudy gaze flicks between me and Geta.

“You should have told me she was back.”

His voice is rougher than his brother’s, edged with something I can’t quite place. Geta pauses, his tone edged with something close to impatience.

“I did. You weren’t well.”

Caracalla’s brow creases. He hesitates, then exhales, pressing two fingers to his temple.

“Right. Yes.”

I seize the moment before the tension can thicken.

“Augustus…” I say, my voice steady.

His blue eyes lock onto mine, searching, though for what, I can’t say. A heartbeat of silence stretches between us. Then Geta takes his leave, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am alone with Caracalla.

“You look better than what I thought.” I offer, testing the waters.

His lips twitch in something that isn’t quite amusement.

“Do I?”

“You’re standing, at least.”

A breath of laughter escapes him, barely there, but real.

“I suppose that’s an improvement.” Then, after a pause, he adds: “My head still aches.”

I reach for my door, the brass handle cool beneath my fingers.

“Then I hope you will find relief soon.”

But before I can step inside, he moves. A swift, fluid motion, no hesitation, no warning. He crosses the threshold behind me, shutting the heavy door with a quiet finality. The space seems smaller now, the walls pressing in. I turn to face him, keeping my expression impassive despite the way my pulse stirs.

“You didn’t have to follow me in…”

Don’t irritate him, don’t get him mad, stay quiet! I lecture myself.

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, the gesture almost lazy.

“You didn’t stop me.”

I fold my arms, tilting my head.

“Perhaps I was too polite.”

His smirk deepens, but there’s something less playful in his eyes. He rubs his temple absently, as if trying to banish whatever lingers there.

“Did you see healers, Majesty?”

“They gave me a drink for it.” he mutters.

I study him, noting the faint tension in his jaw, the way exhaustion clings to the edges of his features.

“Something to dull the pain?”

His mouth twists, humorless.

“Something to keep me docile, more likely.”

A strange feeling tugs at me then. This is Caracalla, the emperor, the feared, the loathed, the unpredictable. And yet, at this moment, he looks anything but invincible. The man standing before me is not the cruel tyrant whispered about in hushed voices. He is tired. Frustrated. Human. And despite myself, I don’t step away. Caracalla watches me with something unreadable in his gaze, his fingers still pressing at his temple. He looks paler than usual, the furrow in his brow deeper. His head must be pounding.

“My mother taught me a way to ease headaches.” I offer, my voice softer than I expect. “If you want, I can show you.”

His expression doesn’t change immediately. He studies me, suspicious as ever, as if I might use this moment of vulnerability to do something unexpected. I hold his gaze, waiting.

“You?” His tone is edged with doubt.

“Yes. It works, but you don’t have to try after all.”

He exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally gives a single nod.

“Fine.”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. Turning toward the small wooden chest that holds my few belongings brought here when I was with Geta, I search for what I need, not even taking the time to admire the beautiful room I will leave in. The cold marble floor sends a shiver through me with each step, contrasting with the softness of the embroidered rugs scattered across the room. The walls are adorned with intricate frescoes, which depicts mythological scenes bathed in golden light. Massive silk curtains filter the daylight that comes from the open balcony, casting dancing shadows over the bed’s draperies. Everything here exudes opulence and delicacy.

My fingers brush against the polished wood, smooth ivory: combs, a hairbrush, and a cloth. I push past them, searching for the small jar of oil tucked at the bottom. The scent escapes the moment I unseal it, lavender, myrrh, a touch of bitter citrus. It carries the memories of home, of my mother’s voice whispering remedies over my forehead, of warm hands easing away pain. I turn back to him. He has not moved, but his gaze has lowered, fixed on my hands as if trying to decipher what comes next, while I walk to the bed. The bed itself is immense, larger than anything I have ever slept on, even in the house of Senator Aurelius. Draped in fine linen and embroidered covers, it looks so plush that I hesitate to sit on it, afraid of ruining its perfection. When I gaze on the side, a vanity made of precious wood stands near the window, topped with a mirror made of polished silver, where my blurry reflection seems almost unreal. Carefully, I press my behinds on the mattress, feeling how perfect it will be for my back, my body.

“Please, sit with me.” I say, settling on the edge of the bed. The young Emperor hesitates, then follows. When he’s close to me, I pour drops of oils on my finger and warms between them, before reaching for him. He doesn’t flinch when my hands press against his forehead, though his muscles are tight beneath my touch. Slowly, I draw small, firm circles, spreading the oil across his temples, feeling the ridges of tension beneath his skin. His breath is shallow at first, measured. I glide my fingers along his brow, smoothing the deep crease between his eyes, down to his temples, then to the base of his skull. He exhales, a quiet sound, barely there, but I hear it.

“Lie down, my Emperor.”

He does, shifting until his head rests near my lap. He could have kept some distance. Instead, he slides lower, letting his head settle against my thighs.

My breath stills. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric of my stola. His weight is solid, heavy, pressing against me in a way that feels… wrong. Improper. If I should push him away, I don’t find the strength to. So, I let my hands return to their task, kneading gently at his scalp, rubbing slow patterns against his temples, his forehead, the base of his skull. His hair is thick beneath my fingers, curling in unruly waves and reveal its dark roots, free from procedure to lighten them. The scent of the oil clings to him now, mingling with something else, something unmistakably him: warm skin, faint traces of perfume.

Slowly, his breath deepens and the rigid set of his shoulders softens.

I reach for a comb, running it through his curls with careful strokes. He remains still, allowing it, his body sinking further into the bed, into me.

“My mother used to tell me stories when I was little…” I whisper, more to myself than to him, just like my mother used to do, in order to soothe me. “She said they made the body forget its aches.”

A long silence. Then…

“What kind of stories?” His voice is quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness.

I pause, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“Ones about the gods, about nymphs and heroes. There was one she told often… About a nymph who loved the wind and the nature.”

I begin, my voice low, barely above a whisper. My fingers move as I speak, twisting small sections of his hair, braiding, unbraiding, tracing idle patterns along his scalp. The story flows from my lips as my hands move through his curls, grounding him, grounding myself. His breathing slows. His lips part slightly.

The flickering candlelight casts shadows over his face, softening the hard edges, revealing something almost delicate beneath the usual cruelty. His lashes are thick against his cheekbones, his lips full, his features perfectly Roman and yet touched by something more. A trace of oriental blood lingers in the set of his jaw, in the darkness of his natural hair, in the faint golden undertone of his skin.

Like this, he looks almost innocent.

A cruel illusion.

I swallow, fingers tightening briefly in his hair before loosening again.

I should hate him.

I should never find beauty in him.

Yet as my hands move gently, as my voice weaves the tale my mother once told me, I feel something unfamiliar curling in my chest. Something dangerous. Something I refuse to name.

Caracalla’s breath slows, his body slackening against me. His head is still heavy on my lap, his face no longer tense with pain. His lashes rest against his skin, dark crescents softened by the dim light of the oil lamps. His breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. For a moment, I think he has surrendered to sleep. Then, his fingers move. A slow, deliberate stroke over my thigh. The touch is light, but not accidental. A quiet test.

I press my hand over his, gently pushing it away.

“Don’t enjoy it to the point you want to take advantage of this…” I murmur, my voice calm, though my pulse betrays me.

His lips twitch into a wry smile. His eyelids lift just enough to reveal blue eyes, watching me with that strange, knowing glint.

“Too late,” he says, voice still thick from drowsiness.

The words send a flicker of heat through my chest, but I say nothing. I don’t need to. He shifts, lifting his head from my lap, then pushing himself up on one elbow. The weight of his gaze is heavy, searching. I remain still, my hands resting against the fabric of my tunic, my fingers curling slightly into the cloth. His knuckles brush my cheek, a barely-there touch. A shiver races down my spine before I can stop it.

His fingers move, cupping my jaw, his palm rough and warm against my skin. The scent of oil lingers on him.

Then his lips press against mine.

A slow, measured kiss.

Not what I expected. Not from him.

I don’t pull away.

His lips are warm, his breath steady. For a heartbeat, I let myself answer, let myself press into him, my own mouth parting just slightly. The moment stretches, intimate in a way that unsettles me more than if he had simply taken what he wanted.

Suddenly, something shifts.

His grip tightens. The kiss deepens, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding into me. His fingers tangle in my hair, his breath grows heavier, as the need sharpens the edges of his touch. A sound escapes me, a soft, reluctant moan, before I press my hand against his chest and turn my face away.

“Enough…” I whisper. My heart pounds against my ribs.

For once, he listens.

He breathes out, something unreadable flashing across his features. Without a word, he lets go and leans back. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me against him as he lies down. His body remains close, his warmth pressing through the fabric of my tunic, but he makes no further move.

The chamber is silent. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp remains, the distant echoes of voices and footsteps from the corridor beyond. He turns his head, his gaze finding mine in the dim light.

“Tell me your real name… Again…” His voice is quieter now, the sharpness gone.

I hesitate. The air between us is thick, charged with something I don’t want to name.

Still, I whisper it.

He repeats it slowly, the syllables unfamiliar on his tongue, reshaped by his accent. He pronounces it again, softer this time, more carefully.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips before I can stop it.

His mouth twitches, mirroring mine. A shadow of something close to tenderness flickers in his expression. But it vanishes too quickly for me to grasp.

Caracalla experienced ASMR, like scalp check videos, way before it became a thing! haha

I've already started the next part and all I can say is that you're going to love it! At least, I hope you do! 🤭

Don't forget to comment and tell me what you think. ❤️

By the way, I've also started writing something with Fred Hechinger, but it's going to be very long and probably cut in two parts. Of course, my priority is Rome's Devotion, but that new fanfic will be coming soon!

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! :)

#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction #joseph quinn

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daddyhausen · 9 months ago

Note

Christian Cage NSFW headcanons if you haven’t done already 🩵

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡「 NSFW HEADCANNONS 」｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 AEW MASTERLIST」 | 「 CHRISTIAN CAGE MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 SUMMARY 」 — nsfw headcannons w/ christian

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+ [ MINORS DNI ] smut, sugardaddy!au

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 185

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x christian cage

「 GENRE 」 — smut

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @mjfass @wardlow @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564 @auburnwriter @alyyaanna @nightmare-freakin-viper @nev-danielgarciawife @teenagedramaqueenlisa

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

sugar daddy

will spoil you with expensive gifts whether you ask or not

buys you new sex toys

daddy kink

incredibly dominant

into power play, he loves having control over you in more ways than one

service play. has you wear a maids outfit/inspired lingerie around the house

exhibitionist.

he rarely ever reciprocates oral sex, only on special occasions such as birthdays or anneversiries

he prefers when you suck him off, holds your head down and makes you choke on his cock

a saidist, loves watching you suffer underneath him

hes a mean dom

loves to degrade and humiliate you

makes sure you always never wear panties when you go out with him

loves to cum in your mouth and make you swallow it

he’s cumming on every inch of you

breeding/pregnancy kink

not neccearily because he wants children he just loves the idea of you being full of his cum

he’s cumming inside you multiple times

in both holes

he loves to mark you, especially your ass

will put you over his knee and spank you until your ass is red raw.

｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡｡･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

#{ my fics : 🤍 }#christian cage smut #christian cage x reader #christian cage imagine #christian cage #aew #wrestling imagine #wrestling smut #aew imagine #aew wrestling #aew fanfiction

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madhatterbri · 4 months ago

Text

Missing | C.C.

Summary: 20.) A couple broken up get Invited to a Christmas party.

Author's Note: We get a Christian Cage match tonight?!? Also, the GIF is adorable and has nothing to do with the story.

Happy Wednesday Night Dynamite, babes. 🫶

Christian Cage Masterlist

AEW Masterlist

Taglist: @theworldofotps @smallestsnarkestgirl @magicalbuttertarts @hodgepodge-musings

The broken up couple sat on the bench. They looked out into the water. Houses across the lake had Christmas decorations and lights. Christian wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm. Even after everything she did he still cared so much about her.

Y/N stood on the dock to her best friend's lakefront house. The tea lights swayed with the breeze. She shivered and ran her hands up and down her arms to warm herself up. More tears fell down her cheeks. This was her fault that she was currently miserable outside.

She insisted that she was ready to face her ex-boyfriend again. They broke up a few weeks ago. A few hours with her ex shouldn't have been a big deal, but feelings were hurt. He seemed so happy. Maybe he was happier without her. A fresh round of tears fell down her cheeks.

Feeling embarrassed, she started to wipe away her tears with a tissue. The past was the past. Now she had to look forward to a future. It may be a future without Christian, but it was still a future. She would fall in love again, right? Footsteps on the wooden dock made her pause momentarily. She cleared her throat.

"I'm fine, girl," she laughed nervously. That was a lie she certainly didn't have to tell. "It's just the holidays,"

The steps came closer. She tried to keep herself together. She didn't want to be the crazed ex that couldn't accept that she let someone as great as Christian go. This was her decision and she had to stand by it. The footsteps stopped behind her. The sound of ruffling clothes piqued her interest. Just when she was about to turn around, a warm sweater was placed around her shoulders and body. Her heart practically stopped when the cologne danced with her nose. Oh no. That scent only belonged to one man that she knew.

Christian.

"Hey," he greeted. His hands rubbed her shoulders and back.

"Hey yourself," she greeted back. She rubbed her hands together nervously. Y/N couldn't remember the last time she felt so nervous like this around him. "Great party, right?"

Christian hummed in response. "You want to talk about things or just pretend like we aren't both hurting?"

She frowned. His hurting was caused by her. All the comments online about their relationship tore them apart. He was always there for her. Always told her to just ignore the internet trolls, but she couldn't. While her loving boyfriend was asleep next to her, she would read them like a novel. People that had never met her before commenting like they knew her.

"I'm sorry," she sighed and turned to him. Their sad eyes connected. "I kept reading the comments people made about me and I started to believe them. I believed that you would be better off without me,"

The Patriarch sighed. "Why don't we have a seat?"

"What do you want to talk about?" She asked nervously.

"Us. I want to talk about us, Y/N. I miss you," he admitted. It almost sounded desperate. This was the first time they had a face to face. Any time he tried to set up a meeting for them, she made up an excuse to not be able to do it. "And I know you miss me. There is no more running away from this,"

"I didn't think you would give me a second chance," she whispered. The lump in her throat pained her to swallow. "I didn't want to be reminded that I lost the best guy for me,"

"Well, he is right here. What do you want to tell him?"

"That I want another chance and I won't screw up our relationship ever again because of my stupidity," she answered quickly. Almost a little too quickly for her liking. He was perfection in her eyes so she could see how so many other women wanted him even though he only had eyes for her.

"I think we could definitely make that happen," he told her. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Now let's go back inside before you freeze to death out here,"

They walked back to the house holding hands. His coat still draped over her shoulders.

#aew #fanfiction #all elite wrestling #aew fanfiction #aew fanfic #christian cage #christian cage x reader #christian cage x y/n #christian cage fanfic #christian cage x female reader

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http-paprika · 7 months ago

Text

IVY AND IRON THORNS

CHAPTER III

a medieval au / sir simon riley x lady reader / 2.4k / warnings descriptions of death, christian religious imagery / taglist open

called to have an audience with the lord of the castle, you leave questioning the life you've known

because this story has been on hiatus so long, please if you are tagged in the taglist, don't hesitate to ask to be removed if this doesn't interest you anymore. I apologize for the delay, you know how life is. also, I promise there'll be more simon in the next chapter!

masterlist / chapter IV

Perched on the cold, stone windowsill, you rest your head against the thick glass. You gaze outside into the bailey below, bustling in the early morning with activity, You spot the knight, though he’s brandished his armor today for simple clothes, the black mask still obscuring his face. But despite the intimidation you feel watching Sir Riley, the children follow him around in awe, clinging onto his legs and arms. There’s no hesitation when he scoops up a little girl and puts her up on his shoulder, and though you cannot hear it, you’re certain she’s giggling. A small smile crosses your face momentarily, witnessing a man of such stature being so soft with children causes warmth to spread through your chest. Briefly.

A firm knock on the door of your chambers distracts you from the scene, causing you to fill with panic again. Remembering what Sir Riley had told you the night before, you were to have an audience with the lord of the castle. Your heart rattles in its cage of ribs, lungs expanding painfully with each breath as you cross the floor, your steps echo off the walls and each breath sounds louder in your ears. Any attempt to calm yourself falters as you unbolt the door and push open the heavy oak.

On the outside, in simple leather armor, another knight of the castle stands at attention. He’s new to you, an unfamiliar bronze face with golden eyes. A foreigner, you wonder whilst looking at him. There was a memory of the merchants from afar who traveled through your father’s lands, their skin hadn’t quite been as dark as his, but just as curious to you.

“My apologies, ma’am. But Lord Price requests your presence.” He tells you, bowing his head and crossing his chest with one arm.

“Of course,” Swallowing hard, you step over the threshold and into the narrow hallway. Morning light streams through the few windows as he escorts you, speaking little except for directing you as to whether to turn. As you walk, servant girls in the castle greet the knight as he passes by, often giggling though the knight, who was called Sir Garrick, pays them little attention. Instead, he was focused on the task of bringing you to the lord’s study.

Down narrow passages, up winding stairs into a high turret was where the lord of the castle worked and rested. When Sir Garrick brings you into the study, there is no one waiting for you. Just high shelves full of books, statues, and trinkets from wars and plunders. A tall tapestry with the crest hung down behind the desk, the embroidered skull and sword causing you to shiver.

“Lord Price will be with you in a moment. Don’t touch anything.” Sir Garrick advises you before stepping out of the room and shutting the door.

You startle when it slams shut, leaving you alone in the unwelcoming study. Glancing over at the bookshelves, you find yourself wanting to read over the title and run your fingers down the leather spines. Reading had never particularly been a hobby of yours, though your mother and tutor had taught you Latin and French, made you read pages upon pages, it bored you. Until now. There was a growing curiosity to view the collection that was grander than your father’s. How had you never known about a lord with a castle this grand? Surely your father knew the man, yet you’d never heard of Lord Price nor Castle Tharn.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” You startle at the sudden intrusion, not even having heard the door open. Quickly turning on your heel, you see the lord of the castle standing in the doorway. Tall in stature, broad shoulders hidden under his dark green shirt. He had the appearance of a warrior, the pride of a king in his gait.

“Quite the collection, m’Lord.” You stutter out as he walks past, settling behind his desk.

“My father started them to appease my mother. She was very unhappy in this castle and saw it as her prison, so my father began to gather them as they were the only thing that brought comfort to her short life.” He tells you, his light eyes narrowing to study your reaction, that the way you held yourself was different from a commoner. Even with the state of humility that you were in.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You tilt your head, remembering the string of jewels and pearls the prince had sent to you during the engagement. A sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, a frown crossing your face. A question lingers in your head though you do not chase it for an answer. “That was very kind of him.”

“Hmph. A captor trying to please the captured.” Lord Price hums, his chest rumbling with his words as he sits straight up in his velvet chair. “Foolish, is it not?”

“I’m not sure, m’Lord.”

“It’s as foolish as my servants trying to console you.” The frown on your face grows more visible at his words, the riddles he spoke confusing you. His steely, cold eyes sliced like knives through your resolve. “My knights have told me of the misfortunes that befell your company on the highway. A highway which they were not supposed to travel on.”

“Pardon me?” Your hands grip the fabric of your borrowed dress, wrinkling the gray fabric in your fists. The accusations stung, though you had no defense to his words. What did you know about the plans for traveling your father had forged?

“The House of Cain, galloping about through the Queen’s land. It’s by God’s graciousness alone and the will of my knights that a single soul survived the night.” Lord Price stands from his seat, his figure eclipsing the silver of light from the lone window. Cloaking you and the room in darkness. The Queen’s land? Your mind swelled from his words, lacking any understanding.

Lord Price pulls a scroll of paper from a shelf, laying it out on the desk you wearily approach. A map of your father’s lands is etched out in red ink, and the harsh words traitor’s lands are written over the valleys and mountains he governed. In black ink, you saw Castle Tharn with its rivers and surrounding villages. It was different from the maps you’d seen growing up, glimpsing into the rooms where your father and his advisors plotted. You were sure there was more land of which your father governed. But it looked small in comparison to Lord Price’s lands and the land of another lord, a name of which you did not recognize. Where were the allies your father boasted about? Was he really that desperate, closed off from those who would aid him in battle?

“Was this not the road you traveled?” He asked, his gloved hand pointed to a thick line that ran through the heart of Lord Price’s land. Yes, they were.

Your blood runs cold, a feeling of faintness passing over you like a ghostly breeze. Reaching for the arm of a nearby chair, you try to steady yourself. This was not what you’d been told. How much more could your world be shattered in such short days?

“No, no. My father is a respected man. Highly praised and honored. He has allies, he has the favor of the prince.” You respond, trying to defend your family name. The House of Cain demanded respect and you would not let that fall.

But he scoffs at your declaration, shaking his head in amusement. “The prince?”

“Yes. Have you no respect for the royal family?” You ask, your voice quivering in fear. Never had you seen a man speak in such a way, so brash and crude in attitude and tone. It made you quiver, a present dread in your bones. He reminded you of a commoner you’d once seen on the gallows, awaiting his death for the crime of treason; he still would not recant the words he’d spoken about your father and the prince. Now, you wondered who had truly committed that crime.

“That man is royalty by blood alone, I do not bow to him nor do I recognize those who follow him like sheep.” Lord Price looks at you with harshness, sitting down again with his hands flat against the wooden desk. “Your father gave you an illusion of prosperity and power.”

You’d known that your father had begun to grow weary, that was the reason for your arranged marriage. But you had no idea it was so dire and fearful. The brutes your father spoke of fighting against the borders were the very ones that’d pulled you out of the mud.

Lord Price watches as you sink into the chair, your lip trembling and eyes beginning to burn though no tears would spill. Not after the long hours you’d spent last night, curled up in the unfamiliar bed praying to wake up from the never-ending nightmare that’d grown longer and colder.

“I’ve sent a messenger to your father, to tell him of what has happened to his wife and daughter. It will be up to him whether or not he agrees to my negotiations for your freedom.” He says, continuing to watch you like a wolf on its prowl. You were the rabbit being hunted after, small, frail, and unable to defend yourself from the whims of men.

“My freedom? Am I your prisoner?” So, this was why he’d asked you that question before. From the beginning, he’d made it clear what his intentions for you were. A pawn in a long drawn-out game of chess that Lord Price had captured for his play. His expressive face shows as much, there’s almost an expression of pity that is quickly hidden away the longer you stare.

“My quarrel is not with you, girl. Your mother was a good woman, it grieves me that she was forced into the marriage she was. For her sake, you will be looked after well. Fed, clothed, and free to do as you wish. Were you just your father’s daughter, I’d keep you in the dungeon.” He says, still speaking to you firmly despite the mercy he’s extended. Yes, it was better than the rat-infested dark dungeons the castle had, but it was not freedom. A castle whose walls confine you, no matter how lavish it is, when the sun sets is still your prison.

“Were you my own daughter, I wouldn’t waste a moment in your retrieval. For your dignity and sake, I pray your father is the same.” His large hand is gentle when placed on your shoulder. The urge to cry in humility is strong, but the numbing truth of your fate is stronger. Would your father be so kind? For all the affection he used to shower you in, your father had sent you on roads that he knew were unsafe. How much he really cared was yet another question you did not want to answer.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The small chapel sat in the west corner of the castle walls, as you walked down the stone path to seek refuge and pray for your mother, the feeling of being watched did not leave you. Though Lord Price had not explicitly said that you would be escorted by a knight, you knew better than to assume you were alone. But, in the church, you were given a glimpse of freedom.

Inside, it was cool. The stained glass windows depicting images of biblical stories left colorful lights dancing over the floor and walls. Somewhere, you assumed there was a monk who served to bless the lord and his keep. But no one bothered you as you slumped down to kneel and pray for your mother. Believing in higher beings had always seemed silly to you, but for her, you’d pray that she’d safely travel to the heavens that she read of.

But prayer felt foolish. Her fate had already been decided, what would simple, dumb words do?

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I would be alone at this hour.” You rise from kneeling, turning to see a woman dressed in deep velvets, her hair pulled up out of her fair face. Like a divine being, she smiled softly at you seeing the distress in your appearance. How you seemed to shrink under her gaze.

“No, it’s my apologies. I only wanted a moment to mourn.” You respond, smoothing down your dress and keeping your head turned to the stone floor. Hadn’t you once refused to look down when speaking to anyone? Weren’t they the ones who were to cower?

“You must be our guest. I, again, must apologize for not coming to your chambers and introducing myself. My youngest child has been in bed with a fever, and I did not want to leave his bedside until it broke.” She continued to speak softly, stepping forward and offering a hand. “I’m the lady of the castle. Lady Price. Though, I’d prefer it if you just called me by my name, Eden.”

Eden, a fitting name for the woman. She seemed to radiate the same aura your mother had once had, one of grace and goodwill. Someone you wanted to offer respect to. In the daylight of the chapel, she was strikingly different from her husband. More so than you ever thought your mother was compared to your father.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And do not apologize, your child’s health is more important than a guest. And I was not in the state of mind to visit with anyone.” You curtsy to her as you were taught, humbling yourself like your mother would’ve liked.

“Yes, I am sorry to hear of what happened to your mother and company. It grieves me to know such tragedies happen within our borders.” She settles down onto a pew, muttering a quick prayer before glancing back at you. “I would also like to apologize for my husband and his ploy. I cannot excuse his behavior and whims, though I assure you he is a good man. There’s no one else in the world I’d want to be the father of my children.”

Frowning, you still nod at her words and you couldn’t shake the truth from them. Even though you were bound behind the cobblestone walls, there was care offered to you. And you could not decide if you even wished to return home, unable to form a consensus about how you felt towards what you’d been told. Your father, a traitor to the crowned ruler? Exile seemed so much less cruel than accepting that truth.

Taglist: @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @ghostlythots @jadeloverxd @crystallizedtime

#call of duty #call of duty mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod mw22 #fanfic #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #medieval!ghost #medieval fantasy au #medieval au #sir Simon ghost riley #knight!ghost #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you

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