Folded ✸ Jww

STAN TWT REACTION TO CHEOLRI’S ENGAGEMENT.

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not for sale 💳 mingyu x reader. (2)

celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader. check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist.

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you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind)

summary: When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 5.3k

warnings: angst, death, grief, implied suicidal thoughts, reader's having a teenage rebellion moment at the young age of barely nine, daemon slander (it will get better i promise)

author's note: i don't really like this chap lol. in fact, i fucking hate it

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Your father has a haunted look on his face. 

He holds you for hours as you cry, pass out, wake up and start crying again, nestled in your bed still bandaged, the wound on your head hurting more than ever. Milk of the poppy only makes you comatose and the migraines are making your head explode, and he doesn’t really know what to do.

He’s lost, he lost his sister and almost his daughter in less than a sennight, and probably feels like a terrible father for not being there when you needed him the most. But thankfully, in a day or two your crying stops; you seem to have understood that the more you cry, the more your pain worsens.

“My little girl,” he coos, taking you to the balcony and holding you in his arms. “I promise nothing bad will ever ever happen to you from now on, not while I’m here.” 

Nādrēsy is always buzzing out of your window, waiting for some kind of sign from you; that’s why Laenor often brings you to the terrace, other than to get some fresh air. To calm your dragon, who has been destroying everything that comes in his sight for the last few days. Soon enough you are finally sleeping again, and slowly, the bandages get less and less bloody: the wound is closing. 

“Do you think I will ever find a husband?” you murmur quietly to him one evening, cuddled close to his chest. He looks down at you, questioning. “I mean… with the hideous scar I’ll be left with, nobody will ever want to marry me.”

“My love,” Laenor says, eerily calm. “If someone doesn’t want to marry you because of a measly scar, then you shouldn’t even consider them. Real men aren’t scared of scars, nor are they repelled by them, as they probably have many. Besides, your beauty hasn’t even been tainted the tiniest bit.”

He boops your nose, earning your first laugh since a while. “How could you ever lose your beauty? You have taken it allll from me. And it’s not going to fade any soon — in fact, it’s only going to bloom more and more as you grow, and as much as I would like to hold you in my arms forever, I can’t wait to see you blossom into a fine woman.”

The Grand Maester visits you every hour — per your grandsire’s request — and checks your wound, who slowly but surely is getting better and better every day. Viserys is already informing himself about headpieces that could hide the scar and is worrying about in having them made by the best goldsmiths of Westeros, and even if the scar will always be there, the thought of hiding it makes you feel a bit easier. 

To take your mind off of the last few days your grandsire lets you sleep in his quarters — on his king sized bed — happily reading you tales about Old Valyria and telling you stories of the great Balerion. He’s taken to sleeping on the daybed by the bed, worried that you’re going to bleed out to death or something like that, and it is only upon Corlys’ pressing that he agrees to the servants bringing another bed to the chambers so that he can sleep there. 

Your parents look relieved for the first time in weeks, visiting you everyday with the maesters, making sure the pain has subdued and you are well. Your father pinches your cheeks and your nose, reminding you that your sword is set to arrive on your ninth nameday — which isn’t that far — and your grandsire promises to call for yet another big celebration in your honour. It boosts your mood to another level, so Rhaenyra for once in her life is actually happy about her father downright spoiling you rotten. 

But soon enough, your grandsire and uncles have to leave for King’s Landing; he has duties to attend to, and they have prolonged their stay for too much time already. Helaena will stay with you and return to Dragonstone with her own dragon when the time comes — and you pretend to not notice the look he gives Alicent when he says that, like it’s a punishment meant for her. 

Punishment or not, you’ve never seen your aunt happier. She says that by being betrothed to Jace, she has just avoided marrying Aegon, which she is ecstatic about. She’s making a point of bonding with Rhaena and Baela as well, often inviting you all to her chambers to embroider or take some tea together. Things are going back up again, but before you can really get back up on your feet, tragedy strikes again.

You are taking a walk with your grandparents right after supper, happily trotting around High Tide like you own the place, when a servant calls for the Lord and Lady Velaryon to immediately follow him to their chambers. 

Neither the sight of your father’s burned body by the fireplace nor the screams of your grandmother will ever get out of your head. 

“In my own chambers!” your grandfather screams, enraged, breaking vases and making servants and guards flinch. “How could you allow this to happen? How?!”

Nobody seems to care enough about you to get you out of the room — with your grandfather going mad and your grandmother lost in her own grief — and as you stare longer and longer at the burned face of your father, where his eyes once were, you suddenly realise why Nādrēsy prefers her preys raw or alive. He doesn’t even look like your father; all that’s left unscathed on his body is the medallion around his neck and the ring in his left hand. 

You don’t have the courage to say anything, but your throat feels raw, the screams of Rhaenys and Corlys melting into one in the back of your mind. Is that even your father? You wouldn’t know, his face is deformed beyond recognition. But the hands are not, and— yes. Those are the same hands that held you non-stop just a fortnight ago. 

You spent an entire lifetime knowing his face, just for him to end up dying with another one.

You fall to your knees, taking his hand in yours, hoping he squeezes back. When he doesn't, it all clicks; this is real. Your father is dead. Laena has brought him with her.

“Father,” you murmur. “Father,” you say louder, shaking his body. The fabrics are still hot and melting, and they stick to your fingers and burn your hands, but you don’t care. “Please,” you beg. With who are you talking — the Gods, the sea, old Valyrian Gods? You have no idea. You just hope someone, anyone, will listen to your prayer.

Nobody hears. 

You’re ripped from your father’s body by rough hands, and it takes you a moment to understand that it’s once again Daemon, holding you back once again. “No!” you scream, hysteric, and only now you notice that your mother and brothers are by the door, behind them your cousins and Helaena. It seems you weren’t the only ones the servants called. “No, no, my father–”

“Your father is dead,” it’s said with an unnerving and cruel calm — the calm only someone who has stopped crying for his parents a long time ago can have. “No tears nor hysterics from you will ever change that.” you ask yourself if he has told that to his daughters, too, when their mother died, because if so you’re pretty sure Rhaenys would love to have a little talk with him. 

Your cries only get louder, and as you trash in his hold you deliver a good kick to his shins. He gasps, letting you go and going to cover with his hands the hurt area. “You little–”

Before you can run up to your father again, it’s Corlys who stops you, caging you in his arms and kneeling down. “He’s gone, sweetling,” he murmurs delicately, tears in his eyes. “Shh, shh, everything’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

It’s not.

Nothing’s okay as days later Corlys recites his eulogy, nor when your father’s corpse is thrown in the waters below High Tide, in the same place where his sister was thrown just weeks ago. Your father has died, and for what? A stupid jealousy spat, as Ser Qarl put it? You hope he had a bad time in Nādrēsy’s mouth and stomach, at least half as bad as what you’re going through right now. 

After the funeral you’re in shambles, finding yourself in the same position where Laenor once was: down on your knees in the water, crying your heart out alone. Your brothers had tried to follow, your mother to stop you, but it was all in vain. Your father now belongs to the sea, so to the sea you’ll go for comfort, as you once did with him. 

“Why?” you ask. You don’t know exactly who you are talking to — the sea, to the Old Gods of Valyria or the Seven. “Weren’t Laena and Harwin enough? Hasn’t our family already suffered more than is necessary?”

A storm is clearly brewing, with the salt waters unclear and high waves in the distance. A thunder almost replies to you, making your eardrums shake and your head hurt. “He was kind, gentle and loving,” you weep, “why did you have to take him away from me?”

This time, no response is heard from the sky — there's only the thundering of the waves, who are getting more and more violent, and you take it as your father sensing your pain.

In the days following Laenor’s death and funeral, you do not eat, talk, or get out of your room. You stay bundled up in bed, the same bed where once he had comforted you, and you do not even find in yourself the strength to cry — nor the tears, as you’ve shed an abnormal amount of them in the last fortnight. 

Every day three times a day a servant comes in with a tray and begs you to eat, then leaves the tray filled with food and water on your nightstand, hoping that you will eat something. You barely do. 

Often they leave some letters, too, and leave them on a stack on your settee; they’re all the condolences the lords and ladies of Westeros are sending you, surely, and at least half of them have the Targaryen emblem, meaning your grandfather — who missed the funeral — is probably growing antsy. 

Sometimes your family knocks at the door, and that’s the only moment you get out of bed — to lock the entrance. You do not have the heart to look at your grandparents in their faces, nor your mother or brothers. You fear you’ll find disappointment in their eyes — that they’ll search for your father in your features and will be able to find nothing. The scar is still new and red, and as of now, is as noticeable as ever, even with the bandages.

This trance lasts for almost a sennight, until one day you get up, put on your nightgown and venture down into the kitchens. The hour is late, but not late enough for servants to already be in bed, so you’re not surprised to find them still bustling with pots and pans. 

One of them almost screams once she sees you. “Your Grace!” she yells, spooked, all of them hurriedly and clumsily bowing. “May– may we help you with something?”

Your eyes are dull. “Are there any lemon cakes left?” there are no lemon cakes in the trays left in your chambers.

Soon after you’re sitting on a little crooked chair, eating the lemon cakes that were left from dinner, as they all stand away, staring at you scaredly. You realise they are waiting for some kind of response. “They’re good,” you tell them, voice raspy. 

The servant from earlier nods hesitantly. “We– we’re happy to hear that, Your Grace. Should I… should I call for the guards? To escort you back to your chambers?”

“No,” you murmur, finishing the cake and getting back on your feet. You sincerely hope nobody has seen you, because you don’t want stares from anyone in your family, not if they’ll look at you like the servants are doing right now. “I don't need one.”

The walk back to your chambers is quiet and dark, as the corridors are barely lighted by the torches, and you make sure to lock the door to your chambers once you enter. You spare a glance at the letters on the settee, and think that maybe it is time to read them.

As you predicted, half of them are from your grandsire, made of begs for forgiveness for his absence and memories about his own father’s death, also mentioning that the headpiece he had commissioned is almost done and will be ready for your nameday. How will you tell him you do not wish to celebrate it anymore? 

There are various letters, all from pretty prominent lords — Lannister, Tully, Baratheon — but also from the ones of smaller houses, like Blackwood or Mormont. They all apparently wish their deepest condolences to you and will be happy to assist if you ever need their help with what your father has left behind. Aka, they all already seem quite interested in remarrying your mother — scandal! The mourning period has just started for her and she won’t be able to marry for at least a year — and also, you know that some of them are still married. 

The last letter makes you honestly frown at the direwolf wax crest keeping it closed. Now, why would Cregan Stark, barely three-and-ten, be interested in your mother? But as you open it, interest in your mother is the last thing you can find. 

To the Crown Princess, firstborn of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon.  I was truly sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I remember Ser Laenor very well, and he has always been nothing but kind to our family, always welcoming us with a smile on his face the little times we went to King’s Landing. I myself lost my father almost three years ago, and I must say, the pain dulls over time. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, but living with it becomes easier. The void parents leave behind never fully heals, and it is easy to fall back in despair every once in a while, but I recommend crying as much as you can during the mourning period and then keeping yourself busy — at least, that worked for me, and I share this with Your Grace in hopes to help her. I wasn’t much older than you when the late Lord of Winterfell died, and losing a father isn’t something easy to process. Parents are the first to welcome us into the world, and the pain that their passing brings isn’t something even barely imaginable to someone who hasn’t gone through it.  Remember to always keep your head up, for the crown is a heavy burden and your shoulders must get used to it — as unpleasant as it may be. 

You’ve never received a letter from him before, and if it wasn’t for the situation, you’d probably be jumping around and twirling in your dresses. 

Your eyes dart to his knife, sitting upon your desk — as it always is. You rarely leave it behind when you go somewhere, as you have grown quite attached to it. A scary thought passes through your head, making you shiver. Is this what father meant, to think of death as a relief? You doubt you’d ever have the courage to do it; your family is already broken enough as it is. 

You realise you need a change of air. 

The ride to Dragonstone is rushed and a bit scary, with the Stark knife sitting on your hip, heavier than ever. You don’t plan on staying too long, as your mother will worry and your family still is on Driftmark, hoping to bring comfort to Corlys and Rhaenys. 

The servants greet you with messy clothes and tousled hair, clearly having just woken up, but it doesn’t take long for them to accompany you to the nursery. 

It seems Joffrey has just woken up, too, whining in his crib a bit; you coo at him, brushing the brown tufts of hair away from his forehead. “Hello, little guy,” you whisper. “Missed me?”

He stirs as you take him in your arms, bleary hazel eyes looking at you; then he smiles, showing you his toothless gums, reaching a hand out for your cheek. You laugh, “Aren’t you the most precious thing?” you hum, tapping delicately his nose. “Hidden here from all the pain of the world, not knowing a thing about what’s going on?”

You press a light kiss on his head as he takes your index finger in his hand. “Father won’t be here to see you grow up, but I’ll be. And I promise to make sure that you’ll be as loved and taken care of as I was when he was here, still with us.”

Four moons pass agonisingly slowly; you all get back to Dragonstone at the end of the first, for your grandparents seem to be able to go on without your presence, and the time to get used to life on the island without your father has come. As Lord Stark suggested, you keep yourself busy: you show Helaena and your cousins — who, with their father, have moved to the castle with you all —, you’ve helped them set their things up in their chambers and every day you visit little Joff in the nursery, often with your brothers present. 

You started eating again, much to your mother’s relief, and have convinced your grandsire to avoid hosting a feast for your ninth nameday, on the promise to let him go all out for your tenth summer — Laenor’s loss is still too fresh for you to feel like you can start enjoying yourself again. He still insisted on giving you a present, though, and has told you to come to King’s Landing as soon as you could, during or after your nameday. 

The day before you officially turn nine summers old, though, your mother calls you in her chambers. You’re surprised to also find uncle Daemon there; you know they are... close, but as you have a particular dislike towards him, it is rare for the two of you to be found in the same room together. 

Trying to hide the disdain for your uncle, you focus on Rhaenyra, who’s smiling nervously. “You sent for me, mother?”

“That I did, sweetling,” she says, eyes a bit unsure. “I– we, me and your uncle, have to tell you something.” you don’t like the tone she’s using — it’s like she already knows you won’t like what she’s about to say. You have an inkling of what she could be hiding, but you wait for her to spill the beans, because you don’t like your intuition one bit. 

“We’ll get married by the next moon.” what happened to breaking news softly?

Looks like you were right, but that doesn’t mean you’re more ready to hear it from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It would strengthen the both of us,” she reasons, already trying to calm you down. “My claim to the throne would be strengthened by the union and Joffrey would have a father to look up to as he grows up.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “I know that the passing of your late father’s–”

“Late father?” you hiss. “Late father? Mother, you can’t even say his name now?”

She sighs. “Laenor was a good man, but you know I didn’t love him–”

“Does it really matter?” you scoff. “The mourning period isn’t even over yet! By marrying him, you’ll bring disgrace to my father’s name!”

She has tears in her eyes; she knew from the start that this discussion could only go downhill, and the fact that Daemon has a smirk on his face only worsens things. “I know you’re angry, but you have to understand that me and Daemon hold love for each other and our union will–”

“I don’t care!” you boom, “I don’t care if you love him, father loved you too! Maybe not in the conventional way, maybe more like a sister or a friend, but he held enough regard for you to have me despite his limits! He would’ve never done this to you! And my brothers’ father — he’s dead, both of them are, and you won’t just– just replace them with him!” you point an accusatory finger at your uncle, sat without a care in the world on the couch and sipping on a goblet of wine. "Harwin Strong, too, was a good man, an honest knight, and he was loyal to you until the very end!”

Your mother bites back — because even with all the love she holds for you, she is quite prideful, too. “That is enough!” she rages, “I told you because I wanted to let you know before your brothers and cousins did, not because I needed your approval! Daemon is a good match and the decision is taken, so you better change your attitude! Besides, why do you hate him so much?”

“Ooh, I have a list,” you boast. “For starters, he ripped me off of my dead father’s body when it was still warm. But I can go on.” you don’t wait for her reply to continue, “He’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen — I’m sure horses can look better. He’s so old he’s not only my uncle but yours too, and by now his hair is fair not because he’s a Targaryen, but because it’s turning white! He’s so old he’s starting to smell like a decaying body, and don’t even get me started on his wrinkles! He has lost his wife and child not even four moons ago and he’s already replacing them with a widowed lady and a fatherless child! Out of the two wives he has had, both have died! If you think I am ever going to accept that thing into my house then you’re wrong! Marry him if you want, but don’t ever, ever expect me to be present to the ceremony nor be cordial to him!”

You are breathless by the time the last sentence is finished, chest heaving, and the two adults are looking at you bewildered. Your mother has tears in her eyes, while Daemon stares at you with his mouth open. “First of all, I am not that old. Second, this is not your house. This is your mother’s house.” he says. Then he looks at your mother. “Third, you didn’t tell me she behaved so much like me. I feel like I needed to be warned that.”

If your rage could be held back before, it can’t now. You scream at the top of your lungs until your throat feels raw, “I am not like you and I will never be! I’ll cut my throat before I will even start to resemble you, you… you whore!” you’ll have to ask Aegon for more effective insults towards men, because calling him a whore right now feels like a jest. “You’ll never be even half the man my father was, as you are even barely a man. What is a prince without honour? You must be some kind of dragonseed, because I know you have none!”

Your mother says your name sternly. “You’ve said far more than I should’ve allowed you.”

You stay silent. “Alright, then.” you head over to the door, taking the handle in your hand, and almost open it before she speaks up again, “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks. Her voice has a strange tremble to it, but you cannot understand if it’s out of anger or something else. “I told you, the decision is taken. Nothing you will do will make us change our minds.”

You open the doors, turning to look at them. “Oh, I’m not telling you not to get married. I’m just telling you I won’t be there to witness it.” you get out of there, shutting the doors closed behind you, and despite her yells, your mother doesn’t follow you — nor does Daemon. 

Maybe it’s stupid, but it doesn’t feel like it. You don’t care that Daemon is old, nor do you care about the fact that he’s ugly — it’s just that you don’t like him, and they’re disrespecting your father’s memory by marrying so early after his death. As long as she’s happy, you’d let your mother do anything; but this feels like too much. You get that she didn’t love your father, but at the very least she should care about the love that you and your brothers held for him. Besides, just the thought of little Joff calling Daemon ‘father’ makes you shiver. 

“Your Grace!” as you storm off, a page follows you, breathless and dazed. “Your Grace, a ship has just arrived down to the harbour. There’s a man in the courtroom — he says he’s searching for the late Ser Laenor Velaryon.”

You frown, stopping for a moment. There’s no way any westerosi man has never heard of your father’s passing — he has been dead for four moons by now, and word is quick in Westeros. He should know better. 

The courtroom is almost empty, spare for the guards and a few servants bustling around and whispering to each other, looking at a gruff looking man. He has tanned skin, hair and beard black and unkept, and the dry skin of someone who has stayed on a ship for a long period. His clothes are modest and his gaze is confused. 

“Good evening,” you start, making him jump. He probably hadn’t seen you. “May I help you?”

“Erm…” he mutters, unsure of himself. He’s clutching a parcel in his hands. “Me no talk westerosi good. Ser Laenor Velaryon here is?”

You raise an eyebrow. A Tyroshi. So, that’s why he doesn’t know your father is dead. He has been travelling. “My father was Ser Laenor Velaryon. He passed away four moons ago, I’m afraid. Whatever you had to tell him, you can say it to me.”

He looks unsure — maybe he didn’t understand you pretty well — but slowly nods. “Master said to deliver parcel to him.”

Ah, you understand. A slave. “You can give it to me. I will treat it with the utmost care.” you tilt your head, staring at him. “Do you need anything? Food, some water, a refuge?”

He vehemently shakes his head and places the package in your hands. “Me can’t. Other works to deliver I have. Ship sails again soon.” 

He’s gone before you can protest, a certain urgency in his walk, and the guards are happy to show him off. You look at the parcel in your hands, confused, not remembering anything your father commissioned the Tyroshi. 

You get back to your chambers, curiosity getting the best of you, immediately tearing off the silk wrapped around the wooden box. A piece of paper sits between them, and your confusion only grows when you notice there are words written on it. Tears pool in your eyes once you recognise the writing. 

To the fairest Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, whom the Gods allowed me to raise and cherish.

You open the box with shaky hands, finding a sword. Written on the blade there’s a small inscription: From Father, with love. You start crying even before you can take it out from its box, clutching it close to your chest by the hilt, careful not to cut yourself — you had completely forgotten about it, about the fact that your father had it commissioned for you. With everything that happened, it completely slipped off of your mind.

Even with eyes clouded with tears, you take a better look at the sword: it’s shorter than a normal one, right for your size, and the grip is shaped like a seahorse — it’s the only part of the sword decorated with blue shiny rocks and gold. It’s not a common design, surely not a convenient one — you doubt you could ever go to war with a thing like this — as it’s more of a ceremonial weapon, much like the knife you stole from Lord Cregan. 

Even dead, your father always manages to give you something for your birthday. 

You try to recompose yourself, and now there’s only one thing in your mind — rage. Your father was a good man, yet your mother is ready to disrespect his memory when his passing is still so fresh. You have no intention of staying here to watch. 

It does not take you long to get yourself in your riding attire, the Velaryon gold emblem flaring on your chest; you carefully put the sword in its scabbard, tying an old pearl string that Laenor gifted you years ago to the guard of it. You then tie it to your belt, as you’ve seen knights do, and you don’t forget your — Lord Cregan’s — dagger, who finds its place just beside the sword. The buckle that holds together your leather straps is one with the Stark emblem on it — in this moment, you’d even wear the Lannister’s lion crest just to forget for a minute about your Targaryen blood, which as of now you’re really ashamed of. 

The plan is simple — flee to King’s Landing, then give your grandsire a reason to keep you there, which should not be too difficult. Fate has a funny way of working, and the King’s Justice has just died — news flash! You’ve got a dragon who could use some human flesh between his teeth regularly, and he doesn’t even have to be paid. You have the literal perfect candidate in your hands, and surely, the King won’t be too sad to have you around for a bit. 

You leave right after saying goodbye to Helaena and your brothers, not telling them exactly why. Because even if you hate Daemon, you don’t hate your mother, and you could never bear any of them thinking that you’re leaving because of her. 

“Can I come with you?” Luke asks, dragon plush in his hands, big brown eyes pleading. You melt a bit, gently shaking your head, “You must stay here, you’re still too young to ride a dragon. Besides, who’s going to protect Joff and Jace if you’re gone?”

Jacaerys huffs, crossing his arms as his younger brother lights up and makes sword moves with the plush. “I will take care of them,” he sniffs — you know he’s just trying to act tough, though.

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll come back… sooner or later, anyway.”

He lunges at you for a hug, knocking the air right out of your chest. “Please don’t go,” he whimpers. You caress his head — he’s still much shorter than you, and you hate to think about the day he will be too tall to fit right into your hugs. “I’ll be right back,” you whisper. “I promise.”

Down The Road (F1 x Reader) SMAU Season 1

>> Down The Road 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

➡  Previous Part : Next Part

Taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius , @laura-naruto-fan1998 , @jpg3 , @tsukishimawhore , @minkyungseokie , @roseseraj , @bbhyuneee , @omgsuperstarg (If you want to be added in this fic, just tell me in reply )

A/N : I'm trying to write in time for the #QatarGP because I want the storyline in Part 2 to continue in real-time (spoiler alert: from Episode 3 onwards, there will be a one-year time skip). I hope you enjoy the racing and the fic too. If you do, don't forget to like and reblog. It's great encouragement for me, who has been sitting with a sore back at the computer for hours to write this SMAU fic

note ; age-gap, a bit of mentor/student relationship

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Season 1 : ── 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐬 ── (Lewis Hamilton x Reader) S1 : E02 𝐾-𝑝𝑜𝑝 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟

Beyond the thrilling competition on the F1 track, the off-track relationships of F1 drivers have also become an exciting topic for fans. That's precisely what's happening with Y/N, a rising star in motorsport, whose relationship with Lewis Hamilton, a seven-time World Champion, is being closely watched. Is it real, or is it just a theory from fans? It's a tough question to answer definitively, as only they can shed light on the situation.

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Source : GQ Sports (On YouTube)

On this episode of "Actually Me" Formula 1 driver Y/N goes undercover on the internet and responds to real comments from fans on Twitter, Instagram, Wikipedia, Reddit, YouTube, and TikTok. How does it feel to be the only woman racing in Formula 1 today? How does she handle the pressure of competing in a male-dominated sport? Which driver is she closest to? And the most pressing question everyone wants to know : What is the true nature of her relationship with Lewis Hamilton? Are they friends, colleagues, competitors, or something more?

For this final question, she simply laughs and replies cryptically, “You guys should ask him (rather than asking me), because I’m curious too.”

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Source : Formula 1: Drive to Survive (On Netflix)

In the show “Formula 1: Drive to Survive” Lewis Hamilton finally opens up about his relationship with Y/N for the first time after it became a hot topic on Twitter world recently. Hamilton said “It’s hard to explain, but we have a very special bond because we’ve known each other for a long time,” He further defined her as the ‘special one’ in his life, yet he still remained enigmatic regarding whether their relationship contains romantic aspect or not.

Additionally, he delves into their personal closeness, mentioning that Y/N is very much a Gen Z personified, enjoying Twitter and often sending funny memes to everyone. He humorously reveals that she sometimes replies to him "OK Boomer," when he doesn't quite grasp the memes she sends.

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Source : Lewis Hamilton's Instagram Story (update)

Lewis Hamilton posted a picture of himself wearing friendship bracelets and tagging @Y/N on Instagram Story before deleting it 11 minutes after

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Source : Twitter (update)

Rumors about a romantic relationship between Y/N and Lewis Hamilton started circulating after a Twitter exchange between the two, leading fans to speculate and gather evidence suggesting they might be dating.

This wave of speculation has received both positive and negative reactions from fans. Some fans disagree with the dating rumors, while others support them. drawing parallels to the F1 version of Tom Holland and Zendaya

While the rumors have been hot topics among F1 fans on Twitter, there has been no confirmation from either Y/N or Hamilton.

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Source : Y/N’s instagram (update)

"Get in, loser We're going to do hotlap"

Y/N posted on Instagram that she will be doing a hot lap for the team's VIP guest in #QatarGP There's speculation that the guest might be a fellow racing driver like Alex, Albon, or George Russell, especially after she previously did a hot lap with Russell without any sign of Lewis Hamilton

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Source : Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)

"Ready to go with the winner @Y/N"

Lewis Hamilton posted on Instagram, confirming that he is the VIP guest who will get a hot lap with Y/N. Followed by a massive response from fellow F1 drivers and fans who are closely watching their relationship.

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Source : Y/N and Lewis Hamilton's instagram (update)

Y/N and Lewis Hamilton have arrived at the Lusail International Circuit to prepare for the #QatarGP race tonight. The media has been informed by their respective teams that there will be no interviews or comments regarding the rumors about them. They will solely focus on their performance in this race.

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Source : @PopBase

Reportedly the famous spanish singer Úrsula attended the Formula 1 race at #QatarGP amidst fresh rumors among fans that she might be rekindling her relationship with Y/N. This comes after her recent divorce from the Hollywood actor last month.

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𝙏𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙 (in the next chapter)

If you like it, don't forget to like and reblog for me.

Cr.https://x.com/PopBase/status/1708629114025116047?s=20https://twitter.com/GridRivalhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b025AznQiGk&ab_channel=GQSportshttps://www.instagram.com/p/CyBimW-Ocyr/

love earned, not given | never know part 2 | choi seungcheol

✨ pairing: idol!seungcheol x idol!fem!reader ✨ genre: angst ✨ summary: it's been two years since seungcheol betrayed you and two years since you saved his career. you're both struggling as you learn to forgive someone who has hurt you. ✨ read part 1 here! ✨background info: -i wanted the girl group y/n is part of to be small so i just chose blackpink LOL. the other 3 members of this group are named kiki, jia, and halle! -y/n is 4 years younger than cheol- she's dino's age. -their group (blackpink) debuted 2 years after seventeen ✨ a/n: oh my goodness yall. why is this the longest fic I've ever written in my whole life. this is my child, i'll never feel prouder of any of my other works than this one. this took 5000 years to write- to all the authors that write 10k+ fics, im dedicating this story to you bc idk how yall do it. ✨ disclaimers: you guys already know this is NOT how I see Seungcheol, how I perceive his role in svt, how I perceive his attitude towards women, and how I perceive him as an artist. he's merely just a placeholder for this story. i love cheol so so much he's such a beautiful human and I want to make you all know this story is completely fictional. I purposefully left out what he said because it is up to your imagination. if you're interested, dm me as i had originally written it in the story but decided to remove it so it doesn't distract from the plot!

The crowd cheers, deafening screams as Seungcheol waves goodbye with a huge smile on his face. 

The second the stage screen door closes, Seungcheol’s hand drops with a deep sigh. He mechanically turns to the flurry of staff who help him remove his mic pack, eyes blank and heart heavy. When they’re done, he walks away, running a hand through his hair. 

His group mates noticed the change in their leader the day it started. They don’t understand why he’s been acting the way he has been for the past 2 two years. Sure, he was acting quiet throughout all of dance practice, song recordings, music video records, and everything else they’ve needed to do in Korea but they thought he would’ve cheered up by now, especially since they're back on tour after almost 3 years.

It’s actually the opposite.

Seungcheol has gotten worse. 

He shows up to his idol work like a robot, like he's not passionate about everything he worked so hard for before.

Everyone watches him walk away, not doing much to stop him. “Alright, I’m going to force it out of him,” Jeonghan says with determination, lightly jogging to catch up with Cheol. Jeonghan eventually corners Seungcheol, and before he can get a word out, Jeonghan places a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to hear it, Cheol. We’ve given you your space, but we’re worried about you. At least tell me what’s going on. It’s been 2 years since you’ve turned into this zombie. You’re like a stranger to us,” Jeonghan says softly with kind eyes.

Jeonghan has been Cheol’s closest friend in the group. He knows he can trust him. But Cheol has been keeping this to himself because it would mean admitting the truth about who he is. He’s so ashamed of everything he said two years ago. He was younger and stupider, but it’s no excuse for how he hurt you. 

“Cheol, please. Please talk to me,” Jeonghan begs.

Cheol closes his eyes and hits the back of his head against the wall.

“2 years ago at the MAMA award show, I was talking with Dongmin about Y/n from Blackpink and it got super intense and I got carried away and said uh…”

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, not sure where this is going. 

“Some really, really, really shitty things about her. I don’t feel like repeating it. Turns out she heard me because she happened to be walking in the area and to make everything worse, someone fucking recorded me and downloaded it onto a flash drive. Pledis found out before I did because a picture of the flash drive was sent to my manager. Then we found out the flash drive was given to y/n.”

Jeonghan would have never guessed that this is what’s gotten Cheol so locked up. He’s utterly surprised but stays silent and keeps his face neutral.

“I went to go see her myself, to beg for her not to make the recording go public because it would genuinely ruin me. But, do you know what she did with the flash drive instead, Han?”

Jeonghan can see the tears in Seungcheol’s eyes, hanging on to his waterline.

“She fucking destroyed it.” Cheol pauses, suddenly gasping for air as his shoulders begin shaking. “She, she- she crushed it to pieces,” he says, sobbing.

Jeonghan reaches forward but Cheol holds his hands up.

“There were no other copies; that was the only proof of what I said. And she destroyed it. She told me that I’d continue to have a successful career because no one would ever know what I’m really like. And I've been living with this guilt for years.”

Cheol takes deep breaths to control his sudden breakdown.

“Every time I get on stage, I remember that I’d have nothing if she chose to go public with that recording. She could’ve destroyed me and I would've deserved it. Sometimes I wish she did. Because I don’t deserve any of this. These fans, this career, the money, the fame, the luxury- it means nothing to me because I am a bad person. And I hurt someone. I can’t live like this. I’m swimming in guilt but don’t deserve forgiveness so what if it’s like this forever?”

Cheol can’t even look up, afraid that his longest friend would judge him for his actions.

“Cheol,” Jeonghan says gently. Seungcheol looks up with blotchy eyes. “I think you need to see her again. It’s been long enough- maybe the two of you can have a conversation- a productive one where you can show her that you’ve grown. You’re not that person anymore and you’re willing to make it right. Don’t let your guilt end your career. You were saved once. You may not be so lucky next time.”

-

The other three members of your group have no idea what you’ve been going through for the past two years. When you told Seungcheol no one would ever know about what he said, you meant it. You’ve been bottling up your pain and sadness for all this time and pouring it into your work. Blackpink has seen even more success with two new complete albums but you refuse to let yourself rest. If you’re not writing new songs or producing them, you’re choreographing dances for other younger groups. 

Seventeen’s success these past two years has also been incredible. Three new comebacks all well received. Sold out concerts all across North America and Asia. Numerous awards won. You can’t really bring yourself to be happy for them when you know just how close they were to potentially not having any of it.

Much to your dismay, your group has become closer to Seventeen, but you have made it a point to excuse yourself from going to any dinners or hangouts with any of the members of Seventeen. It’s a running joke that they don’t remember what you look like because it’s been so long since they’ve physically seen you. The only members you’re actively friends with from Seventeen are Hoshi and Vernon. When you need help with choreography ideas, you turn to Hoshi who knows just the missing piece to your routine. When you need extra input on a piece you produced, you turn to Vernon, knowing just how much his fresh perspective can complete your song. And even though they’re some of your closest friends outside your group, you refuse to confide in them about just exactly why you can’t join them for a group dinner or why you can’t go to Seungkwan’s apartment for drinks. 

Truth is, you’re afraid. You’re afraid to see Seungcheol in person because you know you’ll fall apart. So much time has passed, but it scares you that you’ll still see him in the same light. Your perception of him is permanently altered, so much so that being in the same room as him will make it difficult for you to be yourself.

On this rainy night, you’re holed up in your studio, mixing your groupmate Halle’s recording with the beats you produced the other day. 

Tomorrow, you and your group are appearing on a variety show with all of Seventeen. You tried your hardest to get out of it, making up lame excuses, trying to set up overlapping appointments and nothing worked. It was time to face the music at last. 

-

“Ughhhhhhhh, I can’t believe our call time is at 5! What the hell?” your other groupmate Kiki groans, rubbing her eyes. The four of you are all groggily standing outside the makeup room in your various pajamas, having literally rolled out of bed and into the car that brought you here. 

Your group is extremely talented and very hardworking but even after all these years, you never get used to the early mornings. You used to constantly fight over who had to get makeup done first and eventually decided that it wasn’t fair for one person to be up earlier than everyone else.  Now you all wake up at the same time and sit around and try not to fall asleep while waiting your turn. 

You love these girls so much. They’re your sisters, your family, and you’d do anything to protect them. 

Three hours later, you’re all glammed up and dressed up. After Seungcheol’s comments, you decided to no longer wear revealing outfits- choosing baggy shirts or longer skirts over the more… form-fitting stage outfits you’re used to wearing. But today, if you’re going to see him, you need him to know that his comments have not affected you and your choices. So here you are in a very sexy, according to your other groupmate Jia, matching top and pants set that shows off your lower back tattoos and skin in all the right places. 

You’d be lying if you said you were feeling 100% confident. In fact, you were sweating behind the knees- stomach churning, fingers fidgeting. 

Seventeen has already sat down into teams, and you and your group would be joining based on predetermined pairings. You’re with Hoshi and Seungkwan thankfully- two people you’re very comfortable with so everything should be okay. 

Introductions are being made as each one of you steps out from behind a curtain, dancing to one of your songs. You’re going last, so you have a lot of time to mentally hype yourself up to the fact that you are about to be in the same room as Choi Seungcheol for the next eight hours. 

“And last but not least, the leader of Blackpink. She’s not only an extremely talented rapper and singer but she’s Blackpink’s producer and choreographer. But it doesn’t stop there! She’s choreographed over fifteen ensembles for her fellow peers in K-pop! Talk about a triple threat! So let’s welcome, the one, the only, Y/N!!!!!!”

The staff, the host, your groupmates, and Seventeen cheer as you come out from the curtain smiling and waving before immediately dancing to some of the choreo from one of the songs playing. Once you reach the middle of the room, you bow and wave to the staff, host, and cameras, before doing the same to everyone you walk past to reach Hoshi and Seungkwan. You don’t look up.

-

Seungcheol keeps his face neutral when you make your appearance from behind the curtain. 

Time has been quite good to you. 

You’re even more gorgeous than when he last saw you. Your hair is much longer, your makeup light but perfect for your features. And your outfit. Damn, your outfit accentuates all the right parts of you body but Seungcheol shakes his head of these thoughts. Afterall, it is comments about your body that got him in trouble in the first place. 

Despite the pretty smile on your face, he notices your eyes are quite dull. You look… sad. He can’t imagine how you must feel being in his presence again. He knows you’ve avoided hangouts with Seventeen on purpose. In the two years since the incident, he has not seen you in person once. Your absence is a consequence of his actions. All the dinners and games and moments you could’ve spent with everyone have been flushed down the toilet on your end. Your decision to not be around him lets him know that you have not forgiven him. That you are still hurt and ashamed and betrayed by his words. 

It’s a message to him and to him only. That you will punish yourself over and over if it means being away from him. But this variety show was an obligation- something you couldn’t avoid. So he does his best to steer clear and keep his distance. 

Seungcheol doesn’t notice Jeonghan’s eyes on him, his shiny eyes meaningless to everyone else, but not to him. 

-

After a long day of filming, you head to the break room to grab a water while everyone mingles with each other. Today was quite hard. Despite the games you played with Hoshi and Seungkwan as the best people to be on a team with, you had to deal with Seungcheol talking and laughing. Your only consolation was that he was on the other side of the room and you didn’t need to interact with him.

Chugging the water, you fan yourself as you realize your body is overheating from stress. 

Turning around to head back to the filming area, you come face to face with Seungcheol.

Your face falls, and your heart sinks to your stomach. 

Face to face with him for the first time in two years, you take a long look at him. Long black hair, styled perfectly to sweep along his ears. Face still as handsome as the day he begged for your discretion with the recording. Thick eyebrows, chiseled facial features, kind eyes. He’s wearing a white baggy t-shirt that somehow hugs his thick arms. Have his arms always been that big? You shake your head of your thoughts and take a step back.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, finally breaking the silence. 

“I uh wanted to talk to you,” he answers sheepishly.

You let out a small dry laugh and look away, running your hands through your hair trying to plan how you can get out of this conversation. 

“Look, I know my word doesn’t hold much to you, but I’m really sorry, Y/N. I really genuinely am. I have been beating myself up about it all this time. I don’t know why I said what I said and I can’t take it back. But I want you to know that I really want to work on making this right,” Seungcheol says all in one breath. 

Silence permeates the room again as he waits for you to say something. Anything.

“You’re wrong, you know,” you say quietly. “Your words hold a lot to me.”

Seungcheol feels the world crush at his feet. He should’ve known better. He’s been in the industry for a little longer than you have and as your senior, he should’ve known that you looked to him and the rest of Seventeen for mentorship. 

“How can I make this right?” he pleads, suddenly feeling hopeless. It’s in Seungcheol’s nature to not leave anything unresolved. He needs an answer to this. 

“Seungcheol…seeing you has reminded me of what I’ve been trying so hard to forget.” You can’t look at him when you say what you’re about to say because you know you’ll start crying. And you haven’t cried in front of him and you’re not about to start today. 

“...I can’t forgive you. That would mean accepting your words and allowing myself to brush aside my feelings.”

“Y/n, please. What can I do or say to make this right? There has to be a way.” His eyes are pleading, full of desperation and agony.

“Nothing, Seungcheol. I can’t absolve you of your guilt and I’m sorry if you thought two years would change things.”

There’s an ocean of space between the two of you. Seungcheol has been swimming to reach you but he’s drowning now.

“How do I live with this?” he asks you quietly after a long period of silence.

You look him in the eyes, surprised to see the tears sitting on his waterline. 

But you stand your ground.

“You just do.”

-

Is holding on to this anger good for you?

You ask yourself this question every day. Life has ultimately been so dreary and grey since this situation with Seungcheol happened. When you destroyed the flash drive with the recording, you thought you’d forget everything he said, but it turns out you remember everything—word for word.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel a tear hit your hand.

When will you stop crying about this? It’s been two years, for god’s sake. The pain has been endless, and it’s only hurting you over and over. And the worst part is you can’t talk to anyone about it- even your groupmates. You don’t want anyone’s perception of Seungcheol to change. 

It’s been a week since you saw Seungcheol again and if your friends thought you were a recluse before, you’re even more reserved now. It’s another long night at your studio and you’re dozing off, too lazy to go back home when you hear a soft knock on your door. 

Completely alert now, you hesitate as you walk towards the door. 

You’re not expecting anyone and you know Kiki is back home with her family, Halle is at her boyfriend’s house, and Jia is out of the country for a brand deal. No one else on your team tends to stay late on a Friday, so there’s genuinely no one you know who would want to see you. 

Apprehensive and tense, you open the door and come face to face with… Jeonghan? 

After a few awkward greetings, Jeonghan takes a seat across from you and tilts his head as if reading you. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I know what’s happened between you and Cheol,” he says with kind eyes and a small smile.

You freeze. 

“What do you know?”

“I know he said something to you that would’ve ruined his whole career if anyone found out. He won’t tell me what he said though.”

“Okay, so what do you want?”

“Y/n… in all the years I’ve known Cheol, I have never seen him like this. I don’t know what to do because no one else knows. So I’m here for a lifeline. When Cheol first told me everything, I was very disappointed. As his friend, I struggled for days about how someone I grew up with could’ve hidden this dark side of himself. It’s not really my place to forgive him or judge him because this has nothing to do with me but I’m concerned about how this is going to continue. How do you feel about all of this?”

“I feel like shit Jeonghan. I think about what he said every single day and there are times when I get sad about it and then there are times when I get so upset that I just want to strangle Seungcheol. These past two years have been hell so I don’t need you to come here and tell me how bad Seungcheol has it. I don’t care.”

Jeonghan sighs. You’re very stubborn, he’ll give you that. 

“I just think you might feel better if you talked with him longer. You let him know how upset you are and maybe the two of you can work towards forgiveness?”

“It shouldn’t be on me,” you say quietly. “You can’t come here and ask this of me just because your friend is sad. What about me? If you knew what came out of his mouth that day, you wouldn’t be here.” You will yourself not to cry again. “It is not my job to make him feel better.”

“You’re going to be sad forever, y/n. There needs to be some resolution, even if you won’t ever talk to him again. What you gave him last week wasn’t a resolution.”

Now you’re seething in anger. 

“How dare you come here and tell me to forgive your friend under the guise of it making me feel better. There was a resolution, you asshole. I told him that I’m not forgiving him,  and sometimes that’s the way life goes. It is not fair that I have to forgive Seungcheol for slut shaming me and degrading me and sexualizing me. I already did the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do! I destroyed the evidence in this very room! Seungcheol didn’t even have to beg. I did it without him asking. He should be jumping over rainbows and dancing in the stars because there’s no proof anymore that he’s a complete fucking jerk! And I won’t let you come here and beg either.”

Jeonghan watches as anger warps your face, tears stream down your cheeks. He’s been so worried about Seungcheol that he’s honestly never thought about what exactly his friend actually said to you. He’s gotten some hints from your rant just now and he finally sees you for who you are. 

Yes, you’re the Y/n. Producer, songwriter, rapper, singer, dancer, choreographer. But you’re a woman. You’re 25. Still so young. You were strong and brave for handling this whole situation with Seungcheol when you were only 23 and you’re still strong and brave now, even as you sink to the floor and bury your face in your hands, sobbing. 

Jeonghan stands up and kneels next to you, pulling you into his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he lets you cry into his shoulder. 

- 

In your emotional state, Jeonghan ends up driving you home, even coming inside to press ice packs to your swollen face. Neither of you says a word, not even when he tucks you into your bed. 

“Just promise me you’ll consider talking to Cheol. Give yourself an ending. You’re going to keep suffering if you don’t. And trust me, we’ve all noticed your absence at our hangouts. We’re worried about you,” Jeonghan whispers before you leave.

-

You’re not quite sure what you’re doing here. The dark clouds and strong winds feel like a premonition of what’s to come. 

Knock knock

The door opens and Seungcheol stands still with his mouth completely open- shocked that you of all people, would willingly show up at his apartment. 

“Hey, uh what are you doing here?” Seungcheol asks once he’s done gaping. 

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully with a sigh. 

“Do you want to come in? I can make you tea?” he offers sheepishly. “Sure.”

Taking off your shoes and handing your coat to Seungcheol, you apprehensively walk down the hallway deeper into the apartment. You’re greeted by a medium-sized chunky white dog who slowly walks up to you. 

“This is Kkuma,” Seungcheol says from behind you. “She’s a little shy at first but she’s very friendly, I promise.” You kneel down to be closer to Kkuma’s level and she immediately jumps into your lap, sniffing your arms before curling up into them. You lightly laugh, patting her soft head. Seungcheol is surprised. Kkuma doesn’t easily warm up to people she’s never met before. Huh.

You play with Kkuma for a bit while Seungcheol prepares some drinks. The way Kkuma is sniffing you and constantly licking your face makes you think she knows you’re sad. And even when Seungcheol returns with two mugs in his hands, Kkuma never leaves your side. 

The two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch. Still an ocean between you. This time you’re both floating. The ocean is still.

Is forgiveness still on the table? 

Is forgiveness in your heart?

You know it’s not. Not completely. Not yet.

“Why did you say those things about me?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence. This is the question you’ve been asking yourself all this time. What did you do that prompted Seungcheol to have this perception of you? You’re afraid that other people think this of you. 

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. 

“I think I was just… talking out of my ass. I didn’t know you that well and was jealous that you had reached levels of success that we took twice as long to reach. I just wanted something to blame, to justify why you and your group were doing so much better than us. You know I’m Seventeen’s leader, but I’m one of the weaker dancers, I don’t produce music, and I can’t rap as well as the others. But you’re Blackpink’s leaders and you do all of that and more. I was undermining you to an extreme level. And I’m sorry. I really am. I know I’ve said it so many times, but really. None of our subsequent success means anything to me because I hurt you when you didn’t deserve it, and you saved me when I didn’t deserve it. 

I think about you all the time. I think about what you’ve been going through. How you hide from the world, only showing up for comebacks. How you never join your group for interviews, how you don’t join us for hangouts, how you never go on variety shows or music release parties. I hate that I’ve made you feel like you’re worth nothing, that I stripped you of all your talents and achievements and attributed them to something extremely inappropriate. I want to make this right even if it means severing our connection to each other. Even if we never speak again. Even if I never see you again. Sure, I’m sad and depressed, but I know that you probably feel even worse having to live with this secret.”

Seungcheol can’t even look at you, too ashamed as he comes to terms with his actions. 

He suddenly stands and gets down on both knees in front of you. He looks you directly in your eyes, taking your hands in his. 

“I’m sorry, I just want to make sure you know.” He holds your intertwined hands as he bows his head and cries.

You look up at the ceiling. You came here to tonight because for the first time in two years, you’ve been open to forgiveness. It is not your job or responsibility to forgive. If someone hurts you, you don’t owe them anything. Forgiveness shouldn’t be the only way to feel lighter because you remember all the nights you spent crying, throwing up, lying awake, all because of the words Seungcheol said. You owe it to your heart to be true to what you want. And in this very moment, you just want to put this all behind you. You don’t want any more sleepless nights because of this. 

There’s a man on his knees telling you he’s sorry, and for the first time, you’re ready to take it at face value. 

You squeeze Seungcheol’s hands back. 

- 

It’s 4 in the morning and you’re fast asleep on Seungcheol’s couch with Kkuma curled up on your stomach. Seungcheol emerges from the kitchen and quietly lifts Kkuma up before returning to you. He brushes some hair out of your face and softly caresses your cheek with the back of his hand.

He wonders if you always look this peaceful when sleeping. 

Lifting you in his arms, Seungcheol brings you to his room, tucking you into his bed. He grabs a few pillows so he can sleep on the couch, but you grip his wrist. 

“Stay.”

‘why do you read “various x reader stories?”’

first, i’m a narcissist and will not read it if it’s not about me

second, I love the feeling of people liking me

third, I was ignored as a child

~Masterlist~

Social media AUs:

F1 Grid

Pure Chaos Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Lando Norris

London Boy

PR Problem

"Slut!"

Hot Laps

Kiss and Makeup

Charles Leclerc

His Loss

Daniel Ricciardo

Guys My Age

One-shots:

Lando Norris

Matchmaker

Fuck It I Love You

Let’s Fall In Love For The Night

Take Me To Church

2 ~ The Fool

Vi Et Animo (With Heart and Soul)

Vander x Fem!Reader

Summary: Adapting to your new life will take some time. Luckily, you have a friend to help you out.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Kids asking intrusive questions, teasing, swearing, suggestive comments toward reader, I think that’s it

A/N: Kind of a transition chapter, I tried to make it as interesting as possible for everyone involved XD

Chapter 1 Masterlist Chapter 3(wip)

Your eyes grew unfocused as you read over a student’s essay. You’d been sitting there for what felt like days grading papers and planning assignments.You’d scarcely had time for a break lately. The starry blue cloth covering your desk almost seemed to glow as your eyes crossed.

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your face as you sat back for a moment, letting your eyes drift to the domed ceiling. Various constellations were carved into it, all aligning with the sky above. 

Absently, you shuffled your cards between your two hands, watching them glide through your fingers, the sound doing something to soothe your weary mind. You continued until a card flew from the deck, landing crooked on your desk face down. Glancing at it, you tilted your head, wondering what your spirit guides found so urgent that you needed to hear it right that moment. 

Setting your deck to the side, you let your fingers hover over the single card before carefully flipping it over.

The Fool.

New beginnings, freedom, spontaneity, adventure.

The Fool depicts a youth walking joyfully into the world. He is taking his first steps, and he is exuberant, joyful, excited. He carries nothing with him except a small sack, caring nothing for the possible dangers that lie in his path. Indeed, he is soon to encounter the first of these possible dangers, for if he takes just a step more, he will topple over the cliff that he is reaching.

The Fool is a warning to not be naive to risks and to be aware of the path you’re treading.

In its upright position, it was the bright start of a new journey. When reversed, it was a warning that you were stepping too far beyond your path and it would lead to potential disaster. 

It had landed sideways. Perfectly neutral. 

Both a warning and a premonition. Urging you to be sure-footed and take your time on this path.

The waters were cold and dark if you plummeted to the depths, but they could also embrace you in the serenity of their stillness—the weightlessness provided a steady release from the heaviness on your shoulders, if you let them.

An assured knock landed on your door, and when you looked up, Lest was in front of you. Her ear twitched as she regarded your drawing.

“The cards giving you a hard time again?” She grinned mischievously.

You sighed, leaning back and gesturing to the card in front of you. “What do you think?” You asked.

She leaned over your desk, eyes darting over the card and its position. “Did it land that way?” She questioned. You nodded, crossing your arms over your chest. “Interesting…”

“That’s it?” You deadpanned. 

“What do you want me to say?” She stood up straight, raising a brow as she crossed her arms, mimicking your position. 

You sighed, letting your eyes close as you laid your head back against your chair. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Am I doing the right thing?” You opened your eyes to peer at her as she took a drag from her pipe, the purple smoke drifting through the air. Her presence always calmed you as did her insight.

“Have you asked them?” She nodded to your card deck. “They’re the only ones who could even come close to telling you.”

-------------------------

You rolled over, and the sheets were cool beside you. Your eyes fluttered, but you didn’t open them yet, wanting to enjoy your time in bed before getting ready for work. 

When your lids finally pried apart, you were in an unfamiliar room with air that made your lungs tight and no light filtering through the windows. You sat up, trying not to panic as your eyes flitted around the room.

There was a door across from you and a curtain to your left. You looked down at yourself, seeing a massively baggy t-shirt twisted around your frame from the way you had slept, undoubtedly. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather, and the previous days’ events came flooding back to you.

The exile. The thieves. The hunger. You clutched your stomach as it growled—nowhere near the severity it had been—and noticed how thin you had gotten just in a few days without any source of nutrients.

And out of nowhere, Vander had found you and brought you back to his bar-slash-home, fed you, cleaned you up, and tended your wounds before offering you a place to sleep. Fucking weird thing to happen out of nowhere, but listen, after the hell you had been through, you would take what you could get.

Slowly, you pulled yourself out of bed, remaking the blanket behind you before carefully heading downstairs. You ran a hand through your hair, praying it wasn’t as messy as it felt.

The first thing you noticed was the smell of fried eggs. The second thing was a head of blue hair and a head of pink hair, sitting at the bar. Vander was behind it with a hotplate cooking the eggs you smelled.

He looked up with a half smile as a stair creaked beneath you. You froze, being caught peeping and tucked yourself half behind the corner as both girls turned to you. The younger one—-Powder, if you remembered right—-regarded you with wide eyes, a more curious stare. Whereas her sister, Violet, scowled, looking past you and up the stairs.

Most of the time, you would pride yourself on your interactions with children, but you weren’t from here, and they weren’t from Piltover. You knew there was bound to be some kind of lapse between you.

“Breakfast?” Vander asked, calling back your attention from the little ones. 

You smiled sheepishly and nodded as you finally made your way down the stairs to join them at the bar. You took a seat at the end of the bar, pulling on Vander’s shirt to try and cover as much of you as it could. Which—-while not surprising—-was a lot.

Vander started dishing out food and introduced you to the girls. “She’s going to be staying with us for a while, alright? So no funny business.” He pointed the wooden spatula at them each, eyeing them carefully as though he could already see their plans.

You couldn’t help the small smile that spread on your lips watching him. He slid a plate to you and you nodded in thanks, glancing away as he sent you a wink. You looked at the girls as they dug into their food and cleared your throat. 

“If you guys have any questions, I’ll try to answer them,” you told them.

Vi looked at you with half an egg shoved in her mouth, practically scowling, while Powder’s eyes darted between you and Vander.

“Are you really from up there?” Powder asked with wide eyes.

You glanced at Vander, and he just shrugged and nodded. “Yes, I’m from Piltover,” you told her. “I was a teacher.”

“Why did you come here?” She asked. “Did you want to visit?” You wished it could be explained with such child-like innocence. The truth was far darker.

“Nobody comes here because they want to, Powder.” Vi rolled her eyes. “What did you do to get kicked?” She questioned.

“Violet—” Vander scolded.

“No, it’s alright,” you assured him. “She’s right.” There was a flash of surprise in Vi’s gaze before it was quickly covered up again. “There was an accident, and the council needed someone to blame. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. You weren’t really sure what the truth was anymore.

“So Vander saved you?” She eyed you suspiciously. “Is that why you’re wearing his clothes?”

“Mine needed a wash,” you shrugged a shoulder, starting to cut into your eggs. Vander chuckled as he cleared his own plate.

“Do you have any cool stuff from Piltover?” Powder asked excitedly.

Your thumb absentmindedly rubs the place your ring used to be. “No, sadly I was mugged the second I stepped foot here.”

Vi scoffed. “Typical. You Piltovians all think you’re better than us, but you couldn’t even take care of your own stuff.”

“Yeah, silly me for letting those four guys take me out,” you shrugged. “Get all your facts straight before throwing around accusations.”

There was a suspicious sound of a laugh hidden by a cough coming from where Vander was sitting. Vi looked at you with shock and disgust as though you had just struck her. Powder looked between you and her sister as you started calmly eating your breakfast.

“Speaking of,” Vander said. “Your clothes are clean.” He took his plate to the sink behind him, setting it down. “Think you can handle this lot while I go get them?” he asked.

You looked at the girls before turning back to him. “I think we’ll be alright.”

Vander nodded and made his way down the stairs. Powder eyed you curiously. “Do you have a family? Do you miss them?” She asked.

“I…” You thought back to your life in the glorious upper city. All the pomp and circumstance. Your classroom. Your students. “I had my students,” you tell her. “Not a traditional family, I suppose.”

“You said you were a teacher,” Vi stated. “Wasn’t it boring?”

You laughed. “No, not at all. Sometimes, I suppose, but mostly? Every day was an adventure. You hear all kinds of things. I mean, think about it, I worked with other teachers and a bunch of kids.” You dragged a hand through your hair.

“You must know loads of stories!” Powder exclaimed. “Can you tell us one?”

You glanced over, seeing Vander coming back up the stairs with your folded clothes. “Maybe another time, kiddo,” you smiled.

Vander came over to you, setting your clothes on the bar. “There ya go. I couldn’t get every stain out, but I did my best.” He scooped up yours and the girls’ plates, moving to the sink. “I’ll get this cleaned up while you get dressed. We’ll open up the bar after,” he told you.

Vi led her younger sister downstairs as you picked up your clothes and headed the other way. “Thank you, Vander,” You said as you left.

“Anytime, lass,” he responded before you were out of earshot.

You took your clothes upstairs, shutting the door and pulling Vander’s shirt off. You folded it carefully and left it on the bed for him. Picking up your dress, you ran the fabric between your fingers. It was familiar, albeit still stained with some loose threads. But it was soft, and it was almost all you had from your earlier life.

Slowly, you brought the cloth to your face and took a deep breath, letting your eyes close. It smelled faintly of tobacco, but other than that had no scent. It didn’t smell like grime and body odor anymore. But it also didn’t smell like your detergent. It didn’t smell like your perfume. It didn’t smell like home anymore.

You took a heavy seat on the edge of the bed, feeling your eyes tear up. Home. That was no home anymore. You rubbed your eyes furiously; This was not the time for a breakdown. You inhaled deeply, though unsteady, until the rising tide of your emotions had receded back to the gently rocking waves of the sea.

You slipped your dress over your head, moving to the bathroom to adjust it in the mirror. Gently running your fingers through your hair, you parted it the way you liked, starting to twist the strands into dutch braids to keep it out of your face. You secured it carefully before pushing them back over your shoulders and tugging on your dress, feeling almost comfortable again. 

Your gaze drifted, settling on your tarot deck on that little bathroom shelf. Your hands braced the sink, fingers itching to reach out and do a reading. You missed the feeling of the cards between your fingers. You were used to shuffling them idly between your hands as a way to distract your mind.

But what’s the point?

With a sigh, you flicked off the bathroom light, letting the curtain drift closed behind you as you made to leave. When you opened the door, a pair of boots rested on the stair in front of you. You stared at them for a moment, remembering what Vander had said last night. These must be Vi’s extra pair.

You sat down in the doorway, pulling the boots on. They were a bit snug, but surprisingly comfortable and broken in. At the very least, they were warm and would keep your feet from getting trampled by customers. You had to remember to thank her when you next got the chance.

When you got downstairs, Vander had finished pulling the chairs off the tables and was behind the bar, organizing the drinks below. He looked up as you entered. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you responded.

He chuckled. “You’ll be fine. Just… remember where you’re at,” he said carefully.

“Worried they won’t understand me if I use big words?” You joked.

“Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean.” He rolled his eyes, though his smile gave him away as he turned on the neon lights outside. He tossed you a worn apron, and you quickly tied it around you as you mapped out the bar to learn where things were.

-------------------------

Not even an hour in, the place was teeming with patrons. Vander had insisted it wouldn’t be too busy—just a “light evening”---but the roar of voices, clatter of tankards, and the occasional crash from a dropped glass said otherwise. You did your best to keep your stress levels down, reminding yourself you didn’t have to be perfect, you just had to get the job done. Everything would be fine. Hopefully.

You were balancing a tray of empty mugs, weaving between the raucous tables and trying to avoid bumping anyone as you walked, when a man barked at you from across the bar. “Oi lass! When are we getting more drinks over here?!” the man questioned, slamming his metal tankard down on the wood of his table.

You flinched from the sudden noise, one of the mugs on your tray tipping precariously. Your breath caught in your throat as you shifted, hand darting out to catch it and place it back on the tray carefully. You glared at the man, cursing under your breath as you hurried back to the bar. You dumped your tray down with a huff, your patience starting to wear thin as Vander prepared their drinks.

“Do they always yell like that?” You asked, resting against the counter with one hip popped.

“Only when they’re sober,” Vander replied, watching the drinks he made.

Your brows dropped and you gave him a dry look. “Oh, so this is normal?”

“Welcome to the Undercity, Princess,” he said, his smirk widening. “You learn to let it roll off. Comes with the territory.”

You crossed your arms on the bar as you waited for him to finish. “Well, I’m letting it roll off alright. Right into my mental list of people I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill drinks on.”

Vander chuckled, setting the bottles back under the counter, and finally looking at you. “Not sure you’ve the patience for this line of work.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “And miss the chance to work under you? Never.”

His smirk turned into a full laugh as you started putting their drinks on your tray. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like it here.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man.”

He put a hand over his chest in mock hurt, winking at you as you walked away to serve the men their drinks. You balanced the tray carefully as you weaved through the crowd of tables again. You smiled as you reached their table, setting their drinks down in front of them. 

“Sorry for the wait boys,” you said as you tucked the tray under your arm. “Is there anything else I can get you for the moment?” You asked. 

The boy closest to you couldn’t be more than nineteen, though the rest looked to be in their thirties. “I know something you can get us, love,” The older man across from him said. “Or rather somethin’ you can take,” he elbowed the guy beside him, snickering. “Our boy Tommy here still has his virginity!” The table howled with laughter, but the young boy looked rather uncomfortable.

You fought the roll of your eyes, shooting an apologetic glance to Tommy before leaving, finding they were too engaged in their own joke to address you anymore. You found an empty table, clearing the drinks off it and balancing the tray in one hand as you wiped down the table with the other. 

You cast a final glance around the room checking for anyone who needed your attention before making your way behind the bar to wash some of the mugs that had started piling up. Vander was just serving drinks and talking to his customers. You vaguely wondered how many of them were regulars here and how long he had known them all. Regardless, he looked much to calm in this sea of faces and storm of demands.

As you set to washing the mugs, you spoke over your shoulder to him when he wasn’t engaged with someone else. “You make this look so easy. It’s almost offensive.”

Vander glanced over his shoulder, one hand still pouring a drink. “Years of practice, Princess. You’ll get there.”

You snorted, setting a mug on the drying rack. “If I don’t keel over first.”

“You’re holding up fine,” he said, passing the freshly poured drink to a customer and flashing a quick grin at you. “Though you missed a spot on that last mug.”

You froze mid-scrub, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re joking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly, already moving to grab another mug for a refill.

You quickly grabbed the offending tankard off the rack and squinted at it. Spotless. “Looks clean to me,” you muttered before glancing back at Vander. “You just like messing with me, don’t you?”

Vander shrugged, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. “Keeps things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes and dunked another mug into the soapy water. “You’re lucky you’ve got charm, old man. Otherwise I’d dump this water over your head.”

He chuckled, sliding another drink across the counter. “If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m not worried.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you shot back, a small grin tugging at your lips despite yourself.

His teasing was cut short by another customer slamming a mug down, demanding a refill. Vander gave you a wink before turning back to the crowd, leaving you to pick up your tray and go see what trouble was in store this time.

“Dickhead,” you muttered under your breath.

You moved across the floor to one of the tables by the entrance, smiling at the man drinking alone. A flash of blue and pink caught your eye as Vi and Powder ran past the windows. You couldn’t help the way your chest squeezed when you saw them. Happy and almost carefree kids. You hoped it would stay that way.

You turned your attention to the man, a cigar hanging out of his mouth as he spoke around it. “I’d heard Vander took the Pilty in off the streets, but I couldn’t believe it until I’d seen it for myself.” He sat forward, taking his cigar between his fingers and blowing smoke in your face.

You let your breath catch until it dispersed so you didn’t cough and make a fool of yourself. “Quite,” you said simply. You didn’t like the way this felt, and you wanted to get out of this conversation as fast as possible. Your gut had never steered you wrong before, you weren’t about to stop listening to it now. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?” You asked.

“A ride if you’re selling it, sweetheart,” he grinned, and you felt dirty. Disgusting.

“I’ll have to decline,” you said with a forced smile. His eyes roved over your form. It was common for men to have this kind of reaction to any woman, especially one of such refinement. They just couldn’t wait to get their hands on them and corrupt them like some twisted right of passage. “If that’s all, I’m sure others need my attention.”

He huffed a laugh, “Yeah, I’m sure they do,” he licked his cracked lips before putting the smoke back between them.

You fought the twitch of your lip as it tried to become a sneer. Without saying anything else, you headed back behind the bar. Though you made sure to keep composed and completely masked, Vander’s eyes darted over you as you set your tray down.

“Y’alright?” He asked quietly as you moved to the sink.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you told him, picking up the mug you had dropped before and resuming your task. You could feel his eyes on you still, and you refused to meet his gaze. “Really,” you assured him.

You were almost certain he didn’t believe you, but he also didn’t press about it, turning back to the bar and serving someone else.

--------------------------

Finally, after what felt like an endless nightmare, the last straggler had left the bar and Vander flipped the signs off. You huffed out, practically deflating as you untied your apron and hung it up on the far wall next to the bar. The kids had come back a few hours ago and gone downstairs, and you watched as Vander locked the place up for the night.

You moved to the small closet where you grabbed the broom and started sweeping the wooden floors. Your feet and back ached from the work. Luckily, you had found a few minutes earlier to grab a bite to eat so you weren’t overly hungry. 

You and Vander worked around each other as he wiped down the tables and started putting chairs up for the night. When he finished with the tables and chairs, he moved behind the bar to count coins. 

“So, is this the glamorous nightlife of Zaun I’ve heard so much about? Dusty floors and sticky counters?” You asked him.

He didn’t look up as he spoke. “Better than wherever you came from, I’d bet.”

You scoffed, leaning against the handle of the broom. “Oh, absolutely. Who needs fancy parties and clean air when you’ve got rat traps in every corner?”

He chuckled. “You’re getting the hang of it, though. Starting to look less like a lost little princess.”

You paused with mock offense. “Is that a compliment?”

He finally glanced up at you with a wry grin. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You grinned back, “Too late,” you said, going back to your task until you felt you had finished.

Once the two of you had settled down you sat at the bar and Vander poured himself a drink. “Can I get you anything?” He flashed you the same smile he gave his customers, and you rolled your eyes.

“Just give me whatever you’re having,” you said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

He raised a brow but said nothing as he filled two glasses halfway with a dark amber liquor, sliding one over to you before pulling a stool around to sit facing you. He lifted his glass to you, and you clinked yours against it with a tired smile.

“To my new life,” you toasted.

“Cheers,” Vander said before taking a drink.

You tipped your head back, feeling the liquid burn down your throat, a bitter, woody taste in your mouth. Your lips and nose screwed up in a scowl, and Vander laughed.

“You should see your face,” he said.

“I’ve seen less pleasant things,” you joked as the burn in your throat faded.

“I’ll drink to that,” Vander responded, draining his glass.

You pushed yours away with a frown. “I won’t.”

He chuckled again, “More for me,” he said, taking your glass and pulling it toward him. After a moment of not completely uncomfortable silence, he spoke again. “Despite your griping, you’re good with the people,” he observed.

“Comes with the territory I guess,” you shrugged. “All the politics up top and my job…” you trailed off.

Vander stroked a hand over his beard as he swirled the glass idly. “A teacher, eh?” He asked. “Did you like it?”

You sighed. “It was the best part of my life,” you told him, that faraway look taking over your expression. “Those kids… they were everything to me.”

He nodded in understanding. “They’re all the more foolish to let you go,” he said, tipping his head back and draining your glass. You looked down at your hands folded in your lap, fighting to keep all your emotions you’d been white-knuckling at bay. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he said. “But you can if you want to.”

“I think it’s best left in the past, now.”

A/N: Let me know if you enjoyed! And as always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Have a good day/afternoon/night, my loves! <3

Tag List: @growls-like-thunder @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @hwalovs

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A song of broken skin and fated lovers: part V

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 7.1k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V —

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! There’s some description of wounds and if you squint some dub con. Proceed daintily loves-

It seemed your dreams were the only place you could reliably escape too. The only plain you’d find any peace.

You picture the hill before your home. Every night away from home you dreamt you’d be walking up it. Feeling the dappled shade of olive trees curling above on your skin. Passing along your back in freckles. Dotted light, spots of shade interspersed.

Your soft skirt swishing around bare calves. The creak of your sandals meeting the dusty road. The one that kinks and bends and shows you that endless glimpse of searing ocean waiting just beyond. Aegean water. Sage fields. Boundless heavens.

You remember these fields. You played in them as a child. The ones that thrash with soft grasses. Ruffled by salty sea air. You can hear your sisters laughter brushing along to you like sweet blossom petals garnished on the wind. Sweet and calming. Crushed honeycomb and milk.

A sound as familiar and as comforting to you as their calls and voices that make the shape of your name.

Every night in your dreams you walk up this hill.

Every night you come home.

You can see them - your sisters - on the winding ribbon of the road ahead. Running out the front door of the house. Tullia with her dress flying behind her. Ever decorous eldest. Calling to Diana, with her hair falling in waves and telling her younger sister that ladies don’t run. Diana isn’t listening she’s too joyous. Too forthright to pay attention.

And Ceres. Sweet little Ceres sprints for your arms. Gap toothed grin. Clutching her cloth doll. Skirts held past her knees, she runs for you.

You can see mother in her dark plum linen stola. Gold jewellery on her neck and dangling from her ears. She lingers in the shade of the the hallway. Her dark wavy hair shot through with a fierce bolt of silver - lightning struck - at her temples. Radiant. As she watched from the door with a smile at their graceless display.

Her smile wide and brilliant, you always thought so, exactly as you remember it, as crows feet sit by her eyes. Emboldened and etched deep with her mirth. Hers is a face that has seen years of sun and sea spray. Made serene as placid waters by it. She is tanned and weathered elegantly by decades of watching sunshine bouncing like rows of diamonds off the sea. Salt and sea foam as hemmed in her blood as it is in yours.

You run to them - crying and wailing - feet slapping the dirt and dust, and you’re aching, legs burning, lungs aflame and you won’t stop. Calling their names til your throat is as dry as the dust below your feet.

Then the sun is too bright. It’s too far and you can’t see them. They can’t hear you. Swallowed from your grasp.

There’s just blinding light engulfing them just out of reach of your scraping fingertips. It’s like brushing grains of sand. It tumbles away before it grows into actuality. Your fingers brush empty air as your whole being lurches and mourns.

You jolt awake, body clammy and sheened in sweat. Eyes snapping open as you jerk upwards in the cover of fine smooth sheets. You feel your hair slip over your naked shoulders. Jewels and gold still around your neck. Sunshine blares harshly at your crusted eyes.

Aches and pains come swimming back to you in sharp degrees. Bruises on your neck and your hips. Fading to ugly yellow black already. Bite marks ring your collarbones and the meat of your shoulders.

Out the window you can hear a bustling city. The clamour of crowds. Hot sun baked dirt and filth. Bells peeling from temples. Servants scurrying in the courtyards below and beyond. Horses baying in the streets.

You smear sleep from your eyes, twisting over in the huge slab of a bed to see the sheets behind you are still filled.

Geta slumbers on golden pillows under the same sheets as you. On his back with bis face turned to the sun. Arm slung over his belly. The thin sheets stick to the climes and outlines of his body. His stomach. Thighs. Hips. The heavy bulge between his legs.

His expression seems almost gentle in his rest. Pillowy lips and dark lashes kissing onto his cheeks. Kohl still smeared on his eyes from yesterday. Naked same as you, save for golden decorations, jewelled rings…

A wedding ring. Matching bands. That’s the weight that comes crashing down on you so fiercely.

Acid bile claws it way up your throat when you shift your legs. Finding the edge of the bed with a breathy sigh. The stickiness between your legs and dried around your cunt doesn’t bear thinking about. You screw your eyes shut so as not to think about it.

Stirring silk. Rustles from behind you.

“Where do you think you’re going wife?” Comes a sleepy drawl across the pillows and sheets. Slithering across to you. Husky from his slumber.

You swallow and twist your head over your shoulder. Hair matted and twined close from sleep. Bite marks wedged deep in your back and neck throb as you move.

His eyes are lidded heavy but their burning gaze rests on you. Branding like a hot knife. White hot from the fire. You’re beginning to think that gaze of his always will.

“I’m not used to having my bed filled in the mornings. The kind of company I’m used to promptly leaves after the pleasuring is done.” He explains. Inflection of lust in his tone. He smirks with it. Wide and filthy.

Now he has a little plaything to trap into his bed whenever he feels like it. An ornament he can use and decorate his already gilded arm, and bring out to inspire envy in all peoples of Rome.

You pause where you sit on the bed. Caught.

“I wanted to fetch some water.” You grovel. Voice scraping raw. Throat feeling full of sharp rocks when you speak.

His eyes harden. Laychromose, but deepening with his anger. The way he slips into intimidation if he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. The way he snaps his fingers and has this world uncurl and offer itself up to his desires. That too must apply to you. Your role now was obedience in all things.

Bend and break and mould yourself for your husband, little nymph.

“You may… when your emperor is finished with you.” He plays and toys with your emotions at his whims. Eyes intently gazing at you. His words come with a bladed meaning.

“Come here-“ He orders. Voice softer but the command cuts straight to your spine. Arrowhead sharp. Studs deep.

You curl back into the bed. Back stiff. Trying not to wince at the cuts which burn and tear at your skin. You feel the pull and tug of barely closed wounds. His teeth had drawn blood. You feel the congealing wound at your back shift. The scab lifting. A bead of blood rolls over down your shoulder blade.

He notices. Shifts on his side behind you. Curls a hand to the hill of your hip. Catches that drip of blood with his lips. Savours it. Sea foam flavour of you bedded on his tongue.

The warm stinging path of his tongue on your back takes your mind back to what happened in these sheets hours previous.

How he’d pushed your thighs, widened your legs, opened the bowl of your pelvis and drunk from you. Showed you the various ways a man can please his lover with tongue, lips and hungry teeth.

He’d done it til you shivered and begged. Tried to writhe away. He meanly tugged you back where you belonged, bullied you, recaptured in the cradle of his hands, and did it again. Smirked when you asked for clemency.

“I warned you I was without mercy, Salacia.” He’d leered. His smirking lips and sharp teeth shining with you as he smeared his warm nose against your thigh. Slaked in the taste of you from chin to cheek. Makeup running under his Umbrian eyes. Panting like a beast to your skin and because of the scent he finds synonymous with you. Lemons and salt.

He hovers behind you now. Hands sliding for your waist. Chin on your shoulder. Breath tainted copper. Pressing his lips to bruises and tender spots. You were right. He had to achieve to sting of pain in order to feel something.

He dips his mouth to your neck again. Lapping and nursing a new bruise near an already painful one. Layering pain on pain.

His hand slips lower for your thigh. Warm stones in each of his fingers foreign and hard as he slips his hand between the soft of your legs again.

He’d moaned when you’d grabbed his hair or left nail marks in his large arms and shoulders. He liked that he could draw an emotion out of you. Even if it was overstimulation or desire. He’ll match and meet you in either. As he so wishes.

He’s pleased to find you tacky with the remnants of him from the previous evening. “A fine fruitful offering for your beautiful cunt my wife.” He purrs. Fingers delving deeper to your sex. Rings nearly an unwelcome sensation. “In time mayhaps the gods will bless us.”

Hallowed Saint. Hallowed fate. Bestowed by the gods, he says.

You’d say it was more akin to downfall. Curses and ill fate. Tantalus and his fruit. Medusa and her coiled snakes. Actaeons fateful stag.

He noses onto your jawbone. Fascinated by the scent of you still. Smothered all over these sheets. It grew stronger the longer he was near you. In his sleep it smothered his mind, his every second. Lemons, salt, and you-

He loses himself, mouthing to your neck and into the wild nest of your hair. He inhaled you. Drank the essence of you like a starving peasant. Hungry greedy hands.

“What is about that scent of yours that drives me wild? What is it?” He seeks. Almost angry in his demands.

“Lemon oil. For my hair.” You explain weakly as he plucks and grabs at you.

Descending into lustful madness. He catches the ripe berry of your clit with his rings and it makes you gasp. Bucking back to his chest. He likes that. When a little of your feral reaction to his touch makes you buck and lose your usually placid control. The man is taunting the seas and welcoming in a storm.

“Use it. Always.” He ordered huskily, Huffing as your hair sticks to his lips. Melding with the salt of ocean that he now understands beats through your skin and veins.

He would order ten thousand lemon trees to be bought here just for your use.So he can kiss your shoulders and your skin and always find it brimming with the bright note of that yellow fruit.

A small surrendering of your body as you arch back to him. Having pleased him brings something forth in you: something that eases. His pleasure allows you to relax the stiffness of your spine. Lower your guard.

He tugs your hair out the path of his lips. Delights in the evidence he found of his teeth all over your neck. His claim was skin deep. And he soon hoped it would be even deeper.

You are tugged back to the bed so his hands can wander all over you again. Your back curled to his chest as he lays you on your side. His hand sliding for your thigh to widen you open for him. Behind your hips you feel the hard length of him. He guides himself to you and your breath gets punched out of you as he pushes inside.

He pushes your leg open further to move to you deeper. He delights in finding evidence of your restless wedding night squelching deep inside your cunt. Throws his head back and groans with it.

He moulds his body to yours. Tacky skin. Warm cotton sheets kicked down the bed. Ringed metal and sharp jewels on every finger gripping the fat of your leg tight until he’s sure he’d left marks. Holding you open so he can plunge inside.

Your hand finds his where he crushed one breast in a grip so tight it makes tears spring to your eyes. Melding with the pleasure you cannot deny coming forth as he moves his hips to you so fiercely, your skin smacks where you meet.

Despite the sting of pain from being so overused, to way his fingers reach down to knowingly pinch and caress your clit where you’re spread open around him, makes wordless cries come out your throat. You clutch into the sheets and grit your teeth. His breath muggy hot against your neck. His hair a mess. Golden and fiery. Like stomped down wheat stalks at sunset. A lazy Bacchusian god.

“Let your husband hear you.” He encourages. Your moans and sweet as rare wine. Inbetween sucking and biting your neck. Asking for your sounds of ecstasy like he deserves them. A holy offering that praises him and washes away all sin.

“I don’t think you are goddess of the sea my love. With a cunt this sweet and tight? I think you must be a fertility goddess instead.” He proposes into your ear through harsh chuffs for breath.

“So tight. So fucking Intoxicating” he huffs. Cupping your tits and still moving to you as harshly and deep as he’s able.

He makes sure your breath cannot come as you steal his. A warm sweaty palm on your chin twists your head back to his. He anoints your lips with a messy kiss that echoes with the ghost of last nights wine and the tang of salt from between your legs. His tongue licks over your teeth. He drags every part of you up for devouring.

A commotion over by the door takes your mortified eyes over.

You see Aeliana and some of her maids coming in. When they see you both naked in the bed with Geta thrusting into you like a madman, you watch her eyes blow wide with shame. Head bowing. Arms laden with todays gown for you to wear. She halts the girls by her side.

Geta doesn’t even spare them a look. They are below his divine notice. He manages to lever his mouth off yours for a mere few seconds, to bark his orders and send them scurrying.

“Get out.” He shrieks. Voice ringing through you with the harshness of the sudden shout.

You twist your head into the sweat slicked pillow. Ashamed that they’d even just glimpsed you being used so.

His spit drying on your chin. His hand possessively cupping your cunt again as he fucked you so deeply, something tender within your pelvis had you nearly wailing.

His mouth goes to your neck again. His pace growing faster and faster. Sloppier. Noises of your sex only increasing. His hold on you is so intense it’s an ache. His fingers trailing through your curls and your folds to find that spot that will surrender you entirely to him.

He rears up behind you. Skin glued with heat to yours. He grabs you close as if you’ll fade under his fingertips like smoke. Hips hammering as he reached his pleasure. Yours came snapping down on him not long after.

That telltale tip and then the surge of ecstasy that broke through you. Cunt snapping down right around his cock as you came in shudders. Pulsing through you as his spend burst deep into you. Exactly where he wanted it. Wave after wave of pleasure. You let it take you. Little else you could do. Your strength to fight had turned stone cold.

You laid against him in cooling sheets. Listening to his chasing breath behind you. Feeling the wet and heat between your legs twofold. His sweat drips onto your back. Smeared as he laps at your neck. Fresh bruises and teeth indents are more raw than before.

You can barely notice. You’re more taken with the way your pussy squishes as he pulls free. The hot rush of his spend.

Hot breath comes over your ear again. You shudder and you’re not entirely sure it’s of pleasure. His lips kiss to your jaw and cheek. All this sweat and sex soaked skin. and still he finds lemons in your taste when he kisses you.

“Shall I have the maid fetch you water?” He seeks.

“I shall do it.” You shrink down with sex flushed cheeks. Pushing away from the bed with a wince. Hair draping down your back as you take a smooth sheet from the bed with you. Padding to the side. Hips swaying under the cotton. Your pelvis and thighs feel tender and aching - low and bone deep like sun burn - as you move to the amphora and goblets you’d used last night.

He sits on his elbows to watch you. Uncovered, cock laying soft against his thigh. His thighs and groin sticky-wet with evidence of your joining. Unabashed as to his naked state.

His eyes are hungry and you certainly give him a feast to watch. Clad in sunshine from the great maw of the window. Skin littered with violent red and purple marks in odes to his ownership of you. The smeared blood from bites at your back that he’d licked away.

You stand at the side. Laying your hands flat to the table where the jug stood. You found you didn’t reach for it right away. You looked at the very unfamiliar sight of the wedding band in your finger. The gold surrounded by the two dog heads fighting over the sapphire. A helpless jewel caught in between rabid teeth. How fitting.

Your shaking hands pour clear water into a cup and you drink it all quickly. The taste of metal and sleep fading from your tongue.

Bare feet padding the floor come behind you. The rustle of a fine robe. The red and gold one. He’s barely bothered to tie it closed around his chest.

“I must go and ready for the day. Loathe as I am to depart your blissful company.” He says. His hand slipping round the back of your neck. Bringing you in. Tasting the new wetness on your tongue as he kisses you. You muffle a moan to his lips as he possesses you in a kiss again. Squeak a little as he pulls away.

You don’t know what else there is to say.

Enjoy your gilded cage, little nymph. It’s all you’ll know from now on.

“Wear jewels and something pretty. I’ll come find you later. Wife.” He promises with a salacious smirk. Eyes you up and down like he wants to tear that sheet off and bend you over the lectus here and now. Smack the fat of your ass and claim you again.

A dark smile aimed your way. A thumb on your chin to bring you in for one more lippy kiss. And he’s off - stalking toward the doors. A lascivious look shot your way as he turns away.

You say nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing except for empty hollow rage that shakes through you. Pounds at the bony trap your ribs. Enough for you to shiver even in the warm morning air.

You feel scraped through. Brittle like fraying rope. He’s taken you from your home. Exiled your father. Forced shame upon your family. Killed your brother. Pushed his twisted lust upon you, and now expects you to react as if it’s dressed up in love.

You floated into his life like a midsummer’s night breeze. And he found you breathtaking, enchanting. Now he had you he wanted to cup you close. Seal you to his skin with his nose buried in the crown of your head whilst crowing mine mine mine.

He was in two minds of what to do with you. Cherish you, love you, pour crimson rose petals before your steps. On the other hand, he only knew violence when it came to love and to lust. He wanted to break you apart piece-by-piece like dry clay. Tear at you like those tigers in the coliseum and see what’s left.

He’s never known what to do with his things when it comes to love. Maybe he didn’t even know it at all. Only knew how to demand and take. Never to please or to give. He’s never had too.

And now he expects mightily. For you to sit pretty and wear jewels, rings, gold, and fine stolas. Support his every shrieked command. You must learn to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions tamed back behind that same silent closure of thread.

An Empresses role was silence. How your soul quakes with that new pain.

The huge doors rattle again. The exit of the Emperor meant the maids were safe to come tend you.

Aeliana walks towards you. You raise your eyes to hers. Wet and wide. Tears on the quivering brink of your lashes.

She is unable to hide the noticeable switch of shock in her expression, when she sees the wounds you’d been saddled with. Teeth marks and bruises. Like you’re a slab of meat and not a cherished spouse.

She cannot fathom how you have more cuts for her to soothe balm on after your wedding night.

“Let’s get you to the baths, Empress.” She soothes. Opens her arm. Encouraged you to follow. She tries a bolstering smile but you both know it’s fragile. Her husky voice is the only kind thing you fear you’ll ever hear in this rotten place.

You nod. Swallow. Stand tall and let her manoeuvre you.

You can allow some tears to slip free when you’re in the water. Then you must banish your feelings. The maids must strap finery and silks onto your body again and truss you up in this farce. You steel every last splitting nerve whilst you can. Tamp them down. Gather the ragged ends up and soothe them. Clutch tight.

Naked, you wade down the steps and sink under the surface of the huge bath.

You’re tempted to not come up for air again. The water lulling you in its cradling warmth like an old familiar companion. As if a siren that you let drag you down. Plunge headlong into waves and succumb.

Unlike Odysseus, you don’t have the strength to fight its pull.

The bite on your shoulder turns the water clouded and rusty.

One salient thought gives you solace as the world around you grows numbs to your ears.

Atleast he drank deeply from the lies you’d fed.

~

Many sun and moons had set since your wedding night. Time marches its onward parade in the beautifully rotten imperial palace.

Geta and Caracalla were summoned to a Imperial Consul with the senators. To discuss the matters of their particular wish to expand the Roman empire to Persia and India. And possibly beyond that. They held Rome and all her starving subjects in a gold fisted vice. Refused to relent like a bratty child clutching a beloved toy. One that they would rather break to splinters in their grasp than see it enjoyed by someone else.

That was not the way of the gods, after all. It was their damn birthright.

They both slouch in their sloping marble carved chairs, in front of the rows of Senators, as the magistrate drones through the Verba fecit. Then they would read the protocols to address problems within the city.

Geta is not attempting to look amused or even mildly interested.

He slurps at a golden goblet of dark wine. A scowl like rolling thunder on his face. Dark eyes smouldering at any old senator who dares contest his gaze. Garbed in gold with rings on every finger. His black and gold silken robes folded in his lap, spilling to the ground.

Caracalla appears more interested in feeding grapes to Dondus. His manic grin shining. Gold tooth glittering in the half dim as he laughs. His creatures chirps and shrieks accompany the low drone of the voices rolling around the great marble room. Bounding off the pillars and echoing back.

Geta ground his jaw tight as he flickered a look to the side and caught sight of the very thing that had begun to vex him from the second he stepped into these chambers. Set far back behind him. Amongst the senators seats.

Your cushioned lectus remained vacant.

He grips his wine goblet too tight. fingers strangling the stem. His attention was brought back to the room as Senator Thraex cleared his throat. Summoning back his attention.

“… I would also like to wish you joy on your recent union. Caesar…. You have bestowed a fine and fair Empress onto Rome and her peoples…”

Geta narrows his eyes at the man. Coaxing out the rest sharply. Or else.

“Yet I cannot help but notice It has been four moons now since the Empress graced us with her presence here at counsel…. I do wonder if all is well. As Rome does deserve the full compliments of its masters here to guide us.”

Geta ground his teeth around an answer. The room throbs in the heady silence as he glares. Punctuated only by the monkeys chitters and the shuffling of Senators gazing at each other in arch amusement as to the meaning of the levied comment.

“The Empress is occupied elsewhere at present. I should hope you are not suggesting me and my brother are lacking in our duties in any way. Senator.” He replies curtly. Eyes thunder heavy and dragging over the dry old man. Umbrian danger.

“Of course not. Sire.” Thraex replied. Seeming unimpressed with the answer. “If you’ll permit me I should like to discuss the issue within the city of what is to be done of taxes within the Porta Capena quarter…”

Geta sunk into his cup again as the Senators droned on. His mood plunged below foul. Jaw tight. He turned to look at the lectus again. Venom in his blood at your absence.

When counsel finished. He stormed from his seat without another word. Robes sweeping the ground as he raced from the room. Sandals meeting the floor like slaps. Rage evident in his stride. He summons the nearest Praetoria. Who promptly comes to his side.

“Where is the Empress?” He snarls. A snake in coil about to strike. Bad enough he had to suffer the thinly veiled barbs of Senators asking why you were absent. Even worse was that you made him look a fool without even being here. They were casting foul allusions as to your marriage.

The guard hesitates before giving an answer. “She has left the Palace, Caesar.” He answers.

Geta’s anger comes sharp and packed in poison. A hiss. He asks so curtly it echoes to the ceiling. “And precisely where has she gone?”

~

At first, the noise and bustle of Rome was repugnant to you. Rancid and dirt and heat. Too much noise and not enough air.

Made putrid by stale sweat en masse bodies, horse manure, and smoke from fires mingling with roasting meat or oily charred fish from street vendors.

There was always shouting, someone selling wine, someone selling exotic wares, and bartering filling the air. Music bleeding from some side alley. Jugglers and slight of hands weaving through the crowds of servants and nobles and peasants, ready to part people from their coin.

You watch and just listen to it all from where you’re seated. A palla folded around your head and neck to block the otherwise fierce sun, also to obscure your features, give you shade wherein to hide your golden jewellery and rich dress.

Though you doubt anyone in this riotous city knows or even cares who you are. To a glance? You are just another rich merchants wife. Or noble woman. Unseen. Unremarkable. You do admire Rome for that small mercy atleast. To make you invisible in a crowd of thousands.

You’re seated at the edge of the fountain. The marble lip cold under your dress. Your hand dangling down into the clean waters. Trailing your fingertips through the cool of it. Water shimmers off the blue stones and pearls of your rings. If you squint, they are treasures cast on the shore. You can imagine you see specs of sand. Golden shells. Milky pearls waiting to be picked - tucked cosily in cream oyster shells.

You try to pretend. You fail.

Your personal praetorian guard lingers not far away. Varro. A perpetual huge shadow to you since your wedding.

Geta told you the morning after that you were to have him watch over you at all times. The man has been hulking after your every footstep since. It’s cloying, but nowhere as much as that palace is.

Varro boasts a huge figure and not one to be easily missed in a crowd. A warriors build. A scowl that could curdle milk. He’s solid. Brawny thick chest, stocky as a barrel, thighs thick as tree trunks, large arms and immense shoulders even without his plates of armour.

He had a proud chiselled face, dark hazel eyes and a prominent nose that had been broken before. Evidence of a pinking scar bumping at the bridge of it. Also a small nick dissecting his lower lip. His life had known pain. You can tell. Typical soldiers life. A body cut from the cloth of war. From polishing armour, baying for unease, and stepping to commands.

It’s hewn in the way he carries himself in crowds. Darting eyes and not feeling at ease, or any kind of sane, unless he can see all four clear corners around himself - and you. And convinced danger lurks behind every brick corner and down every side street. Huge hand permanently slung over the pommel of his sword. A warning.

He stands a little way across from you now. Looming proud as an old oak in the shade of a building and a market stall slung with rich cloth for sale. Shirking the sun and scowling at everyone. Basalt black hair falls like long thorns over, down his brow. Down the nape of his neck and collar, beaded in sweat.

Children scarper around him. Street urchins that clamour like flies on rot at his appearance. He gives no inch and tells them to move along with a curt nod. Steel stiff spine standing to attention. A merchant tries to sell him a cup of wine - red or white - they are silenced by his frown. He won’t touch a drop whilst on duty. Truth be told, You don’t think he knows how to be off duty. He’s not capable.

He’s an austere reminder of your station. Almost literally, in his dark black plate armour and wisteria purple cape swinging from his wide shoulders. A storm cloud eternally perched on the horizon of your day. His words come few and far between. You don’t think you’ve heard him string two full sentences together once. Except possibly in daggered warning;

You draw too much attention. Empress. It is bound to invite trouble.

You wanted to scoff at that irony.

You? In your hooded palla, draw attention?

When it is he, the man who guards you - like a grizzled dog - who is a thick immovable column of uniform widely recognised as imperial praetoria, wherever you turn in these streets? Unfathomable.

I am going to temple to pray. You may either escort me. Or explain to my husband why I have gone into the capital, alone.

His answer was a gruff glare. Acceptance and frustration entwined.

You have caused him to furrow his dark brows at you several times with a “Yes, Empress.” That came dragged through a displeased drone. A hound showing you his teeth before the jaws snap. Having to escort you into the city each day was laying contrary to his regulations to not have you in harms way.

You insisted. He obeyed. With little choice in the matter.

Every day you came here. One corner of the beating, shouting heart of Rome. You went to the Temple of Vesta and you prayed. And you went to a public fountain and let real life ebb in upon you once again. To find some peace away from the rabid emperors, who blaze at the palace with all the ferocity of fiery twin suns. They encompass all. Left little room for anything else. All life revolved around them. You float off in distant orbit.

You wave your fingers through the cool water. Tethered to one small piece of home again. Cool tides that brought you comfort. Reminded you of the sun soaked shores of home. Sunlight fracturing in diamonds off clear blue waters.

Feeling the sun beat down now on your neck through layers of cloth. You cast your eyes over the monuments to Neptune sat in this ornamental fountain. Sea gods and goddesses and creatures of sea foam. The other side where you are, women are washing clothes, or chatting over baskets fetched from market. You can smell perfumed oils, dried flower petals, and the sweet plump of ripe fruits tucked safe in the shade of their baskets.

How wild it is that until four weeks ago, that too had been your life. You didn’t sleep on silken sheets, get trussed in gold, and have servants poised so you never had to even lift a finger.

You knew comforts - of course. You had fine clothes and didn’t have to toil the fields. But you weren’t beyond spinning cloth or running errands. Helping clean and tidy your home. Fetching food or helping prepare meals. Coming home from market in the small town with oiled fish, scorpion fish, or boar, fresh chestnuts or olives. Dried meats sometimes too.

You thought of the olive trees lining the road to town. Huge and ancient. Offering branches that white doves often sat in - cooing away their calls. You thought of buying chestnuts for Ceres because she adored them so. Goats cheese for your mother that she liked with honey. Bunches and bunches of aniseed to make into Canistrelli biscuits for father.

The happy creak of your basket on your arm. Feeling the sun tangle in your hair as you shaded your eyes, felt the sea kissed breeze caress along your arms and back as if an embrace of a lover.

All those things you’d lost in one fell swoop. A life that had been snatched from you without your even getting a chance to bid it goodbye. Just like your brother. Your father.

And here you were now. Hiding away in the crowds. So lonely you felt its sting like the deepest shrapnel. A wound never closing. Always being prodded some more by the dire aspects of your circumstances. Anything to not be trapped in your gilded cage. Being reminded daily that your one use in that foul place, lay solely between your legs.

Two small girls come stumbling to an ungraceful stop, laughing, breathless and slowing from a run. They come right to your side to fill some amphorae with water. Dunking the clay jug into the clear water and letting it fill.

They each have dark hair and dark eyes. One must be close to Ceres’ age of six, toddling, milk teeth smile, youthful weight clinging to her cheeks, the other slightly older. Longer hair and a fuller smile. They have flowers pinched from a stall stuffed in their rusty coloured linen apron pockets. Some bay laurels and cornflowers.

You smile warmly at them. They smile back, unabashed. Joy seeping out of them. That brand of innocent fearlessness that grasps the young.

Turning your head you hear the clank of armour, feet shifting fast on dirt. Varro steps towards you with his scowl and his hand already on his sword.

You reprimand him silently. Gaze packed in ice. Jaw set. Mouth flicking to a grim line. You calmly hold up your hand and motion for him to step back. He’d scare the poor things.

You feel a gentle tug on your dress where it splays at your shoulders. Turning back, you see the younger one has her small hand on your dress.

You gently return your hand to your side. Seeing what she wanted your attention for. They both looked at Varro with much wide eyed curiosity. Only very rich ladies could afford a soldier. Only those of very high status. You fear he’s just betrayed your standing.

“Pardon me…” She utters. Her unsure voice carefully picking over the words. As if she was still learning larger words and their uses.

“Yes?” You smile. Touched by her boldness. Treating her with gentility.

“Are you the Empress?” She seeks. Forming words slowly. A curious tilt of her head.

You see no reason to lie.

You can feel Varros eyes burning a glare into your back. Harsher. More furious than the sun. Don’t.

“I am.” You respond.

They smile as if excited. Sharing a look. Both each producing a small laurel sprig from their stuffed pockets. They each step forwards and present the small branches out to you. A gift. You lay your hand flat and accept them both. Curling your fingers around branch stems.

“Gods blessings be upon you, Empress.” They speak in clunky unison.

You take the branches with reverence. Feeling the smooth leaves. The verdant and subtle scent coming from them.

“Pray tell me. What are your names?” You enquire.

The eldest speaks first. “Amata, Empress.”

The youngest follows suit. “Junia, Empress.” She tells you proudly.

You reach for your purse. Stowed safely within your dress folds away from the hands of beggars. You pluck out two coins and place them in their small hands. Junias hand reminds you if a small pudgy starfish. Curling round a silver shell.

“Blessings be upon you both. Amata. Junia. For your kindness…” You beam to them both.

They shimmer with mirth. Taking their jugs and scampering away through the crowds like nymphs.

Varro appears at your shoulder like an omen. “Empress.” He says your name lowly. Chiding you with his tone alone for revealing yourself to them.

“Surely two little girls holding flowers in their pockets, pose no danger to me.” You reply archly. Watching across the crowds where they’d disappeared.

“I only seek to resupply you of my one duty.”

“I don’t need reminding.” You tell him. Not unkindly. But he can hear the way you might be tempted to let the words be sharpened to little blades off your back teeth.

He’ll say this for you; you don’t have sharp teeth or poisonous tongue like every other noble in that palace. You are made different to their spoilt ways. Something sleeker and softer. All foam whipped off waves. You can sting and lash if required - you simply choose not too.

You hear bells toll for midday from the temple beyond. Clanging off the golden stone of every building around you. You fancy you can see the ripple of the sound sending waves to burst across the fountains surface.

Varro is giving you that stern look that urges you to be heading back. Before you’re started to be noticed. Before you become a perfidious gap in your Emperors day, when he isn’t vying for blood, gold or war. That or applying himself ruthlessly to the detriment of this great city, crushing his own people in the same way his favourite wine is made. Squeezing every drop til dry.

You hate to return. But you fear what wrath will come if you don’t. The thought of slipping away into these crowds and dipping into another form of life mocks you. Cowardice curbs your actions.

With some of the meagre coin in your pocket, you could try and make for the coast, possibly. You could disguise yourself as a merchants wife, or a servant. Anything to slip the golden net you’ve been landed in.

You wonder how far you’d make it, running away like a common ruffian, before the stomping hooves of a Roman battalion would be on your heels. Snatching you back here to be humiliated at Geta’s own insistence. The punishment he’d dole on you doesn’t bear thinking about. You were property after all.

You watch men and women weave in and out of the crowds, wishing you had half their luck as to put your back to this palace and peel away. Your mind wanders over that idea. A faint ember that dies to a curling puff of smoke. Snuffed out.

It doesn’t bear thinking about-

You take your offered laurel branches and stand. Varro takes up his guard. Eyes flicking all around. Searching for those corners he requires. For that split second of danger he can cleave his sword onto treasonous limbs for your protection.

You make your way back through crowds. Varro cutting a swathe for you. You keep your head down and remain quiet. Mind vacant as you move through the paved streets.

A flash of a body pushing past you takes your attention down a side alley. One arched with fabric awnings thrown over merchants stalls.

The flash of white turned out to be a senators robe. The vivid plum purple bordering white. You bat away the bitter thought of once recognising it as your fathers noble robes.

You catch sight of three people, stood on a street corner. One of them you don’t recognise but you know him to be a Senator. The two people he’s stood conversing with does make you stop in your tracks.

General Acacious and Lady Lucilla.

They are conversing deeply. Attention not given to you where you stand on the other side of the street. Shade cloaks them all. A moment out the sun. A place they hope guards them in obscurity. Talking with each other in hushed tones. Marcus and Lucilla wear hoods so as to hide their fine features from any obvious recognition.

The crowd trickles on around you. Water carving on around a large rock in the way.

Lady Lucilla raises her eyes. They flash to you in an instant. Dazzling green. A sun dappled meadow holding you in sight.

Her face falls as she halts her words. Lips parting. The General and the Senator both turn to follow her gaze. Finding you, caught static, at the other end of it. You recognise a prickle of panic when you see it.

You turn your head. Eyes snapping away as you hold your skirts and continue on.

Your guard says nothing. Though you know he saw what you just did. It’s not his place. He forgets all he sees or hears - all that doesn’t pose risk to you.

Maybe you weren’t the only person in Rome to wish the Palace walls didn’t have treasonous eyes and ears. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps Varro was right;

There is danger round these street corners in Rome.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

Not enough vander fics on here, I’m kinda concerned guys