ᯓ☘︎ stumbling upon maidens dressed in their small clothes was no part of Duncan’s plan, least of all knighted ones.
wordcount 𖥔 3.8k
notes 𖥔 sfw , female reader , mc is kinda mean sometimes , noble!daughter
⤷ a/n: hesss literally my exact type omgg🐒i love you ser knight pennytree. hope u guys enjoyyy tho ill be working on part twooo & other stuff!!!!🕊️🕊️🕊️
The first time you and Ser Duncan lock eyes, you are sat amongst your highborn family, watching the Prince Aerion's anormal joust. The lone daughter of House Rathbone dressed in shades of onyx and gold. He remembers the tales Ser Arlan would speak of your lineage; dragons, witchcraft and love—all a nasty mix. Nearly a century's past, had it been, the dance of dragons, yet your family owed the crown a great guilt for it. Scarcely paid in full.
If left to Duncan himself, the sight of you alone would tempt him to omit thousands of decades worth of idle debt. Even from his own lowly position amid the common folk, and yours within the royal box seated amidst House Targaryen, he ascertains you to be the pinnacle of nobility. And, as the former Lady Rathbone curtly whispers into your ear, you audibly groan, shifting to sit the slightest bit of straighter.
Your gaze sweeps across the wave of commoners, boredom overcoming you with ambition. Though, a head of ginger protrudes from the sea of browns and blacks like the sorest of thumbs. A foot taller, he is, from the rest, perhaps more. When your discernment of the other clashes, Ser Duncan is the first to peer away. You laugh, finding a man of his stature so easily swayed by the most ordain of glances, humorous. "Enough of your meanless games, child. Look upon his royal highness, for he surely looks upon you."
Through the Dowager Rathbone's hushed words, your attentions flee from Duncan and instead onto Aerion Brightflame whom lowers the front of his helm once ensuring the sum of your focus. Ser Duncan narrowly concerns himself with Aerion's tourney, busied by the weight of your responses. A chore this seemed for you. Rather than an uncouth performance innumerable ladies of the court considered it to be. "Ser, did you see that?" Egg inquires. In earnest, he sparingly had, "of course I did boy—now quiet yourself."
Short, was the contest. Simply brief. The Dragon Prince had played a dirty trick—as some would call it. You found it quite the spectacle, an intrigue to contrast the tedious passage of today; other than the colossalness of that fire-headed peasant. Your hands would long grow tired of clapping, the sound silenced by boisterous spectators. Your mother speaks to you incessantly. "Go forth, congratulate the prince of his win, let it be now afore his mood sours further."
You inwardly shright, descending the stands to pursue Aerion. "Right away, Mother."
The first of your exchanges with Ser Duncan were less than formal, quite the opposite of formality, in fact. Days after your initial engagement, he'd just returned from the tournament sight; defeated and fatigued. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the cool river's stream and curl beneath his precious elm tree. A new day would do him better.
To his misfortune, there you stood. In your ivory undergarments. Fresh from the water.
Your hair tousled and drenched, skin dewy and dampened, (in spite of obvious efforts to dry yourself) rushed were your inept movements. You had no knight at your side, not even a brooding ladies' maid to assist in dressing, the only company you’d kept was a your golden stallion tied to the branch of a tree by way of his elevated muzzle. Upon his back, hanging from the leathered saddle were clothing fitted for a man, and propped against the tree—armor.
So resolutely engrossed at the image, Duncan hadn't realized the peak of a sharpened blade had intended above his jugular until moments much too late. You aim to draw blood from the estranged perverted man: angered, shamed, and frightened for reasons much beyond his meager understanding. The entirety of his focus shifting erratically at your closeness. "Who be you? Speak now or perish."
"I...l am Ser Duncan, my...my lady! Ser Duncan of—"
"Ah, a base name for an even baser man. I should have your eyes, you know. The crime of impressing upon a noble in naught but her small clothes, cannot be taken lightly, Ser Duncan." The sword you harbor rose high to accommodate his immense height, so much, the strap of your underclothing began to slip. You payed it little mind, but Duncan gave it all the matter.
His face swells with shades of pink, betraying whatever supply of confidence he'd feigned. "Of course, Lady Rathbone. Please, let it be known with sincerity, I held no intentions to offend your virtue."
"None you say," angling your neck to better gauge his expression, suspicions waning. What his words would not enounce, his face shall describe in explicit. Duncan cannot help the notice he takes of a scar which wore across your upper lip. He has not the courage nor stupidity to look within your scrutiny.
"I swear it—on all seven of the greater gods!"
"Hmph, very well. I see no reason in becoming the Rathbone daughter who cuts down hapless men." You retract the length of your sword to his collar, grazing sun-dried skin with careful deliberation. "Though, I continue to feel as if an immense wrongness has been done onto me...and how will you rectify this?"
Duncan shudders at the coolness of your polished sliver atop his surface, "in any way that pleases you, m'lady."
"Then, swear me an oath upon your honor, and the honor of your forefathers that—alone ought unmake your misdeed."
He looks to you in patent disbelief, but what other than a pledge of his most valued promise can he give to someone of your status? Nothing, Duncan supposes. "A-An oath....?!"
"Do you agree or don't you?" Before he properly considers, the man finds himself in accordance to your wishes. Terrible, it was, to have a mind flooded of fowl, heart bursting with unanswered devotions, in a world so plagued by animosity. This, paired along your prettied face, Ser Duncan was no better than doomed. "Down with you then."
Beckoned by yourself, he takes the knee; "Ser Duncan of, um—"
"Pennytree, your lady ship." Even as he grovels below you in the grasses of Ashford Meadows, Duncan looks no lesser a man in neither pride or size. "Yes...that…place. Vow to me you will allege nothing of what's transpired here: you've seen nothing, you've heard nothing and you say nothing. Or sooner yield to my blade and die a torturous death."
Duncan placed the right of his hand above the drum that became of his feeble heart. He looks to you and the jagged scar of your lip. Radiant, he reckons. Do noble women favor such words of admiration? He looks to your disordered appearance and tenacious gestures. He attempts to look naught at the sheerness of your clothing. "Attest this oath upon the honor of yourself, your forebears, your after bearers, and all those you affectionately acquaint."
"I do my lady, of all my spirit, in all my honor; I swear to you silence."
The back of your free hand is brought against his lips, he grasps it with tender reserved for Sweetfoot, now done onto you. Kissing the skin felt taboo—forbidden in every right and law which existed, yet Ser Dunk cannot but savor such actions. He'd only ever sworn two oaths throughout his lifetime, neither to a comely woman nor person of noble blood. As your touch evades from Duncan's hold, he discovers meaning in returning to the kindred suavity.
"Good enough Ser hedge knight, that will be all from you. Leave me so that I may become decent. I expect to see more of you at the tourney."
Staggering to stand with vigor, Duncan does not so quickly depart from your proximity. Instead, watching as you rest along the riverbank, undertaking great effort to dry the remainder of your sodden roots. "Have you no fright here alone in these woods? I mean—if a man, or, men—lesser than I were to stumble across this place then..."
"...then I should best them. Just as I had you in bare seconds, otherwise I'd surely die trying. There lies no desire within me to be defiled as breath runs fresh through my bones.
He steps forth, casting a shadow overhead, obstructing the sun's vibrantly dancing rays; "pardon me greatly, but your being here in lonesome—it is no proper thing for you to do, m'lady. Always should there be—"
"If you so tremendously doubt the propriety of my skill, Ser Duncan, I must have you witness my joust." You stand, fattened with his worrisome badgering. You hadn't come to wash by the riverside and be coddled by docile man-beast, you'd hope for a peaceful, quaint retreat before your competition's beginning. "Y-Your joust? So that armor be yours?"
You look to him plainly, throwing at him the cloth you'd not been long used to dry, "...who's else need it be?"
Duncan can be no more shocked and shaken than a frightened lamb, he gapes, "but my lady, you are a, well..."
"Thank you, I know very well what I am, better than most I would assume." Your tone is all but pronounced with sarcasm, yet there lay a lightness woven in laughter. "Now can you apprehend my plea for your most undisputed silence?" You do not look to Duncan as you speak, busying your becoming nerves with dressing in both tunic and trousers. "More clearly than I once had, but you are a maiden—nobility no less." He follows every short of movement as dog to leash. Your proposal only driving him further into worry.
Visibly, you quiver. The motion shakes your very core. To hear another speak it aloud causes rational and consequence to take form, a livelier, more wretched shape which seeks to claw you from the inside out. "Yes. It makes such exploits all the more perilous, does it not?" There is a heavy quiet before either of yourselves speak again, "think of this...come, and I shall treat you to my family's feast."
"..perchance a bath as well, Ser Duncan?"
In truth, Duncan takes heed of your lacking remarks. He means to say naught, in fear his words would only add to your building unrest. "I could never deny you, my Lady Rathbone. I should be there." His lips quirk upward, his smile timid.
"Delightful, then we ought ride together!"
Noon would hardly come to know fleeting touches of dusk once you, accompanied by Ser Duncan, rejoin the tournament site. Preparations for your approaching joust already afoot. You guide your steed throughout the bustling grounds with acquired ease, never did he waver from your ropes, a trained thing, was he. How you loved his mild manner. Yourself and Duncan rode in stretched silence (for good reason of course) but a many probes dallied along his tongue.
"I paid them—a lower lord's house."
Duncan scantily heard your whispers whilst mounted upon Chestnut, he travels closer to your side, his mind craving to lull this starving confusion. "By the coin of my own house, I obtained the facade of a knighted son. Unknown, they were, damned near the verge of ruin." You eye him from the slither of sight your helm allows.
"l've all but commanded you to adherence, but have yet to say a single phrase pertaining in how I rose to my position. The whole of it, though, is a story for another hour."
He only nods, finding himself exceedingly lost for words. "A wise thing to do, I suppose.”
You snicker, "hah! Nothing of this dilemma I procure is quite wise, Ser Pennytree."
Reaching the entrance of your "house" tent, an assumed squire awaited. "This is where I take my leave. You'll cheer for me, won't you?" Hushed were you, keen about the ears of passerbys. He thinks to attain your hand, ease your edge in ways he himself only knew in seldom. "Y-Yes m'lady, always, er, I mean...what I meant was—best of luck S-Ser Knight."
"Goodbye then."
Duncan hopes to stop you, to declare the rabulous path of knighthood is no revered means for any maiden. He fears more for your life more than frivolous reputations, but what rights had he to talk such judgments in your essence? You were no affluent fool, Duncan was fast to learn, neither a blissfully unwitting girl; plainly a knight longing for sought victory as any other. He considers such from the gated sidelines, aspiring to know the whole of it, the whole which you claim lingers for a better time.
Aegon finds his gentle knight with small degrees effort, Ser Duncan is quite hard the man to miss. "You'd told me you left Ser—for your tree, not to come back until the morrow?" Duncan grunts, Egg is brought to sit atop his broadened shoulders. "Well...had the mind to return. That be a problem for you, boy?"
"No Ser, I suppose it should not be, only that you seemed bleary after-"
"That'll be just enough now, hush up before I have the next mind to smite you."
Amongst the sprightly horde, they watch as you mount your steed, Duncan near chokes on his own breathing when the peak of your helmet slants inches too high.
Thankfully, you are quick to retrieve it, leaving himself and your squire wholly uneased. "Are you alright, Sire? Have you known that knight?"
"N-No, I have not the slighest clue ot her-erm...him! Not at all..!" Ser Dunk clears his throat hardily, bringing the base of his blushed knuckles down onto the edge of his lips. Egg peers down to him, doubtfully. "Neither does any other it seems, only his newly revived house. I think they mean to reinstate themselves into power by winning." Your squire hands to you a wooden lance, as he does, you share the fewest of words with one another. Comfort? Encouragement? Disapproval, perhaps? He'd never come to determine his speculations; for the joust was underway.
Upon the blow of the tournament's horn, people about him cheer and glorify the happenings of your tourney. Though Duncan cannot find resembling joy, overcome with impending dread, impossible in its oblivion to escape. The feeling mirrors that of what he'd known in Ser Arlan's final hours. Sinking malaise.
"The man refuses to show his face after any triumphs, a mystery knight, they've asserted him." Egg too revels in your tourney, partial to Duncan's declining state. Assessing him to be undergoing impending sickness. "Some claim he is scarred and beastly, unsightly beyond ruin—so hideous he must conceal himself beneath iron!" With a risen arm gripping the lance, you waste little time in bucking the expanse of your hips, dashing towards your approaching opponent with haste. "Do you think it true, Ser? A lord's face so terribly devastated he must cast himself behind his helm for fear and for shame? I think it quite silly..."
Duncan does not answer for a time, his world spinning in hindered rotations. "Aye. What could they know? How wrong might they be?" Your adversary's lance aims to strike your head, a crushing, deadly blow, should it be. "Scarred perhaps, but the rest, I'd better think not. You'd do well to hold your tongue for matters built only on whispers." More abrupt than not, you incline yourself backwards with seconds to spare, dodging the peak of your opposer's lance by mere hairs. In turn, planting yours within his branded shield, launching him rearward to meet the muddied earth below.
"I have little need for a squire whom reckons rumors for realness. Egg." He finishes, face beaming and unburdened, howling in your prompt victory. The people roar alongside him, but no single person could feasibly be prouder than Duncan himself. For no one but him shared your secret.
Egg lifts his shoulders in notable confusion, "but Ser I'd said...never mind it."
Ser Duncan finds you when the site has cleared, assuring there be no lingering eyes to witness his illfitted intrusion. He tells Egg of business he means to tend, contorted half-truths, he'd spoken, Duncan meant no harm for them. You were seated with only one candle aflame, seemingly awaiting his entrance, basking in the quiet aftershocks which followed glory. You stand once perceiving his presence, carrying the wax embedded wick as you did so.
"My lady...."—"Ser Knight Pennytree.."
There came a pregnant quietude between you, after speaking the other's name aloud concurrently. This one much differing from the last. "Apologies, m'lady. I...beg for you to pardon my outburst and speak in any fashion that serves you best." Remorseful, Duncan bows to your forgiveness.
"Believe me, there is no trouble for it. A spill of the mind, is all, a mistake often made, I'm sure. Please raise your head Dunca—Ser Duncan."
Shyness prompted undecided stares, still presenting itself whole, but a teetering surety prodded cracks through his tender wording. "Worry not in regarding my name, speak whichever you prefer, Lady Rathbone. Ser Duncan or no."
Whilst conversation strays, you decide it best to continue elsewhere, away from the staleness of your tent. "Yes, I shall consider your proposal. Mayhaps we should better ourselves with fresher air?" You saunter carefully to the tent's opening, shielding the candle's flame, Duncan follows suit.
"..Did you enjoy my joust? Was I everything you'd hoped?"
"Heh, that and more my lady. You were unlike any other I've ever beheld." His glances fall to you every now and then, taking diligence not to gawk. It was a vexing task indeed. The casual smile playing across your delicate features made it all the more taxing. "You've lifted a great burden from my shoulders, Duncan. I pray that you know."
No longer could he conceal this burning intensity, an affliction of excitement spreading across him with fevered madness. "It's me who should be overjoyed by your faith; no mere hedge knight as myself can ever hope to be meriting of such favour." The pair of you come to a halt, standing all the closer. Children and drunktards and whores alike circle around you, scavenging the grounds of Ashford Meadow in search of entertainment and commune. Content you say, "even the merest of knights have their uses—come a time."
You hold to him, the candle which you'd carried akin to sacred totems. Duncan, puzzled thinks to question your motives, "are we not to—"
"Yes, yes of course. You shall have your avowed supper with certain...it is that...l have yet another self-seeking query of you. There be no jousting involved, I assure." You speak in reluctance; concerning your attentions with the passing folk. The opportunity now yours to veer away, rather than a flustered Ser Dunk. "Celebrate with me this victory, that is all I ask. A ritual, I imagine, is the only righteous name for it."
Your hand trembles, nerves disarray. Anguish takes root within you; curling about body and mind. Never had you asked this of another. Not for quite a time. Easier, it was, to be layered in chainmail—clad in steel plates; hidden beneath a suit of armor and obscured from the lurking gaze of masses, while being all the stronger for it. You come to realize most things meant little when faced with the bravest act of all: to open oneself to another, naked and concrete. Though unmasked and unburdened, impossibly vulnerable. To be seen as you truly are.
Rambling, you find yourself. Unable to slacken thoughts so long internally withheld, you hardly register Duncan's blatant distress. He takes your hands in his, entrapping them wholly. "I am sorry, there...I could find no different way to...have you here. I tried calling out your name, but you would not answer to it, my lady."
"No, the fault is mine. I should have never asked such a foolish thing of you to start with—" You ready to pull away, to make yourself scarce, Duncan could have none of it. "M'lady, I will do whatever task you'd require of me, and shall be all the happier for it."
Warmth rose throughout your face. You'll dismiss the feeling, thinking it to be heat from the candlelight. Blood which carries to your veins will know much different.
"If you are sure then..." You tell your sweet, lovely, most loyal hedge knight to close his eyes (though shaded of glacier-blue, encompassed deep warmth); to dream of greater things beyond his present means. You tell him to wish. Wish of a title, a home, better armor, sharper swords and gold which exceeds his counting. Any desire he's long yearned for, to think of it now, and think of it loud so that the seven gods above may hear him, and upon your sworn victory, grant it.
"I dunno m'lady, how may the gods consider my wish if they can hear no word of it?"
"Speaking your wish to another is said to lessen the claim. Septons, at times, implore by similar means, for prayers they covet unspoken." Lifting a single eyelid, you measure the scope of Duncan's estrangement, weighing his doubt. "That is to say, the gods shall hear them much the same, I attest." He begins to mirror your actions, lowering his eyes to gather every want and need unanswered since birth.
"When will I know to open them..." he whispered, as if loudness would prompt cause for ruin, "may you apprise me—the moment you have finished? For then I too shall be done."
"That is for one to decide on their own. No single man, prince or peasant, can command your dreams." You speak ever softly in return. He learns with genuine intent, though often times slower than some, "...but if it is the ask of my hedge knight, how can I refuse?"
"A-Aye...it is." Duncan's hands run clammy in your own. He prays you'll take no discernment of his tension, you do.
"Hush now, allow the gods hear you true."
Standing jointly, tourney goers behold your unison, you hope none of them were of notable position, nor sound mind, lest word travels back to your mother with quickness. Gossip could no doubt emerge. The daughter of House Rathbone in arms with a man, a commoner no less. Horros of unimaginable consequence would await Ser Duncan. You found yourself almost selfish for possessing him in such ways as you did.
And that is where your wish tonight lays steady. In all of his endeavors, Ser Duncan of Pennytree only knows good fortune. May he trek clear paths and clearer wisdoms. For he is, in every possibility, the kindest man you've come upon. And the kindest man you'll believe to miss. After the Lord Ashford's daughter's tourney, perhaps even tonight, has concluded, you will diverge on your separate voyages; becoming strangers once more.
So, for now. Until the day is born again, you indulge his kindness and longing gazes. Knowing nothing of this world is without eventual end. Yet pleading that his immeasurable, undeniable, benevolence can be everlasting.
I’m an aspiring writer (she/her) & my #1 goal is to invoke all types of *:･𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 *:･within those who come across my stories! 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐏𝐀𝐃 is where I’m most active & I take inspo from 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓, my current focus is on my series but I’m hopeful to start receiving requests soon!!🇺🇸🇺🇸🌟
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 | 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐒.
RECENT WORKS —;
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒
*she served me well but i rlly wanted smth new🥲🥲, still very much present on my wattpad lol*
Guys here’s a snippet of the ser dunk fic I’ve been working on for the past month,
its gonna b 2 parts with the first (hopefully) coming out this week or next 🐒🐒🐒 content subject to change since shes sitting pretty in my 5million drafts lollll🩷
——————
The first time you and Ser Duncan lock eyes, you are sat amongst your highborn family, watching the Prince Aerion's anormal joust. The lone daughter of House Rathbone dressed in shades of onyx and gold. He remembers the tales Ser Arlan would speak of your lineage; dragons, witchcraft and love—all a nasty mix. Nearly a century's past, had it been, the dance of dragons, yet your family owed the crown a great guilt for it. Scarcely paid in full.
If left to Duncan himself, the sight of your bewitching allure alone would tempt him to omit thousands of decades worth of idle debt. Even from his own lowly position amid the common folk, and yours within the royal box seated amidst House Targaryen, he ascertains you to be the pinnacle of nobility. And, as the former Lady Rathbone curtly whispers into your ear, you audibly groan, shifting to sit the slightest bit of straighter.
Your gaze sweeps across the wave of commoners, boredom overcoming you with ambition. Until a head of ginger protrudes from the sea of browns, blacks, and blondes like the sorest of thumbs. A foot taller, he is, from the rest, perhaps more. When your discernment of the other clashes, Ser Duncan is the first to peer away. You laugh to yourself, finding a man of his stature so easily swayed by the most ordain of glances, humorous. "Enough of your meanless games, child. Look upon his royal highness, for he surely looks upon you."
Through the Dowager Rathbone's hushed words, your attentions flee from Duncan and instead onto Aerion Brightflame whom lowers the front of his helm once ensuring the sum of your focus. Ser Duncan hardly concerns himself with Aerion's tourney, busied by the weight of your responses. A chore this seemed for you, rather than an uncouth performance innumerable ladies of the court considered it to be. "Ser, did you see that?" Egg inquires. In earnest, he sparingly had, "of course I did boy—now quiet yourself."
Short, was the contest. Simply brief. The Dragon Prince had played a dirty trick—as some would call it. You found it quite the spectacle, an intrigue to contrast the tedious passage of today; other than the colossalness of that fire-headed peasant. Your hands would long grow tired of clapping before your mother speaks to you incessantly. "Go forth, congratulate the prince of his win, let it be now before his mood sours further."
You inwardly shright, descending the stands to pursue Aerion. "Right away, Mother"
The first of your exchanges with Ser Duncan were less than formal, quite the opposite of formality, in fact. Days after your initial interaction, he'd just returned from the tournament sight; defeated and fatigued. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in the cool river's stream and curl beneath his elm tree. A new day would do him better.
To his misfortune, there you stood. Clad in your ivory undergarments. Fresh from the water.
pairing ; adrian tepes , trevor belmont , sypha belnades x female reader
ཐི ➥ summary ; As the world begins to pay the toll of Dracula's rage, four unlikely heroes must band together and defeat him--no matter the price.
warnings ; swearing, troubled family dynamics (?)
word count ; 4.3k
notes ; prob my favorite chapter so far, if anyone has questions about the series i’d be happy to answer (no spoilers included lol)!! taglist is still open btw 😛!
"M-MOTHER, TELL ME YOU JEST...!", you become unsettled within your seat, Jacquelin was known for her trickery; but this was of the cruelest kind. When the half-blooded "hybrid" (you once called him endearingly) walked through the doors of your home after what felt like a millennium's time had passed; there was a piece of your being who wished to smother him like no other within an unforgiving embrace. To tell him all he had missed, and all he would not know. Ask him with a tone softer than cottoned cashmere; "why did you wait so long to find me, lovely Adrian?" Then all should be as it was, reunited like time had ceased to advance.
He'd come to visit you every-other week, you'd host marvelous slumber parties bound for the pages of history books. He'd whisper things; things secret to your ears alone. Sweet slices of heaven which you'd sworn to the grave, with tangled limbs and star-strung eyes. There was a time that if he'd told you he alone crafted the blazing balls of fire—you'd undoubtedly believe him—without a hint of hesitation. Oh how the times have changed.
Now, now was a different tale entirely. Once, you peered upon him with overflowing adoration, clouded affections (some would claim it devotion). Replacing it emerged a festering anger, open wounds which refused to scab over the blistering past of disloyalty. He'd made his choice, chosen his side; even then he had every opportunity to return and beg for forgiveness, to let your fury slowly subside and your wrath turn quaint. But he did not. And for that, Adrian—Alucard Tepes, son of Vlad Dracula, meant no more to you than a dirt blooded dog. He'd feel it too. Every passing moment of anguish you'd endured; he would suffer it—breathe the poison into his very lungs. And perish. That, you can promise.
"What you impose Mother it's, well it's simply—" you trample over the words you urgently mean to say, an arrangement of fear and madness overtaking your speech. Instead, Langrené does you the humble deed of speaking above your uncertainty. A rampant hobby of hers. "Absurd? Laughable? Preposterous? Yes dearest sister, this is something we can both wholly agree on after more than a decade's worth of dispute." Langrené's steady regard was not that of which it should; her expression coated with bafflement, displeasure, and upmost contempt. Never had she been the compassionate type, moreover her affections for anyone at all has forever been rather sparse. You, her youngest sister, were no exception.
Perhaps she held the very slightest of sympathy for you, despite appearing so evidently pitiful; you stood upon your burning pile with foolish deviance. Head held high, fist clenched tight, puncturing the softness that was your delicate palm with sharpened claw-like nails. She'll never respect me, you think, but her respect was not needed. Only the sight of your sorrow. "Nothing shall be gained from sending her away to such absolute death," she scanned the room, eyes downcast. "Especially not with these fools."
Your heels drum in rushed rhythm against the marble floor, you fall to your knees, grasping Louviers' arm as to be the final lifeline. "Father please tell me—tell me now that this...this can only be of mother's fanatical adjure." Unease stuck to your body like a second skin, you felt queasy, uneven; you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so earnestly horrid. "Say you would never let your youngest child succumb to such unkindliness, and that your wife's lunacy has been left to loiter far too long." You needn't "the eyes" against your doting father, daddy dearest, for he forever lay encased in the trance that was fatherhood. And a special place laid dormant only to you.
Instead, his head shakes and you've been all but knifed. "It's for your own good fluer, I promise." He outstretches his hand to place atop your own, but you are quick to pull away, stumbling back onto your feet with the grace of a newborn lamb. Heaving, disoriented. "Just look at her, the thought alone has sent her into a frenzy." Langrené paces behind her father's seat, standing tall and intimidating in front of you, hands neatly crossed behind her back. "We may as well send them off with a corpse and casket for their travels..." she takes a short pause to ponder, "...maybe four." Her face shifts, mouth twisting slightly upwards.
Jacquelin snaps her fingers; not once but twice. Two servants arrive to heed her aide with immediate results, she whispers lowly and shields her lips so none could read them. Then, quickly as they came, they'd scampered away. Not a word shared between them. "If you'll be generous enough as to hear our rationale I think you'd been quite pleased with us Langrené. Your poor lowly parents." Her tone was teasing because in the end, Jacquelin would have the final say—until Langrené was truly brought to power, decisions like this would have no true discourse. "Please my daughter, a moment is all we request." That does not signify she held her eldest in modest regard, to create an enemy of an offspring never birthed happy endings. She looked to her daughter pleadingly.
Begrudgingly she conceded an abrasive glower present to all who dared to look upon her, "speak your truths for as long as I will hear them."
The ambience grew quiet before a storm erupted in waves, you released a most regnant, gut-wrenching cry your narrow airway could manage, heard for the ages. It shook the core of your stomach, you would've complained of it, if not for the apparent issue that wore raging in the room. "NO. Do not tell me you actually mean to entertain such stupidity?" Your teeth clash together with each unsteady syllable that left your lips. The question was directed in particular to Langrené, but loosely to your entire family who allowed such a thought to merely cross their minds. Your head twisted, seeking out each of them. "They plot to kill me and you're willing to stand there and let them convince you?!"
Both humans stalked on the edge of consciousness, but your noise proved to arose them, for the time being at least. Lyevre had sat silent nearly the entire ordeal, head bowed and eyes closed; either in shame, sadness, or ruth. Louviers looked to you, lips shut tight in similar fashion, words weighted too laborious for him to speak. Jacquelin fiend surprise, a hum following her placid expression, Langrené simply stood unblinking, hardly moving, patiently awaiting the reasoning that would crumble her current stance.
And Alucard, you retch at the sight of him, threatening what little morsels of dinner had been scarfed down minutes before. His face no longer agitated you; it disguised your very soul. You couldn't just hate him—you detest him, loathed his being and what he represents. You thought to call him as such. What ever he's possibly scrambled to title himself within these passing years, you could not bring yourself to care.
"I refuse to stand here as my execution is contemplated! You able me to join the likes of a halfwit human, a poorly bred pooch—and a witch? I'd rather burn at the stake and my accursed ashes be fed to measly rats." Alucard's eyes sink at the implication. "Curse you all, damn you to hell...I won't stand for this!" Gathering the edge of your dress, you race away, not once looking back to see the consequence of your actions.
"(Name)! You've lost your senses completely," Langrené's sentence shook the corners of the castle, reaching you through the hall, she was loud but un-screaming. Yet you still ran and showed no signs of slowing. "Return and apologi—"
"Enough Langrené—leave her be; she's being put through so much, what more will you do...what else can she possibly deserve?" Lyevre's voice felt like a clearing pathway through foggy forests. "This is a sincere kindness compared to what she'll face if our mother insooth decides to send her battling a losing war." All the same, her heavy words were no more than fading memory, echoing footsteps fading as you traveled further and further from the dining hall. "Now, perhaps we can finally address the sizable elephant present within the room?"
Jacquelin shrugged her shoulders faintly before clasping her hands together, sighing in relief. "For quite some time now both I and Louviers had plans of sending (Name) away, not forever, just long enough to return...matured. We were under the impressionable thought by some miracle she'd begin to display intrigue about learning her abilities, the question ultimately proved where." She glanced between both Langrené and Alucard. "Whether you came to us or not Adrian—she was set for departure, so be free of any guilt you may harbor. The act is needless, for I am thankful you've returned. To save her."
Louviers absolved his throat of a growing absence, "our options were rather....numbered." His tone present with doubt, almost mournful. "We'd discussed the countryside: a considerable secluded location that would be rather lonesome, but only in the best of intentions. Then there's to be the presented choice of allowing her to frolic amongst the beloved townsfolk residing in Lavatris, close as home could provide." Louviers lifted his hand, tilting his wrist at a sharp angle; emptying the remanence of liquid onto the glistening floor's surface, dreading his next thought. "And finally, there was to be a young women's boarding house of sorts—neighboring just west of here...desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose." With every ephemeral word brought noticeable displeasure upon Louviers' sturdy features, as if each instance was more painstaking to speak than the last.
The woman beckoned her husband closer, he complied without fault. Joining his wife at her side, garnishing him with gentle affections. "...You may ask why we are so ambitious to send her forth, true bloods cannot afford dwindling numbers. Not in this day and age, anyhow. Frankly it pains us more than anything to do this but, we've almost solely ruined that child." Louviers nods in agreement, "I will admit, she's been coddled quite a bit."
"You've done more than coddled the girl, she's been smothered and it was all your own fruition." Langrené spills acid from her tongue, "I'll never blame her for what she's become, that was beyond her control; a victim of circumstance. However, I do hold her in fault for choosing to remain helpless. And now you feel to set a baby bird free with unborn wings." She scoffs. "I only hope she returns scarred, if at all."
"Know this, older sister, many birds must first fall before they can begin to take flight. I think this scenario will be objectively similar." Langrené acknowledges her sister in faint astonishment, presuming she'd been silenced for the remainder of dinner. "Lyevre...and I take it you agree with this...repugnancy?"
"The approach is something to be studied but, I foresee a brighter future ahead." She soothes her belly, observing within a state of pure longing. "So, you have my conclusive blessings Adrian."
"Listen intimately Langrené, and Lyevre too. I won't feel sorry for having risen (Name) with more nurture than I thought to have by either of you. Only we did not know at what times to stop." Jacquelin turns to face Louviers with a look of knowing, he tightens his hold amongst her hand, "as we give you ours Adrian, we trust you'll uplift her to greater heights never before seen by the masses."
Langrené stomps back around to her seating, obnoxiously so, making no effort to quiet her steps. A dark purple hue surrounds the chair as it moves on its own accord, screeching against the floor like torn violin strings. "Then there is nothing left to be said...Adrian, I shan't give you my blessings for I believe such things to be a falsehood created by the intelligence of humanly greed. Instead I send to you my condolences—as many troubles forever face a hero's path."
If not felt before, Alucard was now crushed by an intense pressure aboard his robust shoulders more than ever. Heavy could not begin to measure its tremendous weight. He questioned only for a moment's time what could've been causing the constant kinks in his neck, or the aching along his boney spine. The answer couldn't have been more clear if it'd kneed him between the legs. The world, of course, its delicate balance waltzed upon his back in wavering fashion, digging its heels further and further into the blankets of his humanly flesh with dramatic rhythm. But never mind it, never mind such things when others were of the upmost importance. His quest was far from complete, in fact, it'd barely begun at all.
So, the awaited savior Alucard swallowed; consuming his fears, his woes, his worries and his crafted words, being careful not to choke. Devout to the prophecy—to saving human kind. "Thank you, all of you, not only for your generosity but also your trust. Hear me when I say with certitude that my father's rein shall be renounced and (Name) returned, more than which she left." He stood, his hand courtly placed directly on his faintly drumming heart.
"How pleasant to hear such assurance, even if your ternary isn't particularly up-to-par." Jacquelin's gaze ghost over Sypha and Trevor's fatigued forms, her words lacking enthusiasm. "Yes...you'll leave the dawn after next, we'll send you off with any provisions your hearts desire!" Alucard nodded along, a polite smile playing along his features. "Mother I shall escort these heroes back to their sleeping quarters, it's clear they'll tire to death with each passing breath." Without awaiting her response Langrené lifted the two humans from their seats with only a glance. "Come along Adrian, do not falter behind me."
"Good day to you Dauvillers; may your rest be eternally easy." As they exited the dining hall, the fading sounds of continued conversation could be heard. A louder, less refined voice joined. What's with all the noise in here? Something I miss lovely?—Nothing Beau, just sit down and eat.—AYE ye' should've seen the blokes at the gate tonight, looked like something even a damned flee-bitten feline couldnt've brought through here...
Morning's playful dawn soon infiltrated the night's tame sky; Langrené tenderly secured both Trevor and Sypha into their designated rooms, leaving Alucard to wonder nostalgic halls alongside her. The atmosphere was less than consortable, but Alucard quite appreciated such silence, he'd spoken enough for one day (possibly entire weeks). She then paused to oversee an enclosed flower garden through lengthy window panels. "Look out to there, Adrian. Tell me what you see." Her voice was minutely absent of the strict, disregarding tone she used so often. Standing in its place seated something gentle.
"I see a stream of running water, purple anemones, coneflowers, some gladiolus—among many other types I cannot hope to recognize, and..." His words trailed off in disorderly directions, he scrambled to find them easily, caught unguarded by what he'd witnessed. "You—You're sister, (Name), she tends to the garden with great amounts of...care." Alucard stood stunned at his own description towards your act. Never had he known you to be someone blessed with a green thumb, much less a caring hand, he reputed it was an eventual thing to become, considering your fascinations. "Yes Adrian, you are absolutely right."
Alucard reacted seconds too soon, clashing upon her candid, menacing, unforgiving stare. There was no battle for dominance between the fixated look they both shared, simply unmistakable glowering. "Might that be all you allow yourself to see, know it is of plenty. (Name) may be the most incompetent, spoiled—obsolete true blood one shall ever have the displeasure of meeting within this lifetime and the next, but know that she remains my sister all the same. And I love her more than any amount of human blood ever to be spilled, do you heed my words well Alucard?"
"Undoubtedly—"
"Allow me to speak in more definitive terms, as to spare no room for needless confusion." Slowly her attention hallows away from the half-blood, she treks further down the elongated hall; swallowed by unearthly shadows. Alucard dared not to follow. "When my sister returns, if more than a single scratch is bared upon her delicate cheek...you will pay dearly." Langrené's eyes glow dangerously bright, while her head tilts to view him one final time. "I'll have your head mounted to my walls like last season's catch, but worry not, you won't fair such fate alone; your comrades will join you. A merry band of moronic wolves you'll be until your dying breaths." With that Langrené smiled, hands crossed neatly behind her back (posture unrivaled to none) she stalked away, no amount of remorse depicted.
He dared not to move. Not until he was certain, the threat, all while being his saving grace; had hence dissipated.
The sight of flowers brought him little ease.
You were beyond outraged. This was a betrayal of the highest order. They've sentenced you to death, one marked by prolonged pain and spiteful demise. Mother, Father, Lyevre, Langrené, Adri— you refused the mention of his name within the confinements of your troubled mind. Emotions shortly overtake action, yearning immediate validation midst your fury.
A rampage runs rapid throughout the pristine halls, costly items (most valued enough to purchase a peasant’s home), are toppled with little consideration, shattering against once stainless floors. You maim painted portraits of every type using the edge of your pointed nails; faces become torn while faux fruits are ripped. The few servants you cross make no attempt to contain the damage left in your wake, turning a blind eye from the mess they'll be made to clean come afternoon. Your spree is quiet as the sun is cold. You would not be silenced, nor obstructed. You'd pray for all to hear the mayhem you ensue; halting their agreeable conversations and instead adhere to nothing except your needs. They'll plead for slender complacency, sparing the castle of your madness.
Though, they never come. Not a single human, vampire, or hybrid bounds to your location, you are brought to lean lonesomely against a wall, tucked into its chilling corner, rays of purple light reflected on the smooth surface from a near window. Once all is said and done you are left exasperated, exhausted too. No better than which you began. Perchance, this was not the whole truth. Slight solace was founded in your destruction (but not nearly enough), serving as a form of protest. Perhaps the only form of protest you could procure with such scarce choice.
Haggard and overcome with sorrow, you force laxity out of your limp form, venturing to a wooden door. Along its hardened material spiraling florals had been drawn, the design was carefree, inspiring, childlike. Twisting its blackened handle, you felt a rush of nostalgia whelm your previously sunken senses. This newfound feeling coaxes you to persist down familiar cobble steps, you never once slip amongst their sleek edges; hues of various color illuminate supple skin in passing, your mind knows this place well.
Awaits you are double doors left ajar for an anticipated return. Without pause you pull them apart and marvel at the sight. The flower garden, your safe haven; created using blood, sweat, tears, and time. Not a single flower nor inch of soil hadn't been graced by your heedful touch. Years it took to carefully curate every seed, to assure their survival within the trying climate, to procreate in masses; and against all odds, you'd succeeded. It wouldn't be far fetched to title this your life's work, despite the infinity which stirs ahead.
You viewed every patch as if your first, observing them with loving eyes and proud cheeks. They are your everything. Some would call you crazed, but what is a life worth living without obsession? For a passage of time, the cycling world around had been forgotten. What future expected you outside these very doors, until your eyes settled upon them.
Idly confined within your garden of heaven were Convallaria majalis, otherwise known to be: Lily of the Valley. Poisonous as they are mesmerizing, white petal heads forever downturned towards the ground which rooted them in vested affections; appearing shame of its baneful flaw. They required particular care, dying in following weeks after growth, you forgive and start again, rightfully devising them to be favored among its brethren. No soul ever questioned as to why it remained the only flower of its color inside your sacred meadow. The answer considered though never spoken aloud.
Lost in thought, something unsettling sought to stir. Miraculously, inside the lieu of which you called a refuge, your skin starts to crawl and nerves begin to fray. Abrupt agitation replaces profound felicity, dormant perceptions become dynamic—your heart simply couldn't resent.
These flowers; your masterpiece occupied such a vast portion of your life. You've poured countless hours into their wholth, countless particles of dirt caked beneath your nails, countless nights spent scouring the spine's of anthology text. All so that they may flourish. Yet, what has been given in return? A floral scent? A pretty sight? The same things bestowed upon all others?
Now, the Convallaria majalis' beauty seems to fade like old ink. Their lovely shade of white appears awfully too bright. Addictively sweet scent soon soured; nausea overfills more senses than one, your stomach turns. Descending to your knees, wrist crowding gainst your nostrils to block the obnoxious smell. A hand reaches out to hold its delicate blooms, to feel the essence of your work, countering opposing odds.
For a moment it works. That is, until the skin of your fingers burst into harsh rashes—at first there was nothing, then came a burning sensation along your pores; irritating and near sweltering. Such a feeling ached to be scratched beneath the skin, only when it began to climb along your hand did you pull away, stunned but finally knowing. Knowing of your worth—of your extent. A giver, which so little had been given to in return.
You watch as the rash heals mere seconds later, but you do not feel so comforted nor sooth. Returning to the same flower, you take its petal between your fingers and you crush, shifting them side to side as the flower is withered and dying. The look on your face is unintelligible, there is no smile present. Simply a stare.
The rest are not handled so meticulously; the remaining are pulled from the roots up, torn in half, sometimes threes. All are beheaded, deprived of their defining trait. Dirt is strewn everywhere, your clothes long soiled, hair astray. Then, there is nothing left to dismember, all is left in its place a patch of untidy dirt. The others have seen you, what you have done to their brethren. You wonder if they had the minds to fear you, what you are capable of. "Ha." You laugh at the ridiculous notion. For if they held mind at all, your sweet lillies, would've know what was best for them.
And yet there they lie: gone, discarded, disgraced.
Your nose leaks, you wipe. Next is your eye, right then left; you wipe again. Before you manage to dry them quickly enough a salty waterfall erupts. You sob, hiccup, croak, regret, hate, too much all at once. The door behind you creaks, a sickeningly sweet scent. "Have you come to love and wilt my flowers away as well? If so there is no need—I'd rather it be done alone." You have no heart, no stomach, no mind to face him.
"(Name) know that this was never my intent, to ever think you'd be the one they send away." Alucard's gentle voice coaxes heartfelt emotion, it's hardly a whisper, the guilt must be crushing. You grit your teeth, "do not pity me Alucard, the very moment you sent strife to this household, you knew I was no better than doomed."
Alucard stifles, unknowing of what to say, unknowing of you. Someone he'd once knew better than any other. He desired to touch you—to reach you and your quelling thoughts, perhaps if he held you within his arms, you'd feel his thoughts become your own; to know that his efforts were just. "If you'd only seen the dire circumstance of our situation; if you saw what was at stake."
"Oh I know ascertain what is at stake, and I quite frankly couldn't care enough. You've made a grave mistake Alucard, and it will cost the lives of millions because of your imbecility." Finally you gain the fading courage to look upon him from the corner of your eye, "the instant you thought to come here and bring those blood bags here alongside yourself—a knife should've driven through your weak mortal heart."
"You are beside yourself...I won't believe your words come from a place of truth. I cannot."
"Then you truly have fooled yourself then, haven't you Adrian? You were always the greatest of pretenders...I suppose that has not changed." You left no room for continued conversion, Alucard waited for an apology, any small sign of remorse; there was none. He'd tortured you with his presence long enough. "Then I shall take my leave, good day (Name)." He earned no response, nor was one expected, yet he stalled. His efforts wasted. He hoped without reason.
And when you craned your neck to see if he stayed, the boy you knew; the man you adored. He was gone.
pairing ; adrian tepes , trevor belmont , sypha belnades x female reader
ཐི ➥ summary ; As the world begins to pay the toll of Dracula's rage, four unlikely heroes must band together and defeat him--no matter the price.
warnings ; swearing, blood consumption, biblical references (like one), mind control stuff
word count ; 3.9k
notes ; i’ll be starting a taglist here but i’m unsure about how long it’ll be kept open, so if u want to be added just reply to this post 😋😋!! i’d like to note that my wattpad always has an extra chapter posted b4 tumblr, so please check it out!!!💕💕
FOR WHAT FELT LIKE HOURS, a thick quietness overcame the corridor-but this was soon after replaced with fast sounds of movement as Trevor extended the whip on his side while Sypha created hot flames in her palms. The fire served as a small light source alongside the glow of Alucard's eyes, and a pair of unknown purple hues in the near distance.
"How insolent, you come into my home and threaten...me with toys and child's play?" The feminine voice laughed, her words booming throughout the castle in waves. In the darkness three more pairs of dark glowing eyes emerged, "speaker! Belmont! Stand down." Alucard tried his absolute best to keep the situation under control, but was only met with retaliation. They watched aimlessly while the trio of eyes flown across the room in circles around them, hysterical laughter following each of the moving figures. Each chanting their own retorts, successfully unnerving both Sypha and her equally edged accomplice Trevor.
"Shameless, entering our abode to taunt us with incantations and artillery..."
"Look at how their faces cage magnificent red! Imagine the taste."
"Expel of them swiftly, the filthy things."
Each voice spoke their truths with little to no hesitance, all wearing differentiating voices and identities. The insults continued unwavering, even as Alucard attempted to speak over them, but once more his efforts were wasted. "ENOUGH." That is, until the undeniable presence spoke above all noise made about, causing the feminine voices to become silenced as they no longer lofted about the room teasingly—instead standing beside one another near a grand window which now only served for decoration as no light shown through its glaring transparency.
"Now...step forth." Within a moment's time, Trevor along with Sypha obey the spoken orders in perfect sync. Similar to a solemn soldier and his commander. They weren't themselves. Mind clouded with an endless fog, and no matter how far they ran or how hard they fought-the thickness prevailed, neither of them were in control. "Much better, wouldn't you agree girls?" Mingled snickers could be heard from behind the imposing figure.
Suddenly a single pair of candles lit inside the room,
"every word you speak, any move you make; are no longer yours alone. Instead they will belong to me for however long I shall please." The light now provided a reveal for their perpetrators face, a woman appearing to be around her early 40's stood over them, looking down from her raised pedestal. Her most striking features were of course, her encapsulating amethyst-tinted eyes, the woman was...breathtaking for a vampire.
"...and soon I'll know your own mind better than you ever will." After her speech, quietness overcame the room once more, of course there had been the shallow grunts sounding from Sypha and Trevor, but those too would be silenced in the coming minutes-once their minds grew tired and the enchantment took full affect.
Finally, Alucard would step up. His mind curiously unaffected from a true blood's power, "I apologize on behalf of my companions...it seems they should've been better educated on certain matters." He lowered his head before giving a curt bow. "It's been too long, Jacquelin." Various gasp fill the room, the loudest coming from 'Jacqueline' herself.
"Do my eyes deceive me? No, I'm never wrong!" She steps over the black railing, promptly gliding down to gather a better look at the boy...no...man in front of her. Placing her hand to his icy cheeks, Alucard neither denies nor accepts the touch. "My it is you sweet Adrian, time seems to have wavered in your fortune."
Alucard hummed in response to her praise, a smile playing along his face, though he himself felt lukewarm. "As much as I appreciate the compliments, I think I'd be more appreciative if those two would be sincerely sparred." Jacquelin huffed, crossing her arms, she walks circles around the frozen duo, observing them. "Interesting. A hunter and a speaker, what are you planning?"
"Why ask when you already know?" There's slight edge to his tone, not enough to be considered hostile, but present all the same. Jacquelin smiled jeeringly, lines forming around her mouth, "their insight isn't near as concise in comparison to yours." She neared Sypha, fiddling with the arm of her clothing. Eyes beginning to glow dangerously bright. "I wanted to hear it directly from you, all that knowledge. Locked away and hidden. Share it with me, won't you?"
"Enough with the spectacle darling, you'll scare our guest." A fourth and final voice entered the room, this one pronounced and deep, echos bouncing off the walls until reaching Adrian and Jacquelin. "Oh but it was only a bit of fun." She began to hone her full attention onto her husband, floating up towards him almost magnetically, the man captured his wife within a gentle embrace, a smile too playing on his face upon seeing hers. The man was tall and fibrous, a well groomed salt and pepper beard adorning his face. He'd also be dressed lavishly in dark clothing, similar to his wife and children. In fact, his children mostly favored him aside from their most distinguished feature. "All in good taste, I assure you Louviers."
Adequately, Jacquelin releases her control with a simple and dismissive wave. Immediately the two returned to their defensive stance, "what the hell just happened?" Trevor questions, confused and wary as ever. Alucard twisted his head to look back at them, "calm yourselves, a solution has just been reached."
"Surely you know by now that this would be a fight you stood no chance of winning." Jacquelin giggled from behind her hand. "Mother, is the fun over already?" Emerging from behind was a heavily pregnant woman, sporting the same purple eyes as she Jacqueline. "Unfortunately your father cut it short. Disheartening isn't it, Lyevre?"
Before anything else could be said, the two other sisters revealed themselves from their shadowing positions. "Perfect everyone's here! Langrené, Lyevre, and (Name). Come greet our guest." The man bequeathed his daughters forward, calling each of their name's in order of birth. "My dear, I have an even more wonderful idea." Jacquelin interject, grin broad as day. "What better way to become reacquainted than dinner, Adrian has much to discuss with us but I am simply famished."
Jacquelin didn't have to utter another sentence, she felt the back of her hand be pleasantly kissed by soft; familiar lips. "Say not another word my love." With a snap of his fingers servants seemed to appear from thin air to aid their master's request. "Please show our guest to their rooms-assure they are in close quarters to one another." Louviers begins to lead himself and his wife elsewhere into the castle, eyes forever trained on Jacquelin. "And prepare a rather humane meal tonight, will you? In customary accommodations to our visitors."
Upon his parting words, workers scampered around them, immediately going to work without a minute to lose. A handful of them ushered the trio deeper into the castle, both Trevor and Sypha looked to Alucard with worry and doubt (he'd lost count of the reoccurring action), but wordlessly, they trailed along.
Alucard could feel a singular pair of eyes following his every move; down to the slightest shift in breaths, to the numbered amount of times his eyelids had fluttered themselves shut. He knew the gaze all too well-but the familiarity did nothing to stop him from turning to face its truth. THERE YOU STOOD head held high, eyes low with distain, betrayal, anger. The same look you'd given him all those years ago as he walked through your castle doors for the final time. If looks could kill, Alucard would've already been sent to the underworld three thousand times over.
Some things truly never change.
The reluctant heroes would be gathered for dinner that same night, instead of sending an undead servant to fetch for them-the second Dauvillier sister stood ecstatically in front of Alucard's door, her knocks persisted until the door was opened. "Adrian! Whatever took you so long to answer?" It had only been a few seconds...he wanted desperately to counter. "It's rude to keep a lady waiting, where have your manners gone?" From behind her Alucard could see an already exhausted Trevor, but a particularly joyful Sypha.
"My apologies, Lyevre...may I?" Alucard held out an expecting arm for her to take, one which she gladly accepted, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Of course!"
Together they gracefully traveled arm in arm towards the dining room, the gesture done out of pure politeness. Sypha and Trevor trailed a few paces behind, observing the decor of the castle halls. "Who is the lucky gentleman?" Alucard gestures to the golden ring adoring Lyevre's finger, a beautiful amethyst gem embedded on its surface. She began giggling cheerfully, like a young peasant girl in love.
Lyevre was the kindest out of her sisters, her upbeat personality complimented by a soft tone of voice made it easy for anyone--vampire or not--to fall for her charms. Long dark hair flowed behind her, nearly exceeding the length of the silky lilac robes she wore. Material optimizing her comfort. Especially in her current state.
A free, dainty hand reaching to message her round stomach. "You'll meet him at supper, he's quite the catch I must say." Alucard's eyes widened, deciding to humor her statement with blandishments. "He must be quite the sire indeed, to earn your affections." Once more Lyevre laughed softly, "quit your flattery Adrian, if my husband catches ear-well, he can get very jealous."
Remaining in easy conversation, they'd finally reached the dining area. The room itself was grand enough to hold unending banquets and balls. The decor (similar to the rest of the castle) was decorated rather darkly, accented with their family's signature color; purple.
"EXCELLENT, you've finally arrived! Hurry take a seat so we may begin dinning." As her father spoke, Lyevre left Alucard's side to seat herself beside her younger sister, you. Only sparing their group a revolted glance before returning yourself to scratching at your empty porcelain plate. Sypha rushed to sit across from Lyevre, seemingly continuing their earlier conversation, while Trevor cautiously moves to seat himself in front of Langrené—the eldest sister—who couldn't even bother to regard him whatsoever, instead choosing to further debate her father on foreign matters.
Langrené was undoubtedly the most cutthroat of your sisters, the strongest too. Like all firstborns, she had been burdened with the duty of upholding the family's name, assuring its success without fail. She was beautiful as she was menacing; having no need for charms Langrené much rather preferred utilizing threats and favors to gain advantages. Her hair sat styled in a half-updo, barely reaching below her shoulder blades. Dressed in thick but modest purple fabrics that left much to be imagined, only a single shade away from black.
Lastly, it came Alucard's turn to find himself a place amongst the group. There remained only two arrangements; the unoccupied chair beside Lyevre, (unmistakably left vacant for someone that wasn't him) and the empty seat crossways from yourself. Taking notice of this you scoff, a corner of your lip upturned high in the air. "Un-bel-ievable!" You say aloud, earning the attention of Lyevre. "Don't be rude fleur. Your playmate has come to see you, isn't that lovely?" She gestures for Alucard to continue his movements, "it's true, we haven't seen one another in ages...I've missed you quite dearly."
You flinch at his closing words, heart racing ever so slightly off pace. The feeling didn't last long. Crossing your arms over the expanse of your chest, you turn to face elsewhere in an effort to avoid his hallowing gaze. "And whose fault may that be?" Alucard leaned back into the furniture with a small sigh, he hadn't expected to be welcomed back by you warmly. Especially considering the circumstance of his last parting, but it's as if over the course of years your stubbornness had impossibly amplified.
Other qualities had amplified also since your last interaction, so long ago. Out of all your sisters you were unabashedly the most pampered, expected of the youngest. You hadn't grown up with the same hardships and pressures as your eldest sister; nor were you taught the importance of discipline and kindness like your older. You were allowed to flourish without the bidding of rules or the weight of power. And flourish in ways you might.
At the sight of tears or the howl of your voice, anything you desired was yours alone to own. Mountains of luxurious gowns, the sweetest of virgin blood, toys carved from that of diamonds and gold. You'd known to work for nothing, so you'd grown to work for none. Everything existed in your delight, and things that did not were simply forgotten. What reason would you have to learn the art of swordsmanship? Or needlessly drown yourself in studies for hours on end? To even master the works of your inherited abilities seemed so utterly pointless, what purpose could it ever serve?
Adorning your form was a dress suitable for only those bearing the royalist of blood, the material clouded down your shoulders in puffy sleeves leaving them bare for all to witness. Your cleavage wore minimal coverage as well; the top half of your chest displayed in a fashionable manner. Intricate designs cascaded along the expensive fabric accompanied by a number of matching laces and bows, effectively tying the outfit elegantly together. Hair styled similarly to Lyevre's, but never quite as long-wavering just above your hips.
Yes, you'd grown with assurance. Perhaps a little too much.
Before he could think to carry his dialogue much farther, an abrupt noise cuts through all others. Jacquelin stood at the far-most end of the table, similar to her husband, she held high in the air a empty wine glass awaiting to be filled by soothing, rich liquid; in her opposing palm rested a golden fork-made from only the purest materials. "Now that almost everyone has been gathered," she cuts quick eyes to Lyevre, "let us dine in each other's company and enjoy this nostalgic rekindling."
Instances after servants appeared to fill empty glasses and carry in their arms trays of an unending feast, stacked with various amounts of food; red meats, fish, poultry, wheat, vegetables and fruits. This was the grandest of grand dining. More food had been dished out in a single night than either Sypha or Trevor would see years to follow.
At first they looked upon the display with fearful eyes. Justifiably so. Anyone should be once having their minds bent and nearly broken beyond comprehension-but such the humanity of hunger would entice even the most durable of beings. Sypha couldn't help but to recall a faithful tale told by the ages of Eve and the forbidden fruit. While Trevor remembered the teachings of his youth, bribery the killer of fools.
Still, she stuffed her cheeks full like a rodent. Thanking every silent servant that wordlessly cleared her plates or offered her new feedings. And he, had drunken himself into a spell of his own. One glass after another downing his hearty throat.
The Dauvilliers—your family watched with mixed expressions of amusement, disgust, and wonder. Looking upon the two humans gouging themselves as if the latest spectacle. The scene akin to how fae tempt the human mind with simple trickeries for entertainment until their untimely deaths. Alucard felt a feeling of shame wash over him like a cold water, knowing that he himself was at least partially susceptible to such humane behavior. But in the same breath he too felt anger, knowing this was the extent of humanly worth to man-feeders like you. He swallowed his accursed thoughts, they would do him no good here.
Louviers' laugh was effusive, wiping his lips of any excess food that might've escaped with a pearly white cloth. "I'd forgotten how delightful watching humans feast can be, what a splendid idea darling." He looked to his wife who'd just finished her 5th glass of blood wine and showed little sign of stopping. "Yes, it's truly a show indeed. How many ages has it been since we last partook in the practice?"
"Far too long I must say." Louviers glances to Trevor's empty bottle, commanding someone to "bring his friend another drink" as he'd articulated. Simultaneously his middle daughter humored Sypha in a similar fashion, admiring how she'd been essentially inhaling her meal.
"Are all humans this desperate for food...poor things." Alucard knew the question was lined with false worry-faux concern-but Sypha was none the wiser. He noticed the way Lyevre's eyes started to faintly glow, whispering sugar-coated nothings into the shell of her ear. You happily indulged in your sister's game, holding a slice of ripe, delectable pomegranate to her lips, coaxing her to unwilling taking another bite. "You are not yet full are you, Speaker? Go on eat just a little more." Lyevre's control left Sypha's mind after uttering those few but haunting syllables; now turned thoughts at the forefront of her mind.
Alucard could only hold his tongue. At the end of the day, it was your family's help he required, and if becoming party tricks for only a few hours would spare humanity from certain doom-so be it.
"Enough of this," Langrené finally took it upon herself to speak above your family's joyous cries after silently watching for nearly the entirety of dinner. There was not even a passing glance of amusement to be seen; instead evident irritation and displeasure. She rose from her place at the table, the palm of her cold hand slamming against the table and with it, plates of food and utensils begin to levitate from the table's surface. Her voice carried oh-so effortlessly across the room, causing a number of servants to stop in their tracks, fearing they've made a grave mistake.
"You know I tend to quickly tire of games, Adrian Fahrenheit Tepes, so tell me of your being here-tell me now or leave with that of which you came."
Alucard knew his next few words could change the course of history itself, but he wondered not of what "that" Langrené spoke of meant, but he feared it all the same; perhaps his limbs? Or maybe she referred to the two humans he'd been traveling with for days on end; who were, as of now, incapable of forming a coherent sentence. At this moment (the wrong one), Alucard finds his humanity to be more dawning than ever. The weighted gazes of your family, combined with the various object spinning around overhead; Alucard attempts to straighten his posture, but even then he struggles to find the words.
"It is unfortunate that I am unable to access the mind of other's as can my mother and sister—if I could—this entire ordeal would have concluded the moment you graced the doorstep of this family. For dear Adrian, it does not take enchanted forces to know this is no mere reunion of old ties."Alucard remembers how he practiced throughout voyage here, he'd practice in perfect paragraphs how'd he would sway your family. His words buttered by reasoning, smooth with certainty. Curious is the mind.
"Mon petit amour, calm yourself. There exist not a soul who doesn't know our dear Adrian has been through a great deal." Jacquelin's fingers danced in the air, and soon everything returned to its rightful place among the table, including Langrené. Smiling she said, "Go ahead Adrian, you have the floor."
Alucard nodded in thanks, clearing his hoarse throat once his thoughts finally settled. "As you may have caught wind, no more than a year ago now-my mother was killed-falsely accused of witchcraft." There were no gasp of surprise, nor the fall of drinks, instead scarce pity. "My word, how truly regrettable it is to hear. That woman was remarkable for her kind." Louviers subtly shook his head, gaze casted downward onto his finished plate of food. Jacquelin hummed, taking another sip, "I'd heard rumors, but talk can be ever-so cheap."
"The news was rather unfathomable to me also, I mean the Count Dracula allowing his bride to murdered? Impossible!" Lyevre held a dramatic hand over her heart, breath appearing to leave her body as she spoke. "They say she was burned alive at the stake, is it true? I must declare, such punishments become more common with each passing day." The eldest sister grinned, Alucard could only ponder what seemed so tickling about his mother's death. He held his tongue once more.
"Hmph, such is the nature of humans. How does it feel to be controlled by fear, Adrian? Or do you prefer Alucard, now?" Your eyes-your words too, were filled to the brim with such contempt, such repulse, Alucard wondered who exactly he looked to in that moment. True bloods weren't notorious for their compassion towards humans, but you were a different entity entirely. "The same way you are controlled by hunger. (Name)." He was quick to shoot back, but careful in his tone. Your venomous glare sharpened, if not amidst a discussion, you'd pounce across the table and show him what. "I am...grateful...for your words, Dauvilliers. So you must know that following my mother's departure has been my father's wrath. Not only upon those responsible, but all of humanity."
"Goodness, how could we not? Just before your arrival we'd been deliberating our next plan of action, right Louviers..." she didn't give a chance to respond. "...but then I caught smell of a prophecy, that just might be our solution." Jacquelin's smile never faltered, instead growing as she rested her chin on the inside of her palm. "Feel absolute to correct me if I'm mistaken." She looked to Alucard, who sat as composed as one could. "Of course not Jacquelin, you never are."
Like a tale as old as old as the times; Alucard spoke of the story-fated heroes destined to rescue humanity's people. The soldier, the hunter, the scholar, and the true blood. Billions of lives rested in their balance, but only if they can acquire the final piece.
"Ah...allow me to clarify. You mean to recruit one of us, in hopes that we may kill your father? Alucard I must applaud you for your bravery, disguised as stupidity." Langrené stood from the table, beginning to walk away. "You are dismissed, I'm afraid you'll have to find some other willing vampire to do your biddings. Begone."
"My daughter, do not act out with such haste. Who are we to deny any prophecy if it means our safety?" Louviers' words halted his child in her tracks, "don't be ludicrous father, I won't allow anyone of this family to die for the sake of mortals. Mother, please reason with him!"
Jacquelin sat buried beneath contemplation. Though her oldest daughter has been arranged to inherit the family's title, the decision is still her's alone to make. "Your father is right, this is not our choice to make as forces beyond have already pronounced their judgment." Her expression shifted into that of rage, had she finally grown mad in her age, Langrené could not help but think. "Then who shall it be mother? Perhaps father who does not even carry the eyes, or I, the next to inherit this legacy? Maybe you are considering Lyevre who—may I remind you—is with child? No, I'm completely deluded. It is yourself, you wish to be a savior. Don't make me laugh."
She took a long pause before answering, the room falling silent. Aside from Langrené's heavy breathing, and Trevor's incessant mumbles. "Not at all Langrené, for it is your youngest sister; (Name), who shall fulfill this pending prophecy."
pairing ; adrian tepes , trevor belmont , sypha belnades x female reader
ཐི ➥ summary ; As the world begins to pay the toll of Dracula's rage, four unlikely heroes must band together and defeat him--no matter the price.
✧✧ ALT ; IN WHICH, a young
pureblood must unwilling
help the very things she
feeds upon.
warnings ; fem descriptions, use of (name), extreme violence, gore, (non explicit) sexual content, and other material that may not be suitable for all audiences.
When I’m looking through the “x reader” tag, and even the TITLE SAYS “character x reader”, but when I start to read the fic it says “you have blonde hair, blue eyes, and your name is Hannah.”
