#Legends Over The Horizon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortless · 2 months

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Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

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midnightmoonbeams · 2 years

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I've been doing a thing!

So I've been noticeably inactive here for a LONG TIME.

I've been over on Twitch doing some game streaming! That's where I've been most active since November '21. I have a schedule and everything! My Twitch channel is here!

Currently, my stream schedule is:

Mondays 1:30pm Central time (story/adventure games - currently I am playing through The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time) Tuesdays 1:30pm Central time (Multiplayer games - currently I am playing Mario Kart 8 Deluxe 200cc Grand Prix as well as doing some online play) Wednesdays 1:30pm Central Time (Animal Crossing: New Horizons)

I typically stream until 5pm/5:30pm or so, sometimes a bit longer, if adventuring takes me further. I've been having a blast over there and would love it if ya'll would come join me!

I do plan on becoming a bit more active over here again, soon, as well. I want to get a queue built up again.

Anyways, I hope to see ya'll on Monday for Ocarina of Time!

#hiatus is over #twitch #twitch streaming #video games #the legend of zelda #ocarina of time #the legend of zelda ocarina of time #mario kart #mario kart 8 #mario kart 8 deluxe #200cc grand prix #animal crossing #animal crossing new horizons #small twitch stramer #just hanging out playing video games

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lets-try-some-writing · 5 months

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Has anyone really thought about the fact that Bumblebee and Smokescreen pretty much grew up during war? I am sure people have, but have yall really THOUGHT about how that must have fragged them up in the head? It hit me earlier today, but I can imagine that there are just a ton of little things these two do that made perfect sense during the war, but now that the war is over, look really odd.

Bumblebee I imagine was raised to be very conservative with energon use. It was a treasured resource and there was no room for him to be playing around with it meaninglessly. I can see him getting angry at his team, yelling at them about ridiculous energon use as though he were still on the front lines trying to save as much as possible in case of an attack. Smokescreen I think would have been trained to function on minimal amounts of recharge to the point of it being scary for normal bots now that the war is over. Him just wandering around on night patrol, his gaze on the horizon looking for the tell tale signs of seekers or artillery strikes. I bet it freaks Bee's team out a lot.

Also Bumblebee and Smokescreen getting Bee's team playing games that they think are normal and fun, but are NOT in any way either of those. Something like tag but if you get caught you are electrocuted in order to teach you to keep moving. Games where instead of a ball, actual weapons are involved in order to improve reaction time. Random bombing drills made "fun" by songs and marching. Being taught to defuse explosives while working to the equivalent of Cybertronian kahoot music. Not to mention the bedtime stories and legends these poor sparks were told. I 100% believe that Megatron and the Cons were the boogiemen of their early lives.

So many things they see as normal, such as cleaning a weapon as a soothing action instead of, I don't know, going on a walk. Checking the security feed as their version of a break. Doing drills in the morning rather than having any fuel since again, fuel is precious.

So much crap that they think is normal but slowly realize is not and is just their wartime trauma.

I think I will write a fic about it to be honest.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #transformers rid2015 #bumblebee #smokescreen #fic ideas #post war cybertron #yeaah I have some thoughts #this is going to be part of a new au methinks

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thegreeneroommagazine · 2 years

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JORN ANNOUNCES NEW STUDIO ALBUM- NEW SINGLE & VIDEO FOR THE TITLE TRACK OUT NOW

JORN ANNOUNCES NEW STUDIO ALBUM “OVER THE HORIZON RADAR” IS SCHEDULED FOR RELEASE ON JUNE 17, 2022 NEW SINGLE & VIDEO FOR THE TITLE TRACK ARE OUT NOW Simply one of the greatest rock singers of our time, Jorn Lande returns with a new studio album, “Over the Horizon Radar,” on June 17, 2022. This latest studio album shows the Norwegian vocalist continuing his rock n’ roll journey with his now…

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subukunojess · 2 years

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What do you think all the Twisted Wonderland Dorm Heads think of Yanamayu?

Yanamayu refers to this.

(Includes All Dorm Heads and Vice Dorm Heads from Legends Over The Horizon under the cut)

Riddle: “A formidable student in Potions. As long as he follows the rules and doesn’t cause too much trouble, I have no other opinions about him.”

Trey: “Considering the reputations of this school and making first impressions, I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. He looked very interested in the Science Club at least.”

Leona: “Hmmph. Stuck-up Herbivore who wants to be like Vil, eugh! Although, I’ll admit he has some skill at Magift. Very little skill, but skill nonetheless.”

Azul: “Ah, another potential customer in need of assistance! One must be open to opportunity and research when meeting future clients, of course, no matter how their true selves lie.”

Jade: “Hm, he is very interesting indeed. Quite the schemer~”

Kalim: “A new student here? And he knows about potions and fashion? I would love to invite him to a party and get to know him better!”

Jamil: “Yet another problematic student to deal with-- Kalim, be careful! Not every student you invite to the dorm has good intentions!”

Vil: “Silly potato, thinking that we’re rivals from the start! He has a lot of training and discipline to go through for me to even consider such a thought. I’ll let him audition and see for myself where he’s at.”

Rook: “Ah, Monsieur Planner always coming up with creative and beautiful plans! He almost reminds me of my Roi de Poisons. I cannot wait to see how he shines today!”

Idia: “smh a Vil-wannabe enters the chat. No thx. Too much trouble. At least he’s not speaking to me.”

Draven: “Just what we need: a know-it-all who only cares about himself. I might have to go to him for help with my potions. I’ve been messing up my transformation potions lately.”

Malleus: “I tend to be neutral on the new students that come here. Such a troublesome yet interesting mortal.”

Lilia: “Oh my, a young human has entered this school with quite interesting knowledge it seems. I cannot wait to meet him!”

Yuu: “Yanamayu? When you live in Night Raven College, you get used to the students. He makes me smile for some reason and it’s interesting to hear him think out his plans. But I need to be careful around him. One time, I turned into a mouse and got captured! It was scary yet fun. Just a little warning before you turn me into random animals next time?”

Felix, to Yanamayu: “... outta my dorm. Now. Yer crampin’ the style and I can’t have you turning this human into your test subject under my watch!”

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thepinklink · 1 month

Text

@skyward-floored made this post the other day and it gave me ideas. As it is 3,000 words long, I thought it’d be too long for a reblog, so here we are. Thank you for the inspiration, and I hope you like it, Peggy!! ❤️

Read the fic under the cut

“So, what was he like?” Warriors asks conversationally as he sits down before the fire, settling down to eat his dinner of rice.

Marin looks up from her own bowl and hums a questioning acknowledgment. “Mm?”

“You mentioned you knew another Link before.” Warriors shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth. “What was he like?”

Marin nods, and ponders for a second, a dreamy glaze over her eyes. Warriors recognizes it in the other soldiers he talks to when they mention the loved ones they left behind. Marin opens her mouth as if to speak, the words still evading her for a moment. When they come, they’re wrapped tenderly in admiration and wistfulness.

“He was…like a dream. He was…he was everything I was missing. I told him that I wished I could fly, and he made me feel that I could. I told him I wanted to see the world, and he became it for me, and I saw him every day. His hands were rough and calloused, but he chose not to be calloused in character. He looked at me like I was everything, and he was smart and he was kind and you could see it all in his eyes. And those eyes, they were blue, bluer than the sea where it kisses the sky on the horizon.” She smiled, face turned towards the sky, mind far away from the campfire.

Warriors doesn’t know what to say. He’s heard a lot of people gush about their loved ones, but there is something about the way Marin speaks, careful and sure, that surprises him. He feels he shouldn’t be hearing this—like it was meant for her Link’s ears only, and he was eavesdropping. He’s saved the trouble of an initial response when Marin speaks again.

“I can still hear him so clearly. I can still feel his hair beneath my fingers. I remember him so well…but it all feels like a dream, I feel…that it all *was* a dream, im a way. And, verily, all dreams must come to an end. I wonder if he remembers me, and I wonder if he misses me as badly as I miss him. I’m sure he’s got better things to worry about. But…maybe that’s better. If I hurt this badly, I don’t want him to feel it at all. He told me stories of his past, and he’s lost so much and gained so little…it would be better if he didn’t remember me and was saved the pain of missing me. But then…I wish he did remember me. We loved each other…I hope he remembers me as fondly as I do him.” Marin looks at Warriors, browns eyes brimming with heartache. “Is that selfish?”

Her expression is pleading—silently begging for an answer Warriors is certain he has no business giving. But he can’t leave her hanging. He swallows.

“No. I don’t think it’s selfish. I think…I think he thinks the same thing. I think he lies awake at night, and thinks about you. I think he carries you with him everywhere, in a way, and I think that in a world full of gold and glory and titles, you are his greatest treasure. And I think it will always be that way, for him.”

The lapse in conversation is taken over by the crackle of the fire, and for a few minutes Warriors just watches the sparks curl up towards the night sky. Eventually, with a sniffle, Marin speaks again.

“You Links…you’re all the same, aren’t you?” She says with a watery laugh. “So caring and sensitive. You and him would have gotten along well.”

Warriors chuckles. “I’ll take your word for it.”

* * *

It’s Legend.

Warriors knows as soon as he meets him. They shake hands, and then Warriors finds himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes.

Blue eyes, as blue as where the sea kisses the sky on the horizon.

They’re sharp, too, Warriors can see Legend taking in a thousand little details even in the brief second they make eye contact, and then introductions continue and Warriors is left reeling under the feeling of having met a ghost.

Later, he talks himself off that ledge. He’s paranoid—as soon as he heard they were all named Link, he’d been on the lookout. He was just paranoid, looking for the first guy who matched Marin’s description, when it was an unrealistic endeavor anyways. Marin hadn’t mentioned any defining physical traits—all the Links had blue eyes, the same blue eyes, in fact, and calloused hands. Everything else had been regarding his character, the way he treated her and made her feel. And Warriors definitely wasn’t getting any first-hand examples of those.

As the weeks go by and Warriors gets to know them all, he ignores the insistent instinct that Marin’s lover is Legend and instead analyses everyone else. And they all fall epically and tragically short. Wind was talkative and never mentioned a Marin, despite telling plenty of stories all staged at sea, and if Warriors was understanding things correctly, Wind was close to a pirate girl named Tetra. Nothing romantic, per se, but everything about Wind simply had the wrong…vibe. That was all Warriors could really argue. Since Marin never mentioned physical traits, it could have been any of them, really, leaving Warriors main method of deduction as whatever his gut was feeling.

Wild ruled himself out with his own Zelda, and most of his story came out fairly early in their journey and no Marin was ever mentioned. Twilight spoke of a girl who had broken his heart, and his melancholy demeanor didn’t match the wistful longing Warriors thought he should have had. Sky was happily courting, Hyrule much too shy, and Four too active and analytical.

Warriors briefly thought it could be Time—he spoke of his wife with utmost adoration. But then they met her, and although Warriors was surprised at her strange likeness to Marin, knew it definitely wasn’t Time.

Which left, as Warriors had originally and always known, Legend. And it only grew more obvious as the time passed.

He guessed exactly who Time married, because he loved someone near the same. He could be snarky and bold when he talked to them, ruthless and calculated in a fight, but Warriors saw the way he interacted with kids and people in the villages they stayed at or passed through. It was as if he’d flipped a switch, and suddenly he was the gentlest and softest person Warriors had ever met. Meeting him in person strengthens the way Marin had described him—hands rough and calloused by his past and traumas, but he chose purposely not to let it sour his character. And he did it all at the ripe age of 18.

All of this, of course, fell into place weeks after their initial meeting, and when it finally did Warriors was left with an entirely new problem: getting Legend to confirm it.

He knew in his heart, sure, that Legend was in fact the Link Marin had loved so deeply. But he could only be 99% sure. That last one percent would come as soon as Legend mentioned her, but Warriors is impatient to wait for it to happen organically. But he also doesn’t want to just walk up to him and mention it—he respects Legend, sure, but that isn’t enough to bridge the gap of familiarity. It isn’t enough to explain the awful feeling Warriors has. It isn’t enough to cover the possibility—probability—that if Warriors is too impatient, it could lead to insensitivity and the last thing Warriors wants to do is dredge up bad memories when Legend is caught in a place where he can’t run.

Ultimately, Warriors can only wait. No matter how anxious he is, he places his money on the goddesses having everything planned out already, and his chance will come when it comes. Which it does, and sooner than the Captain expected.

Months have passed since they first met, and the group has grown much closer. Close enough to rifle through each other’s things, poke and prod at other, compete for largest scar and in general, act very much like brothers. And Warriors has grown to consider them so; in a way he never has with anyone else, Warriors loves them as if they are all of the same flesh and blood. And after that, his mission is no longer delivering one last message. It is giving his brother a vital piece of information. He no longer owes it to him because of Marin or out of perceived obligation. He owes it to him because to keep it to himself would be to lie to his brother.

Well. Maybe not directly, but still. It would feel like lying.

Thus, one warm and humid evening somewhere in Time’s Hyrule, deep in some woods somewhere, when Legend stands up and stretches and declares he’s going on patrol, Warriors jumps straight the chance to accompany him. The silence is peaceable at first, and the two heroes walk through the woods, eyes peeled and ears open for any sign of monsters. The camp noises fade far behind them, replaced by the sounds of a forest preparing for bed. It’s broken when Legend stops abruptly.

“What?” Warriors asks, stopping too and looking around. “Did you see something?”

“What do you want?”

Warriors stops and looks at Legend. “What?”

“What do you want?” Legend repeats, eyes boring into Warriors’ soul. They betray no sign of hostility or wariness, and neither does Legend’s tone. It’s short and to the point. “I can tell you’ve got something on your mind. You have since we first met. I thought you must have recognized me, but I know I’ve never seen you before in my life. So what is it?”

Warriors blinks. Damn, the kid is perceptive. He struggles to find the words, everything sounding too soon, too indifferent, too harsh. Shouldn’t there have been a more gentle lead up to this? Then again, Warriors has no idea how he would have achieved that, either.

“Spit it out,” Legend says impatiently. “I’m not a little kid, I can take it. Are you mad I smeared mud on your face the other day? Because if that’s the case I’m not apologizing, I was perfectly justified—“

“Marin.” Warriors says, and Legend’s jaw snaps shut. His whole body stiffens, something flickers in his eyes—good natured annoyance turns to fear, ever so briefly, before he relaxes again. He’s deadly calm now, attention completely on Warriors. He doesn’t say anything, so Warriors keeps going.

“I met a girl during the war. Her name was Marin. She had red hair and a blue and purple dress and she could sing like no one else. When we met, and I told her my name, she smiled and said that she knew a Link, once. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Legend nods stiffly. Warriors hesitates. Again, words evade him. Legend doesn’t care.

“That’s not everything.” His voice is almost monotone. “Tell me.”

Warriors opens his mouth. No words come out.

“Captain.” It’s harsh this time, almost anxious. “Say it.”

“…She’s gone.”

* * *

“Spit it out. I’m not a little kid, I can take it. Are you mad I smeared mud on your face the other day? Because if that’s the case I’m not apologizing, I was perfectly justified—“

“Marin.”

Legend hates the cold shock that shudders through his whole body when Warriors says it. He forces himself to stay calm, taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. His silence prompts Warriors to continue.

Legend nods. He can tell that isn’t what Warriors wanted to tell him. Not all of it, anyway.

“That’s not everything. Tell me.”

Silence.

“Captain.” He feels the faint tendrils of desperation prickling at his heart. “Say it.”

“…She’s gone.”

Legend doesn’t understand at first. Maybe, unconsciously, he doesn’t want to understand.

“What? Of course she is. She…she has been, for awhile now, and she clearly isn’t here—“

“Legend. She’s dead.”

There’s no way he can misunderstand that. He can’t feel the rest of his body. He just keeps standing there, staring hardly at Warriors’ face.

“What.”

“She…she died, Legend. I’m sorry. She fought long and hard, but ultimately the enemy overtook her. She didn’t…she didn’t even have a chance.”

Legend keeps staring at him for a second, and then he shifts his gaze to the ground. He feels sick. He’s shaky and weak, and after a minute, he just sits down.

Warriors knew Marin during his war. Which meant she survived. Somehow, she had survived Koholint, even though it was a dream.

And then she died in that war.

The irony. It’s so ironic, in a sick and twisted way, he can taste it. Uncalled for, a chuckle escapes him, and then a soft laugh, and then he’s just cackling outright, loud, humorless laughter because of course she survived. Of course the Windfish would spare her, of course Legend find that out in an information of her death somewhere else.

Of course Legend would only find out that he didn’t kill her after she had died at someone else’s hand.

He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs until Warriors is shaking his shoulders and telling him to snap out of it. He does his best, but ultimately all he can do is grasp Warriors’ forearms and look into his eyes, still chuckling breathlessly.

“…Of course.” He says. Warriors looks genuinely afraid of what Legend will say next. “Of course, the goddesses would let me blame myself. Of course they would let me spend all this time hating myself, until they knew there was no way she could distract me.”

Warriors is visibly confused. “What?”

“That’s got to be it…right? There’s nothing…I don’t know why else they would do this. How…could I be so damn unlucky? I’ve lost her twice. How do I keep doing this?” He laughs again, but when it fades out he’s too short of breath and his eyes burn. Scalding tears sear his cheeks, and he doesn’t know if he’ll survive how badly his heart hurts. Not again.

Warriors shifts to tuck him completely against his chest, holding him tightly, as if he could absorb the pain somehow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Legend hair. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Legend cries for a long time, and violently enough that Warriors wonders if he’s getting enough air. They’re incredibly vulnerable here, and when Warriors hears something approaching through the woods, he jumps up and very nearly stabs Wolfie as he jumps through the bushes. Wild is close behind him, and once Warriors knows it’s just them he returns to Legend.

“Whoa!” Wild yelps softly as he sees Warriors gathers the limp and unyielding Veteran into a bridal carry. “Is he—“

“He’s not injured.” Warriors assures him, shifting his hold on Legend so it’s more comfortable for them both. “He just heard some pretty shocking news and it hit hard.”

Wild nods, understanding immediately and offering no further inquiries.

“You guys have been gone so long we started to worry. Supper’s way past over and we were about to get ready for bed when we realized you hadn’t returned, so we split up and went searching,” Wild explains his sudden appearance.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Warriors apologizes sincerely.

“It’s alright. Just as long as no one’s hurt.”

The walk back is silent, and Warriors has never been so glad to see bed rolls surrounding a campfire. Legend isn’t asleep, but he’s sluggish and almost unresponsive. Wild digs his bed roll from his bag while Warriors coaxes him to at least take off his boots, and then as soon as he’s tucked into his bed roll, he’s asleep. Warriors, searching to offer a little bit more comfort, undoes his scarf and lays it over the Veteran like a blanket. He doesn’t know that it will actually do much in the way of support, but it makes him feel better so he leaves it.

Warriors himself stays awake until every searching member of the chain has returned, just to explain what took them so long. Any anger at the inconvenient scare dissipates upon hearing how it came to be, and seeing the Veteran curled up in his bed roll. Arguably, they can’t really tell by his face that he’s been distressed—but the fact that he was already asleep when they all got back, and that he remained asleep throughout the remainder of bedtime prep, spoke for itself. Even though Warriors didn’t say exactly what Legend was told, the weight of the situation falls on them all, and except to establish watches, no more words are spoken for the rest of the night.

* * *

Not a word passes Legend’s lips for a week. His mood seems to shift through the days; at first he is almost angry, going everywhere and about everything with a hard purpose, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him. And then one day, he loses that battle as soon as he wakes up, and is the last one for the rest of the week. The last one to get out of bed, the last one to pack up, the last one to start and the last one to stop.

The others do their best to accommodate him, no matter how much time they lose. They can tell he’s trying, even when he’s too tired to. They’ve all been there, in some way, at some point in time. They all give him space, they do their best to silently convey that they’re there for him when he wants to reach out.

Everyone, that is, save Wind. And it is Wind, surprisingly, who breaks him out of it all.

He’s annoying, at first, sticking to Legend’s side like glue and chattering away at every hour of the say. Legend comes very close to strangling him more than once, but that all fades with the anger. The week continues, and Wind’s constant talking fills the silence, the lighthouse on the hill during a storm. He doesn’t realize it until later, but Wind was always helping hold him together. His every story, his every mundane topic was all meant to keep Legend from getting trapped in his own head. From forgetting the feeling of grass beneath his boots and the sound of his brothers as they all walked on.

An evening almost seven days exactly from that first, Legend is sitting in front of the fire, leaned against a log. Wind sits on the log next to him. For the first time in a week, the Sailor is quiet, and not because his mouth is full of food. Then,

“What was she like?”

The question is a violent shift from anything else Wind had said before. His cheery, story-telling tone is gone, replaced instead with tentativeness. It’s soft and curious, worried he’s overstepped. Legend glances around the fire, and the rest of the Chain has all stopped. There’s some tension as they wait for Legend’s response, unsure if he’ll answer or if it will have a negative effect. Legend’s eyes settled back on the fire and he sighs.

“She was my everything.” He looks at Wind, who is watching him with rapt attention. “You would have liked her.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. Words can’t really describe her, anyways.

“Could she sing?” Wind asks. Legend nods.

“Yes, she could sing.”

“What did she look like?”

“…She had red hair, and big brown eyes, and she could get anything out of me with those eyes.”

Wind laughs. “She sounds like Malon.”

Legend smiles. “She was a lot like Malon. Of Malon were a goddess, they’d be almost the same.” He looks at Time. “No offense, Old Man.”

“None taken,” Time says softly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

A comfortable silence settles over the camp for a few moments.

“She once asked me if it was selfish of her to hope you remembered her.” Warriors says suddenly. “I said it wasn’t.”

Legend nods again. “You were right.” He looks up at the unfamiliar stars, and wonders if she now knows he never forgot.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu warriors #plink writes #lu fanfiction #peggy my dear #lu wind #lu wild #lu time #lu marin

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fiesty-fishbiscuit · 5 months

Text

just let me have this ok

#i know i KNOW that the chances of this being in any way intentional are miniscule but i am actually starving and will take any crumbs atp #apex ash #apex horizon #mary somers #ashleigh reid #is this it? will the lore drought be over before 2 years??#tbh tho the way the lore is going atp id almost rather they be left alone HFKSBF 😀#apex legends

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crematedcow · 7 months

Text

She couldn't simply surrender what had been the very essence of her life, the one thing that no one was supposed to have the power to take away from her. Her freedom? Nobody was acutally free. Her love? She could find a way to cope with it. Her child? A heart-wrenching sacrifice, but she could endure it. Yet, this vital part of her, this very core of her being – she would never allow anyone to snatch it away.

And that marked the tale of a parasite.

Of a Patron and Its Chains is a 18+ interactive fiction in a fantasy and steampunk setting inspired by the worlds of The Witcher Series and Fullmetal Alchemist. You are a seasoned hunter tasked with tracking and eliminating dangerous supernatural threats. However, your story takes a turn when you decide to become also a pactbearer.

In this realm where the intricate dance of magic and technology creates a canvas of possibilities, one could easily envision an idyllic existence.

The ability to traverse into other realities, though often at a steep cost, promised rapid advancement that could border on madness. Yet, amid these innovations and developments, lurking dangers remained ever-present. The very act of opening portals to other realms could inadvertently usher in creatures not meant for this world, seamlessly intertwining them with reality.

It was a world where the choice was to either be the hunter or the hunted, and most succumbed to the latter fate. However, your father instilled a different path in you. As a hunter of those creatures, he ensured you absorbed all the survival knowledge you needed before eventually got wrongfully accused and executed, a tragic turning point that reshaped your plans. Rather than simply following in his footsteps to become a hunter, you decided to become a pactbearer.

Summoning a Patron, a legend from diverse worlds and realities, your mission was to unite with fellow pactbearers. Together, you would confront an encroaching evil, all while seeking the fulfillment of a cherished wish granted by a god. Yet, even with the support of numerous companions and your trusted Patron, each victory over a monstrous foe revealed a looming threat waiting just beyond the horizon...

You are the hero... right?

This is an 18+ interactive fiction that is being written on Twine.

be a hunter that kills monsters or embroils into unwanted drama

fully customizable mc from appearance, pronouns and personality

several sidequests to develop your skills as a hunter (includes: Possession, Witches, Ancient Beasts and more)

a beastiarium with further information to every creature you meet on the way

the big world of Vestria & Co. with a lot of lore that you can all uncover - or not!

a cryptic voice inside your head that occasionally breaks the fourth wall

meet the other pactbearers and their patrons and decide what relationship you want to have with them

choose what animal-form your patron is going to have

a total of six companions (including your patron) who will be with you a majority of your journey

all of them are romancable, plus a hidden romance option for those who can be patient

lots of parental issues!

figure out the truth of your world, or fail to do so - there is no right or wrong

and a... cow?

CONTENT WARNINGS: depicitons of death, violence, mental illness, gore (in the territory of body horror), animal cruetly and death, abuse, pornographic content, strong language

More might follow

DEMO TBA

CURRENT WORD COUNT: 21000+

but nothing demo ready yet

The RO's include:

✸ Cú Chulainn (M/F)

In ancient tomes and tales, Chulainn stood as a formidable legend — an indomitable hero whose laughter echoed in the face of enemies and even death itself. They reveled in the thrill of combat, never yielding without a proper battle. Yet, such was the image you held dear until the moment you summoned them into your realm, making them your esteemed Patron. The being before you shattered the illusion you once cherished. No longer did they exude the vigor of a warrior; instead, bitterness clung to their spirit, entwined with a profound disdain for the world and all its inhabitants. Longing for the solace of death they once fervently evaded, Chulainn relinquished their ardor for combat, dismissing it as a hollow pursuit devoid of significance. As a consequence, their role as your Patron proved less than… helpful. Nevertheless, a flicker of optimism lingers within the depths of their desolate heart. Perhaps, against all odds, you possess the power to reignite the flames of purpose within them, offering a renewed sense of hope and the chance for a remarkable new beginning.

✸ Lysander/Lysandra (M/F)

Within the illustrious court of the High Queen, there exists a figure of great repute: Lys, a distinguished servant renowned for their unparalleled ability to fulfill any given task. Their name has become synonymous with perfectionism, as they consistently meet and surpass the lofty expectations placed upon them. The mere mention of their name evokes awe and respect throughout the courtly corridors. Alas, despite their esteemed standing, Lys remains a figure of divisive sentiment. Whispers and murmurs abound among their colleagues, swirling in a ceaseless cycle of gossip. Tales of their rigid and occasionally insolent demeanor dominate these conversations, yet there is another facet that elicits both awe and envy in equal measure. Lys possesses an unparalleled loyalty to the High Queen, a level of devotion that others find almost unattainable. Yet, the reality surpasses the worst of these rumors. Lys' nature transcends the bounds of mere unpleasantness, particularly in their interactions with you. Adding fuel to the fire, they perceive you as a sort of rival, amplifying the tensions between you. One can only wonder if it is merely a facade in an attempt to hide their weakness or the reality of their identity.

✸ Holographic Entity "Holly" (F)

Holly, the Patron of Lys, assumes the guise of a long-haired housecat, but her true essence hails as a revolutionary from a distant reality, a realm of unparalleled advancement far beyond the scope of Vestria. For Holly, her presence in this foreign world feels akin to embarking on an elaborate holiday excursion plucked from the very pages of historical books she once heard of. Her insatiable curiosity serves as the driving force behind her existence, propelling her to seek new experiences and infusing every interaction with a buoyant energy that suggests no challenge is insurmountable. Unafraid to vocalize her thoughts and opinions, Holly fearlessly shares her insights, even when they clash with those of her companion, Lys, particularly when the subject of her candid musings centers around you. Or at least, that is the impression you choose to hold. Her unabashed honesty may lead some to believe that she is a simple, unassuming creature. However, the more time spent with Holly reveals that there is much more to her than meets the eye. After all, one cannot lead a revolution based solely on a smile and an unfiltered mouth.

✸ Elli Agilulf (M)

The Blessed Ones, the esteemed right and left hand of the Night Church, are figures known to all who have ventured beyond the confines of ignorance. Cloaked in an aura of mystery, their veiled faces lend an air of both authority and enigma. Among their ranks is Elli, who strives to embody the idealized image of a Blessed One. He adheres to a code of silence, speaking only when necessary and responding with a detached aloofness. True to form, he carries himself with an air of subtle intimidation. However, beneath his carefully crafted facade, Elli is easily rattled by even the slightest inconvenience or a quick-witted remark, his frustration and anger palpable despite his hidden face. He is short-tempered and stubborn, a nature that clashes with the expectations of his position. As a Blessed One, he is expected to be a mindless automaton, devoid of thoughts or personal desires, but Elli's mind is a swirling vortex of thoughts and emotions, overflowing with complexity. Perhaps it is this contradiction, this clash between his true nature and the expectations placed upon him, that makes Elli an actual enigma. You do feel yourself challenged when he decides that you are a criminal to-become.

✸ Irydion (F)

Irydion holds a perspective that challenges the notion of victory being achieved simply through diplomatic agreements and signed papers. To her, a war is not truly won until she has exacted revenge to those she deems responsible for the suffering inflicted upon her country. As a member of the militia, she is fueled by a desire to fight, her hands trembling with the power of her magic, ready to unleash it upon her enemies on the frontline. While others may perceive an undisturbed silence on the battlefield as a sign of these so called peacetimes, Irydion remains vigilant, recognizing it as a deceptive tactic used by the enemy to lure her into dropping her guard. Too bad she is always a step ahead of those who seek to harm her people! Her selfless dedication to protecting and caring for her fellow countrymen is unwavering, even if it means being seen as misguided or paranoid by those who don't fully understand her. Irydion's allies may acknowledge her kind-hearted nature, but they also recognize her single-minded determination and unwavering belief in the necessity of fighting back against an enemy that is just a shadow. Irydion does not care for these rumors, knowing that regardless of how many may stand against her, they will eventually come to understand the truth of her cause. She remains steadfast, believing that time will prove her right in the end. After all, you believe her… right?

✸ "Junius" (M)

Even as Irydion's patron, the line between their roles blurs, with Junius' approach to her and other humans carrying an arrogantly nonchalant air. His actions, delivered with ease and naturalness, ridicule or charm one without noticing. With a mere lazy wink or a mockish bow, he effortlessly asserts a sense of superiority, deliberately refraining from putting genuine meaning or depth in his antics. Maintaining an elusive detachment, he keeps others at arm's length, preventing them from ever truly getting close to him. Despite his mysterious past, he carries himself as if the weight of secrets hold little significance to who he is. Junius' personality dances on the edge of daring, akin to playing with fire, drawing allure and enticement from the very act itself. He fearlessly indulges in flirting with married women and engaging in challenges with those of higher social standing, defying conventional norms and embracing a provocative existence. There lies a subtle irony in his guise — a wolf rather than a lion — his pride speaking for another form. And even in conversation, he adeptly maintains the facade, never allowing his act to waver, leaving you to question whether it is indeed a carefully crafted performance or indeed the reality of his character.

???

If it wasn't the work of gods, maybe it was fate that brought you together.

And several other characters you meet on your way across the country; other pactbearers and their patrons, tragic lovers, a noisy priest, ill-ridden villages (there is only two but it's weird it happened twice), two twin-rulers who don't seem to get along, a talking book, and more.

#twine if #twine game #twine wip #interactive novel #if game #twine #wip #i was kind of forced to post this #interactive fiction #oapaic #im not a native english speaker pls be nice #of a patron and its chains

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griefabyss69 · 4 months

Text

Legend Has It

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ] [ Tip / Commissions post ] ‘HOLE’ wc: 404 | rated: E | cw: None

Steve's got a certain set of skills that Eddie's curious about, so he gives him a demonstration.

Eddie had been sober when he asked Steve what it was like to eat someone out.

He'd sucked plenty of dick before, but hadn't trusted the integrity of a stranger's asshole to put his mouth on it. Steve had been open about his experiences, eyes lighting up as he told him that oral sex was his favorite, and the question just slipped right out.

Steve's whole face had brightened then – eager to share, to broaden Eddie's horizons even if it was an oral lesson made up of words.

Well, he'd thought it was, until Steve gently took his hand, looking up from his slouch on the sofa.

"Here," he says, and Eddie's shocked stupid when he positions Eddie's thumb between two of his fingers to form a tight hole. "It's easier to show you."

Sure, he hadn't been asking for pointers, but hell if he was going to make him stop.

"This is the clit," Steve says, tapping the top of his thumb where it sticks out between the large knuckles of his fingers. "And here's the hole."

He runs his finger through the place where Eddie's pointer and his middle meet; it feels way too sensitive. Maybe it's just the Steve effect, the way he gets Eddie's nerves sparking up like he's about to self-immolate.

"Sure," he replies, giving him the go-ahead.

He's sure this will ruin his fucking life, if not his pants.

Steve's hair curls into his eyes as he tilts his head, giving Eddie a clear view as he brings his hand to his mouth. He presses a starting kiss to his skin, right at the bottom of the "hole", before kissing each finger.

Eddie's dick is hard and he's clenching his leg muscles, trying to stop shifting in his seat. He surrenders to a shiver, to the way his hands shake, and Steve holds on tighter, winking at him before he runs his tongue between his knuckles.

Even fucking himself on his fingers hadn't made his hand feel this erotic.

Steve's working him now; slow licks to his thumb, gently building up in pace and pressure, and it translates so clearly to his dick that he accidentally moans.

Eventually, his hot breath, his warm mouth, and the thrust of his tongue between Eddie's fingers becomes too much. When Steve looks up to meet his eyes, he jams his palm down over his dick and cums with a wounded gasp.

#griefabyss69 writing #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steddiemicroficjanuary

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kaylasficrecs · 1 year

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kaz brekker recs

his star | imagine, flangst | @alpurrtwhizkersss

somnum | one shot, flangst | @futurecorps3

when am i gonna lose you? | one shot, flangst | @crowsmybeloveds

touch | one shot, smut | @skiller0dani

everything | one shot, flangst | @theowritesstuff

buoy | imagine, fluff | @yelenasbraid

call me what you like | imagine, fluff | @sophierequests

touch | imagine, fluff | @thebadgerclan

pocketwatch | imagine, fluff | @writing-havoc

baby steps | two shot, fluff | @heathsbitch

your love could start a war | two shot, flangst | @heathsbitch

dust and rubble | one shot, flangst | @writing-havoc

grateful you're mine | imagine, fluff | @sophierequests

take my hand and don't let go | imagine, flangst | @sophierequests

honeycakes and sweetened words | one shot, fluff | @sophierequests

that sick bastard | one shot, flangst | @pregnant-piggy

underestimated | one shot, flangst | @jahayla-parker

nightmare | imagine, flangst | @bookishdream

healing hands | imagine, flangst | @talesofesther

a hot drink and a softer side than usual | imagine, fluff | @bey0nd-1he-stars

shattered paintings | one shot, fluff (bit of angst) | @writing-havoc

kiss it better | imagine, soft fluff | @jakescakeislateforourdate

sweetheart | imagine, fluff | @bloodwrittenballad

i'm getting used to you | two shot, fluff | @grimbanes (this is part 2 bc it's my favorite)

graphology | imagine, fluff | @syllvane

will you marry me | imagine, fluff | @goldengoddess

the lovers | imagine, fluff | @syllvane

heal his heart | one shot, flangst | @webslinger-holland

he just sounds like that | one shot, flangst (comfort!) | @amsgrey

we have past to bury | imagine, flangst | @the-sound-of-her-wings

someone could lose a heart tonight | one shot, flangst | @sophierequests

forgotten | two shot, angst | @ashessonfire

bad kind of butterflies | imagine, flangst | @midnight-rain-fics

without you on my mind | imagine, soft flangst | @genyakosstyk

three taps | one shot, flangst (comfort!) | @happyyyandcrazyyy

being in a relationship with kaz brekker | headcanon, fluff | @cammys-imagines24

deathly fever | one shot, flangst | @webslinger-holland

take it slow | one shot, soft fluff | @amsgrey

blood on your lies | imagine, flangst (comfort!) | @genyakosstyk

willow | two shot, fluffy flangst | @midnight-rain-fics (this is part 2!)

lavender haze | series | @auroravictorium

summer went away, still the yearning stays | imagine, flangst | @reputationgf

anger | imagine, fluff | @reve-writes

apple tree | imagine, fluff | @undiscovered-horizon

ease your mind | imagine, fluff | @lady-ashfade

the set-up | imagine, fluff | @reve-writes

over it all | one shot, flangst | @jahayla-parker

his anchor | imagine, flangst | @zepp-l1n

it's done | imagine, smut | @legends-of-apex

weakness | drabble, fluff | @messers-moony

#kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #grishaverse #masterlist #fic recs

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yeoja-dream · 3 months

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Found/Fated/Forever

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing: BTS OT7 x Reader Genre: Fantasy, eventual smut, porn with plot, slow burn, hurt/comfort Characters: Supernatural!BTS, Vampire!Jungkook, Supernatural!Reader Content Warning: Y/N in danger Word Count: 3.6k

Jungkook’s vision went white and he felt the air pulled out of his lungs as in a flash, he was again in the hospital room, Namjoon hovered worryingly over your body. He looked up as you arrived, obvious relief relaxing his features as his eyes landed on Baba Yena.

“Baba Yena,” Namjoon greeted with a bow. “I was only able to do a cursory search, but her kind isn’t listed or documented in any infernal records I was able to get my hands on.”

“Of course, because she is not from the hells, my child.” Baba Yena said, walking to your bedside, and shooing him away. “She is indeed a rare sight to behold, but you will have to ask her about her heritage, she has taken considerable lengths to conceal it.”

“So you will save her?” Namjoon asked, hopeful.

“Yes, horned one. Your mate has sacrificed sufficiently, and this child has suffered greatly as it is. It is not yet her time to die.” Baba Yena said, beginning to pull several black, oily drawing implements as well as a bottle of bright blue, glowing liquid.

Without much regard for the others standing in the room, Baba Yena began unceremoniously undressing your body, causing both the men in the room to turn their gaze elsewhere. Perhaps in a different time or context, it would be embarrassing, exciting perhaps, but they felt it perverse to see you unclothed in such a state. Fully nude, Baba Yena began using the black, oily, drawing implements to draw intricate symbols all over your body.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asked, back still turned.

“Her body is too weak to house her soul, so it is lost somewhere in the Astral Sea. The water from the Elu Spring in the Fey Wild will heal and strengthen her body. The markings are the spell that will call her soul back to her body.”

With that, Baba Yena sat you up, popping the cork of the blue liquid, and carefully poured it down your throat. Immediately, your almost grey skin flushes with color, and your rapid, shallow breaths begin to even out. Namjoon watched the monitor carefully, breathing a sigh of relief as your heart rate became stronger and faster too. Baba Yena then closed her eyes, extending her arms out straight, palms down. Her palms began to glow with a bright, white light, and as they glowed, so did the markings on your body. Baba Yena’s face scrunched with concentration. “Come on, child. It is not yet time to go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You came to, opening your eyes, rubbing them harshly as to clear your blurred vision. You feel yourself to be weightless, immediately, as if floating on water. All around you, horizon to horizon, were breathtakingly vibrant and clear night skies, completely lit up with stars and nebula as far as the eye could see. Below, was a massive and never-ending sea of the purest, molten silver, opaque and mirror-like, the gentle waves that broke the surface capturing the starlight with such luster you wondered for a moment if the water had been made of the cosmos, perhaps from the tears of the other stars, crying for the fallen.

It didn’t exactly take a scholar to figure out you had found yourself in the Astral Plane, the plane souls found themselves in before continuing onto an afterlife fitting of whomever they worshiped in life. Legend has it that the Astral Sea is what waters the Tree of Life, and drinking from its waters will grant you all knowledge and power akin to a God in your own right. Others said those with enough hubris or guts to try are simply driven stark raving mad, cursed to roam the endless abyss with nothing but the voices in their head to keep them company. Considering that you had yet to hear of a God exalted by this water, you were more inclined to believe the latter.

How the fuck did I get to the astral realm? You asked yourself, anxiety and panic prickling at your skin. You combed through your memories, you woke up, got dressed, had breakfast, and… you hit a wall. You try to push forward, but the more you do so, the more your brain shoots with pain. Something or someone was blocking you from remembering something important, and you judged. Whether or not that was simply a symptom of the situation you found yourself in or a direct action taken by someone, you had yet to discern.

There was at least one thing you knew about the Astral Plane, that in order to travel it, you only had to think, to will yourself in one direction or the other. You started by willing yourself into the vertical, upright position with the sea 10 meters below. What you did not know, however, was how magic functioned in this plane. The first obvious solution was to attempt to plane shift back to your reality, but when you mentally cast your consciousness out looking for laylines to dip into, you couldn’t find any. You willed yourself forward then, continuing the mental search.

Time in the Astral worked differently than in the prime material plane. There was no day or night, time simply did not pass, so it was impossible to gauge how long you truly spent looking, but you only stopped when your head throbbed from the exertion. Could it be possible that the Astral had no laylines? Or perhaps your magic had been cut off somehow, rendering you blind to any laylines that might exist? If that was the case, had you actually died? The thought raised your blood pressure.

Without the ability to dip into the magic, you were certainly not plane-shifting out of this shitty situation. You patted yourself down and only now realized that you were entirely without your personal effects, now wearing a rough spin, off-white tunic, brown pants of the same fabric, and a pair of worn leather boots. More importantly, without your stuff, you had returned to your true form. The realization was not helping the actually dead theory. You willed yourself forward, hoping to run into another soul, maybe someone who could help you figure this situation out.

You floated for what felt like years, decades. You didn’t need to eat or sleep, and with no time reference, the monotony alone would drive anyone mad, you didn’t even need to drink the seawater, you decided. Sometimes you saw people, mostly in the distance, however, and when you’d try to call their attention, they would flee like their lives depended on it. Other times the Sea itself would open up, portals of different shades of light would flash, dropping off newly departed souls, or more often, yanking an older soul into one afterlife or another. No one spoke to one another, and certainly no one spoke to you. That is, until mercifully, you hear your voice called by a friendly male voice behind you.

“Y/N?” The voice called out. The tone was friendly and definitively male, but there was a quality about the timbre that called out to something deeper and forgotten inside of you. You turned around hesitantly, seeing a tall, human man in his 20s. His hair was curly, his features dark and his skin a tanned olive. There was a familiarity to his look, and as he approached closer, it finally clicked.

“Fareed?!” You asked with a mixture of shock and surprise.

“Long time no see!” He said with a friendly wave.

When you had first escaped from the Fey Wild, Fareed was your first friend as a young child. Fareed was a bubbly but fearless kid whose hobbies appropriately included talking to strangers and jumping off the highest places he could find. He often slipped extra portions of his lunch out of the house, but you always suspected his mom knew and was giving him too much food deliberately. His fearlessness got him taken away far too young, and when our country began conscripting soldiers for some war in some faraway land, he was the first to volunteer. We received news of his passing only one month later.

To see him in his current state, alive, well, and sane choked you up and you found yourself fighting back tears.

“It’s Y/N! I must look considerably different now than when you last saw me.” You said gesturing to your true self. “Why are you still here?” You asked. Fareed had died at least 200 years ago, and you had always hoped that he was living it up in some cushy afterlife.

“I could recognize your energy from across all the planes.” He said with a light laugh. “The Astral has guardians and protectors like any other plane,” He explained. “I dedicated my afterlife to guiding and protecting the lost souls that wander here, and when it is time for them to pass on, I help them find that passage.”

“That sounds like an incredibly noble cause and absolutely something you would do,” You said with a laugh.

“Speaking of which,” He began, “I have gotten a sudden influx of souls complaining about a weird, noisy soul wandering around, harassing folks. Which, in turn, leads me to you. What are you doing here, you don’t seem dead?” He asked.

“About that,” you sighed “I woke up here and I can’t remember how or why I got here, and I would have simply teleported back but I can’t seem to use my magic.”

“That is strange, considering that the Astral Plane is incredibly magically potent, equally if not more so than the Fey Wild.” He stated. “Come here and let me touch your forehead, let me see if I can’t get this sorted for you.”

You willed yourself closer to him, and in response, he stuck his hand out, fingers tented, and placed them on your forehead. You feel nothing, but you watch Fareed’s eyes dart around rapidly, making negative vocalizations. After a moment, he drops his hand and focuses his vision back on you.

“Life certainly hasn’t been very kind to you, Y/N, and for that, I want to express my condolences.”

“Fareed the years have made you so well-spoken!” You exclaim with a laugh. “Thank you.” You said, more seriously.

“You have a powerful curse on you, but I think you already knew that. It is strange but refreshing to see your true form.” He stated. You nodded in confirmation as he continued, “You are not dead. You almost died. That is how you ended up here. Someone extremely powerful wanted you to forget what happened to you, so they blocked your memory and your magic. Fortunately, I am also someone extremely powerful and I was able to remove the block, but not the curse on you as a whole. That is a complicated and difficult endeavor not even I can do.”

With that information, you think back again, this time with crystal clear acuity. You remember the club, rescuing the woman, meeting Jungkook, his preposition. You remember being in his embrace, heat and lust and euphoria taking over every one of your senses, you remember begging him not to stop despite fading away slowly, and then darkness.

“I think I have a soulmate, Fareed.” You breathed.

“I am inclined to agree. All things do.”

“He has mates already though, 6 of them!” You exclaimed.

“Then you also have 6 additional mates,” Fareed said matter of factly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know those people.”

Fareed cocked an eyebrow at you. “Y/N, do you know how soulmates work?”

“Love and magic and shit, no?” You asked with a shrug.

“Not quite,” Fareed explained. “Souls as most people like to refer to them are actually called Fragments. They are the broken-up pieces of Soulias. When the gods created all sentient living things, they made a center of power, into which they put all knowledge, power, emotion, experience, and condition, and they named that power center Soulia. The problem occurred when the gods tried to plant these Soulias into vessels, the power would overwhelm the vessel and tear it apart, and the ones strong enough to withstand were monstrous creatures of pain, chaos, and violence. The Gods decided to fracture the Soulias. The larger Fragments would go into the vessels they were creating, and the smaller Shards, remnants of the fracturing process, would go into all other living creatures. Fracturing also ensured that no two vessels would live an identical life and that only true harmony could be attained when you shared your piece, your life, your soul, with others around you. It was usually convenient to break the Soulia into two, so often you will see soul mates in pairs of two. But for larger Soulias, smaller Fragments are needed, so it is broken up into smaller pieces, so soulmate groups of more than two are certainly possible. The Soulia inside the vessel will spend its whole life pining after its other pieces. Many people never find their true other half, but a good deal will find love nonetheless and find satisfaction in that. Many here found their Shards in life inside beloved plants and animals.”

“I never knew all that,” You stared at him mouth agape. “So my soul, fragment, fits in with all of theirs?” You ask, gripping at your chest.

“Precisely.”

“What happens when all the parts of a Soulia are bought together?” You asked.

“Well, as I said before, the fracturing process is extremely imperfect, and in the creation of Fragments, a great number of shards are also produced, so getting every part of a Soulia back together is practically impossible. You can, however, tie the pieces together somewhat, bonding or mating as you likely know it, which affords all persons a metaphysical line to one another. Through that line, you can pick up on how your partner is feeling, you can send short messages or emotional sentiments. If they allow you in, you can enter their mind, they can share memories with you as they saw them, and they can allow you to feel exactly how they feel, understand how they actually think. It is a powerful connection, and allows for deeper intimacy and connection possible by other non-soulmate or non-bonded pairs.”

“That sounds… intrusive.” You mumble, arms crossed.

“It can be, but everything is done with the consent of both parties. You can ignore the call of your mate down the bond, even after you’ve let them in you can push them out of your mind at any time, and you can block anyone from entering. Just takes a little practice.”

You frown at that, “It sounds like you are selling it to me.”

“I guess you could say that I am. You seem upset, why? Most people are delighted to meet a soulmate.”

“I’m mad that my soulmate almost killed me, I’m mad that I have a soulmate, I’m mad that I have 7 soul mates. I’m mad that I’ve lived the last 50 years of my life in relative solitude because I was sick and tired of getting fucked over and suddenly 7 of potentially the deepest and most intimate connections a living thing can experience is dropped onto my lap so yeah, color me upset! I can’t do loss anymore, Fareed. It’s too painful.”

He looked you up and down, contemplatively. “If I may, one old friend to another?”

You nod in response.

“Look around and tell me what you see.” He said, making a wide sweeping gesture.

“I see endless and endless nothing dotted with lonely, lost souls, hoping that someday they’ll be called to something better.”

“Time may not pass in the Astral, but what I quickly learned is that this is the summation of a human life, Y/N. They live, and most days are bleak, boring, and mundane. Occasionally, another lonely soul will cross their path, and for a time, they find comfort in one another. Ultimately, they part, and at the end of it all, they pass on hoping that whatever next is someplace better, and yet for many this is what they have to look forward to.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you are getting at, Fareed.”

“You have lived a long, brilliant life Y/N, many times longer than many of the souls that wander here. You have suffered more than much more than many of these souls, but you have been gifted the chance to love and be loved much more than many of these souls. So go, Y/N. Set yourself free from grief, worry, and suspicion. Do not shy away from love for fear of pain, love despite it, and love fiercely and unapologetically. When you are called to join us here again, come with joy in your heart from a life fearlessly spent, or be doomed to eternity searching the silver sea for your salvation. You are your own salvation.”

You pursed your lips tightly, looking down at the Astral Sea as you processed his words.

“It isn’t that easy,” You began, your voice wavering.

“For you, it won’t be,” He admitted. “It is true some come into this world full of light and for whom trust and love come easy. But for those who have been hurt as you have, it is going to be hard. Just because things are hard doesn’t mean they aren’t worth doing or that they are bad for us.”

“You know what I am, what I am made of. You see the ticking bomb I am, and yet you insist I allow people to get close to me to what... hurt as many as I can? I will never be free, Fareed. They will chase me to the ends of time and take from me what they feel they are owed. We both know that.” You finish your rant, a single tear running down your cheek. As you do so, a bright white portal opens on the top of the Astral Sea, slowly dragging you closer and closer to its event horizon.

“It seems our time together has run out,” Fareed said. “If you would allow me to leave you with a parting thought before you go. The only memories they blocked from you were of him. They wanted you to forget him so desperately they blocked your magic essentially confining you to a realm where they would never be able to touch you again. That is worth considering.”

As your feet began to hit the portal, Fareed grabbed your hand holding it close.

“Make the world tremble at you, Y/N. I don’t want to see you here for a long, long time. Good luck-” The end of the word was clipped as your vision went white, your hearing went silent, and like you were being flushed down a toilet, you felt yourself being yanked at lightning speed by your feet, and suddenly everything was again dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Baba Yena pulled up her arms suddenly, and in response, your body involuntarily arched. When doing so, you let out a sudden, loud gasp, causing all present to breathe a small sigh of relief to themselves too.

“The child was very deep, so it took me a while to find her.” Baba Yena said, redressing you in a spare hospital bed and tucking you in gently. “Both of you,” She said, turning to the men who had huddled together for comfort during the spell. “Kneel.”

They looked at each other, but rather than piss off a supremely powerful being who just did you a massive favor, the pair concede, sinking to the floor on their knees. Once in position, Baba Yena approached the pair. While kneeling, Baba Yena was at eye level with the boys. She approached Jungkook first.

Thwack! She cracked him across the skull with a walking cane. “What are you doing bleeding girls dry like you're some poor changling with no control of their thirst? You are over 200 years old, act your age! You had no business testing out a connection you had no idea if you could control without supervision.” Baba Yena scolded him thoroughly.

“And you,” Thwack! This time she cracked Namjoon over the skull with the cane. “What the hell kind of doctor are you? You were in such a rush to do nothing you didn’t stop to see the blinding, gold amulet that she wears? The very same type you and several of your mates wear? If he almost killed her, you were signing the death certificate with your negligence ink. You ought to be ashamed.” She finished, brushing nothing off her petticoat, and gathering her things to leave.

“She will wake in 3 days fully rested and back to full health. There will come a time when she has questions about herself, and when she does, find me. Until then, leave me alone. You kids have caused me enough trouble as it is. Oh and, be careful with that one. She has been through enough.” And with that, she flourishes the very same cane, vanishing.

The silence that hangs in the air after Baba Yena leaves is long and heavy, but mixed with relief as the pair approach both sides of your bed, staring at your sleeping form. It was amazing how starkly opposite you looked now to even just an hour before, knocking on death’s door.

“I think you have a lot of explaining to do, Kook.”

“Later,” The younger one pleaded. “I just want to sit here for a little while.”

“Later.” Namjoon agreed, excusing himself. Not but 20 minutes later, he found himself back in the room, second chair and laptop in hand. Jungkook was too guilt-ridden to say it, but he was immensely grateful for the company. He hoped you were too.

_____________________________________________ Tags @luvlykyy ---------------------------------------------------------- Big lore dump this chapter! Some of you may be noticing some inspiration from DnD to lend me some framework for world-building! That is absolutely true, but as I also mentioned I have been using it as a framework, and as such it may or may not veer violently off the Forgotten Realms cannon, so don't get too twisted about "Hey, that's not how that thing works!" It's just a work of fiction I'm writing for funsies at the end of the day so don't take it too seriously. I hope you are all enjoying~

#bts x reader #jungkook x reader #ot7 x reader #namjoon x reader #bts x reader angst #bts x reader smut #bts x oc #bts x you #bts x y/n #bts x fem!reader #ot7 x reader smut #ot7 x you #bts fanfic #bts ff #bts smut #bts smau #bts #bangtan #foundfatedforever

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